love hard
summary. after years of failed dating app matches, you finally hit it off with someone. he’s funny, charming, emotionally available… and apparently?! not who you thought he was... literally — because he used his ex-best friend suguru geto as his profile picture! so now, you’re stranded in a foreign country for the holidays, stuck with the real satoru gojo: a digimon-loving, trivia-winning, six-foot-tall nerd who... sure. may have catfished you. but he also might just win your heart.
tags/warnings. fluffy holiday au. nerdjo. light angst. slow burn. eventual smut. long distance relationship (reader is from cali, satoru is from japan). fake dating. one bed trope (yuuuup). found family feelings w/ the jjk cast. lots of dorky humor. alcohol/weed usage. there’s a bit of suguru x reader (also sukuna hits on you a lot bc he wants to piss gojo off). endgame is satoru x reader w/ a happy ending! soft and silly romcom vibes.
author note. merry christmas! this fic is loosely based on the movie Love Hard (w/ my own retelling). it'll be 2 parts! i wanted it to be a oneshot and was rly hoping to finish it before christmas but life got in my way so alas. i'll say more towards the bottom but enjoy this first part for now~ (art by @/leimiruu on x)
main masterlist - part 2 >>>
Love is… hard.
Not ‘hard’ like an honest misunderstanding, or a fight you work through with emotional maturity and a seasonally appropriate Hallmark movie kiss.
No — ‘hard’ like dodging your fifth unsolicited dick pic of the week while Googling ‘how to spot a narcissist,’ because apparently you need a manual now. Like realizing your therapist makes more money off your dating trauma than you ever will.
Which is funny, considering people pay you to write about it.
“Do I believe in love? No. But I do believe in ad revenue. And trust me — what you’re writing? Sells. You’ll make it big, darling. I swear.”
Wise words from your boss, Mei-Mei. And by wise, you mean cold, calculated, and unfortunately? Very on brand.
You’re a columnist for Swipe Right into Hell, and your beat? Disaster dates. Ghostings. Red flags. You write about it all. One guy asked if he could wear his ex-wife’s wedding ring during sex. Another told you he didn’t believe in astrology or feminism — but he did believe in Bitcoin.
So, yeah. If love is a battlefield, you’re the war correspondent. Bulletproof. Jaded. Always packing a pen.
You’d think by now — after all the swipes, the situationships, the nights replaying bad decisions in bathroom mirrors — you’d have cracked the code. Found the formula. Unlocked the algorithm to real connection.
Mei-Mei certainly thinks you did.
“Ughhh. You’re a genius! I swear, your last column was chef’s kiss,” she purred to you on Monday, tapping her lacquered nails against a chart of engagement analytics. “Tragically humiliating… in a relatable way, of course!”
Tragically humiliating?
Yeah, sure. That’s one way to describe it. Your date dumped you via a Venmo memo when you asked him to split the bill with you.
(“Lunch was great. You’re not. ✌️”)
“Uh... thanks. I think?”
You weren’t entirely sure if that was praise or exploitation — because with Mei-Mei, the line was always blurred.
“Of course, baby!” she cooed. “Your ratings are exceptionally high. But... let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” And grinning like a cheshire cat, she slid a detailed spreadsheet in front of you encouragingly.
“We need a story so massive before Christmas. Don’t ask me why, but holiday trauma performs extremely well. I expect your report by early-December. Get back out there, hm?”
Apparently, love is dead. Because people live for drama. For tragedy. It’s unfortunate, but it gets the clicks. And despite all the ‘new material’ you’re looking for? A part of you still aches — still yearns — for love.
So, like a well-trained masochist, you swipe. Again.
| Brett, 27 — Los Angeles, CA | “Hey, kitten. I’m Sapiosexual. An INTJ. Love your profile. Let’s chat, yeah?”
Sent a dick pic and texted “U up?” at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. (You weren’t)
Swipe.
| Colin, 32 — Santa Monica, CA | “Sup. I’m just a nice guy. Totally not like other guys.”
Sent a three-paragraph spiral about how nice guys finish last due to unrequited love. (With his childhood best friend.)
Swipe.
| Naoya, 22 — Orange County, CA | “What do you do for fun? Because let me set the record straight. I love a woman who knows their place. Preferably, three steps behind me. Or in the kitchen.”
You reported him. Twice. (Just to be sure…)
Swipe.
| Greg, 25 — San Francisco, CA | “Hey. Uh... I’m married btw. But it’s complicated, u know?”
You almost admire the honesty. (Almost.)
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
You were about five more red flags away from joining a monastery when suddenly, you got an idea. Perhaps... it’s just California? You’ve been living here your whole damn life. Let’s try escaping the endless sea of self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” — the gym bros, the surfer stoners. The men who think that being emotionally available is a liability.
So? You expand your distance radius.
Like...
Way out.
Just to see what would happen.
| Satoru, 26 — Kyoto, Japan | “Hey. I’m not here to play games. Unless it’s Mario Kart. But don’t cry, because I’d totally win, sweetheart.”
It’s a miracle. Because for once, there’s no shirtless mirror selfie. It’s just a guy on a front porch, wearing a hoodie. There’s a coffee cupped in his hands, with long raven hair falling against the violet hue of his eyes.
