synopsis ⸻ Scarecrow is at large again! Given your history with him, the night will be sleepless and fearful.
pairing ⸻ Scarecrow Gojo x reader
cw ⸻ NSFW, MDNI, DC au. abduction, professor/former student dynamic, medical malpractice, fear play, knife play, sadism/masochism, touch deprivation, degradation, dubcon, manipulation, restraints, intercourse under influence, fem reader, p! in v! intercourse, gendered terms, spit and cum stuff, oral fixation, just so much gaslighting yeah read if you wanna.
wc ⸻ 5k
a/n: this fic is a part of the freaktober event hosted by the most wonderful @redrrem, @joemama-2, and @for-ests! thank you to them for letting me participate <3 check out more from this event here!
“What is fear?”
A few kids behind you and beside you raised their hands to answer Dr. Gojo. He picked the kid beside you who raised his hand, the straightest in the entire class; he always did.
“Yes, Mr. Saito.” As the professor called out to Saito, whose face lit up like a thousand-watt lightbulb.
But Dr. Gojo's facial expressions remained rigid, yet conveyed much more than he let on. You saw a hint of amusement and this flash of something sinister in his eyes. It was as if whatever Saito, or anyone else in this room, was going to answer was going to be wrong anyway.
“Sir, fear is a psychological and physiological reaction an individual has as a response to some sort of threat in his environment, which triggers his fight or flight reaction.” Saito sits up in his seat and goes on, “If I were to explain it in detail, when someone perceives a threat, the signal for that stimulus is sent to the sympathetic nervous system through the spinal cord. The SNS then transfers those signals from the dorsal hypothalamus, which activates the heart, which then increases vascular resistance; hence, palpitations happen, and blood flow increases, specifically in the regions of the muscle, heart, and brain tissues. The hypothalamus then activates the adrenal medulla—”
“You can stop there, Mr. Saito.” Dr. Gojo walked back to the podium, and seeing him turn around from where he stood right in front of Saito’s face, in front of the first row of seats, it made Saito almost tear up. It looked like it, very evidently.
“I am glad you listen well in my classes to remember how the autonomic nervous system works in such detail. I am sure you can draw a detailed diagram of the hypothalamic region, including all the nuclei in that region, and even recite an in-depth analysis on the amygdala right on my command.” Dr. Gojo turned back to the class full of students and leaned against the podium.
“But I did not ask you about the related workings and systems of fear. I asked, “What is fear?” The professor looked unassuming, despite the huge grin on his face, seemingly friendly from afar, but anyone sitting in the front row and a few rows behind would know better. At least you did.
“Sir—um—it is an affective response.” Saito was starting to lose his book-smart confidence in the face of the professor’s rejection and interruption of his answer.
“Correct. And?” Dr. Gojo calmly asked.
“It—um—uh—the amygdala then—”
“You can stop there, Mr. Saito.” Dr. Gojo’s face went back to neutral; to everyone it was an inoffensive expression, but to Saito, all he saw was disappointment. And all you saw was anger.
“Anyone else who'd like to try?”
The entire class fell silent; Dr. Gojo gave the class some time to raise their hands. Everyone just made themselves look busy or at least averted their eyes to any corner of the room except for the professor’s eyes.
“Yes, Ms. L/n.” You put your hand down after he called out for you; the same sinister glint in his eyes was back, except now there was a smirk on his face, like he was daring you to answer his question, not as one of his top students in the class, but just as a human being. What did fear mean to you?
“Fear is a biological and primordial affective response. The physiological workings of how it happens—Saito explained it already.” You paused, and Dr. Gojo looked intrigued; he always did on the off chance you decided to chirp in during his lectures.
“It can be triggered for many reasons… such as when you, Dr. Gojo, look at Saito with disappointment in your eyes. He feels fear; he fears that these interactions will reflect on his grades negatively.” You casually gesture at Saito sitting to your left, and his eyes bulge out of their sockets.
If Dr. Gojo was only intrigued before, he looked positively invested now.
“I can give you a long explanation about how it works, why it happens, and what symptoms and feelings amalgamate into this overwhelming sensation that can only be described in one word, and that is fear.” Dr. Gojo walked off the podium and walked back towards the front row, where you were sitting.
“But that's not what you want. You want to know our opinions on fear.” Dr. Gojo, who has only been teaching at your university for the last 2 years, who is by far decades younger than all the professors in your faculty, who is closer to you in age than anyone who holds the same amount of degrees as him, and who has only ever looked impressed twice during lectures, currently looked quite impressed.
“Yes. That's what I want to know.”
“In my opinion, sir, if we are speaking in terms of evolution, fear is a much-needed effect; it has helped us evolve into who we are today.” He raised his brows as you spoke, and the corners of his mouth tugged slightly upwards. “But I do not think the modern human, with their need to fear few things other than fellow humans themselves, needs to feel this emotion so intensely as we do.”
Dr. Gojo’s face fell in an instant.
“Elaborate, please.”
Dr. Gojo’s facial expression as quickly recovered as they fell from your statement. But it did not go unnoticed by you. Even if the majority of the class were either too preoccupied or simply trying to avoid his gaze to not be picked out to answer a question, they all felt the tension when he asked you to elaborate on your answer.
“Well, we have evolved so much that it is not really environmental threats that we fear, but abstract ideas, like hell and divine punishment or stuff—given we have no evidence of these things being real. When we should fear the people who use these things as an excuse to fearmonger for their own selfish gain.”
Dr. Gojo’s eyes lit up with something unrecognizable, something akin to the insanity that every scientist, doctor, researcher, and practitioner of sciences involving the human brain has, but they looked a little too inhumane.
“I don’t disagree with you, Ms. L/n; I just think you are missing the point.”
“How so?”
“It is not that humans are not aware of these things you are mentioning. They simply choose to ignore it. There could be a murderer standing in front of you, and perhaps you would sense something off about him too, but you would at the end of the day choose to ignore his crazy eyes. Not because you are oblivious, but because you are afraid of the truth.”
Everything was so obviously in front of everyone’s eyes. He was hiding in plain sight. Yet no one knew until he chose to reveal himself to the world. That fact alone made you unbelievably furious.
He was always correct; he knew that too.
You were terrified the day you opened your TV to find out Batman finally arrested the Scarecrow and found out it was none other than your former professor. Even on the day his case was assigned to you and you saw him waiting for you with a smile, waiting for his most venerable student, as he called you—to sit opposite him to apparently treat the one professor who left the most impact on you—you were terrified then too. He knew that too.
You're still terrified of him to this day, even though it has been an entire year since you started seeing him in Arkham Asylum; you were still terrified every day to walk into that room and sit opposite him. Because every day he would sit there with the most gentle smile, empty eyes, and twitchy fingers; one slip of that mask, and even the guards appointed for your protection won't be able to do anything.
“Please, will you give me a straight answer, Dr. Gojo?”
Your frustration was starting to show. The first session isn't even over, and he is already getting under your skin. Deflecting every question with the precision of a professional well aware of how to navigate these things, it was hard to get any real answers.
“Like I've been saying, no need to be that formal; after all, you have always been the best student I ever taught. I might have been new to my job back then and quite young for it too, but I could tell you always had the potential for something great.”
His smile faltered for a moment, and it seemed like he finally blinked after ages.
“I am just sad you chose to rot in…this place.” The smile came back on; it stretched further up until it formed these wrinkles around his eyes, which weren't as noticeable as they are now. His tone was full of disgust, making you question how he had even been working here all these years himself. But then again, he was not actually performing his duties, so it made sense.
“Alright… Satoru, will you answer me seriously?”
You chose to
“I do not see why not; please do your job.”
With a deep breath, you sat up in your seat and reached for your glass of water for the ninth time in an hour. There was barely any water left in that glass; you've never in your short career felt so much pressure taking up a case.
You were naive enough to think things would get better after that day.
To answer in a few words—it did not in fact get easier. Every day it got worse and worse. He did not even take a week to figure out and dismantle all your techniques. It was bad enough he was your professor; he practically taught you half of these techniques, and the other half, he figured out with that sly, faux-innocent smile and those gentle eyes behind those glasses, which at one glance hid the emptiness in those eyes.
The same face you did not think you would be seeing anytime soon after you dropped the case, not at least until he succumbed to his death under mysterious circumstances in the Arkham Asylum. There was no way you could have cracked the scarecrow; it is not that you did not try, you really did, but there was something sinister behind those blue empty eyes of his that in your entire career you have never had the misfortune of encountering something similar. Given his prior relationship with you, you should've known it was not going to be easy.
With a sigh you go back to paying attention to the food reheating in your microwave. As you zone out looking at the food, the blurry sound of the news on TV playing in the background pokes your ears.
‘BREAKING NEWS: THE SCARECROW HAS ESCAPED FROM THE ARKHAM ASYLUM! THE SCARECROW IS AT LARGE, AND THE AUTHORITIES CANNOT GET A HOLD ON HIM!’
Your heart sank into the pits of your empty stomach. Your exhausted body felt heavier somehow; it was a familiar feeling. The feeling of fear, fear of not the scarecrow or the villain terrorizing the city, but your former professor, Dr. Gojo. The professor, who always seemed the most terrifying while donning that gentle smile, was often seen sporting it.
When the scarecrow’s identity was revealed, everyone was shocked to their core that someone like him could do that. You were not surprised; in fact, you felt reassured for feeling this sense of unsettling uncertainty about the man. It was never that he was weird to you; he was a great professor. He always took great interest in your answers, which stood out in comparison to others, whether good or bad. He has always been a good scientist, a good professor, and a good doctor—maybe too good at what he did, so the reality behind his mask never really slipped out.
None of that means the emptiness behind those eyes never ran a chill down your spine.
In this past year that you've come to know Dr. Gojo on a deeper level, you cannot really answer if you really have come to know him any more than what he has let you know. Whereas he has come to know you more than you even let on. It irks you to know how well that man can dismantle you with nothing more than one look. You have no idea why you've so many times ranted and told him the things you have or why, during late-night sessions, you've found comfort in that gentle smile that you secretly fear. And you have no intention of finding those answers, which is why you made up your mind to give up this job.
You remember when you told him the very last day that you won't be showing up; he did not say anything, other than the fact that his smile finally faltered and did not come back. You had rambled a little giving a sloppy panicky explanation and practically ran out of the room. He did not say a word.
This is the first time you're seeing his face after a month; you did not think it'd be on the TV so soon. This sense of something unknown, something terrifying slowly engulfing your lungs—you did not know it'd be back again.
This was merely a case of paranoia; it's because of the news. It's because you were involved in this case in a way, but there's nothing to worry about; they'll get him sooner or later. Where is he going to even hide? And you of all people would be the least of his concerns. Why would he come for you? At least that's what you told yourself.
“Sorry, did I scare you?”
That's what you last heard him say before you passed out. There was no smell, but there was something heavier than the air in your apartment that went into your lungs and made everything hazy. You saw that familiar smile on his face; this time there was nothing gentle or tactful about it. It was the face of a man gone into the depths of pure insanity.
“It's about time you woke up, sweetheart.”
When your vision came to be, you found yourself blinking at a ceiling that was too high and a half-empty room that seemed to be nowhere nicer than a warehouse. The air smelled how places tend to smell when they are left by themselves for too long, like dust and now, the abandonment. You tried to move around but couldn't move anything more than your neck. You were laid on your back on a table, a surgical table to be precise, with your hands and legs bound tightly enough to keep you still but not enough to hurt you. Which made the wishful thought cross your mind: if he had done so intentionally.
“Don't move too much, sweetheart; you might hurt yourself.” Yet when you heard his easy tone, it set in the distress that was initially lacking.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!? WHY AM I HERE?” You shouted at the top of your lungs, knowing there were no explicable answers behind your questions. Despite your commotion,
“Weren’t you the one who was supposed to figure that out? Gave up so easily, huh, Doc?”
You did not know what to answer him; on one hand you were terrified, agitated and disgusted by him, and on the other hand you were glad to see him. Which just made you inadvertently feel more disgusted.
“Just got bored without you around, princess.” There it was again, another one of those smiles that had nothing to do with his usual pretenses, something that stretched across his face and reached up to the corners of his eyes that was characteristically inconsistent.
“Are you so miserable that you can't help but make others feel that with you?” The humor in his voice was getting further under your skin, and he knew that very well as he did his best to continue to infuriate you.
“Hmm, good introspection. Well, you do not have to worry though; I will only drag you into my misery for eternity.” He did not react instantly after what you said. After saying those words, he paused for a few seconds to chuckle and continued. The delay in his reaction only made the weight of his words more eerie.
“Everyone… Well, they don’t move me or fascinate me, so they can rot for all I care.” He walked slowly over to a side of the room, which was concealed by a huge shelf.
“You're sick and beyond help!” As you finished, your throat started to close, the room started to get heavier, and something started creeping up from your gut and then upwards. It made you choke up, and the initial terror within you started intensifying by multiples of thousands. And when you saw him come back in your sight with a mask on his face, hiding everything but his empty blue eyes, you knew what was happing, and who you were now dealing with. Gone were your former professor, your patient, and Dr. Gojo; this is undeniably the scarecrow.
“Old news, sweetheart. You don't have any accurate diagnosis for me?”
Perhaps you would have thrown a few diagnoses towards him if only you were not hyperventilating, fighting the tears pooling in your eyes, and trying not to succumb to the terrifying whispering sounds in the back of your mind.
“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” He moved to another corner to fetch something, and meanwhile the heavy air started to clear out again, and it was breathable again.
“So, how did that feel?”
Satoru walked back over to where you were lying and leaned in while taking his mask off, and there was a twinkle in those empty blue eyes. For once he looked alive and interested in what was going on around him. He leaned over further until his face was hovering directly over your face.
“How did fear taste?” His latex-glove-clad hands came to caress your face, and vulnerable from exposure to whatever gas it was that he flooded your senses with, you leaned into his touch. As you nuzzled into his cold touch, tears poured out of your eyes, and momentarily you felt safe in his hands.
“Aw, you cryin’ sweetheart?” A scoffing laugh erupted from his throat, and distracted by the newfound glimmer in his eyes, you felt something cold and sharp on your collar.
As you looked down, you saw his other hand holding a knife, sharp and well-kept enough to be catching the dim light in the room, being held at your collar. This time you did not need the gas to make you feel terrified, but this fear was different. Instead of making your heart race, it completely stopped it. The only sound you could hear was his breath against your ears.
Satoru did not even look; he kept his face close to you, observing your eyes, the fear in them. He did not even look as he started to move his knife downwards, and your thin, worn-out t-shirt stood as no competition to his sharp blade as it started to tatter off of your body. As the knife started to go downwards and downwards, a part of you started to anticipate the feeling of the cold, sharp blade gliding off of your skin and tearing open your clothes. The knife, which might as well be considered a dagger, went from your collarbone to your chest, down your belly, and up to your belly button, leaving not even a single scratch.
“Oops!” He said mockingly as his hand went further down to tear open your shorts with a single sharp flick of the wrist, and then only briefly did the blade lift off of your body. It was then you somehow felt this disappointment settle in the pit of your stomach, which confused you.
“How cute sweetheart, no bra and such cute panties, all for me?”
Before you could say anything, his hand that was on the side of your face moved swiftly to shove those latex-covered fingers inside your mouth. It hit the roof of your mouth and then pushed your tongue flat in your mouth, making your jaw go slack and eyes go blurry.
“You feel that? This is my most well-kept knife; I carefully sharpened it. All for you.” Without being able to answer, you just looked up at him as he traced the knife a few times over your thighs. Almost breaking skin, almost pouring blood, but he did not. The knife flattened over your skin, and his fingers dug deeper down your mouth as you shrieked up to feel the cold metal of the knife being pressed against your abdomen. Then he used that knife to flick off the tattered panties, so now you lie naked under him.
Without another word, he started to move downwards, with both his now empty hands gliding over your body. Squeezing your tits, pinching the nipples in a manner that the latex burns on your skin. He continued to move downwards until he was between your legs and freed them from the restraint, and your natural reaction was to close them.
“Hmm, do I need a permit, sweetheart?”
You simply looked at him with glassy eyes, half stirred up enough to open your legs eagerly and half confused between the mix of embarrassment and horror.
“We do not have much time, and if you must know, I am not really that nice to be asking you twice.” Despite his warning, when you did not open your legs, he forcibly parted them open, and his eyes descended from your face to between your legs, where you could already feel something wet and slippery despite your best attempts.
“Oh, are you not the most beautiful thing ever? I only noticed when i saw you in that damned asylum; that is my mistake, of course. ” With a vivid grin on his face, entirely insane-looking, he moved closer to your core.
“Stop! I—”
“Yes, you are quite wet—oh, my apologies—I mean eager; I can see that.”
Another chuckle, and you can feel his latex-gloved fingers tracing your pussy like he turns the delicate crisp edges of a new book. He moved around his fingers in every crevice except for where they needed to be, tracing lazy circles and pinching your clit like he had all the time in the world, and this was not the same man warning you about the limited time you two had. And just when you thought this might be going longer, you looked down to see him tilt his head and open his mouth like a snake warding off a threat; he slithered his tongue out and let his spit drip down all over you. The warm substance slipped down the curve and folds of your cunt to your ass, and just as you gathered yourself to not let a sound peep out of you, you felt something warmer over your folds.
“Ahhh—” you inadvertently moaned as Dr. Gojo’s tongue licked a strip from your hole up to your clit. It is not that you did not have anything to say; you were just afraid you did not have anything to say that would discourage him. Especially when he looked like he had no intention of prying off the tight grip your thighs had on his head. In fact, if he died like so, between your legs, crushed by your thighs and breathless, that death would be more akin to heaven than rotting in Arkham Asylum.
As his languid movements became more sharp and precise, as his tongue slithered into your hole along with two fingers, which were somehow no longer gloved, you threw your head back and let the whimpers and grunts pour out without much resistance.
“What a pretty slut you are, Doctor, all for me?”
“Fuck, yes—I am, yes, sir.”
Your words came out in fragments, and he scoffed out a chuckle as he pulled your legs up on his shoulders and sat up on the table. With one gloved hand he swiftly opened up his pants and got rid of his shirt. Anticipation started boiling up in the pit of your stomach. Noticing your hopeful eyes and the drool gathering on the side of your lips, he took his sweet time to just rub the head of his hard and flushed cock over your folds. Making a mess out of both of you.
“Just—just do it—please!”
“Aw, impatient girls get punished; you do know that, don’t you? You are a smart girl; of course you do.”
You knew he was mocking; he was making fun of your precarious situation, but you were left a desperate mess. That's all. All you knew right now in this very moment that you wanted Dr. Gojo to fuck you however he liked, and you wanted that right this instant.
“No, no, I—I just—I just want you.”
“Me? The wanted criminal at large?” He pointed a finger at himself while jutting out his eyes comically.
“YES! Yes, yes, for fuck’s sake, yes!”
“Not a very model citizen of Gotham City, are you? Batman would be sooo disappointed.” He leaned down with his face inches close to you and shoved himself all the way in without a warning or a moment for you to breathe.
“T—too much fuck,”
“Quite the filthy mouth on you, sweetheart. Do you speak to all your patients with that mouth?” He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck and left a heavy sigh. Then he looked up and came inches close to your lips and said, “Or am I special?”
“I must be. Always noticed how you looked at me in classes, loved whenever you raised your hand. Everything you ever said I could just never agree with, but you never ceased to fascinate me with your answers.”
His lips were practically on yours, and every word he said was incoherent to you.
“Also saw how you looked at me in that cell. Must say—fuck—I never thought I would find a lovestruck cute puppy like you so attractive.” You lifted your head up as much as you could to place his lips on yours, but he quickly pulled up while tutting with faux disappointment.
“So impatient, Doctor; that is not how you treat a patient!”
Just as he ended his sentence, his hips pulled away and came down with a heavy thrust. With sharp and precise thrusts, he starts looking for the spot that he knew would drive you over to insanity, exactly where he was waiting for you.
“Please—fuck, I—ughhh—too fast—”
“Shut up.” He responded with a smile and no politeness; the front of his hair was clinging to his forehead, and you could see his shoulders flex. Without his glasses the bags under his eyes were much clearer up close. “Make up your mind, won’t you, because I am clearly not the person to be held responsible.”
Your hands clutch at the edge of the table for dear life as the table starts to shake with each intense thrust. And he simply laughs at you trying to kiss him with your eyes squeezed close and whimpers slipping past them with ease. As soon as you give up your pathetic attempts, he dives in with the fervor and precision of a man who, with his meticulous hands and observant eyes, terrorized the city for years. And it took just that to finally drive you over the edge and have you cum all over him as your legs fell from his shoulders to his side.
“Fuck-fuck-fuck, I-ughhh-shit!”
“Aw, lost your smart words, Doctor?”
Despite his precise hips that could find and pound you exactly where it drove you crazy, his kiss was sloppy. Not in a bad way, just messy and wet for a lack of a clearer description. His tongue was the greediest thing you have ever met, and it wanted to explore every inch of your mouth.
“You know what I am going to do with you? I am going to keep you with me. I love the way fear looks on you, sweetheart. Who else but me will cherish you like you deserve, hm?”
His thrusts started getting sloppier and lost the consistency. You knew he was getting closer, but you could not bother with anything; you were high on post-orgasm and basically left like a blob of jelly to anything. Just as you felt his throbbing cock spasm, he took it out quickly out of you and started to pump it rapidly. You disappointedly stared at him with your half-lidded eyes. His face was contorted with focus and desperation, an expression you never thought you'd have the pleasure to see on his face. It was a new high in itself to see Satoru pump his own cock aimed at you until the veins in his arms started to jut and ropes of white liquid shot at you.
Everything landed exactly on different parameters of your body: face, tits, stomach, and abdomen. Everywhere he exactly wanted it.
If, according to the judgement of the court and masses, he was a sinful, insane criminal, the sight of you must be what puts a person on death row.
“Oh… look at you…”
There was that twinkle in his eyes again. The one you only saw when he was in the face of fear, but right now there was nothing as such, but only you covered in his cum under him that had the shine in his eyes that made him look alive. One of his hands came to gently caress your face, then he moved slightly to the side and unfastened both of your wrists, then pulled you up off the table and sat you on his lap. With his twitchy cock still buried within your walls.
“Are we…not done?”
“We are far from done, sweetheart.”
FIND MORE FROM ME HERE || my kinktober schedule
a/n: art by @/hhaet2_ , dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/omi-resources MRI scan is random from google, shitty edit by yours truly.
very unethical of me to be writing this if this blog ever gets traced back to me might lose my jobe someday but eh big scarecrow crazy guy saw cillian murphy and dove head straight into the comics when i was a wee 14 yr old lol. so i took the opportunity rem gave with open arms hope it is okish at least
synopsis : gojo satoru has always been a little ridiculous when it comes to you. that’s what happens when you grow up with someone who once wrote “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in the second grade yearbook and never quite stopped deserving the crown. twenty years later, he’s still finding new ways to treat you like royalty—carrying your bags, buying you candy, pretending it’s all just friendly devotion. but the truth is, satoru’s been yours longer than he’s willing to admit… and it’s starting to get a little too hard to hide.
tags -> slice of life-ish, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, misunderstanding but it’s soft and stupid, first kiss, white rose symbolism, fluff, YEARNER SATORU, oblivious idiots in love, princess treatment, satoru-centric, lighthearted with feelings, emotional constipation, love confessions, happy ending, art not mine—will credit as soon as i find source!
wc — 10.3k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?
a/n: this was supposed to be a short, silly fic about satoru being down bad and giving you princess treatment because of something you wrote in a second grade yearbook. but then i blacked out and woke up 10.3k words later, emotionally compromised and surrounded by strawberry candy wrappers. so yeah. i hope you enjoy this soft, dumb, painfully slow-burning love story between two idiots who’ve clearly been married since they were seven. as always, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated and returned with a consensual kiss on the forehead 😽🌹
satoru's brain operates on a frequency that should probably concern medical professionals. right now, that frequency is completely hijacked by the sight of you sprawled across his couch, ankles crossed, unwrapping a piece of strawberry candy with the kind of focused concentration most people reserve for defusing bombs. you hum something tuneless under your breath, fingers working the wrapper with methodical precision, and he thinks this might be how people spontaneously combust.
the thing is, he's been in love with you since the second grade, which makes him both devoted and completely unhinged. it started with a yearbook—those flimsy little books where seven-year-olds write their life plans in crayon. you'd written “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in that careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration like it always does when you're thinking hard. when you asked what he wanted to be, he'd scribbled “astronaut” because it was the only job he could think of that might get him to the moon fast enough to bring you back a rock that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.
twenty years later, he's still trying to make good on that promise, just in different ways.
“satoru, you're staring,” you say without looking up from your candy wrapper, voice carrying that familiar note of fond exasperation. your lips curve into the smallest smile as you speak, and his pulse does something acrobatic against his ribs.
“i'm appreciating,” he corrects, settling into the opposite end of the couch with deliberately casual movements. his hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the window—those impossible pale strands that seem to drink in sunlight and reflect it back like spun moonbeams, never quite behaving despite his half-hearted attempts to tame them each morning. the light makes them appear almost translucent at the edges, ethereal in a way that's always made strangers do double-takes on the street. “there's a difference.”
you finally look at him properly, lifting your gaze from the candy wrapper, and he gets to see the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're trying not to smile. it's the same expression you've had since childhood—that particular combination of amusement and affection that you've never quite learned to hide. the sight of it makes his chest feel too small for his heart, like someone's trying to stuff an ocean into a teacup. “appreciating what, exactly?”
“your dedication to proper candy unwrapping technique.” he gestures toward your hands with exaggerated seriousness, watching the way you smooth out each wrinkle with your fingertips. “very thorough. very princess-like.”
there it is—that little snort-laugh that means he's being ridiculous but you're charmed anyway. your head tilts back slightly with the sound, exposing the graceful line of your throat, and you ball up the wrapper with unnecessary force before throwing it at his face. he catches it with reflexes that are definitely overkill for crumpled plastic, his hand moving faster than thought, fingers closing around the small projectile before it can make contact. “you're so weird.”
weird doesn't begin to cover it. he's the kind of weird that keeps mental notes about how you like your coffee (too much sugar, splash of vanilla creamer, stirred exactly twelve times counterclockwise), the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard about something, how you always steal his hoodies but pretend it's accidental even though you've been doing it for fifteen years. the kind of weird that's been carrying a torch so long he's surprised it hasn't burned his hands off.
“weird in a charming way though, right?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. his eyes—those unsettling ice-chip irises that seem to shift between arctic blue and pale silver depending on his mood—fix on your face with an intensity that would probably make anyone else uncomfortable. but you've been looking into those eyes for two decades, watching them go from bright and mischievous in childhood to something deeper, more complex now. something that holds secrets he's never quite brave enough to voice.
“weird in a… uniquely satoru way,” you concede, and the fondness in your voice makes his stomach flip. you've moved on to the next candy, and he watches the precise way you smooth out the wrapper again, fold it into a tiny perfect square like you're performing surgery. these are the moments that undo him completely—not the big gestures or dramatic declarations, just you existing in his space like you belong there. like maybe you always have.
his phone buzzes against the coffee table, vibrating insistently, but he ignores it. nothing's more important than this: you humming off-key under your breath, the late afternoon sun painting everything golden and soft, the way you've unconsciously tucked your feet under his thigh for warmth. your toes wiggle slightly against his leg, and he has to concentrate on not shivering at the casual contact. domestic bliss wrapped up in strawberry candy and the scent of your shampoo—something floral and sweet that he's never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere.
“remember when we used to do this in elementary school?” you ask suddenly, holding up the neatly folded wrapper between your thumb and forefinger. the paper catches the light, creating tiny rainbows at the creases. “you'd always try to make yours into origami cranes.”
“key word being ‘try,’” he says, but he's smiling at the memory, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. his hair falls across his forehead as he tilts his head, those pale strands shifting like seafoam. you sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, patient as anything while he struggled with paper folds, your small hands guiding his through the steps over and over again. telling him it was okay that his cranes looked more like abstract art, that they were beautiful in their own way. you'd been doing that his whole life—making his failures feel like victories just by witnessing them with that soft, encouraging smile.
“i still have some of them,” you admit, ducking your head slightly as if embarrassed by the confession. your fingers twist the new wrapper, creating small accordion folds. “in my apartment.”
his heart does something complicated against his ribs, a stuttering rhythm that makes him wonder if cardiac episodes can be triggered by pure affection. “the terrible cranes?”
“the terrible cranes.” you pop the candy into your mouth, and he tracks the movement without meaning to, watches the way your lips close around the sweet treat, the slight movement of your throat as you swallow. when you catch him staring, a faint blush creeps up your neck. “they're in my memory box with all the other important stuff.”
important stuff. he files that away with all the other small revelations you drop without realizing their weight, adds it to the mental catalog he's been building for years. you keep his terrible origami. you think their childhood memories are important enough to preserve in a special box. you're sitting in his living room like it's yours too, feet tucked against his leg like the contact is natural, necessary even.
“what else is in there?” he asks, genuinely curious but also desperate to keep you talking, to hear more about the pieces of your shared history you've deemed worth saving.
you consider this, working the candy around in your mouth thoughtfully. “lots of things. movie ticket stubs from our first pg-13 movie—remember how we snuck into that theater in eighth grade? your mom's chocolate chip cookie recipe that you wrote out for me in high school because i wanted to learn how to bake. that polaroid from senior prom where you're making bunny ears behind my head.”
each item hits him like a small revelation. he remembers all of it—remembers the way you'd grabbed his hand in the dark theater during the scary parts, how you'd insisted on writing out the recipe even though you'd never shown any interest in baking before, the way you'd laughed so hard at his bunny ears that you'd snorted and immediately turned red with embarrassment.
“you kept the recipe?” his voice comes out softer than intended, almost wondering.
“of course i kept the recipe. your handwriting was so bad i could barely read it, but i kept it anyway.” you grin at him, that bright, uninhibited smile that makes his chest feel too tight. “still can't make cookies worth a damn, but i have the recipe.”
“i could teach you,” he offers without thinking, then immediately wants to take it back because it sounds too much like a date, too much like something more than friends would do together.
but you just nod enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on the couch. “yes! we should definitely do that. i've been wanting to learn forever, but every time i try on my own they come out like hockey pucks.”
the casual way you accept his offer, like spending an afternoon in the kitchen together is the most natural thing in the world, makes his pulse skip. he can already picture it—you in his kitchen, flour in your hair, probably getting more ingredients on yourself than in the bowl. him standing behind you, hands covering yours as he shows you how to fold in the chocolate chips, trying not to think about how perfectly you'd fit against his chest.
“satoru?” you're looking at him with that slightly concerned expression that means he's been quiet too long, lost in his own head again. your brow furrows in that particular way it does when you're trying to read his mood. “you okay?”
“yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended, scratchy around the edges. he clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that's become automatic over the years. “just thinking.”
