lils

an INFP | kdrama junkie | zayne girlie

[rika-mmendmethings]

Butterfly Effect

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

₊⊹Synopsis: All it takes is one act of cruelty to unravel everything you’ve been forced to be. When you, the daughter of a political leader, land in Akso Hospital after an assault attempt triggers your congenital heart disease, Dr. Zayne is assigned to your case. As you begin to reclaim your sense of self, your life, and your voice, you find Zayne becoming more than just your doctor.

₊⊹Pairing: Zayne x politician's daughter! Reader

₊⊹Content: Mentioned attempted assault, mentioned self harm, reader has heart issues, hurt/comfort, mild angst, medical terms used in a few scenes, I hope that's all, if not lmk.

₊⊹Word Count: 5.4k

₊⊹Notes: Been a long while since I've worked on this again so here it is. I'm currently aiming for total 8 or 10 chapters for this. I hope that this doesn't feel too bleak because I promise you reader's character has not fully shown in the initial stages, there's still room for development. This series is more inclined medically, and although I've done my research, I could still make mistakes. So if you find some practical things messed up, do call me out. Lmk if you want to be added to the tag list of this series. Hope y'all enjoy reading ♥

₊⊹Taglist: @lads-kitten @lh1a @oohlautina @idkletmesleep @evansanseoeoe @chibi-chi @toorulee @lowkaylove @blessdunrest

The next morning arrived softly, almost deceptively so, with pale sunlight filtering through Akso Hospital’s glass corridors and laying a muted sheen over the polished floors. The building itself seemed to breathe in disciplined silence, every surface clean, every sound measured, every movement carrying the polished urgency of a place that never truly slept.

Zayne had been awake long before the sun rose.

By the time his first cup of coffee was sent to his desk, he had already reviewed your charts twice over. Your vitals had remained stable through the night, the ECG tracing consistent, the arrhythmia resolved for now. Yet the clinical steadiness on paper did little to ease the unease that had settled somewhere deeper — something that had nothing to do with cardiac function.

He was aware of what awaited.

The requests had begun early that morning — forensic specialists, psychiatric evaluators, senior consultants, each one briefed and prepared. They had approached him with professional urgency, asking for updates, for clearance, for access. It was routine in cases like this, necessary even, but the memory of last night lingered too vividly for him to reduce you to procedure alone.

He knew what had to be done.

But he also knew you had not been given the space to choose anything yet.

With that thought, he closed the file on his tablet and made his way toward your suite.

Tessa was stationed nearby, carrying a neat tray and a stack of fresh linens. When she noticed him, she straightened at once. “Dr. Zayne.”

He gave a small nod. “How has she been?”

“Quiet,” Tessa said in a lower voice, glancing toward the door as though even speaking too loudly might disturb the hush inside. “She hasn’t called for anyone. She slept for a while, then woke briefly, but she’s been mostly resting.”

Zayne’s gaze lingered on the door handle for a beat longer than necessary. “All right. Let me know if anything changes.”

He stepped inside.

The harshness of last night had softened into something quieter, almost fragile. The room was dim, the curtains still drawn from the night before, leaving the light softened and almost bluish at the edges. The steady rhythm of the monitor broke the stillness in low, regular beeps, a sound so constant it had become part of the room itself.

And you—

You were asleep.

Your hair was a disordered spill across the pillow, tangled at the crown and swept over one shoulder in uneven strands. A thin line of drool marked the side of your face, careless and unguarded, the sort of detail that would have made someone younger laugh if the situation had not been so painfully fragile. Your hands were tucked close to your chest, fingers half-curled, the pose of someone asleep but still prepared to defend yourself. Even in rest, your body had not forgotten fear.

Something in Zayne’s expression softened before he could stop it.

He had seen many patients sleep in hospitals, some peaceful, some drugged, some feverish and twitching beneath the weight of their own symptoms. But this was different. There was an exhausted kind of innocence in the way you lay there, as if your body had finally surrendered because it had run out of ways to stay alert. He stood at the doorway for several long seconds, simply watching you breathe, the rise and fall of your chest faint but steady beneath the hospital gown.

A quiet thought passed through him, unspoken and fleeting.

Resilient.

He exhaled slowly, as if reminding himself where he stood, and stepped further into the room.

Crossing toward the windows, he reached for the curtains and drew them back in one smooth motion.Sunlight spilled in at once, pooling across the floor and over the edge of the bed in warm gold. The room brightened all at once, and you stirred almost immediately, your face tightening in mild distress as the light touched your eyelids. A small, groggy noise escaped you, and you lifted one hand to shield your face, your fingers splaying across your forehead as though the brightness itself had offended you.

Zayne paused, watching the movement with a quiet, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his lips.

Then the expression faded, replaced by the careful alertness that never really left him. He looked around the suite with a surgeon’s instinct for order, taking in everything with one measured sweep. Anything sharp, breakable, or potentially harmful should not remain where it could be reached easily.

Without making a sound, he began clearing the room.

A glass paperweight on the side table disappeared into a drawer, then a fountain pen, even the small razors on the sink — each was quietly removed, assessed, and stored away. When he stepped into the bathroom, his movements were just as thorough. Anything that could be used with intent, even unintentionally, was taken away. He removed the items one by one, storing them in a drawer outside and locking it once he was finished.

Only after that did he turn back.

You were stirring more fully now, blinking through sleep, one hand still half-raised to your face before slowly lowering. Zayne stepped a few feet away from the bed, deliberately keeping his distance so as not to startle you. He had noticed yesterday how sharply you reacted to sudden movement, and he had no intention of undoing the fragile progress, if there was any to speak of, by being careless.

“Good morning, miss,” he said gently.

You blinked up at him, then sat a little straighter, the motion slow and uncertain. There was a trace of embarrassment on your face at once, perhaps from being seen in such a state, perhaps from the knowledge that you had been sleeping so deeply you had not heard him enter.

“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice still rough with sleep.

Zayne’s gaze dropped briefly to the monitor before he approached the bedside. He checked the IV line first, then the pulse reading, the blood pressure cuff, the oxygen saturation, and the fine print of the night chart. His movements were calm and practiced, each adjustment made with the same precision he used in surgery, only gentler here, less commanding. 

You smoothed your gown with both hands, then dragged your fingers through your hair in an attempt to tame it. He noticed, of course, but did not comment. He merely adjusted his glasses and took out his tablet.

Once he was done, he took a seat beside your bed, tablet resting lightly in his hand.

The quiet between you lasted only a beat before he spoke.

“It’s been a day,” he began, his tone careful, each word chosen with intent. “There are a few procedures that need to be considered now.”

Your fingers stilled.

“A SAFE examination,” he continued, watching you closely, “will help document injuries and collect evidence.”

The shift in you was immediate. Your shoulders tensed, your gaze dropping, your breath catching just enough for him to notice.

At once, Zayne realized the words had landed too heavily, and he moved to soften them before the silence could turn into panic.

“You have the absolute right to decide whether you want to report this to law enforcement,” he said, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. “If you need time, that is also an option. The exam can be done anonymously, and the evidence can be preserved while you think it through. There is no need to decide under pressure.”

Your hands found a loose thread at the hem of your gown, picking at it absently as your thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Your father’s voice echoed in memory — sharp, commanding, threaded with frustration as he spoke into his phone. Words about reputation, about opponents waiting for weakness, about damage control. Even now, you could almost feel the weight of that expectation pressing down on you, suffocating in its familiarity.

If you reported this… the consequences would not be yours alone.

You stayed quiet for a long time.

Zayne watched you in silence, giving you the space to breathe. He could see the conflict settling over your face in layers, subtle but unmistakable.

You had not yet spoken of your father, but the fear sat in the room with you anyway.

Maybe it was in the way your shoulders tightened. Maybe it was in the way your jaw hardened briefly as though bracing for a blow that had not yet come. Or maybe Zayne simply knew enough about human behavior to recognize the shape of dread when it was trying not to show itself. The name attached to your file carried influence, that much was obvious. Powerful people had a way of making even the safest choices feel dangerous.

When he spoke again, his voice cut gently through the spiral of your thoughts.

“As I said, there is no urgency to decide everything now,” he reminded. “You can take your time.”

You swallowed, the movement small but visible.

Then you nodded once. “I’ll do it.”

There was no dramatic flourish to the words, no visible relief in your posture afterward, only a kind of exhausted submission to necessity. Still, Zayne’s expression eased by the barest degree, and he allowed himself a small reassuring smile, more encouraging than bright.

“Good. After that, there will also be a psychiatric evaluation,” he said. “It is routine, and it is there to help, not to interrogate you.”

He stood then, adjusting his glasses, the conversation shifting naturally toward closure.

“I’ll have the nurse assist you with getting ready,” he said. “And your meal will be brought in shortly. I’ll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

You nodded again, quieter this time. “Okay.”

Zayne gave a brief inclination of his head in return, then turned toward the door. He had barely taken two steps before you slipped from the bed in your own small, hesitant way, and he heard the rustle of the blanket behind him as Tessa entered a moment later, her movements careful as she began preparing you for what lay ahead.

----

By the time you came downstairs, the hospital had shifted into its busiest rhythm, the kind that made every corridor feel busier than it really was. Stretchers moved past in quiet bursts, phones rang behind glass partitions, and nurses crossed paths with charts pressed to their chests. Zayne was standing near one of the consultation rooms, speaking with a SANE nurse in a low, efficient tone when he saw you appear at the far end of the hallway, accompanied by Tessa.

You looked smaller than he remembered from the morning, not in size, but in the way your body seemed to hesitate before each step. Your gown was held carefully in place at one shoulder, as though even the fabric itself had become a thing to manage, and your gaze kept moving, lifting and dropping in quick, uncertain sweeps of the corridor. Not quite panic. Not quite calm either. Something in between, brittle and watchful.

The SANE nurse noticed you at once. Her posture changed immediately, her expression warming as she stepped forward with the sort of practiced gentleness that only came from experience.

“You must be the patient,” she said softly, offering a smile that was meant to be reassuring rather than intrusive. “I’m Nurse Alina. I’ll be helping with the exam today. We’ll go slowly, all right?”

You gave a small nod, polite, careful, but Zayne noted the way your shoulders remained slightly tense, the way your gaze flickered from the nurse to the hallway and back again, as if searching for an exit that did not exist. Still, you were responding. That alone, given the previous day, was something. 

The nurse did not press. Instead, she turned slightly and gestured toward the examination room. “I’m just going to go in and make sure everything is ready for you.”

She disappeared through the door ahead of you, leaving the hallway quieter in her wake.

Zayne watched you stand there for a moment longer than was probably comfortable, your weight shifting from one foot to the other and back again. He stepped closer, careful not to crowd you.

“This is purely a matter of your own consent,” he said, his voice even and low enough that it would not carry beyond the two of you. “Every procedure will be explained before it is done. If at any point you do not wish to continue, you can stop or decline. There is no obligation to continue beyond what you are willing to endure.”

You lifted your gaze to him then, just briefly, and nodded again, slower this time, as if the words were being absorbed piece by piece.

Before anything more could be said, the Alina’s voice called softly from inside. “We’re ready.”

You drew in a breath that felt shallow even to yourself, then stepped forward. At the doorway, you paused, your fingers brushing lightly against the frame as though anchoring yourself. For a fleeting moment, your eyes found Zayne’s again, and that brief exchange said more than either of you would have been able to voice. He gave you a small, steady nod, the kind meant to say ‘go ahead, I am still here’, before you followed the nurse inside.

Zayne stayed outside.

Tessa hovered nearby for a few seconds, glancing between him and the closed door before speaking in a tentative voice. “Dr. Zayne, you can return if you have any pressing matters. I’ll be sure to take care of her properly.”

He shook his head at once, the motion firm but not abrupt. “No. I’m free.”

It wasn’t entirely true. There were always other patients, other responsibilities waiting to be addressed, charts to review, consultations to attend. But he remained where he was, his gaze occasionally shifting to the clock on the wall, marking the slow passage of time.

Eventually, the door opened.

Nurse Alina stepped out first, followed by two assistants carrying sealed containers and labeled packets, each item handled with the careful precision of evidence that could not be replaced. Her expression was composed, but there was a small crease between her brows that told him enough before she even spoke.

“Dr. Zayne,” she began quietly, stepping closer so her words wouldn’t carry unnecessarily, “we were able to collect partial evidence. However…” she hesitated for a moment, choosing her words with care, “some of the DNA has been compromised. It appears it was washed away prior to the examination.”

Zayne’s expression did not shift, but his gaze lowered briefly, a silent acknowledgment of what that meant.

“We’ll rely on the clothing that was collected earlier,” she continued. “That should make up for some of the loss.”

“Understood,” he said. “Take what you need.”

Alina gave a small, respectful incline of her head and moved away with the other staff, the evidence secured in their hands.

A moment later, you came out.

You were still fixing your gown at one shoulder, your movements smaller now, as though the exam had drained whatever spare strength you had been carrying into it. Zayne noticed the difference immediately. There was no overt distress on your face, no visible breakdown, but your expression looked dimmer somehow, touched with a sadness that had settled deeper than before. 

Tessa was still waiting nearby, but Zayne dismissed her with a quiet look.

“You can return to your station,” he said. “I’ll handle things from here.”

She nodded and left without argument.

When Zayne turned back to you, he kept his voice measured. “You’ll be going for the psychiatric evaluation now.”

You gave a wordless nod and fell into step beside him.

You nodded, your response wordless, and fell into step behind him.

He did not hurry you. That would have helped no one. Instead, he matched his pace to yours, allowing the corridor to open around the two of you as you moved past the quiet blur of hospital life. Zayne could sense, even before you spoke, that there was something sitting heavily on your mind, something you had been turning over since the exam ended.

You kept your eyes forward for several more steps before finally speaking, your voice controlled in the way of someone determined not to sound shaken.

“Did…” You paused, the word catching slightly at the edge of your breath. “Did what I did yesterday make things hard for you? I’m sorry.”

Zayne’s shoulders loosened at once, relief arriving before anything else. Not because the question was easy, but because you had spoken it at all, because you were still reaching outward rather than folding entirely inward.

“Some partial evidence was recovered,” he responded without delay. “The rest should still be collected from your clothing. So no, it was not a matter of too much concern.”

He let the words settle before continuing, his tone steady and certain in the way he hoped yours might lean into.

“The important thing is that the examination was done, and the evidence has been secured. What matters now is your next step, not what was lost.”

You did not answer immediately, but your shoulders eased by a degree so small it would have been invisible to anyone who had not been watching closely. Zayne took that as its own kind of response and allowed the silence to remain between you as the hallway ahead led them toward the psychiatric wing, where the next part of the day was waiting.

The psychiatric wing of Akso Hospital was quieter than the rest of the building, the air carrying a different kind of stillness — less urgent, more watchful. The lights were softer here, the walls lined with neutral tones meant to calm rather than intimidate, yet the moment you stepped inside, your body refused to register any of it as safe.

The color drained from your face in a single breath. Your shoulders stiffened, your fingers tightened around the edge of your gown, and a fine sheen of sweat gathered almost instantly along your brow. Your gaze fixed on the psychiatrist standing in the consultation room beyond the glass panel, and for a second Zayne could not read what had struck you so sharply. 

The psychiatrist was already turning toward you with a polite, expectant expression. But you did not see him as he was.

You saw the resemblance. Not exact but close enough to make your blood run cold.

A mole on his chin.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown as your vision tunneled for a moment, the edges of the room blurring while your mind tried to reconcile what it was seeing. You knew — logically, clearly — that this man was not the same person. His features were different, his posture composed, his gaze warm rather than predatory. And yet your body did not care for logic. It reacted first, faster than thought, dragging you back into a memory you had not yet escaped.

The body did strange things when fear had once been taught to it. It took fragments, not facts, and made monsters out of ordinary features.

Zayne followed your line of sight, then looked back at you, taking in the faint sheen of sweat forming at your temples, the shallow rise and fall of your chest. He turned slightly toward the man and introduced him before the tension could deepen further.

“This is Dr. Vincent,” Zayne said calmly, his voice smooth and professional. “He’ll be conducting your psychiatric evaluation.”

Dr. Vincent dipped his head in greeting,  a faint smile curving his lips. “Miss. It’s a pleasure to meet you, though I wish circumstances were better.”

But his words seemed to slide past you, unheard. They hovered somewhere at the edge of your awareness, drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat picking up again, that familiar, suffocating rhythm pressing against your ribs. You swallowed, your throat dry, your gaze still fixed too long on that single detail you could not unsee. 

You stared at the psychiatrist as though every instinct in your body was shouting at you to step back, to leave, to vanish. 

Without thinking, Zayne stepped half a pace in front of you.

It was a small movement, but deliberate, partially blocking your direct line of sight. Quietly, his hand came to rest against the middle of your back, light and brief, a steadying point more than a touch. He could feel the startled tension in you at once, the way your breath caught at the contact, but he kept his palm there just long enough to remind you that you were not alone in the room. 

“Focus on me,” he said softly, his voice lowered just for you. “You’re safe. Nothing here will harm you.”

You looked up at him then, and the expression on your face was so raw that it briefly disrupted the usual order of his thoughts. Your eyes were glassy with unshed tears, not yet spilling over, but close enough that your lashes clung together. There was fear there, yes, but also embarrassment, and something else layered under it, something that looked like pleading. 

For a moment, Zayne had an irrational urge to abandon the entire evaluation, escort you back to your room, and shut the door on everything that disrupted your peace and threw your heart in a whirlwind.

The thought startled him so much that he almost frowned at himself.

He had never once considered disregarding a medical procedure this way, not even for the most delicate cases.And yet, standing here, watching you struggle to hold yourself together, the idea had come uninvited.

He withdrew his hand, careful not to make the moment feel abrupt, and gave you a little space to collect yourself. Dr. Vincent said nothing, though Zayne caught the slightest lift of his brows, as if he too had noticed the shift and was waiting to understand it.

After a few seconds, you steadied enough to speak.

“I…” Your voice was very small. “I can do it.”

There was no certainty in the words, but there was intention, and that mattered.

Zayne drew in a quiet breath, steadying himself as much as he was steadying you. “Take your time.”

You moved forward on your own then, though slowly, and took the seat across from Dr. Vincent. Zayne remained standing a moment longer before entering after you. Dr. Vincent offered him a brief sideways glance, curious but not yet intrusive.

“I’ll explain later,” Zayne said before the other man could ask.

The psychiatrist gave a tiny shrug that suggested he had already expected as much, then turned back to you with a gentler smile.

He began with the simplest questions first, his tone measured and calm, as if trying to give the room a stable rhythm to follow.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You answered softly.

“Your age?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Family?”

Your gaze lowered a little. “Just my father and me. My mom died after I was born.”

The answer was quiet, flat with old grief, and though the sentence was simple, it struck the room harder than a longer confession might have. Dr. Vincent’s face softened at once, but he did not linger there.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”

He tapped a few notes into his tablet and then folded his hands lightly over it. “This evaluation is to help us understand what you’re experiencing and what support you may need. My team is always around if you feel overwhelmed at any point, or if you want to stop.”

You nodded, but your gaze drifted to the window beside the desk, where a grey patch of sky glowed behind the glass.

Out of the corner of your eye, Zayne saw his own reflection in the pane, upright and still, and almost immediately he noticed your attention flicking toward him as well, as though you were checking whether he was really staying. He had already turned once toward the door, out of intention more than thought, when your voice stopped him.

“Can he be here?”

Zayne glanced back over his shoulder, surprise flickering across his face. Dr. Vincent straightened slightly, clearing his throat.

“Dr. Zayne is part of your surgical care team,” he said. “This is a psychiatric evaluation, so it is usually conducted—”

“I’ll only answer if he stays.”

This time, your voice carried more weight. Not loud, but resolute.

Zayne was already moving back into the room before Dr. Vincent could think of a response.

“It’s all right,” Zayne said, taking the seat at an adjacent corner, a little distance away from you, not close enough to intrude, but present enough to anchor the room. “I can stay. Please continue.”

The psychiatrist looked between the two of you one more time before deciding not to ask whatever had clearly become obvious to him. He lowered his gaze to the tablet again and began typing.

“All right, then. How are you feeling right now, physically and emotionally?”

You took a little longer to answer this one. Zayne watched the way your fingers interlaced and then separated, over and over, as though your hands could not decide whether to hold on or let go. At last you said, “Physically… I don’t feel the same pain as yesterday. It’s manageable. Emotionally…” Your voice thinned. “Compromised.”

He noted that down, then asked, “Can you tell me what happened before you were brought here?”

Your fingers dug into the soft flesh of your palm, not enough to hurt visibly, but enough for Zayne to see the strain. You looked down and away, then began in a halting voice, as if choosing each word carefully before letting it leave your mouth.

“I was returning home and a man grabbed me, forced me into a car…” You stopped, swallowing. “There was an emergency button on my watch. I managed to trigger the emergency button on my watch… and my guards intervened before…”

Dr. Vincent could see the slight narrowing of your brows. The psychiatrist was listening not only to the words, but to what your body was doing while saying them. You were sitting upright, yes, but every muscle in you looked prepared to flee.

He gave you a moment, then continued gently. “Do you feel afraid right now? Or more disturbed?”

You stared at the window as if something in the glass might answer for you.

“I think…” You paused again. “I don’t feel like myself. My mind is a blank slate most of the time. Thoughts come in for a moment, then disappear again. Like I can’t hold onto anything long enough to feel it properly.”

You hesitated, then added quietly, “Like a deer that escaped a hunter… but still feels like it’s being chased.”

The words were quiet, but Zayne felt them land with a weight that made his chest tighten. He kept his face still, though inside, something in him turned cold with anger on your behalf. It was the kind of anger he disliked most because it had nowhere useful to go. Anger at the man who had done this. Anger at whatever had built such fear into you long before this incident. Anger at the helplessness in your voice as you described it.

Dr. Vincent’s pen paused for a fraction of a second but his tone stayed gentle. “Yesterday it was reported that you attempted to harm yourself. Is that correct?”

The shame that crossed your face was immediate and painful to witness. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Your lips parted, then pressed together. Your gaze slid to the window again, and this time your hands moved toward your own forearm, not touching hard enough to injure, but hovering over the skin as if memory itself had become itchy.

“I thought…” Your voice faltered, then steadied with difficulty. “I thought if I could just shed the feeling on my skin, it would hurt less than keeping it.”

“So you felt disgusted?” Vincent prompted.

You did not answer verbally.

Zayne heard the unspoken part of the sentence all the same: disgusted, dirty, wrong, trapped inside your own body. He had treated enough patients to know that some wounds aimed inward long before anyone else had a chance to touch them. He said nothing, but his jaw had gone tense enough that the muscle there shifted once.

The questions continued after that, one after another: sleep, appetite, nightmares, panic. Whether sounds startled you or whether you had been having trouble being alone. And even whether your thoughts ever moved toward hurting yourself again. To each, you answered with honesty that was sometimes slow and sometimes reluctant, but always present. It became gradually obvious that what had happened recently was not isolated, not wholly born of one violent event. There was history in you, layered and old, even if nobody in the room had said so aloud.

Dr. Vincent noticed it too.

“Do you often feel like this?” he asked at one point. “As though you’re waiting for something bad to happen?”

“Sometimes.”

“Before the assault?”

A pause. Then, softer, “Yes.”

The room seemed to still after that. Even Zayne held his breath for a beat, not because he was startled, but because your voice had carried something so raw and practiced at once. As though you had long since learned how to make pain sound ordinary.

Then the psychiatrist asked, “Does having Dr. Zayne present make you feel safer?”

You did not look at him directly, but you nodded.

“Why?”

For the first time, the silence that followed was not defensive. It was almost shy.

“He is…” You swallowed, voice almost inaudible. “He is like a friend.”

Zayne felt something unhelpfully warm and unexpectedly human tug at the edge of his expression. He managed, with effort, to keep it from becoming anything visible. A ridiculous thought surfaced, uninvited, that perhaps he ought to be embarrassed by how relieved he felt at such a simple answer. But there it was all the same, quietly settling in his chest.

Dr. Vincent turned his gaze briefly to Zayne, then back to you. “And what about me? You seemed quite startled when you first came in.”

You fidgeted with a strand of your hair, twisting it once around your finger before letting it fall again. “You looked a little like him… the man who assaulted me,” you admitted, and the apology in your tone came almost immediately. “It’s nothing personal.”

For a second, Dr. Vincent blinked in obvious surprise. Then he gave a short, awkward laugh that softened the tension rather than thickening it. “Ah. I see. No offense taken.”

The evaluation moved toward its end after that. Dr. Vincent asked a few final questions, then closed his tablet and set it down beside him.

“You’ve done well,” he said. “That will be enough for now.”

You stood, your movements slower than before, and stepped out into the corridor.

Zayne followed, but Vincent stopped him briefly, lowering his voice.

“She’s showing signs of an acute trauma response,” he said. “It’s being concealed fairly well on the surface, but the instability is there. Her reactions are sharper than her presentation suggests, and there are signs this isn’t entirely new. There may be an older mental history at work here.”

Zayne listened without interruption, each word sinking into place.

“In some ways, her behavior is regressing, more childlike,” Dr. Vincent continued, gesturing toward you at the end of the corridor, where you stood with your arms wrapped around your abdomen as if holding yourself together by force, feet rocking lightly. “The childlike behaviour, the heightened startle, the avoidance, the self-directed harm yesterday, none of that points only to this incident, it suggests prior emotional strain. I would recommend extending the observation period. We cannot risk her being left alone with this level of vulnerability.”

Zayne nodded once, committing every word to memory. “Understood.”

He did not need to be told twice. The conclusion was not a surprise, only a confirmation of something he had already begun to suspect. You were not merely frightened because of one assault. Something in you had already been cracked before it happened, and this event had struck the fracture open.

He thanked Dr. Vincent, who gave him a brief, acknowledging smile before moving off down the corridor.

When Zayne turned back toward you, your arms had loosened slightly from around your middle. He didn’t miss the way your alertness ceased and you properly met his gaze instead of looking around.

He was about to speak when Greyson came hurrying toward them from the far end of the hall, breathing a little harder than usual, his expression tight.

“Dr. Zayne,” he informed, slowing as he reached them, “Miss’ father — Statesman Arthur — he’s here. He wants to see her this instant.”

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[cardinal-writes]

match

summary: zayne, the cold and stoic duke of the north, has entered into a politically motivated betrothal with the princess from a neighboring enemy kingdom, and he finds himself developing feelings for her (a royalty AU) pairing: zayne x mc rating: general audiences word count: 480 tags: zayne POV, princess!mc, duke of the north!zayne, royalty AU, arranged marriage, slow realization of feelings, implied mutual pining note: based on this tweet; also available in my love & drabble-space collection on ao3

She was a terribly vexing creature, this princess.

Loud at meals, chattering like a lark rather than eating in silence. Opinionated and unafraid to voice her displeasure when he ruled counter to her wishes, which was less often, recently. And so strikingly beautiful—so full of life, so unafraid of letting herself be seen—that it stalled the breath in his chest.

He could scarcely look at her without being knocked off-kilter. Two decades of schooling, thousands of hours of being precisely moulded into the ruler this kingdom needed— all of it wasted the moment he stepped into the same room as her.

“Is everything all right, Your Grace?” Her voice cut through the pleasant haze clouding his thoughts.

He was doing it again. Staring. But it was hardly his fault. She looked especially stunning in that gown— dark silk and polished steel, tailored in the Southern fashion. So bold in her identity as a transplanted Philosian royal despite the looks it got her. Some believed her to be a spy. Some believed her to be an assassin. There was a time when Zayne shared those suspicions— slept with guards at his door and a knife beneath his pillow. But the more time he spent with her, the more he understood that she was just… her. Unapologetically.

No, there was no ruse. There was only a victim of circumstance, trying to make the best of this match that was forced upon her.

Many times now, he’d been advised to bring her to heel. His councilors likely had a point. He knew what people said, how they talked about the enemy princess who was to rule by his side. But he couldn’t bring himself to take anything else away from her. Was losing her home not a high enough price?

Zayne cleared his throat and offered her his arm. Beyond the double doors, milling about a marble-tiled ballroom, his court awaited their arrival. Soon, it would be their court. The knowledge sent a strange pulse of warmth through him, and he glanced at the crown of her head— unadorned, for now.

The princess’s brows pulled together, her features rather adorably pinching in shrewd curiosity at his continued silence.

Oh dear. He was doing it again.

“Of course,” he finally replied and nodded at the attendants to make the announcement. “I was simply recalling the details of my speech for this evening.” He had prepared no such thing.

Crystal-scattered candlelight spilled through the opening doors, bathing the princess in hues of opalescent gold. “I see,” she said, a faint smile curving her lips.

Zayne swallowed. “Shall we?”

The princess lowered her chin, deferential, playing her role without flaw. But then her gaze caught on his. Dipped to his mouth. “I serve at Your Grace’s pleasure,” she said softly, lowly, only for his ears. “Lead me wherever you wish.”

[sikoi]

me looking up the definition of a word i totally know the meaning of i just have to make sure it didn’t change for some reason or i made it up

[veilsofroses]

iwaizumi hajime x f!reader – don’t apologize

warnings: language, the seijo boys being annoying, awkward fluff <3

plot: during a study session, you and iwa are left alone and he decides it’s the time to confront you about a bad habit of yours

tags: college au, friends to lovers, yearning, established crush, unrequited love (or so you think)

author’s note: first haikyuu work let’s goo!! it’ll become very clear i love iwa sm sm sm

word count: 1.5k

ــــہـ٨ـــــــــہـ٨ــــــ

Pens scratching against paper has been the only sound filling your ears for the past hour and a half and you were getting sick of it.

The week before midterms had everybody at your university stressed out, but you felt like you were going to crash and burn more than anything.

You stop writing and drop your head on the table with a thud, accompanied by a quiet, low groan. The four boys sitting at the table all collectively look up at you.

“She’s dead,” Hanamaki states as if you dying is just another Tuesday. Iwaizumi huffs at the maybe-joke.

“I’d also rather be six feet under than study for another second,” Oikawa’s usual carefree demeanor soured by his stress and lack of sleep. The boys take your defeat as a sign to take a break, stretching and getting up to grab a drink from their shared apartment fridge. Matsukawa is the first to the fridge, fighting Oikawa for the last Red Bull; Hanamaki watching with disgust on his face like he’s watching two stray dogs fight for a scrap of meat.

“Quit it,” Iwaizumi barks, but it falls on deaf ears as they push each other around. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and slips past them, grabbing a can of iced tea from the open fridge.

You finally lift your head right as Iwaizumi places the tea in front of you, the two still arguing with each other behind you. You wave your hand, “Oh- Iwa, you didn’t have to do that,” you look up at him sheepishly. He looks at you, “I know.” He doesn’t hold the eye contact very long, turning back to the can he placed, opening it for you with a click, then returning to his seat on your left.

You try not to let anything on your face show as you shrink into yourself, reluctantly taking a sip of the refreshing beverage.

A sharp clack is heard in the kitchen, followed by a dragged out fizzing sound. You and Iwaizumi whip your heads back. “What the fuck did I say?” mumbles Iwaizumi, shaking his head.

Matsukawa and Oikawa stood there, mid brawl, looking down at the now-leaking can of Red Bull forming a puddle on the kitchen tiles, Hanamaki face palming.

Iwaizumi glares at the boys and they freeze, then point at each other. You can’t help but laugh at the sight—a much needed laugh after how stressed you’ve been.

Iwaizumi glances at you, but when you catch his gaze, he turns back to his notes. You look at him for a moment longer, studying his focused eyes hoping he’ll look at you again but you rip your gaze from him when Hanamaki speaks.

“Well, this gives me an excuse to get some fresh air,” Hanamaki pockets his wallet, heading to the door, “I’ll be back.”

“Wait, I’m coming too,” Oikawa grabs his jacket off the hook, “Gotta make sure you get the right flavor,” he grins.

“Oh hell no, you are not bringing that disgusting watermelon flavor you brought back last time,” Matsukawa follows behind.

Their argument continues even after the door is shut, their muffled voices fading before it’s quiet, leaving the puddle of energy drink to presumably be cleaned up when they return. “Peace and quiet, once again,” Iwaizumi sighs. You giggle, you don’t know how he puts up with them.

You return to your notes, as does Iwaizumi. You shift in your seat. It certainly wasn’t the first time you’d been left alone with Iwaizumi but it certainly hasn’t gotten any easier to keep your focus away from him. As you shift, you adjust your knee, lightly knocking his, then offering a quick apology as you retract it, your stomach turning at the touch.

“Why are you apologizing?”

A beat of silence.

“Huh?” you were caught off guard by his question, looking up at him with a tilted head, not knowing what he was referring to.

“Why did you apologize?” he repeats, gesturing down to your knee. To be honest, you didn’t even realize you did apologize, it was just a reflex to what you assumed was an unwanted touch.

You didn’t think it was that serious, so you’re confused why his expression is so intense. It was making you nervous, for a plethora of reasons.

You open your mouth but before you could even say anything, he continues, “You apologize to me for everything. Touching my knee, borrowing my notes, asking for help carrying your bag. It’s been pissing me off.”

Your mouth is agape, unsure of how to respond. You never thought your apologies would have irked him, you always felt like you were being a nuisance, so it was only natural.

“I’m sorry-” it slips out of your mouth before you can stop it.

He furrows his brows, his eyes softening, “Have I done something to make you so apologetic towards me? I don’t scare you, do I?”

You wave your hands in front of you, frantic to correct him. “N-no! Of course not, that’s not it at all.” He looks at you questioningly.

You sigh, looking down at your lap, “I don’t know. I guess I just feel like I can be annoying at times, especially when I ask for help or feel like I make you go out of your way for something. And I don’t want to annoy you, so…” Your face starts to burn at your confession, “Saying it out loud makes it sound stupid, but that’s all it is.”

“Sounds stupid because it is stupid,” he says flatly, making you huff out a weak laugh.

“Don’t apologize so much, you’re not annoying. I’d happily go out of my way to help you in anything,” he turns back to his notes, almost mumbling the last bit, seemingly ending the conversation and picking up his pen to continue where he left off.

You don’t take your eyes off him. Your heart swells against your better judgement at his words, but it confuses you all the same. “Why do you want to do that? I don’t ever see you offering that kindness to Oikawa or the others,” you ask, not thinking about what you’re really asking.

He stops writing and stares down at his paper for a moment. “You’re different. Those guys can handle themselves. Not saying you can’t, but if they really want my help, they know they can just ask for it.” He doesn’t look up from his paper.

“Different?” you question, your heartbeat picking up its pace.

He finally looks up, his gaze capturing yours. Those green eyes of his take your breath away every time. He scans your face, swallowing nervously like he was fighting with himself on whether to speak or not. You’re about to fall off your seat waiting for what he was going to say next.

It feels like his eyes are going to burn right through you when he finally speaks. “You’re..” While he struggles to find the words, your eyes flick down to his lips before you can stop them. When you look back up at him, realizing, your face burns hot. “I’m sorry-” you start, going to offer some bullshit explanation, but he cuts you off.

“Please don’t apologize,” his voice dips in a way you had never heard it before, breaking with an airy rasp. As you open your mouth to respond, his large hand slips behind your neck pulling you into him, catching your lips in his. You freeze, questioning if you had fallen asleep on the table and this was a dream, but his other hand coming up to cup your cheek brings you back and you melt into his grasp.

You can’t count the days spent imagining this moment—his soft lips pressed against yours, yet the ones in your fantasies never came close to the real deal.

He pulls back, “Is this okay? I’m sorry, I should've asked first. I didn’t know if you felt the same-”

“Please don’t apologize,” you repeat, softly. You catch his lips again, turning your head, deepening the kiss and he happily obliges. You wrap your arms around his neck and his hands lower to grab your waist, pulling you in closer.

Another sharp clack is heard behind you, then an all-too-familiar fizzing sound.

You pull away from Iwaizumi, his half-lidded eyes flipping your stomach upside down.

Horrified, you look towards the door; a disgusted Hanamaki, a shocked Matsukawa, and a smug Oikawa nearly piling on each other in the doorway, grocery bags in hand and a newly dropped watermelon Red Bull.

Iwaizumi lets out an annoyed groan, turning back to his work with his head down, a light tint coating his cheeks.

Your face, on the other hand, turns tomato red in an instant and you bury it in your hands, praying this part was a dream.

“You both owe me five bucks,” Oikawa says slyly at the other two, and Iwaizumi tosses his pen behind him, hitting him square in the forehead. You snort, then cover your face again.

“Go clean up the mess you left.”

“Hmph.”