He has gauges, a sleepy smile, and oh my god he’s—
…gorgeous.
And not the curated, flex-for-attention kind of gorgeous you’ve learned to dodge. No. There’s something… approachable about him. Soft. Stupidly warm. Like if you sat beside him, he wouldn’t talk — he’d listen.
~ ♡ ︎ You’ve matched with Satoru Gojo! ♡ ︎ ~ ...typing Satoru: Did you know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old? There are billions of galaxies. Trillions of stars. And yet… here we are. Matched on a dating app. Satoru: So… hi! Satoru: Wanna test fate? You: lol 😂 You: well then... You: that’s one way to say hello!! 😝 Satoru: Yeah... figured I’d lead with existential dread instead of wyd 😉
He was... normal.
Stupidly normal. Maybe a bit nerdy. But somehow? It worked. He made you smile.
...typing Satoru: Okayokayokay... but REAL question... Satoru: Do you pour milk before cereal??? 🤨 Or are you a functioning member of society? You: 😨😨 You: excuse you!! You: what kind of monster do you think i am??? 😒 Satoru: Phew 😩 Satoru: Just needed to be sure!! People have surprised me before
And just like that, you were hooked.
You talked while brushing your teeth. On your lunch break. In bed, half-asleep, phone screen dimmed but still open to his thread. He’s got opinions on everything.
Anime, horror movies, why candy canes are overrated, the superiority of old-school consoles, and the tragic fall of Yahoo Answers.
One day he asked:
...typing Satoru: Are you more of a salty girl or a sweet girl?
You paused, halfway through folding laundry, holding one sock while you reach for your phone.
...typing You: hmmm..... You: are we talking snacks?? or personality type? Satoru: 👀 Satoru: Well shit... Satoru: Now I wanna know the answer to both... You: hehehe 😇 You: what do YOU think i am? Satoru: Oh, hell no... Satoru: I’m not falling for that Satoru: Bc if I guess wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it. You: pshhh... You: that response answers for me 😛 You: but hmm... i guess i’m both? You: bc it depends on the day... OR the person. Satoru: Okay cool Satoru: Soooo... I’m either incredibly lucky, or you’re about to ruin my life in a really interesting way. You: ruin you?? You: never!! You: ...you're one of the few people i actually wanna be sweet to ❤️ Satoru: ❤️ Satoru: Guess it's a good thing that I'm a sweet guy 😉 both snack AND personality wise Satoru: Which brings me back to the important question... Satoru: Snacks Satoru: Salty or sweet. Answer wisely, sweetheart. You: hmm... Satoru: This data could make or break us 🤨 You: imma salty kinda girl Satoru: ... You: but i don’t dislike sweet things! 😘 Satoru: Siiiiiigh... Satoru: Fine. I respect it Satoru: Even though it’s OBJECTIVELY the wrong answer 🙄 guess I’ll just have to be the sweet one in this relationship
Somehow, it never felt forced. You didn’t have to explain your jokes. You didn’t have to shrink yourself or play dumb or brace for silence. He got it. He got you. And he made you laugh — constantly. But more than that… he made you feel safe.
It was easy to forget you’d never seen him move. Never heard his laugh in real life.
Until you started calling each other.
What started as a five-minute “just wanted to hear your voice” spiraled into two hours. Then three. Now it’s just… what you do. The sound of his voice has become background music — familiar and warm, the kind of thing you could fall asleep to. Soft, a little raspy, warm around the edges when he laughs.
He talks fast when he gets excited — usually about Digimon lore, bad anime dubs, or some absurd theory he read online at 3 a.m. He jumps from tangent to tangent like he’s chasing thoughts through constellations — but somehow, never leaves you behind.
And when he’s really into something, you can hear it. His voice lifts like gravity can’t hold it.
“Hmm… if we were two particles traveling at the speed of light,” he murmured, “do you think we’d still find each other in another timeline?”
“Oh my god…” you smiled against your pillow; voice thick with sleep. “Is this your version of ‘Would you still love me if I was a worm’ Satoru?”
His laugh was soft and breathy, wrapping around your ribs like ribbon.
“Pshh… no,” he scoffed, and you could hear the pout in his voice as he shuffled against his own bedsheets. Then, with a huff he drawled. “This is my scientifically superior version of that question.”
“Mmm… I see,” your hum was sleepy, curling deeper under the blanket. Grinning, your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured. “Yes. I think we would”
A comfortable silence settled, and you could hear the line crackle softly as he exhaled.
“I wish…” he said after a beat, “…we could spend Christmas together. It’s not fair you’re so far away.”
His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud. And somehow, it landed harder than any confession. You pressed your ear closer to the phone, like maybe, if you try hard enough, you’ll feel the weight of him on the mattress beside you.
“Yeah…” you whispered. “Me too.”
You’d been talking to Satoru for a month now — and honestly, every other man you come across can’t hold a candle to him. So, when Mei Mei saunters to your desk December 1st, silk blouse pristine and judgment already locked and loaded, you know she’s not going to like what she finds.
“It’s officially December, my dear,” she hums, lowering herself into the chair across from you, tilting her head in that familiar, patronizing way. “So. Where are my lines?”