“dangerous,” you tease, but there's something softer in your eyes now, something that makes him wonder if you can see right through him. if maybe you've always been able to see through him, and he's been the only one pretending otherwise.
the afternoon stretches out, lazy and warm, filled with the comfortable silence of two people who've known each other long enough that conversation isn't always necessary. you've finished your candy and are now absently braiding the hem of your shirt, fingers working the fabric with the same methodical precision you'd used on the wrapper. he thinks about how easy it would be to just say it. to tell you that he's been yours since before he knew what that meant, that every day feels like borrowed time because surely someone this good, this bright, this perfectly imperfect can't actually want to spend her free time with someone like him.
instead, he reaches for the tv remote and pretends his hands aren't shaking. pretends he doesn't notice the way you watch him move, doesn't see the little frown that crosses your face when he turns away from you to focus on the screen.
the opening credits of some mindless sitcom fill the silence, but he's not really watching. he's thinking about memory boxes and terrible origami cranes and the way you said “important stuff” like it meant something. like maybe he means something.
like maybe twenty years of almosts might finally be leading somewhere.
the farmer's market on saturday morning is your idea, which means satoru trails behind you like a devoted shadow, carrying your reusable bags and pretending he's not cataloguing every smile you give to the vendors. you're wearing that sundress he likes—the one with tiny cherries printed on cream-colored fabric that makes your skin look like it's been kissed by sunlight—and he's having what can only be described as a religious experience watching you examine peaches with scientific precision.
the dress hits just above your knees, swaying gently as you move from stall to stall, and he has to actively work to keep his eyes from following the movement. the morning sun catches in your hair, highlighting strands he's never noticed before, and when you lean over to smell a particularly promising piece of fruit, he has to look away before he does something stupid like stare at the graceful curve of your neck.
“these are perfect,” you announce, holding up a peach that's blushed pink and gold, soft to the touch but not too yielding. your fingers cradle it carefully, thumb brushing over the fuzzy skin with reverence. “smell.”
you thrust the peach toward his face with the enthusiasm of someone who's discovered buried treasure, and he dutifully inhales, though mostly what he's registering is your proximity and the way your hair smells like vanilla and something uniquely you. something he's never been able to identify but would recognize in a crowded room. “smells good,” he manages, and you beam like he's just solved world hunger.
your whole face lights up with the compliment, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he thinks distantly that he'd probably agree with anything you said if it meant seeing that expression again. you could tell him the peach smelled like old socks and he'd nod along just to keep you smiling.
“right? we're definitely making cobbler this week.” you're already moving toward the vendor, pulling crumpled bills from the small purse slung across your body, but the words stop him cold.
we. the casual assumption that he'll be there, that his kitchen is your kitchen, that making cobbler together is just what you do. his chest goes tight with affection so intense it borders on medical emergency. you don't even question whether he'll want to spend his sunday afternoon elbow-deep in flour and fruit—you just assume, with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to doubt their welcome in his space.
“whatever you want, your highness,” he says, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. it's been happening more frequently lately, that old childhood nickname finding its way into casual conversation. you've been ‘your highness’ in his head for so long that sometimes it escapes into real conversation, and every time it does, you get this look—half amused, half something else he can't quite read but desperately wants to understand.
“you and that nickname,” you mutter, but you're smiling as you hand the vendor your money, counting out bills with careful precision. your cheeks are slightly pink, though whether from the compliment or the morning sun, he can't tell. “i swear you're never gonna let me grow up.”
if only you knew. he's acutely aware of how grown up you are, how you've traded pigtails for soft waves that catch the light and crayon drawings for the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. he's noticed every single change, catalogued every new freckle and laugh line, the way your voice has gotten slightly deeper, more melodious. somehow he's fallen deeper with each transformation, like he's been in love with every version of you that's ever existed.
“excuse me,” the peach vendor says as she hands you your change, coins clinking softly in your palm, “you two are just the cutest couple. how long have you been together?”
satoru's brain short-circuits so completely he's surprised smoke doesn't start pouring from his ears. his mouth opens and closes without sound, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck, probably turning his face an unflattering shade of red. you laugh—that bright, surprised sound that makes his stomach flip—and shake your head quickly, hands fluttering in denial.
“oh, we're not—we're just friends,” you say, but there's something in your voice, a slight hesitation before the word ‘friends’ that makes his pulse stutter.
just friends. the words hit him somewhere behind his sternum, not quite pain but not quite relief either. the vendor looks embarrassed, starts apologizing profusely, but you wave her off with easy grace while satoru stands there wondering if his internal combustion is visible from the outside. his hands tighten on the straps of your bags, knuckles probably white with the effort of appearing normal.
“happens all the time,” you tell him as you walk away, weaving between other shoppers with practiced ease, and there's something in your voice he can't identify. something almost… wistful? “people always think we're dating.”
“yeah,” he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strained. his throat feels tight, words coming out rougher than intended. “weird, right?”
you glance at him sideways, and for a second he thinks you might say something else. your lips part slightly, like you're considering it, but then you just shrug and move toward the flower stand, leaving him to follow and contemplate the particular torture of being mistaken for your boyfriend by strangers when he'd give anything for it to be true.
the flower stand is a riot of color and fragrance, buckets of blooms arranged in careful rows. the vendor is a tiny elderly woman with silver hair pinned back in a neat bun, and she takes one look at them approaching and immediately starts gushing about her roses, hands gesturing enthusiastically toward a display of pink blooms that smell like summer and promises.
“for your girlfriend?” she asks satoru with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing to the roses with the confidence of someone who's been in the matchmaking business for decades.
“just friends,” you say again, quicker this time, the words tumbling out before satoru can even process the question. he tries not to read too much into the way your smile falters slightly, the way your shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
but the woman is persistent, pressing a single white rose into his palm with another wink that suggests she knows something they don't. the flower is perfect—petals like silk, stem thornless and smooth. “sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, young man. trust me, i've been selling flowers for forty years. i know these things.”
satoru stares down at the rose, its petals soft as silk between his fingers and impossibly white, like fresh snow or clean linen or every perfect thing he's ever tried to find words for. when he looks up, you're already walking toward the next stall, shoulders tense in a way that makes him want to chase after you and demand to know what you're thinking. what you're feeling. whether the flower vendor's words affected you the same way they affected him.
instead, he pays for the rose without arguing about the price, tucking it carefully into one of the bags where it won't get crushed, and follows because that's what he's always done. followed you, waited for you, hoped that someday you'd turn around and see him the way he sees you.
the way he's always seen you.
“satoru, come on,” you call over your shoulder, already three stalls ahead, and he realizes he's been standing there longer than he thought, lost in his own head again. you're holding up a small jar of honey, sunlight catching the golden liquid inside. “they have lavender honey. remember how much you liked it at that restaurant last month?”
you remember. of course you remember. you remember every small preference, every casual comment, every little thing that most people would forget within minutes. it's one of the things he loves most about you—the way you pay attention, the way you care enough to file away the smallest details about the people you love.
he jogs to catch up, bags bouncing against his side, and finds you already chatting with the honey vendor about different varieties and flavor profiles. you're animated when you talk about food, hands gesturing as you describe the restaurant where he'd first tried lavender honey, and he finds himself falling in love with you all over again just watching you exist in the world.
“we'll take two jars,” you're saying, already reaching for your wallet, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.
“i've got it,” he says, pulling out his own money before you can protest. your skin is warm under his fingers, and he has to resist the urge to let his thumb trace across your pulse point.
“you don't have to—”
“i want to.” and he does. wants to buy you honey and flowers and anything else that makes you smile like that. wants to be the reason for that soft, pleased expression that's currently gracing your features.
you let him pay, but not without rolling your eyes in fond exasperation. “you spoil me.”
“good,” he says simply, accepting the jars from the vendor and tucking them carefully into the bag with the rose. “you deserve to be spoiled.”
the words slip out before he can stop them, too honest, too revealing, and he watches your expression shift into something he can't quite read. you duck your head, hair falling forward to hide your face, but not before he catches the faint blush creeping across your cheeks.
“come on, your royal highness,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, and the casual contact makes his heart stutter. “let's go home and make that cobbler.”
home. you said home, not his place or his apartment, but home. like it's yours too. like maybe it always has been.
maybe it always has been.
back at his apartment, you're quiet in a way that sets his nerves on edge. you've been friends long enough that he can read your moods like weather patterns—the slight tension in your shoulders that means you're thinking too hard about something, the way you're biting the inside of your cheek that suggests internal debate. right now there's definitely a storm brewing behind your eyes, thoughts churning in a way that makes him want to reach out and smooth the furrow between your brows.
you're sitting on his kitchen counter, legs swinging in a restless rhythm, heels occasionally bumping against the cabinet below. he's putting away the morning's purchases with probably unnecessary focus, arranging the peaches in a bowl like they're precious artifacts, trying to ignore the way your silence is making his skin feel too tight.
“satoru,” you say finally, and something in your tone makes him turn around immediately, abandoning his careful arrangement of fruit.
“yeah?”
you're fidgeting with the stem of the white rose he bought, twirling it between your fingers like you're trying to solve a particularly complex equation. the petals have opened slightly since this morning, revealing deeper layers of ivory and cream, and in the afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window, it looks almost ethereal in your hands.
“can i ask you something?” your voice is smaller than usual, uncertain in a way that makes his chest tighten with immediate concern.
his heart starts doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly, rhythm stuttering against his ribs. “always.”
“do you ever think…” you pause, take a breath that seems to require effort, start again. “sometimes i wonder if i'm reading too much into things. like maybe i think someone likes me and it's all just in my head.”
the bottom drops out of his world.
someone. you think someone likes you, which means there's someone you're paying attention to, someone who's maybe been giving you signs that you're trying to interpret. his brain immediately starts cycling through every male friend you have, every coworker you've mentioned in passing, that guy from your yoga class who definitely stares at you too much and makes comments about your form that seem less than professional.
the rose trembles slightly in your hands, and he realizes you're nervous. actually nervous about asking him this, which means whoever it is matters to you. matters enough that you're seeking advice, validation, reassurance that you're not imagining things.
“like who?” he asks, and his voice comes out strangled, like he's being slowly crushed by invisible hands. like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with something thinner, harder to breathe.
you look up at him, and there's something vulnerable in your expression that makes his chest ache. something raw and uncertain that he wants to protect, even as it's currently destroying him from the inside out. “never mind. it's stupid.”
“it's not stupid,” he says quickly, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn by the magnetic pull that's existed between you since childhood. “whoever it is would be crazy not to like you.”
wrong thing to say. he knows it immediately because your face does something complicated, cycling through disappointment and resignation before settling on a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. that careful, practiced smile you use when you're trying to hide how you really feel.
“you have to say that. you're my best friend.”
best friend. there it is again, that careful designation that feels more like a cage every time you say it. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he's been crazy about you since before he knew what crazy about someone meant, that every day he doesn't tell you feels like a small betrayal of everything you've ever meant to each other.
instead, he says, “i don't have to say anything. i say it because it's true.”
and it is true. brutally, completely true. whoever this mystery person is, they'd have to be blind and stupid not to see how incredible you are. not to notice the way you light up a room just by entering it, the way you remember everyone's favorite coffee order and check in on people when they're having bad days and laugh so hard at terrible jokes that you snort a little, which only makes you more endearing.
you're quiet for a long moment, still twirling the rose, and he can practically see the thoughts churning behind your eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. when you finally speak, your voice is small in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and protect you from whatever's making you doubt yourself.
“sometimes i think i make up feelings where they don't exist,” you say, barely above a whisper. “like maybe i want something to be there so badly that i convince myself it is.”
and oh. oh, you're talking about him, aren't you? you're sitting here in his kitchen, talking about reading too much into things, about wanting feelings that might not exist, and he's too much of a coward to realize you're talking about him. the signs are all there—the way you've been looking at him lately, softer and more lingering than usual. the casual touches that seem to happen more frequently. the way you said “home” earlier like you meant it.
except what if you're not? what if there really is someone else, someone who's been giving you mixed signals while satoru's been pining from the sidelines like an idiot? what if he's the one reading too much into things, projecting his own desperate hopes onto innocent moments of friendship?
“you're not stupid,” he says finally, because it's the only safe thing he can think of, the only response that won't reveal everything. “if you think someone likes you, there's probably a good reason.”
you slide down from the counter, rose still in hand, and for a second you're standing close enough that he can count your eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes that he's memorized over years of study. close enough that if he just leaned down a little, if he was brave enough to close the distance...
“maybe,” you say, but you sound doubtful. disappointed in a way that makes him want to take back everything he just said. “or maybe i'm just really good at lying to myself.”
you're moving toward the living room, and he follows because he always follows, brain spinning through every conversation you've had recently, every look, every moment that might have been a sign he was too scared to read properly. you settle onto the couch like you're planning to stay for a while, curling up in the corner with your legs tucked beneath you, and he takes his usual spot on the opposite end, careful to maintain the precise distance that says ‘best friend’ instead of ‘hopelessly in love with you.’
the white rose ends up in a glass of water on his coffee table, petals catching the light from his windows, and you're staring at it with an expression he can't quite read. contemplative, maybe. wistful.
“this person,” he starts carefully, hating himself for asking but needing to know, “how long have you been thinking about them?”
you give him a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated, head tilting in that way it does when you think he's being particularly dense. “are we really doing this?”
“doing what?”
“the thing where you help me analyze my pathetic love life like we're in high school.” you're picking at the throw pillow in your lap, fingers worrying at a loose thread. “sitting around dissecting every interaction and trying to figure out what it all means.”
pathetic love life. as if you could ever have anything pathetic about you. as if whoever this mysterious person is doesn't realize they're the luckiest person alive just to be on your radar. just to have you thinking about them, analyzing their behavior, wondering if they feel the same way.
“i'm being a good friend,” he protests, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. bitter like the coffee you drink when you're stressed, bitter like the medicine you have to swallow when something's wrong.
“you're being nosy.”
“can't i be both?”
you laugh despite yourself, and the sound goes straight to his chest like it always does, warming him from the inside out. “fine. but you can't make fun of me.”
“when have i ever made fun of you?”
“constantly. it's like your primary form of communication.” but you're smiling now, some of the tension leaving your shoulders, and he counts it as a victory.
you’re not wrong. teasing you has always been safer than the alternative, easier than letting you see how seriously, completely, utterly gone he is for you. easier than admitting that every joke is just a way of buying more time in your presence, every playful insult a cover for the compliments he really wants to give.
“i promise to be nice,” he says, crossing his heart with exaggerated solemnity, and you snort at the theatrical gesture.
“i'll believe it when i see it.”
you're quiet for a moment, picking at the throw pillow, and he can see you working up the courage to say whatever it is you're thinking. your teeth worry at your bottom lip in a gesture he recognizes from childhood—you used to do the same thing before spelling tests and soccer tryouts and the first day of school each year.
when you finally speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it, has to lean forward slightly to catch every word.
“it's been a long time,” you admit, not looking at him. “like, a really long time. since we were kids, maybe.”
since we were kids.
since. we. were. kids.
his heart stops beating entirely, just quits on him right there in his living room, because unless you had some secret elementary school boyfriend he doesn't know about, unless there's some childhood friend he's completely forgotten about...
you're talking about him.
you've been thinking about him.
since you were kids.
“oh,” he says, because his vocabulary has apparently shrunk to single syllables, because every word in the english language has suddenly abandoned him when he needs them most.
“see?” you say quickly, finally looking up at him with eyes that are bright with what might be tears. “i told you it was stupid. forget i said anything.”
“no,” he says, too loud, and you startle slightly at the volume. “no, it's not stupid. it's...”
it's everything. it's his every prayer answered, every birthday wish granted, every star he's ever wished on coming true all at once. it's twenty years of hoping and waiting and pretending to be content with friendship finally, finally meaning something.
“it's what?” you ask, and there's something hopeful in your voice that makes his chest feel like it might crack open, like his heart might actually burst from the sheer force of what he's feeling.
he opens his mouth to tell you, to finally, finally say what he's been carrying around for twenty years, and then he panics. because what if he's wrong? what if you're talking about someone else after all? what if he says everything and ruins the most important friendship of his life? what if you look at him with disgust or pity or worse, that careful politeness you use with people who make you uncomfortable?
“it's brave,” he says instead, taking the coward's way out, watching the light in your eyes dim slightly. “whoever it is would be lucky to have you thinking about them.”
your face falls so subtly he almost misses it, just a slight dimming of the light in your eyes, a barely perceptible tightening around the corners of your mouth. but he's been studying your expressions for twenty years, cataloguing every micro-expression, and he knows he's fucked up. knows he's missed something crucial, said the wrong thing, let fear win when courage was what the moment required.
“right,” you say, and your voice is carefully neutral, scrubbed clean of the hope that had been there moments before. “lucky them.”
you're pulling away from him, not physically but emotionally, retreating behind the walls that friendship has never required before. building barriers in real time, and he's sitting there like an idiot, watching it happen, knowing he caused it but not knowing how to fix it without potentially making everything worse.
the rose on the coffee table seems to mock him with its perfect white petals, a symbol of something he was too scared to claim when he had the chance. when you were sitting right there, telling him everything he's ever wanted to hear, and he was too much of a coward to hear it properly.
too much of a coward to take the leap that might have changed everything.
you leave not long after that, claiming an early morning tomorrow and some excuse about laundry that you both know is bullshit. the way you gather your things—phone sliding into your palm with deliberate precision, keys jingling once before being muffled in your grip, that little cross-body bag with its worn leather strap that you always adjust twice before leaving—feels like watching his entire future pack itself away in slow motion.
satoru's throat constricts as he tracks each movement, his vision tunneling on the careful way you avoid his gaze. there's something devastating about the ordinary nature of your departure, the way catastrophe can masquerade as routine. you're folding in on yourself, shoulders curved inward like you're protecting something fragile in your chest, and he knows with sickening clarity that he put that defensive hunch there.
“text me when you get home safe,” he says, one hand automatically reaching up to rake through his hair—those moonspun strands that never learned proper behavior, always catching and scattering light like captured starfall. the words scrape against his vocal cords like sandpaper. it's what he always says, has been saying since you got your first car at sixteen and his anxiety about your well-being became a living thing with teeth and claws.
“always do,” you reply, your fingers worrying at the delicate chain of your necklace—that thin silver thing that catches at your throat when you swallow nervously. your voice carries the hollow ring of obligation rather than affection. you still won't look at him directly, your gaze fixed somewhere around his left shoulder where his sweater pulls slightly across his collarbone, and the absence of eye contact feels like a physical ache behind his sternum.
the click of his door closing echoes through the apartment with the finality of a coffin lid. satoru stands there for a full minute, staring at the wood grain, before the magnitude of his cowardice hits him like a freight train carrying twenty years' worth of missed opportunities.
the apartment transforms in your absence, walls stretching impossibly wide, ceilings vaulting into cathedral heights that make him feel ant-small and infinitely alone. the couch still holds the impression of your body, cushions dented where you'd curled your legs beneath you, and he finds himself gravitating toward that spot like a moth to flame. when he sits down, the lingering warmth of your presence soaks through his jeans, and he has to press his palms against his eyes to keep from doing something pathetic like burying his face in the throw pillow you'd been hugging.
the white rose sits on his coffee table like an accusation, its petals pristine and mocking. sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and satoru had been too much of a fool to recognize the universe handing him a script.
his phone buzzes against the glass surface: home safe. thanks for today.
the message glows on his screen, twelve words that somehow contain multitudes of disappointment. he can picture you typing it, thumb hesitating over each letter, probably tucked into your favorite corner of your couch with that oversized cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders, rewriting it three times before settling on something safely neutral. you used to add heart emojis to these check-ins, little digital affirmations that he'd treasured more than he had any right to. their absence now feels like a door slamming shut.
he types: anytime. sleep well. his thumb hovers over the send button for thirty seconds, jaw working silently as he wars with himself.
then deletes it. tries: we should talk about what happened. his teeth catch his lower lip, worrying at the skin until it stings.
deletes that too. his fingers hover over the keyboard, shoulders hunched forward in defeat, cycling through seventeen different responses that range from desperate to devastated. i love you gets typed and erased four times, each deletion making his chest cavity feel emptier. please come back so i can fix this makes it halfway before he chickens out, his hand scrubbing down his face hard enough to leave red marks. i've been yours since we were seven and i'm sorry i'm too scared to be brave never even makes it past his mental rough draft.
finally, he settles on: anytime. sleep well.
the delivered notification appears, and then... nothing. no immediate response, no typing indicator, no late-night follow-up like you sometimes send when you can't sleep. just radio silence that stretches into the night like a chasm.
satoru spends the next six hours staring at his ceiling, replaying every microsecond of your conversation with the obsessive precision of a crime scene investigator. his hair fans across the pillow in ethereal wisps, those pale strands seeming to glow with their own inner light against the dark fabric, like captured lightning or the first frost of winter given form. the way your voice had gone soft and vulnerable when you said since we were kids. the hope that had flickered in your eyes—those beautiful eyes he'd never been brave enough to hold contact with for more than stolen moments—before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, your shoulders drawing inward and your hands clasping tightly in your lap until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.*. the hope that had flickered in your eyes before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.
since we were kids. the phrase loops in his mind like a broken record, each repetition driving the knife of realization deeper into his chest. unless you'd harbored some secret elementary school crush he'd never known about—which, given that you'd been attached at the hip since kindergarten, seemed unlikely—there was only one person you could have been referring to.
him.
you'd been talking about him.
and he'd been so paralyzed by the possibility of being wrong that he'd missed the moment entirely, let it slip through his fingers like water through a broken dam.
by the time dawn creeps through his blinds, painting everything in shades of regret and determination, he's made a decision that will either save his life or end it completely. the resolution sits in his chest like a live wire, sparking against his ribs every time he breathes. he's going to tell you everything. twenty years of accumulated feelings, every birthday wish spent on your happiness, every star he's wished on while thinking of your smile. all of it.
the thought terrifies him so completely that he has to grip the edge of his mattress to keep from floating away on a tide of panic.
sunday afternoon arrives with the punctuality of a church bell, and with it comes the familiar sound of your key in his lock. you'd exchanged spare keys sophomore year of college, a practical decision born of too many instances of locked-out roommates and forgotten textbooks. what had started as convenience had evolved into something more significant—the quiet intimacy of belonging in each other's spaces, of being trusted with unrestricted access to the small, private corners of each other's lives.
now, listening to that key turn, satoru's heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to break free and run away before his mouth can ruin everything permanently.
“hey,” you say as you appear in his doorway, and the single syllable carries the weight of exhaustion that makes his chest constrict with guilt. there are shadows under your eyes that weren't there yesterday, and your smile—when it finally appears—lacks its usual wattage.
“hey yourself,” he manages, his voice cracking slightly on the second word.
you move through his space with less than your usual confidence, the easy familiarity replaced by something more cautious. instead of immediately claiming your usual spot on the far end of the couch—the corner you'd long ago designated as yours, complete with the throw pillow you'd brought from your own apartment and the way you always tucked your feet up under you—you hover near the armchair, fingers worrying at the strap of your bag.
the careful distance you're maintaining might as well be measured in miles rather than feet. it's like watching you interact with a stranger's apartment, all politeness and uncertainty where there used to be ownership and ease. the sight of it breaks something fundamental in satoru's chest, some load-bearing beam of his emotional architecture crumbling under the weight of what his cowardice has cost them.
“about yesterday,” he starts, the words tumbling out before he can lose his nerve entirely.
“we don't have to talk about it,” you interrupt quickly, finally settling into the armchair but perched on its edge like you're ready to flee at the first sign of discomfort. your hands clasp in your lap, knuckles white with tension. “i was being weird, and awkward, and i made things uncomfortable. we can just pretend it never happened and go back to normal.”
but normal is what got them here in the first place—twenty years of careful boundaries and unspoken feelings and the kind of willful blindness that masquerades as friendship when it's really just elaborate emotional self-harm.
“you weren't being weird,” he says firmly, rising from the couch to face you properly. the movement is too quick, driven by urgency rather than grace, and you startle slightly at the sudden change in his position. “i was being an idiot.”
something flickers across your expression—surprise, maybe, or the faintest spark of hope quickly tampered down. “satoru—”
“just let me say this, okay?” the words come out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and the weight of everything he's been carrying. “before i lose my nerve completely and spend another twenty years being a coward.”
you go very still, and he can see the exact moment you decide to let him speak. your shoulders settle back against the chair, hands unclasping to grip the armrests instead, and you give him a small nod that somehow contains multitudes of permission and trepidation.
the silence that follows feels crystalline, fragile enough that the wrong word might shatter everything beyond repair. satoru runs his hand through his hair—those pale strands that never quite cooperate, that catch light like spun moonbeams even in the dim afternoon glow filtering through his blinds. the gesture is pure nervous energy, fingers combing through the silky mess as if he might find courage tangled somewhere in the roots.
“when you were talking yesterday,” he begins, then stops, takes a breath that tastes like terror and determination in equal measure. “about thinking someone liked you since you were kids...”
he watches your face carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression. the way your lips part slightly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you blink too fast, the barely perceptible forward lean of your body like you're drawn toward his words despite yourself.
“you were talking about me, weren't you?”
the question hangs in the air between them, loaded with twenty years of almosts and maybes and the kind of hope that feels dangerous to voice. your breath catches—a sharp, barely audible intake that he might have missed if he weren't paying attention with the focused intensity of a man whose entire future hangs in the balance.
“satoru—” you start, but he's already moving, dropping to his knees in front of your chair with the graceless desperation of someone who's finally found the courage to stop running from the thing that matters most.
his hands hover just above your knees, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating through the soft cotton of your sundress—a different one today, this one scattered with tiny daisies that make him think of childhood summers and innocence and all the ways you've been beautiful to him across the years.
“because if you were,” he continues, words spilling out in a rush now that the dam has finally burst, “then i need you to know that you weren't reading too much into anything. you weren't making up feelings that don't exist or convincing yourself of something that wasn't there.”
your eyes are wide, pupils dilated in a way that makes the familiar color seem deeper, more infinite. he can see his own reflection in them, distorted and desperate and more honest than he's ever been in his life.
“i've been crazy about you since the second grade,” he confesses, the words scraping against his throat like they're made of glass. “since you wrote that you wanted to be a princess in our yearbook and i decided right then and there that i was going to spend the rest of my life making sure you felt like one.”
the admission settles between them like a living thing, breathing and vital and impossible to take back. your hands tighten on the armrests, knuckles going white again, but this time it looks less like tension and more like anchoring—like you're holding on to keep from floating away on the enormity of what he's just revealed.
“every door i've ever opened for you,” he continues, momentum carrying him forward now that he's started, “every time i've carried your bags or bought you flowers or called you ‘your highness’—it wasn't just being a good friend. it was never just friendship.”
his voice cracks on the last word, twenty years of careful pretense finally crumbling under the weight of truth. “it's all been because you're my princess. you've always been my princess, and i've been too much of a coward to tell you.”
silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded with possibility. satoru can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can feel the subtle tremor in his hands where they still hover near your knees. you're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, cycling through what looks like shock and disbelief and something that might be the beginning of joy before it gets tampered down by uncertainty.
he's never felt more exposed in his life, kneeling here in his own living room with his heart splayed open like a roadmap to twenty years of devotion. the vulnerability is excruciating, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, waiting for you to either pull him back from the brink or push him over the edge entirely.
“you,” you say finally, and your voice comes out barely above a whisper, thick with something that might be tears or laughter or both. “you complete and utter idiot.”
the words hit him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp exhale. his heart, which had been hammering with nervous hope, stutters and nearly stops entirely. this is it, then. the moment where twenty years of friendship dies on the altar of his feelings, where he learns what it costs to love someone who can't love you back.
“look, if you don't feel the same way—” he starts, already beginning the retreat, already starting to build the walls that will let him survive the aftermath of this spectacular emotional implosion.
“of course i feel the same way!” you explode, suddenly on your feet, the force of your movement sending him rocking back on his heels. your hands are gesturing wildly now, cutting through the air with the sharp precision of someone who's been holding back way too much for way too long. “i've been in love with you since we were kids, you absolute disaster of a human being!”
the words slam into him with the force of a freight train, reorganizing his entire understanding of reality in the space between one heartbeat and the next. of course i feel the same way. the phrase echoes in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his mind like a pinball machine gone haywire.
“you have?” he asks, and his voice comes out small and wondering, like he's afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell has made this moment possible.
“yes!” you're pacing now, three quick steps to the window and back, your sundress swirling around your legs with each sharp turn. “why do you think i've been hanging around your apartment every weekend for the past fifteen years? why do you think i never date anyone seriously? because i've been waiting for you to figure it out!”
he's scrambling to his feet now, desperate to close the distance between you but afraid to move too fast, like you're some wild thing that might bolt if he makes the wrong move. “you've been waiting for me?”
“forever,” you say, and now you're definitely crying, tears streaming down your cheeks while you laugh with what sounds like relief and frustration and twenty years of pent-up emotion finally finding release. “i've been waiting forever, and you just—yesterday when i was trying to tell you, you just—”
“i panicked,” he admits, finally closing the space between you in two quick strides. his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears with a gentleness that belies the tremor in his fingers. “i thought maybe you were talking about someone else, and i couldn't handle it if you were.”
your skin is soft under his palms, warm and real and perfect, and he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch you like this. that you're letting him catch your tears, that you're leaning into his touch instead of pulling away.
“someone else,” you repeat, shaking your head with enough force to send your hair flying. “as if there could ever be someone else. as if anyone else could even compare to you.”
the words hit him like salvation, like every prayer he's ever whispered to the dark finally being answered. “really?”
“really,” you confirm, and then you're rising up on your toes, hands fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him down toward you. “now stop being an idiot and kiss me before i lose my mind completely.”
he doesn't need to be told twice.
their lips meet in the middle of something that's been building for twenty years, soft and desperate and perfect in a way that makes his brain go completely offline. you taste like the strawberry lip balm you've been using since high school, sweet and familiar and right in a way that makes him wonder how he's survived this long without kissing you.
your mouth is warm and yielding under his, and when you sigh against his lips—this tiny, breathy sound of contentment—he thinks he might actually die from the sheer overwhelming rightness of it all. his hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, pouring twenty years of accumulated longing into the connection between your mouths.
when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together like you can't bear to be more than an inch away from each other. your hands are still fisted in his shirt, holding him close, and he can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumbs rest against your throat.
“holy shit,” you breathe, and the profanity sounds like a prayer falling from your kiss-swollen lips.
“yeah,” he agrees, voice rough with emotion and the lingering effects of the best kiss of his entire life. “holy shit.”
you laugh, the sound bright and bubbling and infectious, and he finds himself grinning back at you with an expression that probably makes him look completely unhinged. he doesn't care. he's just kissed his best friend, his princess, the love of his entire life, and she kissed him back, and if that's not worth looking a little crazy over, then nothing is.
“so,” you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice even with his eyes closed, can feel it in the way your lips curve against his when you speak. “what now, your highness?”
the nickname—his own endearment turned back on him with teasing affection—makes him groan and drop his head to your shoulder in mock defeat. “you're never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“absolutely not,” you confirm cheerfully, arms winding around his neck to hold him close. “i've got twenty years of princess jokes stored up, and now that i know you meant them...”
“i meant every single one,” he says, pulling back to look at you properly. your hair is messed up from his hands, lipstick smudged in a way that probably matches his own mouth, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars just for you. like he's something precious and beloved and yours. “i meant all of it.”
“good,” you say, going up on your toes to kiss him again, soft and sweet and lingering. “because i've got twenty years of being your princess to catch up on.”
this time when you kiss, it's slower, more exploratory. a conversation conducted in the language of lips and tongues and shared breath, twenty years of friendship providing the foundation for something deeper and more complex. he maps the shape of your mouth with the dedication of a cartographer, memorizing every curve and hollow, the way you taste like strawberries and forever and every dream he's ever had.
your hands slide up into his hair, fingers combing through the pale strands that have been catching light and hearts since childhood, and he thinks distantly that he's never going to get tired of this. of touching you, of being allowed to touch you, of the way you melt against him like you were made to fit in his arms.
when you break apart this time, it's with the reluctant awareness that you still have things to talk about, logistics to work out, twenty years of carefully maintained boundaries to navigate in this brave new world where you're allowed to love each other out loud.
“we should probably talk about what this means,” you say, though you make no move to step out of his arms. if anything, you settle more firmly against him, like you're claiming your space in his embrace.
