Synopsis: With the cameras rolling, you sit across from Satoru, expecting the usual charm and easy playfulness. But as the conversation turns to his films, the roles that reshaped him, and the pieces of himself he’s hidden in his characters, you begin to realize there’s far more to his craft, and to him, than you ever noticed before.
a/n: There’s still more of this part coming! I hope it isn’t boring. I’ve always loved watching Variety’s Actors on Actors, so it’s been such a pleasure recreating that vibe with one of my favorite characters. And of course, there’s so much more to Gojo than just charm… I had to explore it.
You straightened in your chair, the small cue sending a ripple of tension through your spine. The card resting in your lap felt suddenly heavier than paper ought to. Even though you’d already memorized the question, your fingers brushed over it once more before passing it to your assistant.
Across from you, Satoru watched.
Calm. Infuriatingly calm.
One ankle rested loosely over his knee, his posture easy, almost careless, like he’d wandered onto the set by accident, taken the empty chair out of mild curiosity, and decided he might as well stay for the interview. Meanwhile, every movement you made felt deliberate, rehearsed under the heat of the studio lights.
His gaze lingered on you, bright with amusement, as if he knew exactly how much effort it took not to roll your eyes at him on camera.
You cleared your throat softly.
“It feels so surreal being here.”
Across from you, Satoru shifted in his seat, readjusting like he’d just remembered there were cameras pointed at him. The look he gave you, serious, almost earnest, felt exaggerated, like he was making a point of behaving.
“It really is,” he said, nodding once. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
His gaze flicked to you, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“And it’s nice to know I’d be doing it with someone I know. Someone I’m comfortable with.”
You felt the familiar rhythm of press-tour politeness settle in, but Satoru kept going, leaning forward slightly as if he meant every word.
“To be honest, I’ll probably just sit here praising you all day,” he added. “Because you’re a phenomenal actor… and a really good friend.”
You shifted in your seat, a proud smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Compliments from Satoru always landed somewhere between sincere and teasing, and somehow you were never quite sure which side he meant.
“That’s really touching, Satoru,” you said, folding your hands in your lap. “And I’ve been excited to talk to you, beyond the usual press questions. I’m really happy about this opportunity.”
You crossed your fingers lightly before continuing.
“Lately I’ve found myself rewatching some older films, and I came across Glass Horizon, the one where you worked with the award-winning director, Hayato Kurosawa. It felt like a huge shift from the roles audiences were used to seeing you in.”
Satoru’s head tilted slightly as he listened, his attention sharpening in a way that told you he’d already begun thinking about his answer.
“For a long time audiences associated you with these very charismatic, untouchable characters,” you continued, gesturing lightly with your hand. “But in that movie you played a pretty dangerous drug dealer running an entire underground criminal network.”
The corner of Satoru’s mouth twitched.
“And I’ll be honest,” you added, leaning forward a little, lowering your voice like you were letting the audience in on a secret, “I’ve been quietly hoping to work with Kurosawa for years. The way he builds characters is… fascinating.”
Satoru’s smile softened faintly at that.
“But what surprised me most,” you went on, “was you. That role had a roughness to it we’d never really seen before. You felt… heavier somehow. More dangerous.”
You lifted your water glass, glancing at him over the rim.
“And the look helped,” you admitted. “The brown hair, the tattoos, the scar across your eyebrow. I remember thinking—that cannot be the same man who keeps playing charming prodigies and impossibly rich CEOs.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crew behind the cameras.
Satoru leaned back slightly in his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger.
“That was mostly wardrobe and makeup doing the heavy lifting,” he said lightly.
“Oh, come on,” you shot back immediately. “You looked terrifying in that final sequence.”
His brows lifted, amused. “Terrifying?”
“The shootout scene with the police,” you clarified. “In the warehouse.”
Satoru exhaled through his nose, already smiling.
“You mean the one where I spend most of the time bleeding… sitting on the floor?”
“That’s the one,” you said sweetly.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
“That scene took almost a week to film,” he admitted. “Kurosawa wanted everything to feel… suffocating. Like the character was realizing the walls were closing in.”
You nodded, remembering it vividly.
“And the way you looked in that scene helped sell it,” you said. “Your hair was darker, your face looked sharper somehow. And those tattoos—”
“Temporary,” he cut in quickly.
You ignored him.
“—gave you this really unsettling presence,” you continued. “Like the character had lived a hundred lives before we even met him.”
Satoru rubbed the back of his neck, clearly amused.
“The tattoos took almost three hours to apply every morning,” he said. “And the hair dye nearly destroyed my scalp.”
“Sacrifices for art,” you said solemnly.
“Wardrobe loved it though,” he continued. “They kept layering dirt and blood and ripped jackets onto me like they were building a sculpture.”
You pointed a finger at him.
“That leather jacket. That was a character in itself.”
Now he laughed outright.
“Yeah, Kurosawa insisted on it,” he said. “He said the jacket had to look like it had survived more fights than the character had.”
You shook your head, smiling.
“Well, whatever the process was,” you said, “it worked. Because for the first time in your career, I watched you on screen and thought…”
You paused, tapping your finger against the armrest.
This man might actually shoot someone.
The crew burst into quiet laughter again.
Satoru leaned back in his chair, looking deeply pleased with himself.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my work in years.”
You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
Then his expression shifted, subtle, but real. The amusement softened.
“But honestly,” he said, a little quieter now, “that role changed a lot for me.”
Your posture adjusted instinctively, sensing the sincerity settling into the conversation.
“Kurosawa didn’t want the polished version of me,” Satoru continued. “He wanted the parts that were uncomfortable. The parts that didn’t look good on camera.”
He tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully.
“And somewhere in the middle of that… I realized I’d been hiding behind charm for a long time.”
You studied him more carefully now.
“And playing someone that rough pulled you out of that?” you asked.
He nodded once.
“It reminded me that acting isn’t about looking good,” he said. “It’s about letting people see the parts of you you’re usually too careful to show.”
His gaze flicked back to you then, something thoughtful glinting there.
“And that,” he added with a faint smile, “kind of saved my interest in acting.”
For a moment, the studio felt unusually quiet.
You tilted your head, watching him.
“Wow,” you said softly.
His brows lifted.
“It’s really incredible hearing you talk like this,” you continued. “So… immersed in your art.”
A slow grin crept back across his face.
“Don’t get used to it.”
You leaned forward slightly, curiosity lighting up your expression.
“Actually,” you said, tilting your head, “there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you about. “I’ve been thinking about the film you did two years ago,” you continued. “Fragments.”
His brows lifted faintly.
“The one where you played a man living with DID.”
A few crew members behind the cameras shifted, already sensing where the conversation was headed.
Satoru gave a small nod.
“That one.”
You rested your elbows lightly on your knees now, clearly more animated.
“I remember watching it for the first time and thinking, how did he do that?”
He chuckled quietly.
“That’s a broad question.”
“I’m serious,” you insisted.
Your hands moved unconsciously as you spoke, like you were trying to shape the memory in the air between you.
“Each personality felt completely different. The way you held your body changed. Your voice changed. The accents, even your eyes looked different.” You shook your head slightly, still half in disbelief. “There was nuance to every single one. It honestly felt like watching a completely different person every time the scene shifted.”
Your fingers ticked them off one by one.
“There was Micah, the nervous one,” you said, hunching slightly as if mimicking him. “Barely made eye contact, always stuttering like every sentence had to fight its way out.”
A few crew members chuckled.
“And Inoue,” you continued, smiling, “the fashion girlie. Every movement was so precise. The way you held your hands, the way you walked. The LA accent. It was like watching someone who’d spent their whole life in front of mirrors.”
Across from you, Satoru leaned back slightly, watching your animated breakdown with quiet amusement.
“And then there was Ray,” you went on, your tone lowering as you straightened in your seat. “The aggressive one. He moved like he was always about to start a fight. Even when he was just standing there it felt like the room had gotten smaller.”
You gestured again, searching for the right words.
“It wasn’t just acting, it felt physical. Like you rebuilt your entire body for each one.”
Satoru’s smile deepened, clearly entertained by how invested you were.
“And then Atlas,” you added, laughing softly. “The Greek enthusiast.”
“That one was my favorite.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Of course it was.”
“You spoke entire lines in Greek,” you continued, leaning forward again. “Not just little phrases, actual conversations.”
“I had to learn it,” he admitted casually.
Your eyes widened.
“You actually learned Greek for that role?”
“Well… conversational Greek,” he corrected modestly. “One of the personalities was obsessed with ancient philosophy and Greek literature. The director wanted him to feel academically authentic.”
You leaned back in your chair, staring at him like he’d just confessed to learning rocket science.
“That’s insane.”
“It was fun.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head firmly. “It’s insane.”
You leaned forward again, curiosity lighting up your face.
“Can you say something in Greek?”
Satoru studied you for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’d just been handed an opportunity.
Then he tilted his head slightly and spoke, the words rolling smoothly off his tongue.
“Είναι πολύ όμορφη… και απίστευτα έξυπνη.”
The studio went quiet for a second.
Your brows lifted immediately.
“What did you just say?”
Satoru leaned back again, completely unbothered.
He met your eyes across the space between your chairs.
He just held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
The smile at the corner of Satoru’s mouth only deepened.
“…You’re not going to translate that, are you?” you asked.
He shook his head once, completely unbothered.
“Nope.”
A quiet ripple of laughter moved through the crew again. You narrowed your eyes at him, though the amusement tugging at your mouth betrayed you.
“Suspicious,” you muttered, leaning back in your chair.
Satoru only shrugged.
“Atlas would say curiosity is the beginning of philosophy.”
“That feels like a very convenient escape.”
“Probably.”
You let out a small breath before tilting your head slightly, shifting the conversation back on track.
“But seriously,” you said. “Preparing for that role must have been… insane. Eighteen personalities is not something you can just improvise.”
Satoru’s posture changed almost immediately. The teasing ease softened into something more thoughtful as he rested his forearms lightly on the arms of his chair.
“It wasn’t something I could approach all at once,” he admitted. “At first I tried mapping them out like separate characters; backstories, speech patterns, physical habits.”
His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest as he spoke, thinking his way through the memory.
“But David Fletcher, the most incredible director, kept pushing me away from that.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
“He said if I treated them like eighteen different roles, it would feel artificial.” Satoru glanced briefly at the floor, then back at you. “He wanted them to feel like fragments of the same person. Like pieces that broke off over time.”
You nodded slowly.
“So instead of building them from scratch,” he continued, “I started borrowing.”
“Borrowing?”
“Little things,” he said. “The way people move. The way they react to stress. The way their voice changes when they’re lying or excited.”
He leaned back slightly again, thoughtful.
“Micah, for example…. His stutter came from someone I knew in acting school. The guy was brilliant, but whenever he had to speak in front of people he’d lose his train of thought halfway through a sentence.”
You listened carefully.
“And Ray, the aggressive one, that was mostly physical,” he continued. “I studied people who always looked like they were ready to fight. Shoulders forward, jaw tight, weight always shifting.”
Your brows lifted slightly.
“And Inuoe?” you asked.
Satoru’s mouth curved.
“That one was fun,” he said. “I spent weeks watching LA based fashion influencers and runway interviews. The precision, the self-awareness… the way every gesture looks practiced.”
You laughed softly.
“That checks out.”
Then Satoru glanced at you again, something a little mischievous flickering in his expression.
“And some of them came from people I already knew.”
Your brows drew together slightly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Little things.”
He tilted his head, studying you for a second.
“Inuoe’s habit of tilting her head when she’s judging someone’s outfit?” he said. “That’s you.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You did it all the time when we were kids and you still do.”
You immediately straightened in your chair. “I do not.”
Across from you, Satoru’s grin widened.
“You absolutely do.”
A few members of the crew laughed again.
“And Atlas?” you asked suspiciously.
Satoru shrugged.
“That one was… partially inspired by Suguru.”
Your head turned slightly.
“Suguru?”
“Yeah,” Satoru said. “When we were kids he used to get obsessed with random subjects. Philosophy, religion, obscure literature.” He smiled faintly at the memory. “If he found something interesting he’d talk about it for hours.”
You nodded slowly.
“That sounds about right.”
“And the rest,” he continued, “came from smaller things. Moments. Reactions. Stuff I’ve seen over the years.”
He tapped his finger lightly against the armrest again.
“Acting like that is a bit like building a collage,” he said. “You take tiny pieces from everywhere… and eventually they turn into someone new.”
You watched him for a moment, genuinely impressed.
“That’s incredible.”
Satoru glanced up at you again, that familiar playful glint returning.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re starting to sound like my publicist.”
“You know,” you said, your voice softening slightly, “watching you in your more recent films made me realize just how much range you actually have.”
His brows lifted faintly.
“Actually?”
You smiled.
“Well… the public image you’ve cultivated isn’t exactly ‘serious dramatic actor.’”
The crew laughed softly.
He sighed theatrically.
“Tragic.”
“But that performance,” you continued, your voice thoughtful again. “It felt like watching eighteen completely different people trapped in one body.”
You shook your head slightly, still impressed.
“That’s one of the most technically difficult performances I’ve ever seen.”
For a moment he simply looked at you.
Then his grin returned; slower this time.
“Well,” he said lightly, “coming from you, I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
And the way you were still looking at him, completely absorbed, made it clear you meant every word.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, waiting.
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summary: You had always heard a weird, mocking voice in the back of your head telling you that the things were going to end just like that between you and Satoru. The Prince and the Pauper. You were destined to eventually drift apart.
Or not?
tags: AU, angst to fluff, breaking and making up, classical disparities, insecurities, gojo is a certified loverboy and a yearner as usual. mdni! eventual smut, p in v sex, soft emotional sex. nobamaki cameo!
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! PLEASE HAVE YOUR AGE IN YOUR BLOG!
word count: 13.9k
author's note: hi everyone!! this is not the oneshot i wanted to finish in may, but i had some ideas brewing for quite a long time, though the concept is not really original. happy ending won, soooo enjoy and let me know your thoughts! art in the banner by @/yamada_souko. dividers are mine.
Looking back, you realised you had never got it easy for Satoru.
The tale as old as time: the Princess and the Pauper. Or, in your case, the Prince and the Pauper.
And you couldn't put it in a better way.
Satoru Gojo — the Prince of the campus, the heir to the Gojo Enterprises, the man who would get the business world in the palm of his hand, the captain of the university basketball team, whose face was plastered all across the campus, the president of the Alpha Delta Nu, so on and so forth. You got the gist. The crowd parted before him, the Universe shifted itself to accommodate his presence: he walked in every room as if he owned it, which he pretty much did — ruling every place with a charming grin and a quick wit. Guys were wishing to be like him. Girls were dying to be beside him. He barely granted anyone more attention than needed — keeping people at arm's length, except for a couple of his friends. Of course, you didn't belong to them. Not like you desperately wanted to. You were well aware of the hierarchy of the university: people like Satoru Gojo rested at the top, eyeing the crowd down. People like you? Scrambling to get to the middle. If you were lucky enough.
One spring day, you realised that either Satoru Gojo didn't know about those unspoken rules or couldn't care less about them. Because you couldn't come up with a plausible explanation for why he suddenly started pestering you. Or, in his eyes, flirting.
It began rather innocent: him accidentally bumping into you, flashing an apologetic grin; asking for a vacant place at the cafetery at your usual table in the corner, the one where the noise cut down a little and you had a better view on the students — naturally, that place become the center of everyone's attention, because wherever Gojo was, the crowd followed; helping you to get a book from the highest shelves in the library and then crushing your study sessions; waiting for you after the classes just to walk you out to the next campus with an excuse that it was on his way (it didn't. Business majors classes were hold in the corpus 20 minutes away from yours).
At first, you politely declined every single invitation to a frat party or a match. Then you tried to ignore him, but your disinterest would even more pique Gojo's attention. After this, it turned into clipped, gritted-out "no's". You even attempted to talk to his friend, Shoko Ieiri, the girl you shared the Advanced Chemistry class with.
"I don't think there's something I can do," she would murmur, eyes firmly set on some sample through the microscope, when you turned to her as a last resort. The sigh that left your lips was truly desperate. Shoko's gaze softened a tad as she looked up finally, since your presence kept looming over her like a tiny, grumpy cloud. "Satoru can be pretty stubborn, unfortunately. Especially, when he's pretty set on something."
"Yeah," scoffing under your breath, you crossed your arms, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. "Unfortunately for me. Am I another check mark on his to-do list? I just don't get it." The pencil in your hand almost snapped from the strength of your grip.
"Listen, I am not in a position to advice your something or anything," Shoko's lab chair screeched — the sound annoyingly loud in the tense silence of the lab — as she turned to face you fully. The irritation at her words flared up in you, but you forced yourself to listen to her. If not her, then who?! "But you might try to hear him out. He's not that bad of a guy."
Grimacing at her, you turned to return to your own table. "If he's not that bad, he would've taken a hint long ago."
An indifferent shrug was the only response you got.
After talking to Shoko, Gojo's pitiable attempts at "courting" you had weakened severely until coming to a complete halt. You couldn't believe your luck. But what annoyed you even more than Gojo himself was the way you would jump at seeing the familiar spark of frosty white hair in the crowd; the way your heart would do a little flip at the sound of his distant chuckles. The way the loneliness would engulf your usual table in the corner of the cafeteria without his company: you subconsciously craned your neck to see him, for all his persona and the impossible height were impossible to miss, and slumped in your seat, when he didn't happen to stroll in with a familiar effortless grace in his stride. In the quietness of the library, after the countless hours of studying, you could basically hear the grin in his voice as he handed you a couple of blueberry muffins and the bergamot tea from your favourite bakery — you didn't have the slightest idea how he managed to find out your usual order — and tapped on your nose, remarking that you actually should eat.
Somehow, Satoru Gojo annoyed you enough to...like him. Managed to creep under your skin like an itch you couldn't get rid of.
Or… didn't want to?
***
One basketball match changed everything.
"Sorry, sorry, oh— sorry again," you mumbled awkwardly, navigating through the crowd and somehow managing to balance two beer cups on your way to your seats.
"Geez, finally, where have you been?"
Rolling your eyes at Nobara, your bestie slash roommate slash the only person who made your university life not so miserable, you handed her the cup and tried to shout through the cheerladers' voices, the endless roaring of the crowd and the music coming loud from the speakers.
"There was a line!"
"Huh? What?"
"THERE WAS A FUCKING LINE!"
She took a sip from her cup with a satisfied nod and grimaced at you. "Don't scream at me."
Her audacity stole your voice, and you slumped down in your seat, huffing rather indignantly.
"Hey, don't pout. Sorry for that." Nobara lightly elbowed your side and opened a pack of salted peanuts, offering you a truce.
"Can't believe I agreed to go with you," a light grumpiness coloured your voice as you drank from your own cup.
"Aw, that's because I am awesome and you love me so, so much," she chirped gleefully and planted a kiss on your cheek. With her head on your shoulder, Nobara sighed dreamily at the sight of Maki Zenin — the manager of the university's basketball team. "She's so cute, isn't she?"
Meanwhile, Maki gestured widely, screaming something at her phone (not very pleasant as you might assume from your seat) and threw her bag at a guy in front of her. The guy followed her figure with puppy eyes.
Your lips twitched with a barely concealed smile that you hid behind another swig. "An angel, truly."
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"
Her words fell on deaf ears because at that moment, some airy melody rang from the speakers, followed by the joyful voice of the commentators to finally announce the start of the match.
Swallowing nervously, your eyes darted across the court, and the moment your gaze landed on the tall figure with stark white hair, your heart galloped at a racing speed.
"Who are you gawking at, huh?"
Gojo might've really had the eyes on the back of his head — he wasn't called Six Eyes for nothing, some weird sixth sense that you assumed related only to the basketball court — because that very moment he turned around and briefly scanned the audience. His eyes widened in surprise as he spotted you: the bright blue of his gaze and the joyous smile that broke on his face caught you so off guard you nearly dropped the cup. Like he was happy to see you there. Actually happy.
You offered Gojo a shy wave — a subtle move of your fingers — that only made his grin wider. Then, Suguru Geto tapped on his shoulder, and he quickly turned back.
Your hand fell limply to your side.
"Babe, what the hell was that?" Nobara hissed, jerking her chin towards the players gathered around for the last guides from the coach Yaga. "Have you just casually flirted with Satoru Gojo? Don't you hate his lungs?"
The next words came in a breathy voice. "I don't know anymore."
Your knowledge of basketball was rather... limited, but you dutifully roared along with the crowd the moment your university scored yet another point. The people's excitement was contagious, seeping right into you as well and lacing your voice with joy. You booed at the judge when he gave advantages to the rivals, screamed at the top of your lungs and held your breath at the last quarter. Your team went neck-and-neck with the other, and every point was crucial. You could see it in the way the player's uniform was drenched in sweat, their hair stuck to their temples, and laboured breathing. The stakes were too high.
The scorebox showed the fifteen seconds left — mere moments for you and the whole eternity for those at the court. Your eyes drifted to Gojo, as driven to him by some unknown force. His sharp gaze quickly darted from one teammate to another, calculating the last opportunities to score. And then...it found you amidst the sea of spectators. Cheeks flushed, hair a total mess, chest expanding with deep breaths. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he took you in. Adorable.
But for you, the moment Gojo's gaze landed on you felt completely different — resembling more of a bolt of lightning that sent every nerve in your body on fire. You couldn't hear your own thoughts with the blood pounding at your temples.
Gojo barely tilted his head, nodding towards the basket and mouthed.
"This is for you."
He dodged one guy, then the other with perfect dribbling — you barely saw anyone in their element as much as Gojo was at the basketball court — and finally went for a shot.
Time seemed to stop moving in the gym of the Jujutsu University. The hundreds of eyes watched the ball cutting through the air with an impeccable trajectory.
Until it went through the net without hitting the rim and sealed the win.
You barely released a shuddering breath when Nobara crushed you in a hug, her beer mercilessly spilling on you both, but no one gave a damn. The crowd erupted with an ecstatic cheer and rose to their feet right then and there. The commentators were on the verge of crying, judging by their voices, but your world narrowed to one particular person. Gojo's teammates ruffled his hair, patted his back, and hugged him by the shoulders; someone even put him in a playful headlock, to which he responded with a wide grin.
A tight knot in your chest slowly seemed to loosen a bit.
Gojo found you later, at the party.
You stood a little away from the crowd, watching Nobara laughing with Maki Zenin near the bonfire. The light painted her auburn hair in copper tints every time she tilted her head, and judging by the way Maki's gaze lingered on her form, she noticed that too. A little smile curled your lips at the sight of lovey-doveys.
"Your friend has a crush on Maki, huh?"
Putting a can to your lips, you mumbled absent-mindedly, "She's pretty obvious."
"They both are, actually."
A light brush against your shoulder finally caught your attention. You lazily shifted your gaze, only to gulp at the sudden proximity to Satoru Gojo.
He stood beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, watching the rest of the party unfold with a faint smirk on his face. Standing there, existing, like he wasn't the one who flipped your world upside down a couple of hours earlier.
A forced smile made your cheeks hurt as you tumbled out nervously, hastily wiping your mouth, "I am— I, I mean, congratulations! You did so great! I don't understand much about basketball, but you—," your worried your bottom lip for a second before breathing out, "you were magnificent."
At your words, Gojo finally turned around. His grin softened into a gentle smile that showcased a pair of dimples on his pale cheeks. The firelight danced on his hair strands that seemed more ivory tinged now.
"You think so?"
"I do!" A sudden feeling of boldness flooded you as you stepped forward and reached for his arm to show how sincere you were. Or maybe it was just a beer.
Gojo immediately cast his gaze down and slowly wrapped his long fingers around your wrist. You gulped, but didn't look away from his face. The gods clearly spared nothing in sculpting it, otherwise you couldn't explain the sharpness of his jaw, the plumpness of his lips and the prominence of his cheekbones.
No one had a right to be that beautiful. Satoru Gojo wasn't aware of it.
His thumb pressed just a tad against your soft skin to feel an erratic pulse beneath it, but you did not attempt to pull your hand away. On the contrary, it felt strangely...natural.
"I am glad you were there." A gentle murmur hit you harder than expected.
Breath bated, you searched Gojo's face for any hint of the usual theatrics and grandeur until you saw none.
"You are?"
"Yeah".
The words about the last shot were on the tip of your tongue already, but they quickly died at the sight of shimmering blue in his eyes as Gojo finally looked up and released your hand from his grip.
You already missed its warmth.
"Listen, I knew I was a jerk towards you. Crowding and flirting and so on. I know, I know," a self-deprecating chuckle left his lips as the ironic roll of his eyes followed. You watched every expression, soaked it like Gojo was about to disappear again from your life. "I am not proud of this, I admit. I want to apologise to you for this."
You parted your lips to answer, but Gojo cut you off with a slight shake of his head.
"But I am not going to apologise for my feelings," his voice grew stronger, rising from the gentle murmur to the steady tone, eyes boring into you with an unsettling intensity that left you speechless. The people's cheerings fade into the background, and that chilly evening, thick with emotions so deep you couldn't name them, enveloped both of you in its bubble.
"I meant everything. I do like you. I like the way you smile when you finally grasp the concept you've been studying. The way your voice goes all that animated when you talk about the book you were reading. That little sparkle in your eyes when you saw the last cherry pie in the cafeteria...I love it all. And that shot was for you. I really meant it."
"I am gonna ask you just this once, and if you reject me, I will step back and never bother you again. You have my word," the weight of Gojo's promise would almost physically pin you to the ground, if not for the desperation lurking behind his gaze, darting between your eyes and your lips. He forcefully tore it away to glance right into your face. "Will you go out with me?"
You didn't believe what you were about to say. But hey, that day was already weird enough. You offered Gojo a crooked smile. "Yeah."
"Just one date, you won't — ", he blinked in surprise, a light frown crossing his handsome face. "Wait, what?"
You stifled a laugh and nodded, stepping closer, until you felt the hard planes of his chest. "I will go out with you."
A slow, almost dopey in its joy, grin curled Gojo's lips, until a small disbelieving chuckle left him. "You will? Just like that?"
Now you couldn't contain a smile either. "Just like that, Gojo."
A whoop full of happiness cut through the air and the noise of the party that slowly came to its eventual end as Gojo swept you off your feet and twirled you in a bone-crushing embrace. Your laugh was the prettiest sound Gojo had ever heard.
"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear you won't regret it!"
Satoru Gojo kept his promise. And many others he whispered in the dead of the night to you beneath the star-spilt sky. His hand was a steady anchor amidst the stormy life that awaited both of you. His voice offered you peace of mind when the world was a little too harsh for you. His fingers traced reverently the silk of your skin every time he shared a night with you. His gaze was the first you searched for in every crowded room. His arms had become the safest place in the world.
Satoru memorised the way you organised your life, but you were more than happy when he eventually disrupted your usual order. Not because he was doing that on purpose. Rather, since that was Satoru: he was too big for your world, and you didn't want him to shrink himself into someone he wasn't. Dimming Satoru's light was the last thing you wished.
He had learnt by heart the things that even you didn't pay attention to: for example, your toothbrush always had to face the door — Satoru wordlessly turned it the way you preferred; your favourite plant was Zamioculcas that he made sure was always watered visiting you; you usually carried a few packs of wet cat food for the stray babies in your enormous bag — he ordered large boxes, so you wouldn't run out of them; your drink of choice was Margarita that you shared only while hanging with Nobara — Satoru learned on his way to pick you up; you hated the loud harsh sounds, and Satoru was the first one to whisper sweet nothings to you and rub soothing circles against the small of your back until you calm down. In other words, he made your life easier.
You, on the other hand, only added more difficulties to his. Satoru never told you that, not even mentioned in any way that you were somehow different from him. But some things didn't have to be pointed out to catch your eye.
Like his Prada glasses, which cost like your monthly rent or two. Satoru could leave them somewhere without batting an eye. Or the luxurious gifts he would get you out of nowhere just because you barely glanced at something while strolling. That warmed your heart, yes, but the cheque that Satoru couldn't care less about startled you. You stayed in the lab until you almost fainted from fatigue just to finish the project before the deadline to get an extra payment to spend on the gift, since you were adamant that the relationships were about taking and giving in equal measure. Not to mention the one social gathering he invited you to, just off-handedly, before the day it actually happened; you drained your bank account to look presentable by his side, and lived on the instant ramen the entire month after. Maybe if you had accepted Satoru's offer to live together, none of that would have happened, but you learned the hard way to rely only on yourself. Luckily, the iron argument sealed the deal: your tight schedules at the lab and his as a pro basketball player didn't match well.
The Gojo family was another... topic. While no one said anything directly to your face, you noticed the way their brows knitted in confusion for a fleeting second, eyeing you up and down. Sensed the baffled glances and fake, saccharine sweet smiles behind your back, questioning the fact of your presence. No. Your existence. The mere raise of the brow from one of Satoru's distant cousins at the sight of your shoes — the ones you borrowed from Nobara, who got them after the Fashion Week in Paris, albeit last year's Dior collection — had you doubting your entire life.
Complaining had never been on your list, though some thoughts did cross your mind. You made sure not to voice them, stoically listening to all the hushed whispers. Not once did your smile falter in front of them. It was the least you could do for Satoru. You knew he didn't have a lot of joy in standing up for you every single time, so, eventually, the gatherings got shorter, the invitations came rather rarely, and the calls, already small in number, would always leave him in a bad mood. The sound of your name appeared quite frankly between the gritted words and heated yells.
"Don't worry, baby," Satoru's lips always found the crown of your head in the reassuring kiss when you asked him what was going on. The bitterness in his voice poisoned your already tired, insecure mind even more. He was a master at hiding his emotions, but never from you. "I got this."
A strained smile — the corners of your lips lifting just barely — was your usual answer.
"Of course."
Satoru then offered you a quick grin that never reached his eyes. His large hands cradled your face in the gentle, trembling grip, and the faint murmur would twist yet another knife between your ribs. "I love you. I love you so much. You know that, right?"
Leaning into Satoru's palm like a kitten, seeking warmth, you bit inside of your cheek not to cry. Your hand came up to cradle his hand against your cheek just to memorise the way it perfectly engulfed your face.
"I love you."
Not to dwell on the way you voice cracked, akin to ice beneath one's feet, you simply moved forward to capture his lips in a kiss, until all you could taste were tears. Yours, his... Did it matter anymore?
And then, under the pale moonlight coming from the lone crescent peering right into the bedroom of his large penthouse, your gaze drifted unabashedly over Satoru's face, taking in every flutter of the long, snowy eyelashes. Every breath that left his lips. Every faint twitch in his expression, and even every tiny snore. Your finger tenderly traced the bridge of Satoru's nose, making its way to the perfectly sculpted mouth and down to the sharp cut of his collarbones. Committing each pale freckle and beauty mark to memory.
For you knew that night would be your last one.
Satoru loved you, and you loved him. He loved you fiercely, with the force so burning it could rival the Sun itself. It was only fair for you to step back and let him shine. Not to drive another wedge between him and his family. You loved Satoru enough not to burden him with your presence. He should soar up in the sky, not stay chained on the ground by the dead weight of you and waste his time knocking some sense into his parents.
A muffled sob escaped your throat as you pressed a small kiss between his collarbones. The next thing you felt was Satoru's strong arm curling around your waist to pull you against his strong chest. The faint smell of musk still clung to his skin, but you had never revelled in it as you did now.
"Why aren't you asleep, baby? Something's wrong?" Satoru's voice came in a deep, throaty tone that would usually have your toes curling.
The edge of the blade dug deeper into your heart, drawing blood.
"Nothing, love. Just some weird thoughts, that's all."
A boyish grin adorned his face — so handsome even in the middle of the night — as he lightly flicked your forehead.
"Your head will hurt from all the overthinking. Head so tiny, yet so many thoughts. Come here," Satoru let a shuddering yawn and tucked your head under his chin, nuzzling gently against your hair. "Better?"
Biting on your lip, you prayed to all the gods that Satoru wouldn't hear the tremble in your voice. The steady beat of his heart lulled you to sleep, but you knew you wouldn't close an eye that night. "Yes."
"Try to sleep, okay?" Satoru's finger came to play with a lone strand of your hair. The smile in his voice was evident. "And if you don't, just wake me up. We can talk or watch that documentary you mentioned earlier. I mean, did Tyra really not take any accountability?"