Your fingers still over the keyboard. Time to come clean.
“I know, I know…” you say, rubbing at your temples before finally looking up. Your heart thumps harder than it should. “And… don’t be mad. But… just hear me out. What if this year… I don’t write about heartbreak?”
It’s like you might as well have told her you quit. The silence is deafening while she blinks at you, deadpan — like you’ve grown a second head.
“Darling,” she says coolly, with a bitter laugh. “Christmas is in three weeks. I don’t need pleasantries — I need pain.”
“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you push gently, sitting a little straighter in your chair. “Christmas is supposed to feel… good. Warm. Like something you lean into, not brace yourself against.” You gesture vaguely toward the window, the gray sky.
You’ve always been alone for the holidays. No family. No one asking when you’ll be home.
“I mean… people are… tired. Stressed. Lonely. The world already feels cold enough without another reminder that love is awful. Right?”
Mei scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder, repulsed by the suggestion. “That mushy shit doesn’t sell…” And her eyes sharpen, flicking back to you. “You sound dangerously sentimental. Very unlike you, darling.”
Your mouth opens. Closes.
Little does she know… this is you. Or at least, the you that’s been kept hidden your entire career — doing something that feels so… empty. You’re tired. Tired of pretending that love is dead. For once, you want to believe in it. Believe that all this with Satoru — the potential for love — could be real.
“…I met someone.”
That gives her pause.
“Oh?”
Her snobbish tone is hard to ignore, but you don’t let it diminish the excitement you feel from the thought of him.
Satoru.
“Yeah… he’s—” you begin with a breathless laugh, tucking your chin into your palm like it might hide your grin. “Ugh. He’s good, Mei. Like… really fucking good. Funny… smart… thoughtful…”
But Mei’s sculpted brow arches as you continue to gush.
“Ohmygod and so handsome too,” you breathe, face lighting up. “Like. It’s unfair how good-looking he is, I swear. Plus, he remembers the little things I say, and he always checks in when I’ve had a rough day. It’s like…” you pause, breath catching as your heart aches with longing.
“It’s like… he sees me, Mei.”
At that, a knowing hum rumbles through your boss.
“I see…” she nods, lips tugging upward. “Well. Can you show me a picture, then?”
“Oh, sure!” you chirp, already digging for your phone in your bag. Your heart flutters at the sight of his photo, and after navigating to his profile, you hand the device over to her.
Her eyes narrow, then flick back to you. “This guy is in Japan…” and you can already hear it, that condescending tone, syrupy sweet. “I wonder… have you seen him yet?”
“W-What?” you blink, crossing your arms, instantly on guard. “Well… no. But it’s a sixteen-hour time difference! It’s hard to line up video calls, but we talk all the time and—”
“Mm.” That’s all she needs. She’s handing the phone back with a noise you’d describe as infuriatingly smug. “No way he’s that perfect,” she says, already rising to her feet. “I bet he’s catfishing you.”
Your heart drops.
God. That’d be just your luck.
“What?! N-No!” you argue, unwilling to entertain the idea. “It’s real, Mei. He’s real.”
“Mmm. So is Santa Claus~”
You scoff, brows furrowing.
“No, seriously. He said he wanted to spend Christmas with me. I was actually thinking of surprising him — flying out and —”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she interrupts, saccharine and sharp. “Flying to Japan? To meet a man you’ve never met?” a loud pompous laugh bursts out of her lips, making your blood boil. “Ahhh… what a story! I expect lines, my dear~”
And as her heels are clicking away, you glare after her, cheeks hot, heart thudding with equal parts embarrassment and fury.
That… bitch.
Fine. You’re going to prove her wrong.
You must.
It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Satoru’s address.
You told him you wanted to send a Christmas present. He teased you, of course.
“A present? For little old me?” he drawled. “Awh… what is it? Is it scandalous? Oh!! Is it Digimon related??” You could practically hear the grin in his voice. And sure enough, a minute later, he sent his address with a laughing “Fine. But only if it’s Digimon-related, sweetheart.”
Little does he know…
It’s you you’re sending.
(Though yes, he’s still getting something Digimon-related too. You spent two weeks hand-knitting a Gabumon scarf hat — complete with floppy ears, tiny claws, and a ridiculous little horn. It’s absolutely absurd. You hope he’ll love it.)
Kyoto is blanketed in snow when you land — your breath visible in the air as you drag your suitcase outside the airport, gloved fingers fumbling with your phone. You manage to request a car (thank god for global apps), but the second the driver steps out and starts speaking rapid-fire Japanese, your brain goes static.
“Uh…. sumimasen?”
It’s the only word you know that seems remotely polite. That, and arigatou. Oh, and you know, baka, (thanks to Satoru’s anime rants about how “sub is superior to dub.” He swears by it, so naturally, you’ve started watching anime. In sub. Maybe because it feels like holding onto a piece of him.)
As you enter the car, you press your face to the frosty window and Kyoto whirls past — ancient shrines nestled between sleek buildings, power lines framed by snow-laced branches, vending machines glowing like beacons in the dark. The city is beautiful. Foreign. Dreamlike.
But then, the car pulls up to his house — and suddenly, you’re the one who feels foreign.
Because what the hell.
The place is huge.
