Ems ❦

(on hiatus)

[ems0sstuff]

𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝚃𝚘 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙼𝚎!

ꨄ . 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝙴𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚛 Natha𝚗𝚒𝚎. 𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 ⁹. 🇵🇭/🇹🇬 ✈ -> 🇫🇷 .

#𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. #blogger . #𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛. #blasian. #bisexual . #𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 .

──── ꨄ. 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙺𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜! ꨄ. 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚜 /𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 just don't be weird..𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 (maybe mildly explicit 🧍🏽‍♀️)

━━━━━

𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘, 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚛!

Ems OUT! 🫰

[ems0sstuff]

────── .・。.・゜.・. ٭・.・゜・。. ──────

𝗜𝘀 𝗜𝘁 𝗖𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗮𝗹?

ᴏʀ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʀʏɴᴀ sᴘᴇɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ?

ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴇ ᴀᴜ . ғʀᴀᴛ sᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ . ᴜɴ ᴇsᴛᴀʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘ . ᴀɴɢsᴛ . ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀsᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ . (i guess??) . x ғᴇᴍʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ . ᴏɴᴇsʜᴏᴛ .

Author's note: english isn't my first language so please excuse some errors and feel free to tell me what it was in the comments!!

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°. ༺༻ . °

The campus always looked different after midnight.

During the day, it was crowded students dragging backpacks across concrete, club flyers shoved into hands, the library packed with people pretending they weren't watching the clock. But at night, it became quiet enough that you could hear your own footsteps.

You liked it better that way.

It fit you.

You were known around campus as that girl the one with color-coded notes, perfect grades, and the small friend group that always sat near the windows in lecture halls. People asked you for study guides before exams and whispered things like,

"She's insanely smart."

No one ever looked at you and thought:

"Yeah, she's definitely sneaking out at one in the morning to meet Sukuna behind the athletics building."

Honestly, you wouldn't have thought so either.

Not six months ago.

Not before he sat beside you in a shared elective one day and smirked while looking over your shoulder.

"You highlight your notes?"

"You don't?"

"No. Sounds boring."

"Maybe that's why you're failing."

You'd expected him to get annoyed.

Instead, he laughed.

And somehow that turned into coffee runs. Late night texts. Sitting beside each other in class. Him stealing fries off your plate. Your hand finding his at frat parties.

Then kisses.

Then nights in his apartment.

during those nights, you remember how engulfed you felt in his presence. He made you feel loved, worshipped every corner and curve of your body. How he prioritized your pleasure before his own. Every kiss, every love mark he'd put on you felt like it was placed with such dedication

no one has ever made you feel this way.

Until Sukuna did

Then something neither of you had ever defined.

Thanks to that, it made you confused.

Because Sukuna didn't do labels.

Everyone knew that.

He had a reputation around the university that followed him like a shadow. Girls liked him. People talked about him. Stories about parties, hookups, fights.

He never corrected any of it.

You'd told yourself you didn't care.

Until you did unfortunately.

The rain had started pouring twenty minutes ago.

You stood outside his apartment building under the weak overhang near the entrance, arms folded tight across your chest.

Sukuna stared at you.

"What?"

Your jaw clenched.

"What?"

you repeated.

He frowned.

"You've been acting weird all day."

You laughed softly, but there wasn't anything funny in it.

"Weird."

"Yeah."

You looked away.

Maybe you should've left.

Maybe you should've swallowed it down like you'd been doing for weeks.

But you were tired.

Tired of pretending your chest didn't tighten whenever you saw him with someone else.

Tired of acting like hearing

"We're just having fun" didn't sting.

Tired of feeling stupid and used.

"So what are we?"

The question slipped out quietly.

You looked away for a moment as you said it.

Sukuna's expression didn't change.

And somehow that hurt more.

"What?"

"You heard me Sukuna."

Rain drummed against the pavement.

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Why are we doing this?"

Your stomach dropped.

Why are we doing this.

Not what do you mean.

Not where's this coming from.

Just that.

"You seriously have to ask?"

you said.

He looked annoyed now.

"You knew what this was from the start."

"I know what you 'said" it was."

Silence.

You stared at him.

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

His eyebrows pulled together.

"What?"

"You act like this is casual, Sukuna, but it's not."

Your voice shook slightly.

"You remember stupid things about me."

His eyes narrowed.

"You wait outside my classes."

Nothing.

"You bring me coffee without asking what I want because you already know."

Still nothing.

"You hold me like.."

You swallowed hard.

"Like I matter."

Something shifted in his face.

Just slightly.

But you saw it.

Because you always saw it.

"And then you turn around and act like I'm reading into things."

He looked away first

"Damn it."

You stared.

"Damn it?"

you repeated.

Sukuna exhaled sharply.

"You want the truth?"

You said nothing.

His jaw tightened.

"I don't do fucking relationships."

Your chest ached.

"Sukuna-"

"No."

His voice was firm now.

"I mean it."

He finally looked at you.

"You think this ends well?"

Your eyebrows furrowed.

"What does that even mean?"

He laughed once, bitterly.

"Look at me."

You hated that laugh.

"Seriously. Look at me."

You did.

"I've got a shit reputation.

You opened your mouth.

"No."

His voice cut through yours.

"You don't get to pretend you don't hear what people say."

Silence.

Because you had heard it.

Everyone had.

"He sleeps around."

"He gets bored easily"

"He never stays."

Sukuna looked at you for a long moment.

"I'm not built for that kind of thing."

You stared at him.

"And you think that decides it?"

He looked irritated now.

"I'd hurt you."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

His voice dropped.

"I know me."

Something in your chest cracked.

Because suddenly

Suddenly this wasn't about him not caring.

That would've been easier.

Easier to hate.

Easier to walk away from.

But his eyes looked angry in that way they only did when he was trying not to say something else.

Trying not to let something slip.

"You idiot"

you whispered.

He went still.

"You absolute idiot."

Rain blew against your legs.

You looked at him with blurry eyes.

"You think I care about your reputation?"

He didn't answer.

"You think I care if people think this is stupid?"

Still nothing.

Your voice broke slightly.

"I love you."

Silence.

"I love you so much it's embarrassing."

His eyes widened just a little.

"And you don't even get to decide for me whether I'm worth hurting."

Sukuna stared at you.

For a second..

Just one second.

You thought he might say something.

Thought he might reach for you.

Thought he might finally stop holding himself back.

Instead, he looked away.

"Go home. [name] "

You froze.

The words hit harder than shouting would've.

"Sukuna."

"Go home."

You stared at him.

Waited.

Waited for him to look at you.

To stop you.

To say 'don't go.'

He didn't.

So you laughed softly through the ache in your throat.

"Okay."

You walked away before he could see you cry.

Three weeks later, you sat in your usual lecture hall seat.

Your friends talked beside you.

You nodded when you were supposed to.

Pretended to listen.

Then someone dropped into the chair next to yours.

You already knew who it was.

Sukuna didn't look at you.

He just slid a coffee across the table.

Your usual order.

Extra cream.

sugar.

Whipped.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

"...You remembered."

He shrugged.

Silence

Long silence

Then quietly

Too quietly

"You still studying at the library tonight?"

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

At the way his eyes stayed fixed ahead.

At the tension in his shoulders.

At all the things he never said.

And you smiled a little.

Not because it didn't hurt anymore.

But because some feelings don't disappear just because they should.

"Yeah"

you answered softly.

Sukuna nodded once. And mouthed the words

"Meet me"

Neither of you said anything else.

And somehow, that hurt the most.

─────────────ೋ─────────────

First time writing angst I'm scared.. May be a bit shitty but whatever..

I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED READING THIS!!

and yes the title is referenced to my queen Doja cat's song, Casual.

for those who know ball.. Heh.. 😼✌

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or Mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[beaniesayshi]

second opinion

Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.

cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn

wc: 10.4k, one shot

notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3

main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah

It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.

Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.

Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.

By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

sukuna. buddy. my man. my brother in christ.

[kissmebeforecourt]

[ems0sstuff]

A Case Of 'Almost' ─ ─ ─ ─ ────

.ʜɪɢᴜʀᴜᴍᴀ ʜɪʀᴏᴍɪ . ᴄᴏᴡᴏʀᴋᴇʀ ᴀᴜ . ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘɪɴɴɪɴɢ . x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ . ᴏɴᴇ sʜᴏᴛ . ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴғᴇssɪᴏɴ . sʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ

Author's note: english isn't my first language so please excuse some errors and feel free to tell me what it was in the comments!!

─ . Word count: 3k

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The office smelled like paper and coffee.

Not the pleasant kind of coffee you'd find in cafés with handwritten menus and soft jazz playing in the background.

No.

This was the scent of burnt office coffee that had sat on the warmer for far too long, printer ink, freshly copied documents, and the faint traces of rain drifting in every time someone opened the front door.

You loved it anyway.

The legal office came alive in strange ways.

Phones ringing.

The distant clacking of keyboards,murmured conversations from conference rooms,attorneys rushing down hallways with files tucked under their arms,clients wringing their hands in waiting areas.

And through all of it, Hiromi Higuruma remained infuriatingly calm.

Every morning at exactly seven twenty-three, he'd arrive carrying the same worn leather briefcase.

Seven twenty-three.

Never seven twenty-two.

Never seven twenty-four.

His dress shirts were always crisp, his ties neatly fastened, his dark hair slightly disheveled in a way that suggested he'd run a hand through it once before stepping out the door and never bothered fixing it.

You noticed these things. Not because you were interested, you simply worked closely with him,that was all.

As his secretary, it was your responsibility to notice details.

"Higuruma-san," you greeted as he stepped into his office.

He gave a small nod as he loosened his grip on the handle of his briefcase.

"Good morning"

"You have a meeting with Takahashi-san at nine, lunch with the district prosecutor at noon, and court at two."

"You've saved my life once again."

"You say that every day."

"Because every day, it's true."

He set his briefcase down carefully beside his desk before finally looking at you,his expression remained neutral.

It always did.

Until...

"I have a joke."

You immediately closed your planner with a sigh.

"Oh no."

"I haven't even said it."

"You announced it."

"That's fair."

He adjusted his glasses with two fingers.

"What kind of shoes do kidnappers wear?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"What kind?"

"White vans."

Silence.

You stared.

He stared back.

"Higuruma-san."

"Yes?"

"I think that violated several workplace regulations."

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

"You think Human Resources has a policy regarding bad puns?"

"It should."

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Small.

Brief.

But enough.

Your stomach betrayed you by flipping.

You looked away first, pretending to shuffle papers.

"Your coffee is getting cold."

"Thank you."

Normal.

Everything was normal.

You admired him. It was impossible not to, he fought for people who had no one else.

He stayed late preparing for cases most attorneys would consider unwinnable,

he listened when clients cried.

He remained patient with frightened witnesses.

Even after exhausting days, he never lost his composure.

He cared.

Quietly.

Without asking for praise.

Without expecting gratitude.

It was hidden beneath tired eyes and dry remarks and terrible jokes.