You gathered any ounce of your strength not to fall apart right then and there.
"Of course, Toru. Go to sleep now."
He sighed in mock exaggeration. "Always so bossy."
His chest rose steadily under your cheek. His skin felt warm under the weight of your palm. You registered it all subconsciously, clinging to every part of Satoru.
And only when his breath fully evened, you allowed yourself to whisper to the night.
"I love you. And I am so sorry."
***
You sincerely thought you were a nice girlfriend for scheduling your breakup over the weekend. Waited until Satoru finished showering and emerged all smiley and happy from the bathroom. Waited until he recalled all the TikToks he sent to you in the early morning, not even knowing you already had blocked him on all the socials. Waited until he dug in the last breakfast you cooked for him — fluffy pancakes with strawberry jam.
"Babe, this is so delicious," Satoru hummed, pointing a fork at you. "Are you sure you didn't wanna become a chief? I mean, this is the gift from the heavens."
"I think we should break up."
Satoru paused mid-way, mouth still open. He slowly closed it and heaved a hollowed chuckle, chewing on the pancake with more force than necessary. "Very funny, sweets. An excellent joke."
Straightening in the seat, you furrowed your brows in confusion. Weren't you clear enough?
"I said we should break up."
That time, Satoru finally stopped chewing and slowly lifted his gaze at you. The electric blue pierced deep in your soul as he pressed again, "And I said it was an excellent joke."
"Satoru," the movement of your throat was sharp as you fumbled with words. "I am not joking."
The desperate flex of his fingers caught your attention immediately when Satoru curled them into a fist before taking a deep breath. The smile that carved into his lips was as sharp as the knife.
"Care to explain why?"
A thousand thoughts twirled in your mind those days like a restless whirlpool, each of them seemingly worse than the previous: "I don't love you anymore", or "You suffocate me with your love", and the traitorous "I cheated on you."
All of them lie, of course.
So, you settled on offering Satoru the least you could do — the truth.
"We just don't work out, Satoru. It's better to break up before — "your voice was so tiny and fragile, Satoru thought he was hallucinating: his worst nightmare coming to reality, " — things get more serious."
The loud, screeching sound of the chair being pushed away, followed by a self-deprecating, disbelieving laugh, filled the room. You glanced up at Satoru only to find him pacing around like a caged animal. Your words punched him right in the gut.
"We don't 'work out?' Before 'things get too serious', huh? Sweets, that's gotta be a joke. The most shitty, not funny and cruel joke you have ever pulled on me, but okay," he nervously carded his fingers through the white hair, before walking to you. "Tell me this is it. Please."
You cast your gaze down, not able to see the way his eyes frantically searched your face for any hint of a joke and hear the crack in his voice, usually so steady and certain. A rock, a lighthouse in your stormy ocean.
The shake of his hands was violent as they came up to frame your face. You choked on a heavy sob, trembling like a leaf with the tears blurring your eyes so hard you couldn't see anything.
"But we were —, are working just fine. Have I done something wrong? Is it because of me? Just tell me what to do, I swear I'll fix everything!"
"It's not about you, Satoru. Never has been. It's about me."
His white brows furrowed in confusion. "You? What about you? But you are perfect for me," he chuckled almost tenderly — a small sound frayed around the edges — that only ripped your heart out. "You listen to all my stupid jokes, know how many sugar cubes I put in my coffee, and put the curtains down because you know how sensitive my eyes are. You stayed with me at the hospital after the injury and cheered for me the loudest." His voice rose just a tad to coax a smile from you. "You have never told me how to be someone I am not. Always seen me, not the Gojo heir. Not the star player. How can it be about you? No one in the world knows me as well as you do. Like —," his gaze swept across the room like something might've helped him to talk you out, "like your last Christmas gift, huh? That premium card you swore you just stumbled upon in the store, but I knew better how much it — Wait."
Satoru's smile slowly died as the realisation downed at him like a wicked joke of fate. "No, no, no, no. That can't be it. Is that because of money? My status? I told you countless times that it doesn't matter to me! What I have is yours." His voice dipped into the fragile, almost sacred warmth that he reserved only for you. "All I have is yours."
You couldn't do that anymore. Not even in the wildest thoughts did it occur to you that breaking up with Satoru would hurt that badly. It rather resembled a never-ending torture.
He never understood it. Growing up in a family that barely made ends meet. Pouring your blood, sweat and tears into studies to get a tuition fee waiver, because there wasn't any other option for you to get into the university. Scraping by taking double shifts at the cafe. Fighting tooth and nail over the place in the chemistry lab.
And never would.
Pushing Satoru away, you closed your eyes in defeat before forcing yourself to look back at him. He didn't dare to mutter a word, watching your face twist with pain as you shouted.
"It matters to me! It matters to me, Satoru, how fucking inferior I feel next to you!"
Something in his gaze faded away. He didn't recognise his voice when it came in a short, fractured breath, devoid of all strength.
"What?"
A violent sob rattled your frame as you hid your face in your palms. You cried and cried and cried until your chest tightened with pain, and you managed to utter hoarsely. "Every time I get into your home, or every time someone sees me besides you, I want to run and disappear into the cave. Don't you see that, To — Satoru?" No. He wasn't your Toru anymore. "I am like, dunno, a disastrous glob of ink on Monet's painting. A patch of dirt on the Versace gown. A bling-bling amidst Graff's and Harry Winston's. Well, you get it. Something to wipe away or hide in the closet. Someone who doesn't deserve to stand by your side."
"I don't get it," Satoru dragged his hands over his face and shook his head, letting out a humourless laugh. His eyes flashed with a weird gleam. "Did my parents or anyone at that point say something to you? Because if they did, I fucking swear —"
"No one said anything to me, Satoru! It doesn't matter. Because they say it to you —"
"And as I said, I don't care — "
"BUT I DO!" The rise of your voice to a frenzied cry startled both of you. Satoru stared at you with a gaze so desperate that a kiss of the gun would've been more merciful. You fiercely wiped your snotty nose — hell, you must've looked so ugly — and walked over to cup his face. He watched your every move as if you were about to disappear. In a way, you were going to.
"I do not want anyone to say something about me to you. I do not want you to fight with your family over me. I want you to be happy. Do not be torn between me and the world you belonged to."
Satoru wanted to shake you by the shoulders just to knock some sense into your head, scream and shout what a total bullshit your words were, but instead, he got rooted to the spot by your doe eyes. His stomach twisted at your next words.
"You'll meet a beautiful, smart, and kind girl, who wears pearls that cost more than I will ever be able to make, plays Brahms at the family gatherings, and who doesn't turn red in the face, while asked about favourite Japanese modern artists. Well, now I know plenty." You couldn't help but huff a tiny chuckle. Nothing twitched in Satoru's face. "And you will fall in love with her, and your whole family will like her. Everything will be just fine."
Satoru couldn't believe what was happening. Nothing in his life could ever prepare him for the pain that would follow with your leaving him. It didn't feel real. Probably, never would.
He slowly tilted his head down and rested his forehead against yours, whispering, barely audible. Like every word cost him a fortune. "Please, baby, please. I swear on my life, I will do everything. Just don't leave me. I don't —," Satoru's hands slip up your face as well, but you closed your eyes in defeat. Any ounce of strength left in your body evaporated. His arms fell to his sides as he croaked out helplessly. "I don't know who I am without you."
"You are you, Satoru. Always have been and always will be. A brilliant, wonderful, kind boy with a golden heart. And I..I am just me," you pressed your lips in a thin line before forcing a smile. "But I will work on it. As I said, it's all because of me."
"You don't get it." Somehow, Satoru's lifeless whisper hit you harder than any scream would. Because Satoru never raised his voice at you. Even now. There was a hunch to his shoulders that you rarely saw, if ever, as he turned from you and gripped the edge of the table. "I want to marry you. To become your family. But guess that doesn't matter anymore. Before things get too serious, huh?"
The room spun around you as you knitted your brows together, slumping in the nearest chair. Marrying… you?
But, on the other hand, it didn't change anything. You were still miles away from each other, standing on opposite sides of the societal hierarchy.
"I am so sorry, Satoru," words clawed up your throat as you shook your head.
Satoru finally turned around, and the dimmed, utterly devastated blue of his gaze tore you apart at the seams. "You are not sorry. If you were, you won't be leaving me now."
You didn't have enough in you to counter this. Words seemed meaningless, slipping like sand through your fingers.
"Please, Satoru. Let us go. It is for the better."
You had never seen an expression that hopeless and defeated on his handsome face.
"Is that what you want?"
"No," you wanted to scream, to shout, to cry out loud. "How can I possibly want to leave you? I have to. For both of us."
The silence stretched thin between you for so long, Satoru sincerely thought you didn't hear him. He stepped forward only to see you giving a short nod, almost cruel in its curtness.
After all, he never denied you everything. Even that. Even if it killed him from the inside.
Standing by the door with your bag, you couldn't help but steal a last glance at him. You parted your lips to say goodbye, but nothing even remotely plausible came to your mind. Satoru sat on the couch, shoulders slumped and gaze fixed on the floor. His name left your lips for the last time.
"Satoru."
His head snapped up as if he had been waiting for it that entire time. Maybe you changed your mind?
"Yes?"
That fragile hope in his tone twisted your insides.
"I love you."
Before he could answer, you slipped out of his apartments. And his life.
***
These months, the four agonising months, marked by Satoru's absence in your life, had sucked. Mildly put.
You sincerely thought you were doing the right thing — well, still were — breaking up, sparing his life from your presence, but it didn't mean it hurt any less. In a way, it was the opposite.
Pushing the love of your life away and then grovelling in the silence of your small apartment after putting on a brave face and assuring everyone that you were okay sucked. Crying yourself to sleep sucked. Feeling your heart breaking to pieces each time your gaze stumbled upon something that instantly reminded you of Satoru — like a photo on the fridge, his note with a smiley, kissy face between the pages of your comfort book and the tome of the manga he was reading — sucked. Walking around the places you used to hang out sucked.
What sucked even more was the fact that Satoru's presence seemed to linger everywhere. His laugh haunted you while you were lounging on the couch. The look of pure happiness on his face was ingrained in your mind while you were walking in a familiar park. And when your eye caught sight of a ball? Didn't even mention it. Perhaps that was your punishment. Now you were subjected to a lifetime of loneliness.
Still, you tried to do the thing you promised Satoru the final time you saw him. Attempted to go out of your shell. Took on some hobbies. Had a lot, a lot of time for self-reflection (given that you were free most of the evenings when you didn't throw yourself into work). And took small steps to discover what made you whole.
What and not who. That realisation sank on you with the force of a tidal wave. Kept you awake in three of the morning. Occupied all your thoughts until you finally, finally, were getting used to it. Still, there was a lot to be done. You only wished for Satoru by your side, though. Were you allowed to think about him, after all?
The revelation, of course, only made your mind drift to Satoru even more. How was he? Was his injury getting better? Did his father officially appoint him as the next CEO?
Gods. You sure had no right to worry about him anymore. Not after breaking both of your hearts. An utterly desperate and lifeless look on his face flashed every time before your eyes when you closed them.
You dragged your feet back from the nearest combini: Friday had finally marked the end of a long, exhausting week (not like you had many left, huh) and you treated yourself with sushi and a bottle of wine. There was nothing you wanted more than to run a bath and put Sex and the City on, rotting under the blanket. It would've been thousands of times better if Satoru were there, but alas...
A few raindrops fell on the asphalt, successfully putting the train of your miserable thoughts to a halt, and you hurried to the entrance of your block. Quickly fishing a pair of keys, you glanced up from your bag as something caught your attention in the periphery, and you got immediately rooted to the spot.
You would recognise the set of those shoulders, now slightly hunched, everywhere. A grey hoodie did nothing to hide his figure. White tufts fell over his forehead under the hood, and something twisted viciously in your chest at the sight. Your fingers twitched with the urge to feel the silk of that hair under your touch.
You took a deep breath, trying to take a rein over your hammering heart, and stepped closer, calling the man out softly. Rather hesitantly.
"Satoru? What are you doing here?"
Satoru went rigid for a moment at your voice. His shoulders tensed even more. Your throat clogged up.
But then he turned around and smiled. A tiny, almost pathetic lift of his lips, and he offered you a small wave. Just like the one you gave him at that basketball match.
"Hi, ba —" Satoru immediately corrected himself, wincing just for a second. His smile wavered, as did your composure. "Hi."
The effort that took you not to drop your things right then and run into his arms was only between you and the gods.
"Hello to you too." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped forward. That totally wasn't the way you imagined that meeting would go.
"What are you doing here?" You prompted again, trying not to sound either harsh or desperate. Desperate to hear his voice. See his eyes. Look at his face.
"Just... was going around. Stumbled at your place. You still live here." Satoru lifted one shoulder in a nervous shrug, and his little smile morphed into a quick, uneasy grimace.
You didn't question those stalker-ish tendencies, but the doubt was clearly evident in an arch of your brow, because Satoru instantly raised his hands in surrender.
"No, really. I guess my legs just carried me there. Some memory, you know," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, but then sighed, seeing your suspicion. "Come on, sweets. If I had been stalking you all that time, I would've done it way more discreetly."
That brought you some relief. "Guess you would've."
His Adam's apple bobbed with an effort. "Can we, uhm, talk?"
Something in your guts was telling you had a pretty good sense of the way this talk would go. You weren't sure it was the right time and way.
Casting your gaze down, you worried on your bottom lip before breathing out, "I'm — I'm not sure this is a good idea, Satoru."
"Please", his voice took on a pleading edge. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. "I just want to know how you are. That's all."
He was lying. And he knew you were well aware of it.
But, in the end, wasn't that what you wanted? To see him, at least? Well, here Satoru was.
Thunder roared somewhere in the distance, and you were pretty sure that soon you both would be drenched to the bone.
"Besides, you don't want to get me standing under the rain, do you?" An amusement curled Satoru's lips before he let a humourless chuckle. "Have some mercy on your ex-boyfriend."
That sounded like a slur coming from Satoru. You glared at him. His smile turned even sharper.
Torn between the current state of your... relationship, and the fact that Satoru was standing right in front of you, you completely didn't know what to do. You didn't part your ways that badly. And you had never wanted to be that person who would resent his ex and scowl at every mention of them.
Because that was never true. You loved Satoru. And, judging by the yearning lacing his gaze and the nervous flex of his hands as he awaited your response, he still loved you, too.
After minutes of debating, with the rain intensifying, you finally gave in and nodded towards the entrance.
"Get in."
Satoru's wide smile now resembled more of a child's on Christmas.
"Yes, ma'am."
The weight of Satoru's gaze, burning a hole in your back, felt rather physical. The tension in your kitchen threatened to suffocate you both, while you busied yourself with making tea and a gigantic cup of hot cocoa for Satoru.
You placed the drink in front of him, and Satoru shot you a small, curious grin.
"Whoa, marshmallows."
"Yeah," you still absent-mindedly bought them at the grocery store. Habit. "You know, three years of always getting your marshmallows weren't in vain."
Satoru looked at you as if he seriously considered offering himself as a sacrifice at your altar.
Damn those puppy eyes.
Rubbing your palms up and down your thighs, you cleared your throat and offered an awkward smile. God, you wanted the ground to swallow you. "So, uhm, how have you been, To — Satoru?"
He pressed his lips together and leaned back in his seat, right hand on the back of it, like he was incapable of sitting straight. Well, some things never changed.
Satoru didn't look at you, instead glancing out of the window at the heavy rain, drumming against the windows.
"Not so good."
You immediately dropped your gaze, hugging the cup with sea buckthorn tea. The scorching liquid might've burnt your hands a little, but it was nothing in comparison with the sharp pain in your chest.
Licking your lips, you forced yourself to look up at Satoru. He was still staring at the rain like it held something only visible to him. The muscle in his jaw jumped.
"I am sorry, but —"
Satoru released a long sigh and turned to you. You almost flinched at the sight of his eyes — usually so bright blue, flashing with mirth and charm, now reduced to the lifeless, dull grey. Under the better light, you also noticed the dark bags under Satoru's eyes, the hollow in his cheeks and even the light stubble. You had never seen him like it. Like he aged ten years or more in those months.
That was all because of you, right?
Tears filled your eyes so fast you couldn't even blink them away, when you felt salt on your lips.
You wanted to apologise once again, but then Satoru leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, feverishly running his fingers through the white strands. Were you a little crazy, or even his hair seemed more…ashy?
"I am not gonna lie, I have never felt more awful and pathetic and miserable — well, you get it, in my entire fucking life," he waved his hand dismissively, and you closed your eyes just for a fleeting second, because you couldn't afford even a moment of not looking at him. That talk went even worse than you imagined. "But after you left, something has…changed."
You sat upright and drawled hesitantly, "Like…what?"
He huffed a humourless chuckle, and his eyes flashed with a weird, almost malicious glint. Your insides went cold.
"Well, I just told my father that he can suck my dick —"
You slowly covered your face with one hand. That was not good. Very, very bad, actually.
" — if he even for a moment thinks I was going to marry one of the girls he and my grandfather suggested. And then he started threatening to cut my trust fund off, blah blah, blah. Like I've ever given a single fuck about it."
Something in his tone was telling you that wasn't everything that had changed.
Satoru's voice sharpened in a way that could cut even the hardest steel.
"That was okay. Nothing I've heard before. But when he started talking about you," his voice dropped to a whisper and dangerously cracked. You couldn't hear it anymore. "That's where I draw the line. He knows that. Now everyone knows that."
A loud groan left you as you dropped your head in your hands.
"What have you done, Satoru?"
He just rolled his eyes. Harsh and sharp. "What I should have done, obviously. A long time ago. Tell all of them to fuck off."
"Oh —"
"Mildly put," Satoru scratched his head with a mild grimace. "And then got kicked out of the house. Trust fund cut off, obviously."
You couldn't believe what you had just heard. Satoru might've thought that his words would somehow soften you, so you could coo at him or whatever. But never did he expect you to slam your fist against the table and grit throught your teeth.
"Have you fucking lost your mind?"
Satoru blinked in shock, watching you suddenly stand up and turn from him, your hands curled into fists by your sides.
"What?"
Taking a deep breath, you tore your gaze from the windows and threw your hands in the air.
"Are you an idiot?"
Well, that kind of hurt. "I don't understand."
"Satoru." Oh no, he knew that tone. That only meant you were seething with rage. There were no means of escape, especially as you loomed over him. "So let me get it straight. You fought with your entire family, they kicked you out of the house and left you with no money."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"All because of me!?"
Satoru didn't like the way you said "me". As if you were something not even worth mentioning. The dirt beneath his feet.
"Satoru, we are not together! I am not your girlfriend anymore, I am not even in your life! We don't even talk! You can't throw your life away because of me! That's stupid!"
"Well, maybe I am stupid, hasn't it occurred to you?"
"Satoru," your voice trembled on the edge of tears. Why didn't he understand you?! "I am serious. This is serious. This is your life! This is all you have— had, especially given you can't damn play with your injury now!"
Satoru didn't answer you. You only saw the way he swallowed with effort, and the look of utter longing on his face told you everything.
You helplessly slumped back in your chair and hid your face in your palms for a small eternity. Satoru didn't dare to interrupt. He just watched you, soaking up every feature as if you were about to kick him out of your apartment forever. That was an option. You were pretty pissed.
He attempted to soothe you, "But there's something good."
You slowly glanced up, and Satoru almost snorted at the look of total disbelief in your eyes. "Such as?"
Satoru quickly stood up and kneeled between your chair, taking your hands in his. Cold as usual. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed your palms with his thumbs. As usual.
"I mean, you said it yourself, sweets. That is all I have known for my whole life. Rich kid, golden youth, spoilt guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, all that stuff. I thought maybe it was it? My chance to find myself, huh? I don't want to be their toy to boss around all because of money."
Something crawled up your skin and twisted sharply in your chest as you breathed out, "What do you mean?"
Was he serious? So you both were doing the same thing all that time?
Satoru squeezed your hand harder and gave you a crooked smile.
"Just been here and there. Doing…some stuff."
You tilted your head in a silent question. He chuckled breathlessly and shook his head.
"Don't laugh, okay? I am teaching some kids basketball at school."
"Oh," your lips curled up in a tender smile as something warm bloomed in your chest. "That's really nice. You like it?"
"Yeah," Satoru's answer was immediate. And for the first time that evening, you saw a familiar spark in his eyes. "Kids can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but they are really cute. Listen to me, call me Gojo-sensei. Kinda gets in your head, you know."
A small snort escaped you, and the wide grin broke on his face. Oh, how he missed that precious sound.
"Where do you live now?"
"Crashing Suguru. He's not particularly happy when I drown my misery in another pint of strawberry ice-cream — "
Your smile slowly disappeared.
" — when he brings in some girl, but I bribe him with dark chocolate. You know he can't live without it."
"That he can," you uttered in a strained voice. Satoru's grin wavered as well, and he hesitantly reached to tuck the lone strand of your hair behind your ear. His hand trembled a little.
"What about you? There are boxes everywhere," he leaned back with a soft murmur, glancing around your apartment with packed staff around. "Moving out?"
Your heart suddenly felt twice its size, thumping violently against your ribs. "Uhm, yeah. Moving out."
"Where?"
Well, that was it. You squirmed in your seat, and Satoru's hand slowly fell to his side. He just waited.
"Eh…France."
He pinched his brows together with a slight frown and repeated incredulously, "You are moving to France?"
Satoru's sharp blue gaze seemed to pierce through you. Unable to meet it, you looked away.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Sighing deeply, you stood up and leaned against a kitchen counter, hugging yourself. Satoru immediately rose to his feet.
"That was a pretty much hard time for me too. Not delving into details, but…yeah. I felt like shit. Everyone was dating someone, or building a successful career, or, I don't know, just doing something meaningful," you gestured vaguely and combed your hair with a shaky hand. Satoru just stared at you like a lone, kicked puppy. "While I willingly kept fucking my own life over. Cooped yourself in that place. Left the love of my life."
Something in your face softened at the last words. Satoru forgot how to breathe.
"And that certainly shouldn't be…in vain, whatever. I told you I was going to work on myself, and I kind of do. Step by step, but I am going there."
"I still don't understand. I am happy for you, really am, but why are you leaving Japan? What about your mother, your job?"
What about me?
"My department's had its financing cut. My presence is not required anymore, as they said. I am just working the last two weeks, and that's it."
"Oh. I am..I am sorry to hear it."
"As for my mom," you didn't seem to hear Satoru's words at all, staring somewhere past him. "You know, she's never really cared that much about me anyway. She'll survive."
As cruel as your words might've seemed, you were right. Your mother was an…interesting woman indeed.
Satoru desperately cling to anything that could make you stay here like a lifeline.
"What about Nobara?"
Surely, you couldn't leave her. You two had been together from the first time he saw you at the university campus.
"Actually, she was the one who offered me that."
"Huh?!"
"She's recently been promoted at her job to the French edition of their magazine. Fashion weeks, runways, photoshoots… You know her, she's been ecstatic about it. So, when she asked me about it…I said I would give it a thought. I mean, it will be a nice fresh start, won't it? I don't have anything left here, so…why not? Gotta take risks, something like that."
Satoru couldn't believe his own ears. That would've been his nightmare coming true, if not for the fact that his worst one already was real. No. He wouldn't let you go that time. That was the stupidest thing he had done in his life, and if he had to beg…well.
The worst thing that you seemed pretty confident about it. But looking closely, he saw your hands trembled a little by your side, and your gaze darted nervously around. So, there still was some chance.
He ran his fingers through his hair. The gears seemed to work nonstop in his mind as he glanced around for any clue or sight for support. Until…
He weakly breathed out, "I am going with you."
Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "You what!?"
Satisfied with your reaction and his genius mind, Satoru smirked lazily, "I am going to France with you."
Did you stare in The Office or something? Was there a hidden camera to look at?
Helplessly blinking, you finally managed to utter, "Excuse me? You going to France? With me?"
"I know, I know what you are thinking. He's crazy, an idiot, proper name, last name, backstory stuff, but hear me out!" Satoru walked to you and squeezed your shoulders, his eyes frantically searching your face for a hint of understanding. You still stared at him as if he had just announced he was going to fly to the Moon, no less. "You broke up with me because, citing "you felt inferior to me," right?
Pressing your lips into a thin line, you gave him a flat look. "Correct."
"But I am not superior in any way to you now! You're discovering yourself, me too, so why don't we do that together? Start everything from scratch? Including," his Adam's apple bobbed with effort as his hands slowly slid down your figure to rest on the dip of your waist. Your skin tingled at the contact. "Including us."
Blood defeaningly roared at your temples, and your heart jumped right into your throat. Wouldn't it be strange and weird? Getting back together after you pushed him away? After breaking both of you?
One of Satoru's hands drifted upwards to cradle your face, while the other pulled your figure closer to him. Your head spun at the sudden proximity. His thumb delicately traced the line of your jaw and settled on the apple of your cheek.
"How is that stupid and weird, if I love you?" Shit, had you been musing aloud? "And you love me."
You parted your lips to answer, but then Satoru tilted his head down just a bit, and it was enough to feel the faintest brush of his lips against yours. With knees slightly trembling, your hand flew up and twisted the fabric of his hoodie for support. Your tongue darted out to lick your lip for a mere second; it was enough for Satoru's gaze to flick there and stare at your mouth as if hypnotised.
"Or you don't?" You almost leaned in for a kiss when he suddenly pulled away, despite being a breath away from devouring you. You gulped and lifted a pleading gaze at him — and not like the look on Satoru's face was any better. A strange kind of bitterness settled in your chest at the shakiness of his voice: he really doubted it. Well, you gave him a good reason to, didn't you?
It baffled you. No. Weirded out in the worst way possible.
So, instead of answering, you simply stood on your tiptoes and pressed your lips against his. A feathery, almost invisible, but it was enough for Satoru to release a groan and kiss your back.
You forgot how to breathe. The room spun around you, and if not for Satoru's hand holding at your waist, you would've collapsed for sure. The familiar sense of heat shot through you as you boldly slid your hand up Satoru's toned shoulder, grazed his undercut — wait, did he actually whimper at that or what — and ran your fingers through the silky white hair. The months of raw longing, poured in that kiss, laced every brush of your tongues, stifled moan and impatient tug with desperate want. Damn, you almost forgot his lips slotting perfectly against yours, his gently nipping at your bottom lip, and his hot, raspy breath fanning over your cheek when you pulled away before delving in again and again.
Blinking away dizziness, you managed to gather your bearings together just to mumble, "Does it count as an answer?"
Satoru's chest rose up and down as if he had just run a marathon, and he slowly shook his hand in response before tilting your chin up. His eyes resembled more of a stormy ocean than a breezy sea, but his hold was as tender as always.
"I love you, Satoru. Still am and always have been. I told you the same when —," you swallowed the lump in your throat, "— when I left you." Voice sinking into a small, almost miserable whisper, you went on, "And I am sorry for that, so damn sorry, you didn't deserve it."
"No, no, no, baby, stop it," now both his hands cradled your face as his gaze gently caressed every twitch in it, every shift, every freckle and mole. "You did what you felt right to. I accepted that, even though it was the hardest thing in my life. Believe me or not, I felt so stupid and shitty and miserable for letting you go, but I had to respect that. I only wish I had noticed you feeling that way sooner," he ended with a small, bitter smile, placing a kiss on the tip of your nose before gently nuzzling it. "Missed you so, so much."
As much as you wanted to lean into Satoru's touch again with no care in the world, you felt the need to apologise for once again, "No, Satoru, but — Maybe if I told you that instead of going away, we wouldn't be apart these months. I am sorry."
"Stop that," his voice cut you off, not firmly but enough to shut you up. "Really, stop. I am not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. And maybe I need that too. Shook me good to realise what things really mattered in life."
A sad sigh left your lips when you remembered what happened between Satoru and his family. Yes, they were jerks, but you never wanted to be the reason for the wedge between them.
"But hey, now we're two psychos together, trying to figure out what to do with their life! Together, right?" Satoru's gaze carefully searched yours, and as you nodded enthusiastically, his face broke into the brightest grin possible. Maybe only rivalling the one he gave you when you agreed to go out with him at that bonfire party.
"Love you, love you, love you," you murmured between kisses, nuzzling against his jaw, eliciting shaky moans. Your hands slid under his hoodie to feel the hot skin under your palms, but the sudden roaring of the thunder made you jump.
"Oh, fuck."
Satoru wanted to tease you at first, but he quickly bit his tongue, remembering that noises like that still scared you. You mindlessly gripped his hoodie tighter, pressing your frame against his for comfort. His hand cradled the back of your head, and he tucked it under his chin, whispering soothing words.
"Maybe you wanna lie down or something?" Whispering into your hair, Satoru pressed his lips against the crown of your head as another tremble shook your body at the particularly frightening sound. His gaze briefly flicked at the sky through the windows. "Yeah, not getting better soon."
Without further ado, you sighed in response and gripped his hand to walk to your bedroom. In every other situation, his hands would've been on you in a second, but not now. Especially given that you had just gotten back together.
Your bedroom hadn't really changed: your favourite stuffed plush bear sat over the sheets, guarding your sleep; a stupid lava lamp that Satoru once gifted you was still on the bedside table, not to mention the horde of houseplants (he sadly noticed the absence of some) at the windowsill. You hadn't packed the bedroom stuff yet, though a couple of boxes obediently waited in the corner.
After all those months, Satoru's presence felt kind of weird in your bedroom, but now, with his hands enveloping you in an embrace, you had never felt happier.
You both stayed up the whole night: gods, you almost forgot how easy it was to talk to Satoru. He told you more about the kids he was teaching, the school, and that he tried to do some modelling photoshoots. It turned out pretty good. "Might be a nice gig," he shrugged nonchalantly, but you noticed his eyes sparkling with mirth.
You filled him in on the work drama, places you visited in your attempts to go out of your shell, hobbies you tried — his eyes widened at the mention of drawing and pottery, and he demanded to see your works the first thing in the morning.
You snorted quietly. "I don't think they are anywhere as good as your photos."
Satoru huffed under his breath and lightly nudged your shoulder. You both lie face to face now, smiling and giggling like a pair of students you once were. You felt as if you were floating in happiness.
"Come on, baby, don't be shy. I am positive they are nice."
"No, Toru, they are not. Believe me, my first flowerpot was disastrous." You turned a bit and waved at the deformed blob of clay, hiding in the corner. Satoru followed your move: his lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of a poor thing.
"Uhm…well, it's not that bad." His shoulders shook with a barely suppressed laugh, and you rolled your eyes good-naturedly.
"It's okay, you can laugh."
The laugh he let was truly thunderous, and even you, the mighty creator, couldn't help but laugh alone.
"Babe, I am sorry, it's just looking at me like I have to end its suffering," after some time, Satoru finally wept some tears and breathed out weakly with his hand on his stomach. You both looked at the hopeless blob. "Why do you keep it, anyway?"
Sighing in response, you murmured, "Dunno. I can't bring myself to throw it away."
Satoru just hummed in response and settled back against the pillows. "Will you take it to France?"
Your heart skipped a beat at the mention, and you just shrugged indecisively. The light mood you had slowly evaporated. After some minutes, you rolled back to face Satoru again, only to find him already watching you closely.
"Were you serious?"
He tilted his head in question; his hand came up to brush a hair strand behind your ear. "About what?"
The next words came in a hesitant whisper.
"Moving with me to France."
Satoru's thumb traced your bottom lip before he dropped his arm to the side. Shrugging casually, he lifted a steady gaze on you. "Are you still thinking about moving there?"
You swallowed nervously before nodding. "Yeah."
"Then I was serious too. We're dating again, it's only logical then."
You couldn't fight with that argument.
"Guess it is. I just…," you lifted one shoulder, still doubtful. "Can't believe you do that for me."
And he couldn't believe you questioned it. But instead, Satoru just blinked at you and muttered in the most serious tone possible.
"I told you I was going to marry you. Yes, I still want to. I wasn't joking and trying to hold you back in the heat of the moment —"
You wordlessly glanced at him.
" — okay, I did, but I was serious. And still am. Hell, baby," the mattress dipped under his weight as Satoru scooted closer. "You're the only thing — not a thing, person, I mean, you're the most serious I've ever been about anything and anyone in my life. I swear. Where you go, I follow."