It’s walled off with an iron gate, and a winding stone path leading up to a home that looks like a cross between a modern compound and a high-end ryokan. He’d told you his family was well off, but you didn’t realize well off meant a fucking dynasty.
Great. Now you’re standing here with your thrifted suitcase, the handmade gift for him, wrapped in a flimsy bag, wearing your own knitted scarf and a coat you borrowed from your roommate because your own has a busted zipper. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every chipped nail, every dollar you don’t have in your bank account.
God. What are you even doing here? This man seems ever more too good to be true. What if he’s playing you? What if… Mei’s right. Does he even want you? What’ll he do when he sees you? What’ll he say?
Fuck.
You take a deep breath, tugging your scarf a little higher, gripping his present like a lifeline. It’s fine. Whatever. You came all this way. No turning back now, right?
When you ring the doorbell, a faint chime echoes inside the estate. The air bites at your cheeks while voices murmur on the other side. Footsteps near the entrance and then—
Click!
The shoji slides open. You’re grinning nervously — heart hammering in your chest, steadying yourself as a figure comes into sight. A figure whom is—
A woman.
“えっ…誰？何かご用ですか？”
She stands with one hand on the frame, backlit by the warm glow of the house behind her. Dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. She’s tall. Cool. Effortlessly poised in a way you’ve never been. And she looks… young. Maybe your age.
Mei’s laugh is echoing in your goddamn ears.
Double fuck…
Did Satoru lie? Is this his girlfriend? His wife? A casual fling he forgot to mention? God. Is this why he never video chatted you?
It feels like a kick to the chest.
What the hell were you thinking?? Flying across the world for a guy you’ve never met in person?!
“ちょっと、聞こえてる？”
She’s still looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed with vague curiosity — and you realize with a jolt you haven’t said anything. Not a word.
“Oh! I—uh—sumimasen?” you stammer, fumbling with the little Japanese you know. “S-Sorry, I… I don’t speak Japanese,” you laugh, awkward and breathless. “I think I have the wrong house, though. I was looking for someone named Satoru but—” with a glance past her, you try not to look desperate.
God. You’re such an idiot.
“Uhhh… never mind,” and clutching your suitcase, you attempt to retreat. “I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”
Though her hand shoots out, catching your sleeve.
“Oh. Satoru? That idiot?” she says casually, in English this time — voice smooth, tinged with amusement. She flicks ash off the edge of the porch. “Yeah, you’re at the right house. He’s just at the FamilyMart with Yuji right now. Craving strawberry shortcake, apparently.”
As your brain begins to short-circuit, she takes one last drag of her cigarette, then steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.
“C’mon. You’ll freeze your ass off.”
“Oiii,” Shoko calls. “We have a guest, guys! Say hello to—oh, um… sorry, what’s your name again?”
Before you know it, you’re stepping inside – toeing off your shoes at the entrance. Your feet pad against the tatami as you round the corner, and you’re greeted with a group of three other men sitting casually around a low table, with an abundance of snacks at the center.
Though, despite how laid-back the room appears, with pillows and drinks and half opened bags – there’s an underlying tension so thick, you swear it could cut glass.
They’re all staring at you with stone faces.
One man is blonde, with a chiseled jawline and a stern demeaner. Another has bubblegum-pink hair and tattoos crawling up both arms, and the third is a teenager with messy black hair who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
Are these Satoru’s… friends? Family? He’s never mentioned them before.
Shoko takes another drag from her cigarette, unfazed. “I’m Shoko, by the way,” she says lazily, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Known Satoru for years. Unfortunately.” She smirks. “This is Kento, Sukuna, and Megumi.”
“H-Hello…” you murmur, gripping the handle of your suitcase as you hold a tight, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for… dropping in like this. I just flew in from America and… I was hoping that — well, Satoru would be here?”
“Gojo?” Sukuna gruffs, leaning back on one elbow. He plucks a piece of pocky from the snack tray and chews it without breaking eye contact. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? His secret girlfriend or somethin’?”
The words hits harder than it should.
Girlfriend? Secret?
God, what are you to him?
And now, it dawns on you that they haven’t a clue who you are either. Of course, they don’t. Why would they?
You feel your cheeks heat. “O-oh, no. No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hand like it’ll brush the embarrassment away. “I mean… we talk. We’ve been talking. But—”
You trail off and they’re all looking at you with raised brows.
“We don’t have a label or anything. We’re just… friends.”
“Friends?” Sukuna perks up, grin widening. “So lemme get this straight. You flew twelve hours across the globe for that pretentious dick?” He scoffs. “And he hasn’t even put a label on you?”
There’s something dangerously amused in his tone now, and he tosses the half-eaten pocky stick back onto the tray.
“Damn. Lucky bastard.”
You blink, unsure whether to feel insulted or embarrassed or both.
"Don’t you worry sweet thing. You decide to stay and I can show ya how a real man can take care of ya, hm?"
Kento shifts, cutting him a glance. “Sukuna…”
“What?” he says, raising both hands innocently. “This girl is hot as fuck. And I’m just saying — if it were me? I’d at least make sure she knew what she was walking into. Or out of. I'm not like that asshole.”
You blink again.
Is he… hitting on you?
“Great... here we go…” Megumi mutters.