But it was there.

Sometimes you'd catch him sitting alone after everyone had gone home.

Jacket draped over his chair.

Sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows.

Reading the same page three times because exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

The office lights cast soft shadows across his features.

He looked older then.

Not in age.

In weariness.

You'd place a cup of coffee beside him.

He'd blink before glancing up from the file.

"You should go home."

"So should you."

He flexed his fingers around the edge of the document.

"I still have work."

"You always have work."

"That's true."

Neither of you moved.

"I brought you dinner," you'd eventually say, lifting the convenience store bag slightly.

His gaze would shift to it.

"You remembered."

"You forget to eat."

"I don't forget."

"You absolutely do."

He paused.

"I deprioritize it."

"You forgot."

He looked at you for a long moment before exhaling quietly.

"Thank you."

You smiled.

"It'll cost you."

One eyebrow lifted.

"Should I be concerned?"

"I want permission to decline your next joke."

"Cruel,you'll survive."

"I suppose I will."

His eyes lingered on you.

Long enough that warmth climbed into your face.

Then his gaze softened.

"You look tired."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You've been rubbing your eyes all day."

His voice lowered.

Gentler.

"Please don't overwork yourself."

The flutter in your chest came so suddenly it stole your breath.

"You noticed?"

"I work with you."

It wasn't an answer.

Not really.

But it felt like one.

. . . . .

The tension started subtly.

It lived in moments.

Tiny things.

The way he'd stand a little too close while reviewing your notes over your shoulder, one hand braced against the desk beside you.

The warmth of his arm brushing yours when you handed him files.

His hand resting briefly against the small of your back while guiding you through crowded hallways.

Never inappropriate.

Never lingering.

But enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to think about later.

"You've highlighted this section incorrectly."

You leaned over his desk, one hand planted against the polished wood.

"No, I didn't."

"You used yellow."

You blinked.

"And?"

"You always use Purple."

Your eyes widened slightly.

"You know that?"

"You've organized my schedule for over a year."

"You noticed my highlighter colors?"

His fingers paused against the page.

"I observe details."

You stared.

"You observe my highlighter preferences."

"You've also been drinking more coffee lately."

Your mouth opened.

"You skip breakfast when you're stressed."

You felt heat creep into your cheeks.

"You hum under your breath while filing paperwork."

"I do not."

"You don't realize you're doing it."

You pointed at him.

"Higuruma-san."

He looked up from the file in his hands.

"Yes?"

"Why do you know all of that?"

Silence.

His expression remained composed.

Almost.

His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face.

"You're important to me."

The room became very quiet.

He seemed to realize what he'd said.

The hand holding the document tightened almost imperceptibly.

"As my secretary of course" he added quickly.

Almost too quickly.

"Right."

Neither of you looked at each other for several seconds.

. . . . .

"You know," one of the other attorneys said.

You immediately narrowed your eyes.

"Oh, no."

"You two are ridiculous."

"What?"

"The tension."

You nearly choked.

"What tension...?"

The attorney gave you a look.

"You practically stare at each other."

"We do not."

"You absolutely do."

"We work together."

"You blush whenever he compliments you."

"I do not blush."

"You are literally blushing right now."

You pressed your palms against your face feeling the heat radiating from her cheeks.

"I'm blushing out of embarrassment, not because of whatever tension you're talking about.."

"Please leave."

. . . . .

One rainy evening, everyone left early.

Everyone except you.

And Higuruma.

The city lights reflected against the office windows.

Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

You stretched your aching shoulders until your back gave a soft pop.

"You should head home."

You turned.

Higuruma stood in the doorway of your office.

One hand rested in his pocket.

The other held a case file loosely at his side.

"You've said that three times."

"You've ignored me three times."

"I need to finish these reports."

"You can finish them tomorrow."

"You sound like my mother."

His mouth twitched.

"Should I be offended?"

"A little."

He walked closer.

Too close.

Close enough for you to notice the faint scent of coffee and clean laundry.

Close enough to hear the subtle shift in his breathing.

"You've been here since seven."

"So have you."

"I asked first."

"You always ask first."

His gaze drifted over your face.

He reached toward you.

Your breath caught.

Long fingers brushed carefully against your temple.

Gentle.

Unhurried.

You froze.

He held up a tiny paper clip between his fingers.

"It was in your hair."

"Oh."

He didn't move away.

Neither did you.

The office suddenly felt too quiet.

Too small.

You could hear the rain hitting the windows.

The sound of your heartbeat.

The way his breathing seemed to pause.

His eyes dropped.

Briefly.

To your lips.

Then returned to your face.

"Higuruma-san."

His voice was lower than usual.

"Yes?"

"You should move."

"Probably."

He didn't.

Your breath tangled.

His hand remained suspended between you.

Not touching.

Almost.

"I don't think this is very professional," you whispered.

"No.. It isn't"

"Then why aren't you moving?"

His expression shifted.

Something vulnerable cracked through the composure.

He looked exhausted suddenly.

Honest.

"Because if I move now," he said quietly,

"I think I'll regret it."

Your heart nearly stopped.

"I won't do anything you don't want."

His voice remained steady.

Careful.

"I just..."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.

Then looked at you again.

"It's becoming increasingly difficult to pretend I don't want to kiss you."

Heat rushed through you so quickly you thought you might combust.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"I think," you whispered, your fingers curling tightly against the edge of the desk, "that's becoming a problem for me too."

Silence.

His breath caught.

The tension snapped tight enough to hurt.

One inch.

Maybe less.

Your eyes flickered to his mouth.

Then back up.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Hiromi Higuruma noticed everything.

"If this were anyone else," he murmured, "I would've stepped away already."

"Why haven't you?"

His gaze softened.

"Because it's you."

Your pulse stumbled.

"We should go home," you said weakly.

"Yes."

Neither of you moved.

"Higuruma-san?"

"Hm?"

"If you tell a joke right now, I'll never forgive you."

A beat passed.

"I wasn't going to."

"Oh."

"I was considering asking if this counted as a hostile work environment."

You stared at him.

Then let out an incredulous laugh.

"That was terrible."

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself.

The sound seemed to break whatever spell had settled between you.

Slowly, reluctantly, Higuruma stepped back.

The absence of his warmth felt immediate.

"I'll walk you to the station," he said.

"Okay."

You gathered your things with trembling hands.

He noticed the way you fumbled with your bag and silently took the stack of reports from your arms without comment.

Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss.

The confession hidden inside restraint.

The way your pulse hadn't settled.

But as you locked the office doors behind you, Higuruma opened his umbrella over both of you.

The space beneath it was small.

His shoulder brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

The city glowed around you in blurred reflections of rain and neon.

Water dripped from the edges of the umbrella.

People hurried past without a second glance.

The back of his hand brushed yours.

Once.

Twice.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did you.

"You're very quiet," he said.

"So are you."

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

He glanced at you.

For once, there was no distance in his expression.

No carefully maintained professionalism.

Only honesty.

"How long I can continue pretending I'm satisfied with simply walking beside you."

Your breath hitched.

Rain drummed softly overhead.

You looked away before he could see the smile threatening to take over your face.

"You know," you said quietly, "for a lawyer, you're surprisingly good at saying dangerous things."

His shoulder brushed yours again , intentional this time.

"Occupational hazard."

You looked down.

Without thinking, your pinky hooked briefly around his.

A tiny touch, barely there.

When you realized what you'd done, you froze.

But Higuruma simply glanced down at your joined fingers.

Then, carefully, he turned his hand so his pinky hooked around yours in return.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

Neither of you let go.

And beneath the shelter of a shared umbrella, hearts pounding and hands still stubbornly only half-touching, both of you wondered how much longer almost would be enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hiii I hope you guys enjoyed this! Ill be on hiatus for a while but dw ill be continuing my Yuji series right after! 🥹

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated!! 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[ems0sstuff]

A Case Of 'Almost' ─ ─ ─ ─ ────

.ʜɪɢᴜʀᴜᴍᴀ ʜɪʀᴏᴍɪ . ᴄᴏᴡᴏʀᴋᴇʀ ᴀᴜ . ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘɪɴɴɪɴɢ . x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ . ᴏɴᴇ sʜᴏᴛ . ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴғᴇssɪᴏɴ . sʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ

Author's note: english isn't my first language so please excuse some errors and feel free to tell me what it was in the comments!!

─ . Word count: 3k

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The office smelled like paper and coffee.

Not the pleasant kind of coffee you'd find in cafés with handwritten menus and soft jazz playing in the background.

No.

This was the scent of burnt office coffee that had sat on the warmer for far too long, printer ink, freshly copied documents, and the faint traces of rain drifting in every time someone opened the front door.

You loved it anyway.

The legal office came alive in strange ways.

Phones ringing.

The distant clacking of keyboards,murmured conversations from conference rooms,attorneys rushing down hallways with files tucked under their arms,clients wringing their hands in waiting areas.

And through all of it, Hiromi Higuruma remained infuriatingly calm.

Every morning at exactly seven twenty-three, he'd arrive carrying the same worn leather briefcase.

Seven twenty-three.

Never seven twenty-two.

Never seven twenty-four.

His dress shirts were always crisp, his ties neatly fastened, his dark hair slightly disheveled in a way that suggested he'd run a hand through it once before stepping out the door and never bothered fixing it.

You noticed these things. Not because you were interested, you simply worked closely with him,that was all.

As his secretary, it was your responsibility to notice details.

"Higuruma-san," you greeted as he stepped into his office.

He gave a small nod as he loosened his grip on the handle of his briefcase.

"Good morning"

"You have a meeting with Takahashi-san at nine, lunch with the district prosecutor at noon, and court at two."

"You've saved my life once again."

"You say that every day."

"Because every day, it's true."

He set his briefcase down carefully beside his desk before finally looking at you,his expression remained neutral.

It always did.

Until...

"I have a joke."

You immediately closed your planner with a sigh.

"Oh no."

"I haven't even said it."

"You announced it."

"That's fair."

He adjusted his glasses with two fingers.

"What kind of shoes do kidnappers wear?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"What kind?"

"White vans."

Silence.

You stared.

He stared back.

"Higuruma-san."

"Yes?"

"I think that violated several workplace regulations."

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

"You think Human Resources has a policy regarding bad puns?"

"It should."

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Small.

Brief.

But enough.

Your stomach betrayed you by flipping.

You looked away first, pretending to shuffle papers.

"Your coffee is getting cold."

"Thank you."

Normal.

Everything was normal.

You admired him. It was impossible not to, he fought for people who had no one else.

He stayed late preparing for cases most attorneys would consider unwinnable,

he listened when clients cried.

He remained patient with frightened witnesses.

Even after exhausting days, he never lost his composure.

He cared.

Quietly.

Without asking for praise.

Without expecting gratitude.

It was hidden beneath tired eyes and dry remarks and terrible jokes.

But it was there.

Sometimes you'd catch him sitting alone after everyone had gone home.

Jacket draped over his chair.

Sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows.