His voice cracked at the last words, and you let a shuddering breath, cupping his face.
"Are you sure? What will your family say? Job? Suguru?"
Satoru lifted a corner of his lips in a small grin, recalling the same arguments he used to talk you out of moving.
"I am pretty sure I can find something there. Isn't this a part of discovering yourself, too? It could be pretty fun. Who knows, maybe I have some secret talent for pastries. Not just eating. Baking! Plus, I know French," he beamed at you like the Sun. You couldn't help but grin back. "It's a little rusty, though."
You both snorted, but then a frown crossed Satoru's face, and his tone turned more serious.
"Suguru…he'll understand. We still will be talking, right? Not as we used to, but…hey, now I will have an excuse to send him even more stupid memes."
"I am sure he will be ecstatic about it."
"He won't have any choice, heh. And my family…honestly? I don't really care. We both said everything we wanted to each other. I do not see any sense in bowing and scraping."
Your face crumpled in a grimace as you recalled that you were one of the reasons that entire thing happened, and hunched your shoulders. "Still sorry about it."
"And I am still saying you shouldn't be."
Minutes passed between you in a relative silence, interrupted only by the car noises and distant humming of the refrigerator as you stared at the ceiling. Finally, you turned to look at Satoru. Moonlight painted his features in an even more breathtaking way, highlighting the sharp jawline and illuminating the blue of his eyes.
"So…we are really going to France."
Satoru smiled at you — the gentle one he saved only for you — and reached for your hand to interlace your fingers slowly.
"We really are."
***
The morning sun crept through the blinds, bathing a bedroom in a soft, ethereal light, and its beams lazily caressed your face in feathery kisses. As your nose twitched at the sensation, begrudgingly, very begrudgingly, you blinked and reached for your phone. It came to life with a faint buzz; you tried to focus your bleary gaze on the time and sighed in relief as you still had half an hour before the alarm.
A careful attempt to sink back into the sheets didn't go unnoticed by the whole mountain of heat and muscle beside you. Satoru's arm snaked around your waist with an energy too restless for a sleepy man.
"Where are you going to, huh?" His voice, still deep and thick with sleep, felt like a pure sin against your nape. A shudder ran through your body as he gently nuzzled the soft skin there and pressed his lips against the point that shouldn't drive you crazy like it did. "Morning, ma choute."
Amusement curled your tone as you breathed out a chuckle, "Your favourite word, huh?"
Instead of answering, Satoru hummed something unintelligible against the curve of your neck, nosing it, while his lips found your pulse point.
"Can't help it. Not my fault if it fits you perfectly. So sweet," his head went into a dizzy, hazy state at the whiff of your chocolate shower gel and something so uniquely yours. "So soft." The hand that rested leisurely on your belly lazily drifted upwards to cup the tender swell of your breasts. Your breath caught in your throat as you arched into Satoru's touch with a quiet, sleepy moan.
"Ah, Satoru…"
When your voice dipped into that syrupy bedroom voice, laced with so much want, Satoru never could help himself. His hips bucked involuntarily, eliciting a surprised gasp from you, as you felt the throbbing of his length against your backside.
Your hair fanned over a pillow like a halo, catching the bright light, and Satoru's heart skipped a beat. He gently bit down on your pulse point, and as your gasp rose in a tone, he quickly soothed it with a lick of his tongue.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Can't believe you're mine." The heat crept up your body all the way to your cheeks, not only at the way Satoru rolled your nipple between his fingers, palming at the soft skin there, but at the bewilderment in his voice. As if he were actually shocked.
Another moan left your lips as you closed your eyes in the utter pleasure, coursing through your body and tightening your insides into the sweet knot. Subconsiously, you pushed your trembling thighs back against his front, to which Satoru responded with a low hiss.
"You're in a teasing mood today, huh?"
A sharp pang of disappointment shot through your body when his hand left your chest.
"Satoru…"
"Shh, patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait, don't they?" You almost whined at the loss of the contact, but then his hand — god, that hand — wrapped around your throat with a light grip, just enough to turn your face and capture your lips in a lazy, unhurried kiss. He licked at the seam of your mouth, and you immediately opened it, granting Satoru access. Your tongues lazily tangled, exploring each other; you slid your free hand down his toned pecs, sharp abs and wrapped it around the already hard cock. Giving it a few unhurried pumps, you heard Satoru moaning unbashfully against your mouth.
"Oh, fuck, yeah, keep going, love. Just like —, oh, just like that."
You fondled his balls with a sly smirk, to which he responded with a sharp, almost desperate cry, and…stopped.
"Hey, baby," the pout was evident in his voice, "That's not fair. Like totally not fair."
With a smirk widening, you turned just a tad to see his half-lidded gaze darkening with lust. "Haven't you just preached to me about patience, Toru?"
Satoru's head hit your shoulder as he let a groan, followed by a disbelieving laugh. "Vixen. You drive me crazy, you know that?"
"Yeah, yeah, yet you're still not inside me." After rolling your eyes impatiently, you finally heard the sheets rustling. Your insides clenched in anticipation.
Laughing quietly, Satoru kissed your shoulder, pulling you closer against his front. His hand slid under your hip, lifting it for better access, and hoisted it over his own. You almost whimpered as the thick head of his cock nudged your already wet entrance.
"Look at tha-a-a-t," the heat flooded your body even more at the cocky tilt in his voice and the way his fingers lightly grazed your folds. "For someone so soaked, you have a pretty big mouth running, ma chérie."
You attempted to glare at Satoru, but it ended rather poorly with the way your eyes were glazed with desire. Giving you a smirk, not even trying to hide his arrogance and smugness, he hastily fisted his cock and aligned it with your entrance, slowly yet surely filling you up inch by inch.
"F-fuck, you're so tight," Satoru's hot whisper fanned over your jawline as he pressed heated kisses up to your mouth. "So warm, so good, so p-perfect — babe, don't clench me like that, f-for me."
Your lips parted, forming almost a perfect "O" in its shape at the burn of the stretch, and the first loud moan tore from your chest, when Satoru finally gave you a shallow roll of his hips.
"Sa-Satoru, yeah…"
With no hesitation, you reached behind and tugged at the soft white tufts above Satoru's undercut, pressing his head into your nape to seek even more contact until your bodies fused in a messy, unintelligible tangle of limbs, needy touches and wanton moans. His hips built a slow, languid rhythm, moulding your insides into the shape of his cock; each thick vein and ridge of him against your velvet walls made your mind swim in pleasure, so overwhelming it drowned every coherent thought. One of his hands snaked up to squeeze your breasts, eliciting more shaky whimpers from you.
"Love you, love you so fucking much, you don't even, ngh, under-understand, shit, y-yes," Satoru slurred against your cheek after yet another sloppy kiss, his tongue darting to taste the salty skin as you literally cried in ecstasy when he hit that sweet spot inside. You were completely sure he would never let you forget this. His moves gradually lost their rhythm, giving in to a raw, primal desire. A string of desperate whimpers spilt from your lips, and you turned your head to muffle these cries in the pillow.
Wrong move.
Seeing it, Satoru's lips curled into a sharp smirk. He quickly wetted his fingers and dragged them down to press quick, tight circles on your clit, and with all the stimulation, your body jolted in pleasure. Heat, shameless and urgent, built at the base of your spine, coursed through your veins and lit every part on fire. His cock twitched inside you at the way you breathed out his name with such desperation that put all the prayers to shame.
"Give it to me, baby. Be a good girl, yeah? Cum for me."
Your thighs shook violently, which was a telling sign that you were close; he feverishly rutted against yours, rubbing your clit in quick motions, panting against the curve of your neck. His eyes rolled in pleasure as your cunt fluttered around him, coating his shaft in juices, and with a shameless guttural groan, he cummed too.
The sound of your name, spilling from Satoru's lips like it was the only word he knew, brought tears to your eyes. Of love, of longing, or devotion, you weren't even sure.
Satoru was still in you, behind you, wrapping you in his arms and scent, when you awkwardly tried to turn around. He lazily blinked at you — the blue of his eyes resembled the glimmering waves of the Mediterranean Sea, which lapped the shores of the city that had become your home. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you lean in to press a quick, almost chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. They twitched with a soft grin.
"Someone's awfully sweet. Good morning, I guess. Really good, that time. What if — "
Before Satoru finished, your hands framed his face, and you kissed him again, taking your time. He released a quiet, unexpected sigh and melted into it immediately, giving you all the reins. Sweet and soft, your tongue swept over his plump lips and explored his mouth, until you both pulled away to catch your breath. Resting your forehead against his, you muttered quietly.
"I love you."
Satoru didn't answer you right away; instead, he cupped your cheek, his thumb grazed the soft skin under your eyes, and he murmured back.
"I love you more."
You didn't want to delve into the endless fight of who loved whom more, so you just settled against his chest with a soft sigh. Satoru tucked your head under his chin and gently ran his fingers up and down your spine.
"How are you feeling? Wanna cuddle a little or go showering?"
"I wish we could cuddle more, but Nobara and Maki are coming in…very soon, actually."
Satoru stilled for a moment and released a groan, reluctant to let you go and leave that bed, jutting his bottom lip in the biggest pout known to the Universe.
"Is it today? Do we have to go with them, baby?"
"Yes. Toru, we promised them to show the Fine Arts Museum. Maki didn't visit it last time they were in Marseille because it was shut for some renovation. Apparently."
"Geez, I was hoping for a round two. And maybe three in the shower. Besides, we were there with Suguru last summer." His hand slid down to squeeze your butt in the last attempt to persuade you, but you stood your ground. With great effort.
"Satoru, no. We don't see them often. Get up."
Saoru's hand that reached to pinch your side as you hopped off to get to the shower, limply fell to his side. He groaned as his head hit the pillow, but as the sounds of water running filled the space, he enthusiastically got up and padded to the bathroom. He could be pretty…convincing when he wanted to.
Indeed, an hour later, Nobara suspiciously eyed both of you up and down — your hair told her everything she needed to know. Satoru didn't even try to hide a big dopey grin that screamed "I just got laid by the most gorgeous woman in the world". You elbowed him. Hard. His smile got even wider, so you sent him to help Maki with their suitcases.
"You know, I am so happy for you." You gave Nobara a cup of scorching latte, just the way she preferred. Her lips curled into an amusing yet soft grin. "No, really. You both look radiant."
She laughed heartily, nodding in gratitude; however, her gaze was fixed on your front yard. You followed the direction and chuckled as well, seeing Satoru and Maki trying to coax Nobara's cat — a fluffy, totally spoilt Persian named Lady — out of the carrier. She only hissed in response.
"Yeah. Me too. She's…I don't know how to explain it. But I am so happy she agreed to move here. The same is for you, by the way. Provence does wonders for both of you. Even Gojo."
You rested your elbows on the table with a melancholic sigh. Yes, the start of your journey in France was quite turbulent: a total mess with language, documents, fighting with landlords over the rent, and taking up any gigs for money…It only helped that you had some of it saved. Endless hours of work, tears and efforts poured into building your new life finally got its fruits: at one of the fashion shows, Nobara introduced you to the famous photographer, who instantly fell in love with your works. And Satoru…
"Phew, finally," the front door opened, revealing beaming Satoru with Lady in his arms, who…purred in content. Nobara's eyes widened in shock.
"Lady, what? He's a man! Have some dignity!"
"Can't help it if I am that charming," he scratched the kitty under her chin. "Even cats know that."
"That's, unfortunately, true." You squeaked in delight at Maki's tired voice and jumped into her arms. After a few solid minutes of hugging, you finally released her as she begged you to show her the bathroom.
"So, Gojo," Nobara drawled in a voice too casual. Satoru exchanged brief yet pointed glances with you. Lady cracked one eye open and yawned, staring at her catmom. "Do you have, by any chance, some calissons left?"
In Nobara's language, that meant she had been dying to taste them, but she would never admit it to Satoru. "Don't tell him, or his ego would grow even bigger!"
So you just happened to drop that you wanted to have those candies, and of course, Satoru whipped some up: they just waited to be baked. Judging by his cocky smirk, he already figured both of you out.
"Why do you call me Gojo? She's a Gojo too, you know?" The oven beeped a couple of times when Satoru put the tray with callisons inside. Nobara only rolled her eyes and hugged you with a grin.
And Satoru once decided to try his hand at the things that he loved the most in the world (after you, of course): sweets. In particular, pastries. To put it concisely, baking. It took a lot, a lot of time and years of learning in culinary academies under the guidance of chiefs, before he could finally name himself the one.
Marseille greeted you with arms open, the fresh scent of pastries lingering in the air, mesmerising views and the centuries of history ingrained in its walls. You left Paris after you realised it was high time to move forward, and since you mentioned a couple of times that you wanted to live in Provence for some time, Satoru started to look for a home and a place for his own bakery. His own thing. That he built only by himself, with no family barking and ordering him around. He and you. And Satoru could've never been happier for it.
You indeed had never made it easy for him. But now, seeing you laugh with your friends, among the paintings, with the sun casting a soft, almost amber glow on your figure, Satoru realised he would rather have things difficult with you than easy with anyone else. Because you were worth it.
Synopsis: With the cameras rolling, you sit across from Satoru, expecting the usual charm and easy playfulness. But as the conversation turns to his films, the roles that reshaped him, and the pieces of himself he’s hidden in his characters, you begin to realize there’s far more to his craft, and to him, than you ever noticed before.
a/n: There’s still more of this part coming! I hope it isn’t boring. I’ve always loved watching Variety’s Actors on Actors, so it’s been such a pleasure recreating that vibe with one of my favorite characters. And of course, there’s so much more to Gojo than just charm… I had to explore it.
You straightened in your chair, the small cue sending a ripple of tension through your spine. The card resting in your lap felt suddenly heavier than paper ought to. Even though you’d already memorized the question, your fingers brushed over it once more before passing it to your assistant.
Across from you, Satoru watched.
Calm. Infuriatingly calm.
One ankle rested loosely over his knee, his posture easy, almost careless, like he’d wandered onto the set by accident, taken the empty chair out of mild curiosity, and decided he might as well stay for the interview. Meanwhile, every movement you made felt deliberate, rehearsed under the heat of the studio lights.
His gaze lingered on you, bright with amusement, as if he knew exactly how much effort it took not to roll your eyes at him on camera.
You cleared your throat softly.
“It feels so surreal being here.”
Across from you, Satoru shifted in his seat, readjusting like he’d just remembered there were cameras pointed at him. The look he gave you, serious, almost earnest, felt exaggerated, like he was making a point of behaving.
“It really is,” he said, nodding once. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
His gaze flicked to you, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“And it’s nice to know I’d be doing it with someone I know. Someone I’m comfortable with.”
You felt the familiar rhythm of press-tour politeness settle in, but Satoru kept going, leaning forward slightly as if he meant every word.
“To be honest, I’ll probably just sit here praising you all day,” he added. “Because you’re a phenomenal actor… and a really good friend.”
You shifted in your seat, a proud smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Compliments from Satoru always landed somewhere between sincere and teasing, and somehow you were never quite sure which side he meant.
“That’s really touching, Satoru,” you said, folding your hands in your lap. “And I’ve been excited to talk to you, beyond the usual press questions. I’m really happy about this opportunity.”
You crossed your fingers lightly before continuing.
“Lately I’ve found myself rewatching some older films, and I came across Glass Horizon, the one where you worked with the award-winning director, Hayato Kurosawa. It felt like a huge shift from the roles audiences were used to seeing you in.”
Satoru’s head tilted slightly as he listened, his attention sharpening in a way that told you he’d already begun thinking about his answer.
“For a long time audiences associated you with these very charismatic, untouchable characters,” you continued, gesturing lightly with your hand. “But in that movie you played a pretty dangerous drug dealer running an entire underground criminal network.”
The corner of Satoru’s mouth twitched.
“And I’ll be honest,” you added, leaning forward a little, lowering your voice like you were letting the audience in on a secret, “I’ve been quietly hoping to work with Kurosawa for years. The way he builds characters is… fascinating.”
Satoru’s smile softened faintly at that.
“But what surprised me most,” you went on, “was you. That role had a roughness to it we’d never really seen before. You felt… heavier somehow. More dangerous.”
You lifted your water glass, glancing at him over the rim.
“And the look helped,” you admitted. “The brown hair, the tattoos, the scar across your eyebrow. I remember thinking—that cannot be the same man who keeps playing charming prodigies and impossibly rich CEOs.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crew behind the cameras.
Satoru leaned back slightly in his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger.
“That was mostly wardrobe and makeup doing the heavy lifting,” he said lightly.
“Oh, come on,” you shot back immediately. “You looked terrifying in that final sequence.”
His brows lifted, amused. “Terrifying?”
“The shootout scene with the police,” you clarified. “In the warehouse.”
Satoru exhaled through his nose, already smiling.
“You mean the one where I spend most of the time bleeding… sitting on the floor?”
“That’s the one,” you said sweetly.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
“That scene took almost a week to film,” he admitted. “Kurosawa wanted everything to feel… suffocating. Like the character was realizing the walls were closing in.”
You nodded, remembering it vividly.
“And the way you looked in that scene helped sell it,” you said. “Your hair was darker, your face looked sharper somehow. And those tattoos—”
“Temporary,” he cut in quickly.
You ignored him.
“—gave you this really unsettling presence,” you continued. “Like the character had lived a hundred lives before we even met him.”
Satoru rubbed the back of his neck, clearly amused.
“The tattoos took almost three hours to apply every morning,” he said. “And the hair dye nearly destroyed my scalp.”
“Sacrifices for art,” you said solemnly.
“Wardrobe loved it though,” he continued. “They kept layering dirt and blood and ripped jackets onto me like they were building a sculpture.”
You pointed a finger at him.
“That leather jacket. That was a character in itself.”
Now he laughed outright.
“Yeah, Kurosawa insisted on it,” he said. “He said the jacket had to look like it had survived more fights than the character had.”
You shook your head, smiling.
“Well, whatever the process was,” you said, “it worked. Because for the first time in your career, I watched you on screen and thought…”
You paused, tapping your finger against the armrest.
This man might actually shoot someone.
The crew burst into quiet laughter again.
Satoru leaned back in his chair, looking deeply pleased with himself.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my work in years.”
You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
Then his expression shifted, subtle, but real. The amusement softened.
“But honestly,” he said, a little quieter now, “that role changed a lot for me.”
Your posture adjusted instinctively, sensing the sincerity settling into the conversation.
“Kurosawa didn’t want the polished version of me,” Satoru continued. “He wanted the parts that were uncomfortable. The parts that didn’t look good on camera.”
He tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully.
“And somewhere in the middle of that… I realized I’d been hiding behind charm for a long time.”
You studied him more carefully now.
“And playing someone that rough pulled you out of that?” you asked.
He nodded once.
“It reminded me that acting isn’t about looking good,” he said. “It’s about letting people see the parts of you you’re usually too careful to show.”
His gaze flicked back to you then, something thoughtful glinting there.
“And that,” he added with a faint smile, “kind of saved my interest in acting.”
For a moment, the studio felt unusually quiet.
You tilted your head, watching him.
“Wow,” you said softly.
His brows lifted.
“It’s really incredible hearing you talk like this,” you continued. “So… immersed in your art.”
A slow grin crept back across his face.
“Don’t get used to it.”
You leaned forward slightly, curiosity lighting up your expression.
“Actually,” you said, tilting your head, “there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you about. “I’ve been thinking about the film you did two years ago,” you continued. “Fragments.”
His brows lifted faintly.
“The one where you played a man living with DID.”
A few crew members behind the cameras shifted, already sensing where the conversation was headed.
Satoru gave a small nod.
“That one.”
You rested your elbows lightly on your knees now, clearly more animated.
“I remember watching it for the first time and thinking, how did he do that?”
He chuckled quietly.
“That’s a broad question.”
“I’m serious,” you insisted.
Your hands moved unconsciously as you spoke, like you were trying to shape the memory in the air between you.
“Each personality felt completely different. The way you held your body changed. Your voice changed. The accents, even your eyes looked different.” You shook your head slightly, still half in disbelief. “There was nuance to every single one. It honestly felt like watching a completely different person every time the scene shifted.”
Your fingers ticked them off one by one.
“There was Micah, the nervous one,” you said, hunching slightly as if mimicking him. “Barely made eye contact, always stuttering like every sentence had to fight its way out.”
A few crew members chuckled.
“And Inoue,” you continued, smiling, “the fashion girlie. Every movement was so precise. The way you held your hands, the way you walked. The LA accent. It was like watching someone who’d spent their whole life in front of mirrors.”
Across from you, Satoru leaned back slightly, watching your animated breakdown with quiet amusement.
“And then there was Ray,” you went on, your tone lowering as you straightened in your seat. “The aggressive one. He moved like he was always about to start a fight. Even when he was just standing there it felt like the room had gotten smaller.”
You gestured again, searching for the right words.
“It wasn’t just acting, it felt physical. Like you rebuilt your entire body for each one.”
Satoru’s smile deepened, clearly entertained by how invested you were.
“And then Atlas,” you added, laughing softly. “The Greek enthusiast.”
“That one was my favorite.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Of course it was.”
“You spoke entire lines in Greek,” you continued, leaning forward again. “Not just little phrases, actual conversations.”
“I had to learn it,” he admitted casually.
Your eyes widened.
“You actually learned Greek for that role?”
“Well… conversational Greek,” he corrected modestly. “One of the personalities was obsessed with ancient philosophy and Greek literature. The director wanted him to feel academically authentic.”
You leaned back in your chair, staring at him like he’d just confessed to learning rocket science.
“That’s insane.”
“It was fun.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head firmly. “It’s insane.”
You leaned forward again, curiosity lighting up your face.
“Can you say something in Greek?”
Satoru studied you for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’d just been handed an opportunity.
Then he tilted his head slightly and spoke, the words rolling smoothly off his tongue.
“Είναι πολύ όμορφη… και απίστευτα έξυπνη.”
The studio went quiet for a second.
Your brows lifted immediately.
“What did you just say?”
Satoru leaned back again, completely unbothered.
He met your eyes across the space between your chairs.
He just held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
The smile at the corner of Satoru’s mouth only deepened.
“…You’re not going to translate that, are you?” you asked.
He shook his head once, completely unbothered.
“Nope.”
A quiet ripple of laughter moved through the crew again. You narrowed your eyes at him, though the amusement tugging at your mouth betrayed you.
“Suspicious,” you muttered, leaning back in your chair.
Satoru only shrugged.
“Atlas would say curiosity is the beginning of philosophy.”
“That feels like a very convenient escape.”
“Probably.”
You let out a small breath before tilting your head slightly, shifting the conversation back on track.
“But seriously,” you said. “Preparing for that role must have been… insane. Eighteen personalities is not something you can just improvise.”
Satoru’s posture changed almost immediately. The teasing ease softened into something more thoughtful as he rested his forearms lightly on the arms of his chair.
“It wasn’t something I could approach all at once,” he admitted. “At first I tried mapping them out like separate characters; backstories, speech patterns, physical habits.”
His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest as he spoke, thinking his way through the memory.
“But David Fletcher, the most incredible director, kept pushing me away from that.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
“He said if I treated them like eighteen different roles, it would feel artificial.” Satoru glanced briefly at the floor, then back at you. “He wanted them to feel like fragments of the same person. Like pieces that broke off over time.”
You nodded slowly.
“So instead of building them from scratch,” he continued, “I started borrowing.”
“Borrowing?”
“Little things,” he said. “The way people move. The way they react to stress. The way their voice changes when they’re lying or excited.”
He leaned back slightly again, thoughtful.
“Micah, for example…. His stutter came from someone I knew in acting school. The guy was brilliant, but whenever he had to speak in front of people he’d lose his train of thought halfway through a sentence.”
You listened carefully.
“And Ray, the aggressive one, that was mostly physical,” he continued. “I studied people who always looked like they were ready to fight. Shoulders forward, jaw tight, weight always shifting.”
Your brows lifted slightly.
“And Inuoe?” you asked.
Satoru’s mouth curved.
“That one was fun,” he said. “I spent weeks watching LA based fashion influencers and runway interviews. The precision, the self-awareness… the way every gesture looks practiced.”
You laughed softly.
“That checks out.”
Then Satoru glanced at you again, something a little mischievous flickering in his expression.
“And some of them came from people I already knew.”
Your brows drew together slightly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Little things.”
He tilted his head, studying you for a second.
“Inuoe’s habit of tilting her head when she’s judging someone’s outfit?” he said. “That’s you.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You did it all the time when we were kids and you still do.”
You immediately straightened in your chair. “I do not.”
Across from you, Satoru’s grin widened.
“You absolutely do.”
A few members of the crew laughed again.
“And Atlas?” you asked suspiciously.
Satoru shrugged.
“That one was… partially inspired by Suguru.”
Your head turned slightly.
“Suguru?”
“Yeah,” Satoru said. “When we were kids he used to get obsessed with random subjects. Philosophy, religion, obscure literature.” He smiled faintly at the memory. “If he found something interesting he’d talk about it for hours.”
You nodded slowly.
“That sounds about right.”
“And the rest,” he continued, “came from smaller things. Moments. Reactions. Stuff I’ve seen over the years.”
He tapped his finger lightly against the armrest again.
“Acting like that is a bit like building a collage,” he said. “You take tiny pieces from everywhere… and eventually they turn into someone new.”
You watched him for a moment, genuinely impressed.
“That’s incredible.”
Satoru glanced up at you again, that familiar playful glint returning.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re starting to sound like my publicist.”
“You know,” you said, your voice softening slightly, “watching you in your more recent films made me realize just how much range you actually have.”
His brows lifted faintly.
“Actually?”
You smiled.
“Well… the public image you’ve cultivated isn’t exactly ‘serious dramatic actor.’”
The crew laughed softly.
He sighed theatrically.
“Tragic.”
“But that performance,” you continued, your voice thoughtful again. “It felt like watching eighteen completely different people trapped in one body.”
You shook your head slightly, still impressed.
“That’s one of the most technically difficult performances I’ve ever seen.”
For a moment he simply looked at you.
Then his grin returned; slower this time.
“Well,” he said lightly, “coming from you, I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
And the way you were still looking at him, completely absorbed, made it clear you meant every word.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, waiting.
<<Previous ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next >>
Synopsis: With the cameras rolling, you sit across from Satoru, expecting the usual charm and easy playfulness. But as the conversation turns to his films, the roles that reshaped him, and the pieces of himself he’s hidden in his characters, you begin to realize there’s far more to his craft, and to him, than you ever noticed before.
a/n: There’s still more of this part coming! I hope it isn’t boring. I’ve always loved watching Variety’s Actors on Actors, so it’s been such a pleasure recreating that vibe with one of my favorite characters. And of course, there’s so much more to Gojo than just charm… I had to explore it.
You straightened in your chair, the small cue sending a ripple of tension through your spine. The card resting in your lap felt suddenly heavier than paper ought to. Even though you’d already memorized the question, your fingers brushed over it once more before passing it to your assistant.
Across from you, Satoru watched.
Calm. Infuriatingly calm.
One ankle rested loosely over his knee, his posture easy, almost careless, like he’d wandered onto the set by accident, taken the empty chair out of mild curiosity, and decided he might as well stay for the interview. Meanwhile, every movement you made felt deliberate, rehearsed under the heat of the studio lights.
His gaze lingered on you, bright with amusement, as if he knew exactly how much effort it took not to roll your eyes at him on camera.
You cleared your throat softly.
“It feels so surreal being here.”
Across from you, Satoru shifted in his seat, readjusting like he’d just remembered there were cameras pointed at him. The look he gave you, serious, almost earnest, felt exaggerated, like he was making a point of behaving.
“It really is,” he said, nodding once. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
His gaze flicked to you, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“And it’s nice to know I’d be doing it with someone I know. Someone I’m comfortable with.”
You felt the familiar rhythm of press-tour politeness settle in, but Satoru kept going, leaning forward slightly as if he meant every word.
“To be honest, I’ll probably just sit here praising you all day,” he added. “Because you’re a phenomenal actor… and a really good friend.”
You shifted in your seat, a proud smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Compliments from Satoru always landed somewhere between sincere and teasing, and somehow you were never quite sure which side he meant.
“That’s really touching, Satoru,” you said, folding your hands in your lap. “And I’ve been excited to talk to you, beyond the usual press questions. I’m really happy about this opportunity.”
You crossed your fingers lightly before continuing.
“Lately I’ve found myself rewatching some older films, and I came across Glass Horizon, the one where you worked with the award-winning director, Hayato Kurosawa. It felt like a huge shift from the roles audiences were used to seeing you in.”
Satoru’s head tilted slightly as he listened, his attention sharpening in a way that told you he’d already begun thinking about his answer.
“For a long time audiences associated you with these very charismatic, untouchable characters,” you continued, gesturing lightly with your hand. “But in that movie you played a pretty dangerous drug dealer running an entire underground criminal network.”
The corner of Satoru’s mouth twitched.
“And I’ll be honest,” you added, leaning forward a little, lowering your voice like you were letting the audience in on a secret, “I’ve been quietly hoping to work with Kurosawa for years. The way he builds characters is… fascinating.”
Satoru’s smile softened faintly at that.
“But what surprised me most,” you went on, “was you. That role had a roughness to it we’d never really seen before. You felt… heavier somehow. More dangerous.”
You lifted your water glass, glancing at him over the rim.
“And the look helped,” you admitted. “The brown hair, the tattoos, the scar across your eyebrow. I remember thinking—that cannot be the same man who keeps playing charming prodigies and impossibly rich CEOs.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crew behind the cameras.
Satoru leaned back slightly in his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger.
“That was mostly wardrobe and makeup doing the heavy lifting,” he said lightly.
“Oh, come on,” you shot back immediately. “You looked terrifying in that final sequence.”
His brows lifted, amused. “Terrifying?”
“The shootout scene with the police,” you clarified. “In the warehouse.”
Satoru exhaled through his nose, already smiling.
“You mean the one where I spend most of the time bleeding… sitting on the floor?”
“That’s the one,” you said sweetly.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
“That scene took almost a week to film,” he admitted. “Kurosawa wanted everything to feel… suffocating. Like the character was realizing the walls were closing in.”
You nodded, remembering it vividly.
“And the way you looked in that scene helped sell it,” you said. “Your hair was darker, your face looked sharper somehow. And those tattoos—”
“Temporary,” he cut in quickly.
You ignored him.
“—gave you this really unsettling presence,” you continued. “Like the character had lived a hundred lives before we even met him.”
Satoru rubbed the back of his neck, clearly amused.
“The tattoos took almost three hours to apply every morning,” he said. “And the hair dye nearly destroyed my scalp.”
“Sacrifices for art,” you said solemnly.
“Wardrobe loved it though,” he continued. “They kept layering dirt and blood and ripped jackets onto me like they were building a sculpture.”
You pointed a finger at him.
“That leather jacket. That was a character in itself.”
Now he laughed outright.
“Yeah, Kurosawa insisted on it,” he said. “He said the jacket had to look like it had survived more fights than the character had.”
You shook your head, smiling.
“Well, whatever the process was,” you said, “it worked. Because for the first time in your career, I watched you on screen and thought…”
You paused, tapping your finger against the armrest.
This man might actually shoot someone.
The crew burst into quiet laughter again.
Satoru leaned back in his chair, looking deeply pleased with himself.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my work in years.”
You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
Then his expression shifted, subtle, but real. The amusement softened.
“But honestly,” he said, a little quieter now, “that role changed a lot for me.”
Your posture adjusted instinctively, sensing the sincerity settling into the conversation.
“Kurosawa didn’t want the polished version of me,” Satoru continued. “He wanted the parts that were uncomfortable. The parts that didn’t look good on camera.”
He tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully.
“And somewhere in the middle of that… I realized I’d been hiding behind charm for a long time.”
You studied him more carefully now.
“And playing someone that rough pulled you out of that?” you asked.
He nodded once.
“It reminded me that acting isn’t about looking good,” he said. “It’s about letting people see the parts of you you’re usually too careful to show.”
His gaze flicked back to you then, something thoughtful glinting there.
“And that,” he added with a faint smile, “kind of saved my interest in acting.”
For a moment, the studio felt unusually quiet.