“it means i'm yours,” he says without hesitation, the words coming as easily as breathing now that he's allowed to say them. “if you'll have me. it means i've been yours since we were seven years old and you asked me to be your friend, and i'm never letting you go again.”
your eyes go soft and liquid at his declaration, and he watches you blink back fresh tears with the tender fascination of someone who's finally been given permission to witness your every emotion.
“i've been yours too,” you whisper, voice thick with feeling. “for so long that i can't remember what it felt like before.”
“then it's simple,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo and the new, intoxicating knowledge that he's allowed to do this now. “we stop pretending otherwise.”
you laugh, the sound muffled against his chest where you've pressed your face. “you make it sound so easy.”
“isn't it?” he asks, genuine curiosity coloring his voice. “we already do everything else together. we already know each other's worst habits and biggest fears and what makes each other laugh until we can't breathe. now we just get to add kissing to the list.”
“and other things,” you add, pulling back to look at him with an expression that's equal parts innocent and suggestive, and he feels heat pool low in his stomach at the implication.
“other things,” he agrees, voice dropping to something rougher, more intimate. “lots of other things. twenty years' worth of other things.”
you shiver slightly at the promise in his voice, and he files that reaction away for future reference, cataloguing it alongside every other response he plans to learn by heart.
“so what's first?” you ask, settling more comfortably in his arms like you're planning to stay there for the foreseeable future.
“first,” he says, pressing another kiss to your hair because he can, because you're his now and he's allowed, “we order way too much chinese food and eat it on the couch while we figure out how to tell people that we're finally together.”
“people are going to say they saw it coming,” you predict, tilting your head back to look at him. “we're going to get so many ‘about time’ comments.”
“let them,” he says, grinning down at you with unrepentant joy. “they can say whatever they want. i'm just happy i don't have to pretend anymore that i'm not completely gone for you.”
“completely gone,” you repeat, testing the phrase like you're tasting wine. “i like that. makes it sound properly dramatic and ridiculous.”
“it is dramatic and ridiculous,” he confirms. “twenty years of pining? that's shakespearean levels of absurd.”
“but worth it,” you say, and it's not a question.
“absolutely worth it,” he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss that tastes like strawberries and new beginnings and happily ever after.
later, when you're curled up together on his couch—your couch now, he supposes, since everything that's his has always been yours anyway—sharing lo mein and sweet and sour chicken while some forgettable movie plays in the background, he thinks about that second-grade yearbook tucked away in his bedroom closet.
about seven-year-old you writing about being a princess in careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration. about seven-year-old him deciding that if you wanted to be a princess, then he'd find a way to make it happen, even if it meant becoming an astronaut just to bring you back moon rocks that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.
mission accomplished, he thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head where it rests against his shoulder. though the seven-year-old version of himself probably never imagined it would involve quite this much kissing.
not that he's complaining.
“satoru?” your voice is sleepy, muffled against his shirt where you've pressed your face into the curve of his neck.
“mm?”
“next time just tell me you love me from the start, okay? save us both some time.”
he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and making you smile against his skin. “deal, princess. though for the record, i do love you. have always loved you. will always love you.”
“i love you too,” you mumble, words slurring slightly with approaching sleep. “my ridiculous, dramatic, completely wonderful disaster of a man.”
“your disaster,” he corrects softly, fingers combing through your hair with reverent gentleness. “always yours.”
you hum contentedly, settling more firmly against him, and he thinks this might be what happily ever after feels like. strawberry lip balm and sunday afternoons and the girl of his dreams finally, finally in his arms where she belongs, where she's always belonged, where she'll stay for as long as he has breath in his body to keep her there.
yeah, he could definitely get used to this.
the white rose from yesterday's market sits on the coffee table beside their empty takeout containers, petals still pristine and perfect in their small glass of water. a symbol of new beginnings and answered prayers and the kind of love story that starts with friendship and ends with forever.
sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and as satoru drifts off to sleep with you warm and safe and his in his arms, he thinks she might have been the smartest person he's ever met.
synopsis — you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?
tags — enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut, gojo being in denial and everything hitting him all at once → previously
wc: 6.5k
likes and reblogs are appreciated!
satoru was eight when he realized just how ridiculously easy it was to push your buttons.
it took minimal effort—barely any at all—and that alone fascinated him. there you were, plopped in the middle of the living room like a pint-sized monarch in a kingdom of chaos, surrounded by a sea of glittery stickers. the carpet around you looked like it had lost a war against every shade of pastel known to man. your hair was clipped in a dozen different colors, each barrette more violently neon than the last, turning your head into some kind of wild, living art project.
if it had been anyone else, he would’ve dragged suguru away and never looked back. but something about you—maybe it was the stubborn pout on your lips, or the way your gaze zeroed in on him with instant irritation, like you'd already decided he was the worst person alive—made him pause.
actually, it made him stay.
there was something undeniably funny about how fast you got riled up. he noticed it immediately—the way your brows pinched together like you were solving the world’s most annoying math problem every time he spoke. it was incredible. mesmerizing. every reaction you gave him felt like a reward.
he decided then and there, right between the glitter unicorn stickers and the scowl you’d offered in his direction, that teasing you might just be his life’s calling.
later, after you’d stomped up the stairs with all the rage your tiny body could contain, suguru let out a sigh and leaned against the couch, arms crossed.
“is it really impossible for you to not be annoying?” he asked, sounding more exhausted than mad.
satoru didn’t answer right away. his eyes were still fixed on the staircase, where your retreating footsteps had echoed moments before. his mind replayed the image of you standing there in your ridiculous teddy bear pajamas—too big for you, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands—pointing out each sparkly sticker as if you were showing off the crown jewels.
something about that stuck with him.
finally, he tore his eyes away and smirked, stretching his legs across the carpet like a king who had just won a battle. “nope. Impossible,” he said, solemnly. “that’s like asking me not to breathe.”
his tone was dead serious as he looked suguru in the eye, like he wasn’t just making a statement but declaring a fundamental law of nature.
then he gave the stairs one last glance—half-expecting you to come barreling back down with a plastic doll in hand, ready to hurl it at his head. honestly? he kiind of hoped you would.
shaking his head at the thought, satoru flopped beside suguuru on the floor, arms behind his head like he owned the room. “what’s her name?” he asked, too casual to be innocent. a small part of him worried suguru wouldn’t tell him. that maybe he’d keep it to himself, like it was some kind of secret he didn’t want to share.
but when suguru said it—your name, clear as day—satoru smiled.
not a big, toothy grin. just something small. barely-there. the kind of smile that slips out before you know it’s happening. he let your name roll off his tongue like he was testing the weight of it, committing it to memory.
there was this strange feeling—quiet and certain—that settled in his chest. a flicker of instinct, maybe. or fate, if he believed in that kind of thing.
somehow, he knew he’d be seeing a lot more of you.
satoru was fourteen when he decided that lazy afternoons like this were way too quiet without him stirring trouble.
the sky was pale blue, streaked with thin clouds that barely moved, and the air buzzed with the hum of cicadas. your mom had hung laundry out on the line, white sheets swaying gently like sails, and the smell of fresh soap clung to the summer breeze. how boring. satoru thought.
the heat was getting to him. suguru was busy reading some book he couldn't care less about. there were no more sweets in your pantry and your mom had offered him a banana as a substitute.
this is the worst day of my life. i'm basically dying. maybe i should just lay in the middle of the road. it'll finish my suffering quickly. he thought, all pouty.
with a determined mind ready to cause mischief, satoru looked around to find someone to pester. that's when his line of sight pointed to you.
you were sitting cross-legged on the porch steps, earbuds tucked in, sketchpad balanced on your lap. your hair was pulled back messily, a pencil behind your ear, and the sunlight lit up the tips like strands of gold.
satoru didn’t know why he noticed that. he blamed boredom.
“whatcha doing?” his voice came suddenly from behind you, making you flinch hard enough that your pencil left an ugly streak across the page.
“seriously?!” you spun around, glaring. “do you have to sneak up on people?”
“it’s a talent,” he said easily, dropping down onto the step below you without asking. his shoulders brushed yours, not that he cared—or maybe he did, because suddenly they felt way too warm. he ignored it.
you sighed dramatically and went back to erasing the line, muttering under your breath. he had decided to ignore your string of curses and bad wishes for him, instead focusing on what you were drawing.
“you draw now?” he leaned in, head tilted like he was actually curious.
“always have,” you said flatly, shifting the sketchpad away from his line of sight.
that just made him grin wider. “oh, hiding it? must be bad then.”
your eyes narrowed. “it’s better than anything you could do.”
“please.” he snorted, snatching the pencil from your hand before you could react. “i’m a natural at everything.”
“give it back, satoru!” you lunged for it, but he just held it high, smirking as you scrambled to grab it. “what’s the magic word?” he asked while one of his eyebrows were arched.
“die.”
he laughed, leaning back on his hands, pencil spinning between his fingers like it was a game. you were glaring at him so hard, lips pressed tight, and for some stupid reason, the sight made his chest feel weird. not bad weird—just… weird weird.
“fine, fine,” he said eventually, handing it back like he was doing you some grand favor. “don’t cry about it.”
“i wasn’t going to cry,” you shot back, snatching it from him.
“sure,” he said lightly, grin tugging at his mouth.
you again muttered something he didn’t catch, focusing on your sketch again. satoru leaned back, letting his elbows rest on the step behind him, eyes drifting toward you without meaning to.
the sunlight had made your hair look lighter than it usually was. your hair had been caught in the breeze, making it messier than usual. the both of you basked in the unusual silence, while the cicadas had filled in the quiet air. and for some reason he couldn’t stop looking. he told himself it was because he was bored. that was all.
he sat in silence for a second too long before blurting the first thing that came to mind. “you draw me yet? bet i’d look amazing.” he said as the side of his lip quirked up. you rolled his eyes at how pleased he seemed to be with his idea. satoru almost let out a chuckle at that.
you scoffed. “you’d look annoying.”
he grinned, leaning in close just to see you flinch. “guess that means you’d get it accurate.”
you shoved his shoulder, and he laughed, the sound ringing through the quiet summer air like it belonged there. like it was going to haunt you one day if you let it slip between your fingers.
satoru was fifteen when he became convinced that tutoring you was the worst mistake of his life.
he stared at the notebook in front of you like it had personally offended him. numbers and letters swam across the page—x’s, y’s, parentheses that clung together like lovers, and a sad-looking equal sign caught in the middle of it all. he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends like the strands were responsible for your confusion.
“it’s literally simple,” he groaned, dramatically throwing himself back into the beanbag behind him. “just isolate the variable, divide both sides, and boom—done.”
you blinked at him, expression blank. “…that explains nothing.”
“are you serious?” he sat up fast, eyes wide in pure disbelief. “i just gave you gold. that was math gold.”
you turned to him slowly, pencil clutched like a weapon. “you basically said ‘just do the thing’ without telling me how to do the thing.”
satoru opened his mouth, then closed it again. then sighed, flopping to the floor with an arm over his eyes like the world was ending. “i’m going to die here. this is how it ends for me. death by seventh grade algebra.”
you rolled your eyes, scribbling something in your notebook that looked more like a sad doodle than actual math. “you’re so dramatic.”
he lifted his arm just enough to peek at you. you were frowning at the problem, chewing your lip like it had done something wrong, the tip of your pencil tapping against the paper in a rhythm that screamed “i’m trying, okay?”
and that’s what made him pause.
you were frustrated. not just annoyed—genuinely frustrated. your brows were scrunched, eyes narrowed, lips slightly pursed, and even your slouched posture looked tired.
satoru sat up, brushing his bangs from his eyes. for once, he didn’t say anything stupid right away. instead, he scooted closer and pulled the notebook toward him, his voice quieter this time.
“okay, look. this part here—” he pointed to a line of the equation “—is just saying you’re multiplying x by four. so to get x alone, you gotta undo the multiplication by dividing. like... imagine you're untying a knot backwards.”
you blinked. “…so… do the opposite of what’s trapping the x?”
“exactly,” he nodded, tapping the paper. “you’re not solving the whole world. you’re just getting x alone, like pulling it out of a really bad group chat.”
a breath of laughter escaped you—barely, but he caught it. his lips twitched.
you tried the problem again, muttering your steps under your breath. satoru watched silently, not bothering to hide the way he leaned closer every time your pencil moved.
“there.” you held the notebook out like a peace offering. “happy?”
he snatched it like it was a prize. squinted. paused.
“…okay, not bad. maybe i won’t die here after all.”
“wow,” you said flatly. “thanks for the honor.”
“i’m very generous.”
you flopped onto the carpet, arms splayed dramatically. “math is evil.”
“you’re just saying that ‘cause math beat you up a little.”
“a lot.”
satoru lay beside you now, arms behind his head. the ceiling looked boring. white and flat and perfectly uninteresting. he turned his head toward you, noticed the way your eyes were half-lidded now, clearly tired but too stubborn to admit it.
“wanna learn something cool?” he asked, tone suddenly light again.
“only if it’s not math.”
“it’s math-adjacent,” he said, rolling onto his side. “but it’s cool. i promise.”
you gave him a skeptical look. “…fine. hit me with it.”
he propped himself up on one elbow. “infinity.”
you groaned. “ugh. that’s so basic.”
“rude. it’s not basic. infinity is—” he paused, like he was trying to find the right words. “—it’s the idea that there’s no end. like, no matter how far you go, there’s always more. more numbers, more space, more everything. it just… keeps going.”
you stared at him, unimpressed. “…sounds boring.”
he laughed. “isn’t it kind of beautiful?”
you blinked. “you think math is beautiful?”
“sometimes,” he said, quieter now. “sometimes it feels like the only thing that makes sense.”
for a second, you didn’t say anything. he looked up at the ceiling again, thinking about infinity and space and the fact that maybe this moment would stick with him longer than he’d admit.
“...still sounds nerdy,” you muttered.
he snorted. “liar. you’re thinking about it. that makes you a nerd too.”
you didn’t reply. just nudged his arm with your foot, eyes fluttering shut like the tiniest nap couldn’t hurt.
he let the silence sit there, eyes tracing the shape of your face as it softened with sleep. your pencil was still clutched loosely in your hand. the notebook lay between you both like a bridge.
“you’re so gonna dream about infinity,” he whispered, a grin pulling at his lips.
and maybe, just maybe, he hoped he would too.
satoru was sixteen when he found the word.
not in a textbook or vocab sheet or anything remotely useful. no, it was in one of those books suguru liked to read—dramatic, slow-paced things with too many metaphors and not enough explosions. it had dog-eared pages and the kind of prose that made satoru’s brain itch.
still, he was bored. so he cracked it open, flipped through a few pages, and skimmed the lines until something caught his eye like a pebble in his shoe.
seraphic.
he said it out loud, just to see how it sounded. again, slower.
ser-a-phic.
it tasted ridiculous. too pretty. too soft. it didn’t sound like a real word—more like the name of a soap brand or some mystical shampoo.
what kind of person even used that word seriously?
still, his eyes dropped to the sentence on the page:
“she smiled, seraphic in her joy.”
ugh. gross. but underneath it, suguru had scribbled something in neat, small handwriting: angelic. blissful. pure.
satoru frowned. pure? angelic? what did that even mean? people weren’t like that. no one was so glowing, so otherworldly, that you’d need a word like seraphic just to describe the way they smiled. he looked up, gaze wandering across the room.
and then it landed on you.
you were sitting by the window, knees pulled up, sketchpad balanced in your lap. the sun was spilling in like warm syrup, trailing across the floor and wrapping around you like it had nowhere better to be. your hair shimmered in the light, strands falling into your face as you leaned over your drawing. your eyes were focused, expression soft in that way people only got when they forgot the world existed.
and for some reason—some dumb, fleeting, utterly nonsensical reason—satoru’s chest did this weird thing.
tightened. fluttered. paused.
just for a second. a tiny, stupid second.
oh.
he blinked hard, looked back down at the book like it had just betrayed him. the sentence sat there, smug and still. seraphic. angelic. blissful.
it wasn’t about you. obviously. don’t be weird.
he flipped the page like that would shake it out of his head—but the feeling clung, warm and irritating, like leftover sun on skin. it was the same itch he’d felt the day he first saw you sketching in silence, the way something about you—just sometimes—felt a little too still. too careful. like a scene from a dream.
he hated it.
well. not hated. more like… found it annoying. definitely annoying.
you shifted, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, and the sunlight followed you again. dramatic much? honestly, it was like nature itself had a crush on you. disgusting.
before he could stop himself, he was staring again—and that’s when you spoke.
“what?”
you didn’t even look up. but your voice was dry, suspicious, like you were catching him mid-crime.
“nothing,” he said quickly. too quickly. he cleared his throat and leaned back into the couch with studied ease. “just… wondering how someone can draw with so little talent. it’s fascinating, really.”
you raised an eyebrow at him without turning. “do you ever shut up?”
“i do,” he said with a grin, “but only around people who deserve silence.”
your pencil paused briefly—just long enough for him to notice—before you shook your head and kept sketching. “you’re unbearable.”
he kicked his foot up over the armrest, slouching into the cushions. “and yet, here you are. bearing me. funny how that works.”
“unfortunately.”
he watched you for a moment longer, gaze lingering just a beat too long before he forced himself to look away. whatever. it didn’t mean anything. so what if you looked kind of… nice in the sun? so what if that word had temporarily messed with his head?
he wasn’t actually feeling anything. obviously.
it was just the lighting. the book. the boredom. a coincidence.
besides, if anything, you were the one acting weird lately. being all quiet. sketching things. sitting near him without arguing for ten whole minutes.
you were the problem.
he let out a breath and smirked to himself, flipping the book shut and tossing it on the table like it had bored him.
seraphic.
what a dumb word.
satoru was seventeen and currently yelling at a basketball in his head like it had personally betrayed him.
“that’s three points, baby!” he whooped, spinning on his heel and blowing a kiss to no one in particular. his white hair caught the light, sweat-damp and ridiculous, and the smug grin on his face practically begged to be punched.
you, aged sixteen and deeply regretting your life choices, sat beside shoko on the sun-warmed bench, arms crossed and unimpressed. “is this what you guys do for fun?”
shoko didn’t even glance at the game. she lounged like a cat, sunglasses on, sipping something questionably fizzy from a flask. “it’s like watching a baby deer on caffeine.”
you raised an eyebrow. “you mean suguru?”
“no. satoru.”
you looked back at the court just in time to see satoru pull off some flashy behind-the-back nonsense before tossing the ball cleanly into the hoop. he threw his arms up like he’d just won the olympics.
“you’re right. he even flails,” you muttered.
“i do not flail!” satoru called from across the court, his voice crystal clear despite the distance.
you blinked, then glared. “stop eavesdropping!”
“your voice carries!” he shouted back with a grin.
he dribbled lazily, barely trying, but still moving like he’d been born to play. his steps were fluid, effortless, almost like showboating was second nature. it was annoying how easy he made it look.
“are you seriously just gonna sit there like a statue?” he called out again, spinning the ball on one finger. “what, scared?”
you scoffed. “scared of what? your oversized ego?”
“of getting your pride shattered when i dunk on you,” he replied smoothly. then he casually sank another three pointer, as if to prove his point. satoru's face adorned an unimpressed look, as if he had already expected the shot to go in.
you squinted at him. “i’d rather eat dirt.”
he smirked. “what if i said we’re one player short?”
“you’re lying,” you said flatly, not budging.
“what if i said shoko already agreed to play?”
you glanced at your friend. she lifted her drink, expression unreadable. “technically,” she said with a sigh, “he said if i didn’t play, he’d read my old diary out loud.”
you looked at her, horrified. “you kept a diary?”
“middle school was a rough time,” she said shrugged.
“c’mon,” satoru said, striding over now, spinning the ball lazily in his hands. “don’t you wanna show off your world-class coordination?”
“i will literally kick you.”
he grinned. “on the court? so you admit you’re in.”
you stared. “i didn’t say that!”
“you know,” he added with a tilt of his head, “it’d be kind of embarrassing if my best friend’s little sister backed out of a friendly game.”
your eye twitched. “is that reverse psychology?”
“nope,” he said cheerfully. “just straight-up bullying.”
you shot shoko a look. she shrugged and stood up. “just get it over with. you’ll feel better once you score on him.”
“thank you,” you muttered dryly.
“i meant me,” she added.
you groaned but stood anyway, brushing your hands on your shorts. “you guys suck.”
satoru grinned, clearly victorious. “you love us.”
you ignored him.
soon enough, you were standing at half court, frowning at the basketball he handed you. he looked way too pleased with himself.
“ready to be humiliated?” he asked.
“you mean like your sixth-grade haircut?” you shot back without missing a beat.
he winced. “low blow.”
you smiled. “you’ll live.”
to your surprise, you weren’t terrible. you passed decently, dribbled well enough, and even made a few half-decent shots. when you managed to steal the ball from satoru by elbowing him—lightly—in the ribs, he gasped like you’d stabbed him.
“assault!” he cried. “someone call the authorities!”
“you flopped,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“you’re violent,” he accused, pouting dramatically. “this is why you don’t get invited to parties.” you blinked. “you were the one who dragged me here!”
“i lured you with charm and emotional manipulation.”
“that’s not better!”
“semantics,” he said with a shrug.
you almost laughed. almost. but your next step landed funny. your foot twisted awkwardly on a hidden dip in the pavement, and pain jolted up your ankle sharp and sudden.
“ow—shit,” you hissed, stumbling and grabbing at your leg.
the mood snapped.
suguru jogged over immediately, brows furrowed. “hey. hey, what happened?”
shoko lowered her flask and stood still, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “she hurt herself?”
you grimaced, shifting your weight. “twisted it, i think. it’s fine.”
“that doesn’t look fine,” satoru said, suddenly crouched beside you. he hovered for a second, hands unsure, like he didn’t know whether to touch or not.
he hesitated—just for a breath, like he was trying to make up his mind.
then he turned around, crouching with his back to you.
“get on.”
you blinked. “...get on what?”
“me.”
“you’re insane.” you were convinced that your eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.
“and you’re injured.” he said, staying the obvious.
“satoru—”
“do you want to make it worse?” his voice snapped—sharp, sudden, just a little louder than usual.
you paused, startled. he didn’t look at you. his hands clenched briefly at his sides before he spoke again, quieter this time. “just. get on.”
there was a tightness in his voice. something he was holding back. suguru and shoko stood frozen behind him, like they weren’t sure whether to intervene or pretend they weren’t there.
with a sigh, you climbed onto his back, arms awkwardly looping around his shoulders.
“you’re sweaty,” you muttered, trying to ignore the way your face was heating up.
“you’re mean,” he said back, but his voice was gentler now.
“you’re dramatic.”
“you’re always falling for me,” he murmured with a snicker.
you smacked the back of his head lightly. “shut up. don't ever say that again.”
he laughed, adjusting his grip under your knees. his fingers brushed lightly over your skin, careful, almost too gentle. the walk back was quiet, save for his steady breathing and the occasional grumble when you shifted your weight wrong.
the air swept past your drenched hair as well as satoru's. you don't think you've been this close to him. his back was covered in sweat, something you couldn't stand on a normal day, but somehow you tolerated it now. you blamed it on your foot. his cologned had combined with the air—something manly, not too strong. satoru's breathing was steady, and if you focused enough you'd be able to hear his heartbeat. satoru prayed you didn't.
at your place, he set you down on the couch with ease, then disappeared into the kitchen.
he came back with a towel and a pack of ice, crouching in front of you like it was second nature. “ankle up,” he said, voice low.
you did as told, watching him work. the cold pressed to your skin, sharp and numbing, but the care in his touch was oddly… soft.
“you’re being weird,” you said after a beat.
“you’re being injured,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. for some unknown reason, you couldn't help but think that he was avoiding your gaze.
the room fell quiet.
satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the back of the couch, his expression unreadable. for once, he didn’t look like he had something cocky to say.
then he glanced at you, expression unreadable.
“next time,” he said quietly, “don’t actually get hurt, yeah?”
you looked at him sideways. “why? you planning to carry me again?”
he rolled his eyes once again, a smile almost stained your lips. here you were practically dying and he was still here being annoying. “what else am i supposed to do?”
nothing was said. but something hung in the air between you, faint and unfamiliar.
a shift. small, strange. unnoticed by anyone else.
but not by either of you. not even a little.
at age nineteen, he was about to leave—and you had just turned eighteen.
“i can’t believe you wore that to my birthday party,” you said, eyeing satoru from head to toe.
he grinned, straightening the collar of his slightly wrinkled button-down. “what? i look good, admit it.”
“you look like you're working a 9 to 5 job.” the unimpressed tone made him smirk. “you’re just mad i wore it better than you ever could.”
“i’m not even wearing one.”
“exactly,” he said smugly, popping a candy into his mouth. “rookie mistake.”
you sighed, arms crossing, but your lips were twitching. “remind me why i invited you again?”
“because you’re obsessed with me,” he replied, draping an arm around your shoulders like he hadn’t done that same thing a hundred times over the years. “been obsessed since you were, what, six? i’ve seen the way you look at me.”
“like obsessed with the idea of dropkicking you into traffic? sure.” he tilted his head, acting like he was thinking carefully.
“more like you’d miss me if i ever stopped showing up.”
you paused. just long enough for him to notice. just long enough to make his smirk falter—before you shoved him away with a scoff.
“delusional.”
“you say that now,” he teased, “but you’ll be crying at the airport.”
“more like celebrating.”
but there was something in the way you looked at him then. like you were trying to memorize his face, all sharp edges and loud laughter, the way he always filled every corner of your world without asking.
he didn’t say anything. didn’t trust himself to.
later, when the music had dulled to a steady thrum and the room buzzed with small talk and half-finished stories, satoru found himself drifting away from the crowd.
he leaned against the wall, plastic cup in hand, his usual cocky energy beginning to unravel into something quieter. something restless. he was still smiling when people passed, still tossing out casual jabs and compliments—but beneath it all, a dissonance tugged at his chest.
it had started when you laughed.
not at him, not beside him—but across the room, with someone else. a laugh that reached your eyes. a hand resting on someone else's sleeve. satoru had always known you smiled like that. he just hadn’t realized how much he hated not being the cause of it.
he didn’t even notice shoko until she was beside him, cupcake in hand and mischief in her eyes.
“you look like a sulking flamingo,” she said, deadpan as ever.
“i am not sulking,” satoru replied, voice a little too loud, a little too defensive. “i’m brooding. there's a difference.”
“sure there is,” she smirked, eyeing him knowingly. “and you’re brooding because…?”
“because the music sucks,” he snapped. “and suguru ate the last slice of cake. obviously.”
shoko raised a brow. suguru, who had just wandered over with a plateful of sweets, glanced between them and blinked. “...i could get you another slice?”
“no,” satoru muttered, tossing the untouched cup of soda into a trash bag. “it’s tainted. betrayal never tastes sweet.” suguru, used to his dramatics, stepped away from the both of them to get a slice. satoru would probably be in a sourer mood if he doesn't.
but it wasn’t the cake. of course it wasn’t the cake.
it was you—laughing a little too brightly across the room, your hand brushing the arm of some guy whose name satoru didn’t bother to remember. he was someone from your class, maybe. the same guy who had hovered around you all evening like a mosquito with too much cologne and not enough shame.
and you let him.
you let him stand too close. you laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. and worse, you didn’t look annoyed. not the way you always were around satoru.
“you’re acting like a kicked puppy,” shoko added, licking frosting from her finger. “you could just go talk to her, you know.”
“why would i?” he scoffed. “i don’t care. she can flirt with the entire country if she wants to.”
but the lie burned all the way down.
he watched as you leaned in to whisper something to the guy, watched your smile bloom—soft and easy. he hated it. hated that someone else could pull that out of you so effortlessly. hated that it wasn’t him.
suguru was starting to discuss something about dorm life as he was walking back when the guy finally said his goodbyes. satoru’s body moved before his mind could catch up. a blur of sharp footsteps, dismissive waves, and shoko’s knowing snort as he passed by.
“where are we going—? hey, satoru!” your voice behind him, high and exasperated, followed by hurried footsteps.
he grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, and dragged you through the house, past balloons and confetti and candles that had long burned out. into the hallway, then up the stairs, and finally into the quiet of your room.
you yanked your arm away. “what the hell was that for?”
“needed air,” he said, shutting the door behind him, though the room wasn’t stuffy at all. “and you were the most annoying person to do it with.”
“you could’ve asked,” you huffed, arms crossing. “you’re so—ugh.”
but then, the tension shifted.
you fidgeted. your gaze dropped. something about the silence made you shift your weight from one foot to the other.“...wait. before you go. i have something for you.”
he let his eyes drift towards you, fingers still curled loosely around the doorknob. your voice—soft, uncertain—wasn’t one he was used to hearing. not from you. not when most of your conversations were built from sarcasm and eye-rolls, brick by brick. it made something in his chest clench, unfamiliar and tight. he turned slowly, brows quirking. “is it another headache?” he asked, lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. he was trying, as always, to deflect. to make light of the shift in the air he couldn’t quite name.
you didn’t respond to the joke. instead, you walked across the room toward your desk, your back to him, shoulders tense in a way he recognized too well. you looked like you were bracing for impact. and that—that alone made him straighten, amusement draining into something heavier. the teasing in his throat shriveled on his tongue.
your fingers hovered above the drawer before pulling it open. and he noticed then, for the first time, how hesitant you were. like whatever you were about to give him wasn’t just a gift—it was a piece of you. and that terrified you.
when you turned around, something small and carefully wrapped was held in both hands. you didn’t meet his eyes.
“don’t laugh,” you murmured.
his expression twitched—like he wanted to, like the reflex was there—but he didn’t. not fully. “you’re practically begging me to,” he replied instead, voice lower now. gentler. he didn’t know why he said it that way, but something about your posture, the tremble in your grip, made the usual snark feel wrong. and when you reached out to hand it to him, your fingers brushed his—and god, you were warm. warm in a way that left him reeling.
he took the paper from you with a kind of reverence he wasn’t known for. satoru gojo didn’t do gentle. didn’t do delicate. but this—this felt like sacred ground. he peeled the wrapping slowly, and the moment the sketch was revealed, the breath lodged in his throat and didn’t come back.
it was him.
not just a sketch of him, but him. the way you saw him. mid-motion, caught mid-game, hair disheveled, eyes sharp, body in sync with something bigger than himself. you’d shaded his face with soft shadows, smudged lines curling with energy, as though he were about to leap off the paper entirely. it wasn’t perfect—but maybe that’s what made it so gutting. it was flawed, but honest. and that honesty hit harder than any compliment ever could.
he stared.
too long. long enough for the silence to thicken.
“you remembered that day?” he finally managed to ask, but the words came quiet, barely audible. like speaking too loud might shatter whatever spell this was.
you shifted. “you always liked basketball. figured you’d want a memento.”
his heart twisted at that. a memento. the word lodged somewhere in his ribs. it sounded too final. too much like a goodbye. he looked at the sketch again and tried to find a joke. something easy. something safe. but his throat felt like it had been sewn shut.
because you’d seen him.
not just the loud, flashy version of himself. not the cocky show-off or the effortlessly brilliant student. but the boy beneath all of that. the one who tried so hard to be okay all the time. the one who loved the game not for the fame, but for the feeling of flying. of escaping.
you saw him. and you kept it. put it on paper. gave it to him.
“i kept messing up the jawline,” you mumbled. “you have an annoying face to draw.”
he let out a laugh—short, breathless, barely a sound. but it was genuine. it cracked something open in his chest. his fingers curled protectively around the edges of the paper, careful not to wrinkle it. careful not to damage what he already knew would become the most important thing he owned. satoru couldn't find the right words to say, his heart beating too fast for his own good.
so instead, he looked back at the sketch. forced himself to breathe. willed the flood back down with a shaky smile.