Reading the same page three times because exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

The office lights cast soft shadows across his features.

He looked older then.

Not in age.

In weariness.

You'd place a cup of coffee beside him.

He'd blink before glancing up from the file.

"You should go home."

"So should you."

He flexed his fingers around the edge of the document.

"I still have work."

"You always have work."

"That's true."

Neither of you moved.

"I brought you dinner," you'd eventually say, lifting the convenience store bag slightly.

His gaze would shift to it.

"You remembered."

"You forget to eat."

"I don't forget."

"You absolutely do."

He paused.

"I deprioritize it."

"You forgot."

He looked at you for a long moment before exhaling quietly.

"Thank you."

You smiled.

"It'll cost you."

One eyebrow lifted.

"Should I be concerned?"

"I want permission to decline your next joke."

"Cruel,you'll survive."

"I suppose I will."

His eyes lingered on you.

Long enough that warmth climbed into your face.

Then his gaze softened.

"You look tired."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You've been rubbing your eyes all day."

His voice lowered.

Gentler.

"Please don't overwork yourself."

The flutter in your chest came so suddenly it stole your breath.

"You noticed?"

"I work with you."

It wasn't an answer.

Not really.

But it felt like one.

. . . . .

The tension started subtly.

It lived in moments.

Tiny things.

The way he'd stand a little too close while reviewing your notes over your shoulder, one hand braced against the desk beside you.

The warmth of his arm brushing yours when you handed him files.

His hand resting briefly against the small of your back while guiding you through crowded hallways.

Never inappropriate.

Never lingering.

But enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to think about later.

"You've highlighted this section incorrectly."

You leaned over his desk, one hand planted against the polished wood.

"No, I didn't."

"You used yellow."

You blinked.

"And?"

"You always use Purple."

Your eyes widened slightly.

"You know that?"

"You've organized my schedule for over a year."

"You noticed my highlighter colors?"

His fingers paused against the page.

"I observe details."

You stared.

"You observe my highlighter preferences."

"You've also been drinking more coffee lately."

Your mouth opened.

"You skip breakfast when you're stressed."

You felt heat creep into your cheeks.

"You hum under your breath while filing paperwork."

"I do not."

"You don't realize you're doing it."

You pointed at him.

"Higuruma-san."

He looked up from the file in his hands.

"Yes?"

"Why do you know all of that?"

Silence.

His expression remained composed.

Almost.

His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face.

"You're important to me."

The room became very quiet.

He seemed to realize what he'd said.

The hand holding the document tightened almost imperceptibly.

"As my secretary of course" he added quickly.

Almost too quickly.

"Right."

Neither of you looked at each other for several seconds.

. . . . .

"You know," one of the other attorneys said.

You immediately narrowed your eyes.

"Oh, no."

"You two are ridiculous."

"What?"

"The tension."

You nearly choked.

"What tension...?"

The attorney gave you a look.

"You practically stare at each other."

"We do not."

"You absolutely do."

"We work together."

"You blush whenever he compliments you."

"I do not blush."

"You are literally blushing right now."

You pressed your palms against your face feeling the heat radiating from her cheeks.

"I'm blushing out of embarrassment, not because of whatever tension you're talking about.."

"Please leave."

. . . . .

One rainy evening, everyone left early.

Everyone except you.

And Higuruma.

The city lights reflected against the office windows.

Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

You stretched your aching shoulders until your back gave a soft pop.

"You should head home."

You turned.

Higuruma stood in the doorway of your office.

One hand rested in his pocket.

The other held a case file loosely at his side.

"You've said that three times."

"You've ignored me three times."

"I need to finish these reports."

"You can finish them tomorrow."

"You sound like my mother."

His mouth twitched.

"Should I be offended?"

"A little."

He walked closer.

Too close.

Close enough for you to notice the faint scent of coffee and clean laundry.

Close enough to hear the subtle shift in his breathing.

"You've been here since seven."

"So have you."

"I asked first."

"You always ask first."

His gaze drifted over your face.

He reached toward you.

Your breath caught.

Long fingers brushed carefully against your temple.

Gentle.

Unhurried.

You froze.

He held up a tiny paper clip between his fingers.

"It was in your hair."

"Oh."

He didn't move away.

Neither did you.

The office suddenly felt too quiet.

Too small.

You could hear the rain hitting the windows.

The sound of your heartbeat.

The way his breathing seemed to pause.

His eyes dropped.

Briefly.

To your lips.

Then returned to your face.

"Higuruma-san."

His voice was lower than usual.

"Yes?"

"You should move."

"Probably."

He didn't.

Your breath tangled.

His hand remained suspended between you.

Not touching.

Almost.

"I don't think this is very professional," you whispered.

"No.. It isn't"

"Then why aren't you moving?"

His expression shifted.

Something vulnerable cracked through the composure.

He looked exhausted suddenly.

Honest.

"Because if I move now," he said quietly,

"I think I'll regret it."

Your heart nearly stopped.

"I won't do anything you don't want."

His voice remained steady.

Careful.

"I just..."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.

Then looked at you again.

"It's becoming increasingly difficult to pretend I don't want to kiss you."

Heat rushed through you so quickly you thought you might combust.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"I think," you whispered, your fingers curling tightly against the edge of the desk, "that's becoming a problem for me too."

Silence.

His breath caught.

The tension snapped tight enough to hurt.

One inch.

Maybe less.

Your eyes flickered to his mouth.

Then back up.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Hiromi Higuruma noticed everything.

"If this were anyone else," he murmured, "I would've stepped away already."

"Why haven't you?"

His gaze softened.

"Because it's you."

Your pulse stumbled.

"We should go home," you said weakly.

"Yes."

Neither of you moved.

"Higuruma-san?"

"Hm?"

"If you tell a joke right now, I'll never forgive you."

A beat passed.

"I wasn't going to."

"Oh."

"I was considering asking if this counted as a hostile work environment."

You stared at him.

Then let out an incredulous laugh.

"That was terrible."

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself.

The sound seemed to break whatever spell had settled between you.

Slowly, reluctantly, Higuruma stepped back.

The absence of his warmth felt immediate.

"I'll walk you to the station," he said.

"Okay."

You gathered your things with trembling hands.

He noticed the way you fumbled with your bag and silently took the stack of reports from your arms without comment.

Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss.

The confession hidden inside restraint.

The way your pulse hadn't settled.

But as you locked the office doors behind you, Higuruma opened his umbrella over both of you.

The space beneath it was small.

His shoulder brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

The city glowed around you in blurred reflections of rain and neon.

Water dripped from the edges of the umbrella.

People hurried past without a second glance.

The back of his hand brushed yours.

Once.

Twice.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did you.

"You're very quiet," he said.

"So are you."

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

He glanced at you.

For once, there was no distance in his expression.

No carefully maintained professionalism.

Only honesty.

"How long I can continue pretending I'm satisfied with simply walking beside you."

Your breath hitched.

Rain drummed softly overhead.

You looked away before he could see the smile threatening to take over your face.

"You know," you said quietly, "for a lawyer, you're surprisingly good at saying dangerous things."

His shoulder brushed yours again , intentional this time.

"Occupational hazard."

You looked down.

Without thinking, your pinky hooked briefly around his.

A tiny touch, barely there.

When you realized what you'd done, you froze.

But Higuruma simply glanced down at your joined fingers.

Then, carefully, he turned his hand so his pinky hooked around yours in return.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

Neither of you let go.

And beneath the shelter of a shared umbrella, hearts pounding and hands still stubbornly only half-touching, both of you wondered how much longer almost would be enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hiii I hope you guys enjoyed this! Ill be on hiatus for a while but dw ill be continuing my Yuji series right after! 🥹

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated!! 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[loveyladyfingers07]

[ems0sstuff]

A Case Of 'Almost' ─ ─ ─ ─ ────

.ʜɪɢᴜʀᴜᴍᴀ ʜɪʀᴏᴍɪ . ᴄᴏᴡᴏʀᴋᴇʀ ᴀᴜ . ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘɪɴɴɪɴɢ . x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ . ᴏɴᴇ sʜᴏᴛ . ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴғᴇssɪᴏɴ . sʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ

Author's note: english isn't my first language so please excuse some errors and feel free to tell me what it was in the comments!!

─ . Word count: 3k

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The office smelled like paper and coffee.

Not the pleasant kind of coffee you'd find in cafés with handwritten menus and soft jazz playing in the background.

No.

This was the scent of burnt office coffee that had sat on the warmer for far too long, printer ink, freshly copied documents, and the faint traces of rain drifting in every time someone opened the front door.

You loved it anyway.

The legal office came alive in strange ways.

Phones ringing.

The distant clacking of keyboards,murmured conversations from conference rooms,attorneys rushing down hallways with files tucked under their arms,clients wringing their hands in waiting areas.

And through all of it, Hiromi Higuruma remained infuriatingly calm.

Every morning at exactly seven twenty-three, he'd arrive carrying the same worn leather briefcase.

Seven twenty-three.

Never seven twenty-two.

Never seven twenty-four.

His dress shirts were always crisp, his ties neatly fastened, his dark hair slightly disheveled in a way that suggested he'd run a hand through it once before stepping out the door and never bothered fixing it.

You noticed these things. Not because you were interested, you simply worked closely with him,that was all.

As his secretary, it was your responsibility to notice details.

"Higuruma-san," you greeted as he stepped into his office.

He gave a small nod as he loosened his grip on the handle of his briefcase.

"Good morning"

"You have a meeting with Takahashi-san at nine, lunch with the district prosecutor at noon, and court at two."

"You've saved my life once again."

"You say that every day."

"Because every day, it's true."

He set his briefcase down carefully beside his desk before finally looking at you,his expression remained neutral.

It always did.

Until...

"I have a joke."

You immediately closed your planner with a sigh.

"Oh no."

"I haven't even said it."

"You announced it."

"That's fair."

He adjusted his glasses with two fingers.

"What kind of shoes do kidnappers wear?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"What kind?"

"White vans."

Silence.

You stared.

He stared back.

"Higuruma-san."

"Yes?"

"I think that violated several workplace regulations."

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

"You think Human Resources has a policy regarding bad puns?"

"It should."

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Small.

Brief.

But enough.

Your stomach betrayed you by flipping.

You looked away first, pretending to shuffle papers.

"Your coffee is getting cold."

"Thank you."

Normal.

Everything was normal.

You admired him. It was impossible not to, he fought for people who had no one else.

He stayed late preparing for cases most attorneys would consider unwinnable,

he listened when clients cried.

He remained patient with frightened witnesses.

Even after exhausting days, he never lost his composure.

He cared.

Quietly.

Without asking for praise.

Without expecting gratitude.

It was hidden beneath tired eyes and dry remarks and terrible jokes.

But it was there.

Sometimes you'd catch him sitting alone after everyone had gone home.

Jacket draped over his chair.

Sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows.

Reading the same page three times because exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

The office lights cast soft shadows across his features.

He looked older then.

Not in age.