You tilted your head, watching him.
“Wow,” you said softly.
His brows lifted.
“It’s really incredible hearing you talk like this,” you continued. “So… immersed in your art.”
A slow grin crept back across his face.
“Don’t get used to it.”
You leaned forward slightly, curiosity lighting up your expression.
“Actually,” you said, tilting your head, “there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you about. “I’ve been thinking about the film you did two years ago,” you continued. “Fragments.”
His brows lifted faintly.
“The one where you played a man living with DID.”
A few crew members behind the cameras shifted, already sensing where the conversation was headed.
Satoru gave a small nod.
“That one.”
You rested your elbows lightly on your knees now, clearly more animated.
“I remember watching it for the first time and thinking, how did he do that?”
He chuckled quietly.
“That’s a broad question.”
“I’m serious,” you insisted.
Your hands moved unconsciously as you spoke, like you were trying to shape the memory in the air between you.
“Each personality felt completely different. The way you held your body changed. Your voice changed. The accents, even your eyes looked different.” You shook your head slightly, still half in disbelief. “There was nuance to every single one. It honestly felt like watching a completely different person every time the scene shifted.”
Your fingers ticked them off one by one.
“There was Micah, the nervous one,” you said, hunching slightly as if mimicking him. “Barely made eye contact, always stuttering like every sentence had to fight its way out.”
A few crew members chuckled.
“And Inoue,” you continued, smiling, “the fashion girlie. Every movement was so precise. The way you held your hands, the way you walked. The LA accent. It was like watching someone who’d spent their whole life in front of mirrors.”
Across from you, Satoru leaned back slightly, watching your animated breakdown with quiet amusement.
“And then there was Ray,” you went on, your tone lowering as you straightened in your seat. “The aggressive one. He moved like he was always about to start a fight. Even when he was just standing there it felt like the room had gotten smaller.”
You gestured again, searching for the right words.
“It wasn’t just acting, it felt physical. Like you rebuilt your entire body for each one.”
Satoru’s smile deepened, clearly entertained by how invested you were.
“And then Atlas,” you added, laughing softly. “The Greek enthusiast.”
“That one was my favorite.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Of course it was.”
“You spoke entire lines in Greek,” you continued, leaning forward again. “Not just little phrases, actual conversations.”
“I had to learn it,” he admitted casually.
Your eyes widened.
“You actually learned Greek for that role?”
“Well… conversational Greek,” he corrected modestly. “One of the personalities was obsessed with ancient philosophy and Greek literature. The director wanted him to feel academically authentic.”
You leaned back in your chair, staring at him like he’d just confessed to learning rocket science.
“That’s insane.”
“It was fun.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head firmly. “It’s insane.”
You leaned forward again, curiosity lighting up your face.
“Can you say something in Greek?”
Satoru studied you for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’d just been handed an opportunity.
Then he tilted his head slightly and spoke, the words rolling smoothly off his tongue.
“Είναι πολύ όμορφη… και απίστευτα έξυπνη.”
The studio went quiet for a second.
Your brows lifted immediately.
“What did you just say?”
Satoru leaned back again, completely unbothered.
He met your eyes across the space between your chairs.
He just held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
The smile at the corner of Satoru’s mouth only deepened.
“…You’re not going to translate that, are you?” you asked.
He shook his head once, completely unbothered.
“Nope.”
A quiet ripple of laughter moved through the crew again. You narrowed your eyes at him, though the amusement tugging at your mouth betrayed you.
“Suspicious,” you muttered, leaning back in your chair.
Satoru only shrugged.
“Atlas would say curiosity is the beginning of philosophy.”
“That feels like a very convenient escape.”
“Probably.”
You let out a small breath before tilting your head slightly, shifting the conversation back on track.
“But seriously,” you said. “Preparing for that role must have been… insane. Eighteen personalities is not something you can just improvise.”
Satoru’s posture changed almost immediately. The teasing ease softened into something more thoughtful as he rested his forearms lightly on the arms of his chair.
“It wasn’t something I could approach all at once,” he admitted. “At first I tried mapping them out like separate characters; backstories, speech patterns, physical habits.”
His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest as he spoke, thinking his way through the memory.
“But David Fletcher, the most incredible director, kept pushing me away from that.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
“He said if I treated them like eighteen different roles, it would feel artificial.” Satoru glanced briefly at the floor, then back at you. “He wanted them to feel like fragments of the same person. Like pieces that broke off over time.”
You nodded slowly.
“So instead of building them from scratch,” he continued, “I started borrowing.”
“Borrowing?”
“Little things,” he said. “The way people move. The way they react to stress. The way their voice changes when they’re lying or excited.”
He leaned back slightly again, thoughtful.
“Micah, for example…. His stutter came from someone I knew in acting school. The guy was brilliant, but whenever he had to speak in front of people he’d lose his train of thought halfway through a sentence.”
You listened carefully.
“And Ray, the aggressive one, that was mostly physical,” he continued. “I studied people who always looked like they were ready to fight. Shoulders forward, jaw tight, weight always shifting.”
Your brows lifted slightly.
“And Inuoe?” you asked.
Satoru’s mouth curved.
“That one was fun,” he said. “I spent weeks watching LA based fashion influencers and runway interviews. The precision, the self-awareness… the way every gesture looks practiced.”
You laughed softly.
“That checks out.”
Then Satoru glanced at you again, something a little mischievous flickering in his expression.
“And some of them came from people I already knew.”
Your brows drew together slightly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Little things.”
He tilted his head, studying you for a second.
“Inuoe’s habit of tilting her head when she’s judging someone’s outfit?” he said. “That’s you.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You did it all the time when we were kids and you still do.”
You immediately straightened in your chair. “I do not.”
Across from you, Satoru’s grin widened.
“You absolutely do.”
A few members of the crew laughed again.
“And Atlas?” you asked suspiciously.
Satoru shrugged.
“That one was… partially inspired by Suguru.”
Your head turned slightly.
“Suguru?”
“Yeah,” Satoru said. “When we were kids he used to get obsessed with random subjects. Philosophy, religion, obscure literature.” He smiled faintly at the memory. “If he found something interesting he’d talk about it for hours.”
You nodded slowly.
“That sounds about right.”
“And the rest,” he continued, “came from smaller things. Moments. Reactions. Stuff I’ve seen over the years.”
He tapped his finger lightly against the armrest again.
“Acting like that is a bit like building a collage,” he said. “You take tiny pieces from everywhere… and eventually they turn into someone new.”
You watched him for a moment, genuinely impressed.
“That’s incredible.”
Satoru glanced up at you again, that familiar playful glint returning.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re starting to sound like my publicist.”
“You know,” you said, your voice softening slightly, “watching you in your more recent films made me realize just how much range you actually have.”
His brows lifted faintly.
“Actually?”
You smiled.
“Well… the public image you’ve cultivated isn’t exactly ‘serious dramatic actor.’”
The crew laughed softly.
He sighed theatrically.
“Tragic.”
“But that performance,” you continued, your voice thoughtful again. “It felt like watching eighteen completely different people trapped in one body.”
You shook your head slightly, still impressed.
“That’s one of the most technically difficult performances I’ve ever seen.”
For a moment he simply looked at you.
Then his grin returned; slower this time.
“Well,” he said lightly, “coming from you, I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
And the way you were still looking at him, completely absorbed, made it clear you meant every word.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, waiting.
<<Previous ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next >>
Synopsis: When you’re invited onto one of the industry’s most famous interview shows, where actors sit down for an honest conversation with another star, you’re excited for the opportunity.
The catch?
Your interview partner is none other than Hollywood's golden boy, Gojo Satoru . Your co-star, your headache, and apparently the person producers think you have the most chemistry with. But you know this is a disaster waiting to happen.
a/n: I’m still happily milking this Actor AU, and this is the first part of this particular story. I hope you enjoy it and come along with me down this little daydream path.
I’m writing whenever I can these days, so it means a lot that you’re still here reading and loving this series. Thank you for every comment, every likes, reblogs and for spending a little bit of your time in this world with me. It truly means more than you know.
The afternoon light spilled lazily through the tall windows of your living room, warming the quiet space in a soft wash of gold. It pooled across the couch and over the novel resting in your hands, turning the once dull grey pages into something almost luminous.
Beside you, the script adaptation of the novel lay open like a second conversation. Its margins were crowded with your looping handwriting; half-formed thoughts, arrows, questions you hadn’t answered yet. Streaks of purple, yellow, and green highlighter ran through the pages, and sticky tabs jutted out along the edges like bright, unruly feathers marking every place you’d lingered too long.
You tucked your legs beneath you, sinking deeper into the couch as you turned another page.
Elena, the wild, restless protagonist you would soon bring to life, had just discovered the betrayal that would unravel the entire story.
You paused.
Your eyes drifted back over the paragraph, reading it again, slower this time. You tried to feel for the moment where the fracture should live. Where Elena’s heart truly breaks.
Should it land softly; quiet devastation settling into her bones like a slow winter?
Or should it cut sharper than that.
Something sudden. Something that burned.
You were still deciding when your phone began to buzz on the coffee table.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
You glanced over, mildly annoyed at the interruption, until you saw the name on the screen.
Matilda – Agent
You sighed and set the book aside.
If Matilda was calling instead of texting, it usually meant something had happened or was about to.
You swiped to answer.
“Please tell me this isn’t about doing that bleach commercial,” you said, leaning back against the couch.
On the other end, Matilda let out a long, dramatic exhale.
“I have good news and bad news.”
You groaned immediately, pinching the bridge of your nose as your head tipped back against the couch’s headrest.
“That phrase has never led to a peaceful evening in my life.”
“Which do you want first?”
You stared up at the ceiling, already bracing yourself.
“Good.”
A beat of excitement entered her voice.
“You’ve been invited to Variety’s Actors on Actors.”
You sat up a little straighter, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
“…Wait. Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
The irritation drained from your body instantly. Actors on Actors wasn’t just another press stop. It was one of those conversations the kind where careers were dissected, creative processes explored, and actors spoke to each other like craftsmen instead of soundbite machines.
It meant the industry was taking you seriously.
It meant you had arrived.
“That’s…” you exhaled, smiling faintly. “That’s incredible.”
“I know.”
You leaned back again, already imagining it.
Two chairs. Quiet lighting. An actual conversation about film. No screaming fans. No chaotic junkets. No—
“Alright,” you said cautiously. “What’s the bad news?”
Matilda went quiet.
Too quiet.
Your eyes narrowed.
“Matilda.”
“…You’ve been paired with someone.”
“That’s how it’d usually go.”
“Yes, but—”
“Who?”
Another pause.
Then—
“Satoru.”
You closed your eyes slowly.
“Absolutely not.”
“Listen—”
“I have spent the last three weeks sitting beside that man in press junkets,” you continued, already standing and pacing your living room. “Three. Weeks. 'Tilda.”
“I know.”
“Every interview is the same. We sit there, he smiles like he’s about to start a conspiracy, and then he says something that trends on Twitter for two days.”
“Also true.”
“And now I’m supposed to have a thoughtful artistic conversation with him?”
Matilda tried not to laugh.
“You two have great chemistry.”
“That’s what people say when someone is being professionally harassed.”
She laughed outright this time.
“Look, the studio loved the pairing. Crossing Lines is still dominating conversation, and Variety thought the dynamic would be—”
“Dynamic,” you finished flatly.
“Yes.”
You rubbed your temple.
Images of the past few weeks flashed through your mind.
Satoru leaning over during interviews.
Satoru whispering sarcastic commentary when reporters asked predictable questions.
Satoru smirking like he knew exactly how easily he could derail your composure.
You dropped back onto the couch.
I was hoping I’d get someone serious,” you muttered. “Someone reflective. Introspective. Perceptive. Not just charm and a flashy smile.
Matilda hummed thoughtfully.
“You might be surprised.”
You scoffed.
“You haven’t been sitting next to him for fifteen interviews.”
“Well,” she said, clearly amused, “now you get one more.”
You groaned again and reached for the novel you’d abandoned.
“When is it?”
“Next week.”
You flipped the book open again, trying to refocus on the page, but the words blurred together.
Across the city, you could almost picture him already knowing.
Already grinning about it.
Matilda spoke again before hanging up.
“Oh—and Y/N?”
“What.”
“He asked if you were excited.”
Your head snapped up.
“…He what?”
“He said—and I’m quoting here— ‘Tell her to prepare meaningful questions. I’m planning to take this very seriously.’”
You stared at the wall.
Then muttered under your breath, “I’m going to strangle him.”
Matilda laughed and hung up.
And despite yourself—
You smiled.
—
The atmosphere in the studio felt different from any other set you had stepped onto in the past month.
The lights were brighter, but softer too, warm circles spilling across the polished floor and the carefully arranged set. There was a strange stillness to it, a kind of quiet that made you more aware of your own breathing.
It was almost unsettling.
No screaming fans beyond barricades. No rapid bursts of camera flashes. No assistants weaving through the chaos with clipboards and whispered instructions.
Just two armchairs positioned deliberately opposite each other beneath the glow of studio lights. A small table between them. Two untouched glasses of water.
Minimal. Thoughtful. Almost intimate.
You smoothed the front of your beige trousers, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, and glanced across the set.
Satoru was already there.
He lounged easily in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him like he had been born into the space. When he noticed the cameras adjusting, he shifted slightly, folding himself into something that resembled a more respectable posture.
Barely.
His hair caught the studio lights in a way that felt deeply unfair, pale strands glowing faintly like they had their own source of light. Perched on the bridge of his nose was a pair of round glasses, thin-framed and scholarly enough that, on anyone else, they might have looked distinguished.
On him, they made him look almost laughably serious.
Of course, the effect would have been more convincing if the corner of his mouth wasn’t already threatening to curl into a grin.
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
He never wore glasses.
Which meant he had chosen them. Deliberately. Carefully. Like a costume.
Your suspicion only deepened when he adjusted them lightly with one finger, glancing toward the cameras with his new expression that was just a little too composed.
He was absolutely doing this on purpose.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him more annoying.
—and worse—
more attractive.
This was supposed to be a serious conversation.
Actors discussing their craft. Their process. The work behind the performance.
You had prepared for this. Carefully.
Thoughtful questions sat neatly on the cards in your lap, questions about technique, character work, emotional preparation. The kind that invited reflection. The kind that demanded sincerity.
You were hoping, quietly praying, for the composed, perceptive version of him to show up today.
If that version of him even existed.
As if sensing the weight of your thoughts, he glanced up.
Your eyes met across the set.
And then he grinned.
Wide. Bright. Completely unbothered.
Your stomach dropped.
You knew, instantly, that you were finished.
<<Previous one-shot ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next >>
Synopsis: When you’re invited onto one of the industry’s most famous interview shows, where actors sit down for an honest conversation with another star, you’re excited for the opportunity.
The catch?
Your interview partner is none other than Hollywood's golden boy, Gojo Satoru . Your co-star, your headache, and apparently the person producers think you have the most chemistry with. But you know this is a disaster waiting to happen.
a/n: I’m still happily milking this Actor AU, and this is the first part of this particular story. I hope you enjoy it and come along with me down this little daydream path.
I’m writing whenever I can these days, so it means a lot that you’re still here reading and loving this series. Thank you for every comment, every likes, reblogs and for spending a little bit of your time in this world with me. It truly means more than you know.
The afternoon light spilled lazily through the tall windows of your living room, warming the quiet space in a soft wash of gold. It pooled across the couch and over the novel resting in your hands, turning the once dull grey pages into something almost luminous.
Beside you, the script adaptation of the novel lay open like a second conversation. Its margins were crowded with your looping handwriting; half-formed thoughts, arrows, questions you hadn’t answered yet. Streaks of purple, yellow, and green highlighter ran through the pages, and sticky tabs jutted out along the edges like bright, unruly feathers marking every place you’d lingered too long.
You tucked your legs beneath you, sinking deeper into the couch as you turned another page.
Elena, the wild, restless protagonist you would soon bring to life, had just discovered the betrayal that would unravel the entire story.
You paused.
Your eyes drifted back over the paragraph, reading it again, slower this time. You tried to feel for the moment where the fracture should live. Where Elena’s heart truly breaks.
Should it land softly; quiet devastation settling into her bones like a slow winter?
Or should it cut sharper than that.
Something sudden. Something that burned.
You were still deciding when your phone began to buzz on the coffee table.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
You glanced over, mildly annoyed at the interruption, until you saw the name on the screen.
Matilda – Agent
You sighed and set the book aside.
If Matilda was calling instead of texting, it usually meant something had happened or was about to.
You swiped to answer.
“Please tell me this isn’t about doing that bleach commercial,” you said, leaning back against the couch.
On the other end, Matilda let out a long, dramatic exhale.
“I have good news and bad news.”
You groaned immediately, pinching the bridge of your nose as your head tipped back against the couch’s headrest.
“That phrase has never led to a peaceful evening in my life.”
“Which do you want first?”
You stared up at the ceiling, already bracing yourself.
“Good.”
A beat of excitement entered her voice.
“You’ve been invited to Variety’s Actors on Actors.”
You sat up a little straighter, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
“…Wait. Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
The irritation drained from your body instantly. Actors on Actors wasn’t just another press stop. It was one of those conversations the kind where careers were dissected, creative processes explored, and actors spoke to each other like craftsmen instead of soundbite machines.
It meant the industry was taking you seriously.
It meant you had arrived.
“That’s…” you exhaled, smiling faintly. “That’s incredible.”
“I know.”
You leaned back again, already imagining it.
Two chairs. Quiet lighting. An actual conversation about film. No screaming fans. No chaotic junkets. No—
“Alright,” you said cautiously. “What’s the bad news?”
Matilda went quiet.
Too quiet.
Your eyes narrowed.
“Matilda.”
“…You’ve been paired with someone.”
“That’s how it’d usually go.”
“Yes, but—”
“Who?”
Another pause.
Then—
“Satoru.”
You closed your eyes slowly.
“Absolutely not.”
“Listen—”
“I have spent the last three weeks sitting beside that man in press junkets,” you continued, already standing and pacing your living room. “Three. Weeks. 'Tilda.”
“I know.”
“Every interview is the same. We sit there, he smiles like he’s about to start a conspiracy, and then he says something that trends on Twitter for two days.”
“Also true.”
“And now I’m supposed to have a thoughtful artistic conversation with him?”
Matilda tried not to laugh.
“You two have great chemistry.”
“That’s what people say when someone is being professionally harassed.”
She laughed outright this time.
“Look, the studio loved the pairing. Crossing Lines is still dominating conversation, and Variety thought the dynamic would be—”
“Dynamic,” you finished flatly.
“Yes.”
You rubbed your temple.
Images of the past few weeks flashed through your mind.
Satoru leaning over during interviews.
Satoru whispering sarcastic commentary when reporters asked predictable questions.
Satoru smirking like he knew exactly how easily he could derail your composure.
You dropped back onto the couch.
I was hoping I’d get someone serious,” you muttered. “Someone reflective. Introspective. Perceptive. Not just charm and a flashy smile.
Matilda hummed thoughtfully.
“You might be surprised.”
You scoffed.
“You haven’t been sitting next to him for fifteen interviews.”
“Well,” she said, clearly amused, “now you get one more.”
You groaned again and reached for the novel you’d abandoned.
“When is it?”
“Next week.”
You flipped the book open again, trying to refocus on the page, but the words blurred together.
Across the city, you could almost picture him already knowing.
Already grinning about it.
Matilda spoke again before hanging up.
“Oh—and Y/N?”
“What.”
“He asked if you were excited.”
Your head snapped up.
“…He what?”
“He said—and I’m quoting here— ‘Tell her to prepare meaningful questions. I’m planning to take this very seriously.’”
You stared at the wall.
Then muttered under your breath, “I’m going to strangle him.”
Matilda laughed and hung up.
And despite yourself—
You smiled.
—
The atmosphere in the studio felt different from any other set you had stepped onto in the past month.
The lights were brighter, but softer too, warm circles spilling across the polished floor and the carefully arranged set. There was a strange stillness to it, a kind of quiet that made you more aware of your own breathing.
It was almost unsettling.
No screaming fans beyond barricades. No rapid bursts of camera flashes. No assistants weaving through the chaos with clipboards and whispered instructions.
Just two armchairs positioned deliberately opposite each other beneath the glow of studio lights. A small table between them. Two untouched glasses of water.
Minimal. Thoughtful. Almost intimate.
You smoothed the front of your beige trousers, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, and glanced across the set.
Satoru was already there.
He lounged easily in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him like he had been born into the space. When he noticed the cameras adjusting, he shifted slightly, folding himself into something that resembled a more respectable posture.
Barely.
His hair caught the studio lights in a way that felt deeply unfair, pale strands glowing faintly like they had their own source of light. Perched on the bridge of his nose was a pair of round glasses, thin-framed and scholarly enough that, on anyone else, they might have looked distinguished.
On him, they made him look almost laughably serious.
Of course, the effect would have been more convincing if the corner of his mouth wasn’t already threatening to curl into a grin.
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
He never wore glasses.
Which meant he had chosen them. Deliberately. Carefully. Like a costume.
Your suspicion only deepened when he adjusted them lightly with one finger, glancing toward the cameras with his new expression that was just a little too composed.
He was absolutely doing this on purpose.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him more annoying.
—and worse—
more attractive.
This was supposed to be a serious conversation.
Actors discussing their craft. Their process. The work behind the performance.
You had prepared for this. Carefully.
Thoughtful questions sat neatly on the cards in your lap, questions about technique, character work, emotional preparation. The kind that invited reflection. The kind that demanded sincerity.
You were hoping, quietly praying, for the composed, perceptive version of him to show up today.
If that version of him even existed.
As if sensing the weight of your thoughts, he glanced up.
Your eyes met across the set.
And then he grinned.
Wide. Bright. Completely unbothered.
Your stomach dropped.
You knew, instantly, that you were finished.
<<Previous one-shot ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next >>
Summary: You and Hikari try cooking like Dad…But today, with Suguru away on a business trip, it’s you and Hikari who are in charge. A little rice, a little egg, a lot of love.
Author's note: Hi… um… hello. Anyway. Bye.
The first thing Hikari says when he wakes up is, “Mama, we should cook.”
You’re still half under the blanket, hair in your face, blinking at the late afternoon light spilling through the curtains.
“Cook?” you repeat.
He nods solemnly, already fully awake in a way only five-year-olds can be. “Papa will be back home today. He always cooks. So we should cook up a surprise for him.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow, and look at him properly. His dark hair is sleep-mussed, eyes bright and serious in a way that is painfully familiar.
Suguru always cooks.
It isn’t even something you talk about. It’s just how your home works. He ties on his apron the moment he gets back from work, sleeves rolled neatly, hair tied back, voice low and steady as he hums under his breath. Hikari is usually right there with him, perched on a little step stool like a tiny supervisor.
You smile slowly.
“Alright,” you say. “Let’s surprise Papa.”
Minutes later, your kitchen looks like it’s bracing for battle.
Hikari insists on wearing Suguru’s apron. It hangs off him like ceremonial robes, the fabric pooling around his small legs. You have to fold it up twice and tie the straps in an awkward bow at his back.
He stands on the step stool, hands on his hips.
“I’m the sous chef,” he informs you.
“Yes, Chef,” you reply.
He nods approvingly. “Papa says the sous chef tastes everything.”
“Does he?”
“Mhm. To make sure Mama likes it.”
Your chest tightens just a little at that.
You decide on oyakodon. Simple. Traditional. Something warm and comforting. Something that smells like home.
Hikari watches carefully as you rinse the rice.
“No, Mama,” he says gently. “Like this.”
He reaches for your hand, guiding it in small circular motions inside the bowl. The water turns cloudy.
“You have to be gentle,” he explains. “Papa says rice doesn’t like to be rushed.”
You stare at him.
“Does he?”
He nods with complete confidence. “It’s important.”
You bite back a laugh and let him take over. He’s so serious, brows drawn together, tiny fingers moving with surprising care. He’s clearly done this before, many times.
When you move to slice the onions, he drags the stool closer without being asked.
“I can help.”
“With what?”
“Stirring.” He pauses. “Papa lets me stir when the oil is ready. But not too fast. Or it splashes.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Does it splash often?”
He hesitates. “…Sometimes.”
The pan warms, oil shimmering at the bottom. You add the onions, and they sizzle softly. The scent rises immediately. Sweet, sharp, familiar.
Hikari inhales deeply.
“It smells like Papa.”
You swallow.
“It does.”
He stirs carefully, both hands gripping the wooden spoon. His movements are slow and deliberate, mimicking someone much taller, much steadier. You can almost see Suguru behind him, broad shoulders leaning down, stray strands of his hair spilling over his face, large hands covering smaller ones, voice murmuring instructions.
“Not too fast, Hikari.”
“I’m not!”
You blink the image away and focus on the present.
When it’s time to add the chicken, Hikari announces, “I’ll count.”
“Count?”
“So it cooks evenly.”
You don’t question it. You just let him count softly under his breath, numbers occasionally skipping or repeating. The soy sauce and mirin hit the pan next, and the smell deepens, sweet and savory, rich and warm.
The kitchen fills with it.
It feels full.
Almost like he’s already home.
“Why is it called oyakodon?” Hikari asks suddenly.
You pause.
You hadn’t thought about explaining that part.
“It means ‘parent and child rice bowl,’” you say.
He blinks. “Why?”
“Because it’s chicken and egg. Parent and child.”
He considers that very seriously.
“Oh.”
He nods once, as if filing that information away for future use.
“That’s nice,” he decides.
You crack the eggs into a bowl, whisking them gently. Hikari watches the motion with fascination.
“Papa makes it look easy,” he says quietly.
“He sure does.”
When you pour the egg over the simmering chicken and onions, Hikari gasps softly like it’s magic. The yellow spreads, bubbling at the edges.
“Don’t stir too much,” he whispers urgently. “Papa says the egg should be soft. Not angry.”
You burst out laughing.
“Not angry?”
He nods seriously. “If you cook it too much, it gets angry.”
You cover the pan and let it finish gently. Hikari leans forward, eyes glued to the lid like he’s watching something sacred.
The rice is ready. You spoon it into bowls, fluffy and steaming. When you slide the chicken and egg mixture on top, it settles beautifully.
Hikari inhales.
“It looks like Papa’s,” he breathes.
You glance at it.
It does.
Not perfect. A little uneven. Slightly too much sauce in one corner.
But it looks like something your family would eat.
He insists on adding chopped green onions on top. Carefully. Precisely.
“Presentation is important,” he recites.
You stare at him again.
“What else does Papa say?”
He tilts his head, thinking hard.
“Cooking is respect.”
You freeze.
The words land softly, but they hit deep.
Cooking is respect.
Of course he would say that. Of course he would teach that.
You kneel down so you’re eye-level with Hikari.
“Papa’s lucky to have you as his sous chef.”
Hikari beams, cheeks dimpling.
“I am lucky to have you as mine too, Mama.”
The words are simple. Said so easily. So matter-of-fact.
And yet they hit somewhere deep inside you; somewhere tender you didn’t even realize was exposed.
Your vision blurs before you can stop it.
You pull him into your arms suddenly, almost knocking the oversized apron crooked as you gather him against your chest. Tears slip down your cheeks, warm and unrestrained, soaking into his hair as you press your face into it.
“Hikari,” you whisper, your voice trembling despite the smile on your lips.
He giggles softly, arms wrapping around your neck without hesitation, as if this is the most natural thing in the world, to be held, to be loved this fiercely.
“I didn’t make it angry,” he adds in a tiny, reassuring voice against your shoulder.
You let out a watery laugh, tightening your hold on him.
“No,” you murmur. “You didn’t.”
And neither did your heart.
—
You’re just about to set the table when you hear it.
The front door.
The quiet click of it opening.
You and Hikari both go still.
“You locked it, right?” you whisper.
He nods quickly.
Footsteps.
Familiar ones.
And then—
“I’m home.”
His voice is warm and slightly tired, echoing down the hallway.
Hikari gasps.
“He’s early!” he whispers loudly.
You exchange a panicked look, then grab the bowls, shoving them toward the center of the table. Hikari scrambles down from the stool, nearly tripping over the too-long apron.
Suguru appears in the kitchen doorway a second later.
He stops.
He takes in the scene slowly.
The apron tied around Hikari.
The steam rising from the bowls.
You standing there with a spoon still in your hand.
His eyes soften instantly.
“What’s all this?” he asks.
Hikari rushes forward, apron flapping. “Papa! We cooked!”
Suguru drops his bag just in time to catch him. He lifts Hikari effortlessly, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“You did?”
“Mama only helped,” Hikari explains gravely. “I was the chef.”
Suguru’s gaze shifts to you over Hikari’s head.
There’s something in his expression. Surprise. Amusement. Something gentler.
“We thought we’d give you a break.”
He steps closer, still holding Hikari.
The smell hits him fully now.
His eyes widen slightly.
“Oyakodon?”
Hikari nods vigorously. “Parent and child!”
Suguru blinks, then laughs softly. “Mama explained it?”
“I know lots of things,” Hikari says proudly.
Suguru sets him down and walks to the table. He studies the bowls carefully.
“You didn’t forget the green onions,” he notes.
“Presentation,” Hikari says immediately.
Suguru glances at you again, lips twitching.
“Of course.”
He picks up the spoon and tastes it.
You hold your breath.
Hikari holds his breath.
Geto chews slowly, thoughtfully.
Then he smiles.
It’s small, but it’s real.
“It’s good.”
Hikari nearly vibrates with excitement. “Almost Papa good?”
Geto looks at him, then at you.
“It’s better,” he says gently. “Because you made it.”
Something warm spreads through your chest.
He steps closer, brushing his fingers lightly against your cheek, wiping away a faint smear of egg you hadn’t noticed.
“You missed a spot,” he murmurs.
The gesture is automatic. Familiar.
You smile up at him.
“Sit,” you say softly. “We’ll serve you.”
He hesitates, clearly unused to being the one sitting while someone else moves around the kitchen.
But he obeys.
Hikari climbs into his seat proudly.
You place the bowl in front of Geto and sit beside him.
Together, the three of you press your hands together.
“Itadakimasu,” you say in unison.
For a moment, it’s quiet except for the clink of spoons and soft breaths.
Your husband reaches under the table and squeezes your hand.
You squeeze back.
Across from you, Hikari eats carefully, making sure the egg isn’t “angry.”
The kitchen feels full.
Warm.
Complete.
And when Suguru leans over to whisper, “Next time, I’ll be your sous chef,” you had a very different meaning in mind.
☕ chapter summary: Finals are over. The fever is gone. Life should feel settled again. But there's no word from Levi. You return to the café for the warmth, for routine. Instead, you get handed a book. Inside, the margins hold more than commentary, revealing pieces of him he never says aloud.
☕ a/n: Happy New Year! That’s all from this author. Love you loads 🤍
And @lady-misdyea — and everyone else — I think I might be back for real this time.
<<previous chapter☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>
Part 12: Persuasion
The bell chimed as you stepped inside, and warmth folded around you at once, the familiar scent of coffee and caramelized sugar, brightened by that faint citrus cleaner he insisted on using. It wrapped around you like something remembered rather than merely smelled. For a moment, you just stood there, letting it settle into your lungs.
You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this place until now. The low hum of conversation, the hiss of steamed milk, the clink of porcelain against saucers, it all felt grounding in a way your apartment hadn’t these past weeks. Finals were over. The frantic nights, the caffeine-fueled panic, the isolation, they were behind you.
Now, you could finally return to this small sanctuary and let yourself sink back into its warmth.
But it was crowded.
Too crowded.
Every table was taken except for a narrow sliver near the window, barely wide enough for a cup and a book. You slipped into it anyway, tucking your bag carefully at your feet, knees brushing the wall. The space felt temporary, like you hadn’t fully earned your place back yet.
Your eyes drifted toward the counter on instinct.
Not him.
Farlan stood there instead, leaning lazily against the register as he rang someone up, sleeves rolled, grin easy.
Relief came first.
Of course he wouldn’t be in. It wasn’t the weekend. You knew his schedule better than you’d admit.
Then something else followed, quieter.
Disappointment, you realized, was a subtler emotion than you’d expected. It didn’t stab. It settled.
“Hi,” Farlan said when you approached, brows lifting slightly. His tone was warm, but there was something measuring in his gaze. “Thought we’d never see you again. That geezer refuses to answer a single question we ask.”