[ryllen]

when i caught fussy kitty the first time, and the dialogue said he was holding it tightly i realize because it is a kitty, i'm like 😭 ' noooo let zayne have it~~ '

[byallmeans1]

[auracorazayne]

Routine Check-Up

A pre-relationship ZayneMC one shot that originated from this twitter interaction

warnings: pre-relationship; no smut, just unspoken feelings and slow-burn-esque tension; but obviously per the above screenshot, some vague discussion about sex; Zayne and MC are both mentioned to be virgins in this fic, idc if that does or doesn't fit your hc's; second person POV; only allusions to reader's gender are via "Miss Hunter" used one time and "sister" used one time; I think that's it, let me know if I should add something else

word count: 3.8k (oops)

a/n: it's not even 24 hours after I tweeted that reply and I gained like 100+ new followers on Twitter and have like 40-50 replies to go through requesting tags on this, which is a crazy response. I SINCERELY HOPE that you guys enjoy this and that I did not just build anticipation for people only to disappoint lol. Either way, happy to hear thoughts, even if they are critical! Feedback helps me improve, so I'm always open to suggestions 🩵

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"The doctor is ready for you," the receptionist calls to you over the lobby desk, making your heart lurch with excitement. You run your hands through your hair for the 18th time and take a steadying breath, swallowing the urge to launch out of your chair and skip down the hall, as over-eager as you always are ahead of seeing your childhood-friend-turned-primary-care-physician.

The surprise came six or seven months ago when, during a routine appointment with Dr. Noah, you were introduced to the new doctor that would be taking over some of his patients in his retirement. The air left your lungs all at once, pure shock nearly dropping you to your knees, when in walked the sweet, quiet boy from your childhood you gave up hope on ever seeing again.

The sweet, quiet boy your heart never forgot about, even after he disappeared from your life without a trace, even after all the years of separation, even after all the time spent wishing you'd somehow cross paths again. The sweet, quiet boy your heart never let you forget about, despite the many days spent wondering where he was in the world, despite the countless nights spent missing him, despite all the perfectly suitable romantic options over the years that just fell flat because that very stubborn heart of yours continued to hold on.

And while your heart rejoiced at finally being reunited with that boy, all those feelings flooding back in the instant he walked through that door, your body had become keenly aware that he was now a man: tall, strikingly handsome, elegantly styled, graceful in ways that seemed unfair, carrying the air of experience. It made reconnecting slightly difficult at first, a few awkward lunches or coffee meet-ups full of nerves in the very beginning, but it didn't take long for things to fall back into the same smooth, easy rhythm you had as kids, both eager to catch up on all the missed time.

And just like back then, it only took one glance from his piercing emerald eyes to pin you to the spot and make your heart race in ways you were sure would one day lead to a cardiac emergency. Ironic, you think.

Fortunately, should that happen, there's quite literally no one better suited to save you than the very same perpetrator. Unfortunately, it was quite troublesome to always be dealing with inexplicable tachycardia in the presence of your cardiologist, who was quite concerned.

As you knock on Zayne's office door, that tachycardia threatens to surface and you do your best to fight it mind-over-matter. But the second you hear his rich voice call for you to enter, the battle is lost.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Li," you greet with an impish lilt as you take a seat in the exam chair; you never were able to stop yourself from teasing him, then or now. He pauses his typing to cock an eyebrow at your obvious cheek and you can't help but snicker.

"Good afternoon, Miss Hunter." His pointed return has you laughing again, and you catch a little smirk as his attention shifts back to his computer screen.

Not wanting to interrupt him, you quietly study his features in the few moments it takes him to finish his task, admiring the chiseled angles of this new, matured face of his. Puberty sure was kind to him, you think to yourself. If cardiothoracic surgery ever grows dull for him, surely the modeling world would welcome him with open arms.

"Now then..." He suddenly shifts focus, forcing you to quickly reign in your leering. "Before we discuss the results of your most recent ECG, a bit of housekeeping is in order."

You nod as he returns to his computer and clicks a few times, presumably pulling up your medical record.

"We're due to update some information," he explains before flipping one of his monitors towards you. "Are these medications and dosages still accurate to what you're following currently?"

You rise from your seat and lean over his desk for a closer look, reviewing the list with furrowed brows and a hum. "Everything that's listed is still correct, but there's one prescription missing." With a finger to your chin, you meet his gaze, his brows similarly furrowed as he tries to puzzle out what medication would be missing. "As of this summer, I've been on a thousand milligrams of sucrose weekly, per the orders of my doctor's dentist."

Your face pulls into a delighted grin as his falls deadpan, one of his hands coming up to flick your forehead. With a chortling laugh, you fall back into your chair, rubbing your forehead as he returns the monitor to its original position.

"Barring that, everything looks correct, yes?"

"Yes," you give with a lingering little giggle, never shy about laughing at your own jokes. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes with a half-smile, painting the perfect picture of the phrase 'fond exasperation,' and you can't help the way it turns your grin just a little dopey or makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. These were the most precious of little moments with Zayne that made your heart soar.

With a pointed nod, he gets back to business. "Moving on. Any major illnesses in the past 12 months?"

"No."

"Any major injuries or surgeries in the past 12 months?"

"No."

"Any incidents in the past 12 months that required hospitalization?"

"No."

"Any new or worsening allergies?"

"No."

"Do you drink alcohol?"

"Socially."

"How often do you drink four or more drinks in one sitting?"

"Never."

He pauses to look at you, again with that cocked eyebrow that does funny things to your insides. "Does that actually mean 'never' or does that actually mean 'sometimes?'"

"Dr. Li, what do you take me for?" You feign offense with a hand to your chest, but he simply levels you with the same silent look. "Truly, I don't have the tolerance you must think I have." His eyes narrow a fraction as he considers you and your innocent smile for another moment, the intensity of his stare drawing heat to your cheeks. When he finally seems convinced enough to return to his questions, you release the breath you hadn't realized you were holding under his scrutiny.

"Do you smoke, either tobacco or marijuana?"

"No."

"Do you use any recreational drugs?"

"No."

"Are you sexually active?"

You should have expected it, should have known this question would come up at some point and been better prepared to school yourself, but your whole body involuntarily goes rigid. You quickly mumble out a "no," trying and failing to hide your sudden tension, painfully aware of his discerning gaze swinging your way to study your reaction. As you feel your neck to your crown grow flame-hot, you keep your eyes riveted to the floor like your life depends on it, sure that there must be visible steam emitting from your ears.

After a long, tumultuous moment of loaded silence, he finally says, in a voice both gentle and quiet, "I understand our...friendship may make this an uncomfortable topic... however, for the sake of your health, it's best to be honest here."

At that, your eyes flick up to meet his, then quickly return to their spot on the floor. "I am," you assert softly, suddenly feeling like you might suffocate in that office.

In your periphery, you can see the way he tilts his head, considering. "Your sudden nervousness would seem to imply you're lying." Coming out of anyone else's mouth, it would easily sound accusatory, but from Zayne, there was only a gentle observation and an even gentler request to understand.

"I'm not lying..." your brows knit together before you will your eyes to drift up and meet his again, only to be overwhelmed and have to avert them to some nondescript spot on the wall. "I'm...embarrassed."

He wheels his chair around the corner of his desk and stops directly in front of you, aiming to bridge the gap between you, both literally and metaphorically. Knee-to-knee, he tries to capture your avoidant gaze. "Did I embarrass you?"

"No, I--" The thread of guilt in his voice has you jumping to explain yourself, heart squeezing, but your voice dries up in your throat when your eyes meet his once more and find him so much closer than before. Your mouth opens and closes a few times and you have to force a hard swallow in order to try again. "You didn't embarrass me." Then, quieter, you add, "if anything, I embarrassed myself..." Despite the desire to avert your eyes again, you find you're unable to.

"Can you help me understand how, why? Is it that you find it embarrassing to not be sexually active at the moment?" His earnestness makes your chest constrict and--oh god, he's so close, does he seem like he's gotten even closer?

"Zayne..." Your stomach twists knowing what you've resigned to admit out loud to him. "I'm... a virgin..."

Something indiscernible flashes across his features and all at once you feel hot enough to burst into flames, yet you still can't tear your eyes from his. He hums, giving nothing of his internal thoughts away. "And that's... embarrassing for you? Being a virgin?"

"S-sometimes..." You take to chewing on your lip to try to ease the way everything in you is screaming to jump out the 4th story window to your left. "It just feels like..." With a slow breath, you search for the words, any words. "At my age..."

In your heart of hearts, you know you just saw the corner of his lips lift, despite it only being an excruciatingly tiny amount, and, unsure of what it means or where you stand with him, it fully plunges your thoughts into the chaos you were trying to keep at bay.

Was it embarrassing to be a virgin at any age? Certainly not. Unless there was one person--one devastatingly desirable person that you ached for mind, body, and soul--that you already had slim chances of ending up with, which could possibly become even slimmer if he knew of your inexperience. Zayne surely wasn't the type to care about a little inexperience, but an intelligent, successful, mature man with a face like that? It stood to reason he had experience under his belt and desired a partner that could keep up with him, that he didn't need to teach.

Another long-seeded insecurity starts to drag itself to the forefront, opening up a gnawing pit in your stomach the way it always does when it rears its ugly head: the possibility that Zayne might view you as family, a sibling even.

in your eyes, even during childhood, Zayne has always been the one your heart longed for, but what were you in his eyes? Were you ever anything more to him than the troublesome little girl next door he was forced to look after? He was always smarter, better focused, better at communicating, better at not scraping his knees at every turn, and he certainly never made you feel less than for any of that, but could it have slowly sealed you away in a position of juvenility in his mind? Now, presently as your doctor, is he simply taking care of an adoptive little sister with nostalgic, familial fondness?

And did admitting your virginity to him only further cement a perceived gap in maturity?

As you lose yourself in your internal spiral, he assess you, expression soft, before leaning back in his chair and picking up a pen to twirl idly.

"Would you feel better..." He begins, snapping you back into reality, your eyes refocusing on him and his uncharacteristically relaxed posture. "...if I told you I was also a virgin?"

You gawk, features blanching, sure that you couldn't possibly have heard him correctly. And then you realize: he must be joking, or otherwise lying to soothe your ego. "Yeah, right," you roll your eyes before fixing him with an incredulous glare, your turn to cock a brow in his direction.

The corner of his lips lifts higher, this time enough that that it would be noticeable even to one not so well-versed in Zayne's micro-expressions. "It's true," he insists with his barely-there smirk.

You cross your arms and lean back in your seat, unyielding. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel better about the situation, but I'm not buying it."

His little crooked smile widens into something big enough to be called a grin, at least by Zayne standards, and he huffs a laugh through his nose. "While I did say it to make you feel better, it isn't a fabrication. It's the genuine truth."

The two of you--languidly leaned far back in your opposing seats, knees nearly brushing--look at one another for a long, drawn out moment as you weigh his words. And you hate what those words are doing to your insides, the little butterflies that rise in your stomach, the hope their fluttering wings are starting to stir up.

"It just doesn't make sense," you finally level, which seems to amuse him even further.

"Why not?"

As you consider him, still steadfast in your skepticism, he tilts his head at you ever so slightly, maintaining his wisp of a grin, making your heart clench with how effortlessly handsome he is.

"You're too attractive," you offer, both as an answer to his question and as an accusation. He coughs and splutters as if you just threw water in his face, clearly caught off guard by such a blunt declaration, and yet his grin never falls. Before he can recover himself too much, you continue. "And too smart. Too kind and caring."

"Confusing that somehow such high praise is evidence against my candor." With a bemused, breathy chuckle, he rests an elbow on the arm of his chair and leans his head on his knuckles, eyes sharp and glittering.

"It just stands to reason that someone at some point must have made advances towards you." You lean forward, eyes narrowed, elbow planted on your knee as you drop your chin into your hand and study him.

"I was several years younger than everyone in my class, and far too occupied with course work to take notice. Beyond that..." In turn, he sits forward in his chair, forearms coming to lean on his knees as he brings his face close to yours. "... Am I obligated to accept advances from just anyone simply because they were made towards me?" His voice drops, sending a wave of goosebumps down your spine.

"N-no...I suppose not..." you concede, just a little breathless at the new proximity. You catch a whiff of his cologne and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull.

"You, on the other hand..." He pauses, tracing your features with his gaze, and it feels as though you might combust on the spot under such close attention. You take a long, steadying breath, willing yourself to keep a level head. "If we examine the reasoning you gave earlier, and the fact that you were surrounded by peers primarily within your own age group, to use your words... 'it stands to reason that someone at some point must have made advances towards you.'"

With your brain currently overloaded with equal parts nerves and desire, it takes a minute for his point to hit you. But when it does, you can't stop the cheshire grin that splits your face, finding a blunder in his words. "Dr. Li," you tease. "Are you calling me attractive?"

"Yes." He answers without hesitation, seeming nearly unfazed save for the bit of color that rises to his cheeks, in stark contrast to you who's gone from grinning to slack-jawed with just that one word. Your heart pounds so heavily in your chest you think it might beat its way straight out of your rib cage. "But that doesn't absolve you from the question," he continues, and it takes you even longer this time for your brain to pick up the pieces of the conversation and figure out how to close your gaping mouth.

"Advances..." you start, mostly in an attempt to pull yourself from your daze. "There were some..." With a hard swallow, you will more coherent sentences to find their way to you. "A few dates here and there, but nothing that went anywhere..."

"Hmm," he hums thoughtfully. "Because you didn't want them to? Or because they didn't want them to?"

You blink, feeling suddenly sober as you try to avoid saying the explicit truth on the tip of your tongue: because none of them were you. Shaking your head to clear the thought, you try to find the right thing to say. "A little bit of both, I suppose... I never really felt a spark with any of them, so at the end of the day, I would've cut them off anyway. Some of them just beat me to the punch."

He tilts his head to the side inquisitively. "You've never felt a spark with anyone?"

Your lips turn up in a slow smirk at his question, gaze dropping to the side. "Well, I didn't say that..." Heat returns to your face as you glance back up at him through your lashes, and the way his adams apple bobs elicits a fresh wave of butterflies in your stomach.

"My apologies for putting words in your mouth," he breathes, voice huskier than you've ever heard it. He's so, so close, close enough that his breath tickles your overheated cheeks, and you want nothing more than to close the short gap between you and touch your lips to his, to make sure he actually understands.

"W-what about you?" You try, blinking rapidly, attempting to stay grounded in the conversation and beat back the urge to attach yourself to his face.

"What about me?" With a single knuckle, he traces a feather-light line up the forearm you're leaning on, and it takes everything in you to not fall right out of your chair. You're almost certain he notices the goosebumps he leaves in his wake.

"Any dates? Any attempts?" You breathe, or, maybe more accurately, wheeze.

His only response is a low hum and a slow shake of his head.

"None at all?"

Again, a shake of his head. Somewhere in the back of your mind is a flash of disappointment that he doesn't consider any of your get-togethers to have been dates, but you quickly shoo the thought away; they were always proposed as meetings between friends, never actually dates, even if wait staff, cashiers, and baristas were constantly assuming you two were a couple on a date.

"Zayne, you've never been on one date?" The incredulity creeps back into your tone.

Still shaking his head, he explains, "I never had the time. Or the interest."

"It's still just... hard to believe," you murmur.

"That I didn't have the time for dating while I was finishing med school early, training as a combat medic, or starting my career as a surgeon?" He lifts a brow with a little smirk that's so cute it's painful.

"Yeah, okay, well, when you put it like that..." You roll your eyes and playfully bump his knee with yours. "But still, even with all that... no one's ever caught your eye?"

"Well, I didn't say that," he echoes, grin growing to a size that's surely bigger than you've seen from him before, eyes sparkling with mirth--and, you dare to let yourself think it this time, perhaps, a hint of affection.

All you can do is stare with a matching grin of your own and a stomach full of butterflies threatening to carry you away, desperately hoping that you're not somehow playing tricks on yourself, that this moment of understanding isn't something you managed to twist in to being inside your own head.

Just as you're finding the courage to reach out and make that direct contact, finally voice the scary question, Zayne's desk phone shatters the intimate silence and you have to restrain yourself from throwing it at the wall.

It takes him a moment, but he clears his throat and slides his chair back over to pick it up with a curt greeting.

"Yes, I'm just finishing up with the current patient now." A pause. "Thank you."

As he lays the phone back on the receiver, he meets your waiting gaze again and the fond smile that graces his face makes your heart squeeze for the upteenth time since entering his office.

After a beat, he clears his throat. "Well... I suppose I don't need to ask about a history of STI's..." He clicks through the remaining health screening questions left abandoned on his computer screen and you can't suppress the snorting laughter that bubbles out of you.

That easy, smiling quiet charged with unspoken understanding falls between you again once more, until you reluctantly tell him in a soft voice, "I'll get out of your hair."

It takes another moment, but you both stand and head for the door. As he reaches around you for the handle, you turn before he can pull it open, meaning to add one last thing, only to find yourself caged between his tall frame and the wood at your back. His scent washes over you and makes the room spin as you both process unexpectedly being chest to chest. You decide the pink hue of his ears is your favorite color, before remembering your favorite color has actually always been hazel green.

Attempting to chase that fleeting courage from earlier, you look up at him through your lashes and inhale deeply. "Zayne?"

"Yes?" He breathes, failing to hide his anticipation, if he was even trying in the first place.

"Are you... free for dinner some night this week?"

He gives a single jerky nod in response. "Thursday, I believe."

Your smile widens slowly before you whisper. "Good. It's a date, then."

Surprise flickers across his face before being replaced with his own slow smile. When you lean up on your tip toes to quickly peck his cheek, he inhales sharply, his body going rigid as a board, ears promptly ramping up into a bright crimson.

He's still frozen in place, processing the moment when you lay your hand over his to finally open the door. As you step out into the hall, you turn back one more time, having suddenly remembered something.

"We never discussed the results of my ECG."

Zayne finally thaws and leans through the door frame, capturing your chin between his fingers. "I guess you'll just have to make another appointment," he says in a low voice, just before his warm lips find your cheek in turn and your heart erupts in the halls of Akso Hospital.

=============================================

a/n: I really didn't expect this to turn out this long, sorry y'all lmao. I miiiight in the future write that date (which I think I could tie into Heart Within Reach? But I'd need to do a full reread to make sure I didn't somehow write myself out of that as an option) which might also get a future continuation of ZayneMC's first time together because that's kind of been rattling around in my brain too lol. Hopefully if you made it this far down, that means you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!

[junos-chronicles]

What Was Promised

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꧁ᬊᬁ Duty made him your protector. Love made him your ruin. ᬊ᭄꧂

♕ Pairings: Knight!Gojo x Princess!Reader ♕ Content warnings + tags: MDNI 18+: virginity loss, oath-based guilt, infidelity themes, power imbalance (princess/knight dynamic), mention of arranged marriage, soft dom!Gojo, oral sex (f!receiving), emotionally loaded sex (trust), implied long-term secret relationship, major romantic angst, royal au, medieval fantasy, forbidden romance, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, Satoru is a certified loverboy and yearner, 14k words (guys im so sorry this is ridiculously long) Art by: @_3aem on X

As summer deepens, preparations for the royal wedding begin in earnest. Amid public celebrations and political tensions, quiet moments bloom between a princess and her knight—unspoken, impossible, and far too dangerous. But on the eve of vows that cannot be undone, duty and desire collide. And some lines, once crossed, can never be redrawn.

To Be Yours in Secret...

The sun bore down like a judgment.

Summer had come to the capital in full, blistering bloom, and with it came a heat that clung to the skin like wet silk—relentless, heavy, inescapable. Even the southern sea, glittering beyond the washed docks, looked too still to offer much reprieve. Flags hung limp in the stifled breeze. The scent of salt, sweat, and roasted spices from the lower market mixed in the air, thick and cloying.

You stood beneath the arched canopy at your father’s side, high on the terrace that overlooked the harbor, back stiff and aching beneath the weight of your gown. Every layer of brocade and lace wrapped around your limbs like chains. The boned bodice laced within an inch of reason, left no room to breathe, and the silk at your neckline stuck uncomfortably to your skin, despite the handmaiden behind you fanning in slow, desperate strokes.

You were hot, uncomfortable. And most damning of all, bored.

At your side, Satoru stood tall and motionless, his posture always immaculate. His hands tucked neatly behind his back, shoulders squared, head held high despite the oppressive heat. If he felt the sun beating down onto him, he certainly didn’t show it. His armor was polished to a subtle gleam, the white ribbon at his collar stark against the steel. A single strand of hair clung to his brow, curling with the heat, but he hadn’t so much as moved to brush it aside. He hadn’t even spoken since you arrived this morning, but you could feel the flicker of his gaze now and then, brief and careful, as if to make sure you were still there. Still enduring.

The rest of the palace guard lined the dock in rigid formation, a welcome too grand for the likes of Naoya Zenin, though no one dare say it aloud. At least not while your father stood, solemn and straight-backed in his finest regalia. At least not while your father stood straight-backed in his finest regalia, unreadable as always. Beside him, the King’s Hand—Lord Gojo—leaned close, lips angled toward the King’s ear. He spoke low, sharp-eyed, no doubt delivering updates on upcoming meetings or naval movements you couldn’t make out.

You didn’t really care to. Not when the Zenins were late. Not when their banners were nowhere on the horizon. The sea remained undisturbed. No gilded ships. No royal emblems and crests. No sign of arrival.

You shifted on your feet, casting a longing glance toward the stalls along the lower dock. Bright canopies of red and blue, and pale gold that flapped lazily in the occasional gust. It called to you like an oasis. Or at least a distraction.

You sighed. Loudly.

“Father,” you said at last, schooling your tone into something that resembled dutiful patience. “If they insist on arriving by ship, they might at least be punctual.”

He exhaled through his nose, already wearied.

“Well,” you continued, feigning innocence, “if we’re expected to wait much longer, I see no harm in visiting the stalls below. Perhaps I’ll find something worthy of my time there.”

His gaze cut toward you. “You wish to browse the merchant booths?”

“Only while we wait,” you said sweetly. “It’s quite stifling here, and I’ll only continue to fidget.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped before he sighed again, resigned. Clearly resisting the urge to point out that princesses were expected to endure discomfort in silence. “You will remain close.”

“I will.”

“And Ser Gojo will accompany you.”

You glanced toward him, unsurprised.

Satoru dipped his head with a faint smile and a practiced bow. “Of course. I’ll see to it, Your Majesty.”

The King gave a brief nod, seemingly satisfied, already turning back toward the sea. “Do not stray far. The Zenins may yet arrive before the tide shifts.”

“Yes, Father,” you said, already gathering your skirts in hand with a grateful smile before he could change his mind.

Before you could step away, Lord Gojo looked over his shoulder—not at you, but at his son. A single, sharp glance. No words. Just that measured flick of the eye that said everything. A silent command passed between them.

Do not be foolish.

Satoru’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned toward you, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You took it without hesitation, grateful for the excuse to escape the suffocating politeness of the port. “Please. Before I wilt away completely.”

Below, the market buzzed with life. Shaded stalls, crates of strange fruits and foreign trinkets, hand-dyed fabrics, and the chatter of merchants bartering over the din of gulls. You descended the steps at Satoru’s side, his presence like a shield at your shoulder.

“You really do hate standing still,” he murmured into your ear, just above the hum of the crowd.

You glanced up at him. “I was beginning to worry I’d melt into a puddle.”

“And here I thought royalty was immune to such mundane inconveniences.”

“Hardly,” you scoffed, waving the fan your handmaiden had surrendered. “Royalty suffers all the same. Just with more expensive shoes.”

That earned a quiet laugh, soft enough that only you caught it.

Just for a little while, at least you could pretend. That you weren’t waiting for a man with ambition in his eyes and cruelty in his mouth. That you weren’t betrothed at all. 

For a little while, it was just the two of you. The Princess and her knight.

The market welcomed you like a different world, one untouched by politics or protocol. It was a riot of color and sound, the air thick with the scent of saffron and smoke and sweet fruit left in the sun. Bright cloths draped over wooden beams, and voices called out from every direction—vendors peddling woven rugs, blown glass, pickled figs, and sea-salted nuts. Seagulls screamed overhead, and children darted barefoot between stalls with sticky fingers and sun-flushed cheeks.

You used to come here with your mother. 

The memory came unbidden, as sharp and sudden as a thorn to the skin. You saw her in fragments—when you were small enough to ride on her hip, wide-eyed and shy, marveling at the way she haggled for oranges like it was a game. She laughed with her whole body when the merchants tried to charm her. She never wore her crown here. Only a scare over her hair and a soft smile, like she was any other common folk. 

She made everything feel simple. Safe. Sometimes she’d let you carry the basket, even though it dragged on the ground. Sometimes she bought sweets that you weren’t supposed to eat before dinner. You’d cling to her skirts and think the market was a kingdom of its own, with her as its queen.

Now, years later, the place still held the same chaotic charm, but it didn’t feel quite the same without her.

You walked beside Satoru in silence, letting the noise fill the space where words might have gone. His armor shimmered in the light, polished and princely, though his stride was casual and easy. You felt his eyes on you now and then. Quick, flickering glances when he thought you weren’t looking. Each time the crowd jostled too close, he was there, brushing a hand against your back, gently guiding you toward open space again. He almost looked out of place here, gleaming and regal in steel, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You wondered if he could feel your pulse, the way your skin prickled with the memory of a hundred other almosts.

You clasped your hands in front of you, trying to appear composed. You were the princess. You were meant to be composed. But every breath felt a little harder to hold with him so close.

“I’m surprised you haven’t fallen asleep on your feet,” he murmured eventually, low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced at him sideways. “I very nearly did. At least here, the smells are better.”

“And the company?”

You tried not to smile. Failed.

“The company,” you said, “is tolerable.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

You fanned him lazily with a discarded fan as you strolled past a baker’s stall. “You look like you’re about to keel over. If you die in full armor, I refuse to carry you back.”

“I’d haunt you,” he said. “Whisper terrible poetry at your bedside.”

“You already do that when you’re alive.”

The banter steadied you. Grounded you. Even as the air around him pulled at you like a tide.

Then you stopped short at a modest little stall near the end of the row. Handwoven bracelets arranged in tangled heaps—bright threads of blue and red and sun-bleached gold. They were nothing like the adornments you were expected to wear at court. No sapphires or silvers. No heraldic symbols or weighty jewels. But your fingers hovered above them, drawn to their softness, their freedom. They reminded you of a life untouched by duty.

Your fingers hovered over one in particular, blue and pale gold, woven in an intricate spiral. “They’re lovely,” you said, voice almost lost beneath the clamor.

Satoru didn’t speak. He simply picked the one you were admiring out, and handed over a few coins without waiting for your protest.

You turned to scold him. “You shouldn’t—”

He pressed one gloved finger lightly to your lips, and the words dissolved. His touch was fleeting, but the warmth of it lingered. You looked up into his eyes and found something there that made your heart stutter, something quiet and steady and entirely yours.

Without a word, he took your wrist and tied the bracelet in place, his fingers slow and gentle. When he finished, his thumb grazed over your skin, right where your pulse fluttered beneath the surface.

The color reminded you of his eyes.

“I like it,” he said simply.

The stallkeeper beamed at the two of you. "It suits you, Princess. He chose well."

You smiled awkwardly, cheeks feeling warm. “Yes, he did.” 

You looked down at the bracelet, then up at him again. “You shouldn’t waste your coin,” you said, but your voice came out softer than intended.

“I’d spend every coin I have on you,” he replied, and he wasn’t smiling anymore.

You looked away, the pressure behind your eyes sharp and sudden.

He never said these things when anyone could hear. But maybe here, among strangers, it was easier to let the truth slip through.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Not with the weight of your longing pressed so high in your throat, it felt like drowning.

The people recognized you easily. Not just from the guards or the fine stitching of your bodice, but from the way you carried yourself. From the way the crowd seemed to part around you instinctively, offering quiet bows and murmured greetings. You returned each one with a nod or a kind word. Your mother’s grace lived in you, they said. You were the people’s princess.

And nowhere was that clearer than when some of the merchant’s children came skipping toward you. Three of them, all sun-kissed and wild-haired, with dirt under their nails and flowers in their hands.

“We made you a crown!” the littlest girl said proudly, holding up a bundle of daisies and sea lavender knotted together with twine.

You laughed delightedly, bending down to her level, gently lifting the delicate crown from her grasp. “For me?”

She nodded, eyes shining brightly.

You smiled, then carefully placed the flower ring on her head instead. “There,” you whispered. “Now we’re both pretty princesses.”

The child beamed, wrapping her arms around your waist. And for a moment, the world softened.

Behind you, Satoru watched in silence. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his heart ached painfully in his chest.

He would’ve followed you to the ends of the earth if you asked him to. He would’ve fought for the chance to be the man beside you. But he wasn’t that man, not in name, not in title. And watching you smile at the people, unguarded and radiant and beloved, made it all the harder.

Because how could anyone be expected to let you go?

How was he supposed to stand behind you at a wedding that wasn’t his?

You rose again, brushing off your skirts. A few stalls down, a fruit vendor called to you.

“Strawberries, Princess! Sweet as the summer sun!”

You approached with interest, but when you reached into your sash for a coin, the vendor refused.

“No, no. A gift. For the people’s jewel.”

You accepted with a grateful smile and lifted a berry to your lips. The taste burst bright and tart on your tongue, the juices painting your lips. You sighed in satisfaction, eyes closing for a brief second.

When you looked up, Satoru was staring.

He didn’t even try to hide it.

“Would you like one?” you asked. You held one out, pinched between your fingers.

He hesitated. Then leaned in, teeth sinking into the fruit you offered him. His lips brushed your knuckles.

You didn’t breathe.

He chewed slowly, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

There were words in the air that neither of you dared to speak.

And just as the moment began to crack open into something else, something undeniable—

A trumpet’s cry shattered the silence, clear and high over the harbor.

You both turned toward the sound as the royal fanfare rose from the docks below. Horns blared. Banners rippled in the wind. Banners of gold and green crested the horizon, a royal ship cutting through the waves.

The Zenins had arrived.

Your stomach sank. The spell had broken, and reality returned like a slap.

You glanced up at Satoru one last time before gathering your skirts. “Back to the stage, then,” you muttered.

He offered you his arm again. You took it because you had to. Because duty had a grip you couldn’t break.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured as the harbor loomed closer, “he’ll never deserve you.”

You said nothing. But your fingers tightened around his, just for a moment.

The sound of horns still echoed across the harbor by the time you returned to the terrace. The sun had shifted just slightly, casting longer shadows on the water, and the breeze had picked up just enough to ruffle the ends of your skirts. You could already make out the Zenin banners now, emerald and gold fluttering from the mast, the carved prow of the royal ship slicing through the sea with slow grace.

Satoru stepped slightly behind you as you climbed the stone stairs, his presence a comfort even in silence. You didn’t let go of his arm until the last possible moment, and when you did, your fingers lingered. His warmth faded from your side as protocol reasserted itself like a noose around your throat.

Your father stood with a posture carved from stone, expression unreadable as the Zenin fleet finally pulled into view. Gilded sails glinted beneath the noon sun, crisp with the sigils of their house. Even from the short distance, you could make out the ornate figurehead of their lead ship—a dragon twisted in brass, maw open wide as if devouring the sky.

You resumed your place beside the King, the sticky heat even worse now beneath the mounting dread. Your fingers twitched at your sides. Your face, however, remained composed.

Mostly.

You felt your father’s gaze flick to you once, briefly, lingering, almost imperceptible. Then, just as quickly, it passed to the white-haired knight who took his place behind you again, posture impeccable as ever.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly, your father cleared his throat.

He said nothing aloud, but the subtle raise of his brow said enough.

You raised your chin in reply. Polite. Controlled. A perfect princess.

Even if your lips still tasted faintly of strawberries, and your knight’s did too.

You forced your hands to stay still in front of your gown, smoothing your skirts even though there wasn’t a single wrinkle. Cassandra returned to your side, ever dutiful, ever vigilant, and began fanning you with brisk, efficient movements.

“They’re nearly here,” she murmured, the words low and formal. “Do try to smile.”

“I am smiling,” you said tightly.

“Smile like you mean it then,” she corrected, jabbing you lightly in the ribs with her fan. “You’re meeting your future husband, after all.”

You bit your tongue. Hard.

The Zenin’s ships docked with a groan of ropes and wood, flanked by smaller vessels bearing attendants and luggage. The gangplank lowered with all the pageantry you’d expect from a foreign king seeking favor, from deck to dock. The first to disembark were the high-ranking officers, nobles with stiff collars and bored expressions, followed by a retinue of servants.

Their party was dressed in their finest, dark velvets, rigid brocade, and threads of gold that shimmered with every step. Their soldiers formed ranks in perfect symmetry, and the crest was embellished boldly on their banners, as if daring your people to question their obvious grandeur.

Naobito Zenin descended next, regal and sharp-eyed, flanked by guards. His steps were deliberate, his smile that of a man who had already begun planning what he could take.

And behind him came your betrothed.

Naoya Zenin.

He was younger than his father, of course, but the arrogance on his face had already grown old. He stood tall, with his shoulders thrown back into perfect posture. His armor was ceremonial, gilded but impractical, accented by an absurd length of emerald velvet draped over one shoulder and embroidered to the point of obscenity. His hair was slicked back into a style you imagined took hours, and when he reached the base of the terrace, he didn’t bow.

He nodded, his expression one of faint, bored distaste, as if the sight of your kingdom had failed to meet his expectations.

You schooled your features into something serene. Your heart, however, soured almost instantly.

Beside you, Satoru shifted. Just enough for you to sense the tension in his frame.

"Straighten your spine,” Cassandra whispered tightly behind you, her fingers pinching your arm just above the elbow when you let your eyes roll, however subtly.

The kings exchanged greetings in the center of the dais. Formal words, measured bows. Talk of unity and alliance. Of opportunity and goodwill. All things that sounded hollow in the heat.

And then—

Your father stepped forward to greet him, accompanied by Lord Gojo, who bowed with the kind of rigid formality that suggested a very particular type of dislike.

“Prince Naoya,” the King said, voice warm but measured. “Welcome to our kingdom. I trust your journey was smooth?”

Naoya offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “As smooth as can be expected, Your Majesty. Though the stench of fish and sweat near the bay is quite…distinct.”

Your smile twitched.

Cassandra pinched your arm lightly.

“Trade ports tend to smell like trade,” the King replied, a touch coolly. “I imagine you’ll find the palace more agreeable.”

“Let us hope,” Naoya said, his gaze sweeping lazily up the terrace steps. “It’s not the first time I’ve been summoned to forge an alliance. One tires of fanfare.”

It took everything in you not to roll your eyes again. But your jaw clenched slightly, and when you exhaled, it was through your nose.

Satoru hadn’t moved behind you, but you felt it, the shift in his posture. The slight tightening of his shoulders. The way his breath slowed in irritation.

"May I present my daughter,” your father said, turning toward you with an open gesture. “Crowned Princess of the Realm.”

You stepped forward, every motion deliberate. You bowed your head in practiced grace and lifted your eyes to meet your fate.

Naoya Zenin barely looked at you.

His gaze was cursory, sweeping over you like a merchant inspecting goods. He didn’t bow. Didn’t even smile. He simply stared, lips curled faintly, before muttering to his father under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“How common…”

The King’s face did not change. Cassandra’s nails dug into your arm.

You could only blink, stunned by the insult.

Naoya turned to you at last, the smirk on his lips as practiced as your own. “Princess.”

He reached for your hand and lifted it, pressing the ghost of a kiss to your knuckles. You barely felt his lips, just the chill of indifference beneath them.

“A pleasure, my lord,” you said sweetly, even if it was a complete, utter lie.

“You are…not what I expected,” he said, eyes dragging over your figure. “Though perhaps that is not a bad thing.”

You smiled through your teeth. “How generous.”

“I’ve been told your kingdom boasts many…rustic charms.”

“And I’ve been told your people enjoy drinking salt water and marrying their cousins. Perhaps we’ve both been misinformed."

Cassandra gasped softly beside you.

And behind you, Satoru stifled a cough that was absolutely not a laugh.

Naoya blinked, then let out a dry laugh himself. “Spirited. That’s something, I suppose…”

Your father cleared his throat. “You’ll find my daughter is well-versed in diplomacy, Prince Naoya. As she is in all things.”

Naoya hummed. “Yes…We shall see.”

The formalities and introductions continued, an exchange of pleasantries between kings, plans for the royal's supper, an acknowledgment of your engagement, and the upcoming tour of the palace grounds. But you heard little of them.  Your thoughts felt hot and buzzing beneath your tiara, skin prickling with resentment. 

This was the man chosen for you. This was the price of peace.

You could feel Satoru behind you. Steady. Silent. Unmoving.

You weren’t supposed to look at him. But you did.

Just once.

He didn’t smile. But the expression in his eyes, burning and silent and so familiar, made your stomach queasy.

And you wondered how long he could stand there, watching a man like Naoya speak to you as though you were a transaction. How long before he broke.

How long before you did.