In weariness.

You'd place a cup of coffee beside him.

He'd blink before glancing up from the file.

"You should go home."

"So should you."

He flexed his fingers around the edge of the document.

"I still have work."

"You always have work."

"That's true."

Neither of you moved.

"I brought you dinner," you'd eventually say, lifting the convenience store bag slightly.

His gaze would shift to it.

"You remembered."

"You forget to eat."

"I don't forget."

"You absolutely do."

He paused.

"I deprioritize it."

"You forgot."

He looked at you for a long moment before exhaling quietly.

"Thank you."

You smiled.

"It'll cost you."

One eyebrow lifted.

"Should I be concerned?"

"I want permission to decline your next joke."

"Cruel,you'll survive."

"I suppose I will."

His eyes lingered on you.

Long enough that warmth climbed into your face.

Then his gaze softened.

"You look tired."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You've been rubbing your eyes all day."

His voice lowered.

Gentler.

"Please don't overwork yourself."

The flutter in your chest came so suddenly it stole your breath.

"You noticed?"

"I work with you."

It wasn't an answer.

Not really.

But it felt like one.

. . . . .

The tension started subtly.

It lived in moments.

Tiny things.

The way he'd stand a little too close while reviewing your notes over your shoulder, one hand braced against the desk beside you.

The warmth of his arm brushing yours when you handed him files.

His hand resting briefly against the small of your back while guiding you through crowded hallways.

Never inappropriate.

Never lingering.

But enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to think about later.

"You've highlighted this section incorrectly."

You leaned over his desk, one hand planted against the polished wood.

"No, I didn't."

"You used yellow."

You blinked.

"And?"

"You always use Purple."

Your eyes widened slightly.

"You know that?"

"You've organized my schedule for over a year."

"You noticed my highlighter colors?"

His fingers paused against the page.

"I observe details."

You stared.

"You observe my highlighter preferences."

"You've also been drinking more coffee lately."

Your mouth opened.

"You skip breakfast when you're stressed."

You felt heat creep into your cheeks.

"You hum under your breath while filing paperwork."

"I do not."

"You don't realize you're doing it."

You pointed at him.

"Higuruma-san."

He looked up from the file in his hands.

"Yes?"

"Why do you know all of that?"

Silence.

His expression remained composed.

Almost.

His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face.

"You're important to me."

The room became very quiet.

He seemed to realize what he'd said.

The hand holding the document tightened almost imperceptibly.

"As my secretary of course" he added quickly.

Almost too quickly.

"Right."

Neither of you looked at each other for several seconds.

. . . . .

"You know," one of the other attorneys said.

You immediately narrowed your eyes.

"Oh, no."

"You two are ridiculous."

"What?"

"The tension."

You nearly choked.

"What tension...?"

The attorney gave you a look.

"You practically stare at each other."

"We do not."

"You absolutely do."

"We work together."

"You blush whenever he compliments you."

"I do not blush."

"You are literally blushing right now."

You pressed your palms against your face feeling the heat radiating from her cheeks.

"I'm blushing out of embarrassment, not because of whatever tension you're talking about.."

"Please leave."

. . . . .

One rainy evening, everyone left early.

Everyone except you.

And Higuruma.

The city lights reflected against the office windows.

Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

You stretched your aching shoulders until your back gave a soft pop.

"You should head home."

You turned.

Higuruma stood in the doorway of your office.

One hand rested in his pocket.

The other held a case file loosely at his side.

"You've said that three times."

"You've ignored me three times."

"I need to finish these reports."

"You can finish them tomorrow."

"You sound like my mother."

His mouth twitched.

"Should I be offended?"

"A little."

He walked closer.

Too close.

Close enough for you to notice the faint scent of coffee and clean laundry.

Close enough to hear the subtle shift in his breathing.

"You've been here since seven."

"So have you."

"I asked first."

"You always ask first."

His gaze drifted over your face.

He reached toward you.

Your breath caught.

Long fingers brushed carefully against your temple.

Gentle.

Unhurried.

You froze.

He held up a tiny paper clip between his fingers.

"It was in your hair."

"Oh."

He didn't move away.

Neither did you.

The office suddenly felt too quiet.

Too small.

You could hear the rain hitting the windows.

The sound of your heartbeat.

The way his breathing seemed to pause.

His eyes dropped.

Briefly.

To your lips.

Then returned to your face.

"Higuruma-san."

His voice was lower than usual.

"Yes?"

"You should move."

"Probably."

He didn't.

Your breath tangled.

His hand remained suspended between you.

Not touching.

Almost.

"I don't think this is very professional," you whispered.

"No.. It isn't"

"Then why aren't you moving?"

His expression shifted.

Something vulnerable cracked through the composure.

He looked exhausted suddenly.

Honest.

"Because if I move now," he said quietly,

"I think I'll regret it."

Your heart nearly stopped.

"I won't do anything you don't want."

His voice remained steady.

Careful.

"I just..."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.

Then looked at you again.

"It's becoming increasingly difficult to pretend I don't want to kiss you."

Heat rushed through you so quickly you thought you might combust.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"I think," you whispered, your fingers curling tightly against the edge of the desk, "that's becoming a problem for me too."

Silence.

His breath caught.

The tension snapped tight enough to hurt.

One inch.

Maybe less.

Your eyes flickered to his mouth.

Then back up.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Hiromi Higuruma noticed everything.

"If this were anyone else," he murmured, "I would've stepped away already."

"Why haven't you?"

His gaze softened.

"Because it's you."

Your pulse stumbled.

"We should go home," you said weakly.

"Yes."

Neither of you moved.

"Higuruma-san?"

"Hm?"

"If you tell a joke right now, I'll never forgive you."

A beat passed.

"I wasn't going to."

"Oh."

"I was considering asking if this counted as a hostile work environment."

You stared at him.

Then let out an incredulous laugh.

"That was terrible."

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself.

The sound seemed to break whatever spell had settled between you.

Slowly, reluctantly, Higuruma stepped back.

The absence of his warmth felt immediate.

"I'll walk you to the station," he said.

"Okay."

You gathered your things with trembling hands.

He noticed the way you fumbled with your bag and silently took the stack of reports from your arms without comment.

Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss.

The confession hidden inside restraint.

The way your pulse hadn't settled.

But as you locked the office doors behind you, Higuruma opened his umbrella over both of you.

The space beneath it was small.

His shoulder brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

The city glowed around you in blurred reflections of rain and neon.

Water dripped from the edges of the umbrella.

People hurried past without a second glance.

The back of his hand brushed yours.

Once.

Twice.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did you.

"You're very quiet," he said.

"So are you."

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

He glanced at you.

For once, there was no distance in his expression.

No carefully maintained professionalism.

Only honesty.

"How long I can continue pretending I'm satisfied with simply walking beside you."

Your breath hitched.

Rain drummed softly overhead.

You looked away before he could see the smile threatening to take over your face.

"You know," you said quietly, "for a lawyer, you're surprisingly good at saying dangerous things."

His shoulder brushed yours again , intentional this time.

"Occupational hazard."

You looked down.

Without thinking, your pinky hooked briefly around his.

A tiny touch, barely there.

When you realized what you'd done, you froze.

But Higuruma simply glanced down at your joined fingers.

Then, carefully, he turned his hand so his pinky hooked around yours in return.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

Neither of you let go.

And beneath the shelter of a shared umbrella, hearts pounding and hands still stubbornly only half-touching, both of you wondered how much longer almost would be enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hiii I hope you guys enjoyed this! Ill be on hiatus for a while but dw ill be continuing my Yuji series right after! 🥹

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated!! 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[ems0sstuff]

A Case Of 'Almost' ─ ─ ─ ─ ────

.ʜɪɢᴜʀᴜᴍᴀ ʜɪʀᴏᴍɪ . ᴄᴏᴡᴏʀᴋᴇʀ ᴀᴜ . ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘɪɴɴɪɴɢ . x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ . ᴏɴᴇ sʜᴏᴛ . ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴғᴇssɪᴏɴ . sʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ

Author's note: english isn't my first language so please excuse some errors and feel free to tell me what it was in the comments!!

─ . Word count: 3k

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The office smelled like paper and coffee.

Not the pleasant kind of coffee you'd find in cafés with handwritten menus and soft jazz playing in the background.

No.

This was the scent of burnt office coffee that had sat on the warmer for far too long, printer ink, freshly copied documents, and the faint traces of rain drifting in every time someone opened the front door.

You loved it anyway.

The legal office came alive in strange ways.

Phones ringing.

The distant clacking of keyboards,murmured conversations from conference rooms,attorneys rushing down hallways with files tucked under their arms,clients wringing their hands in waiting areas.

And through all of it, Hiromi Higuruma remained infuriatingly calm.

Every morning at exactly seven twenty-three, he'd arrive carrying the same worn leather briefcase.

Seven twenty-three.

Never seven twenty-two.

Never seven twenty-four.

His dress shirts were always crisp, his ties neatly fastened, his dark hair slightly disheveled in a way that suggested he'd run a hand through it once before stepping out the door and never bothered fixing it.

You noticed these things. Not because you were interested, you simply worked closely with him,that was all.

As his secretary, it was your responsibility to notice details.

"Higuruma-san," you greeted as he stepped into his office.

He gave a small nod as he loosened his grip on the handle of his briefcase.

"Good morning"

"You have a meeting with Takahashi-san at nine, lunch with the district prosecutor at noon, and court at two."

"You've saved my life once again."

"You say that every day."

"Because every day, it's true."

He set his briefcase down carefully beside his desk before finally looking at you,his expression remained neutral.

It always did.

Until...

"I have a joke."

You immediately closed your planner with a sigh.

"Oh no."

"I haven't even said it."

"You announced it."

"That's fair."

He adjusted his glasses with two fingers.

"What kind of shoes do kidnappers wear?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"What kind?"

"White vans."

Silence.

You stared.

He stared back.

"Higuruma-san."

"Yes?"

"I think that violated several workplace regulations."

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

"You think Human Resources has a policy regarding bad puns?"

"It should."

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Small.

Brief.

But enough.

Your stomach betrayed you by flipping.

You looked away first, pretending to shuffle papers.

"Your coffee is getting cold."

"Thank you."

Normal.

Everything was normal.

You admired him. It was impossible not to, he fought for people who had no one else.

He stayed late preparing for cases most attorneys would consider unwinnable,

he listened when clients cried.

He remained patient with frightened witnesses.

Even after exhausting days, he never lost his composure.

He cared.

Quietly.

Without asking for praise.

Without expecting gratitude.

It was hidden beneath tired eyes and dry remarks and terrible jokes.

But it was there.

Sometimes you'd catch him sitting alone after everyone had gone home.

Jacket draped over his chair.

Sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows.

Reading the same page three times because exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

The office lights cast soft shadows across his features.

He looked older then.

Not in age.

In weariness.

You'd place a cup of coffee beside him.

He'd blink before glancing up from the file.

"You should go home."

"So should you."