“you forgot my good side.”
you rolled your eyes, snorting. “you don’t have a good side.”
he chuckled under his breath, but his heart wasn’t in it.
his fingers tightened around the drawing once more before he finally folded it in half, careful and precise. he slipped it into his back pocket like it was something sacred. something only he could touch.
and then he looked at you—really looked at you.
eyes bright, a little wide, like he was standing on a ledge you didn’t know he’d climbed.
“i have something for you,” he said, softer now.
you smiled. “as you should. its my birthday after all,”
he didn’t answer. just reached into the front pocket of his slacks, pulling something out with a slow, quiet kind of care.
it caught the light in a soft glint—silver, delicate, hanging from a thin chain. he held it in his palm, almost hesitant, like part of him wanted to keep it to himself.
“you got me… jewelry?” you asked, squinting.
he didn’t respond right away. he just stepped closer. held the necklace a little higher so you could see the pendant better.
your breath hitched.
a small, simple loop. smooth and endless. the shape of it so familiar it made your chest ache.
an infinity symbol.
you stared at it, and for a second, you didn’t speak. didn’t move.
but then, slowly, a smile curled at your lips. not a teasing one. not smug. just soft. warm. like something tucked away in a memory finally unfolded itself in full bloom.
“i remember,” you whispered, soft and slow.
his brow quirked, but he knew what you meant.
“you taught me what infinity meant,” you added, fingers ghosting over the symbol. “you said it just keeps going. more space. more everything.”
“and you said it was boring,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
you laughed. “because i didn’t get it back then.”
his throat worked. “and now?”
you looked up at him. “now i do.”
he swallowed. eyes flickering from your face to the pendant, like he couldn’t decide which held him more captive.
his voice dipped, quiet and uneven. “can i…?”
you nodded before he even finished.
turned around slowly, brushing your hair aside, the skin of your neck bared to him in the soft lamp light.
he stepped closer, breath shallow. hands shaking slightly as he brought the necklace around your collarbones.
his fingers brushed your skin, and the contact sent something fluttering down his spine—sharp and slow all at once.
it should’ve been simple. clasping a necklace. it should’ve taken two seconds.
but he was memorizing the curve of your neck. the way your shoulders rose with your breath. the heat of you, so close and real and his.
and all he could think about was how fucking dangerous it was, to feel this much.
he fastened the clasp with a soft click. lingered.
you looked at yourself in the mirror and met his eye. “thank you,” you said. your voice was steady. but your eyes—they gave you away.
and something about that broke him.
because suddenly, it all made sense.
the way you always lingered in the back of his mind. the way he counted time by the sound of your laughter. the way no other memory ever burned half as bright.
and then it hit him.
not like a punch. not like a falling weight. it was slower, deeper. like a tide that had been rising for years, finally cresting. and all he could do was stand there, soaked to the bone.
he was in love with you.
completely. irrevocably. devastatingly.
he didn’t know when it started. maybe it had always been there—dormant, quiet, buried under all the bickering and banter. or maybe it began the day you proved that his patience might not be as short as he thought when teaching you some stupid physics lesson. maybe it grew every time you called him unbearable but never walked away.
maybe it took root that afternoon when he carried you. drenched in sweat, breath uneven, body aching from playing basketball all day. but he made it work. because for the first time, he felt your body pressed onto his, warm, fragile, gentle. he didn't know when he could do it again.
he could remember the day vividly, to the point he was convinced he could retell it multiple times without missing a single detail. it was engraved in his brain. stuck.
and now, standing here with your drawing in his hands and you looking up at him with uncertainty written all over your face—he realized just how badly he’d messed up.
because he couldn’t say it.
he couldn’t tell you. couldn’t admit it. because the moment he did, this fragile thing between you would tip, would shift, would change. and if he confessed and it wasn’t what you wanted—if he was wrong—he’d lose everything. not just the possibility. but you.
now, he stood behind you. satoru stared at the necklace now laying on your chest. you were still looking at it as if it was something precious. satoru almost thought he was dreaming. he prayed he wasn't.
because he was completely, utterly, and secretly screwed.
and the worst part?
he wouldn’t change a thing.
i quite literally poured my heart and soul into this.... i love gojo so much its actually not funny anymore. taglist is still open so comment if u wanna be added!! next part will be the last one :) lmk your thoughts <3
summary: when your housing falls through, the last person you want to end up living with is your best friend’s arrogant, hockey-playing brother, satoru gojo. sharing a space with him feels like being trapped in the sin bin, but the longer you live together, the harder it is to ignore the fact that breaking the rules might be worth the penalty.
pairing: ice hockey player!gojo satoru x fem!reader
details: fluff, angst, smut (fingering, nipple play, riding, couch sex, shower sex), enemies to lovers au, roommates au, best friend’s brother au, college au. contains: profanity, alcohol consumption, mentions of death. art by kynlv1. 16.2k words.
sin bin (n.) – (in sport) a box or bench to which offending players can be sent for a period as a penalty during a game, especially in ice hockey.
01. how to piss off your new roommate 101 (an introductory course).
There are only three rules you asked Satoru Gojo to follow:
No bringing random girls home.
No hockey gear all over the living room.
Do your own laundry.
Sure, it might not be your house, because, technically, you’re the one moving in, but you think you’re being pretty reasonable. It’s just your bad luck that your new roommate happens to be the worst at following rules, because right now, at one o’clock in the morning, you are subject to him breaking rule number one already—and very loudly, at that.
There’s a thud against the wall, and a muffled laugh, followed by a low, drawn-out groan that sends every nerve in your body firing at once—though not in the way Gojo’s current “guest” might be feeling. You clutch the pillow over your head, suffocating yourself with cotton in a desperate attempt to block out the obscene noises. It doesn’t work. Nothing does. Not your loud sighs, not the rustle of your own blanket, not even the way you jam your phone’s speaker against your ear and crank your playlist until the bass rattles.
Your playlist doesn’t stand a chance against Gojo’s bedroom door and his absolute disregard for your sanity.
Rule number one, you think bitterly, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the bare minimum. You had been so clear when you’d moved in three days ago. No random girls; no trail of hockey gear sprawling through the apartment; no mountains of dirty laundry festering in the communal space. Simple, enforceable rules—or so you thought. Apparently, Satoru Gojo is not the kind of man who respects laws, rules, or any other socially acceptable guidelines for how to coexist with another human being. Especially not when he’s this loud.
A particularly obnoxious moan makes you snap. You swing out of bed, feet hitting the cold wooden floor, and stomp into the hallway. You pause in front of his bedroom door, hand hovering in the air, knuckles inches away from knocking. Maybe you should just let it go. It’s not worth the fight. Not worth seeing that infuriating grin of his, the one that makes you want to throw a shoe at his face.
You hear another giggle from inside.
Nevermind. Definitely worth it.
You pound on the door. “Gojo!”
The noises cut off instantly. For a blissful moment, there’s silence—no laughter, no groans, just the sound of your own shallow breathing and the pounding of your fist against the door. Then comes the telltale rustle of sheets, followed by footsteps, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking his sweet time just to make you more irritated.
“Roomie?” His voice drips with amusement, low and lazy, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Can’t sleep? You could’ve just asked nicely if you wanted me to tuck you in.”
Your jaw drops, heat rushing to your cheeks—not from embarrassment but from pure, undiluted fury. “Rule. Number. One,” you bite out, enunciating every word. “Do you even remember what rule number one is?”
There’s a soft laugh on the other side of the door, and you can hear his guest giggling faintly too, like this is all some joke to them.
“You’re no fun,” he says. The doorknob clicks, turning slowly.
The door swings open to reveal Satoru Gojo, all six-foot-something of hockey-playing, rule-breaking glory, leaning against the frame. He’s shirtless—of course he’s shirtless—skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your brain. His white hair is mussed and sticking out at odd angles, like he’s just come off the ice—or, well, not the ice, but something just as irritatingly active.
He smirks down at you. “Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper. Or… Are you jealous?”
“Jealous?” Your voice cracks an octave higher. “Of what, exactly? The fact that you sound like you’re starring in a bad porno?”
His laugh is immediate, loud, and unrestrained. He leans closer, bracing one arm against the frame just above your head, his bare chest far too close for comfort. “If you were watching, it’d be a good one.”
Your face burns hotter. “You’re disgusting.”
He laughs again, and the girl—this poor, probably very lovely girl—steps into the hallway behind him, wearing one of his oversized jerseys and looking anywhere but at you.
“I should… probably go,” she mumbles.
“Yeah,” you mutter before he can say anything. “You probably should.”
She scurries past you without a second glance, and you suddenly feel a little bad for her. Not because of Gojo—though he is the worst—but because she has no idea what she’s walked into. She’s just another girl in a long line of them, another notch on his stick, and probably clueless to the fact that he thrives on the attention, not the intimacy.
Gojo watches her disappear around the corner, then turns back to you, his smile gone slack. “You didn’t have to be mean.”
“I wasn’t,” you snap. “I was trying to sleep. Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you and your—whatever.”
Gojo studies you for a moment, his head tilting just slightly as if he’s trying to decipher something written on your face. It’s unnerving, the way his eyes—bright and unnaturally sharp even in the dim hallway—linger on you, taking their time. For the first time tonight, he’s quiet, though not in a way that feels like victory. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you more aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the glimmer of sweat on his skin, his overbearing presence in the narrow hallway.
“Whatever?” he repeats. “That’s harsh, even for you.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“Not really,” he says. “Keeps me young and pretty, don’t you think?”
The audacity of this man. Pretty. He says it like it’s a fact, like he’s fully aware that half the campus would line up just to run their fingers through that ridiculous white hair. You hate that it is a fact, that his lean, cut frame and infuriating confidence somehow make him stupidly, obnoxiously attractive.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “Do you even remember the rules we agreed on when I moved in? Or was I talking to one of your empty hockey helmets?”
“You wound me. I’m a great listener. I heard every word you said that day. I just don’t… care.”
Your hands ball into fists. “You don’t care.”
“Not about rules,” Satoru teases. “You, though? I care about keeping you entertained.”
“Entertained?” you echo, incredulous. “By waking me up at one in the morning with—” You cut yourself off, scowling as the words die on your tongue.
He grins and steps forward. “With what, sweetheart?” he asks, voice dipping into that husky, too-casual tone that makes your stomach do stupid things.
You take a step back; then another, until your back almost hits the opposite wall. “You’re impossible,” you spit out, but your voice is thinner than you’d like.
“You’re cute when you’re mad.”
“Stop saying that!”
“What?” His grin widens. “It’s true. You get all flustered. Bet you don’t even know you’re pouting right now.”
“I’m not—” You snap your mouth shut, realising that you are, in fact, pouting, and that only makes his grin that much more smug.
“Adorable,” he says simply, leaning back.
“You’re annoying as fuck.”
“And yet, you moved in here.”
You inhale sharply, the reminder stinging more than you’d like to admit. He’s right—you did agree to this arrangement. You had convinced yourself it was temporary, a few weeks max while you figured out your own place. Riko’s brother had been the last resort. You never expected it to feel like… like this. The hallway feels too small. He’s too close, too much. You can smell his cologne—clean, a little sharp, something that clings to him even after a game or whatever this was. You hate that your brain even registers the detail.
“Go to bed,” you manage to grit out.
“Careful,” Gojo drawls, stepping back. “Sounds like you’re starting to like telling me what to do.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You spin on your heel, storming back to your room, and slam the door behind you.
You don’t see him again until morning, which, unfortunately, is only a few hours later.
The scent of coffee drags you from your room, bleary-eyed and determined to avoid any and all conversation. But the moment you step into the kitchen, there Satoru is—shirtless again, because apparently he doesn’t own clothes—leaning against the counter. His white hair is damp, still dripping from a shower, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips as he scrolls lazily on his phone.
“Morning, roomie,” he drawls, not looking up. “Sleep well?”
You grab a mug and pour yourself coffee. “You’re lucky I don’t own a bat.”
“Ah, threats of violence. My favourite way to start the day.”
You don’t answer. You can’t, not when he’s standing there like that: hair damp and curling at the ends, little droplets of water slipping down the curve of his neck, trailing over his collarbone. It should be illegal to look that good at 7:42 in the morning, and in sweatpants, no less.
Instead, you wrap both hands around your mug and focus on not throwing it at his stupid, smirking face.
“Awfully quiet this morning,” Gojo muses, locking his phone and tossing it onto the counter. “What happened to the yelling? The righteous fury? The deeply unsexy threats about noise ordinances?”
You take a long, scalding sip of your coffee. “I’m choosing peace today.”
“That so?”
“Yup. Thought I’d try being the bigger person and see how it feels.”
“You sure it’s peace you’re feeling? ‘Cause it kind of looks like repressed rage. Or maybe,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, “you’re just still flustered from last night.”
You nearly choke. “Flustered?”
“Uh-huh. You did knock on my door in the middle of a good time.” He winks. “Can’t blame you for being curious.”
“You’re delusional,” you state.
“Maybe so,” he acquiesces. Gojo’s grin is lazy and crooked, shamelessly amused as he watches you struggle to maintain even a scrap of composure. You busy yourself with sipping coffee again, even though it’s too hot and definitely burning the tip of your tongue. Small price to pay for the distraction.
He shifts his weight and the movement draws your eyes before you can stop yourself—down to where his sweatpants slouch indecently low, the V of his hips on full display. Your eyes snap back to your mug so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash.
“I’m not flustered,” you mutter, mostly to your drink.
Satoru hums, unconvinced. “Of course not. You’re the picture of serenity.”
He reaches for the coffee pot and you realise, with a petty kind of satisfaction, that there’s not enough left for a full cup. You watch, vindicated, as he tips it all into his mug and frowns down at the half-full result.
“You’re the worst,” he says, utterly serious.
“I’m the one choosing peace, remember?”
“That was obviously a lie.”
You shrug and sip. “Maybe I’m just learning from the best.”
Gojo laughs, low and bright, and leans further over the counter, like he’s trying to invade your personal space just for the hell of it. “You’ve got a mouth on you, huh? I like that.”
“Bet you say that to all your roommates.”
“You’re my first,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Be gentle with me.”
You scoff, setting your mug down with more force than necessary. “I don’t even want to know how you ended up on the lease.”
“Simple,” he says, straightening and sauntering toward the fridge. “My old place burned down.”
You blink. “Seriously?”
“Well. Not all the way down. But it did get very, very singed.”
“And they let you sign another lease?”
He turns, carton of milk in one hand, and says, “Yup,” popping the ‘p’ at the end. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars, but there’s a weird warmth curling in your chest now, beneath the irritation and caffeine. Despite yourself, your gaze lingers on him a beat too long—on the line of his shoulders, the relaxed slope of his spine as he leans down to peer into the fridge.
“You gonna keep ogling me or…?” he says without turning.
You startle, cheeks warming. “I wasn’t ogling.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I wasn’t!”
He straightens again, milk in hand, and gives you a look that says he knows he’s won. “You’re bad at lying. Your ears go all red.”
You clap your hands over them instinctively, which only serves to make him chortle. “I hate you,” you grumble, grabbing your mug and heading for the living room.
“I love our morning chats,” he calls after you. “They really centre me for the day.”
You flip him off over your shoulder.
“You’ve got a great energy, roomie! Keep it up!”
It turns into a sort of game, after that: who can rile up their roommate the fastest. Satoru Gojo, of course, plays to win.
He starts small—mild provocations disguised as “accidents.” The shower mysteriously runs cold whenever you step in after him. Your favourite snacks vanish from the cupboard, only to be found later half-eated and crumpled under his bed. He starts setting his alarm ten minutes earlier than yours and singing obnoxiously loud in the mornings. It’s always the same song—something bubblegum pop and irritatingly catchy, like Twice or Britney Spears—and it sticks in your head all day, pulsing behind your eyes like a migraine.
You retaliate, of course. You start leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes around the apartment:
Replace the toilet paper next time, you sicko.
If you touch my almond milk again, I will cut off your balls in your sleep.
Why do you shed like a cat? Buy a lint roller. Freak.
You switch the labels on his shampoo and conditioner. You hide the remote. You change the password on the Wi-Fi.
It only fuels him. The worst part is, the bastard laughs. Every time you glare at him, every time you yell his name across the apartment, every time you swear you’re going to murder him in his sleep, he just grins like the cat that got the cream. Somehow, impossibly, he always wins.
Nanami is already at your usual table in the campus café when you arrive, tossing your bag into the seat opposite him with a force that rattles the salt shaker. He doesn’t look up from his coffee when he asks, “What did he do this time?”
“He unplugged the fridge, Kento,” you groan, slumping into your chair. “The fridge. All my groceries are ruined. My oat milk exploded.”
“Did you check the breaker?”
“Do I look like someone who knows what a breaker is?”
“Yes,” he says. “You are a functional adult. You are enrolled in a university. You should know how electricity works.”
“Okay, Mr. Engineer,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I was too busy trying not to throw Gojo out the damn window.”
“I thought you lived on the first floor.”
“Exactly my point.”
You look down, picking at your cuticles. You wish Gojo, your best friend’s annoying brother, wasn’t your last resort. The student dorms were all occupied, and you had to find housing at the last minute. Gojo offered, because he’s known you since you were an acne-riddled teenager in middle school, and also, most likely, out of obligation for his little sister’s best friend. Why else would he put up with you and pay half the rent? You remind yourself that you’re in his house, and not the other way around, and try to stay grateful for that fact.
You also wish you could tell Riko about her older brother, but you can’t because Riko’s dead.
Nanami sets down his cup with a soft clink, eyes lifting at last to meet yours. There’s no pity in them—he’s not the type—but there’s understanding. With every ounce of his understanding nature, Nanami says, flatly, “You’re going to give yourself a stroke before midterms.”
You exhale through your nose, pressing your palms to your eyes. “It’s like he wants me to lose it. He keeps bringing random girls home, Kento. At 3 A.M. And they’re loud. One of them used my toothbrush.”
Nanami looks visibly disturbed. “Why do you know that?”
“Because it was wet.”
“You should throw that out.”
“I did throw it out. And then I wrote a note. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Oh, my bad, was that your toothbrush? I thought it was for guests.’ Guests, Kento. He has a guest toothbrush now, that he keeps in the same cup as mine. I’m being psychologically tortured.”
“He’s always been like this,” Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s the one being victimised.
“You were on the same team as him for three years,” you say. “How did you not murder him in a locker room?”
“Because I’m not an idiot,” he replies. “I kept my earbuds in and my mouth shut. You, on the other hand, are picking a fight with a man who once got suspended for pelting a referee with jello shots.”
“That was him?” you gasp.
“Of course it was. Who else brings jello shots to a game?”
“I knew it wasn’t a food poisoning incident,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair. “They kept blaming the vendors, but one of those things hit Riko in the back of the head.”
Nanami’s expression softens for a second. He clears his throat, glancing out the window. You follow his gaze, the familiar ache blooming in your chest. It’s been two years since the accident, since the call you never thought you’d get. Since Satoru’s voice broke down over the phone, rasping your name, saying it over and over again like it would change something, like you could undo it just by being there.
Sometimes you forget she’s gone. You still scroll through your photos and stop at the ones of her, still think to text her dumb updates about your day. You still reach for your phone when Satoru does something particularly stupid, your thumb hovering over her name like muscle memory.
It’s worse around him. He reminds you of her—same nose, same stupid grin. Same laughter echoing off the apartment walls, loud and fearless and full of something that’s been missing since she died.
You scrub a hand over your face. “I don’t even know why he let me move in,” you say quietly.
Nanami, annoyingly perceptive as always, says, “Because you’re the only person left who reminds him of her.”
Your throat closes up. You glance away, blinking hard. It’s easier to talk like this with Nanami, with someone who knew her, who understands what’s been left behind in her absence.
It’s just harder when you go home, when Gojo’s waiting in your kitchen, stealing all your forks, leaving crumbs everywhere, making a mess of your carefully managed grief. It’s harder when he smiles at you, wide and unbothered, like nothing in the world could touch him, like he isn’t hurting just as much. Maybe that’s why you haven’t packed up and left, or haven’t demanded he take you off the lease.
“Do you want to come watch us practice today?” your friend asks gently. “You could use the break.”
“Sure,” you agree, nodding.
The rink on campus is mercifully empty, barring the ice hockey players and their coach. You huddle deeper into your hoodie, tugging the sleeves over your palms as your breath fogs in the cold air. The bleachers are metal and unforgiving beneath you, but there’s something calming about the sharp scent of ice and the dull echo of skates carving into the rink. Nanami’s team is already mid-practice, moving like clockwork in their matching jerseys, passing the puck to each other. Nanami’s form is unmistakable—broad shoulders, crisp turns, no-nonsense efficiency. He’s the kind of player who never wastes energy, never showboats.
Which is probably why it takes you a second to notice the blur of white helmet skating circles around everyone else.
Even from here, you can tell it’s Gojo. Nobody else plays like that—reckless, fast, stupidly dramatic. He doesn’t pass so much as he dares his teammates to keep up with him. One second, he’s flicking the puck behind his back to someone mid-sprint; the next, he’s skating backwards while taunting the goalie, stick dragging lazy arcs on the ice. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But it’s also hypnotically, infuriatingly graceful.
You watch, arms tucked tight around your ribs, as Gojo ducks past a defender and pivots sharply on one skate. The move is flashy, unnecessary, but completely effective. He spins just out of reach, like he’s showing off for a crowd that isn’t even there. Then again, knowing him, maybe the absence of an audience is what makes it fun.
He catches the puck again mid-glide, lets it roll across his blade for the briefest second, and sends it arcing across the ice with a lazy flick of his wrist. It lands right where he wants it—at Nanami’s feet. Nanami redirects it into a clean slapshot that smacks against the boards with a heavy thunk. The coach blows his whistle and yells something you can’t quite make out, and the players all begin to split into drills.
Gojo circles back to the bench, tugging off his helmet. His hair is damp and flattened at odd angles, cheeks flushed red from exertion, but he’s smiling. He laughs at something one of the younger players says, throwing his head back like everything in the world exists solely for his amusement. His grin is sharp and his posture is loose with confidence, like he’s never known a moment of self-doubt in his entire life. He stretches his arms overhead, the hem of his jersey riding up just a little over his pads, and you force yourself to look away before your eyes linger too long.
It’s stupid. You’re here to support Nanami. You’re here because your friend thought you needed fresh air, something different, something other than the quiet churn of your own thoughts. You’re not here for him.
But when Gojo finally turns, like he’s felt your eyes on him all this time, and spots you across the rink, he smiles—wider this time. Brighter. You look away too fast to know if he waves.
The drills resume. They’re brutal, repetitive, the kind that test stamina more than strategy. Nanami is steady and solid, the way he always is, never showy but always in the right place at the right time. Gojo, by contrast, is everywhere. He darts around the rink, weaving in and out of formations, making near-impossible shots just to see if he can land them.
You settle into your seat, arms hugging your knees, and try not to think too hard. But it’s hard not to, especially when every stupid little memory rushes in like floodwater. The way Gojo always takes the last Pop-Tart in the box but leaves the wrapper on the counter; the way he sings obnoxiously loud in the shower and always, always manages to steal your charger right when you need it most; the way he tilts his head and looks at you, eyes too blue and too knowing, like he enjoys seeing how close he can get to pissing you off before you snap. Perhaps worst of all: the way he never apologises, just looks at you, smug and smugger, until you roll your eyes and pretend you weren’t mad in the first place.
Asshole.
You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring blankly, wrapped up in your own thoughts, until someone else joins the bleachers. The guy’s tall, wrapped in a wool coat and beanie, sipping a coffee that steams in the cold air. He glances at you briefly, offers a polite nod, and turns his attention back to the rink.
Gojo’s still showing off. The team’s moved to scrimmage now, red versus blue, and he’s the first one to score. He raises both arms in triumph, sticks his tongue out, and skates backward toward the bench, basking in invisible applause.
You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands. “God, I hate him.”
The guy next to you chuckles. “You know him?”
“Yeah,” you say looking up.
“He’s not so bad. Bit of a drama queen, but he’s good. Probably the best player we’ve got.”
You don’t say anything. You don’t want to give Gojo the satisfaction, even by proxy. Instead, you wait for the moment he inevitably catches sight of you again—because of course he does, because nothing in his life is ever subtle. His head tilts. His grin turns sharklike. He lifts his stick and points it right at you, mouthing something across the rink. You groan again and pull your hood up.
Later, when you’re halfway back to your shared apartment, your fingers still freezing from the cold, your phone buzzes.
Gojo: you looked cute freezing your ass off up there
Gojo: want me to warm you up? 😇
You: 🖕
02. the beginnings of affection (an existential crisis).
In high school, you made the grave mistake of telling Riko you thought her older brother was hot. It wasn’t a lie, because he was—tall, lean, unfairly pretty in that model-off-duty way, with a smile that had left many a classmate in a state of ruinous delusion. But back then, he was an idea, a rumour, a hallway myth in an expensive uniform and designer sneakers.
Now you live with him. Now you know better. Underneath his veneer of hotness lies a cold, twisted soul incapable of feeling remorse.
Yet. This morning, you catch yourself staring.
He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Roommate. His hair’s still damp from a shower, falling in soft curls over his forehead, and he’s wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him. Yours, actually—the one you thought you lost three weeks ago. It fits him, though it’s oversized on you, the faded design on the front nearly unreadable. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and one of the pant legs is tucked into a sock for some godforsaken reason. There’s a smear of toothpaste on his cheek.
And yet you think: cute.
Which is concerning.
You frown into your cereal, spoon halfway to your mouth, and try to rationalise it. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the new shampoo he’s using. Maybe you’ve finally been broken by the sheer absurdity of sharing space with him. That must be it. A slow descent into madness. Like Stockholm Syndrome, but for roommates.
He catches you looking and grins.
“What?” you snap.
“You were staring,” he says smugly, raising his mug to his lips.
“I was zoning out,” you lie. “You just happened to be in the way.”
“Mhm. Don’t worry,” he says, winking. “Happens all the time.”
“You’ve got toothpaste on your face, weirdo.”
He wipes it off with the sleeve of your hoodie. Not his hoodie. Yours. You make a mental note to burn it.
“I’m going to start charging you rent for borrowing my clothes,” you mutter, standing to rinse your bowl.
Gojo hums. “Then I’ll start charging you for moral support. You know, the way I bring light and laughter into this apartment.”
“You bring irritation and trauma.”
He laughs. You pause, hand on the faucet. You shouldn’t feel warm. You shouldn’t feel anything. But there it is again—that awful flutter in your chest; that twist in your stomach like you’ve just misread a question on an exam and realised too late. You stare down at the water running into the sink and think, no. No, no, no. Not this. Not him.
Your hand tightens on the faucet. You don’t look up. If you do, he’ll see it: the flicker of something not quite annoyance, the hiccup in your heartbeat. The very beginnings of affection—or, worse, the remnants of it you thought you’d long since buried.
“You’re being quiet,” your roommate observes, voice languid with interest.
“I’m thinking about how I’ll kill you,” you reply. “Maybe poison. Something slow. Arsenic in your overpriced protein shakes.”
“Ooh. That’s hot. Do I get a last meal?”
“You already ate the last of my oats yesterday.”
“Untrue,” he says cheerfully. “I gave it to my teammate—”
You finally turn to glare at him, but it’s a mistake. He’s still wearing your hoodie, still smiling with toothpaste in the corners of his mouth and hair curling at his temples. His mug is held loosely between his fingers and he taps it against his hip like he’s about to say something clever.
He doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you. You blink first.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to say something stupid and ruin my morning.”
Satoru grins. “I was gonna say you look nice. But I see now that would be stupid.”
Your cheeks burn. You hate that he still gets to you. Hate that, despite all the bickering and unsolicited borrowing of clothes, you still feel something twist inside when he looks at you like that. He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down. “I’m going to be late,” he announces, stretching until the hem of your hoodie rides up and reveals the slope of his back. You look away like you’ve been burned.
“Don’t forget your umbrella,” you say, because it’s drizzling outside.
He grabs the umbrella by the door. “I’ll be back around seven,” he calls, halfway out. “Don’t wait up.”
“I won’t.”
But the door shoots behind him before the lie is even fully out of your mouth. There’s no point denying it. The problem isn’t that he’s hot. It’s that he’s warm, sometimes; thoughtful in ways you don’t expect, and annoyingly perceptive. The problem is that, in the hazy moments between arguments and insults and irritation, you’ve let your guard slip.
God. You’re so screwed.
“Hey. Hey. I thought I told you not to wait up.”
“I didn’t wait up for you.”
He toes off his shoes with a grunt, dropping his keys into the dish by the door and pulling off his jacket in one fluid motion. The collar of his t-shirt is wrinkled, stretched a little too wide at the neck, like someone had tugged at it—maybe he had, or maybe it was already like that. His hair’s a windblown mess, strands sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are rimmed with red like he’s either been up too long or had one too many drinks. Or both.
But he’s still Satoru, still maddeningly good-looking in that careless way of his, still the same insufferable guy who leaves the toilet seat up and sings Twice songs in the shower.
You’re curled up into the far corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around you, half a bowl of popcorn abandoned on the coffee table. You weren’t waiting up—really, you weren’t—but the TV is playing some old sitcom on mute, the light from the screen flickering across your face in soft, silvery flashes. Your phone is dark in your lap. You’ve read the same sentence in your book five times. You glance up when he speaks, and he stops mid-step, tilting his head at you.
“I didn’t wait up for you,” you repeat, quieter this time, and go back to pretending to read.
He smiles faintly, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push. “Right,” he says, voice low. “Of course not.”
He throws his jacket over the back of a chair and pads into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You try not to follow him with your eyes. Try not to notice the way his shoulder blades shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way he hums softly under his breath as he opens the fridge and lets the light spill out across the tiles.
“You didn’t answer my text,” you say after a moment, tone sharper than you mean it to be.
“My phone died.”
You nod, once. Stupid. You don’t say anything else.
Satoru walks back into the living room, glass in hand, and sinks into the armchair opposite you with a groan. “Rough night,” he says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Didn’t think it would go that late.”
“Didn’t think you were going out at all.”
That makes him crack an eye open, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Jealous?”
You snort. “Of your terrible taste in dive bars and worse taste in company? Never.”
“I didn’t stay long,” he says. “The music sucked.”
“You go for the music?”
“I go for the distraction.”
Outside, it’s started to rain again, a slow, gentle drizzle against the windows. You stare at the pattern of drops sliding down the glass, trying to ignore the shape of him in your periphery—broad shoulders and long legs and bare feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. He’s too close and too far all at once.
“Do you… want some popcorn?” you ask eventually.
Satoru opens his eyes again and blinks at you. “Is this the part where you admit you were waiting for me?”
You scowl. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding.” He sits up, leans forward slightly, eyes warm now, too warm. “I’d love some.”
You push the bowl towards him, watching as he picks out a piece and pops it into his mouth.
“This,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “would be the part in a romcom where we kiss.”
“This,” you say, rolling your eyes, “would be the part in a horror movie where the protagonist makes a terrible decision and dies five minutes later.”
“That’s just rude.”
“Good.”
But he smiles at you, bright and boyish, like there’s no place he’d rather be than in this shitty living room at one in the morning with rain tapping against the windows and you scowling over a bowl of popcorn. You hate that it makes your heart ache; hate that, for all your better judgement, for all the times he’s made you want to scream into a pillow, there’s a part of you that softens around him. A part that keeps watching the door when he’s late. A part that stayed up, no matter what you said.