You huffed a small laugh. “I’m here now.”
Isabel waved from behind the espresso machine, milk foam climbing dangerously toward the rim. “She lives!” she called out before turning back to her victim—customer.
You ordered your usual.
When you returned to your tiny table, you placed The Handmaid’s Tale down with intention, fingers resting on the worn cover. Just one page left. One final thought to close it out.
You stared at it.
Slowly, you slid it aside.
Your gaze drifted across the room instead, past the poetry shelf, past the classics, until it landed on the romance section. On the third row sat a glossy cover with a scandalously dramatic title and absolutely no intellectual defense.
You exhaled under your breath.
Farlan appeared again sooner than expected.
He set your coffee down.
Then another book.
Hardcover.
Worn.
You blinked. “That’s not mine.”
“There’s a note,” he said lightly. “From our tyrant.”
Your stomach dipped.
You opened the front cover.
A folded scrap of paper fell into your lap.
You unfolded it.
You learned nothing.
Predictable.
If you insist on remaining a heathen, at least attempt balance.
— L.
Heat crept up your neck.
You looked up, but Farlan had already retreated, suspiciously intent on wiping down a table that was already spotless.
You lowered your gaze and opened the title page.
Persuasion.
Your thumb traced slowly over the lettering.
Of course he would choose Austen.
And just like that, your mind drifted back.
Recovery had come quietly after that day.
No dramatic turning point. No triumphant return to yourself. Just the slow absence of fever. The way your body stopped aching. The way your thoughts stopped slipping out of reach and began lining up properly again.
Finals ended with a soft, anticlimactic shrug. Papers submitted. Deadlines passed. Life resumed.
Except—
You hadn’t heard from him.
You had sent one message when your head was finally clear and Hange had stopped hovering like a panicked guardian spirit.
Thank you. For everything.
You had stared at the blank screen longer than you meant to.
Watched the read receipt appear.
Watched it sit there.
Like something deliberate.
Levi never replied.
You told yourself it was nothing. He wasn’t the type to linger in sentiment. He did what needed to be done. He showed up. He handled things. And then he left.
That was how he operated.
Still, by Friday, the silence felt heavier than it should have.
So you came to the café.
Even knowing he probably wouldn’t be in.
When you were back home, you opened it.
And immediately stilled.
The margins were alive.
Underlines. Notes. Question marks carved into the paper like someone had argued with it.
Levi’s handwriting was unmistakable. Compact. Controlled. Efficient even in emotion.
“My affection has not changed, but my power of showing it has.”
Underlined.
Beside it:
Cowardice framed as dignity.
You inhaled slowly.
You turned the page.
Another line marked.
“She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older.”
In Levi’s hand:
Or perhaps growth requires loss. No one romanticizes that part.
But beneath that, in a different handwriting, softer, looping, almost hesitant —
Loss teaches you what you should have fought for.
You blinked.
Two conversations.
Layered over the same sentences.
You turned another page.
The other hand:
Self-protection.
Levi:
Or pride is just fear in better clothing.
You felt it then.
Not just that he’d read this.
That he’d wrestled with it.
That whoever that voice belonged to had had an effect him and his reasoning.
The ink wasn’t fresh. Some of it had faded slightly, edges softened with time. The pages felt handled more than once.
You weren’t just reading a novel anymore.
You were reading the history between two people who had loved this book enough to leave themselves inside it.
And suddenly, your room felt smaller.
Bertholdt’s purring dulled at the edges of your hearing, fading into something far away. The walls pressed closer. The air grew quieter.
You turned the page more carefully now.
Not for the plot.
For the margins.
For the spaces between ink strokes.
For the ghosts of whoever had leaned over these pages before you.
You read more slowly, savoring, searching, wanting to step fully into whatever world they had built here, in graphite and restraint.
There, tucked beside a quiet scene, Levi had written:
Some people wait because they think they have time.
Some wait because they’re afraid of what happens if they don’t.
Your fingers stilled.
You traced the faint indentation of his pen, the pressure embedded into the paper. He had pressed harder on the second line.
What had he been thinking when he wrote that?
And why—
why had he given this to you?
- - -
a/n: I’m considering creating a taglist for new chapter updates. If you’d like to be notified whenever I post, please let me know and I’ll add you 🤍
<<previous chapter☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>
☕ chapter summary: Finals are over. The fever is gone. Life should feel settled again. But there's no word from Levi. You return to the café for the warmth, for routine. Instead, you get handed a book. Inside, the margins hold more than commentary, revealing pieces of him he never says aloud.
☕ a/n: Happy New Year! That’s all from this author. Love you loads 🤍
And @lady-misdyea — and everyone else — I think I might be back for real this time.
<<previous chapter☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>
Part 12: Persuasion
The bell chimed as you stepped inside, and warmth folded around you at once, the familiar scent of coffee and caramelized sugar, brightened by that faint citrus cleaner he insisted on using. It wrapped around you like something remembered rather than merely smelled. For a moment, you just stood there, letting it settle into your lungs.
You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this place until now. The low hum of conversation, the hiss of steamed milk, the clink of porcelain against saucers, it all felt grounding in a way your apartment hadn’t these past weeks. Finals were over. The frantic nights, the caffeine-fueled panic, the isolation, they were behind you.
Now, you could finally return to this small sanctuary and let yourself sink back into its warmth.
But it was crowded.
Too crowded.
Every table was taken except for a narrow sliver near the window, barely wide enough for a cup and a book. You slipped into it anyway, tucking your bag carefully at your feet, knees brushing the wall. The space felt temporary, like you hadn’t fully earned your place back yet.
Your eyes drifted toward the counter on instinct.
Not him.
Farlan stood there instead, leaning lazily against the register as he rang someone up, sleeves rolled, grin easy.
Relief came first.
Of course he wouldn’t be in. It wasn’t the weekend. You knew his schedule better than you’d admit.
Then something else followed, quieter.
Disappointment, you realized, was a subtler emotion than you’d expected. It didn’t stab. It settled.
“Hi,” Farlan said when you approached, brows lifting slightly. His tone was warm, but there was something measuring in his gaze. “Thought we’d never see you again. That geezer refuses to answer a single question we ask.”
You huffed a small laugh. “I’m here now.”
Isabel waved from behind the espresso machine, milk foam climbing dangerously toward the rim. “She lives!” she called out before turning back to her victim—customer.
You ordered your usual.
When you returned to your tiny table, you placed The Handmaid’s Tale down with intention, fingers resting on the worn cover. Just one page left. One final thought to close it out.
You stared at it.
Slowly, you slid it aside.
Your gaze drifted across the room instead, past the poetry shelf, past the classics, until it landed on the romance section. On the third row sat a glossy cover with a scandalously dramatic title and absolutely no intellectual defense.
You exhaled under your breath.
Farlan appeared again sooner than expected.
He set your coffee down.
Then another book.
Hardcover.
Worn.
You blinked. “That’s not mine.”
“There’s a note,” he said lightly. “From our tyrant.”
Your stomach dipped.
You opened the front cover.
A folded scrap of paper fell into your lap.
You unfolded it.
You learned nothing.
Predictable.
If you insist on remaining a heathen, at least attempt balance.
— L.
Heat crept up your neck.
You looked up, but Farlan had already retreated, suspiciously intent on wiping down a table that was already spotless.
You lowered your gaze and opened the title page.
Persuasion.
Your thumb traced slowly over the lettering.
Of course he would choose Austen.
And just like that, your mind drifted back.
Recovery had come quietly after that day.
No dramatic turning point. No triumphant return to yourself. Just the slow absence of fever. The way your body stopped aching. The way your thoughts stopped slipping out of reach and began lining up properly again.
Finals ended with a soft, anticlimactic shrug. Papers submitted. Deadlines passed. Life resumed.
Except—
You hadn’t heard from him.
You had sent one message when your head was finally clear and Hange had stopped hovering like a panicked guardian spirit.
Thank you. For everything.
You had stared at the blank screen longer than you meant to.
Watched the read receipt appear.
Watched it sit there.
Like something deliberate.
Levi never replied.
You told yourself it was nothing. He wasn’t the type to linger in sentiment. He did what needed to be done. He showed up. He handled things. And then he left.
That was how he operated.
Still, by Friday, the silence felt heavier than it should have.
So you came to the café.
Even knowing he probably wouldn’t be in.
When you were back home, you opened it.
And immediately stilled.
The margins were alive.
Underlines. Notes. Question marks carved into the paper like someone had argued with it.
Levi’s handwriting was unmistakable. Compact. Controlled. Efficient even in emotion.
“My affection has not changed, but my power of showing it has.”
Underlined.
Beside it:
Cowardice framed as dignity.
You inhaled slowly.
You turned the page.
Another line marked.
“She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older.”
In Levi’s hand:
Or perhaps growth requires loss. No one romanticizes that part.
But beneath that, in a different handwriting, softer, looping, almost hesitant —
Loss teaches you what you should have fought for.
You blinked.
Two conversations.
Layered over the same sentences.
You turned another page.
The other hand:
Self-protection.
Levi:
Or pride is just fear in better clothing.
You felt it then.
Not just that he’d read this.
That he’d wrestled with it.
That whoever that voice belonged to had had an effect him and his reasoning.
The ink wasn’t fresh. Some of it had faded slightly, edges softened with time. The pages felt handled more than once.
You weren’t just reading a novel anymore.
You were reading the history between two people who had loved this book enough to leave themselves inside it.
And suddenly, your room felt smaller.
Bertholdt’s purring dulled at the edges of your hearing, fading into something far away. The walls pressed closer. The air grew quieter.
You turned the page more carefully now.
Not for the plot.
For the margins.
For the spaces between ink strokes.
For the ghosts of whoever had leaned over these pages before you.
You read more slowly, savoring, searching, wanting to step fully into whatever world they had built here, in graphite and restraint.
There, tucked beside a quiet scene, Levi had written:
Some people wait because they think they have time.
Some wait because they’re afraid of what happens if they don’t.
Your fingers stilled.
You traced the faint indentation of his pen, the pressure embedded into the paper. He had pressed harder on the second line.
What had he been thinking when he wrote that?
And why—
why had he given this to you?
- - -
a/n: I’m considering creating a taglist for new chapter updates. If you’d like to be notified whenever I post, please let me know and I’ll add you 🤍
<<previous chapter☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>
Summary: You and Hikari try cooking like Dad…But today, with Suguru away on a business trip, it’s you and Hikari who are in charge. A little rice, a little egg, a lot of love.
Author's note: Hi… um… hello. Anyway. Bye.
The first thing Hikari says when he wakes up is, “Mama, we should cook.”
You’re still half under the blanket, hair in your face, blinking at the late afternoon light spilling through the curtains.
“Cook?” you repeat.
He nods solemnly, already fully awake in a way only five-year-olds can be. “Papa will be back home today. He always cooks. So we should cook up a surprise for him.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow, and look at him properly. His dark hair is sleep-mussed, eyes bright and serious in a way that is painfully familiar.
Suguru always cooks.
It isn’t even something you talk about. It’s just how your home works. He ties on his apron the moment he gets back from work, sleeves rolled neatly, hair tied back, voice low and steady as he hums under his breath. Hikari is usually right there with him, perched on a little step stool like a tiny supervisor.
You smile slowly.
“Alright,” you say. “Let’s surprise Papa.”
Minutes later, your kitchen looks like it’s bracing for battle.
Hikari insists on wearing Suguru’s apron. It hangs off him like ceremonial robes, the fabric pooling around his small legs. You have to fold it up twice and tie the straps in an awkward bow at his back.
He stands on the step stool, hands on his hips.
“I’m the sous chef,” he informs you.
“Yes, Chef,” you reply.
He nods approvingly. “Papa says the sous chef tastes everything.”
“Does he?”
“Mhm. To make sure Mama likes it.”
Your chest tightens just a little at that.
You decide on oyakodon. Simple. Traditional. Something warm and comforting. Something that smells like home.
Hikari watches carefully as you rinse the rice.
“No, Mama,” he says gently. “Like this.”
He reaches for your hand, guiding it in small circular motions inside the bowl. The water turns cloudy.
“You have to be gentle,” he explains. “Papa says rice doesn’t like to be rushed.”
You stare at him.
“Does he?”
He nods with complete confidence. “It’s important.”
You bite back a laugh and let him take over. He’s so serious, brows drawn together, tiny fingers moving with surprising care. He’s clearly done this before, many times.
When you move to slice the onions, he drags the stool closer without being asked.
“I can help.”
“With what?”
“Stirring.” He pauses. “Papa lets me stir when the oil is ready. But not too fast. Or it splashes.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Does it splash often?”
He hesitates. “…Sometimes.”
The pan warms, oil shimmering at the bottom. You add the onions, and they sizzle softly. The scent rises immediately. Sweet, sharp, familiar.
Hikari inhales deeply.
“It smells like Papa.”
You swallow.
“It does.”
He stirs carefully, both hands gripping the wooden spoon. His movements are slow and deliberate, mimicking someone much taller, much steadier. You can almost see Suguru behind him, broad shoulders leaning down, stray strands of his hair spilling over his face, large hands covering smaller ones, voice murmuring instructions.
“Not too fast, Hikari.”
“I’m not!”
You blink the image away and focus on the present.
When it’s time to add the chicken, Hikari announces, “I’ll count.”
“Count?”
“So it cooks evenly.”
You don’t question it. You just let him count softly under his breath, numbers occasionally skipping or repeating. The soy sauce and mirin hit the pan next, and the smell deepens, sweet and savory, rich and warm.
The kitchen fills with it.
It feels full.
Almost like he’s already home.
“Why is it called oyakodon?” Hikari asks suddenly.
You pause.
You hadn’t thought about explaining that part.
“It means ‘parent and child rice bowl,’” you say.
He blinks. “Why?”
“Because it’s chicken and egg. Parent and child.”
He considers that very seriously.
“Oh.”
He nods once, as if filing that information away for future use.
“That’s nice,” he decides.
You crack the eggs into a bowl, whisking them gently. Hikari watches the motion with fascination.
“Papa makes it look easy,” he says quietly.
“He sure does.”
When you pour the egg over the simmering chicken and onions, Hikari gasps softly like it’s magic. The yellow spreads, bubbling at the edges.
“Don’t stir too much,” he whispers urgently. “Papa says the egg should be soft. Not angry.”
You burst out laughing.
“Not angry?”
He nods seriously. “If you cook it too much, it gets angry.”
You cover the pan and let it finish gently. Hikari leans forward, eyes glued to the lid like he’s watching something sacred.
The rice is ready. You spoon it into bowls, fluffy and steaming. When you slide the chicken and egg mixture on top, it settles beautifully.
Hikari inhales.
“It looks like Papa’s,” he breathes.
You glance at it.
It does.
Not perfect. A little uneven. Slightly too much sauce in one corner.
But it looks like something your family would eat.
He insists on adding chopped green onions on top. Carefully. Precisely.
“Presentation is important,” he recites.
You stare at him again.
“What else does Papa say?”
He tilts his head, thinking hard.
“Cooking is respect.”
You freeze.
The words land softly, but they hit deep.
Cooking is respect.
Of course he would say that. Of course he would teach that.
You kneel down so you’re eye-level with Hikari.
“Papa’s lucky to have you as his sous chef.”
Hikari beams, cheeks dimpling.
“I am lucky to have you as mine too, Mama.”
The words are simple. Said so easily. So matter-of-fact.
And yet they hit somewhere deep inside you; somewhere tender you didn’t even realize was exposed.
Your vision blurs before you can stop it.
You pull him into your arms suddenly, almost knocking the oversized apron crooked as you gather him against your chest. Tears slip down your cheeks, warm and unrestrained, soaking into his hair as you press your face into it.
“Hikari,” you whisper, your voice trembling despite the smile on your lips.
He giggles softly, arms wrapping around your neck without hesitation, as if this is the most natural thing in the world, to be held, to be loved this fiercely.
“I didn’t make it angry,” he adds in a tiny, reassuring voice against your shoulder.
You let out a watery laugh, tightening your hold on him.
“No,” you murmur. “You didn’t.”
And neither did your heart.
—
You’re just about to set the table when you hear it.
The front door.
The quiet click of it opening.
You and Hikari both go still.
“You locked it, right?” you whisper.
He nods quickly.
Footsteps.
Familiar ones.
And then—
“I’m home.”
His voice is warm and slightly tired, echoing down the hallway.
Hikari gasps.
“He’s early!” he whispers loudly.
You exchange a panicked look, then grab the bowls, shoving them toward the center of the table. Hikari scrambles down from the stool, nearly tripping over the too-long apron.
Suguru appears in the kitchen doorway a second later.
He stops.
He takes in the scene slowly.
The apron tied around Hikari.
The steam rising from the bowls.
You standing there with a spoon still in your hand.
His eyes soften instantly.
“What’s all this?” he asks.
Hikari rushes forward, apron flapping. “Papa! We cooked!”
Suguru drops his bag just in time to catch him. He lifts Hikari effortlessly, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“You did?”
“Mama only helped,” Hikari explains gravely. “I was the chef.”
Suguru’s gaze shifts to you over Hikari’s head.
There’s something in his expression. Surprise. Amusement. Something gentler.
“We thought we’d give you a break.”
He steps closer, still holding Hikari.
The smell hits him fully now.
His eyes widen slightly.
“Oyakodon?”
Hikari nods vigorously. “Parent and child!”
Suguru blinks, then laughs softly. “Mama explained it?”
“I know lots of things,” Hikari says proudly.
Suguru sets him down and walks to the table. He studies the bowls carefully.
“You didn’t forget the green onions,” he notes.
“Presentation,” Hikari says immediately.
Suguru glances at you again, lips twitching.
“Of course.”
He picks up the spoon and tastes it.
You hold your breath.
Hikari holds his breath.
Geto chews slowly, thoughtfully.
Then he smiles.
It’s small, but it’s real.
“It’s good.”
Hikari nearly vibrates with excitement. “Almost Papa good?”
Geto looks at him, then at you.
“It’s better,” he says gently. “Because you made it.”
Something warm spreads through your chest.
He steps closer, brushing his fingers lightly against your cheek, wiping away a faint smear of egg you hadn’t noticed.
“You missed a spot,” he murmurs.
The gesture is automatic. Familiar.
You smile up at him.
“Sit,” you say softly. “We’ll serve you.”
He hesitates, clearly unused to being the one sitting while someone else moves around the kitchen.
But he obeys.
Hikari climbs into his seat proudly.
You place the bowl in front of Geto and sit beside him.
Together, the three of you press your hands together.
“Itadakimasu,” you say in unison.
For a moment, it’s quiet except for the clink of spoons and soft breaths.
Your husband reaches under the table and squeezes your hand.
You squeeze back.
Across from you, Hikari eats carefully, making sure the egg isn’t “angry.”
The kitchen feels full.
Warm.
Complete.
And when Suguru leans over to whisper, “Next time, I’ll be your sous chef,” you had a very different meaning in mind.
precis: when you—a brilliant political strategist—take a job as executive secretary to the youngest, most unconventional president in history, you expect chaos—not a marriage proposal thirty seconds after meeting him. president satoru gojo is impulsive, charming, and convinced that you're the one from day one, proposing daily with everything from skywritten declarations to blue roses in the white house rose garden. you're organized, sharp-witted, and determined to maintain professional boundaries despite their undeniable chemistry.
but as ethics investigations, congressional hearings, and media firestorms threaten both their careers, they must answer the impossible question: can love survive when the whole world is watching, and is saying "yes" worth risking everything they've worked for?
. ⋆. ࿔ content warnings (for overall series): work romance, love at first sight, slight age gap (reader is in mid twenties, gojo is in early thirties), politics but not as accurate?, press conferences, slight angst, conflict, terrorism, eventual smut, me being a history freak, tons of dialogue if ur into that, arguments, he's a posessive freak, sexual tension, media being annoying asl wc: 12k
nia's notes: inspired by scandal, im going into hibernation after this fic, literally took my soul also.. THANK U SMM FOR 1K!! i had an event planned but this fic stopped me from fully starting it so when im not busy, i'll start writing it. heh im gonna cri this fic gave me a fat headache, im no.1 procrasinator bc wdym i've been working on the fic for a whole MONTH. u guys can jump me for that.
the west wing was somehow both exactly what you'd imagined and nothing like you'd expected. the hallways were narrower than they appeared on television, the ceilings lower, the air thick with the weight of history and hurried footsteps. your new shoes—sensible black pumps that you'd bought specifically for this job—clicked against the polished floors as you followed the aide who'd been assigned to show you around.
"and this will be your office," she said, stopping at a door that was smaller than you'd hoped but had a window, which was apparently a luxury in this building. "the president's secretary gets one of the better spaces. you'll be right next door to the oval office, so he can—"
"steal you away whenever he wants," a voice interrupted, smooth and confident and coming from directly behind you.
you turned, your rehearsed professional greeting dying on your lips.
president satoru gojo was taller in person than he appeared on screen, and significantly more attractive, which seemed impossible given how the media already fawned over him. his white hair was artfully tousled, like he'd just run his hands through it. his dark sunglasses were perched on top of his head, revealing eyes so blue they almost didn't look real. he wore the expected dark suit, but his tie was slightly loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, like he'd already decided the formal parts of his day were over even though it was barely nine in the morning.
he was leaning against the doorframe of what was apparently your office, looking for all the world like he owned the place. which, technically, he did.
"mr. president," you managed, setting down the box of personal items you'd been carrying and extending your hand. "it's an honor to—"
"marry me."
"i'm sorry?" you blinked, certain you'd misheard. your heart was hammering against your ribs—partially from being startled, partially from the sheer presence of him filling your doorway. the aide beside you made a strangled sound.
"marry me." he pushed off the doorframe and closed the distance between you with easy, confident strides. instead of shaking your hand, he took it gently and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles while maintaining direct eye contact. "marry me. i know we just met, but i have excellent instincts about people. it's why i won the election by a landslide. actually, it was the biggest landslide in modern history. did you know that? of course you did, you're smart. that's why i chose you."
your brain short-circuited for a moment—the president of the united states had just kissed your hand and proposed marriage—before your professional training kicked in. you extracted your hand carefully, fighting the urge to wipe it on your skirt. "mr. president, i'm here to be your executive secretary, not—"
"i know exactly what you're here for." he was still standing close, too close, invading what should have been professional space with the casual confidence of someone who'd never been told no in his life. "stanford, top of your class, graduated summa cum laude with a degree in political science. three years as chief of staff for senator morrison, where you apparently performed miracles on a daily basis. you speak four languages—english, spanish, french, and japanese. you have a photographic memory for names and faces. you once organized a entire fundraising gala in seventy-two hours when the original planner had a nervous breakdown. and—" his eyes dragged down your body in a way that should have been offensive but somehow felt more appreciative than weird, "—you look like that."
you straightened your spine, lifting your chin. three hours. you'd been employed for three hours, and the president was already hitting on you. "mr. president—"
"satoru. call me satoru." he waved his hand dismissively, moving to examine the books you'd pulled from your box—policy volumes, constitutional law, a worn copy of "the prince" that had gotten you through grad school. "mr. president makes me sound old and stuffy. i'm neither. well, i'm thirty-two, which some people consider old, but i'm the youngest president in a century, so relatively speaking, i'm practically a baby."
"you're the president," you said slowly, your mind still trying to catch up with this conversation. you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, a nervous habit you'd never quite broken. "you can't just—you can't propose to your staff on their first day. that's—there are laws. ethics violations. HR would have a field day."
"HR works for me. technically, everyone works for me. comes with the job." he picked up your copy of machiavelli, flipping through it with apparent interest. "fair warning: i'm going to ask you to marry me approximately once a day. sometimes more if you look particularly attractive, which is always. you'll say no. i'll keep asking. it's going to be our thing."
"we don't have a thing." you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to ignore how your pulse was racing. "i've known you for at least thirty seconds."
"best thirty seconds of my life." he set the book down carefully, and when he looked at you again, his expression was disarmingly genuine for just a moment. "look, i know i come across as... a lot. but i'm serious about you being here. morrison said you're the best assistant he's ever had, that you're smarter than half the senate and work harder than all of them. i need that. someone who'll tell me when i'm being an idiot, which is often. someone who won't care that i'm the president and will call me out on my shit."
you studied him, trying to figure out if this was an act or if he was really this naturally insufferable. "and the marriage proposals?"
"those are just because i find you incredibly attractive and have no filter." he grinned, shameless. "but mostly i need someone competent. the attractive part is just a bonus. a really, really nice bonus."
despite yourself, you felt your lips twitch toward a smile before you caught yourself. "mr. president—"
"satoru."
"mr. president," you repeated firmly, "i'm here to do a job. a professional job. which does not include entertaining marriage proposals or... whatever this is."
"this is me being charming. is it working?"
"no."
"you're smiling."
"i'm not—" you realized he was right and quickly schooled your expression back to neutral. "i'm not smiling. and i have work to do. don't you have a country to run?"
"i do, actually. security briefing in ten minutes. you should probably be there—it's boring, i'll make it less boring with inappropriate comments, you'll hate it, it'll be great." he was already backing toward the door, that insufferable grin still in place. "also, welcome to the white house. you're going to love it here. or hate it. probably both. most people do."
he disappeared down the hallway, and you could hear him greeting someone with "did you see my new secretary? i'm going to marry her. yes, i know i just met her. that's not the point—"
you sank into your desk chair, dropping your head into your hands.
what the hell had you gotten yourself into?
by wednesday, you understood why the previous three secretaries had quit.
president gojo was a nightmare.
not in the incompetent way—he was actually brilliant when he focused, with a mind that could process complex policy implications faster than anyone you'd ever met. no, he was a nightmare in the way that a hurricane was a nightmare: powerful, unpredictable, and leaving chaos in his wake.
he was late to every meeting. not fashionably late—genuinely, disruptively late. fifteen minutes here, twenty minutes there, once a full forty-five minutes because he'd gotten "distracted" by something on twitter and decided to start a diplomatic incident with the prime minister of canada over hockey statistics.
he interrupted briefings to make jokes, to take calls from friends, to ask completely off-topic questions that somehow always managed to derail the entire discussion. during monday's economic briefing, he'd stopped the treasury secretary mid-sentence to ask if anyone had ever calculated the GDP of wakanda, and when informed that wakanda was fictional, he'd spent ten minutes arguing that the economics were still worth discussing.
he made decisions on a whim—good decisions, usually, which was the most frustrating part. he'd approve budgets, sign executive orders, and reshape foreign policy with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he was ordering lunch, not affecting millions of lives.
and he proposed to you six times in five days.
monday morning, during the 7:45 briefing (scheduled for 7:30, naturally), you'd been standing by the wall taking notes when he'd interrupted the director of national intelligence mid-sentence about syrian troop movements.
"marry me," he'd said, turning in his chair to look directly at you, completely ignoring the satellite images on the screen behind him.
the room had gone silent. the DNI had frozen mid-gesture. chief of staff ijichi's eye had started its now-familiar twitch.
you'd met the president's gaze steadily, your pen hovering over your tablet, and said in the same tone you'd use to decline a lunch invitation: "no, thank you, mr. president. director, please continue."
the president had grinned—that insufferable, blindingly white smile—and turned back to the briefing like nothing had happened. "right, right. syria. continue. but think about it—" this directed at you again, "—you'd never be late to anything again because you'd live here. very practical."
"noted, sir. director chen, you were saying about the northwestern corridor?"
tuesday, you'd been rushing down the hallway between the west wing and the executive residence, arms full of briefing folders that needed the president's signature, checking your watch because you had exactly four minutes to get him to sign off before his call with the prime minister of japan. you'd been mentally rehearsing the fastest route when you'd nearly collided with him coming around the corner.
"whoa!" his hands had come up to steady you, catching your elbows as folders started to slip. you'd felt the warmth of his palms through your blazer, noticed absently that he was taller than you'd realized—you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes even in your heels.
"mr. president, i need your signature on these before—"
"marry me," he'd pleaded, still holding your elbows, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne—something crisp and expensive that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. "i'll let you reorganize my entire schedule. i know you're dying to. i've seen the way you look at my calendar. it's like watching someone trying not to have an aneurysm."
you'd extracted yourself from his grip, bending to pick up the folders that had fallen, grateful for the excuse to hide the flush you could feel creeping up your neck. "your schedule is a disaster because you refuse to follow it."
"i'd follow it if you organized it." he'd crouched down to help, handing you folders, and for just a moment you'd been eye-level, close enough to see the flecks of lighter blue in his irises. "come on. marry me. think of the efficiency."
"no." you'd stood, folders secured, and stepped around him. "you have three minutes to get to the oval office for your call with prime minister sato."
"see? you even know my schedule better than i do. we're perfect together!"
you'd kept walking, but you'd heard him call after you, "that's not a no forever! that's just a no for now! i'm taking it as progress!"
wednesday had been the coffee incident. you'd learned his order by day two—oat milk latte, extra shot, light foam, exactly 140 degrees. he'd send it back if it was wrong, not rudely but with the kind of apologetic pickiness that somehow made you want to get it right just to see him satisfied.
you'd been carrying his coffee and a folder of briefing materials into the oval office at 8:15 am, earlier than his official start time but you'd learned he was usually there by 8:00, working through emails and phone calls with leaders in different time zones.
he'd been on the phone when you'd entered quietly, had held up one finger in acknowledgment while continuing his conversation in what sounded like japanese. you'd set the coffee on his desk—on a coaster, because he had a tendency to leave rings on the historic wood—and turned to leave when he'd covered the phone receiver.
"marry me," he'd whispered, grinning. "i'll make sure the coffee's always perfect. i'll hire a dedicated coffee person. an entire coffee team. a coffee task force."
you'd rolled your eyes and whispered back, "you already have an entire white house staff. the coffee is already perfect."
"but it tastes better when you bring it." he'd winked—actually winked—and gone back to his phone call.
you'd left, your heart doing something stupid and fluttery that you'd firmly ignored.
thursday, you'd been standing in the doorway of the oval office, tapping your watch meaningfully because he was on a call with the french president that had run fifteen minutes over and he had the german chancellor holding on another line.
he'd seen you, had held up one finger in a 'just one more minute' gesture that you'd learned meant at least five more minutes, so you'd resorted to holding up your tablet where you'd typed in large letters: GERMAN CHANCELLOR. waiting. SEVEN minutes.
he'd grinned and said into the phone, in perfect french, "mon ami, je dois y aller. something more important has come up." then, switching to english while apparently still on the line with the french president, he'd looked directly at you and had the audacity to say, "marry me."
your eyes had widened. you'd frantically made cutting gestures across your throat, pointing at the phone, mouthing "he can still hear you!"
the president had just smiled serenely, like nothing could sway him. "think about it. we could have breakfast meetings every morning. very efficient. and i make excellent scrambled eggs. that's not relevant but i wanted you to know."
you'd heard a surprised laugh from the phone, tinny and distant—the french president, apparently amused by the whole situation.
"mr. president," you'd said firmly, fighting back your own mortified laughter, "germany is waiting. as in, the entire country of germany. the chancellor. who has the nuclear codes. that germany."
"fine, fine. au revoir, monsieur le président. oui, oui, je suis fou. c'est connu." he'd hung up and immediately picked up the other line. "angela! sorry for the wait. i was just proposing to my secretary. yes, again. no, she said no. i know, i know, persistence is key..."
you left before you could hear the german chancellor's response, your face burning, already mentally drafting the apology memo you'd probably need to send to both france and germany.
this man was going to cause an international incident over a marriage proposal.
friday had been the paperwork incident. you'd brought a stack of executive orders into the oval office that needed his signature—routine stuff, mostly appointments and procedural matters, but they needed to be done before the weekend.
he'd been sitting at the resolute desk actually working for once, reading through something that had his full attention, his brow furrowed in concentration. you'd almost felt bad interrupting, except these really did need to be signed.
"mr. president? i have the executive orders for your signature."
he'd looked up, and his face had transformed from serious to delighted in an instant. "perfect timing. come here."
you'd approached the desk, setting down the stack of folders. "these are all flagged where you need to—"
"marry me." he'd gestured to the desk, to the papers, to himself. "look, i'm already sitting at a desk, you're already here, we could do the paperwork right now. very efficient. you love efficiency. i've noticed. you color-code things. it's adorable."