He flexed his fingers around the edge of the document.

"I still have work."

"You always have work."

"That's true."

Neither of you moved.

"I brought you dinner," you'd eventually say, lifting the convenience store bag slightly.

His gaze would shift to it.

"You remembered."

"You forget to eat."

"I don't forget."

"You absolutely do."

He paused.

"I deprioritize it."

"You forgot."

He looked at you for a long moment before exhaling quietly.

"Thank you."

You smiled.

"It'll cost you."

One eyebrow lifted.

"Should I be concerned?"

"I want permission to decline your next joke."

"Cruel,you'll survive."

"I suppose I will."

His eyes lingered on you.

Long enough that warmth climbed into your face.

Then his gaze softened.

"You look tired."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You've been rubbing your eyes all day."

His voice lowered.

Gentler.

"Please don't overwork yourself."

The flutter in your chest came so suddenly it stole your breath.

"You noticed?"

"I work with you."

It wasn't an answer.

Not really.

But it felt like one.

. . . . .

The tension started subtly.

It lived in moments.

Tiny things.

The way he'd stand a little too close while reviewing your notes over your shoulder, one hand braced against the desk beside you.

The warmth of his arm brushing yours when you handed him files.

His hand resting briefly against the small of your back while guiding you through crowded hallways.

Never inappropriate.

Never lingering.

But enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to think about later.

"You've highlighted this section incorrectly."

You leaned over his desk, one hand planted against the polished wood.

"No, I didn't."

"You used yellow."

You blinked.

"And?"

"You always use Purple."

Your eyes widened slightly.

"You know that?"

"You've organized my schedule for over a year."

"You noticed my highlighter colors?"

His fingers paused against the page.

"I observe details."

You stared.

"You observe my highlighter preferences."

"You've also been drinking more coffee lately."

Your mouth opened.

"You skip breakfast when you're stressed."

You felt heat creep into your cheeks.

"You hum under your breath while filing paperwork."

"I do not."

"You don't realize you're doing it."

You pointed at him.

"Higuruma-san."

He looked up from the file in his hands.

"Yes?"

"Why do you know all of that?"

Silence.

His expression remained composed.

Almost.

His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face.

"You're important to me."

The room became very quiet.

He seemed to realize what he'd said.

The hand holding the document tightened almost imperceptibly.

"As my secretary of course" he added quickly.

Almost too quickly.

"Right."

Neither of you looked at each other for several seconds.

. . . . .

"You know," one of the other attorneys said.

You immediately narrowed your eyes.

"Oh, no."

"You two are ridiculous."

"What?"

"The tension."

You nearly choked.

"What tension...?"

The attorney gave you a look.

"You practically stare at each other."

"We do not."

"You absolutely do."

"We work together."

"You blush whenever he compliments you."

"I do not blush."

"You are literally blushing right now."

You pressed your palms against your face feeling the heat radiating from her cheeks.

"I'm blushing out of embarrassment, not because of whatever tension you're talking about.."

"Please leave."

. . . . .

One rainy evening, everyone left early.

Everyone except you.

And Higuruma.

The city lights reflected against the office windows.

Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

You stretched your aching shoulders until your back gave a soft pop.

"You should head home."

You turned.

Higuruma stood in the doorway of your office.

One hand rested in his pocket.

The other held a case file loosely at his side.

"You've said that three times."

"You've ignored me three times."

"I need to finish these reports."

"You can finish them tomorrow."

"You sound like my mother."

His mouth twitched.

"Should I be offended?"

"A little."

He walked closer.

Too close.

Close enough for you to notice the faint scent of coffee and clean laundry.

Close enough to hear the subtle shift in his breathing.

"You've been here since seven."

"So have you."

"I asked first."

"You always ask first."

His gaze drifted over your face.

He reached toward you.

Your breath caught.

Long fingers brushed carefully against your temple.

Gentle.

Unhurried.

You froze.

He held up a tiny paper clip between his fingers.

"It was in your hair."

"Oh."

He didn't move away.

Neither did you.

The office suddenly felt too quiet.

Too small.

You could hear the rain hitting the windows.

The sound of your heartbeat.

The way his breathing seemed to pause.

His eyes dropped.

Briefly.

To your lips.

Then returned to your face.

"Higuruma-san."

His voice was lower than usual.

"Yes?"

"You should move."

"Probably."

He didn't.

Your breath tangled.

His hand remained suspended between you.

Not touching.

Almost.

"I don't think this is very professional," you whispered.

"No.. It isn't"

"Then why aren't you moving?"

His expression shifted.

Something vulnerable cracked through the composure.

He looked exhausted suddenly.

Honest.

"Because if I move now," he said quietly,

"I think I'll regret it."

Your heart nearly stopped.

"I won't do anything you don't want."

His voice remained steady.

Careful.

"I just..."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.

Then looked at you again.

"It's becoming increasingly difficult to pretend I don't want to kiss you."

Heat rushed through you so quickly you thought you might combust.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"I think," you whispered, your fingers curling tightly against the edge of the desk, "that's becoming a problem for me too."

Silence.

His breath caught.

The tension snapped tight enough to hurt.

One inch.

Maybe less.

Your eyes flickered to his mouth.

Then back up.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Hiromi Higuruma noticed everything.

"If this were anyone else," he murmured, "I would've stepped away already."

"Why haven't you?"

His gaze softened.

"Because it's you."

Your pulse stumbled.

"We should go home," you said weakly.

"Yes."

Neither of you moved.

"Higuruma-san?"

"Hm?"

"If you tell a joke right now, I'll never forgive you."

A beat passed.

"I wasn't going to."

"Oh."

"I was considering asking if this counted as a hostile work environment."

You stared at him.

Then let out an incredulous laugh.

"That was terrible."

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself.

The sound seemed to break whatever spell had settled between you.

Slowly, reluctantly, Higuruma stepped back.

The absence of his warmth felt immediate.

"I'll walk you to the station," he said.

"Okay."

You gathered your things with trembling hands.

He noticed the way you fumbled with your bag and silently took the stack of reports from your arms without comment.

Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss.

The confession hidden inside restraint.

The way your pulse hadn't settled.

But as you locked the office doors behind you, Higuruma opened his umbrella over both of you.

The space beneath it was small.

His shoulder brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

The city glowed around you in blurred reflections of rain and neon.

Water dripped from the edges of the umbrella.

People hurried past without a second glance.

The back of his hand brushed yours.

Once.

Twice.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did you.

"You're very quiet," he said.

"So are you."

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

He glanced at you.

For once, there was no distance in his expression.

No carefully maintained professionalism.

Only honesty.

"How long I can continue pretending I'm satisfied with simply walking beside you."

Your breath hitched.

Rain drummed softly overhead.

You looked away before he could see the smile threatening to take over your face.

"You know," you said quietly, "for a lawyer, you're surprisingly good at saying dangerous things."

His shoulder brushed yours again , intentional this time.

"Occupational hazard."

You looked down.

Without thinking, your pinky hooked briefly around his.

A tiny touch, barely there.

When you realized what you'd done, you froze.

But Higuruma simply glanced down at your joined fingers.

Then, carefully, he turned his hand so his pinky hooked around yours in return.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

Neither of you let go.

And beneath the shelter of a shared umbrella, hearts pounding and hands still stubbornly only half-touching, both of you wondered how much longer almost would be enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hiii I hope you guys enjoyed this! Ill be on hiatus for a while but dw ill be continuing my Yuji series right after! 🥹

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated!! 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[zrqinn]

More of my art

[serenisleepy]

[vremocha]

Where tf are the Catboy x reader shit?? Arnt catboys more popular now? I just want peg some catboys man

[ems0sstuff]

..𝑺𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆,𝑺𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆?.. 𝑃𝑡 𝟑

ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ . ʜɪɢʜ sᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴀᴜ . ɴᴏ sᴏʀᴄᴇʀʏ ᴀᴜ . x ғᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ . sᴇʀɪᴇs . ғʟᴜғғ . sʟᴏᴡ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏғ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢs ғᴏʀ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ . ʟᴀsᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ .

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴊᴏʙ ᴀᴛ ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴄᴀғᴇ́. ᴛʜɪɴɢs ɢᴇᴛs ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇs ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀ ᴄᴜsᴛᴏᴍᴇʀ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴄᴏғғᴇᴇ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀs, ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴ ɪɴᴄʀᴇᴀsɪɴɢ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏғ sᴜsᴘɪᴄɪᴏᴜs ᴄᴏɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇs, ᴀɴ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇ sʟᴏᴡʟʏ sᴛᴀʀᴛs ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ

Part 1 here! . . .Part 2 here!

. . . .

Getting each other's numbers should've changed things immediately.

It didn't.

Well

Not in the way either of you expected.

Because apparently both of you had the social skills of people trying to defuse bombs.

The first message Yuji sent was:

Yuji: hi

Three minutes later:

Yuji: wait no that's boring

Two minutes later:

Yuji: pretend i didn't send that

Five seconds later:

Yuji: actually you can't pretend because you already saw it

You stared at your phone.

Then laughed quietly into your pillow.

You: You're making this worse.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Yuji: OH YOU REPLIED

You: Why are you yelling through text?

Yuji: SORRY

You: Stop.

Yuji: okay

Three seconds.

Yuji: sorry

Somehow, texting just became... easy.

Not deep conversations.

Not at first.

Just random things.

Pictures of food.

Complaints about homework.

Yuji sending blurry photos because apparently keeping his hand still was impossible.

One time he sent:

Yuji: LOOK

Attached was a picture of a dog wearing a tiny yellow raincoat.

You: Why did you take a picture of this?

Yuji: because LOOK AT HIM

You: ...

You: okay that's fair

Then conversations slowly started stretching longer.

A few minutes became an hour.

An hour became staying awake later than usual.

Then one night you looked at the clock.

1:17 AM.

You stared.

Then stared harder.

Then looked at the messages.

Yuji: wait are we still talking

You: We have school tomorrow.

Yuji: OH MY GOD

You: GO TO SLEEP

Yuji: YOU TOO

You: I'm already in bed.

Yuji: same

Pause.

Yuji: wait that's weird

You: Why?

Yuji: i imagined us both staring at our phones at the same time

You: ...

You: Go to sleep itadori.

You started hanging out outside the café more.

Not officially.

Nothing planned.

It just happened.

Like seeing a bookstore and going inside because Yuji said,

"Just for five minutes."

Thirty-five minutes later:

"Yuji.."

"What?"

"You've been reading manga on the floor."

"I'm almost done."

"You sat down."

...

"You sat on the floor."

" I got comfortable."

Or stopping for snacks after school.

Or sitting in parks.

Or walking toward the station together.

Things that just... happened naturally.

Neither of you really questioned it.

Though your friends definitely did.

"You're spending a lot of time with him."

You looked up from your lunch.

"What?"

"With Yuji."

"No I'm not."

"You literally left school together yesterday."

"Coincidence."

"The day before?"

"Coincidence."

"The day before that?"

...