And Kento sighs, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Please ignore him,” he tells you, voice calm but firm. “Everything is a pissing contest with Gojo where he’s concerned.”
“Okay, first of all — fuck you,” Sukuna snaps, sitting up straighter now, suddenly defensive. “It’s not about competition. I’m just not blind. Look at her!”
You blush subtly, and Megumi mutters, barely glancing up.
“Don't take him seriously... trust me. He says that. But every time Gojo brings a fangirl around, he's always trying to take her home like it’s a fucking game.”
...fangirl?
The word slams into your chest like a hammer. Is that what they think you are? You stiffen, heart dropping. Because that proves it. You shouldn’t be here. Of course someone like him would get dozens of women throwing themselves at him.
What made you think you were any different?
You shouldn’t have come.
“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, grip tightening around the suitcase as you fumble to gather your things. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to barge in. I’ll just—”
And bowing your head, you spin on your heel, until suddenly you collide into someone. But it all happens so quickly; you don’t register who. Because with a gasp, you stumble backwards, entirely focused on how your giftbag slipped from your grip, making Satoru’s scarf fall to the floor.
“W-What… what are you doing here?!”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
'Sorry' must be your go to word tonight. You’re too embarrassed to look up and see more of Satoru’s friends judging you. You’re dropping on your knees, scrambling to gather things with shaking hands mumbling under your breath.
“I’m leaving now… god, I shouldn’t have come. Please don’t tell Satoru I was—"
“WHOA, is that Gabumon?!” a new voice exclaims, bright with curiosity. “Hey Gojo, who’s this?”
At the mention of his name, you freeze.
Your head slowly lifts, eyes tracing up to catch sight of another pink-haired boy, peeking out from behind the man directly in front of you.
But… the man doesn’t look like Satoru. Not the Satoru you’ve come to know.
No. He has snowy-white tousled hair, tucked beneath a beanie, with bright blue eyes, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses.
Nothing like his profile pictures.
“Satoru?” you breathe.
His mouth parts, speechless while he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.
“Dude, that’s so cool! Did you make that?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling. “Gojo she’s a keeper, huh?”
“Mmm… clearly.” Nanami glances over. “Because since when do you let girls know you like Digimon?”
“About damn time,” Shoko snorts, already lighting another cigarette like this is the most amusing thing she’s seen all week.
“And, she flew here for you,” Sukuna laughs from the back, sounding far too smug for someone uninvolved. “Shit, I’ll marry her if you don’t, asshole.”
The voices layer over each other — praise, laughter, awe. But it’s too bright, too loud, and you’re frozen in the middle of it. Feeling completely detached from reality while the blatant truth stands directly in front of you.
He lied.
And the worst part? You believed him. You came all this way. Mei Mei was right.
Love is dead.
“Um, actually. I—I left something outside,” you blurt, shoving the scarf back in the bag and clutching it to your chest, blinking back the tears. “Excuse me a moment.”
And before anyone can stop you, you’re slipping past them — out the door, out of breath — your chest aching with something you can’t yet name. While behind you, footsteps follow as he calls your name.
“Wait—shit. Wait!”
Satoru knows he fucked up. And by the time he barrels out the front door, you’re already halfway down the street, boots crunching through the snow like you’re marching to war.
He feels like a grade A idiot. Because somehow, against all odds, you — this ridiculously perfect girl — came all the way to Japan thinking he was someone worth showing up for.
And now he’s watching you walk away.
“Waitwaitwaitwait…” he groans, jogging after you, breath puffing white in the air. “Slow down and just… can you just—fuck. Just stop for a second?!”
“Stop?!” You whirl around, eyes wet and furious. “Why should I? Who the fuck even are you? What kind of psycho catfishes someone for months and then just lies to their face?!”
He blinks, defensive instinct kicking in before his brain can catch up.
“W‑Well—what kind of psycho flies across the country and shows up on someone’s front lawn?” he fires back, hands flailing. “In Japan, might I add!”
A bitter scoff tears out of you. “You said—and I quote—‘I wish you were here with me for Christmas,’” your arms fold tight across your chest like you’re holding yourself together. “Why the hell would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”
He backpedals immediately. Because fuck — he did mean it. Every late‑night call. Every laugh. Every stupid wish whispered into the dark.
But instead of admitting that, panic takes over.
“L‑Look—that’s just—something people say, okay?” he rambles. “Like… ‘your baby’s so cute,’ or—um— ‘my diet starts tomorrow,’ or—”
He’s waving his hand, scrambling for humor — something to soften it — but the words die on his lips when he sees your face drop. You blink hard, like something inside you just broke. And the sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots.
Great. Now he feels like even more of an asshole.
“Shit… okay,” he blurts, voice softer now. “That was... yeah. Um. That was a dick move. I know...”
“Fuck you…” you mutter, turning back around.
“Hold up! Please… just come inside, yeah? We can talk it out. If you'll just let me explain—"
“I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”
He can hear the hurt underneath the edge of your voice, and he stands there, watching you trudge through the snow – your figure getting smaller against the snow-washed street. He knows there is no salvaging this. He fucked it up. But still… reality slams into him all at once.
You don’t speak the language.
You don’t know the city.