"this is executive orders, not a marriage license." you opened the first folder, pointed at the signature line with the kind of precision usually reserved for disarming bombs. "here. and here. initial here."
"we could make one of them a marriage license. i'm the president. i probably have the power to do that. let me check..." he'd actually reached for his phone like he was going to look it up.
"mr. president—"
"satoru. please. when it's just us, call me satoru."
"we're in the oval office. it's never 'just us.'" you tapped the signature line again, harder this time. "there are approximately forty-seven people within earshot. there are security cameras. there is a historical record of every conversation that happens in this room. nothing here is 'just us.'"
he'd signed with casual efficiency, but kept talking. "we could make it just us. i could clear my schedule. lock the doors. tell everyone there's a national security situation."
"that would be lying to your staff."
"you're a threat to my national security. you make my heart race. that's a security concern." he'd signed another paper, glancing up at you with those blue eyes that were entirely too perceptive. "has anyone ever told you you're beautiful when you're annoyed?"
"frequently. usually by people trying to distract me from their poor time management."
he'd laughed at that, and you'd felt an unwelcome flutter of satisfaction at making him laugh. "fair. but seriously. marry me. i'll be good to you. i'll follow my schedule. i'll stop putting my feet on furniture."
"you'll do all that anyway if i threaten to quit."
"true. but wouldn't it be better if you married me first? then you'd be stuck with me."
"that's not the selling point you think it is." you'd collected the signed papers. "is that everything?"
"one more thing." he'd stood, moving around the desk, and suddenly he was close—close enough that you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact, close enough that you could see where he'd missed a spot shaving that morning, could count the individual eyelashes framing those impossible eyes. "why do you always say no?"
the question had been quiet, genuine, lacking his usual cockiness. it had thrown you off balance.
"because we barely know each other," you said finally, your voice measured and honest. "because i work for you, and that creates a power dynamic that makes any real relationship impossible. because this—" you gestured at the oval office, at him, at the absurdity of the situation, "—is wildly inappropriate, even by washington standards."
"what if—"
"no 'what ifs,' mr. president." you cut him off before he could start negotiating, because you could see that's where this was going. "no hypotheticals. this is reality. and in reality, i'm your secretary, you're the president, is there anything else?"
he'd studied you for a long moment, and you'd had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see right through you, could see the part of you that was maybe, possibly, a tiny bit tempted.
then he'd smiled—smaller, more real. "no. that's all. enjoy your weekend."
every time, you'd said no. every time, he'd just grinned and gone back to whatever he was supposed to be doing, like it was all a game, like your rejections were just part of the fun.
it was exhausting.
it was infuriating.
it was... kind of endearing, in the most annoying way possible.
because underneath all the jokes and the grand gestures and the absolutely inappropriate workplace behavior, there were moments—small, fleeting moments—where he seemed genuine. where the cockiness fell away and he just looked at you like you were someone worth knowing. worth pursuing. worth the effort.
you refused to think too hard about those moments.
friday afternoon found you in your office, surrounded by paperwork, trying to reorganize the president's schedule for the following week. it was like playing tetris with commitments—every meeting had to fit perfectly, accounting for his tendency to run late, his habit of going off-script, and the various emergencies that seemed to crop up hourly.
your office was your sanctuary. smaller than you'd expected but with a window overlooking the rose garden, which was blooming now in early spring. pink and white roses, their petals occasionally catching the breeze and scattering across the manicured lawn. you'd hung nothing on the walls yet—hadn't had time, really, between managing the president's chaos and trying to keep your head above water.
your desk was organized within an inch of its life: color-coded folders (blue for domestic policy, red for international, green for appointments, yellow for personal matters), three different pen holders (one for black pens, one for red, one for highlighters in every color), and a coffee mug that had gone cold hours ago, leaving a faint ring on the wood that you'd have to clean later.
the schedule for next week was a nightmare. the president had somehow double-booked himself for tuesday morning—a meeting with the joint chiefs and a call with the british prime minister, both marked as "urgent" in his calendar. wednesday he'd agreed to give a speech at a university that would require a two-hour drive each way, which no one had thought to mention to you until this afternoon. thursday had a four-hour gap in the middle of the day that you suspected he'd deliberately kept clear, probably for "thinking time" which really meant "causing international incidents."
you were color-coding the tuesday conflict—red for the call, blue for the meeting, purple for the inevitable compromise you'd have to orchestrate—when you heard footsteps in the hallway outside your office.
you knew those footsteps. quick but not hurried, confident, the slight drag of his left foot that suggested he'd been standing too long and his old basketball injury was bothering him. you'd learned that detail from his medical files, which you'd read not out of nosiness but out of necessity—you needed to know if your boss had any health concerns that might affect his schedule.
"you're still here."
you didn't look up from your color-coded spreadsheet. you'd learned by day three that looking up just encouraged him. looking up meant eye contact, and eye contact with satoru gojo was dangerous. his eyes were too blue, too intense, too good at making you forget that he was your boss and this was inappropriate and you had a job to do.
"i work here, mr. president," you said, highlighting the british pm's call in red and making a note to see if it could be moved to accommodate the joint chiefs. "this is my office. these are my business hours. none of this should be surprising."
"it's 6 pm. normal people go home at 6 pm." his voice was closer now, moving into your office proper. you heard the leather chair across from your desk creak as he settled into it.
"normal people don't work for you."
he laughed—that rich, unguarded laugh that you'd heard exactly twice this week, both times when he thought no one important was listening. once when he'd been on the phone with someone from his campaign days, reminiscing about some debate mishap. once when a staffer's child had visited and asked if being president meant he could eat ice cream for breakfast.
the laugh did something to your chest, made it feel warm and tight simultaneously. you firmly ignored it.
you heard him shift in the chair, the soft rustle of fabric suggesting he was getting comfortable. the office fell into silence—unusual for him. satoru was not a silent person. he filled spaces with words, with jokes, with questions and observations and running commentary on everything. silence from him felt weighted, significant.
"you've survived a week," he said finally, his voice quieter than usual, lacking its typical cocky edge. "that's longer than the last three."
you made a note about traffic patterns around the university for wednesday—protests were likely, they always were, and you needed to account for delays. "is that supposed to be encouraging?"
"its supposed to be impressive. you're either very dedicated or very stubborn. possibly both." a pause, and you could feel his eyes on you even without looking up. you'd developed a sixth sense for his attention this week, could feel when he was watching you across the room during briefings, could sense when he was about to interrupt a meeting to propose again. "why haven't you quit?"
now, that made you look up.
he'd taken off his suit jacket at some point—you'd last seen him in it during the 4 pm economic briefing, which meant he'd shed it sometime in the past two hours. his tie was loosened, the knot pulled down to reveal the hollow of his throat, the top button of his shirt undone. he'd rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing forearms that were more toned than you'd expected—he must actually use the gym in the residence, unlike the previous president who'd famously avoided it.
his hair was messier than it had been this morning, white strands falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, less polished. you'd noticed he did that—ran his hands through his hair when he was thinking, when he was stressed, when he was trying to solve a problem. there were faint shadows under his eyes that his usual cocky grin couldn't quite hide, a tightness around his mouth that suggested the week had been as exhausting for him as it had been for you.
he looked... tired. more human than presidential. younger than thirty-two. vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.
"because i didn't spend ten years working my way here just to quit because my boss is unconventional," you remarked, setting down your pen with deliberate care and meeting his eyes directly.
eye contact. dangerous.
his eyes were so blue it was almost unfair—the kind of blue that reminded you of summer skies and deep ocean water and all those cliché things that you'd never thought actually existed until you'd seen them in person. they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse jump, made your mouth go dry, made you very aware of the fact that you were alone in your office with the president of the united states and he was looking at you like you were the only person in the world.
you pushed through it, ticking points off on your fingers. "i'm good at my job, mr. president. better than good. and you need someone who's better than good because your organizational skills are, frankly, terrible."
his eyebrows rose, disappearing behind that fall of white hair. a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller, more genuine. "wow. tell me how you really feel."
"you're late to everything," you continued, gaining momentum now, letting out frustrations you'd been bottling up all week. "you interrupt meetings with completely off-topic questions that derail the entire discussion. you make impulsive decisions without considering the downstream effects. you once approved a multi-billion dollar defense contract because you were distracted by a video of a skateboarding dog and didn't read the brief properly."
"that was a very impressive dog—"
"and your filing system," you spoke over him, "is nonexistent. i found important documents about the eastern peace talks in your desk drawer next to takeout menus and what i can only assume were birthday cards from three years ago."
he had the nerve to look slightly sheepish. "i've been meaning to organize those..."
"your last three secretaries quit because they tried to control you, and you can't be controlled. you're too smart, too quick, too used to doing things your own way." you leaned forward, elbows on your desk, meeting his gaze steadily. the words were flowing now, honest in a way you probably shouldn't be with the president, but something about the way he was looking at you—open, genuinely listening—made you continue.
"but you can be managed." you leaned forward, holding his gaze. "you can't be controlled, but you can be organized. you can be helped. and despite all the chaos—despite the impulsiveness and the terrible time management and the complete inability to follow basic protocol—you're actually good at this job."
you paused, made sure he was really listening. his eyes never left yours.
"you're a good president, mr. president. you could be a great one. your instincts are usually right even when your methods are unorthodox. you see solutions other people miss. you connect with people in a way that's genuine instead of manufactured. you make decisions that are bold instead of safe, and half the time they actually work."
you picked up your pen, tapped it against your desk. "but none of that matters if you keep missing critical meetings because you lost track of time. none of it matters if you alienate allies because you forgot to return calls. none of it matters if you sign legislation you haven't read because no one organized the briefings properly."
the office fell silent. outside, you could hear the distant sound of the grounds crew, the hum of the building, the tick of your desk clock marking seconds that felt suspended.
"that's what i'm here for," you continued, your voice quieter but no less firm. "not to change you. not to make you into some cookie-cutter president who follows every rule. but to make sure your chaos serves a purpose instead of just being noise. to organize the brilliant mess that is your decision-making process into something that actually moves the needle."
the office fell silent. outside, you could hear the distant sound of the grounds crew working in the rose garden, the hum of the building around you, the tick of the antique clock on your shelf that had come with the office.
for a long moment, he just looked at you. his expression had shifted from surprised to something else, something softer and more complex that you couldn't quite read. something that made your heart beat faster, made you hyper aware of the space between you, made you want to look away but unable to break eye contact.
then, slowly, he smiled—not the cocky grin you'd seen all week, but something smaller, more genuine. it crinkled the corners of his eyes, made him look impossibly younger, stripped away all the presidential polish to reveal something real underneath. "has anyone ever told you you're kind of terrifying?"
you looked back down at your schedule, at the safe, organized world of color-coded blocks and typed notes. your fingers found your pen, clicking it nervously. "frequently. usually right before they realize i'm right."
his voice was still quiet, still lacking its usual cockiness. "the last three secretaries... they were competent. they were organized. but they treated me like a problem to be solved, not a person to be worked with. they wanted to fit me into a box, make me behave like presidents are 'supposed' to behave." he tilted forward, and in your peripheral vision you saw him rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "you get it. you get that i'm not going to change, but that doesn't mean i can't be better. that i don't want to be better."
"well," you said, still not looking at him, reorganizing your pens even though they didn't need reorganizing, "everyone can be better. that's sort of the point of having staff. to help you be the best version of yourself."
"marry me," he uttered quietly.
you did look up then, startled by the tone—not joking, not dramatic, just... soft. genuine. his eyes were serious, lacking their usual mischievous glint. the smile was still there, but smaller, almost vulnerable.
for a moment, you just looked at each other. the air felt charged, heavy with something you couldn't name. your heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again, and you were very aware of how quiet the office was, how alone you were, how easy it would be to say yes to—
"no," you replied, but this time, you were almost smiling too. you just couldn't help it. there was something about the way he was looking at you, about the warmth in your chest, about the fact that he'd actually listened to your rant about his organizational skills and taken it as a compliment instead of an insult. "not today, not next week, not in the foreseeable future. go away, mr. president. some of us have actual work to do."
"you'll say yes eventually."
"your optimism is astounding."
"it's gotten me this far." he stood, reaching for his jacket draped over the chair arm. as he shrugged into it, you noticed how the movement pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders, noticed the elegant line of his throat as he adjusted his collar, the way his fingers worked the buttons with practiced ease. you firmly told yourself that noticing these things was not appropriate.
"go home," he commanded, adjusting his cuffs. "get some rest. monday's going to be brutal—we have the joint chiefs coming in at 0800, and they hate me."
"they don't hate you." you saved your document, started the shutdown sequence on your computer. the screen dimmed, casting shadows across your desk. "they're just... adjusting to your leadership style."
"they strongly dislike me in a professional capacity, which is essentially the military version of hate." he was at the door now, one hand on the frame, looking back at you. the hallway light backlit him, turning his white hair into a halo, making it impossible to see his expression clearly. "which is fine. i didn't run for president to be liked by generals. i ran to actually get things done. to shake things up. to—"
"to be different," you finished for him, surprising yourself. "to prove that unconventional doesn't mean ineffective."
there was a pause. then his voice, warm with something that might have been surprise or pleasure or both."exactly."
"and you will," you said simply, and you were surprised by your own certainty, by how much you meant it. "you just need someone to help you stay organized enough to do it. someone to make sure the chaos serves a purpose instead of just being chaos for its own sake."
his smile was warm, genuine, lacking any of his usual smugness. "lucky i found you then."
"lucky you didn't scare me off in the first thirty seconds."
"the marry me thing? yeah, that probably wasn't my best opening move. but in my defense, i commit to my bits. it's part of my charm."
"is that what we're calling it?"
he laughed, and the sound filled your small office, warm and genuine. "goodnight. drive safe. don't work too late—you need sleep to manage me properly tomorrow."
he turned to leave, and you watched him go, watched the way he moved with that easy confidence, watched until he was almost out of your office. then he paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder, and the hallway light caught his profile, highlighted the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his smile.
"hey. thanks. for staying. for getting it. for..." he gestured vaguely with one hand, searching for words, "...being you. for seeing what i'm trying to do here, even when i'm doing it badly. it means more than you know."
and then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you alone in your office with your color-coded schedule and your cold coffee and a warmth in your chest that you refused to examine too closely.
you sat there for a moment, staring at the empty doorway where he'd been, your heart doing something complicated that felt dangerous. your fingers touched the pen he'd borrowed during his visit, left on your desk, probably without him even realizing. you picked it up, turned it over in your hands, noticed it was one of the expensive ones from the oval office, embossed with the presidential seal.
you should return it.
instead, you tucked it into your pen holder, told yourself it was just easier than walking it back, and packed up your things for the night.
you had a president to keep organized, and you couldn't do that if you were sitting around thinking about his smile or the way he'd said "being you" like it was something special, like you were someone worth appreciating.
focus. you needed to focus.
monday was going to be brutal. the joint chiefs at 0800, then back-to-back meetings until lunch, then the press conference at 2 pm where he'd inevitably go off-script and say something that would require damage control. you needed to be ready, needed to be sharp, needed to be professional.
you definitely didn't need to be thinking about the way his eyes had looked when he'd said "marry me" or the warmth of his hands when he'd caught your elbows in the hallway or the sound of his laugh when it was genuine and unguarded.
you shut off the lights, locked your office, and headed for your car, your mind already planning monday's schedule, categorizing tasks, prioritizing concerns.
but as you drove home through DC traffic, you caught yourself smiling for no particular reason, and you knew—you absolutely knew—that you were in trouble.
you should have known something was wrong when president gojo was on time for his 10 am meeting.
not just on time—early.
the realization hit you the moment you pushed open the heavy door to the cabinet room, your arms laden with briefing folders, your tablet precariously balanced on top, your travel mug of coffee (your third of the morning) clutched in your other hand. you'd been mentally rehearsing the agenda as you walked, ticking off items in your head: economic briefing first, then middle east update, then the contentious discussion about the healthcare bill that would probably devolve into arguments within the first ten minutes.
but the sight that greeted you made all those thoughts scatter like leaves in wind.
president satoru gojo was already there.
already seated at the head of the massive mahogany table that dominated the room—the same table where countless presidents had made history, where treaties had been signed and wars had been declared and the fate of nations had been decided. he was in his chair, the high-backed leather one with the presidential seal embossed on the headrest, his feet propped up on the polished surface that probably cost more than your yearly salary.
you'd given up trying to break that habit by week two. it was just one of those things—like his chronic lateness, his tendency to interrupt briefings with completely unrelated questions, his habit of making decisions based on gut instinct rather than careful deliberation—that you'd learned to accept as part of managing him.
but he was early. fifteen minutes early, and he was scrolling through his phone with an expression that could only be described as shit-eating—a grin so wide, so self-satisfied, so absolutely brimming with mischief that it set off every alarm bell you'd developed over the past five weeks.
the morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows behind him, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and casting him in an almost angelic glow that was entirely at odds with the devilish expression on his face. his white hair practically glowed in the light, making him look like some kind of celestial being who'd descended to earth just to cause chaos.
he looked like trouble.
he looked like he'd done something either brilliant or catastrophic.
probably both.
your steps slowed as you approached the table, your professional instincts—honed over five weeks of managing presidential chaos—screaming warnings. your grip tightened on your coffee mug. your eyes narrowed.
"you're early," you said, your voice carefully neutral even as suspicion coiled in your stomach. you set down the folders with more force than necessary, the sound echoing sharply in the empty room. "why are you early? you're never early. what did you do?"
he looked up from his phone, and if possible, his grin widened. his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that had probably charmed their way through countless debates and negotiations—sparkled with barely suppressed glee. "nothing. why do you assume i did something?"
you set your tablet and coffee down, crossed your arms, and gave him your flattest, most unimpressed stare—the one you'd perfected over years of dealing with politicians who thought they were smarter than everyone else. the one that made junior staffers confess their mistakes immediately. the one that usually made even the president himself pause.
"because you look like you just committed either a brilliant political maneuver or a felony." you suspect, enunciating each word clearly. "and because in the five weeks i've known you, you've been on time exactly zero times. you once showed up forty-five minutes late to a meeting with the joint chiefs because you were arguing with someone on twitter about whether die hard is a christmas movie."
"it is a christmas movie, and i stand by that—"
"satoru." you used his first name deliberately, watching him straighten slightly at the sound of it, watching something flicker in his eyes. "what. did. you. do."
he laughed—that rich, unguarded sound that you'd come to recognize as distinctly different from his public laugh, the one he used for press conferences and photo ops. this was real, genuine, the laugh of someone who was genuinely way too delighted with themselves.
he pocketed his phone with a flourish and sat up straighter, though his feet remained firmly planted on the table, expensive italian leather shoes probably leaving marks on the historic wood. "you know me so well. it's like we're already married."
your eye twitched. "we're not married. we're never getting married. and you have approximately ninety seconds to tell me what disaster you've created before cabinet members start arriving and i have to manage whatever crisis you've engineered without advance warning. again."
"look outside."
the words were casual, almost throwaway, but something in his tone—a mixture of pride and nervousness and excitement—made your hands still on the folder you'd been about to open. made your pulse pick up. made your stomach drop with the certainty that whatever he'd done, it was big.
"outside?" you repeated slowly, your voice carefully controlled even as your mind raced through possibilities. each one worse than the last.
"outside," he confirmed, gesturing toward the windows with one hand, his movements fluid and graceful. the gesture was almost inviting, like he was offering you a gift. "come see."
you narrowed your eyes at him, suspicion and increasing concern warring in your chest. every instinct you had was telling you that whatever was outside those windows was going to complicate your life exponentially. that you were about to earn every penny of your salary and then some.
but you moved to the windows anyway, drawn by morbid curiosity and professional necessity in equal measure. your heels clicked against the polished floor, the sound too loud in the quiet room. you could feel his eyes on you as you walked, tracking your movement with an intensity that made the back of your neck prickle.
the cabinet room windows offered a perfect view of the rose garden and the south lawn beyond. from this point, you could see everything: the manicured gardens with their famous roses just beginning to bloom, the fountain with its steady spray of water catching the morning light, the thick hedge that marked the boundary of the immediate grounds, and beyond that, the iron fence that separated the white house from pennsylvania avenue.
it was a view you'd come to appreciate over the past five weeks, a moment of peace in the chaos of each day. on clear mornings like this, you could see the tourists gathered at the fence, could see joggers making their way down pennsylvania avenue, could see the city waking up beyond the protected bubble of the white house grounds.
you could see those tourists now, gathered at the fence in larger numbers than usual. phones pointed upward. security moving through the crowd with alert but not alarmed postures. the usual scene of a busy morning at the white house, except—
your eyes tracked upward almost involuntarily, following the direction of all those phones, all those pointing fingers, all that focused attention.
and then you saw it.
high in the sky, crystal clear against the perfect blue, letters forming in white smoke with the precision of professional skywriting that had obviously been planned well in advance, coordinated and executed with military precision:
MARRY ME
your heart actually stopped.
your breath caught in your throat.
your mouth went dry.
your mind went completely, utterly blank.
and below it, the plane continuing its path with mathematical precision, more smoke releasing, more letters forming with devastating clarity:
THE PRESIDENT
"no," you breathed, the word barely audible, your hand coming up without conscious thought to press against the window. your fingers splayed against the cool glass as if you could somehow block out what you were seeing, could make it disappear through sheer force of will. "no, no, no. you did not. you did not just—"
"i did."
his voice came from directly behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, could sense his presence in a way that had nothing to do with sound. you hadn't heard him move—he was surprisingly quiet for someone so tall—but he was there now, standing close enough that when you caught his reflection in the window glass, you could see every detail.
he looked absurdly pleased with himself. like a child who'd just executed the perfect prank. like someone who'd won the lottery and was about to collect his prize. his hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed, his smile wide and genuine and absolutely unrepentant.
"skywriting," he said, his voice full of satisfaction. "classic. romantic. visible from probably half of DC—actually, scratch that, definitely all of DC. the plane's path was very carefully calculated. i had people do math. lots of math. trajectory analysis, visibility projections, optimal altitude calculations. very presidential stuff."
he pulled out his phone, the motion fluid, and tapped the screen a few times with his thumb. the light from the screen reflected in the window glass, illuminating his face from below in a way that should have looked sinister but somehow just made him look younger, more excited.
"i'm trending on twitter," he continued, turning the phone so you could see the screen in the window's reflection. "we're trending. want to see? #presidentproposal is number one worldwide. beat out a celebrity scandal—some actor cheating on his wife, dramatic much? a sports controversy—soccer, i think. and a new marvel movie announcement, which is really saying something because the people love marvel."
you turned slowly, your movements mechanical, your body responding on autopilot while your mind tried desperately to process what was happening. your hand fell from the window to your side, fingers curling into a fist to hide the trembling.
he was close. closer than was professional. closer than was appropriate. close enough that you could see the exact shade of blue in his eyes—like summer sky, like deep ocean water. close enough that you could smell his cologne, that expensive scent that you'd come to associate specifically with him—something crisp and clean with notes of cedar and something citrusy that you couldn't quite identify.
"you used government airspace," you worded out slowly, carefully, each word precise and controlled even though your voice wanted to shake, wanted to rise into something close to hysteria, "to skywrite a marriage proposal to your secretary. to me."
"technically," he held up one finger, his expression shifting into what you'd come to recognize as his 'lawyer mode'—the look he got when he was about to justify something completely unjustifiable with technical facts, "i used private contractors, so it wasn't government funds. completely legal. i had the white house counsel review everything. twice. she was very thorough. also very confused, but thorough."
he was warming to his subject now, gesturing with one hand while the other stayed in his pocket. "and i had the FAA clear it last week. filed all the proper paperwork. coordinated with air traffic control. Got approval from about six different agencies—FAA, secret service, DC Air national guard, national park service because apparently they have jurisdiction over the airspace near the monuments, and a couple others i'm forgetting."
he grinned at your expression, and you were dimly aware that your face must be doing something horrified, some combination of shock and disbelief and the growing realization that this was real, this was actually happening, this wasn't a nightmare you could wake up from.
"what? you said i needed to be more organized. i planned this for a week. coordinated schedules, managed logistics, dealt with bureaucracy, filed paperwork. that's very organized for me. you should be proud. this is growth."
"this is—" you struggled for words, your hands coming up in a helpless gesture toward the window, toward the sky, toward those letters that were probably being photographed by thousands of people right now. "this is insane! there are reporters out there! tourists! this is going to be on every news channel! every newspaper! every website! this is going to be—"
"already is," he interrupted cheerfully, checking his phone again. "CNN picked it up about ten minutes ago. they have a helicopter getting aerial footage—very dramatic, excellent production value. Fox News is having a field day. they've got a panel discussing whether this represents a new era of presidential romance or a concerning breach of decorum. very heated debate."
he scrolled with his thumb, his face illuminated by the screen's glow. "MSNBC is doing a whole segment on whether it's romantic or an abuse of power. they've got polls running. real-time polling data. it's fascinating, actually. the breakdown by demographic is interesting—younger voters think it's romantic, older voters are split, political affiliation plays a role but not as much as you'd think—"
he looked up, meeting your eyes with that intense blue gaze that always made your thoughts scatter, made your carefully constructed professional boundaries crumble like sand.
"i'm betting on romantic, personally. the polls are leaning that way too. current numbers show seventy-three percent say it's romantic. eighteen percent say it's inappropriate. nine percent say they're not sure, which honestly seems like cowardice—how hard is it to have an opinion?"
he stepped closer, and suddenly the space between you felt very small, felt charged with something electric that made the air feel thick, made it hard to breathe properly. you could count the individual eyelashes framing his eyes, could see the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose that most people probably never noticed.
"so?" his voice was softer now, more intimate, lacking the playful edge. just genuine and hopeful and nervous in a way you'd never heard from him before. "what do you say?"
your mind was reeling, spinning like a computer trying to process too much information at once. every person in washington DC—hell, every person in the country—was probably looking up at the sky right now. seeing this. knowing it was meant for you.
your phone was probably exploding with calls and texts. your mother. your friends from stanford. your old boss, senator morrison. reporters. everyone you'd ever known was probably trying to reach you right now.
he press office was probably in complete chaos. shoko was probably chain-smoking in her office, trying to figure out how to spin this. ijichi's eye was probably twitching so hard he'd need medical attention.
your career. your reputation. your carefully constructed professional image. everything you'd worked for. all of it hanging in the balance because the president of the united states had decided to skywrite a marriage proposal visible from three states.
"i say you're out of your mind!" the words burst out of you, higher-pitched than you intended, your professional composure cracking like ice under pressure. "you're completely, utterly, certifiably insane! this is—i can't even—there are no words for how inappropriate this is!"
"that's not a no," he pointed out, and there was something in his voice—hope, maybe, or amusement, or both.
"it's absolutely a no!" you spun away from him, needing space, needing air, needing to think without him being so close that you could feel the heat of him, could smell his cologne, could see the hope in his eyes.
your hands came up to press against your face, covering your eyes as if that could block out reality. your cheeks were burning hot against your palms. your heart was racing so fast you could hear it pounding in your ears. your mind was a chaotic mess of thoughts—career implications, political ramifications, personal feelings you'd been trying desperately to ignore for five weeks.
"you can't just—" you started, your voice muffled by your hands. "you're the president! the president of the united states! you can't skywrite marriage proposals! there are protocols! there are procedures! there are—there are rules about this kind of thing!"
"pretty sure there's no protocol for presidential marriage proposals," he responded, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "i checked the manual. multiple manuals, actually. the presidential handbook, the white house protocol guide. nothing in any of them about skywriting. huge oversight, really. someone should update those."
"because no one thought they'd need to specify that skywriting marriage proposals was inappropriate!" your voice was climbing in pitch and volume. you pressed your hands harder against your face, trying to center yourself, trying to find some semblance of calm. "because every other president in history had the common sense to realize that you don't use your position to—to—"
you couldn't finish the sentence. couldn't articulate the enormity of what he'd done.
"do you have any idea what you've just done?" you dropped your hands from your face, turning to look at him. he was watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and concerned. "the press is going to go insane. your political opponents are going to use this. senator harrison is probably already drafting a statement about presidential impropriety. representative chen is going to call for an ethics investigation. there are going to be think pieces. op-eds. academic papers about presidential behavior and workplace dynamics and abuse of power and—"
"hey."
his hands caught your wrists before you could press them back against your face. his grip was gentle but firm, his fingers warm against your racing pulse. he tugged your hands down, away from your face, holding them between you so he could see you properly.
"hey," he repeated, softer now. his thumbs found the inside of your wrists, began tracing small circles there—soothing, grounding, a gesture so tender it made your chest ache. "look at me."
you didn't want to. looking at him was dangerous. looking at him had been dangerous from day one, from that first moment when he'd walked into your office and proposed marriage within thirty seconds of meeting you.
looking at him made your chest tight and your thoughts fuzzy and your carefully maintained professional boundaries crumble like paper in water. looking at him made you remember every proposal, every smile, every moment over the past five weeks where he'd looked at you like you were someone special, someone worth pursuing, someone worth—
but you looked anyway, because apparently you were a glutton for punishment. because apparently five weeks had been enough time to develop a pavlovian response to his voice saying your name.
his expression had shifted. the smugness was gone, replaced by something softer, more genuine. something vulnerable and honest and so sincere it made your breath catch. the morning light from the windows caught in his white hair, created a halo effect that should have looked ridiculous but somehow just made him look more real, more impossibly beautiful.
"i know it's crazy," he said, and his voice was low and earnest, lacking all his usual cockiness. "i know it's too much. i know it's probably the most dramatic, over-the-top, completely excessive thing i could have done. i know we've only known each other for five weeks—thirty-five days, technically, but who's counting—and i know this is wildly inappropriate."
his thumbs continued their gentle circles on your wrists, and you could feel your pulse racing under his touch, wondered if he could feel it too. "i know it probably violates about seventeen different workplace conduct policies. maybe more. i haven't actually counted them all. but i checked with legal, and technically nothing in the employee handbook specifically prohibits skywriting, so there's that."
a small, self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips. "but i meant it. every time i've asked, i meant it. every ridiculous proposal, every joke, every time i interrupted a meeting or showed up at your office or made you roll your eyes so hard i thought they might get stuck—i meant all of it."
he squeezed your wrists gently, emphasis for his words. "you're the most interesting person i've met in years. in forever, maybe. you challenge me. you push back. you tell me when i'm being an idiot, which is often, and you do it without being intimidated by the title or the office or any of it."
his eyes searched yours, intense and focused in a way that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. "you manage me without trying to control me. you organize my chaos without trying to eliminate it. you get that i'm never going to be a conventional president, but you don't judge me for it. you just... work with it. work with me."
he paused, and you watched something flicker across his face—uncertainty, maybe, or fear of rejection, or hope that was afraid to be disappointed. "and yeah, you're gorgeous. you're stunning. you walk into a room and i forget what i'm supposed to be doing because i'm too busy looking at you. i've missed three meetings because i was too distracted watching you work. i've signed things i probably shouldn't have because you smiled at me and i lost track of what i was doing."
your breath caught. you could feel heat rising in your cheeks, could feel your pulse hammering against his thumbs.
"but it's more than that. it's so much more than that." his voice dropped lower, more intimate. "it's the way you think. the way your mind works. i watch you organize things—my schedule, the briefing materials, crisis responses—and it's like watching someone conduct an orchestra. everything in perfect harmony."
he smiled, and it was small and genuine and made your chest feel tight. "it's how you know my coffee order without asking. how you've memorized my schedule better than i have. how you know when i'm bluffing in negotiations. how you can tell when i'm tired just by looking at me. how you care about this job, about doing it right, about making sure i don't accidentally cause an international incident because i'm too impulsive or too confident or too stubborn to ask for help."
his grip tightened slightly on your wrists. "it's... you get it. you get me. not the president—not the guy who won the election with the unconventional campaign and the controversial policies and the habit of saying exactly what he thinks. you get me. satoru. the guy who puts his feet on furniture and makes inappropriate jokes and runs on four hours of sleep because he's too stubborn to admit he's tired."
he took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "and i really, really like you. i'm pretty sure i'm falling in love with you, actually. which is terrifying and exhilarating and completely inappropriate and probably a terrible idea from every professional and political standpoint. but there it is. that's the truth. i'm falling for you, and i don't know how to do this subtly or appropriately or the way i'm supposed to, so i did this instead."
the confession hung in the air between you, heavy and significant. You could hear your own breathing—too fast, too shallow. could hear his, matching yours. could hear the distant sounds of the white house around you—footsteps in hallways, voices somewhere, phones ringing, the ever-present hum of activity that never stopped.
could hear the clock ticking, marking seconds that felt suspended, that felt like they could change everything.