"Repeated coincidence."

Meanwhile:

"You're smiling."

Yuji looked up.

"Huh?"

Nobara narrowed her eyes.

"You've been smiling at your phone."

"No I haven't."

"You literally just did it."

"No."

Megumi looked over once.

"...It's her, isn't it?"

Yuji froze.

"No."

"It's her..."

Nobara said, crossing her arms and squinting at Yuji.

Yuji buried his face into his arms.

"STOP KNOWING THINGS."

The problem started when people around you noticed things before you did.

Because apparently everyone had become detectives.

Your manager noticed.

Friends noticed.

Even random strangers seemed to notice.

One afternoon you were working at the café while Yuji sat nearby doing homework.

Well

"Doing homework."

Actually he was staring at the page like the answers might appear through emotional support.

An older customer walked up to the register.

Then smiled.

"Your boyfriend seems bored."

You nearly dropped a cup.

Across the room

Yuji choked on his drink.

"WHAT?!"

The customer blinked.

"Not your boyfriend?"

"NO!"

"NO!"

Silence.

The customer looked between you.

Then smiled slowly.

"Hm."

And walked away.

You stared at Yuji.

Yuji stared at you.

He started

"Heh how funny, i guess-"

"Shut up and do your homework Yuji."

You felt like a mom scolding her child

"Are you even doing your homework?."

He turned red and dived back his head into his notebook.

You scoffed and continued to prepare the costumer's order.

Things got strange after that.

Not bad strange.

Just...

Different.

You started noticing things.

Like how Yuji always walked on the side closest to the street.

How he remembered little things you said.

How he saved snacks you liked.

How he looked for you automatically when entering the café.

How his face lit up every time he saw you.

And suddenly

Those things didn't feel small anymore.

The realization hit you in the dumbest way possible.

You were sitting beside Yuji on a park bench after school.

He was talking.

Very enthusiastically.

About a movie.

Human earth worm or the worm on earth or something..

You weren't even paying attention anymore.

Not because you didn't care.

But because you looked over and suddenly thought:

Oh.

Sunlight was hitting his face.

He was smiling again.

Of course he was.

And before you could stop yourself

Oh no.

OH NO.

Because you liked him.

You liked him.

Actually liked him.

Your brain immediately entered full panic mode.

Downtown in his bedroom

Yuji sat upright in bed.

"OH NO."

The next few days were awful.

Not actually awful.

Awkward awful.

Because now both of you knew your own feelings.

And suddenly everything felt weird.

Eye contact?

Dangerous.

Sitting close together?

Dangerous.

Accidentally touching hands?

CRITICAL DAMAGE.

One afternoon your fingers brushed while reaching for the same drink.

You both pulled back like electricity had attacked you.

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

"Why are we acting weird?"

"I don't know.. Don't ask me"

. . . .

Eventually Nobara got tired of watching this disaster unfold.

She slammed both hands on the lunch table.

"OH MY GOD."

Yuji jumped.

"What?!"

"ASK HER OUT."

Silence.

"What."

"ASK."

"HER."

"OUT."

Yuji looked horrified.

Megumi sighed.

"I've been waiting for this."

Three days later

You were leaving the café after your shift.

Again.

Because apparently every important thing between you two happened outside this building.

Yuji stood nearby waiting.

Again.

You looked at him.

"You waited?"

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

You both looked exhausted.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Yuji suddenly laughed.

A small one.

Then looked at you.

"Okay."

"Hm?"

"I'm tired."

"Tired?"

"Yeah."

He looked embarrassed.

Really embarrassed.

"I like you."

Silence.

Cars passed nearby.

Voices drifted from farther down the street.

And for a second your brain stopped entirely.

Yuji looked like he wanted to launch himself into traffic.

"I-"

"Actually wait-"

"I'M SORRY IF-"

"I LIKE YOU TOO."

Silence.

Yuji stopped.

"...Huh?"

"The heck do you mean,huh??"

You stared.

Yuji stared.

Then

"Wait really?"

"You literally confessed first."

"I KNOW BUT-"

Suddenly that huge stupid smile appeared again.

The one you knew by heart now.

And somehow

You smiled too.

"So."

"yeahh? "

"Are we dating now?"

You looked at him.

Then laughed

"You're asking that after confessing?"

"I'M TRYING MY BEST."

You pretended to think.

"Okay.."

"...Okay?"

"Yeah."

Yuji stared.

"WAIT REALLY?!"

People turned around.

You immediately covered your face.

"IM BREAKING UP WITH YOU ALREADY!!"

"Oh wait.. So we are together!?!"

"Yes we are together dummy"

The air outside the café felt strangely warm.

Maybe because you had both just confessed.

Maybe because Yuji was standing way too close now.

Or maybe because every time you looked at him, his expression got softer in a way that made your heart completely lose composure.

Neither of you were talking anymore.

You had reached that awkward stage after confessing where both people clearly wanted something to happen but were too nervous to actually do anything about it.

Yuji rubbed the back of his neck, laughing quietly under his breath.

His face was red.

"I Can't believe you liked me too," he admitted.

You looked away immediately.

"I can't believe you made this this awkward."

"ME?!"

"You literally stopped functioning for like thirty seconds."

"I was processing emotionally!"

You snorted.

He then slowly took 3 steps to get closer to you.

He then placed his hands on your hips, one of his hand snaked up to cup to side of your cheek

Then tucked a stray strand of your hair.

Yuji stared at you for a second after that.

Then his expression softened again.

And before you could think too hard about it, he leaned in carefully, almost hesitant despite how obvious it was that he wanted to.

The kiss was brief, warm, and slightly clumsy from both of you smiling too much halfway through it.

When you pulled apart, Yuji blinked at you once.

Then twice.

"Whoa."

You immediately covered your face.

"Oh my god."

"No wait-"

Yuji laughed breathlessly.

"That was nice. Like REALLY nice."

"You don't have to review it like food."

"I'm sorryyyy!"

Then suddenly Yuji paused.

Slowly, he looked across the street.

"Uh..."

You frowned.

"What?"

He pointed.

You turned.

Directly across from the café, Nobara stood frozen in complete disbelief.

Megumi stood beside her holding a drink.

Unfortunately for him, Nobara had grabbed his arm so violently during the kiss that the drink had nearly spilled.

Nobara's jaw dropped.

Then:

"I KNEW IT."

Megumi sighed deeply.

The sigh of a man who had predicted this months ago and still suffered anyway.

Meanwhile, Yuji looked like he was about to combust from embarrassment.

Which honestly only made you laugh harder.

After some time, somewhere between coffee orders, train station meetings, and random everyday moments, Yuji became part of your routine without either of you noticing when it happened.

Your relationship never turned into something overly dramatic it just became comfortable, warm, and very Yuji.

Yuji loved through small things. Through waiting for you after your shifts, remembering little details you mentioned once, showing up with snacks he claimed were "extra," and always looking for you first in a crowd. He wasn't big on grand romantic gestures; he just naturally made space for you in everything.

He also became ridiculously affectionate once he was comfortable. Holding your hand while walking became automatic, hugs happened often, and somehow you slowly turned into his favorite place to lean on, rest against, or cling to whenever he felt tired. Physical affection with him felt easy like he simply liked being close to you.

And without realizing it, you became the person Yuji naturally gravitated toward. The first person he wanted to tell things to, laugh with, and spend time around.

Your relationship wasn't built from huge moments.

It was built from small things becoming important.

And somewhere along the way,

you became home to each other.

────────────ෆ────────────

FINALLY FINISHED THE SERIES!!

I had so much fun writing this 🥹 I tried my best to make yuji to be.. Well Yuji 🧍🏽‍♀️

My master list will be made in prolly in a week with small series of yuji and my personal headcanons of him!!

@meikozzus

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated!! 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[ems0sstuff]

..𝑺𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆,𝑺𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆?.. 𝑃𝑡 𝟑

ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ . ʜɪɢʜ sᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴀᴜ . ɴᴏ sᴏʀᴄᴇʀʏ ᴀᴜ . x ғᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ . sᴇʀɪᴇs . ғʟᴜғғ . sʟᴏᴡ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏғ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢs ғᴏʀ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ . ʟᴀsᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ .

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴊᴏʙ ᴀᴛ ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴄᴀғᴇ́. ᴛʜɪɴɢs ɢᴇᴛs ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇs ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀ ᴄᴜsᴛᴏᴍᴇʀ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴄᴏғғᴇᴇ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀs, ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴ ɪɴᴄʀᴇᴀsɪɴɢ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏғ sᴜsᴘɪᴄɪᴏᴜs ᴄᴏɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇs, ᴀɴ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇ sʟᴏᴡʟʏ sᴛᴀʀᴛs ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ

Part 1 here! . . .Part 2 here!

. . . .

Getting each other's numbers should've changed things immediately.

It didn't.

Well

Not in the way either of you expected.

Because apparently both of you had the social skills of people trying to defuse bombs.

The first message Yuji sent was:

Yuji: hi

Three minutes later:

Yuji: wait no that's boring

Two minutes later:

Yuji: pretend i didn't send that

Five seconds later:

Yuji: actually you can't pretend because you already saw it

You stared at your phone.

Then laughed quietly into your pillow.

You: You're making this worse.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Yuji: OH YOU REPLIED

You: Why are you yelling through text?

Yuji: SORRY

You: Stop.

Yuji: okay

Three seconds.

Yuji: sorry

Somehow, texting just became... easy.

Not deep conversations.

Not at first.

Just random things.

Pictures of food.

Complaints about homework.

Yuji sending blurry photos because apparently keeping his hand still was impossible.

One time he sent:

Yuji: LOOK

Attached was a picture of a dog wearing a tiny yellow raincoat.

You: Why did you take a picture of this?

Yuji: because LOOK AT HIM

You: ...

You: okay that's fair

Then conversations slowly started stretching longer.

A few minutes became an hour.

An hour became staying awake later than usual.

Then one night you looked at the clock.

1:17 AM.

You stared.

Then stared harder.

Then looked at the messages.

Yuji: wait are we still talking

You: We have school tomorrow.

Yuji: OH MY GOD

You: GO TO SLEEP

Yuji: YOU TOO

You: I'm already in bed.

Yuji: same

Pause.

Yuji: wait that's weird

You: Why?

Yuji: i imagined us both staring at our phones at the same time

You: ...

You: Go to sleep itadori.

You started hanging out outside the café more.

Not officially.

Nothing planned.

It just happened.

Like seeing a bookstore and going inside because Yuji said,

"Just for five minutes."

Thirty-five minutes later:

"Yuji.."

"What?"

"You've been reading manga on the floor."

"I'm almost done."

"You sat down."

...

"You sat on the floor."

" I got comfortable."

Or stopping for snacks after school.

Or sitting in parks.

Or walking toward the station together.

Things that just... happened naturally.

Neither of you really questioned it.

Though your friends definitely did.

"You're spending a lot of time with him."

You looked up from your lunch.

"What?"

"With Yuji."