After the formalities, the King extended a gracious hand toward the palace steps. “Come,” he said, gesturing to the gilded pathway that led up from the port. “The sun is no kinder in conversation than it is in travel. Let us show you something more hospitable.”

Naobito Zenin gave a low, amused chuckle. “Hospitality in this heat is a noble ambition indeed. Lead the way, Your Majesty.”

The small party began its procession uphill, the King and Naobito walking shoulder to shoulder, flanked by attendants and their respective Hands. Behind them, you followed dutifully, with Satoru just off your right shoulder and Cassandra on your left.

The palace rose like a crown above the harbor, stone and stained glass, sunstruck marble and soft archways carved by generations of careful hands. Its walls had seen peace and war, weddings and funerals, crowned queens and buried them. It was yours. Or at least, it had always felt like yours.

But walking its halls beside Naoya Zenin, it felt foreign.

And it should’ve ended there.

But it didn’t.

Your father had offered to show Naobito the castle’s diplomatic chambers and war rooms, leaving you with a painted smile and a single, well-meant suggestion. “I imagine your son would appreciate the chance to see the palace, as well.”

Naoya raised an eyebrow. “Would I?”

The King didn’t flinch at his disinterest. “Perhaps the Princess might offer you a private tour of the grounds. Familiarize yourself with our customs and many comforts.

 You had curtsied. You had smiled. You had agreed.

And you had done all of it with the grace expected of you, even though your stomach soured at the very thought. “I’d be honored,” you said, the words like honey over a blade.

Your father inclined his head. “Excellent. The guards will accompany you, of course.”

Of course.

Naoya gave a lazy bow. “Then by all means, lead on, Princess.”

You began walking across the courtyard, the sound of your slippers muffled by white gravel, Satotu’s heavier steps falling a few paces behind like a shadow, close, but never too much so.

Naoya’s personal knight followed as well. A tall man with striking features—shoulder-length black hair and golden skin, sharp-eyed and stoic, finely dressed in cool-toned armor. You noticed how easily Naoya brushed his hand along the man’s shoulder as they walked. A gesture that seemed so casual. Too casual. One that didn’t belong in the gap between royalty and servant.

Not that you were one to talk.

“This way,” you said, lifting your skirts slightly as you stepped through the archway leading into the shaded walk. “The east wing holds the oldest parts of the palace. Some of the carvings date back over—”

Naoya sighed. Loudly. “Must we speak of architecture? I’ve already seen two dozen palaces this season alone. They all share the same tired traits—overindulgent fountains and an uncanny obsession with ancestral portraits.”

You blinked. “Well, forgive me for attempting civility.”

He didn’t bother responding, barely looked at the tapestries or stained glass windows as you passed them. He’d occasionally offer a comment now and then— “The halls are narrow for a capital,” or “These mosaics are charming, in a quaint sort of way.” But his tone was always flat, his interest always thin. 

And it wasn’t the tile he admired. His eyes lingered instead on his own knight, who stood a few paces ahead, surveying the passage with bored indifference.

The prince’s mouth quirked faintly at the corner.

You glanced at Satoru.

He noticed it too.

“I trust your accommodations are to your liking,” you said at one point, voice light and pleasant, just as Cassandra had drilled into you.

He hummed. “Serviceable. Though the linens could be softer.”

You had to swallow down your irritation.

Satoru said nothing, but you heard the faintest exhale behind you, short and sharp, the way he always breathed when he was resisting a comment.

Naoya slowed slightly as you approached the inner garden. Beyond the stone arch, sunlight spilled across neatly clipped hedges and marble fountains, the sound of water a balm in the thick summer air.

“My mother used to take me here every morning,” you said, mostly to fill the silence. “She’d braid my hair on that bench, and we’d feed the birds by the fountain.”

Naoya didn’t even glance at the bench.

“How nostalgic,” he said dryly, not bothering to hide his disdain. “I suppose when one isn’t bred for strategy or politics, one must entertain herself somehow.”

The words slid down your spine like ice, despite the heat.

You halted in your step, spine stiffening.

Satoru’s voice came before you could muster a reply.

“I’d watch your words, my lord.”

Naoya blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

“With all due respect, she is your betrothed,” Satoru said calmly, stepping forward. “Whether you value the match or not, I suggest you treat her station, and her person, with the respect they deserve.”

The air went still.

Even Naoya’s knight turned his head slightly, as if surprised by the outburst.

Naoya let out a slow, amused laugh. “You’re a bold one for a servant, aren’t you?”

Satoru’s jaw flexed, but he remained composed. “I serve the crown. And the crown sees her worth.”

There was a beat of silence between them, thick with something unspoken. Naoya tilted his head, and his knight shifted subtly behind him, a half-step forward, just enough to remind Satoru that he wasn’t alone.

You stepped between them before it could grow into something else. “That’s enough. The stables are just ahead,” you said smoothly. “Perhaps you’d prefer to see something more fitting of your interests, my Lord.”

Naoya smirked faintly but didn’t argue. His gaze flicked back to his knight. “Come,” he said, already turning down the hall. “Let’s finish this little tour before the sun sets or tempers fray.”

You followed in silence, your pulse thudding louder than your steps. The conversation left a bitter taste in your mouth, but it wasn’t Naoya’s slight that lingered.

It was Satoru.

The way he’d spoken, not like a guard, not like a knight sworn to duty, but like a man who could no longer stomach watching you be slighted.

The heat had nothing to do with the flush that bloomed across your cheeks.

As you walked, your arm brushed his again. He didn’t look at you, but you felt the twitch of his fingers at his side, restrained and uncertain.

Like he wanted to reach for you.

And gods, how badly you wished he would.

The wine tasted bitter. 

Or perhaps it was the company that soured it.

The long table stretched between both kingdoms like a battlefield waged with silverware and forced smiles. Candlelight glittered across crystal goblets, casting fractured reflections along the walls. Gilded plates were arranged with surgical precision, heavy with roast and citrus and delicate herbs—the courses served by a silent parade of attendants. 

But the food may as well have been ash for how little anyone touched it. Polite conversation rose and fell in rigid waves, broken only by the occasional forced chuckle from one noble or another.

Your father sat tall and unreadable at the head of the table, eyes flint-sharp and expression composed as Naobito Zenin rambled on about trade routes and territorial “adjustments” to be made. His words were polite enough, but every sentence felt laced with condescension. You saw the familiar tick in your father’s brow, subtle but unmistakable, the one that meant he was biting his tongue hard enough to draw a little blood.

You weren’t much better.

Naoya sat beside you like an unwanted shadow. He hadn’t bothered to speak to you unless prompted, and even then, it was only to comment on the seasoning or the table arrangements, as if the entire evening were a chore to endure. At one point, he leaned in under his breath to whisper, “Do all of your formal dinners drag like this? Or is tonight a special punishment?” 

You didn’t dignify it with a response. But your knuckles ached from where they curled around your fork, and your wine glass remained untouched.

Across the room, Satoru stood guard at his post by one of the towing doors. 

Silent. Statuesque. 

But you could feel him.

tThe weight of his gaze, ever constant.  The tension in his shoulders when Naoya leaned too close. The way his fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword, like he was imagining it somewhere far more useful.

You made it through three courses. Barely.

By the time the final goblet was emptied and the guests excused themselves with hollow pleasantries, your bones ached from restraint. You stood carefully before the trumpeters could even play their closing notes, the weight of too many eyes tracking your every step.

“Allow me to escort the Princess,” Satoru said smoothly, already at your side before anyone else could offer.

Your father gave a small nod, too tired to argue.

You didn’t speak as he escorted you through the corridors, your slippers whispering over the marble, his steps heavier and steady beside you. The palace was quieter now, dimly lit with scattered lanterns, shadows pooling like soft silk in the corners of the stonework. 

The moment the doors were far behind, Satoru exhaled through his nose and muttered—

“You’re braver than I am.”

You glanced up at him, brows raised. “Oh?”

“For putting up with that pompous prick,” he said, without an ounce of hesitation. “I’d have thrown my goblet at him by the third course.”

You bit back a laugh, hand lifting to cover your mouth. “Don’t tempt me. The thought crossed my mind more than once.”

He smiled faintly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You wore that crown well tonight.”

“Cassandra would say otherwise. She kept nudging my foot every time I rolled my eyes.”

“I noticed.”

“Of course you did,” you murmured, a little softer. “You always notice.”

He stopped just short of your door—tall and still in the dim light, a shadow edged in silver and steel. Your chambers waited behind carved oakwood, the handles gleaming with soft gold. Your bed was made. Your handmaidens had long since been dismissed.

But neither of you moved.

The lamplight flickered across his face, catching the white of his hair, the quiet weight in his eyes. His gaze didn’t waver.

You hated that you could see the hesitation behind it.

That same hesitation mirrored in your own chest.

You didn’t want to open those doors.

“I don’t care what treaty this is meant to uphold,” you said quietly. “No matter what anyone says, my heart…”

Your voice faltered.

Then you looked up at him, steadier this time. “My heart will never belong to him.”

Satoru didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But his breath caught, just barely.

Because what could he say?

You were a princess. 

He was your knight.

And what bloomed between you, dangerous and unsanctioned, had no place in the eyes of nobles and kings.

His gaze dropped to your lips.

Then back to your eyes.

For one long, suspended moment, you thought he might kiss you.

Gods, you wanted him to.

But instead, he reached out, gloved fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. They lingered for just a breath too long. The way they always did when he was torn between impulse and oath.

Then they fell away.

“You should sleep,” he said at last, roughly. “Tomorrow will be another long day.”

You nodded, even as something inside you wilted. “Goodnight, Satoru.”

He bowed slightly. “Goodnight, Princess…”

You reached for the door. And even as it closed softly behind you, you could still feel him standing there.

Watching.

Holding something in the space between what was felt… and what was allowed.

He didn’t move until he heard the soft click of the door latch on the other side.

And even then, he stood there for a moment longer, doing nothing but staring at the grain of the wood like it might open again. Like maybe you would peek your head out and say, “Don’t go.”

You didn’t.

So he stepped forward and rested his forehead against the door.

The carved roses pressed faintly into his skin through his damp hair, still slightly sweat-stuck from the hours of armor and heat and dinner spent on high alert. His gloves curled at his sides, twitching once with the restraint he’d spent all day perfecting.

He closed his eyes.

A fool. That’s all I am.

You were behind that door. Just feet away. He could still feel you. The warmth of your voice, the ghost of your perfume. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss, if he’d only reached for you like he wanted to. Like he needed to.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Did you mean it when you said your heart would never belong to Naoya?

Or worse, did you mean him?

His throat tightened.

Because if you had said his name, instead of just standing there with that look in your eyes, he didn’t know what he would’ve done. Maybe he would’ve kissed you. Maybe he would’ve ruined everything.

He lingered there a moment longer, until the pain that bloomed in his heart became too much to ignore. Then, with a slow, quiet sigh, he stepped back. The chill of the corridor kissed his spine as he turned away, shoulders squared once more, jaw set, boots echoing hollowly.

His duty was done. For now.

The guardhall was quiet when he arrived, dimly lit by the fires burning low in the hearths, and slightly damp from the sea air. Most of the men had retired to their bunks or were out on evening watch, though a few lingered in the far corner, speaking low, half-removed from their armor and half-drunk on leftover wine. Satoru ignored them, heading for the side alcove where his quarters and the changing benches waited.

He moved without speaking, his armor clicking softly with each motion as he unfastened the clasps and buckles, piece by piece. Chestplate. Gauntlets. Swordbelt. Each one landed with a dull, tired clunk.

The familiar weight slid off his shoulders, but it didn’t ease the tension. If anything, it left him feeling more hollow, like the armor had been the only thing holding him together. His white tunic clung to his back, damp from sweat and tension. He ran a hand through his hair, already loosening at the crown, and leaned down to unbuckle the straps on his greaves.

“You look like someone ran a lance through you.”

Satoru didn’t bother glancing up. “Don’t start.”

Suguru Geto leaned casually against the archway, arms crossed over his broad chest, a crooked smile playing on his lips. His dark hair had been tied back in a low, messy knot, still damp from the bath. He was a fellow knight and Satoru’s closest friend, the only man alive who could read him like a prayer book.

“I’m not starting anything,” he said easily. “But you’re sulking. And you only sulk for one reason.”

Satoru tossed a gauntlet at him without turning around.

Suguru caught it one-handed, unbothered. “Ah. So it is the Princess, then.”

“She didn’t even say much,” Satoru muttered, shrugging off the last of his armor. “Not really…”

Suguru gave a low, knowing hum. “And yet here you are. Undressing like a man in mourning.”

“She said her heart would never belong to him.”

That made Suguru pause.

“…Hell.”

“Yeah.”

Silence folded between them. Not awkward, just loud in its weight.

“And for a second,” Satoru added quietly, “I thought maybe…maybe she meant it belonged to me.”

Suguru’s voice was quieter now. “And what if she did? What could you do?”

That was the cruel part of it.

There was no war to win.

No dragon to slay.

Only rules. Oaths. And laws written in blood.

Suguru pushed off the wall, arms dropping to his sides. “You know how dangerous this is, right?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“No. But you’re reckless when it comes to her. And tonight? You weren’t exactly subtle.”

Satoru scoffed, pressing his palm to the bridge of his nose like he could wipe away the guilt. “I didn’t even touch her.”

“You didn’t have to.” Suguru’s tone darkened. “Half the damn table knew you wanted to.”

It wasn’t untrue.

“She deserves better than him,” Satoru said lowly. “She deserves more than some political pawn. Someone who doesn’t treat her like a duty or a trade agreement.”

“And you think you’re not one?” Suguru snapped. “You’re her knight, Satoru. Not her savior. Not her lover. You’re bound by oath. Sworn to serve.”

Satoru met his eyes. His voice didn’t waver. “I love her.”

He could still feel the ghost of your hand on his arm. The heat where your gaze had lingered. It was maddening, how you could undo him with a single look.

Suguru stilled, his words catching, just barely. The silence that followed wasn’t stunned so much as resigned, like he’d always suspected but never wanted to hear it spoken aloud.

“…Gods, Satoru,” he said lowly. Not harsh, but tired. “You actually said it.”

There was something almost mournful in the way he rubbed a hand over his jaw, as if he were already grieving the outcome.

“If you let this go on any further,” he went on, quieter now, “If you touch her, they won’t just take your sword. They’ll take your head.” 

There was no longer anger in his voice. 

Only fear.

And the words hung there between them like smoke.

Satoru exhaled heavily.  “I know what it would cost me. And she’s worth it. Every risk. Every breath.”

“…Do you know what it would cost her?”

He said nothing.

Perhaps that was the only thing worse than death.

The idea that you might suffer for his choices.

It was strange how quickly the palace adjusted to the presence of foreign royalty.

Time seemed to blur, weeks passing in sunlit corridors and candlelit halls, in whispered conversations behind silk curtains and steps echoing through the quiet palace library. The Zenins had made themselves quite at home, and with each passing day, the wedding preparations dug deeper into your skin like thorned vines.

Naoya remained a fixture, drifting from chamber to chamber with the air of a man perpetually unimpressed. Lounging in the sun-drenched garden like a cat with too many servants and not enough grace. He was disinterested at best, disdainful at worst—

Except when it came to his knight.

And that wasn’t just speculation.

The man remained at Naoya’s side like a show, silent and loyal and ever so stoic. Not that the prince minded. He didn’t bother hiding it either. You’d catch his gaze drifting across the table, lingering not on you, but on the man standing behind his father’s chair. 

Which, frankly, you were relieved by.

And Satoru had been the one to say it aloud first.

“I saw him,” he muttered one morning as you walked together toward the orchard, exasperated as his eyes scanned the garden path. “Sneaking into the east corridor like a boy caught red-handed. And that knight of his? Two paces behind him. Right into his quarters. He didn’t even look guilty about it!”

You’d nearly choked on your tea, laughter spilling from your chest before you could stop it. “That explains the smug look on his face at breakfast.”

“Which one?” Satoru asked dryly. “The prince or the knight?”

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Both.”

The chaos passed slowly, but not unpleasantly. Whenever Naoya wasn’t required by formal custom to be at your side—meals in the great hall, escorted walks through the orchard, occasional library visits he never once took seriously—Satoru was there instead.

Always yours, in every way that mattered.

He never left your side for long. Not during the afternoons spent choosing linens and table arrangements. Not during the mornings when you rehearsed the ceremonial steps in the open courtyard, your slippers nearly tripping over the uneven cobblestone. He caught you more than once, hands warm and quick at your waist, voice low with amusement

“Careful,” he’d whisper. “You’ll end up in my arms in front of the entire court.”

You’d flush, but never pull away.

On the days he was off duty, you stole time with him like a thief. Sneaking out to sit beneath the vine-covered arch near the stables. Sharing pastries stolen from the kitchens. Tucking yourselves away in shadowed alcoves and under dappled branches, hiding from the rest of the world like children. You teased each other mercilessly, snickering about Naoya’s sulking.

You’d sit there for hours. Talking. Laughing. Letting the wind tug at your hair and the sun warm your hands where they rested beside his on the stone bench.

“I should’ve made you marry me instead,” you said once, half-teasing, wholly serious, sprawled across his lap.

He looked at you for a long moment, then grinned, brushing imaginary lint from your skirts. “You’d never let me have the last word.”

You’d tilted your head, smirking. “What makes you think I’d let a prince have it, either?”

And when you didn’t laugh, when the weight of your duties returned like stormclouds on the horizon, you spent countless afternoons in the seamstress chambers, Cassandra hovering as the tailors fussed over the last alterations of the wedding gown. 

“It’s too tight,” you sighed, tugging at the fabric around your ribs with a scowl.

“It’s supposed to be,” she said, though not unkindly. “You’re about to marry a prince, after all.”

The gown was beautiful, yes—swan-white and embroidered in silver thread, the color of truce and new beginnings. But the fabric felt so heavy. Suffocating.

And your duties weren’t even finished. There were cakes to be tested for the banquet, flowers to be chosen, and every other hour of your day carved out by someone else’s agenda. Rehearsed vows were written for you, not by you. Practiced with curtsies and phrases until they rolled off your tongue like foreign fruit—sweet, yet unfamiliar.

You practiced the walk down the aisle until your calves ached. You listened to the choir rehearse the same song again and again until your ears rang.

Each night, you returned to your chambers with a heart even heavier than your skirts.

And each night, Satoru would find his way to you.

Sometimes he only stayed a few minutes. Other times, you let him in. Let him sit with you, shoulder to shoulder on your bed, boots left at the threshold and gloves discarded.

He’d tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Brush your knuckles with his as you passed him a candle or leaned close enough to smell the mint on his breath. You’d talk in low voices until sleep began to steal your words.

He never crossed the line. Never broke the vow.

But you needed him to.

He’d sit beside you on the window seat of your chambers, letting your tears slip freely into the fabric of your nightdress. He’d brush them away with the back of his hand without asking questions, smoothing his fingers through your hair as you leaned against him. He’d murmur that you were strong. That he was proud. That he’d stay for as long as you let him. His voice a soothing balm against your temple.

And you believed him.

Even as everything else felt like it was slipping from your grasp—your autonomy, your future, your name—he never faltered. He never left your side. Not once.

You didn’t need to ask how dangerous it was. You saw it in the way he touched you only when no one else was looking. In the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. In the way he always stood too close, yet never close enough.

And he still never broke his oath. Never kissed you.

Not once.

Because he couldn’t.

Because if he did, he’d never stop.

And neither would you.

The sun was an unrelenting sentinel overhead, beating down on the tournament field until the stone walls shimmered and the banners snapped like flames in the wind. Blue skies stretched overhead, cloudless and bright, as if the gods themselves had chosen the day to be perfect for such an occasion.

The courtyard had been transformed overnight into a spectacle of pageantry. Fresh straw scattered across the track. The scent of sweat, leather, and sweetbread from the vendor carts clung to the summer air. Banners from both kingdoms fluttered in the breeze, each lance painted in their respective house colors, each shield polished to a blinding sheen.

Flower petals swirled through the breeze, cast from baskets by excited children perched on their fathers’ shoulders. Noble families gathered in the shaded stands, murmuring and fanning themselves beneath silken canopies while servants moved like shadows, offering wine and fruit chilled in ice. Trumpets sang from the parapets. Drums kept time with the clatter of hooves and armor. The crowd stirred with anticipation as armored knights on horseback paraded through the gates.

At the heart of it all, you sat in the royal viewing box like a jewel in a crown.

Your gown shimmered beneath the sun, a ceremonial piece not quite bridal, but still suffocating in its splendor. Layers of ivory silk and filigree lace, sewn with pearls and threaded with silver. A crown of early summer blooms rested on your brow, fragrant and delicate, though the weight of it dug into your scalp like it might root there forever.

All so lovely. Regal. 

Suffocating.

You sat straight, hands folded in your lap, chin lifted with practiced grace. Your smile was perfect. Polished. 

Painfully fake.

To your right, your father, the King, watched the field with a gaze that missed nothing. 

Just beyond him, Prince Naoya slouched slightly in his seat next to Naobito Zenin, legs spread wide, posture all arrogance and entitlement. His armor was draped in gold-threaded tunics, gaudy and impractical, more for show than battle. He sipped from his goblet with the confidence of a man who believed the day already belonged to him.

But it was the familiar voices to your left that softened the moment, filling the space with warmth that made the grandeur almost bearable. They’d traveled from neighboring kingdoms for the wedding, loyal and dear companions from girlhood. 

“Please tell me that knight from the western delegation is single,” Utahime murmured, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin. “The one with the scar across his cheek.”

“He is,” Shoko drawled, wine glass tilted lazily in her hand. “But I hear he sleeps with his horse more often than with women.”

Yuki nearly choked on her laughter, elbowing you playfully. “Come now, don’t look so regal. You’re allowed to smile. You’re the bride, after all.”

“I feel more like a hostage,” you muttered under your breath.

They completely ignored your unpleasantries. “Oh, that one’s tall,” Yuki murmured, biting into a candied fig and gesturing with the stem. “I’d let him joust for me any day.”

Utahime snorted, “He looks like he’d fall off the horse before the first pass.”

“Then I’ll catch him,” Yuki retorted sweetly, flicking a petal from your shoulder. “What do you think, Princess? Wouldn’t you prefer one of these fine champions to your shining betrothed?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

Shoko, ever the observer, glanced sidelong at you. “She’s already spoken for. Or haven’t you noticed?”

Your gaze drifted before you could stop it.

There, across the arena, flanked by his fellow knights in gleaming armor, stood Satoru.

He was unmistakable, even in full plate. His helm hung from one hand, the other braced lazily on his hip, pale hair almost glowing in the sun. His stance was easy, relaxed, but the way he watched you was anything but.

He wasn’t smiling yet.

Not until he saw you laugh.

Yuki whispered something ridiculous, and you bit your lip to hide your grin, shoulders shaking with quiet amusement. From across the field, Satoru’s lips quirked. A crooked, knowing smirk. Charming in a way that made heat creep up your cheeks.

Beside him, Suguru shook his head with a sigh and elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Stop looking at her like that.”

“I’m not,” Satoru muttered.

“You are. It’s gross.”

Satoru grinned wider. “Jealous?”

“Of your impending execution? Absolutely.”

The procession of knights began not long after, dozens of mounted figures in gleaming armor, streaming through the gates to the sound of roaring cheers. Each paused before the royal box, bowing with flourish and swearing fealty to the crown, and to you, in particular. You nodded and smiled with perfect decorum, hand raised in polite acknowledgement as their oaths rang out.

“Lady of grace, light of the realm,” one knight declared, his voice carrying. “I ride in your honor.”

Naoya shifted beside his father. “A bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

When his own name was eventually called, he made a show of it, rising with the smugest expression, beckoning for his squire to help fasten the last strap of his gauntlet. 

“Watch closely, Princess,” he said with a wink. “It isn’t every day you get to witness greatness from the best seat in the kingdom.”

You managed a soft, “Best of luck, my lord,” and offered a polite clap when your father gave you a look that said behave.

Naoya descended to the field with dramatic flair, helmet tucked beneath one arm, armor shining like an over-polished coin. He mounted his horse with a practiced swing and took his place at the starting end of the tilt. The crowd cheered, though more out of decorum than admiration.

Your hands folded neatly in your lap.

The tournament pressed on beneath the punishing summer sun, each match blurring into the next like strokes on a war drum. One knight unseated another to the roar of the crowd. Shields splintered. Lances cracked clean in two. A dust cloud hovered permanently over the tiltyard, kicked up by galloping hooves and the thunder of impact.

You clapped when expected, offered small smiles when the herald announced each victor, but your mind had already begun to drift. The spectacle, for all its pageantry, felt hollow. Predictable. Even Naoya’s matches had come and gone—he’d won the last by default, his opponent having slipped in the stirrup before the first pass.

Your head ached beneath the floral crown. The sun pressed hot behind your eyes.

And then—

The next match was announced with little fanfare, just another exhibition round, one not originally on the schedule. The crowd stirred with vague confusion as the herald stepped forward once more.

“And now…a final demonstration of skill and chivalry,” the man proclaimed, voice clear and sharp across the field. “By order of His Majesty, a challenge of friendly sport between two of the realm’s finest knights.”

You barely had time to glance toward your father before movement from the other side of the arena caught your eye.

The crowd parted. Hooves echoed against the stone path.

Your breath stopped.

Satoru.

He rode astride a tall grey destrier, barded in the crest of your kingdom. His armor, though practical, gleamed like starlight, polished to a mirror sheen. His helm hung from one hand—he never wore it until the last second—his other rested casually on the saddlehorn. White hair caught the wind, his posture relaxed but coiled, like a bowstring drawn.

And his smile—

That damned smile.

It was all cocky confidence and quiet promise as he reined in before the royal box and dismounted in one smooth, practiced motion.

The cheers began softly. Then louder.

“I wasn’t told there’d be another match,” you said, half-standing in disbelief. “Father—?”

Your father didn’t look at you. He kept his gaze trained on the field. “Your knight requested the honor himself.”

Lies. 

His voice was too neutral. A practiced, political tone, which meant it had been his idea all along.

You barely had time to process it all before Satoru approached the box with purpose, eyes locked onto yours. He stopped before the dais, bowed deeply, and spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear.

“If it pleases the Princess,” he said. “I request her favor.”

Any breath that remained left you in a rush.

He was serious.

“Holy hell. He’s really doing it, isn’t he?” Utahime whispered beside you, barely containing her grin.

Shoko didn’t look up from her wine. “If he doesn’t win, we’ll have to smuggle his corpse out of the palace.”

Yuki leaned in, nudging your arm. “Well? Don’t keep him waiting.”

You swallowed hard and stood, hands trembling as you reached into the fold of your gown. Your fingers curled around the soft linen there, a simple square handkerchief, embroidered in white and silver, the one Cassandra had pressed into your palm this morning just in case.

You leaned forward and held it out.

Satoru’s hand met yours at the edge of the dais.

And something passed between you in that moment, something unspoken and electric. A spark you could no longer pretend wasn’t there. His gloves curled around your offering, fingers brushing against yours. He folded with reverence before tying it to his arm.

“I shall not fall,” he said softly, only for you.

“See that you don’t,” you whispered.

You could feel the shift in the atmosphere. 

Your father’s expression had sharpened, a flicker of disapproval passing like a shadow over his face.

Beside him, Naobito Zenin’s lip curled in disdain. “Didn’t realize your knights were trained on theatrics…”

Satoru bowed once more before he turned away, mounting his steed with that same effortless grace, taking his place at the far end of the tilt. The wind caught your favor now tied to his armor, fluttering against his arm like a silent declaration. A flare of white.

The trumpets sounded once more.

And your heart slammed against your ribs.

Because it wasn’t just for sport anymore.

He was riding for you.

The trumpets rang out again, sharp and golden in the blistering air, and the crowd hushed beneath the weight of anticipation.

Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since he stepped onto the field.

You sat straight, still, every inch the dutiful princess, but inside, everything trembled. Your hands curled in your lap, knuckles white from squeezing them so hard. Your lungs burned with the effort of pretending you weren’t holding your breath.

Satoru took his place at the end of the tilt, his steed pawing at the dirt as attendants brought him his lance.

He was a dream carved from steel.

White hair kissed by sunlight. Your favor tied proudly at his arm, fluttering with each shift of his reins. He moved like the horse was an extension of his body, fluid, effortless, and alive with tension.

When the signal was given, he charged down the line like lightning.

He was…brilliant. Terrifyingly so.

Steel met air in a blur of motion. He was all speed and fury, his lance angled with impeccable precision as it struck true, the sound of impact a deafening crack. He shattered his opponent’s shield, unseating the man clean from the saddle in a single blow.

The crowd erupted, but you barely heard them over.

Another match followed. Then another. Each opponent was stronger than the last, but none were quick enough. None had his timing, his sheer strength. The tilt became his stage, and he rode like he was born for it. He moved through each man like a tempest, more brutal than the last. Dust clung to his armor, bruises bloomed beneath his armor, but he did not falter.

Until his final match.

Naoya Zenin.

The field buzzed with tension as the prince mounted his horse once more, golden armor gleaming like it had something to prove. He looked every inch the noble son, pride carved into every sharp line of his jaw as he took his place opposite Satoru at the end of the tilt.

You sat completely rigid, biting the inside of your lip until you tasted the metallic tang of blood.

The field fell to a hush as they approached the line.

Satoru raised his lance.

Naoya matched him, lips drawn tight beneath his helm.

The trumpets sang once more.

And they charged.

Their first pass was brutal. Satoru’s lance struck hard, but Naoya’s landed a direct hit against his shield. The impact rang out like a thunderclap, both lances snapping on contact, both men recoiling hard in their saddles. The horses reared slightly, their hooves kicking up dust. Satoru barely managed to stay upright, his back arching with force. He steadied himself with a grunt, already reaching for the next lance.

The second pass came faster. Harder.

Naoya’s aim was vicious. His lance struck high across Satoru’s chest, just beneath the collarbone, splintering the wood once more. You saw the jolt ripple through his body. His head snapped back, almost unseated, one hand losing grip on the reins.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

But he didn’t fall.

He should have, but he didn’t.

He caught himself, legs locked, back arched once more, and righted with a savage growl. His horse whinnied, circling tightly at the end of the tilt as he forced the reins back under control.

Gasps rippled through the stands.

Even Naoya looked stunned, though he lifted his visor just enough to smirk.

And then the third pass began.

Satoru’s grip tightened. His heels pressed into the stirrups, and he righted himself with a sharp tug of the reins, turning mid-dust cloud to ready his final run.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

You couldn’t.

This time, Satoru didn’t hold back. 

His charge was silent thunder, pure momentum. His lance met Naoya’s chest with brutal precision, knocking the prince clean out of the saddle. He hit the ground with a dull, echoing thud, a spray of dust and torn silk billowing in his wake.

The crowd gasped. Then cheered, louder than ever.

The prince had been thrown.

The moment Naoya’s back hit the dirt, the trumpets sang out.

Victory.

Satoru circled once before slowing, dust trailing in his wake. His chest heaved with exertion. Blood streaked from a split lip, painting his mouth crimson, and already bruising across one of his cheekbones.

But he was smiling. Tired. Victorious.

And he was looking at you.

He dismounted with practiced ease and approached the royal box once more, his helm under one arm, favor still fluttering at his bicep. He bowed low, kneeling into the dirt, his gaze lifting to yours even as he trembled with pain.

“I dedicate this victory,” he said, breathless but clear, “to the Princess. My honor. My light.”

The crowd roared.

Naoya was still groaning somewhere behind him, pride bruised more deeply than his ribs.

And you were already moving.

Protocol forgotten, decorum scattered like petals in the wind, you rose before your father could stop you, before Naoya could stand, before the court could whisper.

You ran.

The royal guards called your name, startled. You barely noticed. The edge of your gown caught in your heels as you descended the steps of the dais, your floral crown tilting askew, but you didn’t stop.

The dust hadn’t even settled when you reached him in uneven steps.

He rose and barely had time to say your name before your arms were around him, your fingers curling into the back of his armor as you buried your face against his throat.

He froze, just for a moment.

Then he huffed a soft laugh, wincing when it tugged the bruises on his face. One arm curled around your waist, drawing you closer, grounding you in the scent of sweat and blood and him. His other hand trembled slightly where it pressed against the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair.

It was scandalous. Treasonous, even.

You felt your father’s gaze like a sword pointed to your back.

You felt Naobita Zenin’s fury boiling from the dais like heat.

But none of it mattered. 

He was standing.

He’d won.

He was yours.

And everyone saw.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of celebration.

Laughter rang from the halls, goblets spilled red across polished floors, and petals fell like rain from every window and tower. Courtiers danced beneath candlelight, minstrels played into the dusk. Nobles toasted with honeyed words, and servants paraded trays of roasted quail and sugared plums.

You smiled where you should, curtsied when called, lifted your goblet when prompted—even danced once with Naoya beneath the eyes of the court while his hand gripped yours a little too tightly. But it was all muscle memory by now, something empty wearing your skin in your place.

And when the revelry waned, when the final verse was sung and the last wine poured, your father summoned you with a quiet hand to your wrist.

His smile never faltered for the court, but the moment you were alone, it vanished.

The conversation was curt. Stern. Private.

He didn’t yell. He never did.

But his words struck like sharpened blades. A lecture, cloaked in quiet fury, about how you had embarrassed yourself. Embarrassed him. How unbecoming it was of a future queen to run like some reckless child into the arms of her sworn protector. And in front of the Zenins, no less.

You did not argue.

You simply bowed your head, offered a well-practiced apology, and left.

Because you didn’t regret it.

Not a single step.

By the time you returned to your chambers, the moon was high and silver in the night sky. Cassandra had already turned down your bed, doused the candles, and tucked a sprig of lavender beneath your pillow.

But you didn’t sleep.

You sat curled in the window seat, still dressed in your ceremonial gown, fingers wrapped tightly around the ribbon that had been pressed into your palm after the match. Satoru’s token, delivered by his squire in the quiet chaos of the dispersing crowd.

It was plain, a strip of pale silk without embroidery or seal. Unsigned, unmarked.

But it smelled faintly of him. 

You pressed it to your lips, let your eyes drift shut. And for a moment, you let yourself pretend.

Pretend there was no crown.

No marriage waiting like a noose.

No throne that demanded your sacrifice.

Just him.

Just the way he’d looked at you when he knelt before you in the dirt, bruised and bloodied and still smiling like an absolute idiot.

And that’s when the knock came.

Not sharp. Not hurried.

So soft it might’ve been a trick of the wind.

You turned, heart stuttering, rising slowly to your feet.

And there he was.

Satoru.

The door creaked open just slightly, just enough for him to appear in the gap. The fire in the hearth behind you flickered weakly, bathing his figure in golden shadows.

He stood there, still dressed in full regalia. His breastplate was dulled now, marked with smears of dust and bruised metal. His pauldrons had been removed, and his gloves were tucked under one arm. A thin cut still marked the corner of his lip, barely scabbed over from the blow he’d taken hours before.

But his eyes—

Gods, his eyes.

They looked tired.

But when they found yours, he looked at you like you were the only thing left in the world worth kneeling for.

“Satoru,” you breathed, stepping closer. “Is everything alright?”

He didn’t speak at first.

He just looked at you.

Long. Quiet. Ache written in every slow breath.

And then, so softly it nearly broke you—

“You’re to be married tomorrow…”

The words hit harder than they should have. A wall. A wound. As if he were saying them not to inform you, but himself. Like if he said them out loud, they might finally settle into truth.

You nodded once. Slowly. “I know…”

The silence stretched between you.

You could hear your own heartbeat pounding. Feel it in your throat, your chest, your wrists.

His hands flexed at his sides. His shoulders rose and fell with breaths that sounded almost pained. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Your voice trembled as you stepped toward him.  “Then…why are you?”

His gaze flicked down.

At your slippers.

At the ribbon still clutched in your hand.

And then back at you.

His next words were not strong. Not polished.

They quivered with the weight of everything he’d ever swallowed down.

“To remember what it feels like…” he said, barely managing the words. “To stand in front of the woman I love before she becomes someone else’s.”

He blinked hard, and you thought, if you reached for him now, you’d find his armor wet with tears.

He hadn’t said it before.

Not like this.

Not so plainly. Not so honestly. Not like he meant it.

“I love you,” he said again, firmer this time. Raw. Vulnerable.

Like it hurt to say it.

Or like it hurt more not to.

“I love you, and I have for longer than I should. Longer than I’ve let myself admit.” His hands began to shake. “I tried not to. I tried to pretend I didn’t. I tried to tell myself I was imagining the way you looked at me. That you could never—”

“I do,” you whispered, stepping in until your chest pressed against his armor. “I look at you like that because I do. I have for years.”

He drew in a jagged breath. His hands hovered like he didn’t trust himself to touch you.

“You shouldn’t say that,” he murmured softly, barely audible.

“Why not?”