"satoru," you sighed, and watched his eyes darken at his first name, watched his pupils dilate, watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. your voice came out rougher than you intended, thick with emotions you were trying desperately to control. "i work for you."
"so quit." the words were immediate, decisive, like he'd been thinking about this, planning for it, preparing for this exact moment and this exact objection.
"what?" your voice came out as barely a whisper, shocked and confused and not quite able to process what he was suggesting.
"quit." he said it again, firmer now, more certain. "i'll hire someone else as secretary. problem solved. then we can date like normal people. well, as normal as anyone can be when one person is the president, but you know what i mean."
his grip shifted on your wrists, his hands sliding up slightly to hold your forearms, his touch warm and steady and grounding. "i'll even let you pick your replacement. full veto power. you can interview every candidate. you can design the entire selection process. you can train them yourself, make sure they understand how to manage me, make sure they know all my tells and quirks and the seventeen different ways i'll try to avoid meetings i don't want to attend."
he was speaking faster now, the words tumbling out like he'd been holding them back for weeks. "and then you'll be free. free of the workplace complications. free of the ethical concerns. free of the power imbalance. just you and me and the possibility of something real. something that isn't complicated by professional obligations or chains of command or any of that."
"you're serious." it wasn't a question. you could see it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, in the way he was looking at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking for a very long time.
"completely. i'll have the paperwork drawn up today. this afternoon. this hour, if you want. we'll post the job listing immediately. i'll personally review every application. i'll conduct the interviews myself—well, with you, obviously. you have to be part of the process."
he stepped even closer, and suddenly there was barely any space between you at all. you could feel the heat of him, could feel the slight tremor in his hands where they held your arms, could see the hope and fear and desperate want in his eyes.
"go on one date with me. just one. no press, no staff, no presidential nonsense. i'll clear my schedule—completely clear it, not just say i'll clear it and then book three things anyway. we'll go somewhere normal. a restaurant. a movie. anything you want. anywhere you want."
his voice dropped lower, more intimate, almost pleading. "just you and me and dinner and a chance to see if this—" he gave your arms a gentle shake, emphasizing his words, "—could be something. if you hate it, if i'm reading this wrong, if you spend the whole evening wishing you were anywhere else, i'll never ask again. i'll accept the rejection. we'll go back to being professional. i'll stop making jokes about marriage. i'll even try to be on time to meetings. but please—"
his voice cracked slightly on the word. "please give me one chance. let me show you i'm serious. that this isn't just me being impulsive or bored or looking for a conquest. that i actually—that i care about you. that i want this. want you. want to see what we could be if we weren't stuck in professional roles."
you stared at him, your mind spinning, thoughts fragmenting and reforming in patterns that made no sense. this was crazy. this was career suicide. this was throwing away everything you'd worked for—the prestige, the position, the chance to be part of history, the opportunity to make a difference at the highest levels of government.
this was letting go of the job you'd dreamed about since you were twenty-two years old, watching the state of the union address from your tiny apartment and thinking someday, someday i'll be there. someday i'll be part of something that matters.
this was risking everything—your reputation, your career trajectory, your carefully constructed image as a serious, competent professional who didn't let personal feelings interfere with her job.
but it was also—
it was also the president of the united states looking at you like you were the most important thing in his world. like you mattered more than polls or approval ratings or political capital. like he'd risk embarrassment and mockery and career-ending scandals just for the chance to take you on one date.
it was five weeks of proposals that you'd pretended were jokes but that had made your heart skip every single time. five weeks of moments where his mask had slipped and you'd seen the real person underneath—kind and brilliant and caring and so much more than the cocky public persona.
it was the warmth in your chest every time he smiled at you. the flutter in your stomach when you heard his footsteps approaching. the way you'd started looking forward to his interruptions even as they drove you crazy. the way you caught yourself thinking about him at night when you should be thinking about schedules and briefings and the thousand other things on your to-do list.
"i'm not quitting," you heard yourself say, and watched hope dim in his eyes, watched his expression start to shutter, watched him beginning to pull back—
"because you need me," you continued quickly, pulling your arms free from his grip and stepping back, needing distance to think clearly, to organize your thoughts the way you organized his schedule, to process this logically instead of emotionally.
you wrapped your arms around yourself, a defensive gesture, a shield against the vulnerability of this moment. "you need someone who isn't afraid of you, who'll tell you when you're being an idiot, who'll keep you organized and on track and prevent you from starting international incidents because you got distracted by something shiny."
your voice was steadier now, falling into the familiar rhythm of professional assessment, of problem-solving, of thinking through implications and consequences. "your last three secretaries quit. all of them. within weeks. because they tried to control you, and you can't be controlled. you're too smart, too quick, too confident, too used to doing things your own way."
you started pacing, three steps toward the door, three steps back, your heels clicking against the polished floor in a rhythm that helped you think. "you'll just hire someone incompetent. someone who's too intimidated to push back. someone who'll say yes to everything and manage nothing and let you run wild without any checks or balances."
you stopped, turned to face him, met his eyes directly. "and then you'll end up missing a crucial briefing because no one made sure you were actually reading the materials. or you'll alienate a key ally because no one reminded you to return their call. or you'll sign a bill you shouldn't because no one organized the briefing properly and you made a decision without complete information."
the words were flowing now, all your concerns and objections and the rational, logical reasons why his plan wouldn't work. "you need me. not romantically—professionally. you need someone who gets how your mind works and can work with it instead of against it. someone who won't quit after three weeks when you do something like this."
you gestured toward the window, toward the skywriting that was probably still visible, probably being photographed and tweeted and turned into memes as you spoke.
"so that's a no to the date?" his voice was carefully neutral, but you could hear the disappointment underneath, could see it in the way his shoulders had tensed, the way his hands had gone back into his pockets, the way he'd taken a step back and put his professional mask back on.
you took a deep breath. let it out slowly. looked at the window where those words were still visible in the sky—MARRY ME - THE PRESIDENT—looked at the tourists below taking pictures, looked at the clear blue sky that seemed impossibly vast and full of possibilities.
then you looked back at him. at this impossible man who'd skywritten a marriage proposal visible from three states. who was offering to upend your career just to take you on one date. who looked at you like you were worth every risk, every scandal, every complication.
and you made a decision you'd probably regret. that you'd almost certainly regret. that went against every practical, logical, carefully reasoned argument you'd just made.
"ask me again in a month."
the words came out steadier than you felt. Firmer than the chaos roiling in your chest. you straightened your shoulders, found your professional mask—that calm, competent expression you wore to briefings and meetings and press conferences—and slipped it back on like armor, like protection against the vulnerability of what you'd just said.
his eyes widened. blue irises expanding as he processed your words, as hope flickered back to life in his expression. "that's not a no."
"it's not a yes either." you held up one hand, palm out, stopping him before he could smile too wide, before he could get too hopeful, before he could start planning. "it's a 'prove to me you're serious about this and not just bored or looking for a conquest.'"
you started ticking points off on your fingers, falling back into the organizational skills that had gotten you this far, that had made you good at your job, that gave you some semblance of control in this increasingly out-of-control situation.
"it's a 'show me this isn't just a game to you, another challenge to overcome, another thing you decided you wanted and threw money and resources at until you got it.' it's a 'prove that the fun isn't in the chase and you won't lose interest once i'm actually considering it.'"
you moved to the next finger. "if you still want to ask me out in one month—thirty days, not 'about a month' or 'sometime soon,' thirty actual days—if you haven't gotten distracted or realized this is terrible or decided skywriting was enough drama..."
you paused, swallowed hard, made yourself say the words. "then maybe. maybe we can talk about it. maybe we can figure out how to navigate this without destroying both of our careers. maybe we can see if there's actually something here worth risking everything for."
the smile that spread across his face was like sunrise. slow and warm and illuminating everything, transforming his features from merely handsome to something that made your breath catch, made your heart stutter, made you want to take back the month requirement and just say yes right now.
his whole posture changed. the tension bled out of his shoulders. his hands came out of his pockets. he took a step forward, then seemed to remember your need for space and stopped himself, but he was practically vibrating with barely contained joy.
"i can work with maybe," he said, and his voice was full of so much hope and happiness that it made your chest ache. "maybe is better than no. maybe is progress. maybe is—" he paused, grinned wider, "—maybe is the best word i've ever heard."
"one month," you repeated firmly, holding up one finger for emphasis, making sure he understood the conditions, the timeline, the expectations. "thirty days. not twenty-nine. not thirty-one. thirty."
"i can count to thirty. i'm very numerate. it's one of my many skills." he was practically bouncing now, like a kid who'd been told christmas was coming early.
"and in the meantime," you continued, using your stern voice, your no-nonsense voice, your this-is-not-negotiable voice, "you're going to stop proposing during important meetings. no more interrupting briefings to ask me to marry you. no more making comments about marriage while you're on calls with world leaders. No more derailing cabinet meetings with personal proposals."
"what about unimportant meetings?" he asked, and there was that teasing lilt back in his voice, that playful edge that had driven you crazy for five weeks.
"satoru." you gave him your flattest look.
"fine, fine. no proposals during meetings. any meetings. important or unimportant."
One night, one mistake—and a lifetime you didn’t expect.
☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader
☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern au, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, angst with a happy ending, angst angst angst, introduction to love triangle?, crying, there's a cliffhanger too...I love you guys I swear.
wc — 6.6k words
In the quiet corners of a rainy day, it's easy to pretend things are steady now. Easy to let yourself laugh, to feel almost like yourself again. But even in fleeting moments of warmth, doubt lingers, and the truth has a way of pressing in—through glances, through questions, through the silence left where answers should be.
Step Fifteen: Wait for a Promise that Never Comes
You woke to the faint hum of traffic outside your window, that low, steady drone that blended into dreams until the light became too insistent. Morning stretched pale across your sheets, warm against your face squished into the pillow, and your body moved before your brain caught up. Rolling, arm stretching out, hand slipping over the dip of the mattress in search of heat that wasn’t there.
Cold cotton. Empty space.
Your fingers curled against it anyway, like if you pressed hard enough, you’d find him there. And for a heartbeat, you almost convinced yourself you had. You blinked, bleary, letting the moments just before he left catch up to you—the weight of his arm draped heavy over your waist, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back. The faint memory of him leaning down before dawn, brushing your hair from your face. His lips lightly grazing your temple when he whispered, I’ll be back later.
I promise.
You hadn’t answered him then, too tired to do anything but hum. Now, lying in the quiet, you wished you had.
You huffed out a breath, dragging the blankets tighter around yourself.
Typical.
Always in and out of your life like a tide you had no control over. Still, that promise sat there like an ember you couldn’t smother.
Bear hopped onto the bed with a grunt, heavy enough to jostle you. You smiled softly, letting him push his damp nose against your cheek before he flopped down in the space Satoru had left behind, curling his round body into the impression of someone else. Your hand moved automatically to scratch behind his ears, and when he rolled closer, you couldn't help but let your face sink into the warm fur along his side.
It almost was enough. The rumble of his purr, his weight leaning into you, the tickle of whiskers against your arm. A creature that wanted nothing but your presence, nothing but your touch. You pretended that it filled the hollow spot Satoru had left behind, pretended that you weren’t starved for it.
“Guess it’s just you and me again,” you murmured.
For a while, you stayed there. Sheets tangled around your shoulders, Bear’s purr rumbling, your gaze unfocused on the ceiling. If you closed your eyes, you could almost pretend you hadn’t woken up alone. That if you turned over now, you’d find him still sprawled there, hair a mess, mouth curved in that sleepy smile that always looked too boyish for a man who caused you so much grief.
But eventually, you dragged yourself upright, sheets slipping from your shoulders, the air brisk against your skin, making you shiver.
Coffee. That’s what you needed.
But you’d have to settle for tea instead.
You padded barefoot to the kitchen, Bear trailing behind at your heels, and filled the kettle to boil. The bubbling filled the silence, but only made the emptiness of the space feel more obvious. Every so often, your eyes flicked to your phone on the counter, next to a growing pile of dishes you’d meant to wash.
You tapped it awake. Nothing.
You told yourself not to read into it. He was busy. He had work. He’d said he’d come back. But as the minutes stretched, that hope began to sputter.
By the time you sat at the small table with your mug, steam curling into your face, the small thrill you’d carried from falling asleep in his arms had dulled into something disenchanting, and your thoughts began to drift.
Maybe last night had been just that. A night. A moment of weakness, like all the others he’d slipped into when the weight of the world pressed too hard on his shoulders. He reached for you, you let him, and then the tide pulled him back out again.
It always did.
Still, you checked again after showering and pulling on fresh clothes, your hair damp around your face. Your thumb swiped over the same empty screen, hovering like maybe you’d missed a notification in your messages. But your heart lifted and fell with every glance. No good morning. No, hey, thinking of you. No, I meant what I said.
Just the hollow absence where his name should’ve been.
You sighed, leaning against your dresser as water dripped from your hair onto the floor. The mirror hanging above reflected a tired version of yourself, with searching eyes and a frown that you didn’t try pulling into a smile.
You hated that this was what he could still do to you, after all this time. That you still waited, still hoped.
That was the worst part. It wasn’t the silence, or even the absence. But the fact that, after everything, some foolish part of you still just wanted him to prove you wrong.
The buzz of your phone startled you, rattling against the surface of the dresser. Your head whipped toward it, heart vaulting before your body even moved.
Finally.
You snatched up the phone, your pulse quickening with hope, almost giddy at the thought of his name lighting up the screen. Maybe he was on his way back. Maybe he just needed time to sort through whatever it was that always dragged him away from you. Maybe—
But when you swiped the screen away, the letters didn’t spell his name at all.
Suguru.
Your shoulders sagged, the disappointment landing sharp and immediate. For a moment, you’d almost forgotten you’d even gone to dinner with him the night before. But then you remembered—the faint warmth of his laughter, the delicious food he insisted on paying for. How easily he’d listened, how easily he’d made you feel like what you had to say actually mattered. The comfort of his presence when your thoughts had gotten messy.
And now, this morning, he was the one checking in.
Suguru [10:13AM]:
You sleep okay?
Simple. Unassuming. But it made something churn inside you all the same, realizing how rare it was for someone to bother asking these days. You hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard, debating. Part of you still wanted to hold out, to leave space for Satoru to finally make good on his promise. But his silence had already said enough.
And what had waiting ever gotten you?
You [10:15AM]:
Yeah. Thanks. You?
You set the phone back down, pushing the words away. But his reply came quickly, another buzz disturbing the quiet.
Suguru [10:16AM]:
Good. Thinking of grabbing breakfast with Shoko. Want to come?
You bit your lip, stalling once more. If Satoru texted you now, if he said he was on his way, you’d drop everything. You hated that about yourself. Hated the way you were still orbiting him while he drifted somewhere far away. But the screen stubbornly remained the same, blank except for Suguru’s name waiting patiently at the top.
So you sighed, thumb tapping out the words before you could overthink it.
You [10:17AM]:
Sure. I’m starving.
When you stood in front of the mirror again to get ready, nerves prickled at your skin. Stupid, you thought. It wasn’t a date. But you still found yourself fussing more than you usually would—choosing clothes that fit softer against your body, fixing your hair until it laid just right, dabbing concealer beneath tired eyes. You dusted a little color onto your cheeks, swiped mascara over your lashes. Even slipped on jewelry you hadn’t bothered to wear in weeks.
You told yourself it was for you. That you wanted to feel like yourself again. But deep down, you knew the truth. It wasn’t just about looking presentable—
You wanted someone to notice.
You wanted to feel seen. To look at you and see something more than just the swelling curve of your stomach peeking from beneath your shirt. To want you, even now.
Because a cruel little voice whispered that maybe that was the reason Satoru never stayed. Maybe you weren’t enough anymore, weren’t desirable. Maybe you’d already lost whatever it was that made him keep coming back.
And yet, Suguru had asked. Suguru had bothered. And if he could see you differently, if he could make you feel wanted, even for a little while, you weren’t sure you’d have the strength to turn him away.
The air felt damp the moment you stepped outside, clinging to your hair and lashes, turning the pavement slick with blurred reflections. May had always been fickle, one day warm with sun, the next washed gray with drizzle. This morning it was the latter. Surfaces glistened with last night’s rain, puddles collecting in uneven patches across the sidewalk. The breeze curled in cold, no matter how tightly you wrapped your jacket around yourself.
Suguru was already waiting by the curb, leaning against the side of his car. The drizzle had darkened the shoulders of his coat, but he didn’t seem to mind. One of his hands were tucked into his coat pocket, the other lifted a cigarette halfway to his mouth. But when his eyes caught on you, he hesitated. The lighter never clicked. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, letting the cigarette drop back into the carton with a soft tap before sliding it away.
“Morning,” he called, stepping away from the car as you descended the steps, meeting you halfway. “Thought I was gonna have to come carry you out myself.”
You huffed, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder. “Sorry. I was…slow this morning. Took me a while to get going.”
“I noticed,” he teased gently. His gaze flicked over you, quickly but perceptive, as if he could see all the places your thoughts had been. But instead of pressing, he said, “I missed you. Didn’t hear from you after I dropped you off last night.”
Your body tensed, the truth hovering on your tongue.
What would you have even said?
That you hadn’t texted because Satoru had shown up not long before, filling your apartment with his voice?
That you watched him peel off his shirt and crawled into bed with him like it was the most natural thing in the world?
That you’d fallen asleep with his breath warming the back of your neck, his arm heavy around your waist until dawn?
That you’d let yourself pretend, just for a few hours, that he belonged there? That he kissed your temple and left you with words that already felt like a broken promise?
You couldn’t say all of that to Suguru. Couldn’t admit that you kept letting Satoru in, aching for him even as he kept slipping away.
So you forced the thought back, shrugging lightly and offering the simplest answer. “I crashed right away when I got upstairs. Must’ve been more tired than I thought.”
He studied you for a moment, as if he might see past your half truth. But then he nodded, humming softly like he believed you. Or maybe like he knew better and was choosing not to say it.
A sudden gust of wind whipped between the buildings, carrying the damp chill of rain with it. You shivered, tugging your jacket tighter. Suguru’s hands moved without hesitation, brushing against your sleeve as he adjusted the lapel, pulling it closer around you.
“Cold?”
“A little,” you admitted.
He sighed through his nose, shaking his head before he shrugged out of his own coat, his broad shoulders shifting as he draped it over yours. The lining carried his warmth, smelling faintly like smoke and whatever cologne he wore.
“Should’ve guessed. You never dress warm enough. You’re gonna get sick.” He fussed with the collar until it sat snug around your neck, then stepped back with a small smile, satisfied,
You blinked at him, cheeks burning, unable to tell if it was from the wind or from him. You were caught between gratitude and the unfamiliar flutter against your ribs. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did.” His tone was simple, matter of fact. Then, he moved past you to pull the passenger door open like the gentleman he always was. “Come on. You’ll warm up faster in the car.”
You slid in, the seat creaking faintly beneath you, and Bear’s fur clung stubbornly to the hem of your sweater as you buckled in. Suguru rounded the hood to the driver’s side, shutting the door against the weather, and the engine rumbled to life with a low growl.
The drive began slowly, caught in the usual tangle of late morning traffic. Rain began beading against the windshield, each drop streaking when the wipers swept across, stoplights bleeding red and green across the wet pavement. Horns honked in the distance, tires squeaked against the asphalt, the city alive in its usual messy rhythm.
You let the silence sit, content to watch the blur of brake lights stretched out like ribbons ahead of you. Then Suguru cleared his throat. “So,” he said, steering carefully through the slick intersection, “How’s the baby? You feeling okay?”
Your hand drifted to your stomach almost instinctively, resting against the faint swell there. “It’s…different, y’know?” you said quietly. “I’m definitely starting to get bigger. But it feels a little different every day. I’m kind of tired, sometimes nauseous…but I’m okay.”
“That’s good.” He glanced over briefly. “Means things are growing the way they should.”
You smiled, reaching into your bag. One of the recent sonogram photos was folded in a pocket, the edges a bit worn from the number of times you’d pulled it out to stare at it when no one was around. You smoothed out the crease against your thigh before passing it to him. “I got a bunch of copies.”
Suguru accepted it carefully, like it were something fragile. His lips curved into a grin as he tilted it toward the light peeking through the windshield. “Wow. Look at that. You can already see the little shape there. Cute.”
A laugh slipped from under your breath. “You think everything’s cute.”
“Not everything,” he teased. “But this? Yeah. Pretty damn cute, even if I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking at.”
You pointed at the picture, “That’s the head. Right there. And the rest is…well, kind of blobs.”
He tilted it again, squinting, then nodded. “Blobs or not, still amazing. You hoping for a boy or a girl?”
You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter, honestly. As long as they’re healthy, that’s all I care about.”
He hummed. “Good answer. Mom answer.” His eyes lingered on the sonogram a moment longer before handing it back. “Satoru have any guesses?”
The mention of his name curled in your gut. You swallowed. “He thinks it’s a girl.”
Suguru snorted softly, steering one handed as he smirked. “If it’s a boy, though…poor kid’s probably gonna look exactly like him.”
The laugh that should’ve come didn’t make it past your throat. Instead, something tightened uncomfortably in your chest. White hair, blue eyes, that crooked grin…You turned your gaze back towards the window, watching the rain tap harder against the glass, the blur of cars and pedestrians passing.
Suguru must have caught on, because after the silence filled the car for too long, his voice shifted into something lighter, easing the conversation elsewhere. “Anyway, diner’s not too far. Shoko’s already there holding down a booth. Thought you might like it. It’s got these ridiculously sized pancakes and good hot chocolate.”
You nodded, grateful for the change. “Sounds nice.”
The car turned down a side street, puddles rippling with each tire that cut through them, neon signs flickering awake in the early gloom. You traced the outline of the sonogram through your bag, pressing the paper flat against your palm, and tried not to think too hard about which name on your phone you wished had shown up first.
The diner was the kind of place you could tell had been there for decades. It didn’t try too hard to feel nostalgic, with chrome fixtures and neon lights.
No, this one had actually lived its years.
When you stepped inside, the air was warm with the smell of coffee and syrup. The walls were a dull beige, faded from decades of smoke and sunlight. The linoleum floors were scuffed, napkin holders dented, wooden chairs that rocked if you leaned too far, tucked under laminate tables. The booths, cracked leather, patched and reworked in places, but still held the sagging comfort as they probably had thirty years ago.
It was dingy, maybe even a little cramped, but there was something homey about it all the same. A place that felt lived in.
And sitting right in the middle of it was Shoko, tucked into a corner booth, legs stretched across the seat like she owned the place. A chipped mug of black coffee steamed in front of her, and she scrolled lazily through her phone until she finally noticed the two of you.
You didn’t remember much of how the greetings went, how she quirked a brow at Suguru’s coat draped over your shoulders, or the way she nudged you aside so you could slide into the booth across from her.
What stuck was the way it felt once you all settled in. Food ordered, drinks poured. The clinking of cutlery, the low hum of conversation from other tables, the scratch of a pencil against the server’s pad, the hiss of the griddle from the kitchen. The next hour blurred in warmth, and for the first time in weeks, you weren’t just sitting in your own head.
You were laughing more than you’d expected to. Talking. Letting yourself feel normal for a change.
Shoko would tease Suguru about ordering black coffee just to dilute it with sugar packets. Suguru teased her right back for finishing half the plate of his fries she swore she didn’t want. You grinned into your hot chocolate, the whipped cream melting in thick swirls across the surface. It was almost too sweet, but you enjoyed how the warmth seeped into your bones, loosening something that had been knotted.
It felt good, sitting here with them. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. The ease of it all, the way conversation darted between complaints about work, stories from college, and Shoko’s dry commentary that made you snort into your mug. It was like slipping back into a version of yourself you’d been too afraid to show lately.
Not just the girl tangled up in Satoru’s shadow.
Just…you.
Suguru leaned his cheek against his palm, elbow propped against the table as he listened to you rant about the new girl at work who couldn’t figure out how to work the espresso machine. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t drift. And his gaze held steady, even when yours darted nervously towards Shoko or the surface of the table. More than once, you noticed how his eyes would flick down, to the way you laughed, to the way your lips curved around the rim of your mug. Quick as a blink, before he was looking back up again like nothing happened.
The whipped cream from your hot chocolate clung stubbornly to your lip, but before you could reach for a napkin, Suguru chuckled under his breath and reached across the table with a thumb to swipe it away. The touch was brief and delicate, but it left a spark in its wake, your pulse stuttering as he drew back with a soft smile. “Whipped cream,” he murmured.
Heat climbed the back of your neck until your face felt hotter than the drink. You muttered a quick thanks, your heart unwilling to settle.
Shoko’s gaze lingered over the rim of her mug, her brow faintly raised. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Her eyes cut briefly toward Suguru, then back to you, a sharp question you didn’t want to answer written all over her face.
You weren’t sure what unnerved you more—that Suguru noticed, or that Shoko noticed him noticing.
Suguru tipped his mug back, swirling the last dregs of coffee before setting it down with a soft clink. “I think you’re working too much,” he said eventually. “What, are you trying to run yourself into the ground before your due date?”
You rolled your eyes, drawing your mug closer. What was left of the hot chocolate had gone lukewarm, the cream thinning around the edges. “I’m fine,” you insisted, trying to make your voice sound light. “It’s just a couple of longer shifts lately. And I could always use the money.”
“Mm.” He arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. The lamplight above caught the curve of his cheekbones as he leaned back. “Seriously, that place is going to bleed you dry if you keep letting them.”
You scoffed, meeting his gaze. “I can’t not have a job. Again, I need the money.”
“You always say that.” His arm stretched across the top of the booth, his voice carrying a lazy confidence. “Honestly, you should just quit and let me pay for everything.”
Your head snapped up. “What?”
Across from you, Shoko snorted into her coffee.
Suguru’s smirk only widened, shoulders lifting into a shrug as if it were obvious. “What? I’m serious. Wouldn’t be the worst deal in the world, right?” His tone was playful, but a little too steady in a way that made you wonder if he meant more of it than he let on. “I’ll be your sugar daddy. You can sleep in, read trashy novels, boss me around whenever. Sounds like a dream to me.”
Heat rushed up your neck until your ears burned. “Shut up,” you said quickly, laughing but flustered all the same. “You’re so stupid.”
“Why not?” he pressed, chin propped in his palm, dark eyes gleaming like he enjoyed watching you squirm in your seat. “Bold of you to assume I’d mind. I’m already used to taking care of kids. My girls would love having you and a baby around—you’re good with them. And I think you’d like it, too.”
Something fluttered traitorously beneath your ribs. You let yourself picture it—Nanako and Mimiko trailing after you in the park, their small hands tugging at your own, braiding your hair with clumsy fingers. Suguru beside you, a tiny baby carefully cradled in his arms. Warmth instead of chaos.
You hated how badly you wanted to cling to that fleeting image.
You shook your head quickly. “Because I’m not gonna sit around while other people bankroll me. I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”
Suguru chuckled low, tilting his head. “Spoken like someone who’s stubborn to a fault.”
“Honestly, I’d take the deal,” Shoko chimed in, reaching for another fry off his plate without looking up.
“Thank you,” Suguru said, gesturing at her like she’d just proven his point.
You huffed, exasperated, the table sticky with syrup under your palm as you leaned back. “Yeah, no way. Satoru’s already tried convincing me to do that like a dozen times.”
His name slipped out before you could stop it. The moment it hung in the air, you wished you could claw it back.
Shoko smirked, eyes glinting in amusement. “Oh? He’s offered to play sugar daddy, too, huh?”
“Not like that,” you muttered defensively. You picked at the edge of your napkin, trying not to look at either of them. “He just…wants to take care of the baby stuff.”
“He probably meant it exactly like that,” she deadpanned.
Suguru chuckled, though there wasn’t much humor in it. His jaw worked as he reached for a fry, chewing slowly.
The silence felt like it stretched on forever. You scrambled for something else, desperate to steer away from the trap his name. “Have I shown you the new sonogram scan yet? I got more copies the other day.”
Apparently, that did it. Shoko leaned closer as you fished it out of your bag, smoothing it flat and sliding it across the table. “Look,” you murmured, tracing the outline against the glossy paper. “That’s the head right there…You can kinda see the arms, too.”
Shoko squinted, holding the picture beneath the light. “That smudge? That’s an arm?”
“Shut up,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “It’s clearer when you see it in person.”
“Pretty amazing…” Her voice dipped. “You getting excited?”
You nodded. “Yeah, I am. I know I haven’t been pregnant that long, but…it’s starting to feel real. And I can’t wait to meet them.”
For a moment, it was just this. A few blissful seconds, the three of you bent over the photo, plates pushed to the side, the hum of the diner carrying around you. You let yourself revel in it, in the illusion that you weren’t really alone. That someone was just as excited as you were.
Until Shoko leaned back, her tone deceptively casual. “So…how’s Satoru handling all of this, anyway? Still being an idiot? Or is he actually looking forward to being a dad?”
The warmth you’d been carrying all morning drained in an instant. Your fork scraped against your plate as you dragged it through the crumbs, staring at nothing. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly. Honestly, I can never tell what’s going through his head.”
“That bad, huh?”
You let out a brittle laugh. “It’s Satoru. What do you expect?”
“Yeah, that tracks.” Shoko sighed, like she couldn’t decide if she was amused or just as disappointed as you were. “You two should just finally get together. It would make this whole thing easier. One roof, one baby, significantly less chaos.”
Your heart clenched so hard that it throbbed, the words hitting like a bruise you hadn’t braced for. You wanted to laugh it off, but the sound caught in your throat. “Right. Because Satoru and I have always been so good at doing things the easy way…”
The silence that followed pressed in, the cozy warmth from the diner before suddenly thick and stifling. The smell of syrup turned sickly, the chatter around you a dull racket. Your fork stilled halfway across the plate. And now, all you could think about was him. How he hadn’t checked in, hadn’t given you anything after leaving you so abruptly that morning.
He could’ve been at work.
With Hana.
With his parents.
But you didn’t know.
You never knew anymore.
And the not knowing gnawed at you more than the silence itself.
You wished he’d just show up. That he’d fight.
That he’d finally choose you and mean it.
But your phone sat heavy in your bag, untouched. You didn’t need to look to know his name wouldn’t be there.
Across from you, Suguru’s gaze flickered to Shoko, sharp enough to warn her off, before he looked back down at his plate. His fingers tapped restlessly against the edge of the table, a rhythm that betrayed the calm in his expression.
You pushed your plate away, swallowing against the tightness starting to build in your throat. “I, um…” You forced your voice to steady, sliding out from the booth. “I’m gonna head to the bathroom. I’ll be right back…”
The cracked leather seat creaked as you stood, and you felt both their gazes on your back as you made for the hallway.
Suguru’s eyes followed you as you walked away. He thought that you might glance back, just once, but you didn’t. You moved quickly down the narrow hallway toward the bathrooms, shoulders drawn tight, hair catching the low light as you vanished around the corner.
Every instinct told him to follow. To get up, close the distance, maybe fold you into his arms until the storm quieted behind your eyes. To tell you what he should’ve said years ago.
But the moment passed.
He let it.
He sank back against the booth instead, dragging a hand down his face, exhaling through his teeth.
When he looked up again, Shoko was watching him. Elbows propped on the table, chin tipped into her palm, gaze sharp as the waitress refilled their mugs with bitter coffee.
“You gonna sit there brooding,” she asked dryly, “or actually say what’s on your mind?”
He tried to smirk. “Since when do you care what’s on my mind?”
“Since you’ve been staring at her like that all morning.” She didn’t blink, didn’t soften, only sipped her coffee like she had all the time in the world. “What are you doing, Suguru?”
He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” Her sigh curled around the steam from her mug. “What are you trying to accomplish here?”