"No I'm not."

"You literally left school together yesterday."

"Coincidence."

"The day before?"

"Coincidence."

"The day before that?"

...

"Repeated coincidence."

Meanwhile:

"You're smiling."

Yuji looked up.

"Huh?"

Nobara narrowed her eyes.

"You've been smiling at your phone."

"No I haven't."

"You literally just did it."

"No."

Megumi looked over once.

"...It's her, isn't it?"

Yuji froze.

"No."

"It's her..."

Nobara said, crossing her arms and squinting at Yuji.

Yuji buried his face into his arms.

"STOP KNOWING THINGS."

The problem started when people around you noticed things before you did.

Because apparently everyone had become detectives.

Your manager noticed.

Friends noticed.

Even random strangers seemed to notice.

One afternoon you were working at the café while Yuji sat nearby doing homework.

Well

"Doing homework."

Actually he was staring at the page like the answers might appear through emotional support.

An older customer walked up to the register.

Then smiled.

"Your boyfriend seems bored."

You nearly dropped a cup.

Across the room

Yuji choked on his drink.

"WHAT?!"

The customer blinked.

"Not your boyfriend?"

"NO!"

"NO!"

Silence.

The customer looked between you.

Then smiled slowly.

"Hm."

And walked away.

You stared at Yuji.

Yuji stared at you.

He started

"Heh how funny, i guess-"

"Shut up and do your homework Yuji."

You felt like a mom scolding her child

"Are you even doing your homework?."

He turned red and dived back his head into his notebook.

You scoffed and continued to prepare the costumer's order.

Things got strange after that.

Not bad strange.

Just...

Different.

You started noticing things.

Like how Yuji always walked on the side closest to the street.

How he remembered little things you said.

How he saved snacks you liked.

How he looked for you automatically when entering the café.

How his face lit up every time he saw you.

And suddenly

Those things didn't feel small anymore.

The realization hit you in the dumbest way possible.

You were sitting beside Yuji on a park bench after school.

He was talking.

Very enthusiastically.

About a movie.

Human earth worm or the worm on earth or something..

You weren't even paying attention anymore.

Not because you didn't care.

But because you looked over and suddenly thought:

Oh.

Sunlight was hitting his face.

He was smiling again.

Of course he was.

And before you could stop yourself

Oh no.

OH NO.

Because you liked him.

You liked him.

Actually liked him.

Your brain immediately entered full panic mode.

Downtown in his bedroom

Yuji sat upright in bed.

"OH NO."

The next few days were awful.

Not actually awful.

Awkward awful.

Because now both of you knew your own feelings.

And suddenly everything felt weird.

Eye contact?

Dangerous.

Sitting close together?

Dangerous.

Accidentally touching hands?

CRITICAL DAMAGE.

One afternoon your fingers brushed while reaching for the same drink.

You both pulled back like electricity had attacked you.

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

"Why are we acting weird?"

"I don't know.. Don't ask me"

. . . .

Eventually Nobara got tired of watching this disaster unfold.

She slammed both hands on the lunch table.

"OH MY GOD."

Yuji jumped.

"What?!"

"ASK HER OUT."

Silence.

"What."

"ASK."

"HER."

"OUT."

Yuji looked horrified.

Megumi sighed.

"I've been waiting for this."

Three days later

You were leaving the café after your shift.

Again.

Because apparently every important thing between you two happened outside this building.

Yuji stood nearby waiting.

Again.

You looked at him.

"You waited?"

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

You both looked exhausted.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Yuji suddenly laughed.

A small one.

Then looked at you.

"Okay."

"Hm?"

"I'm tired."

"Tired?"

"Yeah."

He looked embarrassed.

Really embarrassed.

"I like you."

Silence.

Cars passed nearby.

Voices drifted from farther down the street.

And for a second your brain stopped entirely.

Yuji looked like he wanted to launch himself into traffic.

"I-"

"Actually wait-"

"I'M SORRY IF-"

"I LIKE YOU TOO."

Silence.

Yuji stopped.

"...Huh?"

"The heck do you mean,huh??"

You stared.

Yuji stared.

Then

"Wait really?"

"You literally confessed first."

"I KNOW BUT-"

Suddenly that huge stupid smile appeared again.

The one you knew by heart now.

And somehow

You smiled too.

"So."

"yeahh? "

"Are we dating now?"

You looked at him.

Then laughed

"You're asking that after confessing?"

"I'M TRYING MY BEST."

You pretended to think.

"Okay.."

"...Okay?"

"Yeah."

Yuji stared.

"WAIT REALLY?!"

People turned around.

You immediately covered your face.

"IM BREAKING UP WITH YOU ALREADY!!"

"Oh wait.. So we are together!?!"

"Yes we are together dummy"

The air outside the café felt strangely warm.

Maybe because you had both just confessed.

Maybe because Yuji was standing way too close now.

Or maybe because every time you looked at him, his expression got softer in a way that made your heart completely lose composure.

Neither of you were talking anymore.

You had reached that awkward stage after confessing where both people clearly wanted something to happen but were too nervous to actually do anything about it.

Yuji rubbed the back of his neck, laughing quietly under his breath.

His face was red.

"I Can't believe you liked me too," he admitted.

You looked away immediately.

"I can't believe you made this this awkward."

"ME?!"

"You literally stopped functioning for like thirty seconds."

"I was processing emotionally!"

You snorted.

He then slowly took 3 steps to get closer to you.

He then placed his hands on your hips, one of his hand snaked up to cup to side of your cheek

Then tucked a stray strand of your hair.

Yuji stared at you for a second after that.

Then his expression softened again.

And before you could think too hard about it, he leaned in carefully, almost hesitant despite how obvious it was that he wanted to.

The kiss was brief, warm, and slightly clumsy from both of you smiling too much halfway through it.

When you pulled apart, Yuji blinked at you once.

Then twice.

"Whoa."

You immediately covered your face.

"Oh my god."

"No wait-"

Yuji laughed breathlessly.

"That was nice. Like REALLY nice."

"You don't have to review it like food."

"I'm sorryyyy!"

Then suddenly Yuji paused.

Slowly, he looked across the street.

"Uh..."

You frowned.

"What?"

He pointed.

You turned.

Directly across from the café, Nobara stood frozen in complete disbelief.

Megumi stood beside her holding a drink.

Unfortunately for him, Nobara had grabbed his arm so violently during the kiss that the drink had nearly spilled.

Nobara's jaw dropped.

Then:

"I KNEW IT."

Megumi sighed deeply.

The sigh of a man who had predicted this months ago and still suffered anyway.

Meanwhile, Yuji looked like he was about to combust from embarrassment.

Which honestly only made you laugh harder.

After some time, somewhere between coffee orders, train station meetings, and random everyday moments, Yuji became part of your routine without either of you noticing when it happened.

Your relationship never turned into something overly dramatic it just became comfortable, warm, and very Yuji.

Yuji loved through small things. Through waiting for you after your shifts, remembering little details you mentioned once, showing up with snacks he claimed were "extra," and always looking for you first in a crowd. He wasn't big on grand romantic gestures; he just naturally made space for you in everything.

He also became ridiculously affectionate once he was comfortable. Holding your hand while walking became automatic, hugs happened often, and somehow you slowly turned into his favorite place to lean on, rest against, or cling to whenever he felt tired. Physical affection with him felt easy like he simply liked being close to you.

And without realizing it, you became the person Yuji naturally gravitated toward. The first person he wanted to tell things to, laugh with, and spend time around.

Your relationship wasn't built from huge moments.

It was built from small things becoming important.

And somewhere along the way,

you became home to each other.

────────────ෆ────────────

FINALLY FINISHED THE SERIES!!

I had so much fun writing this 🥹 I tried my best to make yuji to be.. Well Yuji 🧍🏽‍♀️

My master list will be made in prolly in a week with small series of yuji and my personal headcanons of him!!

@meikozzus

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated!! 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[ems0sstuff]

..𝑺𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆,𝑺𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆?.. 𝑃𝑡 𝟐

ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ . ʜɪɢʜ sᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴀᴜ . ɴᴏ sᴏʀᴄᴇʀʏ ᴀᴜ . sᴇʀɪᴇs . ғʟᴜғғ . sʟᴏᴡ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏғ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢs ғᴏʀ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ .

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴊᴏʙ ᴀᴛ ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴄᴀғᴇ́. ᴛʜɪɴɢs ɢᴇᴛs ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇs ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀ ᴄᴜsᴛᴏᴍᴇʀ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴄᴏғғᴇᴇ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀs, ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴ ɪɴᴄʀᴇᴀsɪɴɢ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏғ sᴜsᴘɪᴄɪᴏᴜs ᴄᴏɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇs, ᴀɴ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇ sʟᴏᴡʟʏ sᴛᴀʀᴛs ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇ𝒙ᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ.

This is part 2! .... Part one here!

. . . . .

By now, seeing Yuji at the café had become so normal that your brain had created a schedule around it.

Around 4:10 PM?

Yuji usually arrived.

4:12 if he got distracted somewhere.

4:15 if he was with his friends.

4:20 if Nobara was with him because apparently she had to inspect every store in a five-mile radius before going anywhere.

You absolutely did not realize you knew this information.

Absolutely not.

Because that would be weird.

Very weird.

You were not standing behind the counter one afternoon staring at the café door because it was 4:13.Nope.

Not at all.

"Why are you looking at the door?"

You nearly dropped a cup.

Your coworker stared at you.

"I wasn't."

"You've looked over there like six times."

"No I haven't."

"You just did it again."

"...Mind your business."

"Hm."

That hm felt judgmental.

Very judgmental.

Across town, at almost the exact same time

Yuji sat on a bench beside Megumi.

Megumi was drinking from a bottle of tea.

Yuji was staring into space.

"...Megumi."

"Piss off."

Yuji looked at him.

"I didn't even ask anything yet!"

"You have that face."

"What face?"

"The face that says you're about to say something stupid."

"That's kinda mean."

Megumi looked at him.

"Am I wrong?"

"..."

"...No."

Megumi sighed.

"What is it itadori?."

Yuji rubbed the back of his neck.

"Do you think it'd be weird if I asked someone for their number?"

Megumi stared at him.

For one second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

"The café girl?"

Yuji sat upright so fast he almost fell off the bench.

"HOW DID YOU KNOW?!"

Megumi looked exhausted.

Not physically.

Spiritually.

"I need new friends."

Meanwhile

You were currently being emotionally attacked by yourself.

Should I ask?

No.

Too weird.

But is it weird?

Maybe not weird.

People asked for numbers all the time.

Friends asked for numbers.

Normal people asked for numbers.

Would we count as friends?

Wait.

Were you and Yuji friends?

You paused while wiping a table.

You actually paused.

Because somehow

Somehow

You didn't know.

You talked nearly every day.

You saw each other outside school.

You knew things about each other.

You laughed together.

But neither of you had ever actually said:

"Hey we're friends."

Your brain completely stalled.

Later that evening your shift ended.