You don’t have a car.
Fuck. Do you even have anywhere to go?
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck… fuck!” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he begins to jog back toward the house, bursting through the door.
“Guys, I’ll be right back!” he shouts to no one in particular as he grabs his keys off the counter, hands shaking. “She left something at the airport!”
Then, he’s gone again. Chasing the only girl who ever made him feel seen.
It’s cold. Too cold for someone with no plan and no fucking clue where you’re going. But the cold doesn’t sting as much as your heart does.
You don’t even know how far you’ve walked. Five minutes? Ten? Your fingers are numb, your phone battery is nearly dead, and your boots are soaked through.
By pure luck, you stumbled into some sort of Japanese bar. And the kanji on the glowing sign outside might as well be ancient runes, but the warmth spilling through the door felt like something close to safety. Like maybe if you just stepped inside, you’d stop feeling so fucking alone.
Because hey, at least the sake tastes good.
You have no Wi-Fi, no plan, not a single ounce of pride left. All you have is the stupid hope that maybe if you drown yourself in enough of this bitter rice wine, it’ll burn the ache out of your chest.
The edges of the bar blur slightly. Everything’s warm and loud. Someone’s laughing too hard in the corner. Across the room, beyond the haze, there’s a man with a dark bun and violet eyes, sipping from a bottle with his head tilted back.
Beautiful.
Almost like…
The photos on Satoru’s profile?
Are you delusional? Drunk? No... that is him. Right??
You’re blinking through the blur, trying to make sense of it. But then? The room begins to spin and sure enough, nausea hits.
“Shit—” you whisper, grabbing the edge of the bar.
You’re pushing off your stool, stumbling outside the icy curb, before you double over and hurl into the snowbank.
Great. Fucking perfect. Can this day get any worse?
“Hey—hey! There you are!”
Oh, yeah. It can.
Tires crunch as a car jerks to a stop beside the curb. The door flies open, left swinging in the cold and Satoru rushes out, barely remembering to throw the gear into park before he’s crossing to you, boots skidding slightly on slush.
“Jesus—fuck. Are you okay?” he drops beside you, crouching low. “What the hell happened—”
“Don’t touch me,” you snap, pushing at him weakly while your body sways. He pulls back like you burned him.
“I’m fffine,” you slur, though your stomach still churns and your face is damp with cold sweat. “Gooo away.”
He sighs, exasperated.
“You’re not fine. You’re pale and shaking and—wait. Are you… drunk?” He exhales, brushing his hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose it. “Come on. Let me take you home.”
“Home?” you laugh, bitter and sharp, scoffing as you shove at him again. “You mean your home?”
“No. I meant… wherever you’re safe. I just—can we not do this right now? Please?”
You snort, head lolling as you stare at the ground. “You’re a liarrrr,” you mutter, voice thick and sloppy. “Jus’ like everyone else.”
The words land heavier than he expects. Wind howls between you, carrying the smell of snow and alcohol and regret. Satoru opens his mouth—closes it. For once, he doesn’t have a smart comeback.
“I’m gonna stay right here,” you announce suddenly, sliding down until your back hits the wall. You cross your arms, chin lifting like it’s some kind of moral victory. “I don’t need you.”
“…in the snow?” he asks flatly.
“Yup,” you nod, blinking too hard. “Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t lie for fun.”
“Jesus, woman—” he drags a hand down his face. “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not just gonna abandon you in an alley behind a bar you can’t even read the name of!”
“Pffft... well I liiike this bar,” you say bitterly, voice cracking. “S'greeat. They poured the sake fast. And nobody lied to me.”
Every time you say it, it hurts him even more. Satoru exhales hard, pacing a few steps like if he stops moving, he might actually lose it. But when he turns back, ready with another argument — another plea — he freezes.
Because you’re... crying.
Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. Ugly, shaking sobs that pull from somewhere deep in your chest, shoulders hitching as you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your coat.
“I hate you,” you mutter, voice wrecked.
His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this.
“I really liked you,” you continue, words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “Like—really liked you. I don’t do this. I don’t fly across the world for people. I don’t—” you hiccup, laughing wetly through the tears. “S'bullshit…” you mutter bitterly.
He blinks, lips pressing in a thin line like he’s unsure what to say. The cold wind blows as you sniffle.
“Plus… you’re hot as fuck. I don’t get it. Like… you didn’t even need to lie…”
You mutter, shifting in the snow. And that one makes him flinch.
“S’stupid… you could’ve jus' been you,” you say, gesturing vaguely at him. “But no. Instead you make up this whole fake version. Lying about everything. Liarrr. And now I can’t trust you. Betcha lied about liking me too, huh? All of it.“
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because that’s the cruel part.
He didn’t lie about everything.
He thinks of the way people’s eyes light up when they recognize his last name. The way conversations shift the second they realize he’s that Gojo. He thinks of years spent being wanted for the wrong reasons — money, status, face value.
And you’re the one person who ever made him feel like it’s okay for liking what he liked. The nerdy, cocky, compulsively sarcastic guy who collects Digimon cards and corrects Wikipedia entries in his spare time.
“Oh yeah… ya know who I saw in there?” you suddenly say, jerking your thumb toward the glowing doorway behind you. “That hot guy from yer pictures.”