“We should bond,” Satoru says suddenly. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?”
You blink. “Bond?”
“Yeah. Like team-building. Except we’re not a team, and there’s no building.”
“That’s the worst pitch I’ve ever heard,” you say, but the corners of your mouth tug upwards despite yourself.
He shrugs, leaning back into the armchair again and tossing a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it clumsily with his mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like we’ve been circling each other. Might as well make it official.”
“Make what official?”
“This thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Our roommate truce-slash-rivalry-slash-situationship.”
You nearly choke on your own breath. “What—what situationship?”
“Okay, fine. Maybe not that last one.”
You throw a pillow at him, and he catches it with one hand, laughing. The room is too warm, or maybe that’s just your face. You glance away, shaking your head.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I was thinking. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow, and we’re both obviously in need of deep, soul-cleansing joy—”
“You mean you want to avoid your hangover.”
“—we should go skating.”
“Like, on the ice?” you ask.
“No, on a frying pan,” he says. “Yes, on the ice.”
“Come on,” Satoru calls. “It’s just frozen water.”
“I know what ice is,” you hiss.
He skates back toward you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and a beanie pulled snug over his snowy hair. Of course he makes gliding over a frozen lake look like second nature. He probably was born skating. You glare at him from your self-imposed prison at the edge of the ice. Your fingers are locked in a white-knuckled grip on the guardrail, your knees slightly bent like your body already knows it’s about to betray you.
Satoru stops a few feet away, his skates coming to a perfect halt with the faintest spray of ice. “You’re going to have to let go eventually,” he says, amused but not unkind.
You shake your head immediately. “I don’t trust frozen water. Or you.”
“That’s fair.” He shrugs. “But one of those things is going to get you moving, and it’s not the ice.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Doesn’t have to. Come on,” he coaxes, holding out a gloved hand. “I’ll go slow. Promise. Baby steps.”
You glance down at the ice, then at his hand, then back at the ice. It’s unfair, really, the way he looks so annoyingly trustworthy in moments like this. As if he hasn’t spent the better part of your shared time together being the most irritating man on the planet. As if he didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes zipping across the lake like a show-off while you contemplated your mortality from the safety of the shore.
Still, you let go of the guardrail. Just a little. Your hand slips into his, and his fingers tighten reassuringly around yours. He doesn’t tug; he waits, steady and warm and patient, until you peel yourself entirely away from your comfort zone and step onto the ice.
You immediately regret everything. Your foot slides, your balance tips, and you let out a strangled noise as you clutch at him with both hands now, absolutely abandoning any pretense of dignity. Satoru laughs, open and delighted, the sound echoing across the lake like it belongs in a different world.
“I’ve got you,” he says. His grip is solid, his body a firm counterweight to your graceless flailing. “Just stand. Don’t try to walk yet. Feel how your skates sit on the ice.”
“I hate this. I hate you,” you mutter, clinging to his coat.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says, and you scowl because he’s grinning now, and it’s not helpful at all.
Slowly, he eases you forward, step by wobbling step. The cold nips at your cheeks, your breath fogging between you in soft white puffs. Every movement feels like a gamble, your muscles tense with the knowledge that at any second, you could end up flat on your back.
“You skate like Bambi,” he observes cheerfully.
“Say that again and I’m taking you down with me.”
“You’d have to catch me first,” he says. “And given your current progress, I’d say that’s not happening in this lifetime.”
You lurch at him, purely out of spite, and he lets out a surprised yelp as he stumbles back a little, catching you both from falling with more grace than you’ll ever possess. You end up in his arms, your face smushed embarrassingly against his chest, heart pounding from more than just the cold.
“You’re not bad at this,” he murmurs near your ear. “For someone who looks like they’re skating on stilts.”
You pull back to glare at him, but his smile softens into something almost fond, and you blink. He’s still holding you, hands braced at your waist now, fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. His touch is warm through the layers. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you can.
He leans back, clears his throat a little, and says, “Alright. Lesson one: don’t look down.”
“What?”
“No, seriously. Head up. Trust yourself a little. If you stare at the ice, your body will think you want to meet it.”
You lift your gaze slowly, reluctantly, and focus on the horizon instead: trees dusted in frost, a sky bruised with early twilight, and Satoru’s impossibly pale eyes, sharp and bright and filled with something you can’t name. He starts guiding you again, his hands still at your waist, your balance a little steadier now. Each glide is cautious; it’s progress, however painstaking.
You’re still clumsy—more shuffling than skating—but the panic has dulled, replaced by a nervous sort of awareness: of your feet, of your breathing, of him. The cold cuts through the air with a crispness that sharpens everything, from the bite in your lungs to the sting in your cheeks, but somehow, with Satoru’s hands anchoring you, it all feels a little softer.
“Look at you,” he says, low and a bit smug. “You’re a natural.”
You snort. “I’m one step away from death.”
“Death by ice is very poetic,” he muses. “We’ll put it on your tombstone. Beloved roommate. Skated once.”
You elbow him weakly, the motion throwing off your centre of gravity just enough to send you pitching forward—again. You gasp, arms flailing, but he catches you effortlessly, laughing as he draws you back upright like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature to steady you.
“That’s lesson two,” he says, grinning down at you. “Don’t do that.”
“You are the worst teacher.”
“And yet,” he says, steering you in a slow arc, “you’re still standing.”
The lake is quiet, save for the dull scrape of blades against the ice, the rustling of wind in the trees, and the shouts and hoots of a group of teenagers skating on the other end. You imagine the rink gets really crowded later in the evening, but for now, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in shades of silver and slate, the world narrowed down to the stretch of frozen water and the steady cadence of his voice in your ear. You take another step. Then another. Satoru doesn’t let go, even though you think you could maybe handle it on your own now. But you don’t ask him to.
“This wasn’t just about the skating,” he says after a while.
You glance up at him. His expression is unreadable now, the teasing stripped back to something quieter. You try for lightness. “Oh? Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me?”
“No. I did that last week. You were too busy yelling at me about the dishes.”
You huff a laugh, but it catches in your throat, because he’s looking at you in that way again—like you’re the only thing in focus. Like the cold and the ice and the time you called him a walking disaster don’t matter.
“I just wanted to do something with you,” he says. “Riko—Riko and I used to do this all the time as kids.”
“...Oh,” you say dumbly.
He doesn’t look away when you say it. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and you realise, belatedly, that you’re not gripping onto him anymore. You’re standing.
“She used to hold my hand like you’re doing now,” he continues, a half-smile flickering across his face, wistful. “Only, she had these tiny little gloves with cats on them, and she’d nearly pull me down every time she slipped.”
You can see it, easily—Riko as a small blur of determination, dragging her too-tall older brother around a rink, shrieking with laughter while he pretended not to be terrified of falling. You wonder what it was like, growing up with someone like that; with someone who looked at Satoru and saw more than the smirking exterior, who loved him before he learned to weaponise his charm.
“Is this where you guilt-trip me into being nicer to you?” you ask.
“No,” he says. “You being mean to me is the only thing that keeps me grounded.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not when your chest is doing that awful thing again—that fluttery, traitorous ache that started as irritation and now feels like something worse. “Do you ever stop being—” you begin, but you don’t finish.
Because he lets go. Just like that.
Your breath catches, skates faltering as your arms instinctively reach for him—but you don’t fall. Your legs wobble, sure. Your equilibrium protests. But you’re still upright, and still moving, slowly and awkwardly and without grace. And he’s just standing there, a few feet away now, watching you with a look that’s proud and amused and terribly fond.
“You’re doing it,” he says, and the words hang in the air like steam, like warmth in the cold.
You stare at him. “You tricked me.”
“Obviously.”
“You let go.”
“I did.” Satoru’s smile is maddening. “But look. You’re fine.”
You aren’t sure if you’re grateful or angry or both. The lake is wide around you, open and echoing, and your arms feel empty without his to cling to. But you’re skating. When you reach him again—because of course you make your way back, clumsy half-glides bringing you close enough to grab his coat again if you want to—he doesn’t move away.
“I hate that you’re right,” you mutter, breathing hard.
“I’m always right.”
“You’re never right.”
“You’re right,” he says solemnly. “I’m only ever hot and devastatingly charming.”
You shove him. It doesn’t do much; he’s solid, annoying, smug. But he laughs, and it echoes across the lake again, bright and honest. Then his hands find yours once more. “Next time,” he says, leaning in close, “we’ll try a spin.”
You gawk at him like he’s insane. “I will murder you on the ice.”
“I’d die happy.”
You should pull away. You should say something cutting, something that reestablishes the boundaries he’s always so eager to toe. But you don’t, because he’s warm even through your gloves, and the sky above you is bleeding into a soft lavender dusk, and his breath is a whisper against your cheek when he adds, “You were really brave today.”
“Don’t make it weird,” you mumble.
“Too late.”
You close your eyes, just for a moment. Without warning, you tug his hand and take a step back on the ice, away from him. It’s shaky. Messy. Maybe even stupid. But you don’t fall, and when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already following.
You don’t end up at the ice hockey team’s practice on purpose. It’s all a matter of circumstance: you’d forgotten to bring your keys, and Satoru had practice immediately after classes, so you decided to pay him and Nanami a visit because you’re meticulous and already ahead of all your assigned readings, so you have some free time anyway.
Your boots squeak faintly against the rubber mat lining the entrance as you step inside, the sharp scent of ice and that weird rubbery tang from equipment stinging your nose. It’s colder than you expect it to be—not just chilly, but biting—and you hug your coat tighter around yourself, muttering under your breath about your own stupidity for forgetting your keys.
Through the glass panels that separate the stands from the rink, you catch sight of the team already in warm-ups, skating brisk laps along the boards. Nanami is easy to spot, with his clean-cut form and too-serious expression, weaving between teammates. Satoru, in contrast, is a blur of motion and colour—grinning, flippant, always moving like he’s daring gravity to catch him. You know it’s him even with the helmet on. There’s something unmistakable about the way he skates, fast and loose like he was born with blades for feet and no sense of self-preservation.
You slip into the bleachers, choosing a middle seat and tucking your hands between your thighs for warmth. Your breath fogs in front of you in soft clouds. Below, the players yell instructions at one another, the thud of pucks hitting boards punctuated by the scrape of blades on ice. You expect to be bored within ten minutes, but strangely, you’re not.
You catch yourself watching Satoru more than you should.
He’s wearing a dark jersey with the number six on the back, paired with white hockey pants. He skates like he owns the ice, like the world is some elaborate game designed for his entertainment, and he’s the only one who knows all the rules. He’s obnoxiously good, of course. His passes are sharp and clean, his puck handling seamless, like the stick is an extension of his arm. He doesn’t celebrate the goals he scores, but you can tell he enjoys each one. It’s in the way he glances towards the stands after every shot, like he’s half-expecting applause. Like maybe—just maybe—he knows you’re watching.
And, of course, the one time you lean forward with genuine curiosity, Satoru catches your eye. You immediately sit back and pretend to examine the very interesting metal railing in front of you. When you look up again, he’s skating backwards towards the centre line, grinning like a lunatic. You roll your eyes.
Practice drags on, but in that weird hypnotic way that makes time pass fast. The drills shift from technical to scrimmage-style, players darting about, sticks clashing, shouts echoing through the space. Nanami plays with all the joy of someone forced into it by obligation, but you admire his skill all the same. Satoru, on the other hand, is infuriatingly smooth, darting past defenders and spinning to block shots.
At some point, you begin to lose feeling in your toes. You pull your legs up into your seat and burrow deeper into your coat. Satoru scores another goal with a fancy little flick of his wrist and has the nerve to wink at you through the glass. You flip him off, and he beams like you’ve handed him a bouquet of roses.
When practice ends, the players skate to the benches, pulling off their helmets and guzzling water. You consider leaving before Satoru can come find you, but by the time you make the decision, he’s already peeled off his gear and is jogging toward the stands, a towel slung around his neck and his hair a snowy mess of sweat-damp curls.
“You stalking me now?” he calls up, voice echoing through the cavernous space.
“I forgot my keys,” you reply flatly. “Trust me, if I had other options, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Aw,” he says, leaning on the railing in front of you. “So you missed me.”
You stare down at him, unimpressed. “You smell like a wet dog. I can smell it all the way up here.”
“Still came to see me, though.”
You open your mouth to reply with something scathing, but the words don’t quite come. Not when he’s standing there with flushed cheeks and a grin that’s more sunshine than snow, squinting slightly because of the overhead lights. Not when you remember, fleetingly, that Riko once told you her brother was really quiet, and you remember, again, that he changed after she died. The thought vanishes before you can dwell on it.
“We’re out of milk, by the way,” you say instead.
Nanami skates over. His jersey is soaked through, but his hair remains irritatingly neat under his helmet. He slows to a stop beside the boards, stick tucked under one arm, and gives you a nod in greeting. You nod back.
“She came all the way out here just to tell me we’re out of milk,” Satoru says.
“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale and gesture vaguely in his direction. “Why do you talk like that?”
“He talks like that because he has no concept of shame,” Nanami says.
“You wound me, Nanamin.”
Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response—just raises a single brow and skates off toward the locker room. You watch his retreating figure for a second, then glance back at Satoru, now balancing precariously with one arm out.
“You are so dramatic,” you mutter, standing and starting down the bleachers.
“I prefer being called expressive,” Satoru calls after you, hopping off the railing and jogging to meet you at the base of the stairs. He smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and whatever chemical funk lives permanently in every locker room, but he’s grinning so widely you almost forget to wrinkle your nose. Almost.
“I can see your hair freezing,” you say as you fall into step beside him. “That’s disgusting. Go shower.”
He throws an arm around your shoulders; the gesture makes your skin bristle from the chill still clinging to his clothes. “But you like me gross,” he says, bumping your side with a playful swing of his hip.
You scoff and shove him off, barely managing to keep your balance as your boots skid slightly on the damp rubber flooring. “I like you better when you’re not radiating the scent of boiled socks.”
“So specific,” Satoru laughs. “Were you composing that one in your head the whole time I was on the ice?”
“No,” you mutter. “It came naturally. Like an allergic reaction.”
You follow him through the back hallway toward the locker rooms. It’s quieter here, the sounds of the rink replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. The linoleum floor is scuffed and water-stained, and everything smells like damp towels and disinfectant. You slow your steps, lingering near the door to the players’ lounge while Satoru pushes through the locker room entrance.
He peeks back before disappearing inside. “You waiting out here, or are you coming in for the full experience?”
“I value my life,” you deadpan.
“Suit yourself,” he singsongs, tossing the towel from his neck over your head before ducking inside with a grin. You yank the towel off with a sound of disgust and drop it on the floor. A few minutes pass. You idle on your phone, scrolling through old messages, then flick over to your calendar. Everything’s already done: papers outlined, deadlines logged, readings colour-coded and annotated. You’re bored.
Ten minutes later, the door creaks open and Satoru emerges, hair damp and pushed back from his face, now in grey sweats and a university hoodie two sizes too big. He looks softer like this, more human, like he could’ve been anyone else, if the world had been a little gentler.
“What?” he says, catching you staring.
You blink. “Nothing.”
He tosses his duffel bag over one shoulder and jerks his chin toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s hit the store. You said we’re out of milk, right?”
“And bread,” you add as you fall into step beside him again. “And you used the last of the eggs and just… put the empty carton back in the fridge.”
“False accusations. I plead innocent.”
“You plead lethargy.”
03. conflict resolution (the eternal affliction).
Christmas comes and goes, and the new year begins with you and Satoru deciding to sell the TV. It had been half-broken for weeks anyway—Satoru insisted it gave the screen a “vintage haze,” but you insisted it gave you migraines. So, on the second day of January, in a rare moment of mutual decisiveness, you both posted a picture of it on Facebook Marketplace with a joke caption, and watched the replies pour in. Some poor soul came to pick it up that evening, and just like that, your living room was quieter than it had been in days.
Maybe you needed the quiet. The holidays had been a blur of noise—family phone calls, missed trains, clinking glasses, and Satoru’s very enthusiastic and very drunk rendition of Last Christmas that made your upstairs neighbour leave an aggressive Post-It on your door.
Now, it’s snowing—thick, slow flakes that coat the windows and silence the city. You’re curled up on the couch with two blankets and a cup of peppermint tea you don’t really like, watching Satoru fiddle with the thermostat.
“It’s broken,” he says for the fifth time, shirt riding up slightly as he bends down to look behind the radiator. “I’m gonna sue the landlord.”
“You say that every week,” you reply, blowing on your tea. “You’ve never sued anyone in your life.”
“I could,” he says indignantly, standing upright. He looks infuriatingly good in sweats and a hoodie, even with socks that don’t match and a piece of tape stuck to his elbow from when he tried to fix the window seal this morning. “You don’t know what I get up to when you’re asleep.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re usually asleep before me.”
Satoru points a finger at you. “Exactly. That’s what I want you to think. But maybe I’ve been moonlighting as a lawyer in the dead of night. Ever think about that?”
You take a long sip of your tea to hide your smile. “You can’t even read the rental agreement without getting a headache.”
“You said you’d never bring that up again!”
“You were crying, Satoru.”
“It was printed in a size 10 font, what do you want from me?”
You laugh. Outside, the streetlights blur into glowing halos. Inside, it’s dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of peppermint and laundry detergent, and something you can’t quite place—Satoru, probably, who always smells like something slightly sweet, like sugar cookies and whatever shampoo he uses when he forgets yours isn’t his. You look over the rim of your mug at him. His hair’s messier than usual, falling into his eyes. You’ve told him to get it trimmed. He hasn’t listened.
“It’s still getting colder,” you say quietly, watching the snow. “You think we’ll get snowed in?”
Satoru flops onto the couch beside you, his body warm where it presses against your blanket-wrapped one, his knee knocking lightly into yours. “God, I hope so,” he mutters, tugging the throw off your legs to cover himself. “We could use the time off.”
“You don’t even work a real job,” you remind him.
He frowns, the expression exaggerated and pouty. “Excuse me. I’m a public servant. I’m out there risking life and limb every day, for our stupid old landlord. Or did you forget who shoveled the steps this morning?”
“Badly,” you point out. “You missed half the landing.”
“I was conserving energy,” he says primly, “in case we do get snowed in. You’ll be thanking me when it’s day four of no groceries and you’re chewing on the couch cushions.”
You scoff, curling your feet under you. “We’ve got food. I made sure.”
“I saw.” He grins, tilting his head to rest against the back of the couch, blue eyes sparkling. “I saw you hide the good snacks in the cereal box. You’re so sneaky.” Satoru reaches for the remote out of habit, then remembers the TV is gone. “Oh. What are we supposed to do now? Talk to each other?”
You smile around the rim of your cup. “We could play cards.”
“We could commit tax fraud.”
You nudge his leg with yours. “Satoru.”
“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “But only if I get to cheat.”
“You always cheat.”
“You always let me.”
He says it quietly, but he looks at you like he’s talking about something else entirely. Maybe he is. You set the mug down carefully, your fingers too warm now to keep holding it. You’re suddenly aware of everything: how his thigh brushes yours, how he’s slouched so far down the cushions that his hoodie’s ridden up again, showing a sliver of pale skin and the waistband of his sweats; the scar on his hip he told you he got from an ice hockey accident; the way he shifts when you don’t say anything, like he feels your gaze and likes it.
The peppermint flavour in your mouth goes sticky and sweet.
“I’m bored,” he says again, softer. “You wanna do something stupid?”
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Like take a really hot shower. Together. For environmental reasons.”
You huff, trying not to laugh, even as your stomach does a slow somersault. “Very eco-conscious of you.”
“Exactly. I’m a hero.”
You roll your eyes, but the thought lingers—his body wet and close, fogging up the glass, your cold skin pressed to his. It lingers longer than it should. You lean your head back against the couch and try to chase it away, but Satoru leans closer, propping his chin on your shoulder, voice lazy and low, as he says, “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re such a bad liar.”
You shoot him a look, about to say something, but it dies on your lips. He’s close. His eyes are sleepy but sharp, his breath warm where it brushes your cheek. You blink slowly. You think you could kiss him and he’d let you. You think if you said please, he’d let you crawl into his lap and never leave.
“I don’t even like peppermint,” you deflect, mostly to yourself.
“Riko used to say you always drank it in winter.”
“It’s supposed to feel festive.”
“You’re festive,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like the words slipped out without thinking.The snow falls harder. The pipes groan, and the heater hisses weakly. You pull the blanket higher around your neck. “You’re not warm enough,” he observes.
“Thanks for the update.”
“I’m just saying. We could fix that.”
“Is this you trying to seduce me?”
“Is it working?”
You stare at him. He’s gorgeous like this—half-lazy, half-serious, the kind of effortless pretty that shouldn’t be allowed in sweats and two-day-old hair. You think about the way his voice goes low when he’s teasing you, like it is now. The way he always runs a hand down your back, firm and gentle, when he knows your day’s been long. It’s unbearable, sometimes, the want. The wanting him like this.
“I could be convinced,” you say quietly.
“Oh, yeah?”
He doesn’t move right away; he watches you—searching, maybe, or waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t. He shifts to face you more fully, and leans in slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away. His fingers brush your jaw, warm and careful, and then he kisses you.
It starts soft, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. You answer with a small sound at the back of your throat, leaning in, tilting your head, letting your mouth part just slightly under his. Satoru deepens it with a low noise that vibrates between you, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to anchor your close. His lips are warm, his mouth sweet—peppermint and the leftover hint of something honeyed from dinner. He kisses like he does everything else—wholeheartedly, a little cocky, and all-consuming. Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as he presses in.
His other hand slides beneath the blanket, settling against your waist. You’re still bundled up in layers, but you feel the heat of his palm through the cotton. Your whole body reacts to it: shivering, softening, leaning closer. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just barely, his nose brushing yours. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown, a flush high on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. “You sure?” he asks roughly. “Because I’ll stop. I’ll stop right now if—”
You kiss him again, quick and firm. “I’m sure.”
Satoru lets out a breath, then nudges the blanket off both of you. The cold air hits your skin for half a second before he’s pulling you onto his lap, coaxing you into straddling him. You go willingly, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. It’s clumsy at first—your feet slide, your knee bumps the coffee table—but he steadies you with both hands on your hips, and it stops being funny.
Your faces are inches apart. You can see every speck of silver in his eyes, the pink curve of his bottom lip, the threadbare collar of his hoodie that dips just low enough to show the line of his throat. Your fingers slip under the hem of it, and he shudders.
“This okay?” you ask quietly.
He nods, but adds, “Don’t ask like that. Like I’d ever say no to you.”
You kiss him again. His hands move—up your back, under your shirt, leaving trails of heat where they go. You’re both flush with warmth now, the kind of warmth that fills your chest and settles low in your belly. The radiator’s broken, and your tea’s gone cold, but it doesn’t matter, not with his body beneath yours, not with his mouth at your neck now, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the place where your pulse beats.
“Satoru,” you whisper, and he groans softly against your skin like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week. You tighten your fingers in his hoodie, tugging just slightly, and he lifts his head to look at you. You run your hands down his chest, over the soft cotton. “This has got to go.”
He grins, crooked and flushed. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”
You tug the hoodie up, and he raises his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. His hair is mussed even further, sticking up in a dozen directions, and you can’t help smoothing it down with your hands. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the planes of his chest scattered with faint scars.
“You’re staring,” he says, softer now.
“You’re pretty,” you reply, just as quiet.
His smile falters—not in a bad way, but in that way it does when you say something that actually gets to him. He swallows, reaches up, and brushes your hair back behind your ear. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when I’m trying to be cool.”
“You’re never cool,” you whisper, leaning in again. “I’m on birth control. Just so you know.”
His laugh is rough, but it dies in his throat the second you crush your mouth to his again—all heat, no patience now, just the wet slide of his tongue against yours. His hands are already pushing under your shirt, fingers tracing every rib, until his thumbs drag slow circles under your breasts. You arch into his touch.
“Off,” he says, yanking your shirt up. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away, leaving you in just your bra—some flimsy lace thing he’s already eyeing like he wants to tear it off. The cold air hits your skin, but you barely feel it, not with the way his gaze burns over you. His hands are on you again instantly, palming your tits through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper. His thumbs flick over your nipples, already stiff, and you gasp when he leans down to lick a hot stripe over the fabric.
“So beautiful,” he says, teeth catching the edge of the cup. He tugs it down, freeing one breast, and seals his mouth over it with wet, filthy pulls of his lips while his tongue flicks the peak. You moan, thighs clenching, already grinding down against his lap where his cock strains against his sweatpants.
“Satoru—” Your fingers twist in his hair, holding him to your chest as he switches sides, biting lightly at the other nipple through the lace before dragging the cup down to give it the same treatment. His free hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your pants, and you shudder when he presses the heel of his palm hard against your clit.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groans against your skin, fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles. “Can feel it through your pants.”
You’re panting now, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction. He undoes the string of your pants with one hand, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear. His breath hitches when he sees how wet you are, glistening and swollen.
“Look at that,” he rasps, dragging two fingers through your folds, spreading your slick. He slides one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, teasing. “Already so fucking tight—how’re you gonna take me?”
You whine, hips jerking, trying to him deeper, but he just chuckles, adding a second finger, curling them just right to make you gasp. He pumps them slowly, his thumb circling your clit in time, until you’re trembling, your thighs shaking around his wrist.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers free with a filthy sound. You nearly sob at the loss, but he unbuckles his jeans, shoving them just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking.
“Ride me,” he orders, voice rough.
You don’t hesitate. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and lower yourself into him inch by inch. The stretch burns, the way he fills you so perfect, it steals your breath. Both of you groan as you take him to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, and his head falls back against the couch with a groan. His hands roam your body—squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to grip your ass, urging you faster. You comply, bouncing on his cock now, the slap of skin echoing in the room. Every thrust drags him against that perfect spot inside you, and you can feel the coil of pleasure tightening, your clit throbbing with each movement.
“Gonna come,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “Satoru, I’m—”
“Let go,” he urges, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. “Come on my cock.”
The orgasm crashes through you—your back arches, your walls clamp down on him, and you cry out, shuddering as pleasure rips through every nerve. He fucks you through it, his hips jerking up to meet your frantic movements, until he groans and spills inside you with a low moan.
You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and spent. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. He tilts your chin up, after a moment, kissing you slow and lazy.
“So,” he mumbles against your lips. “About that shower.”
“Yes, please.”
He peels you off the couch with a groan, your legs shaky, your skin still fever-hot where his come drips down your inner thighs. The bathroom tiles are cool under your bare feet as he guides you in, his palm never leaving the small of your back, like he can’t stand not touching you for even a second.
Steam fogs the mirror before the water even hits your skin. Satoru adjusts the spray with a rough twist of his wrist, testing it with his fingers before pulling you under the warm heat. The water sluices over your shoulders, your breasts, his hands following its path like he’s trying to watch every inch of you with his touch instead.
“You missed a spot,” you tease, breath hitching when his thumbs drag over your nipples, already stiff again from the contrast of heat and his calloused fingers.
“Fucking smartass,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it—not when his cock is already thickening against your hip, the tip flushed and leaking. He crowds you against the tile, his mouth searing a path down your throat, sucking bruises into the tender skin below your ear. Water beads on his lashes when he looks up at you, fingers hooking under your knee to hike your leg over his hip.
“Turn around,” he orders, voice frayed with want.
You obey, bracing your palms against the slick wall as he presses flush against your back. His cock nudges between your thighs, not quite inside it—just rutting against your slick folds, teasing. The head catches on your entrance, the stretch just shy of unbearable, and you whimper, pushing back.
Satoru chuckles, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head aside. His other hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your slick over your clit. “Still dripping,” he says, circling that swollen bud just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “Like you’re fucking made for me.”
You gasp when he finally pushes inside—slow, deliberate, stretching you with every inch until his hips meet your ass. The water cascades over both of you as he starts to move, deep, rolling thrusts that have you arching, your nails scraping against tile.
“Look at you,” he groans, tightening his grip on your hip. His other hand leaves your hair to grab your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you harder. “Taking me so fucking good.”
It’s too much—the drag of his cock against your walls, the slap of skin, the way his teeth sink into your shoulder. You’re babbling, half-formed pleas and his name, your thighs trembling with every thrust.
“Gonna make you come again,” he grits out, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing circles. You come with a cry, your walls fluttering around him as your climax crashes over you. Satoru fucks you through it, his hips stuttering as his own release hits—a harsh groan against your neck as he spills inside you.
He holds you up when your legs give out, turning you in his arms to kiss you slow and filthy under the spray. His tongue licks into your mouth, while his hand drifts down to your ass.
“Clean now?” you mumble against his lips, dazed.
He laughs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Dirty as hell.” His other hand slides between your thighs, gathering the mix of water and come dripping down your skin. “Gonna have to do this again.”
You shiver as he brings his fingers to your mouth, watching your lips part to suck them clean.
Spring is sprung, but nothing changes between you and Satoru. It’s as if the two days you spent snowed in right after New Year’s are just that—two days that exist outside of your usual periphery, kept locked away in the recesses of your mind like a dream you can’t decide whether to revisit or forget. The world has thawed and so, seemingly, has he. No more late nights curled together on his couch. No more cereal-for-dinner declarations or tangled limbs under too-warm blankets. That strange liminal space you existed in, suspended in the hush of snowfall and the hum of radiator heat, disappears as soon as the city begins to bloom again.
Instead, things shift back into old rhythms.
You start finding mismatched socks in the laundry again. His cereal bowls accumulate in the sink in quiet protest of dishwashing. You bicker over the thermostat settings like you always used too—Satoru insists that 24°C is the perfect temperature while you’re constantly reaching for the dial to turn it down. He steals your phone charger without asking. You use his shampoo out of petty revenge. He hogs the bathroom mirror every morning, combing through his hair with a devotion that borders on tragic. And you… you go back to pretending that none of it ever meant anything more.
You try not to notice how careful he is now, how his gaze lingers a little too long but his fingers don’t. How he keeps his distance—playfully, almost purposefully. As if closeness is a privilege that’s been revoked. As if intimacy was a mistake that neither of you are willing to acknowledge.
And because it’s easier this way, you don’t ask.
Instead, you both fall into the easy charade of Just Roommates, the same performance you perfected before that blizzard rewrote the script. It’s familiar, comfortable—until it isn’t.
Because one night, he doesn’t come home.
You notice it sometime around 11:30 P.M. His shoes aren’t by the door, his keys aren’t clattering into the dish like they usually do. The apartment is quiet in a way it hasn’t been for months. You try not to worry. He’s an adult. He disappears sometimes. That’s just Satoru being Satoru. But something in your chest prickles with unease, and your thumb hovers over your screen for a good five minutes before you finally open your messages.
You: hey, you coming home tonight?
No reply. The text sits there, read but unanswered. You sit on the couch for another half hour, idly scrolling, not really seeing anything. Your eyes keep darting to the door like he might waltz in with some dumb excuse and a bag of chips. When the clock hits 1:04 A.M., you give up pretending and text Nanami.
You: do you know where satoru is?
Nanami: hold on.
Nanami: yeah. unfortunately.
Two seconds later, an image pops up.
It’s a picture taken at a frat party—one of those messy, overcrowded events where the music’s too loud and the floor’s sticky with God-knows-what. There’s a blur of colour and movement, people crowding the frame, but it’s not hard to spot him: Satoru, in the centre of it all, unmistakable even with the grainy quality of the photo. He’s half-sitting on the back of a couch, red solo cup in hand, sunglasses perched uselessly on the bridge of his nose despite it being well past midnight. His head is tilted toward a girl beside him—brunette, bright lipstick, her arm draped over his shoulder.
You stare at the image for longer than you mean to.