You untied your apron, grabbed your bag, said goodbye to your manager, and stepped outside.

Cool air brushed against your face.

Streetlights had started turning on.

The sky had turned orange and deep blue.

Then

"Oh."

You blinked.

Yuji was standing outside.

Hands in his pockets.

Looking down the street.

Then he noticed you.

"Oh!"

For some reason

For some completely unknown reason

Both of you suddenly looked awkward.

Which made absolutely no sense.

You'd talked a million times.

But this time was different

Why was this weird?

"Heyy."

"Hi?"

The silence immediately became uncomfortable.

Yuji scratched his cheek.

You stared at the ground.

A bike passed nearby.

A car drove by.

Somewhere in the distance someone was laughing.

Then at the exact same time

"So I wanted to ask you something"

"Actually can I ask you"

You both stopped

You both stared at each other, almost into your souls

"Oh."

Then:

"You go first."

"No no, you go first."

"No, it's okay!."

"No, you first."

"No you."

You narrowed your eyes.

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The polite fighting thing."

"I'm not!"

"You are."

"I'm literally not."

"You are."

"I'm literally-"

"Yuji..."

You said as if you stood your ground, sending a glare at him.

No any sort of negative energy intended

"Okay."

He straightened up dramatically.

Took a breath.

Looked determined.

He pointed at you and straighten his shoulders and back ridiculously looking like a statue.

"I HAVE A QUESTION."

"...Why are you standing like that?"

"I'M TRYING TO BUILD MOMENTUM."

You chucked at him

He took another breath nervously

Then:

"CAN I GET YOUR- "

"CAN I-

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Everything stopped.

A leaf rolled dramatically across the sidewalk like this was some old western showdown.

You blinked.

Yuji blinked.

Slowly:

"Number?"

"Number?"

"WAIT."

Yuji stared at you.

"You were gonna ask me?!"

"WHAT?!"

"What do you mean 'what?' ?!"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

"YOU WERE THE ONE ASKING!"

"You were too!!"

You both exclaimed at each other not noticing what was happening around you two

People walking by were staring now.

Neither of you noticed.

Yuji looked like his brain had just disconnected.

Very slowly

His face started turning red.

You felt your own face warming too.

And then

You looked at each other.

For a second.

Two seconds.

Then suddenly

"PFFFT-"

You started laughing.

Actually laughing.

The kind where you couldn't stop.

Yuji bent forward holding his stomach.

"No way.."

"What are the chances?!"

"I spent like hours thinking about this!!"

"YOU DID?!"

"I ASKED MEGUMI FOR ADVICE!"

"YOU ASKED MEGUMI?"

"OUT OF ALL PEOPLE?"

"HE WASN'T HELPFUL!"

Across town, Megumi suddenly sneezed.

.....

"Weird.. I feel provoked all of a sudden.."

Megumi said to himself in his mind.

He felt his intuition telling him that someone was talking about it. How very Megumi of him.

Back outside the café.

You looked at Yuji.

Yuji looked at you.

Then grinned.

"So."

He said

"All ears..."

You responded

"Can I still get your number?"

You looked at him for a moment.

Then smiled.

"Uhh I'll think about it."

Yuji stared.

"You're evil."

"Customer service not available.."

He pouted

"Nah I'm kidding.."

You rustled through your tote bag and pulled out your phone

"Here put it in"

You handed your phone over with a warming smile

A huge ass smile popped on yuji's face

"Thanks.."

Once you both exchanged number, you didn't just leave yet. You both talked for a while and left for the night,relieved that it actually wasn't that hard to ask for somebody's number.

────────────ෆ────────────

Heyy.. Sorry for the delay 🥹 part 3 will be out in a few days I hope you enjoyed this!!

(Also I'm so sorry if it seems rushed.. 😔)

Tag list: @keannexx0 @xbzypixdl @meikozzus

(I somehow can't tag those I wanna tag💔)

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated!! 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[ems0sstuff]

..𝑺𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆,𝑺𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆?.. 𝑃𝑡 𝟐

ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ . ʜɪɢʜ sᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴀᴜ . ɴᴏ sᴏʀᴄᴇʀʏ ᴀᴜ . sᴇʀɪᴇs . ғʟᴜғғ . sʟᴏᴡ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏғ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢs ғᴏʀ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ .

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴊᴏʙ ᴀᴛ ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴄᴀғᴇ́. ᴛʜɪɴɢs ɢᴇᴛs ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇs ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀ ᴄᴜsᴛᴏᴍᴇʀ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴄᴏғғᴇᴇ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀs, ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴ ɪɴᴄʀᴇᴀsɪɴɢ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏғ sᴜsᴘɪᴄɪᴏᴜs ᴄᴏɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇs, ᴀɴ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇ sʟᴏᴡʟʏ sᴛᴀʀᴛs ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇ𝒙ᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ.

This is part 2! .... Part one here!

. . . . .

By now, seeing Yuji at the café had become so normal that your brain had created a schedule around it.

Around 4:10 PM?

Yuji usually arrived.

4:12 if he got distracted somewhere.

4:15 if he was with his friends.

4:20 if Nobara was with him because apparently she had to inspect every store in a five-mile radius before going anywhere.

You absolutely did not realize you knew this information.

Absolutely not.

Because that would be weird.

Very weird.

You were not standing behind the counter one afternoon staring at the café door because it was 4:13.Nope.

Not at all.

"Why are you looking at the door?"

You nearly dropped a cup.

Your coworker stared at you.

"I wasn't."

"You've looked over there like six times."

"No I haven't."

"You just did it again."

"...Mind your business."

"Hm."

That hm felt judgmental.

Very judgmental.

Across town, at almost the exact same time

Yuji sat on a bench beside Megumi.

Megumi was drinking from a bottle of tea.

Yuji was staring into space.

"...Megumi."

"Piss off."

Yuji looked at him.

"I didn't even ask anything yet!"

"You have that face."

"What face?"

"The face that says you're about to say something stupid."

"That's kinda mean."

Megumi looked at him.

"Am I wrong?"

"..."

"...No."

Megumi sighed.

"What is it itadori?."

Yuji rubbed the back of his neck.

"Do you think it'd be weird if I asked someone for their number?"

Megumi stared at him.

For one second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

"The café girl?"

Yuji sat upright so fast he almost fell off the bench.

"HOW DID YOU KNOW?!"

Megumi looked exhausted.

Not physically.

Spiritually.

"I need new friends."

Meanwhile

You were currently being emotionally attacked by yourself.

Should I ask?

No.

Too weird.

But is it weird?

Maybe not weird.

People asked for numbers all the time.

Friends asked for numbers.

Normal people asked for numbers.

Would we count as friends?

Wait.

Were you and Yuji friends?

You paused while wiping a table.

You actually paused.

Because somehow

Somehow

You didn't know.

You talked nearly every day.

You saw each other outside school.

You knew things about each other.

You laughed together.

But neither of you had ever actually said:

"Hey we're friends."

Your brain completely stalled.

Later that evening your shift ended.

You untied your apron, grabbed your bag, said goodbye to your manager, and stepped outside.

Cool air brushed against your face.

Streetlights had started turning on.

The sky had turned orange and deep blue.

Then

"Oh."

You blinked.

Yuji was standing outside.

Hands in his pockets.

Looking down the street.

Then he noticed you.

"Oh!"

For some reason

For some completely unknown reason

Both of you suddenly looked awkward.

Which made absolutely no sense.

You'd talked a million times.

But this time was different

Why was this weird?

"Heyy."

"Hi?"

The silence immediately became uncomfortable.

Yuji scratched his cheek.

You stared at the ground.

A bike passed nearby.

A car drove by.

Somewhere in the distance someone was laughing.

Then at the exact same time

"So I wanted to ask you something"

"Actually can I ask you"

You both stopped

You both stared at each other, almost into your souls

"Oh."

Then:

"You go first."

"No no, you go first."

"No, it's okay!."

"No, you first."

"No you."

You narrowed your eyes.

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The polite fighting thing."

"I'm not!"

"You are."

"I'm literally not."

"You are."

"I'm literally-"

"Yuji..."

You said as if you stood your ground, sending a glare at him.

No any sort of negative energy intended

"Okay."

He straightened up dramatically.

Took a breath.

Looked determined.

He pointed at you and straighten his shoulders and back ridiculously looking like a statue.

"I HAVE A QUESTION."

"...Why are you standing like that?"

"I'M TRYING TO BUILD MOMENTUM."

You chucked at him

He took another breath nervously

Then:

"CAN I GET YOUR- "

"CAN I-

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Everything stopped.

A leaf rolled dramatically across the sidewalk like this was some old western showdown.

You blinked.

Yuji blinked.

Slowly:

"Number?"

"Number?"

"WAIT."

Yuji stared at you.

"You were gonna ask me?!"

"WHAT?!"

"What do you mean 'what?' ?!"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

"YOU WERE THE ONE ASKING!"

"You were too!!"

You both exclaimed at each other not noticing what was happening around you two

People walking by were staring now.

Neither of you noticed.

Yuji looked like his brain had just disconnected.

Very slowly

His face started turning red.

You felt your own face warming too.

And then

You looked at each other.

For a second.

Two seconds.

Then suddenly

"PFFFT-"

You started laughing.

Actually laughing.

The kind where you couldn't stop.

Yuji bent forward holding his stomach.

"No way.."

"What are the chances?!"

"I spent like hours thinking about this!!"

"YOU DID?!"

"I ASKED MEGUMI FOR ADVICE!"

"YOU ASKED MEGUMI?"

"OUT OF ALL PEOPLE?"

"HE WASN'T HELPFUL!"

Across town, Megumi suddenly sneezed.

.....

"Weird.. I feel provoked all of a sudden.."

Megumi said to himself in his mind.

He felt his intuition telling him that someone was talking about it. How very Megumi of him.

Back outside the café.

You looked at Yuji.

Yuji looked at you.

Then grinned.

"So."

He said

"All ears..."

You responded

"Can I still get your number?"

You looked at him for a moment.

Then smiled.

"Uhh I'll think about it."

Yuji stared.

"You're evil."

"Customer service not available.."

He pouted

"Nah I'm kidding.."

You rustled through your tote bag and pulled out your phone

"Here put it in"

You handed your phone over with a warming smile

A huge ass smile popped on yuji's face

"Thanks.."

Once you both exchanged number, you didn't just leave yet. You both talked for a while and left for the night,relieved that it actually wasn't that hard to ask for somebody's number.

────────────ෆ────────────

Heyy.. Sorry for the delay 🥹 part 3 will be out in a few days I hope you enjoyed this!!

(Also I'm so sorry if it seems rushed.. 😔)

Tag list: @keannexx0 @xbzypixdl @meikozzus

(I somehow can't tag those I wanna tag💔)

reblogs, comments, and likes would be really appreciated!! 🫶🏽

©_ems0sstuff

do NOT repost or feed my content to AI or anywhere else or mahoraga will climb up your ass tonight.

[continuumh]

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