Satoru stiffens.
“Uh… Suguru?”
“Oh,” you sniff. “So he’s a real guy?” You laugh again, hollow and dizzy. “Figures. Y’know what? He looks like he wouldn’t lie. Bet he’s honest. Bet he doesn’t make fake profiles and pretend to be someone else.”
You’re too drunk to notice the flinch in his jaw, the way he shifts his weight like the words physically hurt.
“Maybe I’ll go back in and see if he’ll take me home, huh?”
You try to shove off the wall and nearly trip again, but Satoru steadies you without thinking — hands warm and steady under your arms.
“Look…” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “I know you’re mad. And I deserve it. But I’m worried about you.”
His grip adjusts — one hand rising to gently cradle your elbow, the other slipping around to the small of your back as he lowers his head to meet your bleary, mascara-smudged eyes.
“It’s cold,” he says, voice pitched just above a whisper. “It’s late. You’re probably jet-lagged out of your mind. Just… come back to the house with me, alright? Sleep it off. And if you still hate me in the morning—fine. I’ll even help you hook up with Suguru… if you want.”
Your head jerks back slightly, eyes narrowing. “W-What?” You squint at him, breath curling white between you. “Seriously?”
He shrugs with the ghost of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, me and him used to be friends. I’m your best bet.”
“That’s insane,” you mutter.
“I’m aware,” he says dryly. Then, more cautiously: “All I’m asking is that you pretend to be my girlfriend. Just until Christmas is over.”
You scoff, half stumbling again as you try to push away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”
He hesitates. Then breathes out through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second.
“Because… you saw how excited my friends were to meet you. I don’t have a great relationship with my family, okay? Those guys… they’re all I have. I’ve spent holidays alone more years than I haven’t.” His voice cracks a little, just a hair. “I don’t wanna ruin this one… please?”
Something in your expression softens. It hits you all at once, stupid and sharp: how close he is. How blue his eyes are. Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, or the tired honesty in his face, or the fact that for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a liar. He just looks… sad.
“…okay,” you whisper. “Fine. Let’s just… go.”
But when you step forward, you falter slightly, ankle twisting in the snow, and he moves without hesitation — an arm looping under yours, the other bracing your elbow as he helps you upright.
“Shit—okay. Easy, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip.
And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that your guard’s been sanded down to nothing. But for a second? You let yourself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.
He guides you carefully toward the car. The passenger door creaks open. He ducks down to guide you in, one hand braced above your head so you don’t hit it on the frame. His other hand lingers at your lower back. You glance up at him in the doorway.
“Do you… really think Suguru would like me?”
There’s a flicker in his expression. Then a tight smile.
“I think… he’d be lucky if he did.”
You frown, unsure how to read that. But you don’t press.
He closes the door behind you, gently. And as he rounds the car to take his seat, you rest your head against the window — watching snow dust the windshield like ash.
It’s going to be a long Christmas.
The drive home was quiet. When Satoru glanced through the rearview mirror, he realized you were out cold before he even hit the second red light. Your head was tilted against the window, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even.
You looked impossibly beautiful.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, the snow picked up again, soft and powdery in the glow of the porch light. Satoru kills the engine and glances at you one more time.
“Hey… uh. We’re here?”
But you don’t wake. And honestly, he can’t find it in his heart to wake you himself. So instead, he sighs, “C’mon, sleeping beauty…” climbing out and circling the car. “Right… well. Up and at ‘em.”
He lifts you gently, bridal style. And your head lolls against his shoulder, warm breath ghosting across his collar. When he adjusts his grip, you snuggle closer, burrowing into the crook of his neck. And he tries to act like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting.
As he approaches the estate’s entrance, the door slides open before he can knock. Yuji stands there with a bag of chips in one hand and a soda in the other.
“Woah. Dude. She okay?”
“What?! Of course!” Satoru huffs. “She’s fine. Just—tired. Long flight. Jet lag hit her hard, y’know?”
Yuji nods solemnly. “RIP.”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “Move. Gotta put her to bed.”
Yuji moves. Nobody presses further. Satoru doesn’t stop in the hallway, just takes the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his room, nudging the door open with his foot while he eases you inside.
He lowers you onto the bed slowly, like you might break. Your coat bunches beneath you, and he hesitates — then gently shrugs it off your shoulders, exposing some of your bare skin. You murmur something incoherent, head rolling to the side.
“Shhh… time to get some rest, sweetheart…” he breathes. “Lay back for me, yeah?”
As you lay back, he slips your boots off next, one at a time, fingers brushing your ankles. And god, your feet are freezing.
But as he’s reaching for the blanket—
“Mmmph.”
Your hand fumbles blindly and finds his shirt, tugging him down with you. He stumbles forward slightly, one knee landing on the edge of the bed, catching himself on his palms as you tug him down. Your arms wrap loosely around his waist, burying your face into his chest.
“W-Woah—hey,” he breathes, voice cracking a little. “You’re—uh. Kinda clinging there, huh?”
You don’t answer. You just… sigh. Sleepy and content. He lies beside you, unsure where to put his hands, heart racing. You’re cold. He can feel the way you press into him, like he’s the warmest thing in the world. Your fingers bunch his shirt. Your nose nuzzles the fabric.