The girl’s laughing. Satoru’s smiling. And not that small, soft sort of smile he gives you when he thinks you’re not looking, but wide and lazy, the kind he usually wears when he’s trying to charm his way out of something.
Your stomach curls, cold and unpleasant. You shut your phone off. The apartment is still too quiet. You brush your teeth with shaking fingers, climb into a bed that feels a little too big, and press your eyes shut like that might block out the sudden ache in your chest.
It shouldn’t matter. You’re just roommates.
You think about the girl he’d brought home that day, three days into your moving in. You’d felt bad for her, knowing that she was just a notch in his over-filled stick. Is that what you are, too? Just another person he slept with? His little sister’s best friend, who’s never been the same after she died, just another name on his list?
Maybe it’s your own fault. You knew what he was like.
The morning after, you don’t reach for your phone. You don’t check to see if he came home sometimes after you fell asleep. You don’t look for his shoes by the door. You just go about your day like you’ve got somewhere to be.
It’s easier this way. To keep moving. To stay busy. To pull your focus away from the image etched into the backs of your eyelids: the shape of him in someone else’s orbit, grinning like he didn’t have your heartbeat tucked between his palms only a few weeks ago.
When you finally do check your phone, there’s no apology. Just a half-hearted “my bad lol” text that arrives sometime around 10 A.M., flippant and thoughtless, as if it never even occurred to him that you might’ve waited up.
You don’t answer. He doesn’t push. The silence becomes your new rhythm.
Where once there was casual ease between you, there is now only space. Deliberate, careful space. You start closing the door to your room whenever he’s home. You keep your headphones in, even when you’re not listening to anything. You stop making dinner for two. You stop leaving him notes on the fridge. He seems to notice, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe he’s too oblivious to put the pieces together. Or maybe this is just easier for him, too.
You start planning your exit. You don’t tell him. You don’t know how to. You start searching on your laptop late at night, under the covers like it’s something shameful. Studio apartments, room shares, sublets posted by strangers who spell everything in lowercase. Nothing looks promising, but you scroll anyway, determined to find something, anything, that doesn’t have him in it.
You start making lists in your notes app. Things you’ll need: a kettle, your own set of plates, a bathroom rug. Things you’ll miss: the way he sings when he’s in the shower, the sound of his laugh echoing down the hallway, the smell of his shampoo. And then there are the things you don’t let yourself write down. Like the way his arms felt around you that night on the couch. Or the look in his eyes when he thought you were asleep. Or the fact that, for a brief few moments this winter, you really, truly believed he could be something more.
You don’t talk about any of it. Not to him, not to Nanami, not to your friend who sits next to you during class. You just swallow it down like a bitter pill and keep moving.
Some nights, he comes home late and you pretend to be asleep. Some mornings, he lingers in the kitchen a little too long, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything, but you never do. You sip your coffee in silence, watch the steam curl up, and keep your eyes fixed on the window. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to him. It’s that you don’t trust what you’d say.
Because the truth is this: you’ve overstayed your welcome, not just in this apartment, but in the idea of him. You let yourself want, and now you’re paying for it.
And Satoru—he’s still Satoru. Beautiful and reckless and untouchable in the ways that matter most. He flits around you like he doesn’t notice you pulling away. Or maybe he does, and he’s letting you go. So you send in applications. You tour a too-small studio with cracked linoleum and convince yourself the peeling walls are “charming.” You lie on your bed at night and stare at the ceiling and imagine what it’ll feel like to live in a place where his laugh doesn’t echo through the walls.
Spring has sprung. The world is warm and blooming again. But you—you’ve never felt colder.
When you tell Nanami you’re moving, he doesn’t chide you for it. Just shrugs, and asks if you want any help with packing. You nod, grateful, and ask if you can accompany him for their ice hockey practice that evening. You need to give Satoru your keys back, and you would prefer to do it with your friend next to you.
The rink is always colder than you expect. Even in the early blush of spring, when your jacket is too light and the wind a little gentler, the ice rink clings to winter. Nanami doesn’t say much on the walk over. He’s not the type to pry unless invited, and you’ve been… quiet, to say the least. A silence cushioned in resignation more than sadness. As if the version of yourself who cried into her pillow over Satoru in January has finally dulled into someone softer, steadier.
You sit in the bleachers with your arms tucked close to your chest as Nanami skates onto the ice. The boys are already roughhousing, and Satoru—he’s grinning. Always grinning.
You spot him the moment he hops the rail. His hair is a mess under his helmet, and his jersey hangs a little lopsided over his pads, but there’s that same carefree energy, as though nothing in the world has ever really touched him. Not even you.
You fold your fingers around the keys in your coat pocket and press them tight into your palm. Practice is what you’ve come to expect. Fast. Loud. A blur of bodies in motion, blades on ice, the occasional thud as someone crashes into the boards. You watch the way Satoru moves—like he owns the rink, like gravity is just a suggestion. You realise, belatedly, that you are looking. Maybe too hard.
When the whistle blows and the scrimmage ends, the team filters off the ice in staggered waves, peeling off helmets, slapping shoulders, shouting about drinks and dinner plans. Nanami nods at you from the bench, motioning that he’ll meet you outside. You’re halfway down the bleachers when you hear his name.
“Hey!” Satoru’s voice cuts through the buzz of conversation. You turn. He’s jogging over with that same impish grin, helmet under one arm, hair sweat-damp and eyes far too blue. “You came.”
You blink. “Yeah.”
“You missed me, huh?” he teases, bumping your shoulder with his. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you love watching me play.”
There it is—that familiar tilt of his head. A part of you wants to smile back, the way you always do. Fall into the rhythm again. Pretend.
But not this time.
You pull your hand from your coat pocket and extend it toward him, fingers curled around the small, silver ring of keys. “Here,” you say simply.
Satoru stills. He looks at your hand like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing, like the keys might bite him if he takes them. “What…?” his voice falters. “What’s this?”
“Your spare,” you reply. “I’m moving out.”
He doesn’t take the keys right away. He stares at you, the confusion sharpening into something quieter, something more serious. “You’re serious.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
You don’t say I wouldn’t have watched you skate around like nothing ever happened if I wasn’t. You don’t say I wouldn’t have dragged myself back into this space, this icebox version of our past, if I didn’t want to close the door for good.
He finally reaches out and takes them, curling his fingers slowly around the metal like it might dissolve. You notice the way his smile has faded. The rink is suddenly very quiet.
“I see,” he says. It’s the most subdued you’ve heard him in weeks.
You take a step back. “Good game, by the way.”
You walk away.
04. the end (happily ever after).
“You can’t leave until the end of the month,” Satoru says by way of greeting, toeing off his shoes at the entrance. “You signed the lease with me. You have to stay until April.”
You pause halfway through stacking one of the moving boxes, fingers curled around a stack of your dog-eared books. “Are you seriously quoting the lease at me right now?”
Satoru shrugs out of his jacket. “I’m just saying. It’s legally binding.”
You set the books down a little too hard. “What, so now you care about the rules?”
“I’ve always cared,” he says.
“No, Satoru. You care when it’s convenient. You care when it means getting the last word. You don’t get to act like this now, after weeks of pretending I don’t exist.”
“I wasn’t pretending—”
“You stopped coming home,” you snap, the words catching in your throat like thorns. “You stopped showing up. You stopped talking to me.”
“I needed space,” he says, and you laugh—cold and bitter and hollow.
“From what? From me? From whatever happened that weekend?”
He says nothing. Just shifts his weight and stares at the floor like the grain of the wood might suddenly rearrange itself into answers.
You swallow. “Right. Of course. That weekend didn’t mean anything. Just like everything else.”
“Don’t do that,” Satoru says quietly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what we are,” you retort defensively. “Were. Because you clearly figured it out a long time ago and didn’t bother telling me.”
“It’s not like that.”
“No?” Your voice shakes. “Then what about the girl from the party, Satoru? What was that?”
His head jerks up. “What girl?”
You cross your arms. “Nanami showed me a photo. Some frat party. You and some girl. You looked—happy.”
Something flickers across his face—confusion first, then something like hurt. “You mean Misaki?”
“I don’t know her name. I just know you were smiling. With your arm around her. And I know I don’t sleep with people I don’t care about. So maybe it didn’t mean anything to you, but it did to me. And you were just going to go back to your life like nothing happened, I wish you’d said so before I gave a damn.”
“Misaki,” he says again, stunned. “She’s dating Hajime.”
You blink.
“She’s my teammate’s girlfriend. He wanted a photo of all of us for her birthday because she’s moving to Osaka. That’s it. We all posed for a stupid picture, and then I left. I didn’t even want to go.”
You want to believe him. You really do. But your chest still aches with weeks of uncertainty, with that night you nearly cried yourself to sleep on the mattress you were already half-packing away. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I thought I already fucked everything up,” he admits. “You stopped talking to me. You looked right through me. I thought I crossed a line, and you regretted it.”
You shake your head, disbelieving. “You—you thought I regretted it? Satoru, I—” You cut yourself off. Swallow it down.
He steps forward, hands out like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed anymore. “I didn’t want to risk making it worse. But then you stopped coming to practice. You stopped leaving your door open. You were just… gone.”
“The only thing we ever had in common,” you say, “was Riko.”
His face falls.
“She’s dead, Satoru. And maybe… maybe we were just trying to hold on to each other because she was the one who tied us together.
“No.” His voice is firm. “No, that’s not true.”
You look away. “Isn’t it?”
“Maybe at first,” he says. “But not anymore. Not for a long time.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I had more time. I miss you. Every day. I miss going grocery shopping with you. I miss your hair in the drain and your mugs on the counter and the way you used to fall asleep on the couch back when we still had the TV. I miss you,” he repeats, quieter this time, “so no. You can’t leave. Not until I get to ask you out properly.”
For your first date, Satoru sneaks you into the campus ice rink at one in the morning.
“Nicked the keys from the coach,” he says. “Don’t tell Nanamin.”
The air inside the rink is biting and crisp, even colder than you remember from the times you’d come to watch practice. Satoru flips the lights on, flooding the empty arena with a soft, almost romantic glow—clean white against the polished glass, shadows stretching long along the bleachers. You stand near the edge of the rink, hugging your coat tighter around your body.
“I can’t believe you stole from your coach for this,” you say, though you’re smiling.
Satoru shakes the keys at you. “Borrowed. It’s borrowing if I return them.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m endearing,” he corrects, walking backwards towards the ice, arms spread wide. “And this is your first official date. Has to be memorable.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart is soft and melty, like it always is around him now.
He’s already laced into his skates, having arrived with them slung over one shoulder. You, on the other hand, have to sit at the benches while he kneels in front of you to help you with yours. His fingers are quick and practiced, tugging the laces snug before double-knotting them with a flourish. It should be embarrassing—being fawned over like this—but there’s something reverent in the way he moves, like this is a ritual of his own making, and it tugs at something in your chest.
“You do this for all your first dates?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but failing. You’re too aware of the way his breath fans over your thighs, or the way his touch lingers just a little too long against your ankles.
He glances up at you, bright eyes amused. “You’re my first. Be gentle with me.”
The ice is smooth, freshly resurfaced. Satoru leads you to the centre, gliding effortlessly, show-offy as ever. He does a little spin, throws both arms in the air like he’s just scored, then turns and offers you a hand.
“You know I can’t skate like that.”
“Lucky for you,” he says, stepping closer and tucking his fingers through yours, “I happen to be very good at holding people up.”
You’re wobbly at first, your legs unsure, and he skates backward slowly, pulling you along. His hands are steady on your waist, his smile wide and proud. And once you find your rhythm—still shaky, but upright—you circle the rink together, the only sounds the soft hiss of blades on ice and your laughter echoing against the rafters.
It’s surreal. You’ve seen him like this before: in his element, cocky and sure of himself on the ice. But it’s different now, because now, every glance he throws your way feels like it means something. Halfway through, he slows to a stop and pulls you in close. “You know,” he says, softer now, “I used to dream about this.”
You blink up at him. “About breaking and entering university property?”
“No,” he says. “About you. Being with you. I used to imagine all the ways I could maybe get you to see me the way I saw you. And it always started with something like this.”
You flush. “Satoru…”
“Do you remember,” he says, nudging his forehead against yours, “after the snowstorm? When I told you I wouldn’t regret it?”
You nod.
“I meant it,” he says. “I still mean it.”
The kiss comes naturally, like exhaling. You’re both half-frozen, and he tastes like mind and cold air, but it’s perfect anyway—slow and warm and just a little clumsy, because you’re still in skates and your balance is terrible, and he laughs into your mouth when you nearly topple over.
“I’ve got you,” he says, arms anchoring you close.
When you eventually sit on the benches again, sipping hot chocolate from a thermos he’d smuggled in his bag, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Next time, I’ll bring you here in the daytime like a normal person.”
You hum, smiling against the rim of the cup. “But I think I like this version better.”
Satoru’s fingers find yours and squeeze. “Me, too,” he says.
The final buzzer sounds.
The crowd erupts around you—horns blaring, feet stomping, voices swelling into an anthem of unbridled celebration. On the ice, bodies collide in a heap of jerseys and helmets, gloves flung into the air like confetti. The scoreboard flashes a victorious 5 – 4, and you swear your heart’s beating just as fast as the game-winning slapshot Satoru landed in the final two minutes.
You stay seated in the bleachers, slightly breathless, fingers clenched around the hem of your coat. The whole rink pulses with energy. You could cut the adrenaline with a knife. Students are screaming their heads off. Someone nearby throws a foam fingers into the rink. Your ears are ringing and your eyes are locked on the number 6 jersey, skating lazy circles while his teammates swarm Nanami in a dogpile near the goal.
Satoru Gojo.
You watch him turn, searching the stands. The grin on his face is dazzling, sweat-slicked hair sticking out of his helmet in damp tufts. He lifts his stick over his head like a banner, pointing it directly at you when he finds you in the crowd.
Your heart stutters. You’re not even embarrassed about how wide your smile stretches.
He doesn’t even wait for the rest of the ceremony.
Not ten minutes later, he’s climbed the barriers and jogged up the bleacher steps, ignoring the photographers, the shouts of “Gojo! Pictures!” and Nanami’s loud, “Get back here, Gojo!” He finds you in the fifth row, standing now, half-shocked and half-laughing, and barrels straight into you.
“Hey—” you start, but then he’s kissing you.
It’s not the first time—God knows it won’t be the last—but something about it makes the rest of the world dissolve. Your hands find the sides of his face, fingers catching on the straps of his helmet, as he presses you back gently against the guardrail. He tastes like mint and ice and sweat, and his smile never fully disappears against your mouth.
“I knew you’d come,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough with exertion. “Could feel it.”
You swat him lightly on the chest, breathless. “Of course I came. It’s the finals.”
“You didn’t come to the semi-finals,” he teases, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Thought I’d been demoted.”
“You were in the sin bin for half the game,” you retort. “Not exactly sweetheart behaviour.”
He grins against your cheek, pulling back just enough to look at you. The crowd’s still losing their minds around you, but neither of you seem to notice. His helmet’s off now, clutched in one hand, and his forehead leans against yours.
“You came tonight,” he repeats. “That’s all I needed.”
It hits you, then, just how many people are watching. Phones are out. A chant’s already building in the lower rows—Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!—but he doesn’t care. He kisses you again like you’re the only person in the arena.
Maybe you are.
“God,” he says, breathless as he pulls away, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that after a win.”
You smile, fingers curled loosely in his jersey.
“Well,” you whisper, tugging him closer, “guess you’ve earned it.”
SYNOPSIS. you marry satsuki gojo not for love, but for what he represents: power, security, the illusion of being wanted. it’s a quiet, distant life—until his son, satoru, returns. charming, reckless, and far too observant, he sees through you from the start.
what begins with stolen glances spirals into something dangerous: a secret, a betrayal, a love you never expected. and when it all falls apart, you’re forced to choose between what ruined you and what might save you.
but some lines, once crossed, can’t be undone.
TAGS/WARNINGS. satsuki gojo is satoru’s father, i gave him a name and a character just for the story. fem reader, age gap(not between satoru and you), emotional neglect, emotional infidelity, forbidden romance, slow burn, secret relationship, complicated family dynamics, bittersweet, so much angst, emotional hurt and comfort, power imbalance, morally grey characters, longing, guilt, smut, cheating (in context), explicit sexual content, themes of loneliness and betrayal, you could say both reader and gojo have daddy issues kinda, exploration of family dynamics. 15,4k words…
TORI’S NOTES. pls read the tags/warnings guys!! anyways, this was loosely inspired by a turkish tv series called “forbidden love” which is a really fucking great show and the dynamics and plot there are immaculate. hopefully, you enjoy this <33 also if you know who the art belongs to in the header pls lemme know.
you meet satsuki gojo in an elevator.
you’re interning at one of his subsidiary companies in shinjuku, working late, wearing a pair of scuffed heels and a blazer that doesn’t quite fit. you’re trying to look like you belong, even though you’re running on caffeine and sheer panic, even though you’ve been walking a tightrope since the day you left your family behind and told yourself you’d make it on your own.
he steps in on the top floor—alone—and you feel it before you see him. the shift in air. the press of presence. the kind of silence that makes you look up.
he’s wearing a black coat and gloves, his platinum hair pushed back like it never learned to fall out of place. older, clearly. not tired, but heavy. like the kind of man who never has to raise his voice to get what he wants.
you press the button again, like it might make the descent go faster.
he glances over. “you don’t have to keep pressing it,” he says, voice smooth and unreadable. “the elevator isn’t ignoring you.”
you flush, quiet.
but he doesn’t look amused. not quite. just… curious.
“what department?” he asks.
“marketing,” you say, after a pause. “well, marketing development. just an intern.”
his gaze lingers. then he nods once and looks away.
you think that’s the end of it. just a strange, stiff encounter with a man who probably owns the building you’re trying to impress.
but then, the next week, your name is pulled from the intern pool for a private project. suddenly you’re assigned to a small research task under one of his closest executives. suddenly your opinion is being asked in meetings. and when you look up during a conference call, you catch him watching you through the glass, hands in his pockets, expression impassive.
you don’t understand it.
not at first.
he starts small. passing comments in the hallway. a drink sent to your table when you’re out with coworkers. an invitation to a private dinner—not framed as a date, not exactly. he doesn’t touch you the first few times you meet. doesn’t try to impress you. just listens. just watches.
you expect him to ask for something. mostly, you expect him to turn cruel, but he never does.
instead, he offers you a job after your internship ends. offers you a place to stay when your apartment floods during a typhoon. offers you answers to questions you didn’t ask, like,
“what do you want to be in five years?”
“has anyone ever taken care of you before?”
“do you always flinch when someone gets close?”
you don’t realize you’re falling into him until you’re already too deep to climb out.
you let him take you to dinner, and then to bed.
and then, six months later, when he tells you he wants to marry you—
you say yes before you even think to ask why. there’s an excited gleam in the ice blue of his eyes, something that pushes you into wrapping your arms around his sturdy frame and whisper an affirmation into his lips. or maybe it’s the diamond that glints under the moonlight.
but you don’t marry satsuki gojo because you love him.
you marry him because he offers you a lifeline when you’re twenty-five and quietly falling apart—starving for something steady, something grown-up, something that makes the ache in your chest feel justified. you marry him because you’re tired of disappointment, tired of men who take and forget to leave anything behind, tired of waiting for someone to pick you. you marry him because he offers you a future drawn up in legal contracts and estate homes, because he places a ring on your finger like it’s a solution instead of a question.
you marry him because he’s older, and sharp, and still, like a mountain you can rest against. because he looks at you with quiet interest, with a kind of coldness that makes you want to prove yourself—makes you want to be good for him, for once, instead of messy and difficult and too much. he offers you affection without chaos. structure without screaming. a name that means something, finally. and you take it.
you marry him because he shows you that care can be a tailored coat draped over your shoulders in winter, a bank account that never runs out, an apartment you never asked for but get anyway—clean, minimal, with a view of the skyline you used to dream about. because when he says you belong to me, it sounds less like a threat and more like relief. like he’s offering you the role of someone permanent, someone seen.
he doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never unkind. he’s polite and controlled when he fucks you—never rough, never wild, never anything that might blur the line between need and love. he kisses your forehead when you come home late. he buys you books you mention once in passing. he nods when you tell him about your childhood and doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask questions you don’t want to answer. he lets you be quiet, and in return, you let him believe that silence means contentment.
he spoils you in ways that feel deliberate: private cars, spa weekends, your name on guest lists you never imagined seeing. you learn the weight of status like it’s second nature—learn how to say thank you, how to smile at his colleagues, how to sit at his right side and make it look easy. and when you wake up in his bed, wrapped in high-thread count sheets and the scent of bergamot and cedar, it feels like maybe this is what people mean when they say stable.
and maybe you marry him because he looks like what a husband should look like: tall, expensive, terrifying in the boardroom, someone with hands that know how to hold power and still touch your wrist like it’s delicate. maybe you marry him because people whisper when you walk in the room beside him, because his hand on your back makes you feel chosen, because he tells you to stop apologizing and you almost believe him.
maybe you marry him because the only semi-steady male figure in your life— your father— never did look at you like you were anything more than a glance, and satsuki looks at you like a solution. like something valuable. and maybe that’s enough.
maybe it has to be.
because you do not marry him because you love him.
you marry him because it’s the only kind of love you’ve ever been offered.
and you definitely don’t marry him expecting to meet his son.
you knew he had one—of course you did. it came up once, offhandedly, in that clipped way satsuki mentioned most personal things. a son from a previous marriage. adult. lives abroad. works with overseas clients but owns his own separate company. “rarely home,” he’d said, as if that explained everything. as if there was no reason you’d ever need to meet him.
and so you don’t think about it. you don’t ask questions. you build your routines around the quiet, clinical calm of your marriage. you host dinners, answer emails, smile politely when his business partners ogle you like an accessory they could never afford. and when satsuki tells you, in early december, that you’ll be spending the holidays at the family estate in kyoto, you just nod and pack your things.
the estate is old money. not modern minimalism, not the cold beauty of his penthouse in minato—but history, carved into dark wood and silk screens, hallways lined with ancestral portraits that stare as you pass. the kind of house that smells like camellia oil and incense, like something sacred and private. you arrive two days before christmas, and the staff is already preparing for a quiet dinner party. something tasteful. something exclusive. nothing warm.
you don’t expect anyone else.
especially not him.
satoru shows up six months into the marriage, just before dinner, when the sky is already turning violet and soft snow has begun to fall. you’re seated at the far end of the long, lacquered dining table, tracing the rim of your glass with one finger. satsuki is beside you, hand resting on your knee beneath the table, heavy and impersonal, like a placeholder. you’re listening to some executive’s wife talk about a skiing trip to niseiko when the door at the end of the hall opens.
the air changes.
you don’t know why you look up—but you do.
the housekeeper bows, stepping aside.
he walks in like he owns the place. tall. loose-limbed. hair a tousled mess of moonlight white, like he spent the entire flight running his hands through it. his coat is half off his shoulder, scarf unraveling, sunglasses perched on top of his head despite the fact it’s already dark outside. he’s dressed well, but not like he tried. something expensive and rumpled and careless. he looks like trouble that learned how to behave just well enough to get away with it.
his gaze lands on you instantly.
and he smiles. slow, amused. like he already knows something you don’t.
“oh,” he says, stepping further in. “you’re her.”
your stomach flips. you blink, mouth parting—but nothing comes out.
satsuki doesn’t move, just rests his hand more firmly against your thigh, grounding you with pressure.
“you’ve heard about my wife,” he says calmly.
and satoru’s eyes don’t leave yours. he’s standing on the other side of the room, but it feels like you can feel him. like heat under your skin.
“i’ve heard,” he says, lips quirking. “she’s pretty.”
his voice is low and casual. no bite to it—but something lingers in the way he says it. like he’s testing you. or maybe his father. or maybe himself.
you shouldn’t feel anything.
you shouldn’t feel the pulse at your neck quicken, shouldn’t feel your skin burn beneath the long sleeves of your dress. shouldn’t feel the tiny tremor in your hands as you lower your glass to the table and force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
you shouldn’t care and you are convinced you don’t.
—
the gojo house is big and cold—too big for how quiet it is, and too beautiful to ever feel lived-in. it sits on a private slope just outside kyoto, surrounded by dense pines and meticulously maintained gravel paths, bordered by walls thick enough to keep the world out. it’s the kind of place where sound vanishes too quickly. where even your footsteps feel like an intrusion.
the interior is all pale marble and deep wood, a mix of traditional architecture and modern minimalism that somehow makes it harder to settle. the ceilings stretch higher than you expect, every room perfectly arranged, untouched, like a showroom. nothing feels soft. nothing feels yours. even the sun filters in like it’s been instructed not to linger.
you’re given the garden wing and told to make yourself at home.
your room is beside satsuki’s, though he rarely sleeps. there’s a large window that faces the pond, where koi move in slow circles under a sheet of winter ice. the bed is king-sized and impersonal. the wardrobe is already filled with seasonal clothes you never picked out. everything smells faintly of cedar and linen and new money. it’s beautiful. and sterile.
satoru’s room is upstairs, at the end of the north hall. you don’t go near it at first. you don’t need to.
you try, at first, to live quietly. to earn your place in the house by not taking up too much space.
you spend your mornings on the terrace, curled under a cashmere blanket with a porcelain cup of genmaicha that a maid brings without asking. the steam fogs up your glasses. your fingers turn stiff from the cold. sometimes you pretend to read, but your eyes don’t follow the words. instead, you watch the way the morning mist clings to the lacquered railing. the way the garden’s plum trees hold on to their last leaves like they’re trying not to be bare.
midday, you take slow, winding walks through the greenhouse—an enormous glass building off the east corridor, filled with rare orchids and fruit-bearing trees. it smells like damp moss and lemon balm, and sometimes, if you stay long enough, you can pretend you’re somewhere else entirely. somewhere softer. you pause by the camellias, the white ones, and trace the shape of their petals with your fingertips. no one asks where you are. no one comes looking.
in the evenings, satsuki retreats to his study—dark wood, no windows, always locked from the inside. you stop asking what he’s working on after the third time he tells you, calmly, “it’s nothing that concerns you.”
and so, at night, you drift.
you wander room to room like a ghost in your own house, bare feet silent on the polished floors. you touch the backs of antique chairs, the corners of carved screens, the cool stone edge of the koi pond. you run your fingers over framed scrolls and family heirlooms behind glass. you take long baths in the deep-soaking tub and let your head rest back until your ears are underwater, heart thudding slow and loud in the quiet.
there are no clocks in the house. time bends strangely.
you learn to find solace in small things—folded linen robes, the weight of a heated floor, the low murmur of rain against shoji screens.
you learn to be still. you learn to be quiet.
you tell yourself this is peace. but you’re not sure it is.
you find satoru in the kitchen one of those nights, barefoot and leaning lazily against the counter, eating chocolate-covered almonds straight from a crystal jar. his shirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, collar undone to reveal the elegant slope of his collarbones and just a sliver of his chest. there’s something too casual about him, too effortless—like he was born into comfort and never had to learn how to earn it, which is the case.
he doesn’t look up when you step into the room, just tosses another almond into his mouth, chewing slow.
“your room doesn’t have a snack bar?” he asks around the bite, reaching for another handful. “shame. i’ll have to talk to housekeeping.”
you hover in the doorway, half caught between leaving and saying something. the lights are low—just the under-cabinet ones casting a soft glow against the marble countertops—and everything about the moment feels like it’s not supposed to happen. too quiet. too late.
“i couldn’t sleep,” you say, finally. your voice is hoarse when it comes out, making you cringe at the sound of it, but your expression doesn’t change. it feels right to keep a shield around satoru.
that gets his attention. he turns, just a little, casting a glance over his shoulder. his eyes flick over you—robe loosely belted, hem brushing your ankles, your bare feet making no sound against the floor. still, you feel too exposed, like he’s seeing something you didn’t mean to show.
he shrugs one shoulder. “my bad. i’ll keep it down next time.”
you frown. “what?”
he taps his phone against the edge of the counter, screen lighting up briefly before he locks it again. his smirk is slow and irritatingly self-satisfied.
“the noise,” he says, voice low and bored. “your walls are thin, sweetheart.”
and then he pushes off the counter, brushing past you on his way to the stairs, footsteps silent against the polished floor. like he didn’t just say something meant to stick to your ribs and it wasn’t meant to be a challenge.
you stand there long after he’s gone, heart suddenly a little too loud in your chest.
at first, you don’t know what he meant.
but then— with burning shame, you realise.
you lie awake that night in your too-big bed with the silk sheets sticking to your skin, and your mind won’t stop looping through it. your walls are thin, sweetheart.
he heard you.
he heard you fucking his father.
and it’s not like there’s much to hear, really. you don’t make too much noise. not on purpose. you try to be good. still. quiet. like you’re supposed to be, like satsuki likes his things. you climb on top of satsuki when he asks, and when it’s convenient, and when it fits neatly into the clockwork routine of your marriage, and you move the way you’re expected to.
you kiss him. sigh into his shoulder.
you moan when he touches you.
you arch your back and say his name when he finishes, and you keep your face turned just slightly away so he doesn’t see that you’re not all the way there.
and it hits you—hard, sudden, ugly—satoru didn’t just hear it.
he listened.
he must’ve laid there, maybe just one room over, while you gasped through your teeth and dug your nails into satin sheets, trying not to look bored, trying to summon heat where there was only resignation. and now he knows. maybe he knew the first night. maybe he recognized it—the silence between the moans. the mechanical rhythm. the effort.
you wonder if he could tell you never came.
if he could hear the difference.
your face burns. your skin itches. the silk is too smooth, too cool, like a lie you’re too exhausted to keep telling. you roll onto your side and stare at the drawn curtains, heart pounding in your throat, and wonder what kind of man throws that line so casually over his shoulder and walks away without looking back.
what kind of man hears a woman pretending to enjoy her marriage and still calls her sweetheart.
—
he flirts.
not in the clumsy, obvious way that boys your age used to—those quick grins and rehearsed compliments, those lingering touches that always felt more like attempts than affection. no, satoru’s flirting is slower, sharper, so casual it almost passes as harmless. like breathing. like it costs him nothing. and maybe it doesn’t.
he flirts in front of everyone—his father, the staff, chauffeurs, distant relatives, guests with titles longer than their patience. he does it like it’s a private joke only the two of you are in on, like he’s daring you to react. daring you to let something slip. but you don’t let yourself indulge in it, don’t let it touch you the way he wants it to.
he makes lazy, unhurried comments when you walk into the room, never quite looking at you directly, but always loud enough for someone else to hear.
“you always look this put together, or is it just to impress the old man?”
“damn. you make that color look more beautiful.”
“look at you, all dressed up and pretty.”
he says it like a sigh, or like he’s bored and needs a new toy to entertain him, voice smooth and slouched and rich with mockery that never quite lands as mean. and you try not to let it show, but your stomach flutters every time.
he glances at your legs when you cross them. lets his eyes drag down your neckline, baby blues lingering on the expensive necklace his father gifted you, like he’s still thinking. he always stands just a little too close when he passes behind you at dinner. always leans in when you speak, even if he could hear you just fine from a distance, which makes you want to slap him in the face because the warmth emitting from him is too much.
he tells you you’re “adorable” when you blink at one of his references—something dry and sarcastic that floats right over your head, usually mid-conversation in a room full of people. and then he grins like he’s won something when you look flustered.
“what? you don’t know that movie?”
“god, you’re so cute when you’re confused.”