“Because if you do… I’ll never be able to let you go. So please, please, Princess…tell me to leave. Just once, and I will.”

But you didn’t.

You raised your hand to his face, brushing your thumb along the corner of his bruised mouth. And he leaned into your touch like a man starved.

“I can’t…” You whispered. “I never could.”

And that was all it took.

Whatever restraint he’d been clinging to, whatever line he’d drawn between you, it vanished.

The dam cracked.

In a blink, he crossed the room, armor creaking as he reached for you. His hands cupped your face before you could think, before you could breathe, and his mouth crashed against yours as if he’d been waiting a lifetime.

The door fell shut behind him

The ribbon slipped from your hand, fluttering to the floor.

And everything you’d ever tried to bury with it went with it.

His kiss was not tentative. It was not questioning.

It was desperate. Raw. A thousand unsaid things poured into the curve of his mouth against yours.

Years of silence.

Years of longing.

Years of not yet and we can’t.

It stretched between you, thick with everything unspoken, everything forbidden, and the space suddenly felt too small to contain it. His chest rose and fell like he’d just ridden horseback through war. You could see it, feel it, in the way he trembled. Not from fear, but restraint. 

You lifted your trembling hand and pressed it to the bruised edge of his jaw again. His eyes fluttered shut, pretty white lashes sweeping delicately against his cheek. He leaned into your touch, the warmth of your palm the only thing tethering him to the Earth.

“We really shouldn’t, Princess…” He muttered, sounding wrecked and hoarse, though he didn’t pull away.

“I know,” you whispered. 

But neither of you broke apart.

You didn’t remember when your hands fisted in the sleeves of his tunic. Only that they did. His armor shifted when he moved closer, a low scrape of metal as he stepped towards you again. The cool bite of steel brushed against your stomach, as if you could carve a space inside your bones just for him. One gloved hand reached for your waist, hesitant, like even now, he needed permission. You granted it by reaching for his other, fingers curling around the leather to pull him even closer.

When your lips met again, it was slower this time. Shy, almost. 

Like you were both trying to desperately memorize it. Your lips pressed, parted—warm, damp, unsure—and his breath mingled with yours. You could faintly taste the blood still staining his lip. Your noses bumped. He sighed again you as if he were in pain.

And maybe he was.

Because this was a sin.

You were to be married in the morning.

He had sworn an oath.

You both should’ve stopped.

But neither of you moved.

His tongue brushed yours, tentative and soft. And the kiss deepened. It grew clumsy with inexperience, a little too wet, a little too desperate. Your teeth clicked. You both laughed, breathless and nervous, foreheads resting together as you tried to catch your breath.

“I—” he began, then stopped.

He looked at you like a man unraveling.

“I’d go to the gallows for this,” he whispered. “I’d kneel before your father myself, if it meant I could keep this moment with you.”

Your heart ached. “You don’t have to kneel,” you breathed, brushing your thumb across his lip. “Just stay.”

A moment passed.

And then—

He sank to his knees.

Just like that.

Not for the crown. Not for the realm.

For you.

In his scratched armor, on the stone floor, he bowed his head against your abdomen, hands trembling where they rested on your hips. “Please,” he managed, so gently it nearly broke you. “Let me love you. Just once. Even if it’s only tonight…I swear to the gods, I’ll make it worth the punishment, and I’ll never ask again.”

Your hands threaded through the white strands of his hair. He looked up at you, eyes blown wide, mouth open, adoring.

“I love you,” he whispered again, like it was a sacred vow. “I want to give you everything. Let me show you. Please—”

You nodded before he even finished, pulling him up with trembling hands.

He stood slowly, his hands cupping your face like you might vanish. His mouth returned to yours, hungrier this time, needier. When his tongue parted your lips, you welcomed it, letting him taste you again and again. You whimpered softly into him, knees already weakening.

What followed was not graceful.

His armor creaked as he stepped back, and you clumsily helped him remove it, piece by piece. It took effort, you both laughed, nervous and giddy, as you fumbled with the buckles of his breastplate. The metal clanked loudly against the floor when it came off, and you whispered, “Sorry, sorry—” through giggles and flushed cheeks as the remaining layers followed. 

“You’re going to wake the whole bloody palace,” he murmured against your cheek, smiling like a fool as you tugged at his belt.

“You snuck into my room in full armor,” you shot back, breathless, “I think that ship has sailed.”

Finally, he stood before you in just his linen undershirt and trousers, white hair mussed and damp with sweat. 

“We can stop,” he breathed, lips brushing softly against yours. “If you tell me to, I’ll stop.”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

His breath shuddered out a sound that was almost a whimper.

“I want it to be you,” you spoke lightly. “Please, Satoru. I just want to be yours.”

He nodded, and the room glowed with soft firelight as he guided you back towards the bedpost, hands still hovering like he didn’t dare to touch. One of them ghosted over your waist, pausing just above the laces of your gown. “Can I…?”

You nodded again, breathless. “Please…”

You stood before him while he undid you layer by layer. “You wore this for him. Let me be the one to take it off…” He kissed your shoulder, his hands gentle at every knot. Calloused fingertips loosened the ribbons of your corset with slow, maddening patience.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“So are you,” you whispered.

The final tug of laces came loose, and you gasped quietly as air rushed into your lungs. He helped guide the gown down your shoulders, pressing soothing kisses to every new inch he revealed. When the layers finally pooled around your ankles, he stepped back and stared at you like you were something holy. Something untouchable. His gaze dragged over your figure, your bare chest rising with each nervous inhale, the soft silk of your undergarments. 

“Gods,” he said. “You’re… divine. Beautiful…I don’t deserve to see you like this—”

“You do,” you said, cutting him off with certainty. “You’re the only one who ever did.”

His palms skimmed over your sides, thumbs dragging across the soft skin of your stomach.

“I’ve never…” he began, then trailed off.

“I know,” you said. “Neither have I.”

That admission should’ve scared you, but it didn’t. Not with him.

“You can touch me,” you murmured, reaching for his hands. “I want you to.”

He nodded and dropped to his knees once more.

You sucked in a sharp breath as his hands slid along your thighs, his mouth pressing kisses to the soft skin there. And when he looked up at you—wild-eyed, needy, undone—you knew.

He wasn’t here to take anything from you.

He was here to worship.

“Like back,” he exhaled. “Let me take care of you.”

You did.

You let him guide you down onto the silken sheets, hair spilling over the pillows, your chest rising and falling with anticipation. The fire crackled behind him, painting his pale skin in amber light as he crawled over you, stopping to press kisses over your ribs, your stomach, your hips…

And then he kissed lower.

His hands slid under your thighs and parted them with care, admiration laced in every breath.

“Let me taste you,” he muttered. “I’ve dreamed about this—I’ve ached for this.”

You could barely find the words to answer. Just nodded, already breathless.

He kissed your inner thigh—once, twice, three times—before his mouth finally found you.

The first stroke of his tongue stole the breath from your lungs.

Right over your cunt, through your soaked garments. His tongue dragged against the fabric once, then again, until you were trembling.

“Satoru—”

He peeled the fabric aside with trembling fingers and groaned at the sight of you, slick and glistening. His mouth returned, open and warm, and then he was lapping at you. 

Tentative. Messy. Eager. 

His tongue flicked over your clit again and again. He was slow. Worshipful. A little unsure at first, but he listened. He learned. He moaned when your hands clutched at his hair, when your hips bucked up beneath him.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmured, almost dazed.

You gasped, thighs squeezing around his head.

When he found a rhythm, sliding two fingers inside you while his tongue worked steady over your clit, letting the pressure build. He pulled you to the edge slowly, until you unraveled with a gasp and a cry, back arching as pleasure bloomed, hot and dizzying in every limb. You shuddered beneath his tongue.

He kissed your thigh gently as you came down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, lips swollen from his careful work.

“Was that alright?” he whispered.

“Alright” was an understatement. You could’ve sobbed.

“Come here,” you insisted.

He crawled up to kiss you again, and you tasted yourself on his tongue.

Your hands found the waistband of his trousers. He gasped softly when you wrapped your fingers around his cock, hard and aching and pink, flushed a shade darker at the tip. He was…bigger than you expected. Beautiful.

“You’ll have to go slow,” you whispered.

“I will,” he breathed. “I swear, I will.”

He lined himself up, pressing his forehead to yours as he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, gasping your name like a sonnet.

Pain bloomed sharp at first, tight and burning, but his hands were gentle, soothing, kissing your cheek, your temple, your throat, anywhere he could reach.

“Tell me if it’s too much, alright?” he whispered. “I’ll stop.”

You shook your head. “I want this. I want you.”

He groaned when he finally bottomed out, his breath stuttering against your skin. You clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, thighs tight as his hips. He stilled as he buried inside you, pecking your lips as you adjusted, whispering how beautiful you were. How good you felt.

When he started to move, it was slow. Careful.

Then deeper.

Then more.

You clung to each other like lifelines, gasping against each other’s lips, eyes locked. Each thrust sent a slow, aching wave of pleasure through you, your walls clenching helplessly around him as he moaned into your skin, like the feeling of you was undoing him from the inside out.

He fucked you like he was falling apart. Like he didn’t know what he was doing, but he needed more, needed you closer, tighter, forever.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was messy.

It was everything.

And when you came again, his name was a gasp on your lips. Your cunt pulsed hot and overwhelming around him, hips rocking helplessly into his. He choked on a curse, rutting deeper as you clenched down, your pleasure pulling his from him in a broken rush.

He followed soon after, shuddering against you with a trembled moan, hips stuttering as he emptied his release into you with all the love he’d never been allowed to speak aloud. You held him through the aftershocks, pressing kisses into his damp hair.

After, he didn’t move.

Just held you.

Just breathed you in.

Just whispered, again and again, “I love you. I love you. I love you...”

As if he already knew it was the last night he'd ever be allowed to.

You didn’t know how long you lay like that, skin to skin, bare limbs tangled in fine linens and each other. Time felt suspended, holding its breath with you. His chest rose and fell beneath your palm, slow and steady now. You could feel it, the quiet echo of everything he’d given you, the fragile weight of everything you’d taken.

The fire in the hearth had burned low. Gold flickered over the slope of his bare shoulder, the curve of his throat, the bruises scattered across his skin like offerings. His lashes lay still against his flushed cheek, trembling now and then, like he might open his eyes and find you gone.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

There were no words left, not after the ones you'd exchanged with mouths and hands, with kisses pressed like promises against places no one else would ever see.

He held you like you might vanish.

His arms were locked tight around your waist, one hand splayed across your spine, the other buried in your hair. He didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t stop touching you, not even when your breath began to slow. Like if he let go, even for a second, this moment might turn to ash in his hands.

And you didn’t want to move either.

You traced slow shapes against his chest. Faint circles, the curve of a sigil, the beginning of a word you didn’t dare finish. He shivered beneath your touch, that featherlight motion enough to undo him.

The silence was sweet. Gentle. And yet—

It wasn’t enough.

Not anymore.

You lifted your head and found him watching you already, pale blue eyes soft in the dark and impossibly close.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice barely more than breath. “And I meant it when I told you…my heart doesn’t belong to him.”

For a moment, he didn’t react. 

And the look he gave you—

It was ruin. Pure, devastating ruin. As if hearing you say it out loud finally broke the last wall he’d kept between you.

“You mean it?” he asked quietly. 

You nodded and smiled through the ache. “It never did.”

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, letting out a laugh that was sharp and soft all at once, like it hurt to feel something that good.

“I love you,” he whispered again, for the dozenth time. For the hundredth time in his heart. His fingers laced with yours beneath the covers, gripping tight.

You closed your eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I don’t want to lose this,” you whispered. “Even if I’m married tomorrow. Even if I have to wear his name. I can’t—” You broke off, throat thick with sorrow. “I can’t lose you.”

His body stilled.

It should’ve shattered him.

And maybe it did.

Because he pulled you closer. Tighter. Trying so desperately to shield you from all of it, from the ceremony, the politics, the man who didn’t deserve your heart.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your shoulder. Each one softer than the last. His expression was raw when he pulled back. Wrecked. All of his usual charm and bravado stripped down to the man beneath, the one who had always belonged to you, long before either of you admitted it aloud.

“Then you won’t,” he said simply.

“How?” you asked. “How are we supposed to keep this?”

He didn’t flinch.

“I’ll stay yours,” he said, like a vow. “Even if I can’t have you in the eyes of the realm. Even if he puts his ring on your hand and walks beside you at court.” He leaned in, kissing the underside of your jaw. “Even if I have to stand at a distance and pretend I don’t ache for you…”

“Satoru—”

“I’ll be yours,” he breathed. “Your knight. Your secret. Your shadow and sin. Just say the word, and I’ll serve you in silence for the rest of my life.”

You blinked against the burn in your throat. He made it sound…so simple. So beautiful and completely devoted. “You’d live with that?” you asked. “Knowing you can never have me fully?”

He cupped your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with unbearable tenderness.

“I already do.”

The breath left your lungs.

And when he kissed you again, it was slow. Sweet. Mourning.

The kind of kiss you give when you already know it has to end.

Tomorrow, the bells would ring.

You would marry a man you did not love.

But tonight—

Tonight, he was yours.

And you were his.

And for now, that was enough.

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As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

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[bull3tpr00fs0ul]

[governments-babygirl]

They don't make rom coms like these anymore!!!

[junos-chronicles]

Half of Me

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☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, emotional turmoil, gojo has a girlfriend at first, mutual but poorly communicated feelings, bad decisions at 2am, reader has a cat, lots of feelings, shoko being the only one with a brain Art by: @mmsks_ on X

While juggling a difficult day at work, you do your best to keep your head down and move forward—though the weight of everything you’re carrying is beginning to show. Across the city, Satoru drowns in the pressure of his family's law firm, distracted and on edge as memories of a night he can’t forget linger in the back of his mind. When the day finally ends, you return home hoping for quiet, but find yourself overwhelmed by questions with no easy answers. A familiar face appears at the door—unannounced, and holding more than just a gift.

Step Four: Pretend You're Fine

You woke up before your alarm even went off. Not with purpose, but with that sour, sick kind of startle—the kind that twisted your gut before your brain could catch up. 

Your mouth felt dry. Your heart was already racing. 

The room was steeped in a heavy, early-morning quiet. No birdsong, no traffic yet—just the low hum of the radiator and the creak of your ceiling fan turning slow, like it was struggling through molasses. 

It took a second to realize what woke you up in the first place. There was no dream to recall, no sound to blame. Just the sharp twist of your stomach, the cold sheet of dread already settled on your chest, and one horrible, crystal-clear image: His face. 

That fucking stunned expression across the table. Like you had blindsided him.

You laid there, completely still, fingers curled into the fabric of your comforter. The light filtered through your blinds, a pale blue-gray that painted your bedroom in soft outlines. Bear was nestled into your side (per usual), breathing slow and deep, one paw stretched across your hip like he was trying to ground you.

But your thoughts were already spiraling.

You saw his face again—that almost insulted look he had given you yesterday. Like you had set a trap. Like you were the one who should’ve been more careful.

Your jaw clenched. You shut your eyes, trying to just breathe through it and not cry before 7 am.

You didn’t sleep much. You weren’t sure you slept at all, really. Just tossed and turned the entire night, sheets a tangled mess around your legs, body sore like you’d run a marathon in your dreams. You kept replaying it—that moment over lunch, your voice that was barely above a whisper when you told him, and how he just… shut down. Glitched out like a broken machine.

You sat up too fast, making your head spin uncomfortably. “Fuck him,” you muttered, rubbing your palms over your face.

Bear meowed softly in protest when you shifted him off your lap.

You trudged to the bathroom and stared at yourself in the mirror. You…looked like hell. Hollow eyes, dry lips from dehydration, hoodie stretched at the neckline like you’d worn it too many nights in a row—which you did. You brushed your teeth harder than you needed to, spitting out the white foam into the sink, rinsing your face with cold water until your skin burned.

Still didn’t wake you up.

The apartment felt especially quiet this morning. You put the kettle onto the stove out of habit, then remembered you couldn't actually have your green tea, and immediately, you just wanted to scream in frustration. 

So you settled for toast instead. Half a piece. It went cold by the time you picked it up, though. You just sat on the edge of your couch instead, blinking at nothing in particular.

The only thing worse than being pregnant was being pregnant and broke.

The train was late. Of course it was. And to make matters worse, it was packed shoulder to shoulder. You managed to wedge yourself into a corner, though, gripping the pole with one hand, the other pressed low against your abdomen. 

You were only a few weeks in, barely even bloated, but you swore you could feel everything. The sway of the car, the brake squeal, the stale stench of someone's breakfast sandwich wafting through the air—all of it made your stomach turn over. 

By the time you pushed through the door of the coffee shop, you were five minutes behind. It was already packed and busy for how early it was, a line stretching to the door, the smell of burnt espresso and sugary syrups hitting you like a punch to the chest.

You barely made it to the employee bathroom before you were gagging over the toilet. Nothing came up luckily—your stomach was too empty—but the heaving left you feeling shaky and pale, gripping the cold porcelain like it might float you back to normal.

Your manager knocked lightly, once, then twice, before cracking the door open. “Hey. You good in here?”

“Yeah,” you lied, throat feeling raw from just dry heaving. “Just… motion sickness from the train.”

“Oh…okay. Well, you better get out here, your shift already started and there’s a rush.”

You gave her a thumbs up and a weak smile as she finally closed the door, making you sigh. You splashed cold water onto your face, tied your apron a little too tight, just trying to make yourself look human.

Then, like an idiot, you tried to make yourself a coffee.

Almond milk, one sugar, vanilla syrup, over ice—your usual. Something you always made yourself when you came in. But when you took one sip, you immediately spit it back into the sink, banging the paper cup down so hard that the lid popped off.

“Fuck,” you groaned. You knew you couldn’t drink it.

You’d just read the list last night.

No deli meats.

No unpasteurized cheese.

No alcohol.

No sushi.

No sleep. No peace.

No fucking coffee.

“Cool,” you mumbled, wiping your mouth with your sleeve. “So this is hell.”

The rush hit you hard. You were barely able to power through the orders, plastering on a fake smile that ached by the second hour. Your feet throbbed, your back twinged, and your hands smelled like steamed milk no matter how many times you washed them.

But the worst part?

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Tucked away in your apron pocket, it hummed every ten, fifteen minutes like clockwork. You glanced at the screen once between customers just to see his name—Satoru—lit up in bold text. Again. Again. Again.

Hey.

I’m sorry. I really am.

Please talk to me.

I panicked. That wasn’t fair to you.

Please just answer. I wanna talk about this.

You didn’t. You didn’t even read them, not all the way.

Because what would you say? That he panicked? That he was scared?

You were the one with a tiny blob growing inside of you.

You were the one who couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't even drink your fucking coffee anymore.

Instead, wanting to keep your peace, you pocketed your phone and wiped down the bar. If he wanted to panic, fine. He could do it quietly.

The rag squeaked against the laminate counter, rhythmic and steady, and you focused on that. On not thinking.

At least, until the bells above the door rang, and Shoko walked in.

You didn’t need to look up to know it was her—she always had this particular kind of presence, like the universe briefly rolled its eyes and exhaled when she walked into a room.

She strolled in like she owned the place, sunglasses still on despite the dim morning light, cigarette unlit behind one ear, and a paper bag crumpled in one hand. Her hair was a little messy in that effortless, slept-on-a-friend’s-couch way. She clocked you behind the counter, narrowing her eyes.

“You look like shit,” she said, voice low and lazy, like she hadn’t just called you out in front of three customers.

“Nice to see you too,” you muttered, grabbing a clean rag to wipe down the espresso machine that didn’t really need wiping.

She leaned against the bar like she had all the time in the world. “No, seriously. You look like you fell down a flight of stairs this morning. Badly.”

You shrugged, eyes on the register. “Didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t… anything.”

Shoko whistled, long and low. “Jesus. You didn’t tell him you’re dying, right? You told him you’re pregnant, not terminal?”

“Same difference, apparently.”

“Yikes. Alright, caffeine before we get into your tragic life decisions.”

You gestured toward the menu. “Pick your poison. I’m not drinking any of it.”

Shoko blinked, then stared at you for a second too long. “Oh. Right. Jesus. But real talk—did he cry?”

You finally glanced at her, eyes deadpan. “He froze. Like, full-on brain-to-ass disconnect. Just sat there staring at me like I’d stabbed him.”

“Did you stab him?”

“No.”

“Hm, missed opportunity then.”

You didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Just folded the rag in your hand, trying to press the air out of your lungs. 

She made a low humming sound and leaned her elbow on the counter in front of you. “So what, he just freaked out and left?”

“No, he sat there with his mouth open like a cartoon character. Then we got into an argument about it and I left.”

“God,” she muttered. “Men are so emotionally constipated.”

“Tell me about it…”

For a second, she didn’t say anything. Just took her sunglasses off and placed them on the counter gently. “Fuck,” she said, voice suddenly softer. “That sucks.”

You nodded once. You didn’t trust your voice not to crack at that moment.

Sensing your emotional turmoil, she pulled the paper bag open and slid it toward you. “I brought you something.”

You blinked at it, confused. “What is it?”

“Plain bagel. Toasted. No cream cheese.”

“Wow. No cream cheese. What a treat…”

“You’re welcome.”

You took it anyway. It was warm in your hands, comforting in a stupid, small kind of way. And the smell of toasted bread didn’t make your stomach turn over, which felt like a fucking miracle.

Shoko leaned her elbows down onto the counter, watching you now like she was waiting for something.

You tore a corner of the bagel off. Nibbled. Chewed. Swallowed. Waited for your body to revolt.

It didn’t, luckily.

“You gonna tell me what your plan is?” she asked finally.

You stared at her. “Plan?”

“Yeah. Y’know, the thing people make when their lives implode. You keeping it? Telling your parents? Quitting this hellhole?”

You looked at the floor. The grime that stained along the baseboards. Your own shoes, that were scuffed at the toe. “I don’t know…”

She sighed through her nose. “Well, you can’t live off toast and anxiety. You need a doctor. And a better job. And probably a therapist.”

You gave her a weak laugh at that. “I’m serious,” she said. “You need support. And not just from me. Like, actual adult-level support. Prenatals and insurance cards and shit.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You met her eyes, and she didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said.

“No one does.” Her tone was calm, but her expression had sharpened. “But you’ve got it. So now you have to decide what kind of person you want to be about it.”

You hated that she was right. You hated that you knew it before she even said it.

Your hand pressed unconsciously to your stomach. Still flat. Still invisible. But not for long apparently.

Outside, a delivery truck honked loudly, startling a group of pigeons that pecked lazily at the sidewalks. The line was finally thinning. A light breeze stirred through the open front door, carrying the sound of someone’s ringtone and the smell of exhaust.

Inside, everything felt too close. Like your skin was one size too small.

“I think I might be having a breakdown,” you admitted.

She leaned forward and grabbed a stray stir stick off the bar. “Then you’re doing it in style, babe.”

You smirked. She smirked back. And for the first time in what felt like hours, you breathed without it catching halfway up your throat.

Then your phone buzzed again. His name lit up your screen again. Same unread messages. No new courage.

You didn’t look at it, not really.

But Shoko did. She didn’t even try to hide it.

“You gonna answer him?”

“No,” you said. Then added, quieter, “Not yet.”

“What, you just ignoring him?”

You shrugged, which was a lie in and of itself. The truth was, you were thinking about it constantly—wondering if you should text back, if you should call, if he meant what he was saying. Wondering what the hell would come next. Wondering if you even wanted him involved.

“I don’t know,” you finally replied. “It’s not like he offered to step up or anything. He just looked…horrified.”

She stared at you, quiet for a beat.

Then, “Do you want him to step up?”

The question hit harder than it should have.

You looked down at the bagel in your hands, the way your knuckles were white from how tightly you were gripping it now. The way your shoulders were curling inward without you even realizing it, like you were trying to make yourself smaller in front of her.

“I don’t know what I want,” you admitted.

There it was. The truth of it, laid bare in your voice. Not anger. Not defiance. Just bone-deep exhaustion and confusion. 

Shoko exhaled slowly, tapped her nails against the counter before talking again. “Well, look, if it helps—he’s always been a dumbass when it comes to feelings. Smart everywhere else, but god forbid you hand him an emotion. Man just short-circuits like an idiot.

You laughed—actual laughter, hoarse but real.

She smirked. “Still…he’s not a bad guy. You know that, right?”

You did know that, which made it worse, somehow. You wished he was a bad guy. Then, maybe it’d be easier. Then maybe you wouldn’t have cried into your pillow all night, wondering why it still hurt so much to see that look on his face.

You didn’t respond, just tore off another piece of your bagel to nibble on.

She let the silence settle before stretching like a cat. “Alright. I’m gonna go smoke a cigarette out in the alley.” She stepped away from the counter, then hesitated, “You want me to kill him for you?”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Not yet. But keep your schedule open.”

“Say the word.” She saluted, already halfway to the door. “And drink some water, bitch. You’re pale as hell.”

Then she was gone, and the bells jingled again as another customer stepped inside.

You swallowed hard and reached for the sink, pretending to rinse something just to avoid looking like you were about to cry. Again.

Outside, you could see the faint curl of smoke rising from the alley.

You wished you could be like Shoko. Unbothered. Detached. A little reckless.

But instead, you felt everything—painfully, stupidly, all at once.

And you still had six more hours on the clock.

The meeting had been going on for forty minutes too long.

Satoru sat at the end of the polished conference table, pretending to listen while a junior associate droned on and on about case strategy for a merger he barely remembered accepting. His fingers tapped absently against his thigh under the table. He’d slept like shit. His coffee had gone cold. And his head still pounded from the drinks with Suguru last night.

He felt like a cut wire sparking at both ends.

It didn’t help that his father sat at the head of the table, arms crossed, icy blue eyes to match his own, flicking toward Satoru every five minutes like a warning.

When the meeting finally adjourned, his father didn’t even wait for the others to clear the room.

“Stay.” His voice was firm, resolute.

Satoru sighed and slouched back in his chair. “Look, if this is about the Carver case—”

“It’s about your performance across the board,” his father cut in sharply. “You’ve been distracted, Satoru. Sloppy. I had to review your deposition notes myself, and frankly, I’m embarrassed.”

“I’m handling it.”

“You’re failing it.”

The words landed like a slap, sharp and immediate.

“You think I worked this hard to build a firm just for you to throw it all away over whatever personal drama you’ve gotten tangled in?”

Satoru’s jaw clenched. “I said I’m handling it.”

His father narrowed his eyes. “You’d better. Because the board is watching you. And you are not above consequence just because of your last name.”

He stood up, wiping down any wrinkles on his pressed suit, and left without waiting for a response.

Satoru didn’t move. Just stared at the grain of the table, every breath slow and deliberate, trying not to let the pressure crack him open.

Pregnant.

The word hadn’t stopped echoing around his brain since yesterday.

You had said it so fast—so scared. And he hadn’t known what to say. Still didn’t.

He barely knew how to be someone’s boyfriend. Hell, he wasn’t even a good son. And now he was supposed to…what? Be a father?

His stomach turned.

Back in his office, the fluorescent lights overhead made his headache worse. Too bright, too white, too many hours blinking down at him like judgmental gods. His eyes stung from staring at the screen too long—some bullshit summary of depositions he wasn’t even supposed to handle until next week. And still, the emails kept stacking up like wet snow on a collapsing roof.

He leaned back in his office chair and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. His whole skull throbbed. Probably the whiskey. Suguru had insisted they hit up another bar downtown after Satoru’s trainwreck of a lunch, and against better judgment, hadn’t said no.

The bar had been loud. Sweaty. Suguru had listened, mostly. Just raised his brows and passed him another drink into his palms when your name came up more than once.

Now it was barely noon, and his temples were pulsing like someone had crammed a metronome behind each eye.

He dropped his hands and stared blankly at the monitor. Six new emails. One marked urgent. He ignored all of them and dug around in his desk drawer for a packet of Advil.

His phone sat face-down on the desk, silent.

You still hadn’t texted back.

There were a dozen things he wanted to say. A dozen things he’d been trying to say all morning. And a thousand questions he hadn’t asked. Did you want to keep it? Had you already made up your mind? Did you hate him for how he reacted?

The knock on the door came sharp and fast—then it opened without waiting.

“Satoru, I’ve been texting you,” Hana said.

He didn’t even glance up. “Knock next time, please.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Her heels clicked against the tile as she approached his desk, her scent—citrusy, expensive—cutting through the stale office air. Everything about her screamed control. 

“I’ve been working,” he replied.

“That’s a new development.” She dropped into the chair across from him like she was making a point, legs crossed high, skirt pressed flat against her thighs. “You’ve barely said more than two sentences to me this week. Your mom said you’ve been distracted lately,” she said lightly. “She’s worried.”

Of course she is.

Satoru finally looked up. Her skin looked flawless as always. Long lashes, polished nails, a gold chain at her throat, one he gifted her months ago. The kind of woman his parents just adored. 

“I’ve had a rough couple days,” he said. That was true, at least.

Hana went on. “You didn’t even call after dinner last week. And now you’re skipping lunch meetings? Your secretary said you ducked out yesterday.”

“Needed air,” he muttered.

Her eyes narrowed. “I know you, Satoru. Something’s wrong.”

He didn’t answer.

And she didn’t smile. “Are you okay?”

The question came soft, too soft, and he hated that it made his throat tight. She was trying. She always tried. They both played the parts they were assigned.

“Are you seeing someone else?” The question was quiet. Almost a whisper.

He glanced up at her again, and for the first time all day, let someone see it—the tiredness, the confusion, the barely-stifled panic swimming in his chest. But not all of it. Never all.

“No, babe.”

That was kind of a lie. But what else was he supposed to say? "Yeah, I actually knocked my best friend up behind your back"?

A beat passed, and she looked like she didn’t believe him. But she didn’t push anyway.

“Dinner tonight?”

“I...can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?

“Look, Hana…I’m just really fucking tired, okay? And I feel like shit and it’s not about you. I just want to go home and relax a bit. I’m sorry, okay?”

He watched something shift behind her eyes—hurt, maybe. Or doubt. “Fine,” she said, standing. “Get some rest. I hope whatever’s going on with you is worth it.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

He sat there, still, for a long time.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of half-finished tasks and background noise. He didn’t remember what he said to the paralegals. Didn’t remember what he signed. His phone buzzed once. Not you, so it went ignored.

It was almost six when he left the office, shoulders tight, mind racing. The sky outside was gray and low, reflecting his own feelings back at him. 

He walked without thinking, without direction. Didn’t know where he was going until he found himself near the edge of the block, facing a baby boutique. It was small, tucked into the quiet street corner, the window display was almost aggressively cute—full pastel chaos—tiny onesies, a crib painted mint green, plush animals arranged like some kind of secret council, cloud mobiles, little wooden rattles. There was a sign in the window advertising custom embroidered blankets.

And a pair of socks.

They were impossibly small. Brown with little bear ears on the ankles.

And his chest squeezed tightly.

He didn’t know why he went inside. Didn’t even really register the bell chiming above him. Just drifted between shelves, looking at things he didn’t understand—diaper bags, nursing pads, burp cloths.

Everything felt surreal. Like he was watching someone else’s life unfold in front of him.

A store clerk offered to help him, but he waved them off.

Eventually, he picked up the socks. Ran his thumb over the knit edge. They were warm from the sun through the window. He had them gift-wrapped at the counter, watched numbly as they slid into a pale blue box, and tied it with a ribbon. He paid with a card he didn’t even check before swiping.

When he stepped back outside, he stood there for a moment, just holding the tiny box in one hand like there was a live thing inside.

He thought about your face. The way your voice had trembled at lunch yesterday. The way you looked at him, like you weren’t sure whether to scream at him or cry.

He hadn’t known what to say. He still didn’t. But this—this was something. Small. Stupid, maybe. But something.

He exhaled slowly, fogging the air. Then he turned toward the train station.

He had somewhere to be.

The apartment smelled like stale espresso and clean laundry when you got home, the kind of scent that clung to everything. You toed off your shoes at the front door, dropped your bag by the couch, and stood there for a second with your keys still in hand.

Bear lifted his head from his favorite spot on the armrest of the couch, blinking at you, unimpressed.

“Hey, buddy,” you mumbled, voice flat with exhaustion. You crossed the room and buried your face in the soft fur between his ears. “Miss me?”

He meowed like he hadn’t just spent the entire day asleep.

​​“Me too…long day,” you murmured, running your fingers over his fur. He purred faintly.

You collapsed onto the couch beside him, letting your body sink into the cushions like your bones were made of wet sand. You stared at the ceiling. Sighed at the sight of a water stain in the corner. Listened to the low hum of your neighbor’s TV through the wall. It was too quiet. Too much stillness after a day that felt like a hundred years long. 

You hadn’t eaten dinner. You weren’t sure if you were hungry. Everything just felt distant.

Bear jumped into your lap, purring as he curled up against you. You scratched behind his ears with one hand and reached for your laptop with the other, dragging it onto your thighs.

Your search history from the days before blinked back at you.

How early can you tell if you’re pregnant? Pregnancy symptoms 4 weeks. Accurate home pregnancy test brands. What to do when you’re pregnant and alone?

You didn’t want to Google it. But you did.

First trimester. Options after an unexpected pregnancy. Adoption process. How to know if you’re ready.

The results came fast—loud headlines, clinical tones, advice columns from websites with calming pastels and stock photos of smiling women with bump-free bellies. 

Everything felt like a blur of links. Infographics. Medical diagrams. Articles with words like “viability” and “termination windows” and “emotional readiness.” You clicked through them like it wasn’t your life they were talking about.

Your eyes lingered on that last one.

You clicked a link, skimmed a few paragraphs. Words blurred together: open adoption, agency support, long-term counseling. The idea left a pit in your stomach. Something too neat, too clean. Like pretending none of it happened.

One tab led to another, and then another. You landed on a page with testimonials from women who had given their babies up for adoption.

One line stood out:

“Loving them doesn’t always mean keeping them.”

Your chest ached.

You closed the tab. Closed the laptop.

Bear gave a disapproving grunt when you shifted him off your lap, padding away to the kitchen as if personally insulted.

You stood up slowly. Walked to the bathroom. Maybe a bath would help. Just something warm and quiet to uncoil the anxiety still clawing around your ribs.

You turned the water on and let the tub fill. The scent of lavender from an old bath bomb filled the small space, curling into the steam. You undressed in a daze, folded your clothes neatly on the closed toilet seat, and slid into the water with a sigh. Your body ached in places you hadn’t even realized until now.

The warmth helped. Kind of. You closed your eyes. Let your head tip back. Tried not to think. Tried not to feel.

Of course, though, with your dumb luck, that’s when the knocking started.

Three hard raps. 

You froze. Groaned.

Then another.

You sat upright, water sloshing against the sides of the tub. “Are you kidding me?” you muttered, pressing your palms to your face. The knocking came again—more urgent this time. Insistent. You dragged yourself out of the bath, water dripping in your wake, grabbing your robe off the hook and wrapping it around you. Your wet hair clung to your neck as you padded barefoot through the apartment to the front door.

Bear was already there when you walked into the living room, tail swishing like he was just as annoyed as you were, like he was guarding the sacred threshold you both shared. You peeked through the peephole and froze.

Satoru?

His hair was a mess. Tie crooked and loose around his collar. And in his hand, a pale blue gift box wrapped neatly with ribbon.

Your heart thudded, shallow and hot.

Then, you opened the door.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, hair still damp, robe tied hastily at your waist, water dripping down your collarbone. His eyes flickered to the floor for a second, like he was trying to collect himself.

The hallway buzzed with silence. Your fingers tightened slightly on the doorknob.

Then he lifted the box slightly into the air.

“Hi.”

Author's Note: Satoru is an idiot, but I can't help but feel bad for him. Side note, Bear is actually named after my own kitty (who's currently curled up on my legs)

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated!!

Taglist: @elainananana123 @emochosoluvr @coffeeluvr96 @vixonal @eolivy @suaes @slvtforhim13 @starlight5cat @dyavorange @a-trashbag @0tterteeth @bolisdetanal @azulashengrxtto @myaspov @junsatomi @lilychan176 @strychnynegirl (Still open!!)

[junos-chronicles]

Half of Me

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☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, emotional turmoil, gojo has a girlfriend at first, mutual but poorly communicated feelings, bad decisions at 2am, reader has a cat, lots of feelings, shoko being the only one with a brain Art by: @mmsks_ on X

Nothing like dropping life-altering news over lunch to really ruin your appetite. Tension simmers. Words get sharp. Hearts get louder. And when it’s over, he ends up in a bar with too much on his mind and too little in his glass.

Step Three: Run Before It Sinks In

The silence hit harder than the words ever could.

You hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not so sudden, not so loud. But the waitress had interrupted one too many times, nerves had been clawing at your insides for over an hour, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them.