“Mm… s’toru…”
His heart flutters, and he knows you’ll probably hate him again in the morning, but he doesn’t move.
Because he likes the way you cling to him. Because he’s selfish. Because the girl he lied to for weeks is now curled up in his bed, face pressed to his ribs, saying his name like she’s dreamt it a hundred times.
So, he sleeps beside you that night. Pretending, just for now, that none of it was a lie.
‘I keep thinking… if this is what you’re like over the phone, what the hell am I gonna do if I ever see you in person?’
You’re dreaming again.
Of his voice — that voice. Warm and easy. The one that used to call you at midnight, laughing through the line like it was nothing, like you weren’t slowly losing your mind for a stranger you’d never met.
‘Cause… I really love talking to you. Might just get addicted to you, sweetheart.’
You sigh, stirring slightly against the warmth pressed to you. It’s a heavy, encompassing warmth – like you’ve been swaddled in sunlight and something sweet. There’s an arm draped languidly around your waist, and a thumb twitching against your lower back.
Dreaming.
“Mmph…”
Your thighs are warm, tangled, clinging to something… hard. You wiggle your hips as the rhythm of breathing ebbs and flows beneath you. And that movement makes a low, sleepy sound rumble against your chest.
“Fffuck…”
The groan isn’t innocent, and your brow furrows with a whimper as something firm twitches between your legs. Beginning to grow. A hand flexes at your back, and you instinctively press your thighs tighter, making him gasp.
“Unngh… b-baby…”
As your eyes flutter open, fluttering against his skin, you’re greeted with the slope of his throat, pale in the gray morning light. And the throbbing heat between your legs makes it undeniable now.
This isn’t a dream. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your blanket. And your thighs are straddling Satoru’s hips with his morning wood right there and holy shit—
“S-Satoru?!”
You squeak. And his brow twitches, snowy lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy inhale. When his hazy gaze focuses, you’re met with that blue. Bluer than the sky, bluer than anything should be this early in the goddamn morning.
But then, awareness sinks in, and he stutters. “H-Huh…?” gaze flicking down to the very compromising position you’re both in.
“Shit!” his voice cracks as you shove at his chest, face molten.
“Oh my god—why the hell are we sleeping together?!” you shriek, and he’s desperately trying to explain. “I—You—” he wheezes as you push his again. “Ow, okay, damn, don’t commit a felony! You literally pulled me into the bed when you were drunk. And then you passed out on top of me! I’m the victim here!”
Your hands are still on his chest, mid-push. But you stop. Breath catching. Eyes locking.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
You both look down at his dick.
“…so,” he mutters, throat bobbing as his eyes flick back up to your face—very carefully avoiding your chest, failing miserably. “You, uh… gonna move?”
“R-Right!” your cheeks erupt in flames as you scramble off him like he’s on fire, nearly tripping over the bed. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t mean to…”
“No, it’s uh… fine. Totally fine.” He mumbles with an awkward laugh. “I mean… not that I’m complaining… but damn. If this is how you serve breakfast in America? I might need to move and—”
“Don’t.” You snap, making him freeze. “Don’t say that…”
Your arms are crossed as you stand, pressing your lips together tightly. His expression instantly drops, the humor fading. And god. You want to be mad at him. You should be mad.
But mostly?
Last night comes flashing back – your drunk, pathetic sob story. And really, you just feel… humiliated.
“You don’t get to make jokes right now,” your tone trembles as you try to hold it tight. “Not after last night. Not after I flew across the world for someone who doesn’t exist. For some who—” you trail off, failing to find words that don’t sound even more pathetic. And scoff. “God… I’m such an idiot…”
There’s a long pause. Satoru’s quiet, but then you hear him sigh.
“…you’re not. You’re not an idiot.”
Your eyes flick over as you watch him shift upright, pushing a hand through his messy hair. His expression softens, vibrant eyes dimming with a tenderness. And for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s reaching for some smartass line to soften to blow.
“I told you… I shouldn’t have lied. Okay? I know that…” he scratches the back of his head, knowing there’s no excuse he can give you that’ll make him sound any less pathetic. He exhales, pushing on. “Look… just stay until Christmas. Please? I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you. Even… hook you up with Suguru, like I said.”
He hesitates as he says it. But that’s what you want… right? After all, you expected him. You expected Suguru.
You blink, mouth parting as your conversation at the bar comes crashing back towards your foggy memory. You’d said it to spite him. You were drunk and stupid and humiliated, and you just wanted to wound him.
Because you liked him.
You really, really wanted it to be real.
Your mouth parts. You’re about to answer when your phone buzzes.
Mei: How’s Japan, darling? Is he real? I expect those lines~
You stare at the screen. Something twists in your chest — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. And with a bitter smile, you tuck the phone away.
“Right…” you mutter, rubbing your arm nervously. “Uh… sure. I guess I’ll stay.”
a/n. hello my darlings. merry christmas, i hope you all are enjoying your holiday! i will have pt 2 out before the end of december, lmk if you wanna be tagged. this fic kinda gives me supermodel! gojo vibes? at least with the message it's exploring. hehe. anyways, love you all. thanks for reading 💖 part 2 >>>