“don’t worry, princess. i’ll explain it to you later.”
he calls you princess when you frown, darling when you pretend you’re not paying attention, sweetheart when he wants you to get flustered in front of his father. and you do—because no one has ever said those words to you without wanting something. but with satoru, you’re not sure what he wants. that makes it worse.
and he never crosses a line.
not one that matters. not one you can point to.
he never touches you—never more than a passing brush of knuckles as he sets a teacup beside you, or a hand at your lower back as you’re guided into a car. never long enough to accuse him of anything and never long enough to accuse yourself of anything, either.
but his presence is constant. deliberate. it almost makes you question if he’s played this game before.
he leans into your space. mirrors your movements. sits across from you at every meal, sprawled and open, legs spread like he’s relaxed in a way no one else is allowed to be in this house. and he watches you—god, he watches you—with that lazy, amused gleam in his eyes that makes you feel like he’s reading something under your skin you didn’t even know was there.
the worst part is no one else seems to notice.
or maybe they do, and no one says anything.
and satsuki? he doesn’t blink. doesn’t glance up. doesn’t acknowledge it at all like he doesn’t care and he doesn’t see it.
like you’re not even worth the jealousy.
so you sit there, in your pretty dresses and tasteful jewelry, sipping your wine and pretending you don’t notice when satoru’s fingers brush the rim of your glass where your painted lips touch it as he passes it back to you. pretending you don’t hear it when he mutters under his breath—
“god, you’re so easy to ruin.”
and then smiles like he didn’t say anything at all.
but still, he never crosses a line. not really.
not until the party in tokyo.
it’s the kind of event you’ve grown used to by now—ornate venue, glowing chandeliers, the soft clink of crystal and meaningless conversation humming beneath the polished noise of wealth. a gala hosted by one of satsuki’s oldest partners, the type of thing where everyone is dressed like they have nothing to prove and everything to protect.
you fly in together, the two of you. first class, of course. private terminal. he doesn’t speak much on the flight, just reads over business reports with his glasses low on his nose, and you sip champagne and pretend the silence is companionable. it’s not.
you arrive before sunset, driven straight to the hotel, and by the time you reach the venue—draped in something black and tight and chosen for effect—satsuki’s already slipping into his element. one hand on the small of your back, greeting industry names, bowing with just the right degree of distance. you smile on cue. you laugh politely. you know how to be ornamental by now.
satoru’s already there.
you spot him the moment you enter the ballroom—propped against the marble bar like it’s a throne made for him, hair tousled like he didn’t try at all, collarbone on show beneath a silk shirt that looks like it cost more than your entire week’s allowance. he’s holding a glass of red, swirling it like he actually gives a shit about tannins. when he sees you, he doesn’t wave nor does he smile. just tilts his glass in acknowledgment like a private joke only you’re supposed to understand.
you try not to look.
you try so hard.
but he keeps catching your eye. like he knows.
an hour into the event, when satsuki is deep in discussion with the finance minister and half the board of some international conglomerate, you step away to breathe. to hide. you drift toward the quieter side of the ballroom, past gold-accented walls and perfumed bodies, just far enough to feel the edge of solitude.
satoru finds you there, of course.
he doesn’t ask permission.
“you’re just gonna stand there all night?” he says, easing into your space like it’s nothing, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other still holding that half-finished glass.
you open your mouth to deflect, to say something harmless, but he’s already moving—offering his hand with a mocking little bow. “come on,” he says. “you’re dressed like a dream. it’d be a crime not to dance.”
you hesitate just long enough.
and he smiles, slow and certain, like he knew you’d say yes even before you did.
the music is a rich, jazzy ballad—old-fashioned, warm, nothing like what plays in the clubs. it echoes gently across the ballroom, and when his hand settles on your waist, it feels like a secret. you take his other hand. his palm is big and warm. familiar in a way that terrifies you.
“your husband won’t mind?” he asks, voice soft in your ear. he’s teasing you.
you glance back, spot satsuki mid-conversation, expression unreadable, hands gesturing in measured control. “he’s talking to the finance minister,” you murmur, trying to steady your breath as satoru pulls you just a little closer. “i think he’ll live.”
his mouth twitches. “you’re prettier up close,” he says, as if the words aren’t knives.
you glance away, heart racing, teeth sinking into your lower lip. the dance isn’t fast, but it isn’t slow either. it’s enough to make you sway. enough to make your body remember the shape of heat, even through layers of couture and silk and restraint.
and then the song fades into something quieter.
something that asks for closeness and intimacy.
something you shouldn’t allow.
he doesn’t ask. he just tilts his head, eyes half-lidded as he studies you, voice dropping as if the room’s emptied of everyone but you.
“has he ever told you that?”
you blink. “what?”
“that you’re beautiful.”
your throat dries.
it’s not the question, it’s more the way he asks it. the certainty behind it. the soft, cruel awareness in his tone—like he already knows the answer. as if he’s spent too many nights wondering how you can look so lovely and still be so starved.
you don’t respond. you can’t.
but you don’t pull away either.
not until he leans in—slowly—and your breath catches at the unmistakable press of heat between you, the anticipation blooming into something reckless and warm.
you flinch. just enough.
you pull away before he can kiss you. just one step back. hands trembling like your nerves have caught fire.
he lets you go. doesn’t chase, just smiles again, softer this time, like he’s not surprised. like he knew this would happen too. and then he turns back toward the bar.
you return to your husband’s side in silence, makeup still intact, breath uneven.
but that night, when you lie beside satsuki in the hotel suite, listening to the sound of his breath while he sleeps, you can still feel the ghost of satoru’s hand on your waist.
you don’t stop thinking about it.
not then.
not ever.
—
you watch satoru and satsuki sometimes, and it unsettles you more than you expect.
their relationship is a strange dance—equal parts admiration, rivalry, and unspoken tension. satsuki, with his impeccable control and cold authority, commands rooms and boardrooms alike, a man carved from steel and silence. satoru, by contrast, moves through the world like a wild storm wrapped in casual grins and reckless confidence, but beneath that careless exterior, you sense a deep, complicated loyalty to his father.
they speak little to each other when you’re around—just polite exchanges, clipped tones, eyes that flicker with something unspoken. you see the way satoru tests satsuki’s patience, the way satsuki’s jaw tightens just slightly when his son pushes boundaries, and you wonder if it’s more than just a father-son dynamic. like there’s something heavier between them—competition, maybe, or old wounds neither wants to admit.
you can’t help but feel like you’re caught in the middle of that tension, like you’re a fragile fault line waiting to split. satsuki’s hand on your knee sometimes feels less like comfort and more like a claim—like he’s reminding you, silently, of where your loyalty is supposed to lie. but satoru’s presence feels like a crack in that armor, a tempting escape from the cold order satsuki demands.
your thoughts betray you constantly. you see how satoru’s defiance might be a way of reaching for something satsuki never gives freely—love, approval, freedom—and maybe that’s why he lingers near you, why his eyes hold that unreadable mixture of challenge and something softer when they land on you.
you wonder if satoru envies you for what you have, or if he envies satsuki for what you don’t. and maybe both.
you catch glimpses of their history in the way they move around each other—the subtle shifts in posture, the sharp glances that flash too quickly to be noticed by anyone else. satsuki’s presence is steady, unyielding—a mountain carved from years of discipline and expectation. satoru, by contrast, is the unpredictable wind that refuses to be tamed, restless and wild beneath that polished exterior.
sometimes, you see satoru’s smile falter when satsuki speaks, just for a moment—like a boy still craving his father’s approval despite himself. and satsuki’s eyes harden, not with anger, but with something like regret, or disappointment. it’s clear they’ve been through battles that no one else knows about, fights where words were weapons and silence was a shield.
to you, their relationship is like watching two storms collide—each powerful on its own, but when they meet, the air crackles with tension and something dangerous simmers beneath. satsuki holds the power, but satoru carries the fire, and you’re left wondering which will burn brighter, and which will consume everything around it.
you realize you’re an unwelcome variable in their equation. satsuki’s calm control is always tested by satoru’s sharp edges, and you can feel it every time their eyes lock—a silent war waged in shadows. you’re caught between the push and pull of their fractured bond, an unspoken tension that presses down on you heavier than any promise or ring.
sometimes you wonder if satsuki sees satoru’s interest in you as a challenge, a threat to his carefully maintained order. and if satoru sees your presence as a way to carve space for himself—proof that he can claim something his father owns, or something his father withholds.
it terrifies you, this tangled web of power, desire, and unspoken pain, and you’re the uncharted territory between them—dangerous, forbidden, and impossible to ignore. you know, deep down, that no matter how much you try to resist, you’re already part of their story now.
and you realize, with a sinking feeling, that none of it is going to end quietly.
the moment he pulled you close, felt the heat of his body against yours, something inside you cracked—a fragile barrier you thought had been sealed long ago. it was terrifying, this sudden longing that twisted your insides into knots. you told yourself it was wrong. dangerous. satoru was his son, the very embodiment of everything you swore to keep at arm’s length. and yet, the ache in your chest whispered a different truth.
you wanted him.
more than you wanted safety, more than you wanted silence, more than you wanted satsuki’s steady, cold touch.
it wasn’t just lust. it was the way he looked at you—like you were a secret worth discovering. like you were more than just a trophy wife. like you were alive.
you hated yourself for it. hated the way your thoughts kept drifting to the curve of his jaw, the sharp laugh he tried to hide, the way his fingers brushed your skin like he was memorizing it. hated how your heart betrayed you every time he smiled or touched your hand “accidentally.” hated how lonely you’d become, how hungry for something real, and how satoru was the only warmth you could imagine in the cold palace you’d married into.
you wrestled with the guilt, the fear. with the desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—you could find something in him that your marriage never gave you. but every time you caught yourself imagining his lips on yours, every time your skin flushed remembering his breath near your ear, you heard the cold voice in the back of your mind:
he’s his son. he’s forbidden. this is not love.
and yet, the ache only grew, louder and sharper, until it was impossible to ignore. you were caught between the promise of safety you made to satsuki and the reckless, dangerous desire burning quietly inside you for his son. a desire that whispered, every time you were alone,
maybe you deserve to be seen.
maybe you deserve to be wanted.
maybe, finally, you can be loved.
you try to push it down.
try to bury it under a thousand rehearsed excuses and reminders of what you promised yourself when you said yes to satsuki.
this isn’t real. this isn’t happening.
he’s just his son.
and you’re his wife.
but the more you fight it, the louder it becomes.
like a pulse beneath your skin—impossible to ignore.
when you see satoru’s smile, the careless tilt of his head, the way his eyes linger just a moment too long, it feels like a flame flickering inside you, warm and dangerous. you find yourself catching your breath when he laughs, your heart speeding up at the brush of his fingers against yours in passing.
you hate how much it hurts.
hate that you crave something so forbidden.
hate that every stolen glance leaves you feeling exposed and trembling.
you wonder if he knows—if he feels the same pull, the same reckless hunger.
or if it’s only you, caught in the trap of loneliness and longing.
some nights, when the house is dark and satsuki’s study door is shut tight, you lie awake replaying his voice, the softness of his touch, the way his presence fills the space around you. you want to reach out, to touch, to taste, to be seen in a way you never have been.
and yet, guilt wraps around you like chains, reminding you of the lines you can’t cross, the roles you can’t break.
but desire doesn’t care for rules.
it lingers in your blood, whispers in your ear,
and pulls you deeper into the forbidden.
—
the first time it happens, it’s nothing like you thought it would be.
you’ve imagined fire and urgency, stolen moments and desperate touches. but this—it’s soft. slow. gentle in a way that makes your chest ache with something you didn’t even know you were missing.
it’s late afternoon at the gojo family’s summer house in hakone. the air is thick with the scent of pine and blooming hydrangeas, sunlight filtering through the leaves in lazy golden streams. you’re sitting at the edge of the pool, the cool water lapping at your ankles, soaking the hem of your long dress up to your calves. your bare feet rest lightly on the stone, toes flexing against the smooth surface.
the dress clings to your skin where it’s wet, weightless and cool—a contrast to the heat that curls low in your belly, the exhaustion that drapes over you like a heavy cloak.
you hear footsteps before you see him. satoru is barefoot too, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, the sleeves rolled up, hair tousled in that careless way you’ve come to recognize. he moves quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile stillness that surrounds you.
he stops beside you, crouching down so you’re eye level, his dark eyes searching your face with something raw and unreadable.
“you okay?” he asks, voice low and hesitant.
you nod, but the word feels hollow on your tongue.
“liar,” he says, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
you meet his gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—the gentle ripple of water, the whisper of wind through the trees, the steady beat of your heart.
“he doesn’t love you, you know,” satoru says quietly, his tone both cruel and tender. “he never could. people like him don’t know what to do with soft things.”
you close your eyes, the truth settling heavy in your chest.
“i know,” you whisper.
his hand reaches out, brushing the wet fabric of your dress where it clings to your knee. the touch is light, reverent, as if he’s afraid to break you.
“then why’d you marry him?” satoru asks, voice gentle now, almost a confession.
you swallow hard, your throat tight with unshed tears.
“because i wanted to feel like i belonged to someone.”
for a moment, silence stretches between you, filled only by the quiet splash of water and distant birdcalls.
his hand slides slowly up your leg—never rushed, never greedy—just steady, warm, real. the heat seeps into your skin, grounding you, pulling you out of the numbness.
“you don’t have to belong to someone to be worth something,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours.
and then, with a tenderness that feels like salvation, he leans in.
his lips find yours—soft, patient, promising.
you don’t pull away.
you let him.
and in that moment, everything you’ve been missing comes rushing back.
the kiss starts almost hesitantly—like he’s testing the waters, unsure if you’ll let him in. his lips brush against yours softly at first, barely more than a whisper, gentle and tentative as if afraid to overwhelm you. it’s nothing like the cold, mechanical touches you’ve grown used to. it’s something alive, something aching.
his hand stays steady on your thigh, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin, grounding you in the moment. the warmth of his palm seeps through the soaked fabric of your dress and makes your breath hitch. your fingers twitch at his wrist, unsure whether to pull him closer or to stop time entirely.
then, slowly, deliberately, he deepens the kiss. his lips part just enough, and the world narrows until there is nothing but the two of you—the taste of him, a faint trace of wine and something wild and intoxicating. his breath mingles with yours, uneven and soft, like a secret shared in the quiet.
there’s no rush. no frantic need. just a slow, steady exploration, a promise whispered between lips that have learned to be gentle. his mouth moves with care, mapping yours as if memorizing every curve, every tremble.
you feel the tension in your body begin to unwind—the tight coil of loneliness and despair loosening just a little. it’s like breathing for the first time after being underwater.
when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment. your heart pounds loud in your chest, a wild, beautiful rhythm you didn’t know you’d been craving.
he murmurs against your lips, “i’m here.”
and somehow, in those two simple words, you find a flicker of hope.
but reality comes crashing down quickly, cold and unrelenting, like a wave pulling you under just when you thought you’d found air.
as his lips linger against yours, as his fingers press gentle warmth into your skin, a voice inside you screams—this is wrong. wrong because he’s his son. wrong because you’re married to satsuki. wrong because every promise you ever made was to someone else, and this—this is a betrayal wrapped in softness.
your heart pounds not with desire, but with panic, a sharp ache of guilt and fear twisting inside your ribs.
yet satoru’s eyes, those soft, searching eyes, hold you steady. they don’t judge. they don’t demand. they coax. with a tenderness that feels like safety, like a secret offered just to you in a world that never cared to understand.
his hands slide from your thigh to your waist, fingers threading lightly through the fabric of your dress, tracing the curve of your hip. the warmth of his touch is intoxicating, a quiet promise that maybe you don’t have to be alone in this.
you want to pull away, to shut it all down before it goes any further. but instead, you find yourself leaning into him, letting the kiss deepen into something more—something that speaks of longing and loneliness, of broken pieces seeking to be made whole.
it’s a dangerous line you’re crossing, blurred and fragile, but in that moment, with satoru’s hands steady on you and his breath mingling with yours, it feels like the only place where you might finally be seen.
and so you stay.
just a little longer.
under the soft glow of the moonlight, the pool water shimmering quietly beside you, everything feels like it’s suspended in time. your heart is pounding loud enough to drown out the faint sounds of the night — the rustling leaves, distant crickets — and yet, when satoru’s eyes meet yours, everything stills.
he cups your face gently with those large hands, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone as if memorizing every curve. you can’t stop the way your breath catches, how your fingers tremble slightly as they rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under your palm. the world feels dangerous, yet safe in this moment — a paradox only satoru could embody.
his voice is a low murmur, full of something unspoken, something aching. “i don’t want to stop. not now.” and you don’t either. the weight of the secret you carry, the life you live with satsuki, it presses down on you like a shadow. but here, now, it’s as if none of that matters — only the way satoru’s lips brush yours again, softer this time, like he’s trying to convey every word he can’t say.
slowly, carefully, his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer. your body responds without hesitation, leaning in, molding into his warmth. you can feel the heat radiating from him, a quiet fire growing in the space between your bodies. the moonlight traces the lines of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and you reach out, fingertips trembling, to touch the pulse at his throat. he shivers at the contact, a quiet sound of vulnerability escaping him.
“you’re here,” he whispers, voice breaking just enough to let you know how much he’s trying to hold himself together. “with me.”
you nod, unable to speak, your lips catching his again, deeper now, more urgent. the fear of discovery is still there, looming at the edges of your mind, but satoru’s hands, warm and sure, ground you. he slides them down your back, over the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him. his body is firm, reassuring — a silent promise that he’s not going anywhere, even if the world tells you both you can’t be here.
the wetness of the night clings to your skin, and satoru’s touch is electric, tracing a path down your spine, fingertips exploring with reverence. he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe in the scent of you, his breath hot against your skin. “i want to make sure you’re okay. i want to be gentle.” his words are soft but fierce, full of a protective kind of love that makes your chest ache.
you’re trembling—nervous, unsure—but the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters, makes you want to believe you’re not broken. makes you want to believe you deserve this.
carefully, satoru helps you up, guiding you inside the summer house. the rooms are warm, a contrast to the cool air outside, and the soft light casts shadows that dance along the walls. he’s still holding you like you’re fragile, like you might vanish if he lets go.
when he finally closes the distance, his hands are gentle but hungry, exploring you like he’s discovering a secret garden. every kiss, every touch is an unspoken confession—a need so fierce it’s almost painful.
you gasp softly when his mouth finds the curve of your neck, the way he nips and sucks is desperate but careful. your fingers weave through his hair, pulling him closer like you don’t want to ever let go. the world narrows until there’s nothing but skin and breath and the sound of your heart pounding loud in the quiet.
he’s slow with you, patient, like he wants to savor every moment. his hands learn every inch of your body—the softness of your skin, the way you shiver beneath his touch, the way you sigh when he trails kisses down your collarbone. and you forget about everything else—the coldness of your marriage, the weight of your promises, the danger of what this means.
you let your hands wander over his shoulders, over the muscles you know so well from stolen moments and shared glances. the air between you thickens, charged with longing and tenderness. slowly, you both shed the barriers — clothes slipping away with careful urgency, revealing skin kissed by lingering sunlight and tingling with anticipation.
his fingers trace the line of your collarbone, down the swell of your breasts, his touch featherlight but unwavering. your breath hitches as his lips follow the same path, soft kisses blooming like petals on your skin. you’re trembling, caught between nerves and desire, but satoru’s hands cradle you, anchoring you to the moment, telling you wordlessly that it’s okay to let go.
he moves with a reverence that makes every touch feel sacred. his mouth finds the delicate skin just beneath your ear, his voice a breathy murmur, “you’re so beautiful. i’ve wanted this for so long.” the words wrap around you, tender and true, and your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.
when he finally settles between your legs, the warmth of his body pressing against yours is overwhelming — a perfect mix of strength and softness. the slow, steady rhythm of his movements is a conversation of its own, speaking of trust and need and something deeper than passion. you close your eyes, losing yourself in the sensation of him — every brush of skin, every whispered promise, every gentle sigh.
he pauses sometimes, his forehead resting against yours, searching your eyes for any sign of doubt or pain. but you’re there, fully present, giving yourself to him in this secret sanctuary. the world outside, with all its complications and betrayals, fades away, leaving only the two of you — tangled, breathless, and achingly close.
afterward, wrapped in each other’s arms by the poolside, the night feels impossibly still. satoru’s fingers trace lazy circles on your back, and you can’t stop the tears that spill silently down your cheeks — tears of relief, of fear, of love too fierce to be tamed. he holds you tight, whispering, “we’ll find a way. i swear.”
he whispers, voice rough with emotion, “you’re everything i didn’t know i wanted.”
and you feel your cheeks burn, ashamed and exposed, but underneath it all, there’s a small, fierce spark of something you thought was lost—a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re wanted. not for the life you married into, not as a prize or a possession, but for who you really are.
—
it’s a slow fall after that.
not a plunge, not a moment you can point to and say, that’s when it all changed. it’s more like the slow, inevitable tipping of scales. the way you go from one kiss to two. one night to three. one excuse to a hundred soft, silent ones that pile up like snow on the edges of a house you no longer feel at home in.
you try to stop. you do. in the hours after, when you return to your cold bedroom and peel off your dress like it’s made of guilt, when you catch your own reflection in the mirror and can’t quite meet your eyes—you tell yourself it can’t happen again. that you’ll pull away the next time he leans in, that you’ll turn your face, that you’ll remember who you are, what you swore, what name you wear on your finger. it’s his name but not his.
but then satoru touches you again.
and everything inside you shatters like porcelain.
he touches you like you’re precious. not fragile—not delicate or breakable like the glass women you’re expected to mimic—but precious. something rare. something meant to be held carefully, not for fear of breaking, but because it’s deserved.
his hands never take before asking, and when they do ask, it’s always with care. he kisses the inside of your wrist like it’s holy. he mouths at the slope of your shoulder like he’s starved. he palms your face and whispers “look at me,” and when you do, when your eyes meet his—blue and bright and warm—it’s like standing in sunlight after years of being cold.
he talks to you like you’re more than just a body wrapped in pearls and cashmere. more than someone to wear on his father’s arm. he listens when you speak, even when your voice is small, even when you hesitate. even when you say things you shouldn’t admit out loud— “sometimes i think i don’t know who i am anymore,” and “i think i married him because i didn’t want to disappear.”
he never laughs. never dismisses. he just says, softly, “you don’t have to explain it to me.”
and then he touches you again.
he kisses you like he’s proud of you—like he’s proud to have you. not as some stolen, shameful secret, but as something he wants to keep. he kisses your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his favorite habit. he kisses your cheeks and your throat and your sternum like he’s putting something back where it belongs.
he says things that feel too good to hear and too dangerous to believe. “you deserve more than this,” and “he doesn’t see you,” and sometimes, when he’s inside you and your breath stutters and your hands are in his hair and you’re gasping into the crook of his neck, he says, “mine.”
quietly. like a vow. like he doesn’t care who it breaks.
he fucks you like you’re real.
not some trophy and not some quiet wife. not some placeholder to keep a legacy pretty. he fucks you like he wants to know what makes you fall apart and then puts you back together with the same hands. he takes his time with you—long nights that bleed into mornings, where his mouth maps every part of you and he learns your rhythm by heart. where he breathes your name into your stomach, your thighs, the center of you, over and over until it’s the only thing left in your head.
and he’s not perfect. he’s not gentle all the time. sometimes he’s messy with it, rough with it, needy. he pulls you into dark corners and kisses you like he’s angry at the distance between you. he pushes you up against the bathroom door in a quiet restaurant because you laughed too sweetly over dessert. he hikes up your dress in the backseat of a black car on the way to a party and bites down on your shoulder just to keep from groaning your name too loud.
but even then—especially then—he holds you after. always. always wraps you in his arms and touches your hair and kisses your temple like he can’t believe you’re real.
you never feel more alive than when you’re in his arms.
when your legs are tangled under his in a bed that doesn’t belong to either of you. when his breath ghosts over the back of your neck and he mutters half-asleep, “don’t go yet.” when you’re sitting between his thighs while he dries your hair with a towel, like it’s a ritual and it matters to him. when he holds your hand in secret and kisses your knuckles like he’s making a promise you’re both too afraid to speak out loud.
it’s a slow fall. and you fall all the same.
and the worst part—the part that keeps you up at night, staring at the ceiling in your husband’s house—is not that it’s wrong.
it’s that it’s the first time anything has ever felt right.
you come home to your husband with your makeup smeared and your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might rip out of your chest.
your dress is rumpled, your lips still swollen, and there’s a faint ache between your legs that makes your knees wobble as you step out of the car. you keep your eyes low as the staff greets you, give them nothing more than a polite nod and a soft “thank you” before you disappear down the hall like a ghost.
your hands shake as you strip out of your clothes in the bathroom. you peel off the lace and silk like it’s a crime scene, like if you leave it on too long it’ll burn you. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—lipstick smudged, mascara streaked, eyes too bright, too wild—and you look like someone you don’t recognize. someone ruined.
his scent is still clinging to your skin. expensive cologne and sweat and heat. the ghost of satoru’s mouth still lingers on your neck, soft bruises blooming under your jaw where he kissed you too hard. where he bit down just to see you shiver.
you scrub it all away with trembling hands.
you press your palms flat against the sink, bow your head, and try to breathe. the water runs hot. too hot. scalding, almost. but it doesn’t burn enough to make you feel clean. nothing does anymore.
you lie in bed that night with your back to satsuki, still damp from the shower, your body coiled tight beneath the sheets like a secret you don’t want him to see. he’s sitting up beside you, his reading glasses on, a neat folder of briefings and documents in his lap. the soft rustle of paper, the click of a pen against the corner of his clipboard—it’s the only sound in the room.
he doesn’t touch you. he never does unless it’s scheduled. expected.
he glances over once, offers a brief, “you’re back late,” and you murmur something vague. traffic. the driver took a wrong turn. your head hurt. you needed air.
he nods and turns back to his documents.
and you think about how much you used to hate silence, how much you still do.
how heavy it feels now—how full of things you’re not allowed to say.
you lie there beside him in his cold, perfect bed with your hair still damp and your heart still beating in someone else’s rhythm, and all you can think about is the way satoru held your face in his hands like you were worth looking at. the way he said your name like it tasted good in his mouth. the way he looked up at you from between your thighs and whispered, “i’d give you everything if you let me.”
you fall asleep before satsuki does. or maybe you pretend to.
you don’t say goodnight.
in the morning, the house wakes before you do—glass clinks in the kitchen, shoes echo across the marble, muffled voices speak through closed doors. you walk into the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for too long.
your lips are raw. your throat is marked. your eyes are heavy.
you put on moisturizer with hands that remember how he kissed your fingertips. you dab concealer over a bruise you let him leave behind. you spray perfume behind your ears and hope it doesn’t smell like guilt.
and you wonder—how long can i survive like this?
how long can you live in this liminal space, in the tight grip of half-truths and false smiles, wrapped in the soft thrill of being someone’s secret? how long before you forget who you used to be? how long before the shame rots you from the inside out?
you think maybe you should’ve said no that night by the pool.
maybe you should’ve run when he touched your face and looked at you like he’d burn for you.
like he already was.
but you didn’t.
you let him in.
you opened your mouth and begged for more.
you curled into his lap and rode the high of being wanted so fiercely it made you cry.
and now—it’s too late.
because you married a man who never really saw you, never asked for anything more than your presence, your silence, your prettiness in pictures. a man who offered protection and nothing else.
and you fell in love with the only person in the world you were never supposed to touch.
and he touched you.
again.
and again.
and again.
until you forgot what it felt like to be untouched.
until you forgot what it felt like to be good.
until you forgot what it felt like to be clean.
—
satsuki gojo is not a man who lets himself feel.
at least, not in the way other people do.
he’s measured. composed.precise in every word, every movement. the kind of man who values control the way others value love. who commands attention without raising his voice, who delivers disappointment with a smile so polished it feels like praise.
he can sit across from a man whose company he’s about to dismantle and pour him tea with a steady hand. he can dismantle a legacy with three words and a signature. he’s never needed threats. he’s never needed rage.
because power, when wielded properly, is quiet.
and for most of his life, he believed that was enough to keep the world in order. his world.
neat. predictable. built brick by brick in his image.
he chose you the way he’s always chosen things—with intent. not for sentiment, not for warmth, not for romance. sure, your simple charm was always something he liked, but you were always more of a solution. a symbol. a perfect little piece to complete a picture he’d been curating for years.
you were beautiful, yes. poised, obedient. the kind of woman who knew how to smile at the right people, wear the right clothes, say the right things. he’s teached you a lot, but you weren’t stupid. you didn’t press and you didn’t pry. you didn’t cry when he was cold, or complain when he was late.
you were grateful in a way that flattered him.
and maybe, somewhere deep down—though he’d never admit it—he thought he was giving you something generous. a name. a home. protection.
in return, he asked for compliance and you gave it to him.
you smiled when he gave you diamonds. you folded yourself into his world with elegant silence. you learned not to ask where he went at night. and he never asked what you dreamed about. it worked.
until it didn’t.
he noticed the shift before he had a name for it.
it wasn’t obvious at first. it was in the way you lingered longer in the garden after dinner. the way you turned your head when your phone lit up across the room, a split second too fast. the way your laughter—once rare and practiced—started to sound real again.
he noticed the changes in your perfume. subtler, warmer. scents that weren’t chosen by his assistant or gifted in velvet boxes. you started wearing lipstick he hadn’t seen before and looking like someone who belonged to herself.
he didn’t confront you.
instead, he watched.
he started marking the time you left and returned. took note of how often your hair was out of place, your blouse wrinkled, your voice a little hoarse, like you’d been endlessly whispering things into someone else’s skin.
your body language changed—softer, secretive. like you were learning how to feel again. like you were warming up in someone else’s sun. your body betrayed you, not in bruises or confessions—but in a kind of ease that hadn’t existed between you in months.
and still, he didn’t suspect satoru.
not at first.
not because he trusted you and certainly not because he trusted him, but because he didn’t think either of you would be that stupid.
and maybe part of him didn’t want to believe it.
however, satoru had always been difficult.
they’d always had a strained dynamic.
he was reckless in ways that grated against satsuki’s sense of order. loud where satsuki was quiet, impulsive where he was methodical. he’d fought everything from the moment he could speak.
rejected the power of the family name, the legacy, the weight of expectation. there was something untouchable in him, something wild that satsuki could never quite control—no matter how much money, pressure, or cold expectation he applied. a ghost of his mother’s defiance, wrapped in her smile, armed with her softness.
from the outside, they were the picture of high-society decorum—father and son, both devastatingly intelligent, devastatingly composed, cut from the same ruthless cloth. they looked alike in photographs. sounded alike in interviews. but beneath the polished surface was something frayed, something long-decayed that no amount of money or legacy could repair.
satoru was a reminder of everything that had slipped through satsuki’s fingers.
his late wife’s laughter—light, uncontrolled, human—echoed in satoru’s careless smirks, in the way he leaned too far back in chairs, in the irreverent tone he used when he spoke to people who ought to matter.
she’d been soft. too soft, he used to think. prone to warmth, drawn to people. she gave things away—attention, forgiveness, affection—without vetting them first.
he loved her once, in his own quiet way. but he didn’t know what to do with her softness. didn’t know how to nurture it, only how to contain it. and eventually, it dimmed. and when satoru was born, he took what was left of that softness and love with himself, until the woman he married was six feet under.
but satoru. . . from the moment he was old enough to speak, he’d been impossible to mold. brilliant, yes. too brilliant. but willful and defiant.
he refused to be groomed like a proper heir. he questioned things that were meant to be obeyed. he didn’t take to structure. didn’t respect the natural order of hierarchy. didn’t respect him.
and yet, he had everything satsuki had wanted in a successor. charm. intuition. a terrifying sort of instinct for power. but he wasted it.
he chose unpredictability over control. freedom over legacy. emotion over efficiency. and satsuki could never decide what infuriated him more: that his son refused to be shaped into something useful—
or that he reminded him too much of a past he could no longer touch.
every conversation between them was a performance. every exchange a negotiation. there was love, somewhere—buried deep and misshapen—but it had long since been smothered by expectation, pride, and quiet, festering disappointment. he gave satoru everything a father was supposed to give: education, opportunity, wealth.
but not the things that mattered. not patience, not understanding, not softness. and in turn, satoru gave him brilliance. gave him rebellion.
but never respect and never the submission satsuki demanded, even in silence.
their dynamic had long ago calcified into something functional and cold—like glass. clear enough to see through, but too brittle to touch.
satsuki could never quite reach him. never quite shape him.
and after a while, he stopped trying.
polite meals. distant updates. strained dinners where satoru cracked jokes to make you laugh, and satsuki watched with a stillness that looked like patience but felt like contempt.
and then the whispers came.
not loud. not dramatic. just small details offered by staff who knew when to speak and when to stay silent. two coffee cups in satoru’s room. laundry that didn’t belong to him.a lipstick print on a glass no one remembered pouring.
satsuki didn’t ask questions. he observed.
he sees it first in the way your eyes start to drift.
in the way you excuse yourself from dinners earlier than usual, lips still stained with barely-hidden kisses, skin humming with the memory of someone else’s mouth. he sees it in the tremble in your hands when you pour his tea, the way your smile falters when he looks at you for just a beat too long.
he sees it when satoru walks into the room and your spine stiffens like you’ve been caught already.
he sees it in satoru too—the looseness in his posture, the smugness barely hidden beneath casual remarks. the quiet little grins aimed nowhere and everywhere. the way he looks at you like he’s already claimed you.
like he doesn’t care who knows.
and one night, he followed.
he stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, as you crept barefoot down the guest hallway. your cheeks were flushed, your mouth was kiss-bruised, your sweater was too large. too familiar. too his. and you were smiling. not at him. for someone else.
he watched you slip into the shadows with quiet, practiced shame, and he didn’t feel surprised. he didn’t even feel heartbreak, he felt confirmation.
and something worse— humiliation.
not just as your husband. but as a father. because it wasn’t just betrayal, it wasn’t even infidelity. it was the way you looked at satoru—like you used to look at him, long ago. like you’d been asleep for years and someone finally woke you up.
like you’d finally remembered how to feel.
and the part that sliced deepest wasn’t that you’d chosen someone else. it was that you’d chosen someone he made. someone who shared his name. someone who had every piece of him he’d never been able to give.
he sat with that knowledge for two days.
ate breakfast across from you like nothing had changed. listened to your footsteps echo down the marble hallway. watched satoru breeze in and out of the house with that smug, careless smile and imagined wiping it clean off his face.
he kept it in his chest like a ticking clock.
and waited.
until the third night, when you come home late.
and you have to know, satsuki doesn’t scream.
he doesn’t throw things. neither does he raise his voice. doesn’t call you names or demand answers. there’s no storm. no fire. no broken glass glittering across the floor.
just silence—dense, absolute. the kind that makes your bones ache before you even understand why.
he’s sitting in the lounge when you come home. not his study or the formal sitting room reserved for guests and political favors, but the old lounge near the back of the house—the one with worn leather chairs and a window that always sticks halfway open. he used to like sitting here with you, hands full of documents and reports and your perfume lingering by his side.
the floor creaks when you step in. his jacket is folded over the armrest, his tie loose around his neck like a noose he forgot to tighten. there’s a half-full glass of whiskey in one hand, the rim catching the firelight from the hearth behind him.
he looks up when you enter and he smiles. but it’s the wrong kind of smile: it’s thin and deliberate and shaped like control—sharp and elegant and meant to wound. you’ve seen it on him and you’ve never liked it.