“I’m pregnant.”

And now Satoru was just…staring.

The restaurant faded around you—muffled voices, clinking forks, soft jazz humming in the background—but all you could focus on was the man across the table, frozen like someone had punched the air from his lungs. His pale eyes had gone wide, blinking slowly, like maybe if he did it enough times, you’d disappear.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Barely breathed. Like he hadn’t heard you. Or maybe like he had, but his brain just refused to believe it.

His lips parted slightly, then shut again.

Across the table, your foot wouldn’t stop bouncing. Your stomach was a knot of nerves, nausea rising up like it had every morning this week, but this time it wasn’t the hormones. It was him. His silence. His expression. Like someone had taken the usual Satoru—confident, talkative, cocky, even—and switched him out with a wax statue of himself. 

Your heart was pounding so hard it made your ears ring. Your fingers trembled where they twisted the edge of your napkin into a tight, mangled knot in your lap. You couldn’t meet his gaze anymore. It was too much. Too heavy.

Too cold.

He still hadn’t said anything.

The silence stretched on until it hurt. Until even you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Satoru, say something.”

He blinked again. Slowly. Then sat back just slightly in his seat. “Did you…um…are you sure?” His voice came out low. Not a whisper, but something hollow and barely-there. Like the air had been sucked out of him too.

You nodded slowly, your movements careful, like one wrong move might shatter the fragile glass between you. “I took the test a few times…”

The waitress cleared her throat awkwardly at the edge of the table. “I, uh…I can come back,” she mumbled, already backing away with the menus clutched to her chest like a shield from this incredibly awkward moment.

Neither of you answered. You had barely noticed her go.

He sat back in his seat, exhaling, dragging a hand down his face. His palm lingered at his jaw, rubbing slow and distracted. He looked like he was trying to replay every moment of the last month in his mind—desperate for some loophole. A way this could make sense. A way it wouldn’t be true.

“How long have you known?” he asked finally, voice tight.

You swallowed hard. “A few days…”

“A few—” He stopped. Sat forward again. His fingers gripped the edge of the table now, knuckles whitening. “So you’ve known for days, and you didn’t fucking say anything?”

You flinched. “I didn’t know how—”

“Text?” he said flatly. “Call? Hell, show up at my door? You had options. You don’t just wait for lunch at some restaurant like it’s nothing.”

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone!” you snapped, your voice cracking with frustration. “I thought you deserved more than a fucking text, Satoru.”

He laughed—but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow and bitter and sharp around the edges. “Oh, now you want to be thoughtful?”

Your stomach lurched. That one hit deep.

Your nails dug into your palms beneath the table. “I didn’t think you’d react well if I just dropped it on you out of nowhere.”

He scoffed harshly. “And this isn’t out of nowhere?”

You opened your mouth—but the words crumbled. Useless. You had nothing that would make this easier. Nothing that would make him see this wasn’t meant to be a trap or a punishment or—

“Jesus Christ, Y/N,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair again. “Does anyone else know?”

You hesitated.

That alone gave you away.

And he caught it, his eyes snapped back up to yours. “Who knows?” he demanded.

“…Shoko,” you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Of course he got upset. The muscles in his jaw twitched. “So Shoko knew before I did?”

“She’s my friend! And a doctor. I just—I wanted a second opinion.”

His stare hardened. His jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind.

“And I’m the father,” he bit out. “You didn’t think that gave me the right to know first?”

Your stomach turned again, nausea sweeping up through your throat. You stared down at the water glass in front of you, condensation bleeding across your knuckles. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you…” You whispered, shame creeping up your throat.

“Yeah? Well, mission failed,” he said, tone clipped, like a blade snapping shut.

The tension between you was like a wall now—tall, thick, suffocating. All those hours you spent preparing for this moment—choosing your outfit, redoing your eyeliner, rehearsing what to say in the mirror—it all felt meaningless now. You didn’t even recognize the person sitting across from you. Not really. He wasn’t the Satoru you remembered. Not the boy who smiled like the sun and made you laugh so hard your ribs hurt. Not the man who’d kissed you with his whole body, like he needed you under his skin.

He looked at you like you were a stranger.

Or maybe, worse—like you were a mistake.

You didn’t even realize your eyes were glassy until you blinked and felt the wetness on your lashes.

And before he could say another word, before you could break any further, you pushed your chair back. The legs scraped loudly against the floor.

“This was a mistake,” you said quietly, standing on shaking legs. “I’m sorry…”

You didn’t look at him when you turned. You just needed to leave. You needed air. You needed out.

Behind you, there was a pause. Then the loud slap of cash thrown onto the table.

“Y/N—fuck! Y/N, wait!”

But you were already pushing out the front door.

The heavy city air hit you like a wave, thick and humid with the scent of hot asphalt and distant food carts. You didn’t get far—just a few steps down the sidewalk—before you heard the door swing open behind you.

“What the hell do you mean ‘this was a mistake’?” he called out, catching up.

You turned, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “This. All of it. Me coming here, telling you—I shouldn’t have.”

“So you were just gonna drop that on me and run?” His voice was rising now, raw and fraying at the edges. “You say you're pregnant, then you walk out like it's nothing?”

“I walked out because you looked at me like you hated me!” you snapped.

He stopped short, blinking, caught off guard. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” you retorted bitterly. “You just stared at me like I ruined your fucking life.”

The crowd around you moved in lazy, impatient swells—strangers brushing past without care, taxis honking in the distance—but neither of you noticed. Not really. The street had vanished beneath the weight of what stood between you.

Satoru shoved a hand through his hair again, exhaling sharply. “I’m not ready for this. I didn’t plan for this.”

“Neither did I!” you fired back. “But here we are, and I didn’t come here asking you to marry me, or fix this, or even make a decision. I just wanted you to know!”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling fast beneath his button-down shirt. His expression flickered—confused, wounded, angry, scared. All at once.

And maybe he wanted to say something else. Maybe you did, too.

But neither of you moved. The damage had already been done.

He was still staring at you, his mouth parting like he had something to say—anything, some scrap of comfort or apology or reassurance. But the words didn’t come fast enough.

And something inside you was already folding shut.

Your arms wrapped around your middle, protective—not just of yourself, but of the life you hadn’t expected to carry. Your chest ached like your ribs had been pried open. Like your heart was sitting bare on the sidewalk for anyone to step on.

Satoru stepped forward once. Hesitant.

His voice was lower this time, worn down. “You could’ve told me sooner. You should’ve.”

You looked away, that familiar sense of shame rising back up. “I know…”

He took another step. “But I’m not gonna let you just…walk away like this.”

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “Why not? You were already halfway out the door when I told you.”

“That’s not fair,” he replied, sharper now, frustration lacing through. “You dropped a bomb on me. You think I wouldn’t be in shock?”

“I didn’t expect a celebration, Satoru,” you snapped. “But I thought maybe—maybe—you’d look at me like I wasn’t a fucking disaster.”

His jaw tensed. “You’re not.”

“You sure?” you shot back. “Because for the last ten minutes, all I’ve seen is you trying to figure out how to run out of this situation.”

“I’m not running.”

“You always run,” you said, voice rising despite yourself. “When things get hard—when they stop being fun or easy—you vanish. You get cold, or you shut down, or you find someone else who doesn't make you feel anything.”

He flinched.

The silence between you was like a vacuum, sucking all the air from your lungs.

Then—quietly, almost too softly to hear—he said, “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

You laughed, humorless and bitter. “You think I don’t know that?”

He stepped closer again, but slower this time, like you might bolt. “I don’t hate you…”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered back.

“I was scared.”

You finally looked at him. Really looked at him. And there it was: the truth, cracking through his carefully polished exterior. Beneath the confidence and designer watches and smooth talk. Beneath the man raised by people who solved problems with power and money, not emotions.

He was scared.

And so were you.

But fear didn’t fix anything. It didn’t undo the sharpness of his words or the way they’d carved into your chest. It didn’t take back the ache of being looked at like a burden.

“I can’t do this with you right now, Satoru…” you said, voice barely holding steady. “Not like this. Not when you only see me when it’s convenient for you. Not when I have to brace myself every time I walk into a room you’re in.”

His brows knit, hurt flashing across his face. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said quietly. “But it’s true.”

He opened his mouth again, like he had more—something—but you took a step back before he could get it out.

“You asked if anyone else knows?” you said, voice calm now, too calm. “Now you do. That’s all I came for…”

“Y/N…”

But your eyes were already welling again, and this time, you didn’t stop them. You blinked hard, let the tears fall, let the raw truth hang between you like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

And then, you turned and walked.

Your shoes clicked against the pavement in sharp, fast strides. The sounds of the city returned all at once—honking taxis, barking dogs, footsteps thudding past—but your ears still rang with his voice. Your chest still held the echo of ‘Jesus Christ, Y/N’ like it was branded there.

You didn’t stop.

Not when you heard his footsteps start after you.

Not when he called your name again.

Not even when you felt your resolve breaking all over again.

Because you couldn’t turn around.

Not until he figured out whether he actually wanted you in his life—or just didn’t want to be the bad guy.

He didn’t follow you.

He stood on the sidewalk, staring in the direction you’d gone—shoes tapping against the pavement until they disappeared into the buzz of the city.

He wanted to—his body twitched with the urge, fists clenched at his sides, heart thudding achingly—but his feet were rooted to the sidewalk like the city had swallowed him whole.

You walked away and didn’t look back, and something about that felt worse than if you’d just screamed at him.

It echoed. That silence. That finality.

You were gone.

And he’d let you go.

The afternoon sun glared off the surrounding glass buildings, streaks of white-hot light slicing between mirrored windows. Cars honked in the distance, steam curling from a subway grate nearby. A cyclist shouted obscenities as he weaved around a double-parked truck. But all Satoru could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, standing outside the restaurant like a statue, blinking at the spot where you’d been seconds ago, trying to will the air back into his lungs.

Fuck.

His hands dragged down his face. He exhaled hard, scrubbing the stress from his eyes, but it didn’t help. The scene inside replayed in jagged, broken flashes: your trembling voice, your eyes watering, your knuckles white where they clutched at your napkin. The words he threw back at you like knives. The look on your face when you walked away—like he wasn’t someone worth trusting anymore.

His chest felt hollow.

You were pregnant.

He swallowed against the nausea rising in his throat. Not from shock anymore—but from the crashing weight of this new reality.

You were pregnant. With his kid. And somehow, all he’d managed to do with that information was make you feel even more alone.

Great fucking job.

The crosswalk ticked down in red across the street. Somewhere behind him, a vendor was shouting about hot dogs and halal platters. The metallic scent of the city—exhaust, concrete, steel—wrapped around him like a chokehold.

His phone felt heavy in his pocket. When he pulled it out, his fingers barely worked. The screen was too bright. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—wide-eyed, pale, lips pressed into a grim line.

He hit the speed dial for his secretary.

“Mr. Gojo,” Yuna chirped on the second ring, far too chipper for the chaos in his head. “Are you on your way to the meeting?”

“Cancel my afternoon.”

“I—what?”

“Cancel everything this afternoon,” he said. His voice didn’t sound like his own—low, hoarse, tired. “Tell Tanaka to cover the brief.” He spoke flat, hollow, like it was crawling out of a version of him that didn’t care anymore. “I’m not coming back in today.”

“Sir, the board—”

“I don’t give a shit about the board right now,” he muttered. “Just cancel it.”

He hung up before she could argue and shoved the phone back into his coat pocket, already turning down the sidewalk.

He needed to get out of here.

Not home. Not the firm. Not anywhere with expectations or walls or people who’d ask questions.

He didn’t know where he was going, not exactly. Just… away.

Away from the restaurant. From you. From the echo of your voice in his ears. From the weight pressing down on his chest like a fucking anvil.

His long strides ate up the blocks quickly, but it still wasn’t far enough. Not to escape the look on your face when you left. Not to escape the moment he realized that whatever line he thought he was walking between you and Hana had already snapped weeks ago.

The sunlight bled gold over the tops of buildings as the afternoon turned late, casting long shadows over sidewalks cluttered with people. Strollers. Suits. Shoppers. Life went on.

It made him feel lonelier.

He passed upscale cocktail lounges and rooftop bars with glossy windows and overpriced drinks. The kind of places he usually found comfort in—sharp edges, designer lighting, girls in black dresses who called him “Mr. Gojo” with a smile and a tilt of the head.

He kept walking.

A few blocks down, he found a dive bar wedged between a bodega and a vape shop, its red neon sign half-burnt out and flickering "Open." The windows were grimy. The inside was dark. The perfect kind of place for a man who didn’t want to be found.

The door creaked when he pushed it open.

Inside, it smelled like old beer, cleaning fluid, and something faintly greasy. The walls were brick, the floor sticky. There were only a few other patrons scattered across cracked vinyl stools. A baseball game murmured from a small TV behind the bar, but no one was watching it.

The bartender looked up, didn’t even blink. “What’ll it be?”

“Double whiskey,” Satoru said, sinking onto a stool. “Whatever’s strongest.”

The man poured without a word and slid the glass forward. It was thick and amber, no garnish, no fuss.

Satoru took half in one go.

The burn was instant—hot down his throat, spreading through his chest like fire in an empty room. It didn’t dull anything, but it did give him something to focus on. Something other than your voice, your eyes, the way his own name had sounded when you said it like you didn’t recognize him anymore.

He stared into the glass, watching the ripples settle.

You’re going to be a father.

The thought hit him again—sharper this time. It buzzed behind his eyes like static.

It didn’t feel real. Not in the way it should have. It felt like a punishment. Like a reality meant for someone else, someone older, better. Someone who didn’t already have a girlfriend. Someone who didn’t make everything worse.

He rubbed his palm across his face, sighed into the dark.

And then there was Hana.

Fuck.

Hana. Sweet, predictable Hana, with her careful smiles and curated lifestyle and brunches with his mother. She didn’t know. About the night with you. About the truth. That was the arrangement they had, unspoken but comfortable. They didn’t poke at each other’s edges. They stayed presentable. They stayed composed.

And now he’d blown it. With you. With her. With everyone.

He felt sick.

He’d spent the last month pretending it hadn’t happened. Pushing it into a dark corner of his mind where mistakes went to rot. Now it had clawed its way out.

And of course, his parents. What would they say?

Another fuckup. Another deviation from the clean, powerful life they’d molded him for. Another black mark on the Gojo name, already hanging by a thread. His father would call it reckless. His mother would call it selfish.

And maybe they’d both be right.

His fingers curled into fists.

You had looked so small across that table. Scared, but trying to be brave. He’d made it worse. He always made it worse.

He reached into his coat pocket and scrolled numbly through his contacts until he landed on one name.

Suguru.

He pressed call.

The phone rang twice.

“Yo,” Suguru answered casually, a little distracted. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting?”

“I fucked up.”

There was a pause, and then, “...Shit. How bad?”

He laughed once—dry, bitter. “Nuclear.”

“…Yeah, I figured,” Suguru said. “You calling me from a bar?”

Satoru let out a low laugh, dry and humorless. “How’d you guess?”

“Because you only call me mid-day when you’ve either tanked a relationship or lost a court case. And last I checked, you’re still undefeated.”

He said nothing.

Suguru paused again. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Satoru muttered. “I want to drink about it.”

“What bar?”

“The one on E. 10th and First Ave. Divey as hell. Looks like it sells liquor and tetanus in equal measure.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Suguru said. “Don’t start a tab without me.”

Satoru ended the call, slid the phone across the bar, and signaled for another round.

The bartender poured silently.

Outside, the neon sign kept flickering.

Inside, Satoru Gojo sat in the dark, nursing a regret he wasn’t sure he’d ever drink away.

The second glass was emptier than he remembered. Or maybe he’d downed it and forgot. His lips tasted like the burn of whiskey, his head buzzing just enough to feel like it might come loose from his neck.

The door creaked open behind him, letting in a splash of blue evening light and the muffled chaos of the city. Footsteps followed—sharp, familiar ones.

“Jesus,” came a voice at his back. “This place smells like college regrets and wet dog.”

Satoru didn’t turn, just raised his glass. “That’s the charm.”

Suguru slid onto the stool beside him, black hair tied back, a cigarette tucked behind one ear like he might forget it’s there. He didn’t say anything at first—just scanned the room like he was checking for cops or ghosts, then flagged the bartender with two fingers.

“Double, same thing,” he said, nodding at Satoru’s drink. The bartender nodded back and turned to pour.

“You look like shit,” Suguru spoke again, shifting on the cracked vinyl seat with a grunt.

“Appreciate the support.”

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of whatever this was fill the space between them. The bar was dim, but not cozy—just tired. A jukebox in the corner played a warbled Rolling Stones track, “Gimme Shelter” barely audible beneath the soft thud of pool balls and the occasional grunt from the TV.

“Alright. Start talking.”

Satoru laughed under his breath, dry and flat. “You remember your birthday party? The karaoke bar?”

Suguru’s brow rose. “The night Shoko almost clawed your eyes out over a song choice?”

“Same one.”

“Don’t tell me—” he paused, then groaned. “Satoru.”

“Yup…”

“You didn’t.”

Satoru gave him a look. “I did.”

“With her?”

He nodded once, slow.

“While you were still with—” Suguru cut himself off, dragging a hand down his face. The bartender set the glass in front of him and he didn’t hesitate—just downed half in a single swallow and winced. “Man, that’s…that’s so deeply stupid, even for you.”

“I know.”

“No, like impressively, catastrophically stupid.”

“I know.”

Suguru rubbed his temples like it might physically force clarity into the situation. “Alright, well, how bad is it?”

Satoru just stared at his glass, fingers tapping absentmindedly. “She’s pregnant.”

Suguru froze mid-sip. The glass hit the bar with a thud. “...Say that again?”

“You heard me.”

“Fuck,” Suguru whispered. Then he repeated it louder, “Fuck.”

“Yeah…”

Suguru leaned back, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the ceiling like maybe divine wisdom would appear in the water-stained tiles. “Are you sure?”

“She is. Took tests. Told Shoko. Did the whole thing.”

“Shoko knows?”

Satoru grimaced. “Knew before I did.”

“Damn.” Suguru blew out a breath. “No offense, but I’m starting to like her more than you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The silence between them was thick now, cushioned by the buzz of the TV in the corner and the low shuffle of a regular feeding coins into the jukebox. Someone put on Springsteen this time—I’m On Fire—and it felt weirdly accurate.

Suguru nodded, mouth set. “And… you’re sure it’s yours?”

Satoru winced. “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t exactly hand her a brochure on contraception when we—” He stopped himself. Pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. “Fuck.”

Suguru leaned on the bar, swirling his drink. “You didn’t use protection?”

“I was drunk. She was drunk. It was… messy.” He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass, his voice low. “But it wasn’t meaningless...”

“Does Hana know?”

Satoru scoffed, loud and bitter. “What do you think?”

Suguru just shook his head slowly, letting out a breath. “So let me get this straight: you’re still with Hana. You slept with your best friend. And now she’s pregnant.”

“Yeah.” Satoru downed the rest of his drink and immediately flagged for another. “Pretty much sums it up.”

Suguru let out a low whistle, stretching back in his seat. “Christ. You’re lucky I like you, man. Anyone else I’d be dragging into traffic.”

Satoru didn’t laugh, though. Not even a smile. Just stared at the backlit rows of liquor bottles, the way the dusty glass glowed like stained glass windows in a crumbling church. His voice dropped, rough and quiet.

“I fucked it all up.”

For a while, neither of them said anything after. Outside, the light had begun to shift—turning the dirty bar window a hazy orange as the sun dipped between the buildings. Inside, the shadows deepened. The bar’s corners turned darker, thicker. The kind of place confessions crawled into and never made it back out of.

And Suguru finally broke the silence. “So what are you gonna do?”

Satoru was quiet for a long time. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the bar, rubbing at his jaw like he could erase the weight of the last hour with enough pressure.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “She walked out. I didn’t stop her.”

“You didn’t stop her?”

“I panicked, okay? She dropped it like a bomb and—god, I just froze. Like an idiot. She looked so fucking scared, and all I could think was: this ruins everything.”

Suguru’s voice dropped. “You think she’s not thinking that too?”

“I know she is.” His hands clenched around the glass. “But I couldn’t get the words out. I just kept thinking about Hana, and my parents, and the firm, and all the ways I’m not ready for this.”

“You think anyone ever is?”

“I’m not him, Suguru. I’m not—my dad. I can’t be him. He held it together. He planned everything. He married the right woman. Had the right life.”

Suguru tilted his head, eyes sharp. “But are you trying to be him?”

Satoru looked away.

Suguru let that hang in the air for a moment before draining the rest of his drink. “Look, man. I know you. You fuck up. Constantly. You make messes and joke your way out of them. But you’ve never run away.”

“I wanted to.”

“Yeah, well, I’m proud of you for not doing it. Even if you’re halfway to drunk in a bar that probably gave me a disease just by sitting down.”

That got a huff of laughter out of Satoru, the first real one all night.

“...Do you want it?”

Satoru’s throat tightened. “I don’t know…I haven’t really given it a lot of thought.”

Suguru didn’t press. Just knocked back the last of his drink and set the glass down with a soft clink.

“I think you do,” he said eventually. “Or at least…you want her.”

Satoru’s jaw flexed.

“I saw the way you looked at her at the party. When you thought no one else was watching.” He turned toward him now, fully. The words hit him harder than they should have. Satoru looked down again, eyes glassy, fingers curled around his glass like he might crush it.

“I don’t know what I want,” he said.

Suguru’s tone softened. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean you don’t try to figure it out.”

They sat there, two men in suits too expensive for the bar they were in, pretending the dim lights and whiskey burn could fix the sharp edges of their lives.

Outside, New York kept moving. The world didn’t pause. Suguru reached for his wallet, slapped a few bills on the bar, and stood. “C’mon. Let’s go somewhere less depressing before I order a third round and end up texting my ex.”

Satoru blinked. “Where?”

“Does it matter?” Suguru raised a brow. “You think you’re sleeping tonight?”

Satoru didn’t answer. He just stood, coat crumpled under one arm, and followed his best friend back out into the night.

Author's Note: Tsk, tsk, tsk...poor reader and stupid Satoru. So, so messy. At least Suguru was there to knock some sense into him a bit. Call him out on his bs.

Fun fact: When I'm writing this, I have NYC ambience open in a youtube tab

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated!

Taglist: @elainananana123 @emochosoluvr @coffeeluvr96 @vixonal @eolivy @suaes @slvtforhim13 @starlight5cat @dyavorange @a-trashbag @0tterteeth @bolisdetanal @azulashengrxtto @myaspov

[junos-chronicles]

Half of Me

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☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, emotional turmoil, gojo has a girlfriend at first, mutual but poorly communicated feelings, bad decisions at 2am, reader has a cat, lots of feelings, shoko being the only one with a brain Art by: @mmsks_ on X

After weeks of silence, emotions simmer to the surface as unexpected news forces old wounds open. With tension hanging heavy and words left unsaid, a quiet phone call sets something in motion that neither of you is ready for—but can't avoid any longer.

How to Ruin a Friendship in One Easy Step!

You sat on the edge of the closed toilet seat, spine curled forward, elbows resting on your knees. The bathroom was too bright, the overhead bulb casting a sterile glow across the pale tile and white walls that made your skin look sickly in the mirror. The air felt heavy, the silence too loud. Every little sound—the buzz of the light, the drip of the faucet, the occasional rustle of your hoodie sleeve—was deafening in the quiet.

Your bare foot tapped an anxious rhythm against the cool tile, the chill creeping up your leg. In your hands, you held the slim plastic stick, the test. Your fingers trembled faintly as you stared at the screen, still blank. Mocking you.

You chewed at the edge of your thumbnail, picking at the cracked polish. You’d meant to repaint them last week. Another thing you hadn’t gotten around to.

The seconds dragged. Time felt warped, stretchy and cruel. You could’ve sworn you’d been sitting here for twenty minutes, but when you glanced at your phone, it had only been three.

Three minutes that felt like a lifetime.

You glared at it like it might give in under pressure. “Just tell me,” you muttered.

It didn’t.

You wanted to scream. At yourself, mostly. Because this was your fault. Your recklessness. Your inability to say no when it counted.

That night—Suguru’s birthday—it had all spiraled so quickly. You’d been drinking. Gojo had been drinking. He’d gotten into it with his girlfriend, stormed off, jaw clenched and eyes dark in a way you weren’t used to seeing. You found him outside on the curb, alone. And somehow, one thing led to another. A shared cab. A quiet apartment. His hand cradling your cheek like it meant something.

You remembered the sharp taste of tequila still on your tongue when he kissed you. The way his body felt too familiar, like something your hands already knew. The weight of him, the heat, the way he said your name like a prayer. A mistake.

And maybe the worst part wasn’t that it happened.

It was the thought that to him, it hadn’t meant anything at all, knowing you’d finally gotten something you wanted for years.

Since then, everything between you had shifted—fragile. Tense. Like neither of you knew what to say, so you just didn’t. The silences between texts. The awkward eye contact at group dinners. The way he still called you sweetheart, but didn’t mean it anymore.

Then the nausea started. The missed period. Then the mornings—like clockwork—where you found yourself crawling to the bathroom at seven a.m. and dry-heaving over the toilet bowl.

 At first, you’d brushed it off—just stress, maybe. A bug. But then came the Googling, the symptom lists, the spiral. And now…the test.

Two, just to be sure. One was already in your hand.

You dropped your head into your hands with a quiet groan.

The screen on the test blinked. A little hourglass icon disappeared. Your heart stuttered.

“Oh shit…”

You swore under your breath, and without thinking, you flipped the stick facedown onto your thigh like it was radioactive. Your palms were clammy. Your stomach flipped.

Nope. Nope. You couldn’t look. Coward.

You stood up so fast the toilet seat clattered. In a mild panic, you turned off the bathroom light and shut the door like you were locking in a demon. You leaned against the wall, face in your hands, breathing like you’d just sprinted up ten flights of stairs.

The test could wait.

It sat in there, unread, for an hour.

You spent most of that time curled up on the floor of your apartment, Bear—your cat—watching you with judgmental green eyes from the top of the fridge. You stared at the ceiling, hands laced over your stomach, wondering if moving to Iceland was a reasonable solution.

Finally, you sat up, dragged yourself across the room, and unlocked your phone. Your thumb hovered over the contact list until you found the name you were looking for.

Shoko.

Your beautiful, brilliant, snarky doctor friend.

She answered on the second ring. You didn’t even get the words out before she said, “Be there in fifteen.”

And she was.

There was a knock on your door, and you exhaled shakily, padding across the creaky wooden floor to open it.

Shoko stood in the hallway in a massive hoodie, leggings, and a pair of slippers shaped like frogs. Her hair was tied back lazily, and she looked like she’d just woken up or hadn’t slept at all—maybe both. The faint smell of smoke clung to her clothes.

“Jesus,” she said, tilting her head, “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

You sighed shakily, grabbing her sleeve and tugging her inside. “Thanks. I feel like I got hit by two. Come in, please. I’m having a crisis.”

She let you drag her to the kitchen table—small, chipped Ikea, one leg slightly uneven. The overhead light buzzed here, too.

“You’re acting like you murdered someone,” she said as she sat down, crossing one leg over the other. “Should I check the bathtub?”

“Not murder,” you groaned, pacing in front of her. “Opposite of murder, actually. Potentially.”

Shoko raised a brow, arms crossed. “What the hell does that even mean?”

You stopped pacing just long enough to gesture wildly. “Okay—just—no judgment, alright? I need you to promise. I’m about to say something really fucking stupid, and I need you to not do your whole judgy-doctor stare thing.”

“I do not have a judgy-doctor stare.”

“You literally do. It’s like your eyes say ‘You dumb bitch.’”

She cracked the faintest smirk. “I mean, fair. But go on.”

You took a breath. “Do you remember a month ago? Suguru’s birthday party. That bar downtown?”

“The one where we did karaoke and you tried to fight the bouncer?”

You winced. “Yes. That one.”

She blinked. “What about it?”

“Well...when I said I was taking a cab home, I didn’t exactly go home…”

Her brows knit together. “So where’d you go?”

You swallowed. “I went to...Satoru’s place.”

Her face shifted—eyebrows shooting up, mouth parting slightly. “Gojo? Like, Gojo Gojo? Our Gojo?”

“Do we know another one?”

Her brows shot up. “Okay, hold on. You went to Gojo’s place. At 2 a.m… Drunk. And you stayed over. Did anything, you know…happen?”

You nodded stiffly. “Yes. Something. Everything.”

“Oh my god.” She leaned forward. “Wait—are you saying you and Gojo—”

“We fucked, Shoko!”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. You flung your arms up in defeat, then buried your face in your hands again.

Shoko was quiet for a beat. Then she sat back, dragging her fingers down her face.

She blinked. Then, surprisingly, she didn’t burst out laughing or gasp in scandal. She just sat back, slowly crossing her arms. “You are so fucking dramatic,” she muttered. “But also... holy shit. Alright. Keep going.”

You stared at her, bewildered. “That’s it. We slept together. And now…I think I might be pregnant.”

That sobered her up immediately.

“Wait. Wait. Are you serious?”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence.

Then she stood and walked past you toward the bathroom. “Where’s the test?”

“Wait—you’re just gonna go in there?!”

She opened the door, the hinges creaking loudly like the front door had. “Yeah. One of us has to be a grown-up.”

You covered your face, feeling that familiar wave of nausea starting to make an appearance. “I can’t watch. I think I’m going to hurl.”

“Too late for that,” she muttered. A few seconds passed, but then her voice came, low and flat:

“…Shit.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, pushing yourself up from the cheap dining chair. “What? What does that mean?!”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind Shoko as she reemerged, test in hand.

She held it between two fingers like it was a live wire, the small screen glowing faintly under the kitchen light. Her face was unreadable—stoic, but not cold.

You didn’t want to look. But your eyes were already trained on it, like your body didn’t get the memo that your brain wanted to shut down.

“It’s positive.”

Two words.

Just two, and your whole world spun out from beneath you.

You sat back down, frozen in your chair, knees pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them like they could somehow hold you together. The faint tick of the kitchen clock echoed through the apartment like a bomb waiting to go off. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled and faded. Bear leapt down from the counter and padded silently across the floor, curling up beside your foot like even he knew something had changed.

Shoko didn’t say anything else at first. She just watched you quietly, her usual sarcasm shelved for the moment. Her fingers tapped once against the edge of the table, a nervous tell she probably didn’t realize she had.

Your voice cracked the silence—barely a whisper.

“Are you sure?”

She raised the stick, turned it toward you.

The faint but unmistakable positive glared back at you from the screen.

You let out a shaky breath, your chest tightening like something was winding around your lungs. Your mind started spiraling again, faster this time, wild and feral. You could already hear the echo of Gojo’s voice in your head—not real, just imagined.

"That was a mistake, right?"

"Let’s not make it a thing."

"It didn’t mean anything."

Your stomach twisted violently.

“I—I can’t tell him,” you blurted out, pushing your face into your hands. “No way. Absolutely fucking not.”

Shoko blinked at you. “You’re serious?”

“I’m dead serious. I can’t, Shoko.” Your voice came out louder than intended, high-pitched and brittle. “We haven’t even talked since that night. Not really. It’s been nothing but this weird tension and awkward glances and pretending we don’t remember what happened.”

You leaned back in your chair, letting your head thump against the cheap wood. The light fixture above you swung faintly, casting flickering shadows across the scuffed floorboards and the cluttered shelves by the kitchen.

“I can’t just…show up and say ‘Hey, I know you’re still with your girlfriend and we haven’t had a real conversation in a month, but surprise! I’m pregnant with your baby!’” You laughed—short, sharp, hollow. Bitter. “That’s insane.”

Shoko didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave you a long look.

“You’re right,” she said flatly. “It is insane. But what’s more insane is not telling him.”

You scoffed. “I’m not ready for that conversation. I don’t even know how I feel about it yet.”

“Well, you better figure it out fast.” She walked over and sank into the seat across from you, her eyes trained on your face. “Look, I know this is overwhelming. I get it. But this is happening. And he deserves to know.”

You stared at the floor, jaw tight. “What if he gets mad?”

Shoko raised a brow. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know him. And I know you.” She sighed, softer now. “You’re not just some girl he slept with. You’re you. And this is Satoru we’re talking about.”

You swallowed hard, throat thick.

“But what if he hates me for it?” The words came out small. Barely audible. “What if he regrets it even more?”

Shoko leaned forward, resting her arms on the table between you. Her voice dropped, low and steady.

“He might be surprised. He might even freak out. But he won’t hate you. And you don’t get to make this decision for him.” She nodded toward the bathroom. “That test? That’s half his, too.”

You winced. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, she had a point.

“I’m scared, Shoko…”

“I know,” she said. “But you don’t get to run from this. Hiding it won’t make it go away. It’ll only make it worse later.”

The silence stretched again, heavy and loaded. You could feel the weight of your own fear pressing into your chest, curling into your ribs like ivy. Your eyes drifted to the little ceramic mug on the counter—one he had gifted you years ago. Bright blue, with a stupid picture of just his head. You hadn’t used it in weeks.

You chewed on your bottom lip, hands clammy.

“Even if I tell him…what if he wants nothing to do with it?”

Shoko tilted her head, expression gentle for once. “Then you deal with it. But at least you’ll know. And at least you’ll have been honest.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared down at your lap like maybe the answer was written in the folds of your sweats.

“Hey,” she added softly, nudging your foot with hers. “You’re not alone, okay? No matter what happens. I’m here.”

That did it.

Your throat closed up as tears finally welled behind your eyes, hot and stinging. You turned your head away, blinking rapidly, but Shoko stood and came around the table, kneeling beside you again like before.

You let yourself lean into her. Just for a moment.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do…” you whispered.

“You’re gonna take a breath,” she murmured, rubbing your back gently. “You’re gonna survive this. And then, when you’re ready…you’re gonna call him.”

You sat there in the silence, arms wrapped around yourself, heart beating like a war drum. The city buzzed faintly outside your window, cars humming past, life moving on.

And somewhere across town, completely unaware, Satoru Gojo was living his day like nothing had changed.

But for you, everything had.

The office was quiet, but not peaceful. The kind of quiet that buzzed. That hummed low and angry in the walls like static, wrapping itself around your head and squeezing just tight enough to remind you it was there.

The overhead lights were too bright, making everything feel sterile and inhuman, like you were under constant interrogation. The windows stretched floor to ceiling, offering a pristine view of the city skyline, but Satoru barely noticed it—he hadn’t looked up from his laptop in the last three hours.

A neat stack of case files lay open on his desk, legal jargon bleeding together in lines of endless black text. He hadn’t really been reading them. Hadn’t been able to focus all morning. His tie was still loose around his neck, his collar unbuttoned, hair a little messier than usual. There was a tension in his jaw that he couldn’t quite unclench.

He leaned back in the leather chair, running his thumb over the smooth glass of the scotch tumbler on his desk—it was empty, of course. Midday drinking didn’t go over well here. Not when your name was stamped in gold on half the building and your father had already called twice today asking for updates.

He scrolled through the contract draft for the third time. It was riddled with red comments from his father—sharp, curt corrections that read more like reprimands than feedback.

| Lazy phrasing. Think harder.

| Redundant. Rewrite.

| Is this even legal, or are you just guessing?

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair and leaned back in the chair, letting his head fall against the leather headrest. The office had felt too quiet in that moment—only the low hum of the AC and the soft clatter of keyboards from the outer hall made it clear other people existed.

His phone buzzed against the desk, lighting up with a text from his girlfriend. He cracked one eye open and glanced at it.

Hana: Dinner tonight? 7?

He just stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering.

She didn’t know.

She still didn’t know.

Satoru hadn’t told her about what happened after Suguru’s birthday party. About the momentary lapse in judgment that had left his brain scrambled and his conscience chewing holes in his gut. About the kiss that had felt too much like truth. About the night you’d spent together, tangled in his bedsheets. The way you’d looked at him—like you’d already made peace with the regret that would follow.

He typed back a one-word reply—Sure—and tossed his phone down harder than he meant to.

He knew how he looked from the outside: polished, pristine. He was the golden boy, the heir to the law firm dynasty, a rising star with a perfect smile and a girlfriend who photographed well.

But everything underneath the surface had started to feel like it was cracking.

Especially since that night.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About you.

About the way your lips tasted like tequila and something fragile. About the way your fingers had trembled, and the way his name had broken on your tongue like it hurt to say. About the way you’d looked up at him like he was the only person in the universe. About how, for a brief, terrifying second, it felt like he’d belonged there—in his bed, in your arms, in your life— in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And then it ended. Morning came. They didn’t talk. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. A few passing glances. A half-wave. Awkward tension. Then nothing. Just the silence that stretched longer every day since, gnawing at the edge of his conscience.

There was a knock at the door, sharp and polite. Too polite.