He let out a short breath, leaning back, eyes on the ceiling. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” She set her mug against the table with a loud clink. “Don’t play stupid with me. You think I can’t see it from here? You’re looking at her and waiting for her to look back.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, biting back a laugh. “You make it sound like I’m plotting something.”
“Aren’t you?”
Her calm tone pressed harder than anger ever could, the weight of his like a thumb to a bruise. Shoko never had much patience for bullshit. And his silence, his inability to deny it outright, was its own answer.
Finally, he muttered, “I love, Satoru. You know that. He’s—he’s family. He’s like my brother. But watching him fumble this? Watching him leave her twisting in the wind while she carries his kid? It pisses me off, Shoko.”
She only arched a brow, waiting for more.
“She deserves better,” Suguru pressed. His hand drummed against the table, restless. “She needs someone who actually bothers to show up. Someone steady. Someone who won’t disappear the second it gets hard.”
“And you think you’re the one who can give her that?”
“Maybe I am.” His jaw flexed, the words rougher than he intended. “I’m not saying it to betray him. But I like her. I always have. Even back in college before he ever—” he cut himself off with a hard swallow. “If he was too much of a coward to make a move, that’s on him. He never tried, too afraid of ruining his own damn ego. And he left her hanging, like he always does.”
“That sounds a lot like a confession.”
He met her stare. “Call it whatever you want.”
The kitchen sizzled in the background, a waitress calling out an order, the diner’s chatter carrying on. Suguru tapped a rhythm into the table, but his gaze kept straying back to the hallway.
Shoko’s next sigh was heavier, threaded with something dangerously close to disappointment. “Look, you’re not wrong. Satoru’s an idiot. And god knows he’s handling this worse than anyone else could.” Her eyes narrowed, pinning him. “But don’t kid yourself, Suguru. This is fucking messy. If he finds out that his best friend is making eyes at the mother of his kid? He’ll lose his fucking mind, and you know it.”
“I’m not sneaking around behind his back,” Suguru shot back, heat creeping into his voice. “But I just—I can’t keep sitting here, watching him waste every chance she gives him. I could be her anchor. In ways he can’t.”
Shoko shook her head, slow and certain, dark hair brushing against her shoulders. “You’d have to be blind not to realize that he’s been in love with her. Always. Since day one. He just…he goes about it in the shittiest ways possible. And the problem isn’t whether he loves her—it’s that he doesn’t know what the hell to do with it.”
Suguru stared down at his mug. He wanted to argue. He wanted to call it a lie.
But he couldn’t.
Because he knew Shoko was right.
He’d seen it himself, a thousand times over. The way Satoru looked at you when you weren’t watching, the way his whole damn world tilted around you like a planet in orbit.
And it still hadn’t been enough. Not enough to keep him rooted. Not enough to keep him from hurting you over and over again.
That was the part that twisted the knife in Suguru’s gut—knowing that Satoru loved you, and still thinking he could do better by you.
“I’m not gonna talk you out of anything," Shoko went on. “You’ll do what you want. But if you keep inserting yourself into the middle of their disaster? Don’t expect it to end clean. Are you really okay with the idea of Satoru hating you?”
The booth suddenly felt so small, the air too thick to breathe. Suguru exhaled again, slower this time through his nose, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the hallway where you’d gone.
And for all Shoko’s warnings, the truth lodged stubbornly in his chest. Consequences or not, he wanted to be the one you turned to.
The sudden buzz of her phone cut through the quiet. Then another. And another.
Shoko groaned, fishing it out of her coat pocket. “God, what now—”
But when her screen lit up, the color drained from her face. Her brows shot up, eyes widening in a way Suguru had only seen once or twice in his life. For a second, it looked like she might actually gasp.
“What?” he asked, sitting up straighter.
Shoko didn’t answer. Not right away. She only stared at her phone like it had grown fangs and threatened to bite her. Then her mouth twisted. “Oh, fuck…”
His own phone buzzed against the table. Then again, a steady stream of vibrations rattling the cheap laminate until he finally snatched it up. Notifications stacked over one another. Missed calls, unread messages. Haibara. Utahime. Even Nanami, who never texted him this much.
“Open it,” Shoko muttered, her voice clipped. “Just—look.”
The first message he clicked was from Haibara, a link accompanied by:
please tell me this isn’t real??
Suguru’s thumb tapped the headline, and the article bloomed across his screen in stark, merciless print.
“Prominent Attorney Satoru Gojo of Gojo & Associates Announces Engagement to Heiress Hana Kobayashi.”
His pulse stumbled.
The words blurred together as he scrolled, heart hammering against his ribs.
In a move that has surprised both business and social circles, attorney Satoru Gojo, rising partner at Gojo & Associates, is officially engaged to Hana Kobayashi, heiress of the Kobayashi Conglomerate. Sources confirm that the sudden but advantageous union between the two long-standing family legacies was agreed upon earlier this morning. The announcement, released jointly by both families, was accompanied by photos of the couple alongside their parents. Insiders speculate the marriage will further solidify the Gojo family’s influence in both legal and financial spheres.
“This union represents not only a joining of two families, but a strengthening of shared values and a commitment to the future,” read the statement issued by the Gojo family. Representatives for the Kobayashi Conglomerate echoed the sentiment, describing the engagement as “a natural step forward in aligning tradition with progress.”
Satoru Gojo has quickly built a reputation as one of the most promising young attorneys in the city, while Hana Kobayashi is recognized for her work in philanthropy and her role as the face of several Kobayashi initiatives. Together, their marriage is said to symbolize “a new chapter of growth and opportunity for both families.”
Wedding plans have not yet been disclosed, but sources close to the couple suggest the ceremony will be held later this year…
The article scrolled beneath his thumb, black and white text barely registering with a few glossy photos. A handshake between the two families, Hana’s smile smug and perfect, Satoru at her side in a crisp suit. A new alliance. A promising future. A storybook match.
Suguru’s jaw clenched so hard that it hurt, his stomach churning with each word.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Shoko’s mouth flattened, her coffee forgotten between her hands.
Suguru’s gaze snapped up, past her, past the booth, back toward the bathrooms where you’d disappeared minutes before. His chest scraped raw. He didn’t even have to imagine it. He could already see your face when you found out. The way your hope would crumple, the way you’d break.
If Satoru hadn’t already let you down a hundred times before…this would do it.
The bathroom smelled faintly like bleach and cheap, old soap, the overhead light humming low against the muffled voices beyond the door, the mirror streaked from too many hurried wipe downs. You braced one hand against the cool edge of the counter, letting it dig into your palm, the other settling instinctively across your stomach, fingers splayed over the subtle curve.
Your reflection blurred through tears that had come hot and sudden, spilling faster the more you tried to bite them back. Mascara smudged into the shadows beneath your eyes, head bowed, shoulders shaking, ashamed of how badly you still let him undo you. How easily the mention of his name could scrape you raw.
You hated it.
Crying here
Crying at all.
You hated feeling this way, how small it made you seem, that you were standing in some dingy diner bathroom, unraveling because Satoru couldn’t get his shit together for once. Couldn’t send a text. Couldn’t give you the bare minimum of certainty while you carried everything for the both of you.
You drew in a shaky breath, pressing your palm firmer against the swell beneath your sweater, as if grounding yourself in the one thing that mattered, the one thing that didn’t have to worry about falling apart. “I’m sorry…” You whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was meant for yourself or the little blend of both of you.
Was this really how it was going to be?
Hiding in bathrooms, choking on tears in silence so your baby wouldn’t have to feel them too?
Would this be what motherhood looked like, breaking down alone because there was no one left to catch you?
It took minutes before your breath finally evened out, hiccups settling into softer shudders. You tore a length of rough paper towel from the dispenser, dabbing carefully at the tracks beneath your eyes, swiping away at the mascara smears until your face almost looked passable again.
Inhale.
Exhale.
You could do this. You had to.
For the baby.
You reached for the door, shoulders lifting and falling as you steeled yourself to go back out, when the sudden buzz from your phone stopped you cold.
Once.
Twice.
Then again. And again. Until it wouldn’t stop, the cascade of vibrations rattling against the lining of your purse.
Your heart vaulted before your hand did. You pulled your phone out, screen lighting up with the name you’d been waiting for all fucking morning.
Satoru.
Relief swept through you so suddenly it nearly stole your balance. That tightness in your chest loosened. A weak, almost disbelieving laugh slipped out as you swiped the screen open.
But the messages that greeted you weren’t reassurance. They weren’t lighthearted or flirty. They read like panic, each one hammering your ribs harder and harder.
Satoru [12:23PM]:
i’m so fucking sorry i didn’t come back this morning.
Satoru [12:24PM]:
i need to talk to you about something. it's really important.
Satoru [12:25PM]:
please just hear me out. no matter what you see, please just let me explain okay?
Satoru [12:26PM]:
it’s not what it seems, i promise.
Your throat felt like it closed up, that fragile sense of consolation crumbling into panic.
No matter what you see?
Before you could type, before your fingers could find words, another vibration buzzed in. Then another.
You blinked down, expecting more from him. But it wasn’t Satoru this time.
It was Haibara.
And with it, a single link, sitting in the center of your screen.
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Art by: @mmsks_ on X | Banner by: @strangergraphics
A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long to come out! I won't lie, I've definitely had some writer's block and burnout the last few weeks. But I hope you enjoy! (maybe? probably not actually)
I also wrote an annoying couple of paragraphs in defense of my man and posted it with the last chapter. So if you’re a gojo hater, GO READ IT: here.
a collection of short stories featuring the jjk men as dads
satoru (¬ᴗ¬)
⤿ dad!satoru watching his daughter ride a bike
⤷ dad!satoru whose daughter always got what she wanted
⤷ dad!satoru who pulls out the "i love you!! now say it back."
⤷ dad!satoru who couldn't turn off his infinity
⤷ dad!satoru who loved embarrassing his daughter in public
⤷ dad!satoru who met you through the strangest of circumstances
⤷ dad!satoru who couldn't move on from his past life love
nanami (¬_¬)
⤿ dad!nanami seeing his son in his first suit
⤷ dad!nanami watching his daughter ride a bike
⤷ dad!nanami teaching his daughter to do math
⤷ dad!nanami who met you through the strangest of circumstances
choso (˃⤙˂)
⤿ dad!choso figuring out how to be a dad
⤿ dad!choso as the father of a deaf daughter
suguru ( ◡̀_◡́)
⤿ dad!suguru regretting his life choices
⤷ dad!suguru who talks to his infantile son like an adult
sukuna (◺˰◿)
⤿ dad!sukuna at his middle schooler's orientation night
⤷ dad!sukuna when there's a kid acting up at the mall
⤷ dad!sukuna when there's a surprise birthday party for his son
⤷ dad!sukuna in the parenting hall of fame
a/n: i didn't just randomly start writing about them being dads (even though it may seem like that). my dad got diagnosed with heart cancer about a month ago. i'm still grappling with it because i lost one of my closest friends to brain cancer when i was a kid. this is how i have been coping, because even though my father isn't the best man alive, he damn well tries his best. and that will always be enough, at least for me.
dividers by cursed-carmine on tumblr and pictures found on pinterest
synopsis: Three months of silence. Two suitcases. One train ticket. You are ready to leave it all behind, until a familiar scent in the station pulls her back into the past. He’s there too, chasing a glimpse he can’t afford to lose. A story of near-misses, desperate reunions, and a love that refuses to fade.
author's note: This fic is basically me pouring my feelings into words. Maybe it’s silly, but sometimes I just wish someone would chase after me too.
part 2>>
The air in the station is thick with the metallic tang of the rails, the constant shuffle of shoes, and the anonymous rush of a thousand people going somewhere else. Always somewhere else. That’s the point, isn’t it? To go. To leave behind what had calcified into silence.
I stand at the ticket counter, hands tightening on the handle of the first suitcase. The weight drags at my arm, but more than that, it drags at my chest. Two suitcases—nothing more. The entirety of my life folded, crammed, and forced into their stubborn zippers. Clothes, books, old photographs I couldn’t throw away, even the chipped mug he once teased me about. My whole existence has been reduced to the thud of these boxes against the tiled floor.
Three months. That’s how long the silence has lasted. A three-month scar carved into days and nights that blurred together. Three months of waking up to an empty sound, of reaching for my phone in the dark with a hope that shriveled before the screen lit up. Three months of replaying words I should’ve said, wondering if he ever thought about saying them back.
I tell myself this is healing, that three hundred miles will do what three months could not. That distance will silence the ache, turn it into something manageable, like an old bruise pressed faintly beneath the skin. Still, a part of me trembles as I slide the suitcase forward. A part of me wonders if leaving is courage, or simply giving up.
Around me, the station hums with lives that do not belong to me. A mother calls her child’s name, scolding him gently to stay in place. A businessman taps furiously at his phone, his whole body braced in impatience. A couple laughs so hard their shoulders bump and sway, orbiting only each other in the middle of the crowd. The sound is both cruel and comforting. It reminds me that the world keeps moving, even when you are stuck in place.
The clerk hands me the ticket, and for a moment my breath catches. Paper—thin, weightless, but holding the proof of my decision made my knees nearly give. I close my hand around it anyway. My palms are clammy, my throat tight, but this is it. This is the first step toward somewhere else, toward a version of myself that isn’t shackled to the silence he left behind.
“Here you are, ma’am. Platform 8, boarding in twenty minutes.”
I take the ticket, fingers trembling around the slip of paper. A split second before I can move, it hits me: clean, sharp, undeniable. Cedarwood, white tea, and something that was always uniquely, irrevocably him. That perfume. The one that clung to every shirt, every pillow, every corner of my memory.
My breath catches. For months I starved without it, curling into his clothes until the scent faded into nothing but fabric. Now it cuts through the station’s stale air like a blade. Too familiar. Too cruel.
My head snaps up. The attendant’s voice blurs into noise, words I can’t grasp. I’m already shoving the ticket into my carry-on, already breaking away. “Excuse me—I’m sorry—I have to go.” The words scrape out of my throat in a whisper that sounds like pleading.
I push through the barrier, heart pounding against my ribs in a chaotic, desperate rhythm. The crowd swallows me, strangers rushing past in every direction, but all I can sense is that phantom trail winding through the air.
I search wildly. My eyes catch on every tall figure, every glint of pale hair, and my chest seizes each time. He’s nowhere. He’s everywhere. My lungs burn, my legs stumble, but I can’t stop.
Please, let me be wrong. Please, let me be right.
-
He shouldn’t have been there. The flight had only been a delay tactic, a necessary evil for a mission that could easily wait another hour. He hated trains, hated the noise and the chaos, but a high-priority escort had just finished, and somehow he found himself cutting through the main terminal anyway.
It was loud, too loud. The crush of voices, the squeal of brakes on steel, the dizzying scent of expensive coffee colliding with cheap hot dogs. His head throbbed with exhaustion, every step dragging under the weight of sleepless nights.
And then it happened. The world stuttered, fell silent, collapsed into a single sense. He felt her presence before his eyes found her.
His head snapped toward the turnstiles. Through the shifting crowd, he caught it—a blur of dark, long hair. Not just hair. Her hair. She was leaning down, angled away, but everything about the motion carved into him: the familiar line of her shoulder, the way her hand tightened around a small, battered carry-on. His chest constricted.
“Wait!” His voice was swallowed instantly by the shriek of a departing train. He lunged forward, pushing through the stream of travelers, but a family of four spilled across his path, their rolling bags a clattering barricade. He swore under his breath, shoving past them, panic sharpening every movement.
By the time he cleared the blockade, the glimpse of dark hair was gone. Vanished into the sea of strangers. His eyes scanned frantically, pulse hammering. Then he saw her heading toward the street exit, toward the light cutting in through the glass doors.
He ran. Dodging a luggage cart, ignoring the protests in his wake, he sprinted with a single prayer looping in his head: Don’t let this be it. Don’t let me see her for one second only to lose her again.
Synopsis: While you’re tucked away studying for your Master’s exams, Suguru and your five-year-old son spend the evening in the kitchen, determined to surprise you with a warm, homemade dinner and even warmer love.
Author's note: This fic is pure fluff ; a soft little piece that helped me breathe through my writer’s block 💛 I’m so thankful to the two TikTok creators who inspired it; their sweet domestic content reminded me why I love writing.
“Alright, Hikari,” Suguru says softly, crouching so he’s eye-level with the little boy standing in front of the open pantry. “What would you like to make for Mama tonight?”
His son taps a finger to his chin, mimicking Suguru’s own thinking face. Then his expression lights up, bright as sunlight.
“Pasta,” he declares. “Mama loves pasta.”
Suguru smiles, warm and helpless. “Pasta it is. What kind?”
“...The swirly ones,” his son says, spinning his finger like a corkscrew.
He goes into the pantry and searches through the shelves, fingers trailing over boxes and jars. There’s no fusilli; but right there in front of him is a box of fettuccine. Close enough.
He grabs it and returns to the countertop, holding it up for Hikari with a small smile.
“Think Mama will like this one?”
Hikari nods eagerly, dark eyes bright. “She’s gonna love it.”
His son gives him a whimsical look, and Suguru tilts his head in question. Hikari points at him meaningfully, then twirls a finger in the air, motioning for him to tie back his backlength dark locs.
Suguru chuckles, fishing a hair tie from his pocket. In one practiced swoop, he gathers his hair into a loose bun.
“We don’t wanna get hair in Mama’s meal, ‘Tou-chan,” Hikari says solemnly.
“Yes, buddy.” Suguru smiles. “What’s the next thing we gotta do?”
Hikari bursts into a little dance, rubbing his fingers together like an old cartoon villain. “First, we gotta wash our hands!”
Suguru laughs, scooping him up onto a small chair and helping him wash his small hands at the kitchen sink.
Soon the kitchen fills with life. The small chair he dragged to the counter creaks under his weight as he perches there like a determined little bird, watching Suguru chop garlic and halve cherry tomatoes. Suguru slides the cutting board closer. “Want to sprinkle the salt for me?”
His son nods seriously, pinching too much and scattering it like confetti. Suguru just chuckles. He lets him toss the tomatoes in olive oil with his hands, the way he always wants to do, and together they slide the tray into the oven.
Butter melts in a pan, garlic hissing softly as it hits the heat. Cream follows, and parmesan, and the smell blooms, rich and cozy, warm enough to soften every sharp edge of the day.
His boy stirs with both hands on the wooden spoon while Suguru steadies the pot, murmuring, “Gentle, gentle,” when it splashes. Parmesan dusts the counter like snow. It’s messy, chaotic, and absolutely perfect.
Every few minutes, Hikari glances at the stairs, eyes wide with excitement, as though expecting you to appear and catch them in the act. His small legs kick against the chair rung while he stirs the cream sauce with both hands on the spoon, face set in fierce concentration.
“Mama’s gonna be so surprised,” he whispers, like it’s a magic spell. Then his eyes go round, thoughtful.
“Can we have some garlic bread too?”
Suguru pauses, warmth blooming in his chest until it almost aches.
“Yes, buddy.” He ruffles Hikari’s wild hair, which sticks up even worse under his hand. “You know your mama so well.”
Hikari beams like he’s just been entrusted with a royal mission.
Suguru lifts him onto the counter while he pulls out a loaf of bread. Together they mash softened butter with crushed garlic, parsley, and a snowfall of parmesan, Hikari’s little hands clumsy but determined as he pushes the spoon through it.
“Spread it all the way to the corners,” Suguru says gently, guiding his hands, “so it gets golden everywhere.”
Hikari nods seriously, tongue poking out, and smears a heroic amount of butter over the slices. There’s more on his cheek than the bread, but Suguru just smiles.
Once they slide the tray into the oven, the smell of garlic and herbs begins to wrap around the kitchen like a hug.
“Papa…” Hikari tugs on his sleeve, whispering like he’s asking for state secrets. “Can I try some? With the sauce?”
Suguru glances at the bubbling pan, then at Hikari’s hopeful eyes.
“Alright,” he says softly, breaking off the tiniest end piece from the bread cooling on the stove.
He dips it into the cream sauce, steam curling up between them, and blows on it until it’s safe. Hikari accepts it like a sacred offering, then closes his eyes as he chews, shoulders relaxing in bliss.
“Mmm.” He sighs, small and happy. “It’s so tasty. Mama’s gonna love it."
Suguru watches him, this bright, beautiful little soul born from their love, and thinks,
She deserves to see this. She deserves to know how loved she is.
He rests his hand on Hikari’s back, warm and steady.
“She will, buddy,” he murmurs. “She really will.”
The fettuccine is silky and steaming when he twirls it onto plates, topped with golden tomatoes and fresh basil. Just as he sets the table, he hears your footsteps creak on the stairs.
“Ready to surprise Mama?” he whispers.
His son nods, practically vibrating. “Ready.”
The smell hits you first: garlic, butter, roasted tomatoes, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve fallen asleep on your notes and started dreaming.
But when you reach the bottom of the stairs, it’s real.
The kitchen looks like a battlefield, cream on the counters, parmesan scattered, spoons in the sink, but in the middle of it stand your two favorite people. Suguru’s tall frame folded slightly toward your son, one large hand resting on his small shoulder, both of them beaming at you like they’ve hung the stars.
“Hi, Mama!!” your son yells, grinning so wide his eyes scrunch.
Suguru’s gaze meets yours, slow and soft. “Dinner’s ready,” he says, voice warm enough to melt you where you stand.
Your heart aches. After hours of dense chapters and endless flashcards, you hadn’t expected anything except maybe cold coffee and maybe a bagel, and here they are, flushed with effort, faces glowing, a table set just for you.
The first bite makes your eyes flutter shut: creamy fettuccine, sweet bursts of roasted tomato, and buttery garlic bread on the side. Your son kicks his legs under the table, watching you with barely contained excitement, while Suguru keeps stealing glances at you like he’s trying to memorize your smile.
You pick up a slice of garlic bread and take a big bite. Your eyes close again as the rich garlic flavor washes through you.
“Mmmm…”
You dip the edge into the pasta sauce, and the burst of flavor makes you let out a soft, involuntary moan.
“It’s delicious.”
“We made it just for you,” Hikari says in a sing-song tone, beaming.
You ruffle his hair, then lift your gaze to your husband, giving him a long, intense stare, your heart pounding like it might burst from the sheer overload of love.
Later, your son falls asleep on the couch mid–cartoon credits, small chest rising and falling under a blanket.
You and Suguru stand close at the sink, washing dishes in a quiet lamplight, shoulders brushing with every move. He dries the plate you pass him, then reaches out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple that smells faintly of garlic and soap. “Always, love,” he murmurs.
And you realize this, his hand brushing yours, your boy safe and full in the next room, the warmth of love wrapped around you like steam, is what home was always meant to feel like.
☕ chapter summary: Sickness still has you pinned to bed, but Levi isn’t about to leave you to your own devices. Between lectures, soup, and unexpectedly soft care, you find yourself tangled in a version of him you never thought you’d see.
☕ a/n: Guess who’s backkk? Yep, me. That’s all I’ll say for now. 😏
<<previous chapter ☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>
Part 11: Between Tea and Fever
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was warmth. Not fever-warm, not stifling, but steady and solid; Levi’s arm draped firmly across your waist. For a second, you let yourself sink into it, your face buried against the soft cotton of his shirt. He smelled faintly of soap and the sharper trace of tea leaves and sandalwood that always seemed to cling to him, but now there was something new: spices and herbs lingering from the kitchen, ginger and scallions woven into the clean scent of him. Comforting. Grounding. Just Levi.
When you stirred, he shifted immediately, eyes flicking open. “Tch. Finally awake.”
His voice was gravelly from sleep, but softer than usual. “For a second I thought you were preparing to join your ancestors.” The dryness in his tone almost covered it, but not quite.
You groaned, pushing a hand over your face. “I feel like death.”
“You look and smell like it too.” But the faintest curve tugged at his lips, betraying the bite of his words.
You rolled your eyes, weak but playful. “Nice bedside manner, doctor.”
He hummed, sitting up but not moving his hand from you. “You need rest. And water. And to stop treating your body like it’s disposable, you damn book freak.”
You bit back a smile at his lecture. “So bossy. What are you gonna do, write me a prescription?”
“I already did. Soup, medicine, and sleep.”
Before you could reply, a soft thump came from the bookshelf. Bertholdt leapt down, tail flicking, and padded across the floor with lazy authority. He climbed onto the bed like he owned it, curling neatly against your side. You gathered him into your arms, pressing your cheek against his fur.
“Were you worried too, Bertie?” you whispered.
The cat purred, but when his golden eyes shifted to Levi, the sound cut into a low growl. Levi raised a brow, unimpressed.
“What the hell is this demon’s problem?”
“He’s protective,” you said, scratching under Bertholdt’s chin. “He can sense your bad vibes.”
“Tch. Figures.” Levi glared back at the cat, who bared his teeth in silent threat before settling smugly in your lap. “Disgusting little beast.”
You snorted, stroking the cat. “Don’t be jealous.”
Levi didn’t dignify that with an answer, though the way his jaw tightened told you enough.
“You heard him, Bertie,” you whispered to the cat. “He was worried too.”
Levi muttered something under his breath and finally pulled away, standing with a shake of his head. “Bath first. Cuddle later.”
You blinked. “What?”
He pushed you up, then pinched his nose with exaggerated disdain. “You reek.”
You groaned, landing a weak punch against his chest before rolling your eyes. He didn’t even flinch, just gave you that flat look and turned toward the bathroom without another word.
“Before you crawl out of bed looking worse than a corpse.” He said turning on the taps in your bathroom. By the time you dragged yourself in, he’d set out towels and even found your shampoo.
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut it and wash,” he said, arms crossed. “You smell like fever.”
Romantic. But you didn’t argue.
When you came out, feeling steadier, the living room no longer looked like a storm had hit it. Your books were stacked neatly, papers sorted, and the table cleared. Levi was at the counter, sleeves pushed up, knife flashing as he sliced ginger.
“You cleaned,” you said softly.
“You live like a slob,” he muttered, not looking up. “Being sick isn’t an excuse.” His tone dripped with flat sarcasm, like he was daring you to try coming up with one anyway.
You padded closer, catching the scent of garlic sizzling in oil. “So bossy. First a doctor, now a maid?”
“Say that again and you’re eating plain rice.”
You smiled, settling onto a stool at the counter. “Fine, fine. Chef Levi. What’s the menu?”
“Soup. Something simple.” He flicked scallions into the pan with practiced ease. “And you’re spending the rest of the day in bed, resting that overworked brain of yours.”
He snorted, resuming his chopping. “Called Hange too. Figured you’d need someone loud and obnoxious to keep you alive since you can’t do it yourself.”
You laughed, the sound cracking halfway. “Fine. But let me finish the last chapter while I wait for my meal. Don’t let me die mid-page, please.”
Levi shot you a look that said dramatic and nope. He tried to hold his ground, but couldn’t help the question sliding out: “So—almost finished, then?”
You lit up a little, despite the haze in your head. “June’s escape. Or… her attempted escape. It’s—ugh—so dystrophical.”
“Dystopian,” Levi corrected instantly.
You blinked. “That’s what I said.”
“You didn’t.” A smirk tugged at his mouth, rare and soft.
You swatted weakly at him. “Pedant.”
He actually chuckled, low and quick, before looking away like he regretted letting it slip. “Keep talking like that and I’ll shove hot sauce down your throat myself,” he said flatly.
The easy silence that followed settled warmly between you, filling your chest with a quiet bloom of comfort, like this could be any ordinary day in a life you shared. Eventually, Levi returned to chopping onions, the sound sharp but grounding.
The smell of simmering broth soon filled the room, rich and comforting, steam curling faintly from the pot as Levi worked. You watched him move, quick and exact, every motion purposeful, like even the smallest detail mattered.
He moved with the same precision a mad scientist might, orchestrating an experiment where failure wasn’t an option. The small table beside your bed became his lab bench: bowl centered with unnerving accuracy, chopsticks aligned like measuring instruments, spoon angled with intent. Even the steam curling from the tea seemed part of his controlled setting. Only once every detail passed his silent inspection did he slide the tray toward you, as if presenting the final result of a perfectly executed trial.
You picked up the spoon, murmured a thanks, and began to eat. He sat across from you, fingers curled around his tea. His sharp eyes followed each bite as if he expected you to collapse mid-spoonful.
“Stop staring at me,” you said around a mouthful.
“I’m making sure you don’t choke. Wouldn’t want to waste the effort.” Still, the words lacked any real bite. “It’s not like it’d matter if you died.”
You rolled your eyes, body sluggish with fatigue. Setting the spoon down, you stretched toward your phone, perched neatly on its charger. You knew Hange had probably called a hundred times. You were almost afraid to look at your phone, but a different curiosity tugged at you. You wanted to see the messages Levi had sent. You wanted a measure of how worried he had been, enough to make him come crashing over. And of course your parents, too.
“Tch. Don’t even think about it,” Levi snapped. “Finish your meal first. Every last grain. Or I’ll feed you myself, and you won’t like how thorough I can be.”
You pulled your hand back to the tray, picked up the spoon, and grudgingly sipped at the hot soup. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bertholdt stretched out on the floor, pressed right against Levi’s chair. He groomed himself with deliberate, theatrical licks, like he was only tolerating Levi’s presence rather than accepting it. The occasional sideways glare made that perfectly clear; he hadn’t forgiven him, but he’d allow this temporary truce for your sake.
You caught the way Levi glanced down at him once, brow twitching, mouth pressed into a thin line. For a second, you wondered if he was plotting revenge against a cat or if something quieter was turning over in his mind.
When you finally set the spoon down, you straightened, determined. “I’ll do the dishes.”
Levi’s brows drew together instantly. “No.” He rose, collecting the tray before you could touch it. “You’re barely standing upright.” At your glare, he relented, only slightly. “Fine. You can put them away when I’m done. That’s it.”
You knew better than to argue. He worked quickly in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, movements efficient. And even though you busied yourself with stacking bowls on the shelf once they were dry, you could feel his eyes on you, measuring your sway, the way your fingers trembled just a little.
When the silence stretched too long, he broke it. His voice was low. “Which character pissed you off the most?”
You blinked, caught off guard, then let out a short laugh. “Oh, that’s what’s been on your mind?” You shuffled back to the bed with him, curling into the pillows. “Serena Joy, obviously. She’s…” You searched for the right word. “Complicit. She preaches, but then acts like she has no power. It’s infuriating.”
Levi hummed, settling against the headboard. You took his spread legs as an invitation to nestle between them, your back pressed to his chest. It was only then he handed you the small packet of meds, his hand brushing yours briefly. “Complicit. Seems like something finally stuck in that head of yours. Guess your brain isn’t rotting entirely on smut.”
“You’d never let that go.”
Levi’s gaze softened just a fraction, a rare crack in the iron composure he always wore. It wasn’t just a look, it was a promise.
“Damn right,” he murmured, voice low but steady. “As long as we’re both breathing, I’ll make sure everyone knows.”
It wasn’t said with bravado or flair, but with the quiet certainty of someone who had already decided that no matter where life twisted, he wasn’t going anywhere.
You elbowed him weakly, and he smirked, but the smile didn’t last long. His phone buzzed against the nightstand. He picked it up, thumb swiping across the screen. Whatever he read there carved a hard line across his face.
You tilted your head, catching the shift immediately. “Everything good?”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence was telling enough, pressing heavy between you until he finally slid the phone back down. “I have to go.”
The words sank low in your stomach. You wanted to ask why, but the look on his face made you swallow the question. He rose, tugging his jacket, that had lain idly on your coat rack, back on. You followed him to the door, standing a little too close, the kind of proximity that made the air between you quiver with something unspoken.
For a second, neither of you moved. You thought maybe—just maybe—he’d reach for you. His gaze flicked from your eyes to your mouth and back again, unreadable but heavy.
Then the doorbell rang.
Then—
It flew open with a crash of noise.
“Y/N!” Hange’s voice boomed as they barreled inside, arms laden with half a dozen bags. “I brought snacks, books, a new blanket, and—oh, Levi! Didn’t see you there.”
She dropped them immediately and nearly tackled you into the wall with a hug.
“You’re alive!” Hange wailed dramatically, squeezing the air out of you. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again!”
You wheezed, laughing weakly. “Hange—air—”
The moment shattered instantly. You turned to look, but Levi was already slipping past them, his figure vanishing into the night without another word.