He blinked, dragging himself out of the spiral and sat up straighter, smoothing a hand down the front of his wrinkled shirt as the door creaked open.

Yuna stepped in, composed as ever—young, efficient, an iPad tucked under one arm and a manila folder in hand. Her tone was crisp, a practiced smile on her lips. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Gojo.”

He raised a brow. “Did my father send another passive-aggressive memo?”

She smirked faintly. “Not this time. Someone left you a message.”

He nodded without looking, eyes flicking back to the laptop in front of him. “Leave it on the desk.”

She didn’t move.

That pause—that very deliberate stillness—made him look up.

Yuna stepped closer, placing the message slip gently onto the desk like it might bite. Her tone softened. “She didn’t say much. Just asked if I could tell you she called. It was Y/N.”

Silence blanketed the room.

The fluorescent hum seemed to vanish. For a moment, all he could hear was the dull, panicked thrum of his heartbeat in his ears.

“…Y/N?” he repeated, his voice low and hoarse.

Yuna nodded. “Should I write down a callback time if she phones again?”

“No. Uh—no. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Nothing about it felt fine.

Yuna hesitated for a moment, eyeing him curiously, but she knew better than to pry. “You have a deposition meeting in twenty minutes,” she reminded him.

He gave a nod that felt mechanical. “Right. Thanks.”

Once the door shut behind her, the office felt even quieter than before.

He dragged both hands over his face this time, palms resting against his temples like he could hold the pressure in.

Fuck.

Y/N.

The name hit him in the chest like a punch. It had been weeks, and yet somehow the sound of your name still had the power to knock the air out of his lungs.

You never reached out first. Not lately, anyway. Not unless something was wrong. And the last time he’d seen you—your hair was still messy from his hands, your skin warm from sleep, and your voice barely above a whisper when you told him not to call.

He should have anyway. He should’ve checked in. Should’ve apologized. Should’ve said something.

But instead, he’d done what he always did when it came to you: nothing.

Avoidance. Silence. Cowardice.

He looked across his desk at the note. Then at the skyline. Then back.

His palms found his face again, pressing hard against his eyes.

He hadn’t stopped you when you kissed him. Hadn’t stopped himself when he kissed you back.

He didn’t regret it—not exactly. It had felt too real to regret. Too right in a way that terrified him.

But he did regret what came after.

He regretted the nothing between you two.

The guilt had been eating him alive ever since. kept pretending it hadn’t meant anything, even though it had meant something to him. He just didn’t know what to do with that something. Not with Hana still in the picture. Not with the expectations he was supposed to live up to. The perfect son. The brilliant lawyer. The guy who had his shit together.

And now?

Now you were reaching out.

Why now? Why would you be calling now?

He didn’t let himself hope—not really. Maybe it was closure. Maybe you just wanted to yell at him, and you deserved that. God knew he hadn’t given you much else.

Still—that sense of unease, that sharp pull in his chest—it wasn’t going away.

Not guilt. Not quite fear. But something close.

Something almost like dread.

You shouldn't have called.

You told yourself that the second your thumb left the screen, the call already gone through. A quick, shaky message to his assistant—because of course he wasn’t the one to answer. Of course he had someone else screening his calls now. Someone who sounded too polished and too pretty and said, “I’ll let him know,” like it was nothing.

Like you were nothing.

Now you were back in your apartment, sitting cross-legged on the couch with your phone face-down on the coffee table like it had personally betrayed you. Bear was curled at your feet, occasionally flicking his tail, watching you with half-lidded eyes. Even he seemed to know something was off. Or maybe he was just bored. You weren’t exactly a riveting scene lately.

The air in your apartment felt thick. Stale. Like it hadn’t moved in hours. The sun was dipping low behind the buildings, streaking orange and gold across the chipped white walls. Dust floated lazily through the slanted light, catching on the rim of your half-full glass of water and the keys you forgot to hang up again. The silence felt loud.

You hadn’t opened a window. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t even changed out of your work clothes—just kicked off your shoes and dropped onto the couch like your bones had liquefied. You should have though. Should’ve done anything besides sit here stewing in the static hum of what-ifs and too-lates.

You pulled the blanket over your legs tighter, fingers knotting into the woven fabric until your knuckles ached.

Your stomach had been in a knot all day. A sick, heavy thing curled low in your gut. You weren’t sure if it was fear or nausea—or if, at this point, they were the same thing.

You shouldn’t have called.

But you didn’t know what else to do.

Because it had been a month.

You’d told yourself not to think about it. Not to replay the way his breath caught when you kissed him. Not to remember the way he looked at you afterward, like he didn’t know whether to kiss you again or run. You’d told yourself it was a mistake, that it didn’t mean anything. That he clearly didn’t think it meant anything—because he hadn’t called.

Not once.

You tried to tell yourself it was for the best. Clean break. No strings. Just one night of blurred lines and old feelings and too much tequila. But now?

The test on your bathroom counter still said positive.

You hadn’t even thrown it away. It just sat there, tucked behind your makeup bag like a secret you didn’t know how to bury. You’d stared at it for fifteen minutes straight this morning. Then cried. Then dry-heaved over the toilet with your heart hammering like a war drum in your chest.

You told yourself you were overreacting. That you’d wait a few days. Then you took a second test.

Then a third.

All positive.

You hadn’t told anyone. Not at first. Just Shoko. You kept going to work like your body wasn’t screaming something’s wrong, something’s different, like your brain wasn’t on a loop of what if, what now, what the fuck.

And now?

Now Satoru knew you called.

He just didn’t know why.

He didn’t know that your whole body was tight with panic, that you could barely breathe around the lump in your throat. That the very idea of hearing his voice again made your skin prickle and your pulse stutter—and not for any of the old reasons.

He didn’t know that you were carrying a secret the size of a lentil, tucked away in your body like a ticking time bomb.

And you didn’t know how to tell him.

How do you start that conversation? How do you open your mouth and say Hey, remember that night? The one we don’t talk about? Turns out it didn’t end where we thought it did! You didn’t even know if he wanted to hear it. Didn’t know if he’d even call back. And if he didn’t?

You weren’t sure what you’d do.

The thought hit like a punch to the chest. Your breath caught. Eyes burned.

You scrubbed your hands over your face, tried to inhale deeply, but it caught halfway down your throat and turned into a soft, broken sound. Bear stretched and bumped his head against your shin. You didn’t move.

You were scared.

Terrified.

Not just of the future, or the test, or the endless unknowns—but of him.

Of what he’d say. Of what he wouldn’t say. Of how he’d look at you—if he looked at you at all. Of what it would mean if he walked away. Again.

The phone rang.

Sharp and sudden in the stillness. You jolted upright like the sound had physically struck you, your breath catching hard in your chest.

It buzzed across the coffee table once, twice—then stilled, lighting up.

Satoru Gojo.

You stared at the name like it might vanish.

Your pulse was a deafening drumbeat in your ears. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared as the phone kept ringing, like the universe was standing there, tapping its foot, waiting for you to answer.

Answer it.

You couldn’t.

Answer it.

What if he was angry? What if he didn’t want to hear it? What if he told you this wasn’t his problem? Every instinct screamed to let it ring. To let it go to voicemail, pretend you’d missed it, buy yourself just a little more time.

Your hand moved before your brain did. Shaking fingers closed around the phone, thumb hovered—then tapped.

The line clicked.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. And then, his voice—quiet, low, almost cautious. “…Hey.”

God. Even just hearing his voice again made your throat close up. It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like a lifetime.

You swallowed hard. “Hi.”

Another beat. The silence between you filled with all the things neither of you had said since that night.

“I got your message,” he said eventually, voice low, careful. “Wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

You almost laughed. Not because it was funny—because it felt surreal. Small talk, like this was any other day. Like things hadn’t broken quietly between you the last time you saw each other.

“I know…” you said softly.

It hung there between you once more. A breath. A gap.

“Is everything okay?”

That question lodged deep. The way his voice softened. The way it actually sounded like he cared. Like you weren’t just some forgotten mistake.

You hesitated. “I… I don’t know.”

You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, the way he shifted slightly—like he could feel how close to the edge your voice was. Like he knew something was wrong, but couldn’t name it yet.

His voice was gentler now, sensing the weight behind your words. “What’s going on?”

Your hands were cold. Your throat dry. Your heart a beating painfully wild in your chest.

You couldn’t do it. Not over the phone. Not like this.

So you took a breath and lied a little.

“It’s nothing bad. I just…I need to talk to you.”

He was quiet. Listening carefully. Then, slowly: “You sure? You sound—off.”

“I just don’t want to say it over the phone,” you replied, your voice coming out more brittle than you meant it to. “Can we meet?”

There was a pause, and then, “Yeah,” he replied, and you could hear the tension hidden under his casual tone. “Yeah, of course. When?”

“Tomorrow?” you offered, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of your sleeve. “Lunch?”

“Alright.” He sounded surprised. Hopeful, maybe. Nervous. “You wanna pick the place?”

“There’s that little ramen shop near the bookstore on 9th,” you said. “You know the one.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, and the sound of it made something warm ache behind your ribs. “I remember. You used to steal the narutomaki from my bowl.”

“You always gave it to me,” you murmured, before you could stop yourself, almost falling into the groove of how things used to be between you.

There was another silence.

“…I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, breaking it. “Twelve?”

“Yeah. Twelve…”

You didn’t say goodbye. Neither did he. Just the quiet sound of the call disconnecting, and the dull, hollow buzz of your phone returning to the home screen.

You stared at it. Still holding your breath. 

You didn’t feel better.

You felt like your insides had turned to water. Like your ribs weren’t holding anything in anymore. Like the ground beneath you had started to shift and you weren’t sure if it was going to be a soft landing or a freefall.

Tomorrow. You had until tomorrow.

To look him in the eye. To say the words out loud. To shatter what little was left between you.

And somehow, knowing he was still willing to meet you—still answering your calls, still remembering things like narutomaki and shared bowls of ramen—made it hurt even more.

Because maybe it meant something to him.

Maybe it still did.

And maybe that would make it worse.

I’m excited about this one y’all. As always, if you enjoyed, a repost is appreciated!

Taglist (still open!): @elainananana123 @emochosoluvr @coffeeluvr96 @vixonal @eolivy @suaes

[moved-to-lumiersdreams]

i have the silly husband!zayne in the mind so time to ramble about him 😊

husband!zayne who wakes up first and either cooks breakfast or heats up the already prepared meal from the night before that was in the fridge. once you wake up, he's already made you your drink of choice that he's memorized by heart. it's a lot less sweeter for his liking (he'd sneakily take a sip just to make sure he got it right once in a while) but it was one of the details he loves about you

husband!zayne who pulls you into his arms and affectionately squeezes you momentarily just to hear you giggle before he goes to work, your voice and laughter sounds like home to him

husband!zayne who keeps you updated about his work, checks up on you while on break and even sometimes texts you if he has tea to share once he gets back home after work

husband!zayne who, contrary to his professional exterior, is a great storyteller when it comes to sharing gossip. he doesn't need to change his monotonous tone much, his looks and dramatic pauses alone says a thousand words

husband!zayne who feels really guilty when he doesn't get to give you a heads up about an emergency situation that he gets pulled into and makes it up by taking you to both of your favorite pastry store and having a nice afternoon date there

husband!zayne who adores your cooking, even if some days you can only cook a simple meal. he'd suggest simple ways to spice it up next time and if you do take him up on it, he'd give you an honest critique about it

husband!zayne who pulls you into his nightly care routine before bed. shaving his face, skin care, then brushing his teeth. he'd let you shave his face and put on the skin care products on him, he puts your own products on yours and you do this almost every night if you both have enough energy by the end of the day

husband!zayne who loves having you lay your head on his chest, one of his arms wrapped around your waist comfortably as you two chat in hushed whispers about silly jokes and 'i love you's into the dark before falling asleep together

[gojover]

the accidental one-night stand | i. hajime

summary ⇢ the consequences of sleeping with your best friend while drunk include waking up with no memory of how you ended up in his bed and the awkward realisation that your friendship is irreparably damaged. but avoiding it only works for so long—especially when feelings you’ve both been hiding begin to bubble to the surface.

pairing ⇢ iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader contains ⇢ fluff, mild angst, best friends to lovers!au, college!au, idiots in love, implied sexual content, nudity, profanity, alcohol consumption—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! word count ⇢ 10.0k

There were many things that you expected would happen after you and your friends went out drinking to celebrate the end of the semester.

Waking up next to a naked Iwaizumi Hajime was not one of them.

The first thing you notice is the sunlight. It filters through the cheap blinds, casting uneven slats of light across the room. The scent of stale beer and leftover pizza lingers faintly in the air. Normally, you would’ve groaned, turned over, and buried yourself in your blanket to fend off the cruel reminder that mornings exist. For a moment, you’re convinced you’re back in your own bed, with nothing more pressing than to decide whether you should get breakfast or sleep in till noon.

The second thing you notice is the peculiar warmth of someone pressed against you. A shoulder brushes your arm; a leg, bent at an awkward angle, leans uncomfortably into your thigh. When you squint, you see a pink piece of fabric hanging off one of the blades of the ceiling fan. That’s new.

Your eyes widen. When you turn your head, you are subject to the horrifying revelation that your best friend is lying in bed next to you—Iwaizumi Hajime, sleeping on his stomach, bare back exposed to the world like it’s a perfectly normal occurrence in the three years you’ve known him.

You must be dreaming. But then you see his glasses, folded neatly on the nightstand and placed on top of your phone. Oh no.

“Oh no,” you say aloud, because, apparently, merely thinking it isn’t enough.

Hajime stirs at the sound, a soft groan escaping his lips. His head turns slightly on the pillow, and you freeze, praying to every deity you can think of that he doesn’t wake up. Unfortunately for you, whoever is in charge of karma seems to be in a particularly spiteful mood.

“Mm?” His voice is groggy, muffled by the pillow. His eyes flutter open. It takes him a second to focus on you. When he does, his brows furrow. “Why are you in my bed?”

Silence. You blink at him. He blinks at you.

What can you say? There is no eloquent explanation for waking up in your best friend’s bed—especially when he’s naked and you’re one hasty movement away from unraveling whatever fragile composure you’re clinging to.

“I, uh— I was hoping you could tell me that,” you croak out.

He shifts, the sheets slipping lower on his body, and you immediately avert your eyes. “Are we—” Hajime pauses, glancing down at himself, then back at you. His face flushes a deep pink. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, pulling the sheets tighter around you. “Oh.”

“Are you…?” He starts, then clears his throat awkwardly. “You’re not… y’know…”

“Naked?” you supply, struggling to maintain whatever shreds of dignity you have left. “No. Thank God. I think I’m, uh, wearing your shirt, actually. But my, um, bra is hanging off of your fan.”

If a pair of eyes happens to wander up there, neither of you acknowledges it.

There’s another long pause, filled only with the sound of your combined breathing and the hum of traffic outside. You can feel him staring at you; it takes all your willpower not to bury yourself into the mattress.

Hajime blinks at you again, his hair mussed and sticking out in every possible direction, a faint sleep line on his cheek from where the pillow was pressed into it. It would almost be endearing were you not teetering on the edge of an existential crisis.

“Do you remember anything?” he finally asks.

You consider lying, but what good would that do, anyway? You shake your head. “Um, not a lot. Do you?”

He hesitates, and somehow, it’s worse than an outright no. “I remember… karaoke,” he says slowly. “And shots. A lot of shots.”

“Karaoke?” you repeat, horrified.

“Yeah.” Hajime looks faintly amused despite the whole situation. “You sang ABBA. Badly.”

“I always sing ABBA badly,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

“I don’t know either,” he says, sounding genuinely baffled, which is both a relief and a disappointment for reasons you refuse to examine. “Do you think—”

“What?” you prompt, though you already know the question.

Your best friend gestures vaguely between the both of you, the tips of his ears turning red. “Do you think we—?”

“Oh, my God, don’t say it,” you hiss, feeling your own face heat up.

“Well, something happened! You’re in my bed, and I’m—”

“Naked,” you finish for him, grimacing.

Hajime clears his throat again, suddenly very interested in the ceiling—though he pointedly avoids staring at the fan above your heads. “Yes. That.”

“Maybe we should just… not talk about it.” Your voice sounds weak to your own ears. You pick at your cuticles underneath the covers.

Hajime snorts. You stare at him.

“What?” you demand.

“You think we can just pretend?” The smile tugging on his lips is humourless. “Yeah, okay, good luck with that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mattsun was there last night,” he says grimly.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh no,” you say again, because there’s really nothing else to say.

You thought you were successful in avoiding Iwaizumi Hajime and Matsukawa Issei. You were not, and this must be the universe’s idea of a cosmic joke, because you’re currently crouched behind a dumpster while your two best friends are having a frantic, hushed conversation a few feet away from you.

The smell is an assault on every sense you possess—a vile concoction of rotting leftovers, moldy cardboard, and something acidic you can’t begin to identify. You shift uncomfortably, regretting everything that possessed you to follow Hajime and Mattsun to this cold, putrid place. Your sneakers sink into what you pray is just old soda.

“...I didn’t tell her because she looked so freaked out,” Hajime says, voice tight. He doesn’t sound angry, exactly—more like he’s restraining his frustration, the kind of tone that demands silence from anyone with half a brain.

Except Mattsun doesn’t have half a brain. “You didn’t mention to her that you remember everything? That’s… kind of a big deal.”

“Of course I remember,” your best friend mutters. “I was drunk, yes, and extremely stupid, but it’s her. I remember everything about her.”

You instinctively press a hand to your mouth, breath catching in your throat. He remembers? All this time, you’d convinced yourself that the foggy gaps in your memory extended to him too—that’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? You were convinced that the awkward morning after was borne out of shared ignorance. Evidently not.

Mattsun snickers. “You? Stupid? Sure, and I’m fucking Albert Einstein.”

“Can you be serious for once? It isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” You can practically hear Mattsun’s grin, though his face remains elusive. “I mean, come on. You’re usually so—I don’t know—emotionless and now look at you. This is gold.”

You want to throttle him. You’re pretty sure Hajime wants to throttle him too. He settles for a long, exasperated sigh instead. “I’m not emotionless. I’m just… worried.”

“Worried?” Matsukawa echoes, curious. “About what?”

“About her.” Hajime’s voice softens; the change is so startling that you lean forward without thinking, the damp ground squelching underneath you. “She looked so freaked out, Mattsun. Like she couldn’t get out of my bedroom fast enough. How was I supposed to bring it up?”

You should leave. You need to leave, but your legs stay rooted in place, a strange combination of morbid curiosity and pure panic keeping you locked in place. 

“Fair enough,” your other friend acquiesces. “She was kind of a mess when I saw her that morning.”

“Exactly. So I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“But now you’re making it worse by not saying anything,” Matsukawa points out. “Come on, Iwaizumi. You’ve liked her for years. You finally get her alone and you don’t even—”

“Don’t,” Hajime cuts him off, the word laced with quiet steel. “I didn’t plan for any of that to happen. You think I wanted to wake up next to her and realise it was all just… an accident to her?”

Your stomach twists painfully. There’s no way this is real. There’s absolutely no way you’re hearing this conversation right now.

“I left ‘cause I thought you would finally grow a pair of balls and confess,” Mattsun says defensively.

Hajime scoffs. “Congratulations. Now it’s a fucking disaster.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” his companion chides gently. “She’s your best friend. She’ll understand if you talk to her.”

“She doesn’t feel the same,” Hajime says, so quietly that you nearly miss it.

Your heart nearly leaps out of your throat.

“You don’t know that,” counters Mattsun.

“I do.” The resignation in Hajime’s voice carves something hollow in your chest. “She wouldn’t have been so freaked out if she did. That night—it wouldn’t have been an accident to her.”

Is this how Hajime saw it? Is this how you made him feel? The words linger in the air, heavy and unforgiving, until they slip through the gaps in your rib cage and squeeze your heart tightly.

“...I think you’re wrong,” Matsukawa says slowly. “You should give her more credit than that.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t respond immediately. You hear the sounds of footsteps shuffling on gravel and hold your breath, waiting for their voices to fade before daring to move. Your muscles scream in protest when you stand up. Your legs wobble, and you don’t move the hand clamped over your nose and mouth. 

Hajime remembers. He likes you. He thinks you don’t feel the same. Standing in the shadow of a dumpster and reeking of garbage and despair, you’re faced with one inescapable truth: you have no idea what to do next. 

The coffee shop is too bright, but it’s the only place where the owner gives out a free chocolate chip cookie with every purchase. You nibble at the cookie, brushing away the crumbs that fall onto your lap. Your cup of coffee is untouched, steam curling out of it in lazy spirals. Hanamaki Takahiro sits opposite you, occasionally stirring his tea. The spoon clinks against the ceramic; it’s a little bit annoying, but you can’t tell him that when he’s almost certainly called you over to interrogate you.

You can’t remember why you agreed to meet Hanamaki. You can barely remember how you even got here, your legs on autopilot while your brain went through a series of catastrophes all involving Iwaizumi Hajime. Makki’s eyes bore into you, quietly observing. He doesn’t say anything, but he always seems to be one step ahead of you—always knows things before you’re ready to admit them, which is why you’ve been avoiding him, as well. 

Yet here you are, because Hanamaki’s persistence is a force of nature. Finally, you break. “What?”

“You tell me.” Makki’s reply is immediate. He leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other with the sort of poise that makes you feel like a feral raccoon in comparison. “You’ve been acting weird all week.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

He merely narrows his eyes at you.

“Okay, fine.” You sigh and lean back, dropping your half-eaten cookie next to your coffee. “What do you think is so weird?”

“The fact that you’ve been avoiding everyone like the plague. The fact that your good mood about our finals ending lasted for, like, thirty seconds. The fact that you look like you’ve seen a ghost whenever someone mentions Iwaizumi.”

You wince. “I don’t look like that.”

“You do,” he says.

“I don’t. I’m just tired.”

“Sure,” Hanamaki drawls, “and I’m the Pope.”

You glare at him, but he merely smiles at you, like he’s sitting on a cloud of smug superiority and you’re some lowlife staring up at him. He continues, “Do you want to tell me why I had to hear about your night with Iwaizumi through six degrees of separation?”

“What— Huh? What are you talking about?” you flounder helplessly.

“Iwaizumi told Mattsun,” he explains without missing a beat, “who told his roommate Yahaba, who told his girlfriend Sana, who told her best friend Sakura, who told her roommate Miwa, who told her boyfriend Sawauchi—who just so happens to be my roommate, as you’re aware. And now I know.”

You stare at him, utterly aghast. “What a small fucking world.”

“It is,” Makki agrees, nodding sagely. “Don’t worry too much about it. They all mean well.”

You pick up your cookie and shove the whole thing into your mouth, before burying your face in your hands. “Kill me. Just do it. Right here. Please end my misery.”

“I’d consider it,” he says, “but then I wouldn’t get to hear your side of the story.”

“There is no story,” you say, voice muffled by your palms.

“Interesting,” your friend muses. “But according to all six of my sources, there’s quite a story. Something about you waking up next to Iwaizumi? Naked?”

You peek at him through your fingers. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Immensely.”

Groaning, you drop your hands onto the table. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

“Enlighten me.” Hanamaki’s smile widens in the way it does whenever he’s truly intrigued by something.

You resign yourself to the sad fate of telling your friend about what happened that fateful night. “We went out to celebrate the end of the semester. There was drinking. A lot of drinking—” you hesitate, voice catching in your throat— “and then I woke up next to him.”

“Naked,” Makki supplies.

“I was wearing a shirt!” you say a little too loudly. A few heads turn in your direction, and you lower your voice, cheeks burning. “Okay, yes, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or anything else. But nothing happened!”

“Mm.” His noncommittal hum feels worse than outright disbelief.

“I mean it,” you insist. “We talked about it. Sort of. And he said he didn’t remember anything, so—”

You swallow, remembering the conversation you weren’t supposed to hear. It sits in the depths of your stomach, hot and heavy and gnarly. You don’t want to bring it up. You really don’t.

Hanamaki arches a brow. “Did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Not remember anything.”

You swallow again, the aftertaste of your freebie dessert turning from sweet to bitter. “Why would he lie?”

“Why does anyone lie?” Makki shrugs. “To spare someone’s feelings. To avoid awkward conversations. To hide the fact that they’ve been hopelessly in love with their best friend for years.”

“That’s not true,” you say, far too quickly. “That’s not… It can’t be true. If he’s liked me for years then—then remember when he had a girlfriend in our freshman year? He really liked her.”

You would know. You’d been there when he broke up with her, when you had to haul him to the nearest soju tent and let him get batshit drunk while you sipped on water and tried not to let your heart crack. Hajime had been heartbroken about it—enough for you to think that he’d loved her, and if his heart could have so much love bursting out of its seams, then what would it be like if you were given even a fraction of it? You’d squashed the thought immediately afterwards; he was here crying about his ex-girlfriend and you were a truly selfish person if you wanted to acknowledge your crush on him.

Makki’s sharp gaze turns sympathetic. “I remember. But did you ever ask him about why they broke up?”

“No, I—I didn’t,” you admit. “He was crying his lungs out the day they broke up. I wasn’t gonna be insensitive. We never spoke about it afterwards.”

“So that’s why you think he can’t have feelings for you?”

“He’s Hajime. He’s not… He can’t— He isn’t—” Your words crumble under Makki’s knowing smile.

“He is,” Hanamaki says, quiet but certain. “You’re just too busy panicking.”

“I am not panicking,” you say, panicking.

“Right,” your friend says drily, “and this is you at your most composed. Are you going to talk to him?”

“No,” you say immediately.

Hanamaki blinks, finally taking a sip of his nearly-cooled tea. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, crossing your arms. “I’m going to avoid him until graduation and then pretend this never happened.”

“That’s a terrible plan,” he deadpans. “It’s a great plan,” you counter. “Completely foolproof.”

“It’s cowardly.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes, not unkindly. “Just drink your damn coffee. I’m paying for it.”

“Thank you, Makki.” You smile gratefully at him. “I knew you would understand.”

Hanamaki Takahiro clearly did not understand.

It starts with him, obviously, because who else would take your very serious declaration to avoid Hajime until graduation and turn it into prime gossip material? By the time it reaches you again, it’s mutated beyond recognition. Sana texts you, asking if you’re okay because she heard you and Iwaizumi had a “tragic lover’s quarrel.”

You stare at her message, then at your coffee, briefly debating the merits of deleting every single app on your phone. Then you sigh, and type back who told you that? and steel yourself for whatever reply you’re going to get. Her response is almost instant: Mattsun said Makki said you’re avoiding Iwaizumi for dramatic reasons?? idk, call me.

You do not call her.

Instead, you stew in mild indignation until she finally ropes you into Taco Bell plans for the afternoon, promising that the food is on her. But the second you walk in, you know it’s a trap. Sana’s sitting by the window, her expression brighter than the fluorescent lights. She waves you over. You feel like you’re walking into a very elaborate sting operation.

“Hey!” she greets you, grinning. “Come sit! I already ordered drinks for us.”

“What’s gotten you so happy?” you ask warily, already exhausted.

“Nothing,” she says cheerfully. “I’m just so glad to see you.”

“Hm.” You eye her suspiciously. “And you picked Taco Bell because…?”

“Because it’s delicious, affordable, and deeply underrated,” she says in one breath. You want to scoff—everything she just spouted out about Taco Bell is false—but she continues, “Also, Yuda’s coming. He said he was starving, and I thought, why not make it a group thing?”

“Right. Because I love being the third wheel.”

“Can’t you let me admit that I enjoy your company for once?”

Your response is immediate. “No.”

Sana’s face brightens when she glances behind you at the door. Yuda walks in—but he’s not alone.

Iwaizumi Hajime is with him.

You feel your stomach flip in that terrible, rollercoaster-drops-out-from-under-you way. Yuda, for his part, looks completely unbothered as he scans the restaurant, but when you glance at Sana, you find her trying and failing to hide her triumphant smirk.

“Oh, my gosh,” she says in the fakest tone of surprise you’ve ever heard. “Iwaizumi! What are you doing here?”

You glare at her, and she has the audacity to look innocent. Hajime, meanwhile, approaches the table with slow, deliberate steps; his hands are stuffed in his jacket pockets and his mouth is set in a thin line.

“Hi,” he says, glancing at you briefly before looking anywhere else.

“Hi,” you echo, willing your voice to stay normal. Yuda takes the seat across from you, shoving Hajime into the booth next to you. The space feels smaller than it is, like Hajime’s presence is some sort of gravitational force you can’t ignore.

“What’s everyone in the mood for?” Yuda asks, leaning back in his seat like a bizarre talk show host.

“Tacos,” you say immediately. “And to leave.”

Yuda ignores the last part, turning to face his girlfriend. “Want to help me order for everyone?”

“Absolutely.” Sana is already standing, grabbing Yuda’s hand. “We’ll be back in a sec.”

“Wait—” You try not to sound desperate. “Why can’t we all just go and order together?”

“No need! We know what you guys like.”

With that, they disappear, leaving you alone with Iwaizumi Hajime.

The silence is instant and crushing. Your fingers pick at the edge of a napkin like it’s some kind of lifeline, the paper shredding under your nails. Next to you, Hajime shifts slightly, the sound of his jacket brushing against the booth unnervingly loud.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, then stops. “The napkin. You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you reply automatically, still shredding the paper to bits.

He sighs. “You’re going to tear it apart.”

Your hands still for a moment, then resume. “If Taco Bell runs out of napkins, I’ll buy them new ones,” you say, only a little sarcastic.

Hajime doesn’t say anything to that, but out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift again, squaring his shoulders. Something in your chest tightens, wound up like a spring.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” he says finally.

You laugh, short and humourless. “What gave it away?”

He doesn’t reply. You glance at him, but he’s staring down at the table, fingers tapping idly on the edge. You take a deep breath, gaze dropping back down to your hands. “It doesn’t have to be weird,” you offer tentatively—though it sounds unconvincing even as you say it.

“I agree. But you’re kind of making it weird.”

Your head snaps up. “...Me?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at you now. “You’ve been avoiding me for, what, days? That’s not exactly normal behaviour.”

“...I wasn’t avoiding you.” Heat crawls up your neck.

Hajime raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine. I was avoiding you,” you admit, voice dropping into a mutter. “But I, um, had a good reason for it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. “What was it?”

You stare at him, throat tightening. How are you supposed to put it into words? That you’ve been avoiding him because every time you see him, your brain replays that morning and his conversation with Matsukawa in painstaking detail, and it makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t understand? That you don’t know how to act around him anymore, and it’s easier to run than to face him?

“I don’t know,” you say slowly, shrugging. It’s a lie, and it feels thin and flimsy, but you can’t manage anything else. “It just felt… easier.”

Hajime’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—disappointment? Understanding? You can’t tell.

“Easier,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word. “Do you think it’s easier now?”

“Not really,” you admit quietly.

“Exactly.” He leans back again, running a tired hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. That night was—it was a lot. But I don’t want to lose our friendship because of it.”

There’s a lump in your throat now. You swallow hard, trying to push it down. You want to tell him that it’s not that simple, that every time you think about him, you feel like you’re standing on a cliff’s edge, terrified of falling. But the words stick to your tongue, and all you can manage is a small, “I don’t want that either.”

Hajime nods. “Okay. Good. That’s—that’s good.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you focus on the napkin in your hands—or what’s left of it, at least. Your thoughts spiral. You think about the way he looked at you that morning, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the way he resigned himself to the fact that you wouldn’t like him back. The way everything feels like you’re teetering on the edge of something permanent and irreversible.

Now, sitting here with him, you wonder if you’re still on that edge—or if you’ve already fallen.

“I just—” Your voice cracks slightly; you clear your throat. “I don’t know how to go back to being normal with you.”

Hajime doesn’t hesitate. “That’s okay. I don’t know, either. We can work it out.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it cuts through the static in your head. You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you see not just the calm front he’s putting up, but the uncertainty that bleeds through—the way his fingers fidget against the table, the way his gaze flickers briefly before meeting yours again.

You exhale slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more to yourself than him. “Okay.”

His lips twitch into the faintest smile, until it is immediately obliterated by Sana’s shriek as the four Baja Blasts she was balancing in her arms plummet to the floor in a tragic display of carbonation and crushed dreams. 

The walk back from Taco Bell is stiffer than it needs to be. Hajime had offered to walk you home—mostly because both of you weren’t keen on intruding between Yuda and Sana—but you’re acutely aware of the distance between you and Hajime, an awkward, invisible chasm neither of you seems eager to cross. You fiddle with the crumpled receipt in your pocket, sneaking glances at him every few steps. Each time, you catch him doing the same, though you don’t acknowledge it.

You didn’t think your awkwardness with Hajime would fade away immediately, though you have to give him credit for trying. It still clings to the space between you like stubborn static. Even the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustling of leaves doesn’t drown it out.

“My cousin is graduating high school the day after tomorrow,” he says finally, breaking the long stretch of silence between you both.

“No way,” you reply, kicking a loose pebble on the ground. You watch it skitter away from you, and say, “They grow up so fast.”

“Yeah. It’s insane. I’m going back to Miyagi tonight.”

“Really? I bet your aunt will be happy to see you.”

He smiles. “She’s going to screw me for not eating enough homemade food,” he says, and for a moment, it feels normal—but silence falls again, heavy and stilted.

It isn’t until you hear a soft, high-pitched cry that the spell finally breaks.

At first, you think you imagined it, a stray sound swallowed up by the evening breeze. But when you hear it again, clearer this time, you stop dead in your tracks, your head swiveling towards the source.

“Did you hear that?” you ask.

Hajime comes to a halt beside you. “Hear what?”

“That!” you exclaim as the sound repeats, urgent and mournful. You point towards the trees lining the edge of the parking lot. “There’s something over there.”

He squints. “Probably just a bird or something.”

“That’s not a bird,” you insist, already veering off the footpath. “It’s a kitten.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” you say, craning your neck to locate the source of the sound. Sure enough, a tiny ball of fur is clinging to a branch halfway up one of the trees, its pitiful cries echoing through the still evening air. “It’s stuck.”

“It’s a cat,” Hajime says flatly.

“It’s a baby. Hajime, it’s going to fall!”

“It’s not going to fall. It’s a cat.”

“Look at it!” you counter, gesturing wildly. “It’s hanging on for dear life. Do you want that on your conscience?”

He stares at the kitten, then back at you, shoulders sinking with impending responsibility. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you say, folding your arms.

“Fine,” he mutters, shrugging off his jacket. “Only ‘cause you asked.”

Hajime reaches for the lowest branch, testing its sturdiness before hoisting himself up. His movements are deliberate, cautious, and yet somehow still awkward—like someone who’s watched enough action movies to think he knows what he’s doing but has never actually climbed a tree in his life.

“Careful,” you call out, wincing as the branch creaks under his weight.

“Really? That’s the advice you’re giving me right now?”

“I could’ve said, don’t fall,” you point out.

The kitten, meanwhile, is less than thrilled about the rescue operation. It hisses and fluffs up its fur as Hajime inches closer, its tiny claws digging into the bark.

“You’ve got this,” you say.

“Oh, do I?” He grunts. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

With a final, determined stretch, he manages to grab the kitten by the scruff of its neck, holding it up triumphantly. It lets out one last indignant yowl before going limp in his grip, big, yellow eyes blinking up at him.

“Got it,” he says, holding it up like a trophy.

“You’re a hero,” you deadpan.

But before he can descend, the branch beneath him gives a menacing crack.

“Hajime—”

The sound is followed by a split-second of stillness, and then gravity takes over.

Hajime plummets to the ground with a thud. The kitten, miraculously unscathed, wriggles free from his grip and bolts towards the bushes, leaving the two of you in stunned silence.

“Oh, my God,” you gasp, rushing to his side. “Are you okay?”

He groans, propping himself up on his elbows. His glasses are somewhere on the ground next to him; you fumble for them and hand them to him. He puts them on and says, “No. I’m not okay.”

“You fell out of a tree,” you say, as though he might need reminding.

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice is tight, laced with pain. When he tries to stand, he immediately winces, clutching his ankle.

“Don’t move,” you say, panic creeping into your tone. “You could’ve broken something.”

“It’s just a sprain,” Hajime mutters, though his face says otherwise.

“How do you know?”

“Because I can still feel my foot,” he replies, like that’s the definitive test for a sprain versus a fracture.

You hover uncertainly, hands flitting uselessly between him and his phone. “I’m calling for help.”

“It’s fine—”

“No, it’s not fine,” you snap, voice shaking. “You’re injured, and it’s my fault because I made you climb that stupid tree for that stupid kitten—”

Hajime interrupts by saying your name softly. “It’s not your fault. I could’ve said no.”

“But you didn’t,” you mutter, blinking back the ridiculous sting of tears.

He huffs a weak laugh, leaning back against the tree trunk. “Yeah, well. You’re really persuasive.”

“Just don’t—don’t move, okay?”

“Okay. I won’t. You… You will come with me to the hospital, right?” He is quieter now, as though the adrenaline is finally wearing off.

“Of course,” you say immediately.

When you drop down onto the ground next to him, waiting for Sana—who you’d called earlier—to come drive you both to the hospital, you catch a glimpse of the kitten peeking out from the bushes, its wide eyes reflecting the streetlights. You shake your head. “Ungrateful little thing.”

“Worth it,” Hajime says, surprising you.

“What?”

He shrugs. “It was worth it. You were worried about it.”

Oh. You don’t really know how to respond to that, but the words are sweet as honey, and despite the chill brought about by the setting sun and the rising moon, you feel warm throughout.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital flicker faintly while you wait for Hajime to finish his discharge paperwork. You stand a few feet apart in the waiting area, unsure of what to say. Arms crossed tightly over your chest, you rock back on your heels. Hajime leans on his crutches, shoulders hunched.

“I, uh, brought my car while Sana and Yuda were with you,” you say, not daring to meet his eyes. 

“You’re driving me to Miyagi?” he asks, sounding more resigned than questioning. “You don’t have to.”

You lick your lips. Half the reason Iwaizumi Hajime climbed up a tree and sprained his ankle badly is because you asked him to. The least you can do is drive him back to his hometown so he can attend his little cousin’s graduation ceremony.

“Yes,” you reply, a little too quickly. His eyebrows twitch upward, but he doesn’t say anything. You shift from one foot to the other under his gaze, feeling self-conscious. “What, you think women are bad drivers?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t think women are bad drivers. I think you’re a—” He pauses. “Wait, that’s a trick question. You’re going to kick my ass regardless.”

“Exactly. So you can just get comfortable in the passenger seat and think about the systemic oppression of women in the workforce while I drive.”

The lightheartedness helps, but only marginally. When his name is called, Hajime limps toward the discharge counter, his crutches squeaking against the polished tile floor. You follow, stuffing your hands into your jacket pockets because you don’t know what to do with them. The nurse hands him a clipboard, and he scrawls his signature on the dotted line. 

You glance at his profile—the curve of his mouth, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose. It’s all so familiar, and you hate the fact that you feel like a stranger standing next to him. You know he likes you, and it’s eating you up inside, gnawing at your brain, because telling him you like him, too, would ruin everything.

Not that everything isn’t already hanging by a thread, but what if something happens that makes it impossible to fix? What if you break up, and the friendship you’ve been clinging to falls apart completely? What if everything changes even more than it already has, and you can’t stop it? What if you lose one of the most important people in your life, and no matter what you do, you can’t find your way back to him? What if, what if, what if—it’s a thought that echoes endlessly.

“You don’t have to look so worried,” Hajime says without looking up, startling you out of your thoughts. 

“I’m not worried,” you lie, chin jutting out defensively.

He glances at you, then. “You look worried.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Noted.” He hands the clipboard back to the nurse.

By the time you’re both outside in the parking lot, you’re back to being awkwardly polite, dancing around each other with all the grace of a baby giraffe. You watch as Hajime fumbles with his crutches, maneuvering them clumsily toward your car.

“I can carry those,” you offer, holding out a hand.

“I’ve got it.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything after, but his jaw tightens as he leans into the passenger seat. It takes some effort—his crutches clatter against the doorframe, and he winces, trying to angle his injured foot without bumping it. You pretend not to notice his struggle, letting him preserve what little dignity he has left.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, you adjust the mirrors, stalling for time. Hajime doesn’t try to break the silence festering in between you both. The only sounds are the click of your seatbelt, and the soft hum of the engine.

The first few kilometres pass like this—with a quietness so thick, it’s suffocating. You grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, focusing on the road ahead as though it holds the answers to all your questions.

“So,” you begin after a while, when it becomes too uncomfortable to not speak, “your cousin’s graduation. Big family gathering?”

“Something like that,” Hajime says. “Everyone’s making a big deal out of it. She’s the youngest, so…”

“That’s nice.” You glance at him briefly, his face half-hidden in the shadows. “It’s good to celebrate milestones.”

He snorts. “Spoken like someone who’s never had to sit through hours of small talk about what you’re doing with your life.”

“Oh, I’ve been there. My relatives love to remind me of all the ways I’ve failed to meet their expectations.”

“And here I thought you were the golden child.”

You laugh dryly. “As if. My aunt still brings up the time I failed my learner’s permit test. Twice.”

“Twice?” he repeats, raising his eyebrows. “And you wonder why I think you suck at driving.”

“It was hard,” you defend, though your cheeks flush with heat.

The corners of his mouth lift, the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen from him lately. It’s fleeting, but it stays with you, lingering between you both.

Conversation ebbs and flows after that, accompanied by long stretches of quiet. You focus on the road, stealing the occasional inconspicuous—or so you hope—glance at Hajime. At some point, his head leans back against the headrest and his eyes flutter shut. 

It doesn’t take long for his breathing to even out, his features softening in his sleep. You glance at him more openly now, heart tugging at the sight. He looks younger like this. The lines of tension on his face have disappeared, leaving only the quiet rise and fall of his chest. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose, and you resist the urge to push them back up.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, an unexplainable warmth blooming in your chest. It’s ridiculous, really, how easily he manages to disarm you without even trying. 

But it’s not the first time you’ve seen him like this. The memory sneaks in, unbidden—the morning you woke up beside him, the sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting golden streaks across his skin; his hair mussed against the pillow; his face so close to yours. The disorientation, the rush of emotions you couldn’t name, the way your heart stuttered because of his proximity.

The warmth in your chest turns cold. You inhale shakily, tearing your eyes away from him.

Hajime stirs slightly, his head turning a fraction towards you. You glance at him again, your resolve faltering for a split second. You wonder if he would laugh if he knew what sort of thoughts are running through your head right now, or if he’d give you one of those infuriatingly expressionless looks of his—the kind that makes you want to simultaneously punch and hug him.

When Google Maps announces the next turn, you straighten in your seat, forcing yourself to focus. The road stretches ahead, long and winding, illuminated only by the yellow glow of your headlights and the streetlights on the sides.

It’s a long drive, you remind yourself. Plenty of time to figure out what you’re doing. Or avoid it entirely.

For now, you simply drive.

The moment you step foot into Hajime’s aunt’s house, a wave of warmth welcomes you—the aroma of something sweet baking in the kitchen, faint perfume, and the hum of cheerful conversation. Hajime limps slightly beside you, leaning more heavily on his crutches than he probably wants to admit, holding his duffel bag with his other arm.

You glance at him, frowning. “Are you sure you’re okay to walk around like this?”

“I’m fine,” he replies. You eye the faint wobble in his step but let it go for now.

Before you can dwell on it further, his aunt sweeps into view, her face lighting up like fireworks. Her hair, pinned back with a colourful bandana, curls in ringlets around her heart-shaped face. “Hajime!” she exclaims, hurrying over. Her gaze quickly shifts to you, and she clasps her hands together. “Oh, and who’s this?”

“This is—” Iwaizumi begins, but his aunt isn’t waiting for an introduction.

“Oh, what a lovely young lady!” she gushes, stepping closer to you. “Are you two…?”

“No,” you blurt out, shaking your head vehemently. The tips of your ears burn as the word tumbles out of your lips. “We’re just friends.”

Hajime’s aunt looks mildly disappointed for a second before her smile reappears with renewed vigour. “Ah, well, it’s a shame,” she says. “You two would make such a beautiful couple.”

“Really, we’re just friends,” you repeat, your voice a little bit higher this time, as though saying it twice will make it truer.

Hajime shifts uncomfortably next to you, adjusting the crutch under his arm. His lips part like he’s about to add something, but he closes them again, opting for silence instead.

His aunt seems unconvinced, but thankfully doesn’t press further, instead ushering you both further inside. “Come in, come in! Everyone’s been waiting to see you, Hajime. And don’t worry, sweetheart,” she says to you with a pat on your arm, “you’ll fit right in.”

“Oh, actually, I—I think I should head back,” you say, lifting up your thumb and jerking it backwards.

“Don’t be silly,” Hajime says, unexpectedly. “It’s dark. You can’t drive back alone.”

“I—”

“He’s right, dear,” his aunt adds. “Stay for the weekend. I have a spare bedroom you can sleep in.”

You try to backtrack, shaking your head. “I didn’t— I don’t have any clothes, or toiletries. I didn’t pack anything.”

“That’s quite alright,” his aunt says. “We have extra toothbrushes, and I’m certain I have clothes that could fit you. Consider it a little vacation, if you will.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Hajime nudges your shoulder with his and gives you a pointed glare. Pressing your lips together, you—still a little unwilling—follow her into the living room. The sound of Hajime’s crutches tapping against the hardwood floor draws attention. A dozen pairs of eyes swivel towards you, curious but welcoming.

“Hajime’s here!” someone exclaims. His cousin bounds over to greet him, carefully navigating his crutches.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” she asks, eyes wide.

“Language,” he chides, offering her a smile nonetheless. “And it’s just a sprain.”

But her attention quickly flicks to you. “And who’s this?”

Before you can answer, another voice cuts in. “Is this his girlfriend?”

You freeze. Hajime sighs.

“No,” you manage to say, laughing nervously. “I’m just a friend.”

Hajime nods in agreement, but it's too late. The murmurs have already begun.

“Really?” another middle-aged lady—another aunt, you suppose—asks, eyebrows raised. “Just friends? You two look so comfortable together.”

Hah. As if. You’ve spent the last few weeks avoiding Hajime so rigorously that your friends had to shove you both together into a Taco Bell booth for you to start talking to him again. Comfortable, your ass. Of course, you can’t say that aloud, so you turn to Hajime, silently pleading for him to step in, but he seems more focused on shifting his weight into his good leg. His family’s scrutiny, it seems, doesn’t faze him nearly as much as his sprained ankle does—which is understandable, to be fair. Just not for you at the moment.

“Seriously, we’re not—”

“But why not?” his cousin pipes up. “He’s handsome. You’re pretty—it’s like fate.”

Heat rises to your cheeks again, and you resist the urge to crawl into the nearest decorative vase and never come out. Hajime finally takes pity on you, clearing his throat.

“Can we all calm down? She’s here because I needed a ride,” he says measuredly.

“Sure,” his uncle mutters, and it’s followed by a smattering of chuckles.

“Alright, alright,” his aunt finally interjects. “Let the kids sit down before you lot grill them to death.”

Reluctantly, everyone’s attention shifts to the basketball match playing on the television. Hajime hobbles toward the nearest loveseat, and you instinctively reach out to steady him when he wobbles a little. He doesn’t say thank you, but the way he lets your hand linger on his arm feels like silent acknowledgement.

“You’re not going to make me carry you if this gets worse, are you?” you murmur, settling into the seat next to him, careful not to jostle his injured leg.

“Not unless you want to,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes—but the moment your knees accidentally bump, the room feels a touch too small, too warm.

Conversations begin again, and occasionally, someone makes another comment about how “nice” you two look together, and you muster up a strained smile each time. Hajime, meanwhile, remains utterly unfazed, answering questions about college and his injury like he isn’t the centre of his family’s romantic speculation.

“Your family is… nice,” you whisper, when the room quietens finally.

“They’re just excited to see someone new,” he says.

“Excited to marry you off, you mean.”

He hums. “Maybe.”

His aunt hands out warm plates of brownies topped with ice cream, and you gratefully dig in. You’re mid-chew when his uncle asks, “How did you two meet?”

You groan inwardly, resting your spoon on your plate and barely restraining yourself from banging your head on the coffee table. Hajime’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. He shrugs and says, “We met through a mutual friend. Simple enough.”

“Very simple,” you echo, nodding your head prudently, hoping to end the conversation there.

“But was it love at first sight?”

Hajime tilts his head slightly, as though he’s genuinely considering the question. You elbow him hard, ignoring his startled oof. “No,” you answer quickly. “We didn’t even like each other at first.”

“Didn’t we?” Hajime asks, lips curving upwards.

“No,” you say firmly. “You were too quiet, and I didn’t know how to talk to you.”

“Maybe you just weren’t trying hard enough,” he quips.

You gape at him. “That’s—”

“Adorable!” someone cuts in, and everyone—except you—bursts into laughter.

You bury your face in your hands, utterly defeated. Hajime, on the other hand, seems entirely too pleased with himself, his soft laugh barely audible over everyone else’s.

You glance at him once again, dropping your hands and letting them rest on your lap. He’s resting back in his seat, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. The tiniest furrow creases his brow, a sign he’s not as comfortable as he’d like everyone to believe.

“You should’ve stayed off your feet,” you say softly, leaning closer.

“And miss all this fun?” he says, smiling softly. He’s quieter, now, seemingly tired of all the socialising, but he watches his relatives bicker over something stupid with fondness.

You shake your head, biting back your own smile.

It’s only later, as everyone disperses to their rooms, that silence befalls upon you both yet again—though not quite as awkward as before. Standing outside the guest room, you turn around to face Hajime, who leans heavily on his crutch now, fatigue evident in his every movement.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods, face impassive. “You?”

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

His lips quirk upwards for the smallest of moments before he nods towards his door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you say, slipping into your room and closing the door behind you.

Sleep, that night, is a stubbornly elusive thing. You toss and turn, unable to close your eyes for more than a few minutes. Each time your mind refuses to quiet, you assign a new reason for your restlessness—the bed is too firm, the covers are unnaturally warm, the pillow is too lumpy. But you know, deep down, that the true culprit lies just down the hallway.

Iwaizumi Hajime.

The thought of him—his silent steadiness, the way his mouth twitches up slightly when he finds something amusing, the fact that you’re in the same house as him—makes your pulse flutter in ways that you’re sure aren’t good for your heart.

You sigh, staring up at the ceiling. The faint creak of a floorboard breaks the stillness, and your heart jumps before logic catches up. It’s an old house; it makes noises. Then, there’s another creak, a softer one, like when someone is careful and doesn’t want to disturb anyone else.

Curiosity—and the undeniable urge to see him—wins over your hesitation. You slide out of bed, the floor cool against your bare feet, and pad to the door. When you open it, you nearly collide with Hajime in the dimly-lit hallway.

“Oh,” you whisper, startled. “What are you doing here?”

Hajime shifts his weight to his better foot, leaning against his crutch. He’s dressed in a loose t-shirt and sweats, hair slightly mussed. “Couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs. “You?”

“Same,” you admit, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Your room’s closer,” he says.

You step aside, holding the door open for him. “Come in.”

Once inside, he maneuvers carefully to the bed, his movements slow to avoid jostling his injured foot. He sits down on the edge of the mattress with a soft groan, stretching his leg out.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask, hovering awkwardly near the desk chair.

“I’m fine,” he replies, leaning back on his palms. “Don’t hover.”

“I’m not hovering,” you mutter, sinking into the chair opposite him.

The quiet stretches, each second feeling longer than the last. You wonder if this is how it’s going to be for a long time—awkward, but unavoidable, because not being by each other’s sides isn’t an option. You fiddle with the hem of your sweatshirt, glancing at him and then quickly looking away when his eyes meet yours.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Your fingers still. “Talk about what?”

Hajime tilts his head. “Whatever’s keeping you awake.”

You chew on your lip. Maybe it’s because it’s so silent that nothing seems intimidating anymore, or maybe it’s everything you’ve pushed down so far finally reaching a tipping point, or—and perhaps the most likely reason—maybe you’re just incredibly, terribly, immensely stupid, but the words spill out faster than your mind reacts.

“I heard you,” you blurt out.

He straightens a little. “Heard me?”

“The other day,” you clarify, voice wavering. “In the alley by the dumpster. With Mattsun.”

The shift in his demeanour is subtle, but you notice it—his shoulders tense, his fingers curl around the covers on the mattress. “Oh.”

You take a deep breath and force yourself to continue. “You told him you remembered. That night. The… you know.”

Hajime doesn’t immediately respond, his gaze fixed somewhere near the desk lamp.

“I’m not mad,” you add quickly, feeling the need to fill the silence. “I was a little confused, but—but I get why you lied. I just—” You hesitate, wringing your hands. “I feel stupid. You remember everything, and I… don’t.”

His eyes snap to yours. “You’re not stupid. We were drunk. It’s only natural that you don’t remember.”

“I don’t even know what I said to you,” you say, barking out a short, bitter laugh. “Or what I did. I’ve been over analyzing it for days, and you’ve just… known.”

“Because it was important,” he says, voice low.

Your heart stutters. “Important?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

The air feels too thick, like the walls of the room are closing in on you. You swallow hard and muster up a weak smile. “You didn’t think to, um, bring it up?”

“I thought about it,” he admits. “A lot. But I didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t want to mess things up.”

“Hajime,” you say, “we’ve already messed things up.”

“Fair point.” He gives you a small, rueful smile.

You let loose a soft exhale. It feels like a weight off your chest, somehow, as though partially revealing the truth eased some of the static in your head. Hajime shifts on the bed, adjusting his position with a wince. Without thinking, you stand and move closer, grabbing a pillow to place under his leg.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Making sure you don’t injure yourself even more,” you say, propping his foot up gently.

“Thanks, doctor.” He’s teasing you, and you know it, but his voice is soft when he says it. Your heart, that traitorous organ, speeds up a little.

You straighten up, but something about the way he looks at you pins you in place. His eyes roam over your face, searching, and it makes your skin feel too warm.

“You don’t have to feel embarrassed,” he says after a moment, “about not remembering.”

“...I can’t help it,” you admit, barely more than a whisper.

He leans forward slightly; his hand brushes against yours. “Then let me help you.”

“What are you—”

Before you can finish, he reaches up and removes his glasses, setting them on the nightstand. His movements are deliberate, his eyes fixed on you. When he says your name, it sounds like a plea, and then, “C’mere.”

You sit down next to him. Your heart pounds so loudly, you’re sure he can hear you. “Hajime,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“Do you want to remember?” he asks.

Your throat feels dry; your hands clench into fists at your sides.”I—”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, leaning in slowly, his gaze dropping to your lips. You don’t move away. You can’t, so you nod instead. When his mouth meets yours, it’s anything but tentative.

Hajime’s lips mold against yours insistently, sending sparks shooting through your veins. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you instinctively reach up, threading your fingers through his hair.

You gasp when he deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours unhurriedly, in a way that makes your knees weak even though you’re already sitting. He tilts his head, exploring your mouth with a thoroughness that leaves no room for hesitation. His hand slides up to cup your jaw; his thumb brushes against your cheek. The combination of his touch and his kiss is overwhelming. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire.

When you pull back for air, he doesn’t let you go far. His breathing is ragged, his fingers still gripping your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks hoarsely.

You hesitate. “I— Your foot is still injured.”

“So?” Hajime counters, lips twitching. “That doesn’t mean I have erectile dysfunction.”

“Hajime,” you groan, half-laughing, half-mortified as you push at his shoulder.

He chuckles, warm and low. “Okay. No sex. But kiss me again.”

So, in the darkness of the night, in the quietness of his childhood home, you do.

There was a time when you thought Iwaizumi Hajime was going to ask you out.

It never happened, of course—you wouldn’t be in this pitiful state if he had, wouldn’t be rotting in bed in layers of your own misery and heartache. 

You remember the way he’d looked at you that night. His gaze lingered just a second too long, his expression soft in such a way that made your heart flutter and your stomach twist into thousands of tight knots. You’d caught yourself staring at his lips, wondering what they’d feel like against yours, and immediately looked away, cheeks burning. He’d seemed nervous, too—words stumbling over each other like he was rushing to get them out. For one foolish, fleeting moment, you’d thought that he was going to say it.

When he told you about his girlfriend, you’d plastered on a smile and congratulated him. Still, something in your chest had sunk that day. What had you expected, really? For him to sweep you into his arms and confess that you were the one? He had always been kind, but kindness does not equate love.

Except it does, because Iwaizumi Hajime had told Matsukawa Issei that he likes you. It’s impossible—it has to be, because he had been devastated when he broke up with his girlfriend. But you remember the accidental one-night stand, and the night spent in Miyagi, and the fact that he climbed up a tree to save a measly kitten just because you asked, and you know you’re lying to yourself.

And you? When he broke up with his girlfriend, you felt… relief. His sadness wasn’t something that you wanted to enjoy. No, you hated that he was hurting. But the other part of you, the part of you that had waited for this moment without ever acknowledging it, was thrilled.

The truth always finds a way to slip out. You’ve always been bad at hiding it, but the truth is this: you’ve loved Iwaizumi Hajime for as long as you’ve known him.

The consequences of an accidental one-night stand go something like this: 

It starts with Matsukawa Issei. Of course it does.

When Mattsun gets drunk—really drunk—he becomes the type of mess no one really knows how to handle. He laughs too loud, stumbles too much, and becomes emotional over the smallest of things. The only difference tonight is that he has, apparently, outdone himself. He had, in his drunken state, managed to get himself stuck in the worst part of town with a phone number he couldn’t remember dialling, and no one had the heart to tell him he probably should just stay the night.

Somehow, Sana managed to rope you and Hajime into picking him up, much to Hanamaki’s glee. 

And somehow, equally confusingly, you are on Iwaizumi Hajime’s lap in his car, his foot fully healed now. The seat belt buckle digs painfully into your thigh, but it’s forgotten quickly—simply due to the fact that Hajime’s lips are on yours.

His hands are gentle as they rest on your back, holding you closer, almost like he can’t believe this is real. The softness of his lips, the careful yet urgent way he kisses you—it’s enough to make you forget the world outside of his car, enough to make you forget about your late-night rescue mission.

It’s dizzying, intoxicating, and when he pulls back for a brief moment to catch his breath, you barely let him before you’re leaning in again, eager for more. Your hands move on their own, finding his shirt’s collar and gripping it as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

You forget that you’re both in a car, in the middle of the night, on some random dark street far from home. You forget that there’s so much you’ve buried underneath layers of friendship and years of yearning. 

It all blurs out, except for the one question nagging you ever since Makki posed it to you back in the coffee shop.

“Hajime,” you murmur against his lips, and his kisses slow, just enough to listen. “Why did you break up with your girlfriend in freshman year?”

He pulls back, brows furrowed slightly. “Because of you,” he says simply, as though it was obvious all along. 

Your breath hitches. The words settle into your chest, fluttering like wings, wrapping around your heart. Because of you.

“I don’t— I don’t understand,” you whisper. “Why?”

Hajime doesn’t answer immediately. His hands move to your face, fingers brushing away stray strands of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle. His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. He leans forward, just enough to close the distance between you both, and kisses you again.

It’s different this time. The kiss isn’t frantic or urgent. It’s slow. His lips move tenderly against yours, hands slipping down to the small of your back, pressing you against him. When he pulls back this time, it’s only by a fraction.

“You’ve always been there, you know?” he murmurs. “It was hard, trying to get over you. I didn’t want something to happen and for our friendship to end ‘cause of something stupid.”

It turns out you and your best friend are a pair of idiots, juggling the same worries about toeing the carefully-drawn line between friendship and the forbidden zone beyond it.

All at once, the confession you didn’t even realise you were dying to make slips past your lips. “I’ve liked you from the start,” you say, a little breathless, and before you can stop yourself, you’re laughing lightly. “I never thought I’d—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head while your hands find their way back to his shirt, tugging him close.

His lips return to yours, his kiss deeper this time, more insistent. There is no hesitation this time. The kiss spirals between soft and demanding, his teeth nipping your lower lip and your tongue sliding against his. His hands are everywhere, pressing you to him as if trying to make up for lost time, and you let him, falling into the moment with a fervour you didn’t know you possessed.

You pull back only when your lungs burn for air, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. Hajime’s hands settle on your hips, warm and gentle.

“I think,” he says, gruffly, “Mattsun’s probably passed out by now.”

“Priorities,” you tut, but a laugh bubbles out of your throat anyway.

The consequences of an accidental one-night stand also include dealing with an irate Matsukawa Issei the next morning, when he barges into your apartment without warning. You and Hajime, with identical bedheads and noticeable embarrassment, stand in a corner together while he paces your living room.

“You’re telling me,” he says, turning around so violently, he nearly trips over his own heel, “that you forgot to pick me up because you were too busy sucking face in Iwaizumi’s car?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” you say, at the same time Hajime says, “How crass of you, Mattsun.”

Your friend splutters, flabbergasted. “Wow. Maybe I should quit college and start a matrimony service instead.”

[aleksatia]

❄️Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Zayne.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

All parts are written. Unreleased ones are in edits — dropping any day now.

🎨 Rafayel | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Emotional neglect / emotional suppression, Communication breakdown in relationships, References to emotional dissociation, Raised voices / emotionally intense confrontation, Crying / emotional vulnerability, Mention of jealousy & insecurity, Gaslighting-adjacent dynamics (arguably), Implied sexual tension / physical intimacy (consensual, emotional).

Pairing: Zayne x ex-wife!you Genre: Slow-burn, emotional dissection, second chances soaked in silence. Heavy on longing, surgical precision on heartbreak. Lovers to strangers to… Summary: Zayne doesn't do chaos. He does control, routine, distance. But when fate traps you both in a curated room labeled “One Hour of Honest Connection,” the silence breaks first. What follows is memory, ache, and the terrifying weight of things never said. Word Count: 3.3K

The room was small. Too small for this.

Soft jazz filtered through hidden speakers. There were two cups of something herbal already on the table, a plate of small, intentionally complicated desserts arranged like the nervous offering of a Parisian intern. The walls were a muted sage green, the lighting gentle. It would’ve been cozy, if it weren’t for the glaring fact that Zayne was sitting across from you.

You blinked once. Then again.

"No," you said flatly.

Zayne, ever efficient, didn’t even look up from the glass of water he was examining.

"Statistically," he said, voice calm, "there was a 0.2% chance of this exact pairing."

You stared at him. "So what I’m hearing is: we’re still just that unlucky."

He looked up then. God, those eyes. Calculated glacier. "Technically, yes."

The silence that followed was not companionable.

You hadn’t seen him in eleven months. Not since the divorce. Not since you stood in that shared apartment and told him — voice shaking, fingers cold — that you couldn’t keep guessing if you were real to him.

He hadn’t fought you.

He’d just stood there, like someone who'd miscalculated a formula and refused to recheck it.

You waited for something — anything. He stayed silent.

He stayed silent even when you sent the divorce papers. Even when it was over in a small judge’s office, quiet and procedural. He brought flowers — jasmine — and you still don’t know if they were a symbol of freedom or a plea.

 He never explained.

Just spoke in clipped, efficient phrases, like he’d already erased you from his life.

And now — now you were locked in a curated hell that probably had its own photo filter. A little brass plaque on the inside of the door read: One Hour of Honest Connection.

You almost laughed. Almost.

Zayne adjusted his cuffs. You noticed — god help you — that he still wore the watch you gave him. The one with the engraving inside: Every time your pulse stutters, it’s me.

Of course he still wore it. The man remembered to reorder that book you never finished—left it on your doorstep in silent punctuation.

"This wasn’t deliberate," you said finally.

"Agreed."

You folded your arms. "So. Let’s make this painless. We wait the hour, we don’t talk about feelings, and we pretend your emotional negligence wasn’t the reason we’re now two sad statistics sipping herbal disappointment."

Zayne raised an eyebrow. "Technically, the tea is chamomile, which is known for its calming properties. And you’re the one who said ‘emotional negligence.’"

"God, you’re still exhausting."

He didn’t flinch. Of course not. That would imply a physiological reaction. "So I’ve been told."

You stared at him for a beat. The weight of old familiarity draped the room like a too-heavy coat. He hadn’t changed. Not in the obvious ways. Still buttoned-down, still precise, still that undercurrent of something almost tender that never made it to the surface.

"Why are you even here?" you asked suddenly. "Blind dates don’t strike me as your thing. Too much room for inefficiency."

He tilted his head. “The nursing staff submitted my name. Some kind of team-building initiative.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. They were hoping to end up across the table themselves?”

Zayne didn’t blink. “Several of them expressed interest.”

You snorted, sharper than you meant to. “Charming.”

He nodded, like you were discussing post-op recovery times. “I considered opting out. But I didn’t.”

That surprised you. Enough to glance at him fully, meet his eyes, where something flickered — not regret, exactly. But its distant cousin. The one who shows up late to funerals.

“Why not?”

He took a sip of tea. “I wanted to see what I’d do.”

You hated how that hit. How much you wanted to ask: How many phone numbers did you collect before you landed here?

But you didn’t.

The desserts between you remained untouched. Tiny works of art. Sugar sculptures that mocked you with their curated whimsy.

"You look good," he said abruptly.

You blinked. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Say things that sound human. It throws me off."

He smiled, the faint curve of it almost imperceptible. “Noted.”

Your eyes caught on his mouth — just for a second. A breath too long. You looked away before he could notice.

There was another pause, but it hung differently now — heavier, colored with things you hadn’t said when you should have, and things he never said at all.

"Did you ever—" you started, then stopped.

Zayne watched you. Waiting. He was always good at that. Waiting until your own words betrayed you.

"Forget it," you muttered.

"No," he said quietly. "Say it."

You hated him a little for that. For still knowing when to press.

"Did you ever think," you asked, voice low, "that maybe love isn’t a hypothesis you prove with consistency? That maybe I just needed you to be… messy? With me?"

Zayne didn’t answer right away. And for once, you let the silence stay. Let it stretch and breathe.

When he finally spoke, it was almost a whisper. "Yes. I thought it too late."

You closed your eyes.

Jazz played on. Somewhere outside, people were falling in love the loud way — the all-in kind. Dramatic. Full of color.

Here, in this perfect little room, you and Zayne sat across from one another like ruins politely dressed for tea.

The hour hadn’t even started ticking down.

He was watching you now. Not intensely — not obviously. But directly. The kind of look that felt like it was being filed away for later analysis.

You met it. 

Zayne looked away first. Not because it hurt — but because there’s only so long you can hold tension before it cuts.

He looked down at the desserts. Picked up a fork. Cut into something with a caramel shard on top and didn’t eat it.

You watched him with a frustration so familiar it almost felt nostalgic.

“You always do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Control the atmosphere. One calculated silence and the room bends around you.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Then: “I thought that was preferable to chaos.”

You scoffed. “Of course you did.”

The clock on the wall, tastefully small, ticked once. You imagined someone — a curator of curated intimacy — had set it to be just barely audible.

Zayne glanced toward it.

“Forty-three minutes,” he murmured.

You laughed — dry. “You going to count them all?”

His eyes flicked back to you. “Only the inefficient ones.”

That shut you up.

You stared at your tea. Cold now. Obviously.

He watched you again. Observed you, like you were an interface needing diagnostics.

You looked away — deliberately, before his gaze could finish its quiet dissection. But your eyes caught the slight fold in his cuff, the slow press of thumb to palm as he adjusted the line of his wrist.

Surgical. Precise. Familiar.

A phantom shiver traced down your spine.

You remembered that hand on the small of your back in the hospital hallway once, the only contact he allowed himself after a seventeen-hour surgery. He never let his voice break protocol. But that one touch — the pressure, the warmth, the steadiness — had left you trembling.

You cleared your throat.

“Do you regret it?” you asked.

“This date?” he said, because of course he would miss the point.

You glared. “The way you loved me.”

Zayne’s expression didn’t shift. But you saw the pause in his breath. A calibration flicker.

“I loved you thoroughly,” he said. And the word thoroughly struck like a steel scalpel. Accurate. Clinical. Missing the pulse entirely.

You stood. “You loved me like I was a pet project. Like a very intelligent houseplant. Watered. Supported. Monitored.”

“I kept you safe.”

“I didn’t want to be safe!”

It came out sharper than you meant, and echoed too loudly in the boutique silence of the room. You saw the smallest movement — the tightening in his jaw, the shift of his heel, like a man correcting for turbulence.

He stood slowly. Adjusted a cuff. Again.

Still useless. Still beautiful.

“You think I was cold. Detached.”

You laughed once. Bitter. “You treated me like a system. Like something that shouldn’t break. Not someone who might cry. Or scream. Or—” your voice wavered, “—or leave.”

He stepped forward, eyes flickering over you.

“You did leave.”

“And you let me.”

“I didn’t stop you.”

“You didn’t even ask why.”

Your voice shook now — not from weakness, but from the fury of being unseen.

“You just stood there like it was a cancelled meeting, not a fucking life falling apart.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“What was I supposed to do?” he asked eventually, quietly.

“Fight,” you snapped. “God, anything. Say my name. Say stay. Say something other than 'okay.'”

The clock ticked again.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

“You once said I made you invisible,” he murmured, like he wasn’t even speaking to you, but to the ghost of that moment.

Your breath caught — and snapped.

“Because you did,” you said, sharper than you meant. “You watched me like a case study. Like I was data.”

Your voice broke.

“You weren’t seeing me, Zayne. You were cataloguing me.”

He flinched. A fraction. Barely there — but you caught it. And hated that it still made you ache.

His hands clenched slightly. Just barely.

“If I’d touched more, you would’ve called it possessive. If I’d spoken more, you would’ve said it was performative. I calibrated.”

“You calibrated me,” you said. “Like I was a machine you didn’t want overheating.”

He said nothing.

You stepped closer. Too close.

“You loved me like a robot,” you whispered. “And I wasn’t built for that.”

Silence. Then, very softly:

“I didn’t know how to love any other way.”

His voice dropped like a stone in water. And you swore — for a second — the lights flickered.

Zayne took another step. A fraction. Enough.

“You think I didn’t feel?” he asked, voice low. “You were the variable I couldn’t isolate. The part of the equation that never balanced. You made everything uncertain.”

And there it was again — that glint in his voice. That barely-there tremble. A fault line under a glass surface.

Your eyes flicked to his collar. The soft pull of fabric around his throat. The line of his jaw, the neat cut of his hair. The way one lock always fell forward when he was tired or tense.

It was falling now.

“You used to look at me like I was a test you were trying to pass,” you murmured.

“I was trying not to fail,” he said.

You hated how your pulse jumped.

He lifted a hand. Just slightly. Just enough to suggest contact. His fingers hovered — millimeters away from your skin — but didn’t touch.

A beat.

His voice came quieter this time — lower, rougher at the edges, like the words didn’t want to come out but had nowhere else to go.

“Another wrong calculation.”

Not bitter. Not even angry. Just… tired. And devastatingly honest.

And something in you — snapped.

Not because he said it. But because he meant it. Because he stood there, wanting you, needing you, practically reaching — and still treated it like an equation gone wrong.

You felt your breath hitch. Your fists clench.

Because you saw it in his eyes — the ache, the hesitation. The damn pulse in his throat that jumped when your gaze dropped to his lips.

He wanted this.

You.

But he wouldn’t let himself have it.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

“You didn’t,” you said, sharp. “You don’t. You want me close enough to feel it but never close enough to believe it.”

He looked at you — not coldly. Worse. Calmly. As if this pain had already been processed and shelved.

And that was it.

“You never said it,” you shouted. “Not once! You never said you loved me!”

That stopped him. Not like a slap. Like a flatline.

For the first time in the whole goddamn hour, his expression broke.

He blinked — slow, stunned — as if you’d just said something so grotesque he couldn’t compute it.

“You think I didn’t?” he asked, voice low.

Not soft. Not calm. Low — like thunder before it hits.

He stepped closer, but not rushed. Controlled. Always controlled.

“You think because I didn’t say the exact phrase you wanted, I didn’t feel it?”

His jaw was tight now. Breath shallow.

“You think all of that—” his hand flicked between you, the table, everything, “—meant nothing because it wasn’t loud enough for you?”

And then — his voice rose.

Not yelling. Lifting. Cracking through him, like pressure that finally split the seal.

“I LOVE YOU!”

It echoed. Echoed in that perfect little room like an alarm someone forgot to disable.

“I love you,” he repeated, lower this time. “I love you like a man who doesn’t know how to breathe around you, but will die trying to stay still just to keep you from leaving again.”

Your chest rose and fell like panic. Like longing. Like something ancient reawakened.

“Then why,” you spat, “why would you agree to a date with some other woman?!”

He stilled.

Then — movement. Swift. Sharp. Controlled chaos.

He closed the remaining distance in three steps.

His hand caught your chin — firm but not rough — guiding your face up until his eyes locked with yours, precise, invasive, burning.

“Are you jealous, princess?”

His voice was velvet and wire — both caress and warning.

And it hit you.

Not just the word. Not just the sound of it. But everything that came before it.

The I love you. The I stayed still so you wouldn’t run. The eyes. The ache. The damn way he looked at you like he still knew every nerve ending and wanted to press all of them at once.

And suddenly you weren’t standing. Not really. Your knees tried. But the rest of you was already melting.

Heat flashed through your spine like a pulled thread. Your breath caught — and stayed. Every part of your body was too much and not enough at once.

You hated him for that. And you hated that you wanted more.

Your pulse roared in your ears. There was a throb where there should have been reason.

And still — somehow — your mouth moved:

“Jealousy’s not the word. Try ‘haunted.’”

A breath passed. And he smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

“You left,” he said, voice low and clear. “Don’t forget that.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t let you speak.

“Because I wasn’t enough,” he added. “Because I didn’t perform grief the right way. Or love. Or need.”

He stepped back half a pace, and the space between you hurt like an incision.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” His voice stayed calm, but you heard the crack forming in its base. “You think because I didn’t break dishes or sob in the shower that it didn’t gut me?”

He looked straight at you now. No veil. No control.

“You have no idea what it’s like to live in a body that won’t let the feelings out,” he said. “To drown in it. Quietly. Until you forget where the surface is.”

You stood frozen. Not because you didn’t want to move. But because guilt was a weight, and it was finally settling on your shoulders.

“I’m not built for displays,” he continued. “But that never meant I didn’t love you. I just showed it differently.”

He exhaled. Soft. Controlled.

“I don’t scream ‘I love you.’ I leave umbrellas in your bag on rainy days. I keep your favorite candy in your glove compartment. I flip your pillow to the cool side when you fall asleep. I listen when you hum a song twice and add it to your playlist without a word.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t dramatic. I was constant.”

His voice faltered just slightly now.

“And if that wasn’t enough for you — if you needed fireworks — I’m sorry. But I can’t become someone else to prove what’s already true.”

He took one more step back.

“Because if one day you look at me and see a man pretending to be something you want — someone louder, brighter, messier — you’ll stop respecting me. And I swear to God, that’s the one thing I wouldn’t survive.”

Your breath caught.

Your hand moved without permission, reaching for his. Taking it. Holding it with both of yours.

You lifted it gently, pressed your lips to the inside of his fingers — those surgeon’s hands. Steady. Deadly. Gentle.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered. “I didn’t see. I was so busy spiraling through my own mess, I thought… I thought your silence meant absence.”

Tears welled up.

“I didn’t leave to punish you. I just— I lost my wings somewhere along the way. In the quiet. In the waiting. I was jealous of your work. Of your focus. Of how the world looked at you with admiration and looked at me like… like a placeholder.”

Your voice cracked.

“Every dinner alone. Every party I walked into like I was still half-married to a man who’d rather be in an OR. I thought you didn’t love me.”

Zayne’s jaw tightened. His eyes — bright, focused, unreadable — didn’t move from yours.

And then, softly:

“You’re right. I didn’t love you the way you needed me to. I never knew how to make you feel chosen.”

He paused. Just long enough for the words to break skin.

“But you were. Every day. Every time.”

Another breath. Shallower this time.

“And if I had to do it again — knowing you’d leave—”

His voice barely made it past his throat.

“I’d still choose you.”

A beat.

“Because you are the point.”

And before you could react — he moved.

He pulled you close, lifted you effortlessly onto the edge of the table. The desserts clinked, wobbling on their plates. His hands cupped your face — thumbs firm against your jaw, fingers threading through your hair.

And then — he kissed you.

Not cautiously. Not politely.

He kissed you like a man who had written restraint into every breath for too long, and finally, finally, had been told he could break character.

His mouth crushed yours with a precision that stole air and reason. One hand on your hip, anchoring you. The other behind your neck, fingers fanned through your hair, tilting your head exactly how he needed.

You gasped into him, and he didn’t pause — just deepened the kiss, molding his lips to yours like he was tracing every remembered contour.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, but didn’t move far. His forehead touched yours. His breath was warm. Steady.

God, he always kissed like he was solving you. And part of you — shamefully — wanted to stay unsolved.

You opened your eyes, just barely, and met his. Focused. Hungry. Lit with a kind of reverence that made your stomach flip.

That’s when you moved.

You reached down blindly — fingers finding the soft swirl of whipped cream on one of the desserts. You dipped into it, then slowly dragged your finger along the edge of his jaw.

He didn’t flinch.

Your finger slid over his bottom lip, and when he parted them, you leaned in, tongue flicking the taste away, then trailing up his cheekbone. Slow. Almost cruel.

Zayne exhaled harshly — the closest he came to a groan — and gripped the table edge behind you like he needed grounding.

Your bodies pressed tighter.

He kissed your collarbone, your neck, his breath hot. Fingers sliding under the hem of your skirt, just barely.

Another kiss. And another.

You felt like the room spun sideways. Like you were going to—

Ding.

A soft chime.The door clicked.

Time’s up.

He stilled. You did too.

No one spoke. Breathing was enough.

Zayne lifted a hand and dragged his knuckles along your cheek. Tender. Achingly so.

He pressed his lips to your forehead.

And then — just like that — he stepped back.

You blinked, dazed. Dizzy. Waiting for him to say something.

But he didn’t. He turned, walked to the door, opened it — and left.

Just like that.

You slid off the table slowly, knees hitting the floor before your mind registered the impact.

What the hell. What the actual—

Your phone buzzed.

A message. From him.

“Emergency consult. Patient flatlined. Possibly me. Will advise.” 

[shaiyasstuff]

side effects may include: marriage, blushing, and one shirtless husband. | zayne

synopsis : You never planned on getting married straight out of college—especially not to a broody, absurdly attractive cardiac surgeon with the emotional range of a paperweight. But one wine-infused chocolate, a half-unbuttoned shirt, and an accidental kiss later, you’re rethinking everything.

content : arranged marriage!au, pure fluff, comedy, writer on crack

writer’s note : yay! the arranged marriage au’s have come full circle.

The letter in your hand crumples with the weight of betrayal as you wave it in front of your mother’s face like a white flag soaked in passive-aggression. “What is this?”

She barely glances up from her tea. “Your marriage agreement,” she says, taking a sip as if she hadn’t just casually handed your freedom over like a lunchbox.

“Why didn’t I know about this?!” you exclaim, arms flailing like you’re directing traffic in a thunderstorm.

“Because you wouldn’t have agreed,” she replies smoothly, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

Which, apparently, to her, it is.

“Mom, I literally just graduated,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face.

She raises a perfectly plucked brow. “I married your father before I even finished.”

You let out another groan, louder this time, before collapsing face-first onto the designer couch like a Victorian heroine with a Wi-Fi addiction.

It probably doesn’t help that your family owns one of the biggest tech companies in the country.

Wealthy, yes.

Emotionally prepared for an arranged marriage? Absolutely not.

“I don’t even know the guy!” you practically shout, sounding one emotional notch away from launching yourself into a soap opera.

“I do,” your mother says, flipping open her book like this conversation is just background noise. “He’s a very charming young man.”

You grab the nearest pillow and dramatically smother yourself with it. “I’m not doing it,” you declare, voice muffled and full of angst.

“It’s already been decided.”

You fling the pillow aside like it personally betrayed you. “No!”

Somewhere in the distance, a rich person’s violinist probably sighed in sympathy.

“You can’t make me do this!” you cry, pointing an accusatory finger at her like you’re about to cast a spell of teenage rebellion.

“You will move into the new house in a week. Pack your things,” she replies, turning the page of her book without even looking at you, as if she’s ordering takeout instead of destroying your life.

You gape at her. “I’m not going to prison, Mom. I’m just trying to live my mediocre post-grad life in peace!”

She sips her tea. “And now you’ll do it as a married woman. Congratulations.”

You consider packing alright—packing your bags and running to a country where arranged marriages are considered ancient history.

Except, here you were—one week, three tantrums, and a very dramatic attempt to fake your own death later—standing in front of your husband.

Tall. Towering. Probably sculpted by ancient gods who had nothing better to do.

In your new marital home.

You blink up at him, still hoping this was an elaborate prank and Ashton Kutcher was going to leap out from behind a curtain with a camera crew.

No such luck.

Your new husband just stood there, looking like he stepped out of a magazine and into your worst-case scenario.

“I’m Zayne,” he says calmly, like you’re meeting at a networking event and not at the start of your forced domestic partnership.

You stare. Tall, brooding, buttoned-up like he’s allergic to joy.

Of course his name is Zayne—the kind of name that comes with a tragic backstory and an impressive skincare routine.

A shudder runs through you.

You’re married to that?

Somewhere in the background, the universe probably gave you a thumbs-up and whispered, “Good luck, sweetheart.”

You gulp, trying to summon the dignity your pajama-clad soul clearly lacks. “I’m Y/N.”

He nods. Nods. No handshake, no smile, no “Nice to meet you, fellow victim of our parents’ power trip.”

And then—he just turns and walks away.

Walks. Away.

You’re left standing there, blinking like a Wi-Fi signal trying to reconnect.

Married. To a man who treats introductions like optional software updates.

—•

“This is what Mom called charming?” you grumble, side-eyeing the empty hallway like it personally offended you.

You replay the interaction in your head—“I’m Zayne”—and resist the urge to punch a pillow just to feel something.

Naturally, you do what any responsible adult in a forced marriage would do.

You begin a full-scale reconnaissance mission.

Operation? Figure Out Who the Heck I Married.

You start with the basics—tracking his schedule, observing his comings and goings like an underpaid spy in a bad rom-com.

The man has the consistency of a German train schedule, the emotional availability of a stone wall, and the mystery level of a locked diary in a teenager’s room.

You have no idea what he does for work. He leaves in crisp suits and comes home even more pressed. He talks to no one. He reads thick books with no covers. You’ve yet to catch him watching a single cat video.

So, naturally, you conclude he must be a rich heir. Or a prince. Or some exiled monarch trying to lay low until his kingdom is restored.

It helps that he’s unfairly attractive—black hair that falls just right, piercing eyes that could probably see through walls, and a jawline that could cut glass.

Yep. Definitely a prince.

A very emotionally constipated, tragically handsome prince.

“I know you’re there,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered—of course he does, because apparently your espionage skills rank somewhere between amateur squirrel and nosy neighbor.

He doesn’t even look up from his book at first. Just turns a page calmly, as if catching his new wife spying on him is an everyday occurrence.

Then, slowly, he tilts his head and meets your eyes.

Oh no.

That look is lethal—cool, unreadable, and annoyingly attractive. He sets the book down with a soft thud and takes off his glasses like he’s about to lecture you, interrogate you, or casually ruin your life with a single sentence.

“Come in,” he says, and somehow it sounds less like an invitation and more like a challenge.

You briefly consider fleeing the country.

But your legs move anyway.

You let out an awkward laugh, the kind that sounds more like a hiccup caught mid-lie. “I was just… trying to see what you do.”

Zayne arches a brow, amused. “And lurking behind walls was the most effective method?”

You shrug, stepping inside, the door clicking softly shut behind you. “I considered asking. But you don’t exactly give off ‘share your feelings over coffee’ vibes.”

He leans back slightly in his chair, arms folding as he studies you—like you’re a puzzle he didn’t ask for but now can’t resist solving. “And what have you learned from your mission?”

“That you read a lot of intimidating books and might secretly be a prince,” you mutter, eyeing the hardcover he’d set down. “Or an assassin with excellent taste in eyewear.”

That earns you the ghost of a smile. Barely there—but it softens something in his expression.

“You’re not entirely wrong,” he says, and somehow, that doesn’t help.

You step closer, cautiously. “So… what do you do?”

Zayne tilts his head slightly. “Why? Interested now?”

“Trying to decide if I should be impressed… or mildly concerned for my safety.”

He chuckles under his breath—quiet and low, like he’s not used to laughing, but might want to try. “Maybe both.”

And for a moment, just a flicker, the air between you shifts. Less awkward, more curious. Like two strangers on the edge of something not quite comfortable, but not cold either.

“Well,” you say, fiddling with a stray thread on your sleeve, “I figured if I’m going to be married to a mystery man, I should at least get to know the mystery.”

Zayne watches you for a beat longer, then gestures to the seat across from him.

“Then stay,” he says. “Ask your questions properly this time.”

And you do.

You sit down across from him, suddenly hyper-aware of how your knees almost brush beneath the table.

His gaze is steady—too steady—and you gulp like you’ve just asked for his hand in courtship instead of mild information.

“So… what do you do?” you ask, trying to sound casual. It comes out more like a nervous frog asking a favor.

Zayne doesn’t answer right away. He leans back slightly, arms still folded, one brow lifting like he’s debating how much to reveal—or maybe just how much fun he’ll have watching you squirm.

“I’m a cardiac surgeon,” he finally says, voice low and even.

You blink.

“I—what?”

“I operate on hearts,” he says, like he’s talking about changing a lightbulb.

You stare at him. This whole time you thought he was brooding over world domination or writing dark poetry about rain. Heart surgeon was not on your bingo card.

“Wait, seriously? Like… actual hearts? With… scalpels?”

He tilts his head, clearly amused. “Is there another kind?”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wow. I was prepared for ‘billionaire with a tragic past,’ not Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I assure you, there’s still a tragic past,” he deadpans, and for a second you’re not sure if he’s joking.

He doesn’t elaborate—but something in his eyes flickers. Quiet. Guarded.

You lean back, blinking slowly. “Okay… that’s kind of hot.”

That gets him. His lips twitch, just a little. “Are you flirting with your husband?”

You pretend to examine the ceiling. “I’m just saying, it makes the whole mysterious-silent-guy thing slightly more tolerable.”

He lets out a soft laugh—barely audible, but it’s real.

And suddenly, sitting across from him doesn’t feel so heavy.

He stands up suddenly, the chair sliding back with a soft scrape against the floor. You jolt slightly, halfway through processing his laugh, and blink up at him.

His expression has shifted—still calm, but there’s something else now. A hint of gravity in the way he looks at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, catching you off guard. “For the suddenness of all this.”

You sit up straighter, unsure what to say. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged the whole arranged-marriage-against-your-will situation out loud.

Before you can respond, he steps closer, extending a hand—not forceful, just open. “Let me show you why.”

Your heart skips. “Why what?”

“Why our parents thought this could work,” he says, and for the first time, there’s no teasing in his tone—just sincerity. Gentle, but certain.

You stare at his hand. His fingers are long, precise. A surgeon’s hands. Hands that fix hearts.

And here he was, offering them to you.

So, slowly, hesitantly, you place your hand in his.

And just like that, something shifts again. Less awkward. A little warmer. A little more real.

He guides you out to his car—a sleek, polished thing that looks like it probably knows more about taxes than you do. He opens the passenger door for you, which is either chivalrous or unsettling, you’re not sure yet.

You slide in, still trying to wrap your head around this whole situation, when he leans in unexpectedly close—and reaches across you.

Your breath catches.

Then—click—he fastens your seatbelt.

You blink at him, flustered. Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. It was clinical. Efficient. Like buckling you in was a task on his daily checklist.

Still, your brain short-circuits a little.

“Thanks,” you mumble, confused by how something so unromantic could still make your stomach flutter.

He simply shuts the door and rounds the front of the car, settling into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a hundred times.

You glance over. “So… where are we going?”

He shifts the gear with practiced ease, eyes on the road. “To see my parents.”

You freeze. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“As in—meeting the in-laws now?”

Zayne glances at you, completely calm. “You’re my wife. It’s only natural.”

You groan quietly into your palms. “This day just keeps getting better and better.”

At your dramatic groan, Zayne gives the faintest hint of a smile—so subtle you almost miss it. Just the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like your misery is a quiet source of amusement to him.

You narrow your eyes. “Was that a smile?”

“I don’t recall,” he says, cool as ever.

You huff and turn your gaze out the window, resigned to what you assume will be an awkward, overly formal afternoon in a mansion filled with judgmental in-laws and porcelain teacups.

But twenty minutes later, when the car slows to a stop, your sarcasm dies in your throat.

Because this isn’t a mansion.

It’s a cemetery.

Your eyes flick to him, your voice suddenly small. “Zayne…?”

He cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, his expression unreadable again.

“You said you wanted to know why,” he says, gently. “So I’m showing you.”

And just like that, your earlier words—your groaning, your dramatics, your little internal jokes—feel like they belong to someone else entirely.

Zayne steps out of the car without another word, and you follow, suddenly quiet, your footsteps softer on the gravel. The wind tugs at your sleeves as he leads you up a small hill, the world around you hushed, respectful.

The trees part at the crest, revealing an open clearing.

Two gravestones stand side by side, worn but well-kept, the grass around them neatly trimmed. Fresh flowers rest at their bases—white lilies, carefully arranged.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Zayne slows as he approaches, his hands in his coat pockets. He doesn’t say anything right away, just looks at them for a long moment. When he does speak, his voice is low, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“These are my parents.”

Your chest tightens.

You glance at him—his posture still straight, still composed, but there’s something softer now. Something heavy that doesn’t show in his face, but in the silence he carries around it.

“They passed away when I was in my first year of med school,” he says, eyes fixed on the stones. “I visit them every week. I always bring lilies—my mother liked them.”

You stand there beside him, uncertain at first, then quietly fold your arms, the weight of the moment settling on your shoulders.

“I didn’t know,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, and for once, there’s no edge in his voice. Just truth.

And suddenly, you understand what he meant earlier. Why he said he wanted to show you. Why he apologized.

Because this marriage wasn’t just sudden—it was the first thing in a long time he hadn’t had to face alone.

“My parents made an agreement with yours,” Zayne says, his voice steady as he turns to face you.

There’s no accusation in his tone, no bitterness. Just quiet honesty.

“So in a way,” he continues, meeting your eyes, “we’re both stuck in this predicament. Not just you.”

The word predicament almost makes you laugh—because that’s exactly what it is. A polite, miserable mess you’ve both been handed like a family heirloom no one wanted.

But the way he says it… it’s not cold. It’s not detached.

It’s shared.

For the first time, you see the man behind the silence. Not just the polished stranger with perfect posture and unreadable expressions—but someone who lost his family, who carried grief with clinical grace, who walked into this marriage just as unprepared as you.

You lower your gaze, toeing the earth gently beneath your shoe. “Guess that makes us reluctant allies.”

“Something like that,” he murmurs.

Then, after a pause, he adds, “But I don’t intend to stay strangers with you forever. Not if we’re in this together.”

You feel something small and strange crack open in your chest.

Hope. Maybe. Or just the beginning of something real.

After the quiet moments of prayer—hands clasped, heads bowed, the wind weaving through the stillness—you and Zayne make your way back down the hill in silence. It’s not uncomfortable this time. Just… thoughtful. Like something unspoken has shifted between you.

The ride home is calm, the late afternoon sun casting soft light through the windshield. You glance over at him, watching the way his fingers rest lightly on the steering wheel, the way his profile is bathed in gold.

You hesitate, then ask, voice gentle, “How do you feel about this marriage?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The road stretches ahead, lined with trees and fading light, and you think maybe he won’t answer at all.

But then, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips—small, but unmistakable.

“I don’t mind it,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road. “Now that I’ve met you.”

You blink.

It’s not grand or poetic. It’s not a love confession or sweeping gesture. But something about the way he says it—so simple, so sure—makes your heart trip a little in your chest.

You turn back to the window, trying to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

And for the first time, the silence between you feels like something full, not empty.

—•

When you reach home, Zayne unlocks the door with quiet efficiency and steps inside like he’s been doing it for years—even though technically, it’s your first week as reluctant roommates.

He shrugs off his coat and heads straight for the kitchen.

You trail behind him, curious. “What are you doing?”

“Making tea,” he says, already reaching for the kettle.

You arch a brow. “Seriously… did you go to husband-training-school or something?”

He glances at you over his shoulder, eyes just a touch amused. “Is that a thing?”

“It should be,” you say, hopping up onto a stool at the kitchen counter. “You open doors, buckle seatbelts, visit your parents’ graves with fresh flowers, and now you make tea? Either you’re weirdly good at this or you’ve been raised by a very intense etiquette instructor.”

Zayne smirks—an actual smirk this time, not the half-ghost of one. “My mother believed in manners. My father believed in precision.”

You nod sagely. “Ah, so you were raised by royalty.”

He sets two mugs on the counter, then adds, “And I believe in not poisoning my wife with bad tea on day seven of our arranged marriage.”

You lift your hands. “Low bar, but I appreciate it.”

He chuckles quietly as he pours the water, and you watch him, a strange sort of warmth settling in your chest.

Turns out, “reluctant husband” looks a lot like “softly competent tea-making mystery man” when no one’s looking.

You watch him as he carefully stirs the tea, trying to look casual, though there’s an edge to your curiosity. “So, have you got a girlfriend? Before all this…?”

The question hangs in the air, a little awkward, but you can’t help yourself. You’re still trying to figure out who he is outside of this whole marriage thing. You need to know what kind of life he led before it all changed.

Zayne doesn’t answer immediately, his movements slowing for just a moment as if he’s considering the question carefully. His eyes flick to you, then back to the steaming mugs.

“No,” he says after a beat, the word simple but loaded. “I didn’t. Too busy, I suppose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Too busy for dating? I find that hard to believe.”

He lets out a quiet breath, placing the spoon down with the kind of deliberation that makes you think there’s more behind it. “It’s not that I didn’t have time. I was just… focused on other things.”

“Like saving lives?” you tease, leaning on the counter.

He glances at you, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment before he gives a small nod. “Exactly. I never made time for anything else.”

You hum thoughtfully, but there’s something in his voice that makes you stop. Focused on other things. You wonder if that was his way of avoiding other things. Or maybe he just never let anyone close enough.

You catch his gaze again, and this time, there’s a flicker—an unspoken something in the way he holds it. You can’t quite place it, but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, just slightly.

“Well, now you’ve got me,” you say, trying to keep the tone light. “I guess that makes two of us.”

Zayne’s lips curl into the faintest smile. “Indeed.”

That night, you change into something nice—half-expecting a stiff, high-end restaurant with white tablecloths, six forks, and judgmental lighting.

But when Zayne pulls the car up to a quiet little corner bistro tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, you blink in surprise.

It’s not fancy. No valet, no sparkling chandeliers, no menus written in French.

It’s… cozy.

Warm lights glow from inside, casting golden puddles on the sidewalk. Through the windows, you spot mismatched chairs, little potted plants on the tables, and the soft flicker of candlelight.

Someone’s playing gentle jazz on a guitar in the corner, and the air smells like garlic and fresh bread.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you murmur as he opens the car door for you.

He raises a brow. “Disappointed?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. Actually… I like it.”

He doesn’t smile, not really—but there’s a flicker in his eyes, like that’s exactly the answer he was hoping for.

Inside, you’re seated at a small table by the window. The waiter greets Zayne like he’s been here before, which surprises you even more. You hadn’t pegged him as the “quiet Italian bistro” type. More like “emotionally distant, espresso-fueled loner.”

But here he is. Ordering your meal with quiet confidence, asking if you want sparkling or still water like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And somehow, it feels normal.

As you sip your wine and let the warmth of the room settle around you, you realize this whole evening—isn’t part of some obligation or checklist.

He brought you here because he wanted to.

And that realization sits quietly between you, more intimate than candlelight.

“What did you study?” Zayne asks, his tone casual but deliberate.

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your water glass—not because the question itself is startling, but because he asked it. He, who rarely volunteers anything beyond necessity, is choosing to ask you something personal. Choosing to know you.

And that… that makes your chest feel oddly warm.

“Uhm,” you say, blinking out of your surprise. “I majored in Economics.”

He nods, his gaze steady. “I assume it’s to help your parents, then?”

You smile faintly, setting your glass down. “Yeah. I mean, I was never really pushed into it, but it felt like the logical thing to do. Legacy and all that.”

He hums, clearly understanding. “Pressure has a way of wearing itself like a choice.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “That was poetic.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s true.”

And you find yourself smiling—not the awkward, forced kind you used to wear around him, but a quiet, genuine one.

“Did you always want to be a surgeon?” you ask in return.

He considers for a moment, then says, “No. I wanted to be an architect when I was younger.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I liked building things,” he says, eyes flicking to you with a faint glimmer of amusement. “But life had other plans.”

And just like that, you realize you’re not dining with a stranger anymore.

You’re slowly, carefully, getting to know your husband.

You narrow your eyes at him, lips twitching as you lean back in your chair. “You wouldn’t have made a good architect,” you say, your tone teasing.

Zayne glances up from his plate, one brow arching in mock offense. “Oh? And why’s that?”

You shrug, swirling your water like it’s a wine glass. “Too serious. You’d probably design buildings with no windows. Just perfectly symmetrical, intimidating concrete blocks where joy goes to die.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I happen to like symmetry.”

“Exactly,” you grin. “You’d build dystopian fortresses and call them modern masterpieces.”

He leans forward slightly, voice lower, a touch playful. “And what would you build? Something inefficient with fairy lights and personality?”

You gasp, hand to your chest. “Yes. And they’d be beloved.”

Zayne smiles, really smiles this time—and for a second, you forget the marriage was arranged. Because god damn, he looks good when he smiles.

—•

Zayne drives you home after dinner, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between you. The city lights blur softly past the windows, and you catch yourself smiling—again.

Not because of the food.

Not because of the warm, candlelit atmosphere.

But because he smiled at you.

Not a smirk, not a polite twitch of the lips—an actual, honest-to-goodness smile.

And it was for you.

You lean your head against the window, trying to play it cool, but your heart’s doing backflips like it’s auditioning for the Olympics.

Who knew one smile from a broody cardiac surgeon could make you feel like you were in a coming-of-age movie?

When he pulls up to the house and parks, he doesn’t rush out or unbuckle your seatbelt like earlier. He just sits for a moment, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, glancing at you through the corner of his eye.

“Thank you,” you say softly, turning to him. “For dinner. And… for today.”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “You’re welcome.”

You linger a second longer than necessary, then reach for the door handle.

But before you can step out, he adds quietly, “I’m glad you came.”

Your breath catches, but you manage a soft smile.

“Me too.”

And as you walk up to the front door together, side by side, you realize something strange and terrifying and kind of wonderful:

You might actually be starting to like your husband.

—•

You’re halfway through your bedtime routine—hair tied up, comfy shirt on, emotionally bracing yourself for your nightly existential crisis—when you hear his voice from the living room.

“Y/N. Come sit with me.”

You freeze in the hallway like a startled cat.

Your brain short-circuits.

Come sit with me.

On the couch.

In the living room.

You peek around the corner, and there he is—Zayne, in his neatly rolled-up sleeves, glasses off, looking painfully relaxed and devastatingly unfair with one arm resting along the back of the couch like this is some indie romance movie and not your actual, real-life arranged marriage.

You fight the very real urge to scream.

Because—hello?? Attractive, emotionally reserved doctor asking you to sit beside him in dim lighting?

No. Absolutely not. Husband or not, this is a threat to your mental health and emotional stability.

Still, your feet move traitorously toward him.

You sit at the very edge of the couch, posture stiff, like you’re preparing to be interviewed, not casually sitting with your husband.

He glances at you, amused. “You look tense.”

“I am tense,” you mutter, clutching a throw pillow like it’s a life raft. “This feels like a trap.”

Zayne chuckles under his breath, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “You’re overthinking.”

“You’re underthinking. Have you seen yourself right now?”

He doesn’t answer—just reaches for the remote and switches on a movie.

And you sit there, slowly melting into the couch, wildly aware of how close he is, and wondering how on earth you’re supposed to survive a husband who smiles at you one moment and invites you to sit with him the next like it’s nothing.

It is very much something.

You shoot up from the couch like you’ve just remembered you left the stove on. “I’m gonna go… look for snacks,” you say, your voice a touch too high-pitched to be innocent.

Zayne turns his head slightly, probably about to say something—maybe to offer help or point out where the cookies are—but you don’t wait. You flee the room with the grace and urgency of someone definitely not running from their feelings.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you disappear down the hallway, you swear you see it.

A smirk.

That little—

Nope. You’re not thinking about that. You are not spiraling over one stupid, stupid smirk.

You fling open the pantry door with more drama than necessary and scan the shelves like a raccoon on a mission. And then… there it is.

A not-so-suspicious box of chocolate. Sitting there. Unlabeled. Untouched. Almost like it was waiting for you.

Naturally, the logical thing to do is take it.

You snatch it like a gremlin, muttering to yourself, “If this is his secret stash, he shouldn’t have left it where I could find it.”

Because if you’re going to emotionally unravel over a handsome surgeon who asks you to sit with him, you might as well do it with sugar.

You shuffle back into the living room, trying not to look suspicious even though you’re literally holding the loot in both hands.

Zayne glances at the box, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

Without a word, you plop down next to him again—this time slightly closer, because apparently you’re a danger to yourself—and open the lid. You pick one out, hesitate, then hold it out to him.

He looks at it, then at you.

And takes it.

Just like that—without hesitation, without question—like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to offer him something sweet and for him to accept it.

He pops it in his mouth, casual, like he didn’t just cause your heart to skip a full beat.

You stare at him. “You didn’t even ask what it was.”

He shrugs. “I trust your judgment.”

Great. Now you’re emotionally compromised and flustered.

You quickly shove a chocolate into your own mouth before you say something like “Why are you so attractive when you chew?”

This marriage is going to ruin you.

As the chocolate melts on your tongue, rich and smooth, you frown slightly. There’s something… extra about the flavor. A little too warm. A little too bold.

You squint at the box, lifting it closer to inspect the label. The fancy script mocks you as your eyes land on the fine print.

“Hey, these are infused with—”

You stop mid-sentence, turning to Zayne.

He’s flushed.

Not dramatically—but enough. His ears are a little pink, the tips of his cheeks tinged with color, and he suddenly seems very interested in the pattern on the coffee table.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, holding up the box like a smoking gun. “They’re infused with wine.”

He clears his throat. “Just a little.”

“Zayne.”

“I forgot,” he mutters, and now he won’t meet your eyes.

You blink at him, then at the chocolate, then back at him.

And then you burst into laughter.

“Are you—are you buzzed from one piece of wine chocolate?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real heat. “I’m not buzzed.”

“You’re flushed.”

“I run warm.”

You clutch your stomach, giggling. “Oh, this is so going in the mental scrapbook.”

He shakes his head, but you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

And suddenly, the couch doesn’t feel so intimidating. The air between you is warm—not from the chocolate or the wine, but from the quiet, ridiculous comfort of two strangers slowly, awkwardly becoming something more.

But fate, in all its twisted sense of humor, decided to laugh directly in your face.

Because as it turns out, Zayne does not do well with alcohol.

At all.

One wine-infused chocolate later, and he’s leaning back into the couch, flushed like he’s been running laps, and visibly warmer—literally and metaphorically.

You glance over just in time to see him tug at the top button of his shirt.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Your brain short-circuits.

You grip the edge of the sofa like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. Do not scream. Do not make a sound. You are strong. You are composed. You are—

He exhales, fingers working at the last button near his collarbone, exposing smooth skin and that maddeningly perfect line of his throat.

“I feel… warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You don’t respond. Because you can’t.

You’re too busy having an internal meltdown.

This is not a movie. This is real life.

Real life where your emotionally-reserved, wine-chocolate-flushed husband is currently undoing his shirt on your shared couch like he doesn’t know what it’s doing to your sanity.

You bite your tongue and stare straight ahead.

This marriage is a trap.

This couch is cursed.

And Zayne, evidently, is dangerous in more ways than one.

You try—truly try—to focus on the TV.

You fixate on the screen like it holds the meaning of life, repeating in your head. Not looking. Not thinking. Muscles aren’t real. Buttons are lies. Stay strong.

But then—

You feel it.

A hand around your wrist. Warm. Firm.

You barely have time to register it before you’re turned toward him—face-to-face with all of him.

Half-unbuttoned shirt. Lean muscles. Broad chest. Collarbone on full display like it paid rent to be there. His eyes, slightly glazed but locked onto yours with an intensity that could melt furniture.

Your breath hitches. “Z-Zayne!”

Your voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched. Like a cartoon character caught in a romantic ambush.

His hand doesn’t let go.

Neither does his gaze.

“You’re really red,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, as if you’re the one being strange in this situation.

“I’m red?!” you squeak, trying very hard not to look down. Or up. Or anywhere.

He leans just the tiniest bit closer, and his voice drops, slow and low. “Are you feeling warm too?”

You make a noise. Not a word. Just a sound. Because your brain has left the building and taken all coherent thought with it.

This couch is no longer a piece of furniture.

It’s a battlefield.

His grip on your wrist softens, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb brushes lightly—absently—against your skin as he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your entire existence.

And then, with absolutely no warning, he slurs softly, “You’re really… pretty… you know that?”

Your soul momentarily evacuates your body.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

“You are,” he says, a little slower, a little sleepier, his words curling lazily like they’re wrapped in velvet. “Your face is nice. Your eyes do this… sparkle thing. Like the stars. But not, cliché stars. Like… classy stars.”

You open your mouth to reply, but absolutely nothing intelligent comes out.

Because here is your emotionally closed-off husband—tipsy from a single chocolate, shirt halfway undone, staring at you like you hung the moon and casually comparing your eyes to classy stars.

This has officially become too much.

You grab the throw pillow beside you and bury your face in it with a muffled, “Zayne, you’re drunk.”

He hums, leaning back slightly, satisfied like he’s just confessed something profound.

“I’m married to a pretty girl,” he mumbles, like it’s the best realization he’s had all day.

And you? You are one slurred compliment away from combusting.

You reach out without thinking, hand aiming straight for his cheek—half to ground yourself, half because you want to see if he’s real and not just a hallucination brought on by wine chocolate and emotional confusion.

But before your fingers make contact, he catches your wrist again.

Gently. Firmly.

And then—he tugs.

You let out a surprised gasp as you stumble forward, barely catching yourself with your free hand against his chest. He’s solid. Warm. Way too warm.

Your heart skips, then trips, then sprints like it’s running late for something.

You barely have time to react before he looks up at you—eyes soft, dazed, and entirely sincere—and asks:

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s not breathy or desperate. Not bold or teasing.

He says it like a gentleman asking for a dance. Like he’s asking your permission to step into something delicate. Something real.

Your breath catches. The world stills. The TV hums in the background, forgotten.

You’re close enough to see the way his lashes rest against flushed skin, close enough to feel his breath brush against your lips.

And now, you have a choice to make.

Because despite the chaos, the circumstance, the wine-infused madness of it all—Zayne just asked you so politely to kiss you.

And god help you…

You kind of want him to.

You open your mouth to reply—maybe to say yes, maybe to question your sanity—but the words never make it out.

Because his lips are already on yours.

Gentle. Soft. Careful, like he’s still half-expecting you to pull away. Like he knows he’s toeing a fragile line and doesn’t want to break it.

Your eyes flutter shut as instinct takes over, and the world tilts slightly.

You can barely taste the chocolate on his lips, a hint of sweetness tangled with something warmer, something that makes your heart thrum unevenly in your chest.

Your mind goes fuzzy. Not from the kiss itself, but from the feeling that comes with it—the quiet kind. The kind that settles in your chest like a secret you hadn’t realized you were keeping.

He doesn’t rush it.

His hand stays on your wrist, thumb brushing softly along your skin, as if even now he’s asking—Is this okay? Are you sure?

And you are.

Somewhere between wine-infused chocolates, teasing banter, and the way he said Can I kiss you? like it meant everything—you became sure.

And so you kiss him back.

Somehow—somehow—you’re still suspended there, caught in that precarious space between balance and disaster, one hand on his chest, the other still held by his.

And then his hands slide to your waist.

Slow. Sure. Steady.

He holds you like he’s anchoring you—like if he let go, you might float away.

And that’s when the kiss deepens.

No more polite hesitation, no more softness at the edges. It’s still gentle, yes—but there’s more now. More pressure. More heat. More intention.

Your fingers curl against his shirt, and it takes every last ounce of self-control not to start undoing the buttons he didn’t already conquer earlier. Because God, you can feel the strength in him—lean muscle under your palm, warmth radiating like it was meant for you, and he’s kissing you like he’s waited a long time to do it.

You gasp softly against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like a secret.

Your mind is a whirlwind. Logic? Gone. Restraint? Dangling by a thread.

You are this close to losing all common sense and just undressing him right here on the couch like your sanity isn’t hanging on by a single, wine-infused thread.

But then he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

And he whispers, barely audible, “You taste sweet.”

You’re going to combust.

This man is going to ruin you.

The world blurs at the edges, warm and hazy like honeyed sunlight through half-closed curtains. His breath still ghosts against your lips, his hands still resting on your waist like they belong there, like you belong there.

You feel weightless. Drunk, not on wine or chocolate, but on him—the warmth of his skin, the way he kissed you like it was something sacred, the way he looked at you like you were something more than a stranger handed to him by fate.

Everything is soft. Glowing. Surreal.

Too perfect.

And then—

Blink.

The warmth fades. The light shifts.

You’re no longer on the couch.

You’re standing, stiff, in a room full of flowers and polished silence, your fingers cold at your sides.

Zayne stands across from you, buttoned-up, composed, unreadable. No wine in his system. No flushed cheeks. No trace of that kiss.

Just a man you’ve never met.

And the moment of your arranged introduction.

Your breath catches, and for a second, you don’t know what’s real.

But you do know one thing.

Whatever just happened—dream, vision, or cruel trick of the mind—it’s already begun.