“you’re late,” he says.
his tone is soft, casual. like he’s commenting on the weather. like you’ve only broken curfew by an hour and not shattered the most sacred rule of this house.
you open your mouth to lie—to give him something rehearsed. traffic. errands. lunch with the wife of that board member who always pretends not to loathe you. something easy, something clean.
but then you meet his unbelievably cold eyes and everything dies in your throat. because he’s already holding the truth. you can see it in his face—in the stillness, the patience, the cold poise of a man who’s already played the entire game in his mind.
he knows.
he hums under his breath. the sound is small and almost amused, but it lands like a slap.
he taps his thumb once against the rim of his glass, then says, “i hear you’ve taken a liking to hakone.”
your breath stutters.
“you’ve been going often,” he adds, like it’s an idle thought, like he’s piecing something together he already understands.
you force your voice to work.
“I like the quiet,” you say, careful. measured.
his lips twitch. “yes,” he murmurs. “so do i.”
he sets his glass down with precision, the base hitting the table with a soft clink.
he doesn’t look away.
“you know,” he continues, tone drifting somewhere between dissection and conversation, “i used to wonder why the staff stopped telling me when you left the city.”
his fingers trace the seam of his trousers.
“why the housekeeper started locking the guest suite.”
a beat.
“why you began ignoring my calls.”
your chest goes tight, pulse thudding in your ears.
“they didn’t tell me,” he says. “but they didn’t have to.”
and then—his voice, colder. quieter.
“i’m not a fool.”
your mouth opens on instinct. some part of you still thinks you can lie your way out. deny it. explain it. apologize. even though there’s nothing left to salvage. you don’t even know which version of the truth you’re trying to reach for, but you don’t get the chance.
he cuts in.
“how long?”
you freeze.
he takes a step closer, the firelight catching in the creases around his eyes.
“how long,” he repeats, “have you been fucking my son?”
the words hit you like a blade through silk—clean, merciless, elegant in its precision.
you flinch visibly.
your fingers twist in the fabric of your coat like you’re bracing for a blow. your throat goes dry. your lungs stall. you can’t answer.
because what is there to say?
that it wasn’t planned? that it wasn’t a betrayal at first, just a kiss by the pool? that you didn’t mean for it to turn into something real?
it all sounds so small now. so hollow.
satsuki rises to his full height—he moves slowly, methodically, like he’s done this a hundred times before. straightens his cuffs. buttons the top of his collar. steps toward you without urgency.
he stops a few feet away. not close enough to touch. just close enough that you feel the weight of him, the cold edge of his presence. the domineering cool emitting from him.
he looks at you for a long time.
not with rage or disgust, but with something worse.
disappointment.
like he’s been bracing for this all along. like he expected better—and isn’t surprised that you didn’t deliver. it hits you harder than it should and your nails dig into the plush of your palm, holding in the desire to apologise over and over and ask for forgiveness like a child would with a disappointed parent.
“was it revenge?” he asks.
his voice is quieter now. more intimate.
“a performance?”
he studies your face.
“or did you just get tired of waiting for me to love you?”
you want to scream. to fall to your knees, to beg him to understand that it was never about revenge, that you were lonely, so unbelievably lonely, and satoru looked at you like you mattered. like you existed. but none of that matters now.
the words never come, instead they lodge in your throat like splinters.
“i thought you knew what you were getting into when i approached you.”
he tilts his head slightly, almost curious. like he’s waiting for something that you no longer have to give.
then he exhales just one breath. low. even. controlled.
“he always did take what wasn’t his.”
you blink. he’s not looking at you anymore.
his gaze slips past your shoulder, to the fire, or the window, or some long-dead moment you’ll never be privy to. he’s remembering something you were never a part of and it hurts like it never did before.
“i should’ve known he’d want you too,” he says, and this time the words are softer. like a realization spoken to himself.
you don’t know what history lives between them. you don’t ask because it’s not yours to touch, it never was.
you take a step back. then another.
your breath comes shallow. your cheeks burn. shame licks up your throat and settles in your mouth like ash. but he isn’t done. he adjusts his cuffs again, casual, like he’s resetting himself. it feels like he’s stepping back into the man he was before he ever let you into his home.
“there’s a dinner with the yamamotos tonight,” he says.
his voice is clipped now, businesslike. the conversation is over. this is protocol.
“you’ll attend like you always do,” he adds. “wear the gold chanel dress. and the necklace i gifted you for new years.”
you stare at him.
you’re not sure what you’re waiting for. mercy? forgiveness? one final insult? you think it’d be better that whatever this is.
“and then?” you ask, even though you already know.
he looks at you once more and this time there’s nothing in his eyes— no heat, no cold, no flicker of what you used to hope was affection. just a decision.
“then, in the morning, you’ll leave.”
your heart stops.
“you’ll be out of this house by ten,” he says.
his tone is simple and settled, the one you’ve heard him use a million times in different settings. you just never thought it’d be directed to you.
“the lawyers will be in touch.”
your knees go weak. your vision tilts, dangerously blurry, but somehow, you stand.
somehow, you nod, realising there’s nothing left to fight for. he turns away, back toward the fireplace. the flames flicker quietly, casting soft light on the clean lines of his silhouette.
and as you watch him, standing in a room that once belonged to both of you, you realize—
this is the first time he’s ever really seen you.
and it will be the last time he ever looks at you the same way again.
—
the guest room feels unfamiliar, almost cold, despite the thick curtains and soft linens that try to soften its edges. you close the door behind you with a hollow finality, the sound echoing in the silence like a heartbeat you can’t catch.
the room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside, a distant reminder that life continues beyond these walls. you sink onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe—shallow, uneven, like someone learning how to again.
your mind swirls with everything left unsaid. the confrontation with satsuki replays in endless loops, his measured voice cutting through the memories you had tried so hard to bury. it’s not just the end of a marriage; it’s the unraveling of the life you thought you had. you touch the faint bruises on your skin, remnants of stolen moments with satoru, and a bitter ache settles deep in your chest. the guilt is sharp, a weight that drags against any flicker of solace.
your phone vibrates quietly on the bedside table, screen lighting up with satoru’s name. you don’t answer. you can’t. each message is a tether pulling you back to a world you need to step away from, no matter how fiercely your heart resists. ignoring him feels like a small act of control amid the chaos—a way to protect the fragile pieces of yourself before the inevitable departure.
you ache for the tenderness he gave you and resent the fragility it exposed. loneliness presses in, but so does a quiet clarity: you cannot stay in this in-between, clinging to shadows when the dawn demands you move forward.
you don’t sleep. not really.
you drift in and out of shallow, fragmented dreams—flashes of firelight, the ghost of satsuki’s voice, the warmth of satoru’s hands pressed to your hips. it all blends together until you can’t tell memory from nightmare. every time your eyes close, something inside you flinches.
you lie on your side in the guest bed, staring at the edge of the wall, and you think about how quickly things fall apart. how something that felt so real, so alive in your hands, could slip through your fingers with just a few words. you remember satoru telling you once—softly, like he was afraid of the truth—“nothing we take from him ever lasts.”
you had shrugged. brushed it off.
but maybe you should’ve listened.
his name lights up your phone again around 2:00 a.m.—a short vibration, then another. then a call.
you stare at the screen until it fades. you don’t answer. you don’t dare to.
you know what he’ll say. you know the voice he’ll use—the low, urgent one that always made your chest ache, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. and maybe that’s what you’re afraid of. that if you hear it, you’ll forget why you have to go.
you press the phone beneath a pillow. try not to cry. fail.
when the first signs of morning come, you sit up slowly, your body stiff and reluctant. the house is still quiet. no footsteps, no movement down the hall. it feels like a mausoleum now. you move through it like someone haunting their own life.
you take a long shower. let the water burn your skin red in places. like punishment, maybe, or maybe you just want to feel something that isn’t regret.
the mirror fogs, but you wipe it clear with your palm, stare at your reflection like it might give you answers. you look older today. heavier. but there’s something in your eyes—tired, yes, but awake like you’ve finally decided something for yourself.
you get dressed methodically. a blouse and black slacks you bought yourself with your own money. you fold the gold chanel dress into your bag without thinking, like a relic you’re not sure what to do with. the closet is already half-emptied; you did most of it in the night, between moments of panic and resolve. you left the jewelry. the heels. the coats. you don’t want to take anything you can’t justify wanting.
when you’re done, you sit on the edge of the bed with your coat in your lap and your bags at your feet. your phone buzzes again. another call. his name, again.
you silence it and yet—it hurts. god, it hurts.
because you miss him. not just the sex. not just the rush of being seen, desired, adored.
you miss the stupid jokes, the way he always leaned in too close when he talked. the way he touched your back in passing, like it was second nature. his honesty, his kindness, his desire for you to see him just like he saw you.
you miss how easy it was to feel wanted around him.
how light your body felt when he held you. how much fun you had, even when everything was wrong, but wanting him won’t undo what you’ve done.
and there’s something uglier than heartbreak curling inside your chest now. shame, maybe. or self-loathing. or the simple, brutal truth that you knew what this would cost you. you knew. and you chose him anyway. and now you have to let him go like the mistake it was.
you stand, finally. smooth your blouse. pick up your things. the door creaks slightly when you open it. the hallway is still empty.
you don’t see satsuki again.
but the housekeeper is already waiting by the front doors, her posture stiff, her eyes unreadable. she nods at you once yet doesn’t speak. the kind woman who’d greeted you a few years ago is gone and for a brief second, you feel like a ghost all over again.
no one says goodbye.
no one asks where you’re going.
you walk out of the house with the air crisp and the sky still gray, and it doesn’t feel like freedom, not yet, but it does feel like something.
like an ending you’ve earned and a beginning you might survive. . .
epilogue.
satoru sits alone in his sleek, dimly lit apartment overlooking the city, the night stretching endlessly beyond the glass. the silence here isn’t comforting; it’s heavy and hollow, pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shrug off. his phone lies face-up on the table, screen dark now, no new messages from you. the absence feels louder than any words ever could.
he thinks about you constantly—about the way you moved through the gojo estate, so fragile yet fierce in your own quiet way. how your eyes held a mix of longing and pain, like you were always searching for something just out of reach. he remembers the nights in hakone, the softness of your skin against his, the hesitant way you let yourself fall apart in his arms. those moments are etched in him, vivid and aching.
but alongside the tenderness, there’s the bitter sting of guilt—because he knows what you lost. the life you left behind, the promises broken, the distance you’ve been forced to put between yourself and satsuki. he wonders if you blame him, if you see him as the one who took what wasn’t his. part of him understands. part of him hates himself for it.
he wrestles with the fact that he loved you in a way no one else did—or could. that in those stolen hours, he tried to make you feel seen, whole, and alive. and yet, all he could give you was secrecy and fleeting warmth. the knowledge that he was the reason you lost everything haunts him more than he admits.
there’s a quiet ache beneath his usual careless grin, a sorrow he buries deep beneath sarcasm and deflection. satoru wonders if you’ll ever forgive him—or if forgiveness even matters anymore. he replays your last moments together, the way you pulled away before the kiss could become more, the way you disappeared afterward, leaving nothing but silence.
he’s haunted by the thought of you, not as a prize won or a secret kept, but as someone he genuinely cared for—someone he wanted to protect from the cold world that had hurt you so much already. and now, without you, even the city’s neon lights feel dimmer, the nights colder, and the space beside him painfully empty.
he knows he’s lost you in more ways than one. and the weight of that loss is something he carries with quiet, relentless heaviness.
satoru’s thoughts spiral in the quiet hours, tangled and relentless. he remembers the way your laughter once filled the corners of the house, sharp and unexpected, like sunlight breaking through a storm. how rare those moments were, and how fiercely he clung to them. he wonders if you ever felt the same—that small flicker of something real beneath the facade of your marriage, beneath the walls you both built to protect yourselves.
he thinks about satsuki, his father, with a complicated knot of resentment and reluctant understanding. satsuki’s coldness was a shield, a calculated distance that made love impossible, and maybe satoru saw himself in that—flawed, unreachable, always on the edge of something breaking. he knows satsuki never loved you the way you deserved, and maybe that’s why satoru’s feelings for you became so fierce, so impossible to ignore. it was as if loving you was the only way to fight against a legacy of emptiness.
he replays the stolen nights and whispered promises, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the quiet confession in your eyes when you finally let go. those moments weren’t just physical—they were a desperate grasp for connection, for something genuine in a life that had become a series of transactions and silent compromises. he wishes he could go back, erase the pain that followed, but he knows some wounds run too deep.
there’s also a gnawing fear beneath everything—fear that you’re slipping further away, that the distance between you is becoming permanent, defined not just by walls and silence but by the choices made and the secrets kept. satoru hates that he might have been the cause of your exile, that the sanctuary you once sought in him might now be a memory too painful to revisit.
and yet, despite it all, he can’t stop hoping. hoping that somewhere beneath the fractured pieces, you’re still there—still breathing, still fighting. that maybe, someday, the space between you can be crossed.
satoru knows he could find you anytime he wanted. the networks of the city, the connections woven through his life like threads in a tapestry—they’re all there, quietly waiting for him to pull. he could ask, trace, track. his world is built on precision and control; locating you would be no different from making a phone call or booking a flight.
but he doesn’t.
not yet.
there’s a part of him that understands the chaos you need to navigate on your own, the space to breathe without the weight of his presence pressing down on you. he respects that silence, no matter how much it tears at him. he hopes you’re finding some clarity, some piece of yourself you lost when everything fell apart. and beneath that hope is a quiet, stubborn wish—that when you’re ready, you’ll reach out. that you’ll call him, ask for help, or maybe just for company.
he wants to see you every day. to hear your voice, to catch the light in your eyes when you smile without hesitation. he dreams of ordinary moments with you—the kind of moments that feel impossible now. but he doesn’t force it. he holds space for you in the chaos of his life, a silent promise that he’ll be there when you decide you’re ready.
and then, one day, by chance more than design, he does see you.
it’s unexpected, like a flicker of warmth in a cold room. you’re just across the street, caught in the rush of the city—unaware, untethered, breathing in the world on your own terms.
for a second, time bends. the noise around him dulls.
he watches, heart pounding, the distance between you suddenly unbearable and yet impossible to close in that moment. it’s accidental. unplanned. raw.
the moment stretches, fragile and electric, as satoru stands frozen on the sidewalk, watching you navigate the crowd with that familiar, tentative grace. the sunlight catches the edges of your hair, casting a halo you hadn’t realized you’d missed so desperately. his breath hitches—not from surprise, but from the weight of everything unsaid, every stolen moment that now feels like a lifetime away.
he wants to call out, to cross the street and bridge the gulf that’s grown between you. but something holds him back—a mix of respect, fear, and the unspoken understanding that you need to decide how this story continues. so instead, he lets you go, watching until you disappear around the corner, swallowed by the city’s endless motion.
the ache in his chest is sharp but tethered to a new hope, fragile but undeniable. seeing you—really seeing you—reminds him that the pieces aren’t lost forever. that maybe, in time, the distance can be closed not by force or desperation, but by choice.
he pulls out his phone, fingers hovering over the screen. but he doesn’t call. not yet.
instead, he carries the image of you with him—a quiet promise, a flicker of light in the dark—waiting for the day when you’ll reach back. when the accidental meeting becomes a deliberate reunion. and until then, he’ll hold on to that moment, small and precious, as the beginning of everything yet to come.
days pass like slow tides, each one pulling satoru deeper into a restless rhythm of waiting and wanting. the accidental glimpse of you lingers in his mind—a persistent ache that colors every quiet moment. he keeps checking his phone, half-expecting your name to light up the screen, half-afraid it never will.
he’s careful not to overwhelm. no messages, no calls, no attempts to intrude on the fragile space you might be carving out for yourself. instead, he focuses on the small details he remembers—the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the softness in your eyes despite the shadows beneath them. those details become a silent prayer he carries with him, a hope that you’re healing in your own time.
sometimes, he wonders what you’re feeling. if you think of him, even for a fleeting second. if you’re angry, or scared, or lonely like he is. the not knowing is its own torment, but he endures it because it’s better than pretending the connection never existed.
and then, one evening, as twilight bleeds into the city, satoru finds himself walking past a quiet café he knows you like. the place is small, tucked between towering glass buildings, with warm light spilling onto the pavement. through the window, he sees you seated at a corner table, alone, eyes fixed on a book, a cup of tea untouched.
his heart stutters, the sight both a balm and a challenge. he wants to cross the street, to speak to you, to reach out and pull you back into his world. but he hesitates, caught between hope and fear, between what he wants and what you need.
you look up.
just for a second. just a shift of your gaze, like you’re checking the street, like you felt something—or someone. and satoru knows the moment your eyes land on him.
you blink. he can see it from across the street, that flicker of recognition behind your lashes. the brief, stunned stillness. the small part of you that wants to look away but doesn’t.
and it’s then that he moves.
he crosses the street without thinking. the city hums around him, cars passing, lights changing, but none of it touches him. his feet hit the sidewalk, one after the other, like this was always where he was going to end up.
the door jingles softly when he pushes it open. warm air hits him—coffee, jasmine tea, something spiced—and he sees you straighten in your seat, uncertain, your fingers curled tight around your book like it might keep you steady.
you don’t speak right away. you just stare. like you don’t know if this is real. maybe you’ve conjured him somehow. so he gives you a moment.
he approaches slowly, careful not to crowd your space, hands shaking at his sides and breathing shortening from nervousness. your tea sits untouched, lips of steam curling from the rim. there’s a smear of mascara beneath your left eye. your expression is tired. guarded.
but still you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
he stops just in front of the table. lets the quiet stretch a second longer. then—softly, almost like a joke, like a thread offered—
“hello,” he says. “i’m satoru. and you?”
you blink again. your brow furrows.
and a second later you understand.
your mouth parts, trembling. you reach for the moment like you’re not sure how to hold it, how not to break it. your small hand comes up—slow, uncertain—and he takes it, warmly and steadily, thumb brushing the back of your fingers in a manner too familiar.
you nod once, mouth opening to try and say your name, but it comes out as a sob instead.
your shoulders tremble. tears slip down your cheeks without warning, fast and hot, catching in the hollow of your throat. your fingers tighten in his, like you’re afraid you’ll fall if you don’t hold on or he’ll disappear.
and satoru’s already leaning in, already wrapping his arms around you like he always did when you fell apart.
he doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t ask.
he pulls you to your feet and into him like he’s wanted to do it for years, like your body belongs there, right against his chest, your face tucked into the curve of his neck.
your hands fist in his coat. your tears soak through his shirt. he doesn’t care.
he just holds you—tight, real, steady.
like he’s never letting go again.
—
satsuki’s office is dimly lit, the city lights casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk. he stands by the window, arms crossed, staring out but not really seeing the skyline. the quiet hum of the city below feels distant, almost irrelevant.
satoru leans against the doorway, casual yet tense, his usual carefree grin replaced by something sharper, more measured.
“you knew, didn’t you?” satsuki’s voice breaks the silence, low and controlled.
“knew what?” satoru replies, eyes narrowing but voice calm.
synopsis : you’ve never liked muscles—too veiny, too try-hard, too gym-bro coded for your taste—which makes satoru gojo the perfect academic crush: lean, bookish, annoyingly brilliant, and safely tucked behind oversized sweaters and wire glasses. he’s the kind of boy who corrects professors mid-lecture and times his pen clicks like a ritual, which you absolutely haven’t been documenting in your notebook instead of actual math. you’re three rows behind him in advanced calculus and catastrophically gone, convinced he’s harmless—until a coffee shop collision, one t-shirt, and a deeply inconvenient bicep reveal send you into a full-blown crisis you may or may not kiss your way out of.
tags -> oneshot, fluff and humor, college au, study dates that are actually dates, mutual pining, character study disguised as a crush spiral, satoru is insufferable and hot about it, reader is so mentally ill about one man, study session or seduction who can tell, she thought he was safe (he wasn’t), calculus is the least of her problems, emotional damage but cute, he takes off his sweater and ruins her life, majestic art by @/rinoomii on twt ♡
wc — 10.7k | gen. m.list | read on ao3?
a/n: this was for that one anon who requested a drabble with sleeper build nerdjo, sorry it took so long, take this 10k beast instead mwah 😽
you’ve always believed that muscles are fundamentally disgusting.
not in a mean way—more like how some people think feet are gross or how the texture of velvet makes them want to crawl out of their skin. it’s visceral, unexplainable, the way your stomach turns at the thought of all that bulging mass and veiny definition. which makes your current predicament absolutely, catastrophically ironic.
because here you are, sitting three rows behind satoru in advanced calculus, completely and utterly gone for a boy who couldn’t look more like he’s never seen the inside of a gym if he tried.
the morning light filters through the lecture hall windows, catching the mess of his hair—not quite platinum, not quite pearl, but something like the color of fresh snow under streetlights, if snow could defy gravity and stick up at impossible angles while somehow still looking effortlessly perfect. you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time cataloging the way it moves when he turns his head, the way it catches light like spun silver thread, the way one particular strand always falls across his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back with that same precise, annoyed gesture.
(you’re pathetic. you know you’re pathetic. you’ve literally counted the number of times he does that little hair-push thing per lecture—it’s seventeen on average, and you’re horrified by the fact that you know this. even more horrified by the fact that you’ve started timing the intervals between each gesture. twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, give or take.)
professor yaga’s voice drones on about derivatives, but you’re lost in the way satoru’s shoulders hunch slightly as he scribbles notes, the careful precision of his long fingers around his pen—fingers that are almost delicate, pale and elegant like they belong to a pianist rather than a college student. the way he occasionally pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle—never his fingertip, always his knuckle, like he’s afraid of smudging the lenses or maybe like he’s performed this exact motion so many times it’s become muscle memory.
there’s something almost ritualistic about it, this careful maintenance of his perfect image. you’ve noticed he does a quick check of his appearance every time he enters a room—subtle, barely perceptible, but you’ve been watching him long enough to catch the way his eyes briefly scan his reflection in any available surface, the way his fingers make minute adjustments to his hair or the position of his glasses.
you wonder if he knows how pretty his hands are. you wonder if he knows you’ve been staring at them for the better part of two months, memorizing the way his thumb taps against his pen when he’s thinking, the way he flexes his fingers when he’s about to write something he’s particularly proud of. you wonder if he knows that you’ve started taking notes about his note-taking habits instead of actually taking notes, which is definitely going to bite you in the ass come exam time.
(seriously, your notebook is less “advanced calculus” and more “comprehensive guide to satoru gojo’s micro-expressions and fidgeting patterns.” you’re a fucking disaster.)
you’re so busy staring at the way his neck curves when he tilts his head—and god, what a neck, all pale skin and sharp angles, the kind of neck that makes you want to trace your fingers along the line of it—that you don’t notice the classroom has gone quiet until professor yaga’s voice cuts through your reverie like a blade.
“miss,” yaga says, and you can hear the barely contained irritation in his voice, the way he draws out the word like it’s personally offensive to him, “perhaps you’d like to solve this equation for us?”
your stomach drops to somewhere around your ankles. the whiteboard might as well be covered in ancient sumerian for all the sense it makes to you. you enrolled in this class for exactly one reason, and that reason is currently turning in his seat to look at you with those eyes—god, those eyes that aren’t just blue but something deeper, stranger, like the color of deep ocean water when afternoon light hits it just right, or maybe like the heart of a glacier, all crystalline and impossible.
his head tilts slightly as he looks at you, and you catch the way his lips part just a fraction, the way his eyebrows draw together in what might be concern. there’s something almost protective in his expression, the way he leans forward slightly in his seat like he’s preparing to spring into action.
there’s a collective shift in the room, students turning to look at you with expressions ranging from mild curiosity to outright schadenfreude. jennifer, two seats over, is definitely smirking, her perfectly glossed lips curved in a way that makes you want to throw your textbook at her head. you can feel your face burning, can practically hear your heartbeat in your ears, and you’re acutely aware that everyone—including satoru—is watching you flounder like a fish out of water.
you catch the way your hands start to shake slightly, the way your breath catches in your throat, and you know your face is doing that thing where it goes blotchy and red in the worst possible way. your mouth opens and closes once, twice, no sound coming out, and you’re pretty sure you look like you’re having some kind of breakdown.
(this is fine. this is totally fine. you’re just about to publicly humiliate yourself in front of the boy you’ve been mooning over for eight weeks. no big deal. just your entire academic reputation and any chance of ever talking to satoru again going up in flames. totally manageable.)
you’re about to open your mouth and make a complete fool of yourself when satoru’s hand shoots up with the kind of lazy confidence that makes half the class want to throw things at him. but you catch the way his fingers tremble slightly, so briefly you almost miss it, the way he presses his lips together for just a moment before speaking.
“actually, professor yaga,” he says, and his voice carries that particular blend of polite condescension and casual arrogance that makes your chest flutter even as you watch three people in the front row visibly bristle, “i think there’s an error in the problem setup.”
the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. you can practically feel the collective eye-roll rippling through the lecture hall like a wave. behind you, someone mutters “here we go again” under their breath, and you have to resist the urge to turn around and defend him. but you’re too busy watching the way satoru’s jaw tightens slightly, the way his free hand curls into a loose fist on his desk before he forces it to relax.
yaga’s eyes narrow dangerously, his entire posture shifting into something that suggests he’s about to commit murder. “excuse me?”
“the coefficient in the third term,” satoru continues, completely unbothered by the teacher’s glare or the way half the class is now shooting him looks that could kill. his fingers drum once against his desk before he catches himself and forces them to still—a tiny crack in his perfect composure that somehow makes you want to protect him, want to build a wall between him and everyone else in this room. “it should be negative, not positive, based on the previous step. common mistake, really.”
and there it is—that little smile, barely there but unmistakable, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s just performed a particularly clever magic trick. his chin lifts slightly, and you catch the way his eyes briefly flick toward you, checking to see if you’re watching, if you’re safe.
(common mistake. god, he’s such a little shit, and you’re completely gone for him. absolutely, irrevocably, pathetically gone.)
the silence that follows is deafening. you can see yaga’s jaw working, can practically feel the collective urge to murder emanating from your classmates like heat waves. satoru just sits there, chin tilted up slightly, that insufferable little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but you notice the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh, the way his shoulders are held just a little too rigidly.
there’s something almost performative about it, the way he wields his intelligence like a shield, deflecting attention from the fact that he’s just saved you from public humiliation. again. you’re starting to recognize the pattern—the way he times his interruptions, the way he makes his corrections sound like casual observations rather than calculated rescues.
but more than that, you’re starting to recognize the cost of it. the way other students look at him like he’s some kind of academic boogeyman, the way professors tolerate him with barely concealed irritation, the way he sits alone in every class despite being the smartest person in the room.
“you’re right,” yaga says finally, and the admission sounds like it physically pains him, like each word is being dragged from his throat with pliers. he turns back to the board with more force than necessary, chalk scraping against the surface with a sound that makes half the class wince. “thank you for the... correction.”
as the professor erases and rewrites the equation, you catch the subtle way satoru’s shoulders relax, the way his fingers uncurl from where they’d been gripping his pen. his head drops slightly, and you see him take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a way that suggests he’s been holding his breath this entire time.
he’s nervous, you realize. he’s just as affected by these moments as you are, just better at hiding it behind layers of calculated arrogance and that insufferable smile.
that’s the fifteenth time this semester—you’ve been counting, because apparently your brain has decided to catalog every single instance of satoru saving you from academic humiliation. fifteen times in eight weeks, and each time you fall a little bit deeper into this ridiculous, hopeless crush. each time you’re more convinced that you’re the only person in this entire lecture hall who doesn’t find him completely insufferable.
(you’re also probably the only person who’s noticed the way his ears go pink when he’s called out, or the way he clicks his pen three times before he raises his hand, or the way he always makes sure his “corrections” benefit you specifically. you’re definitely the only person who’s noticed the way he glances over at you after each rescue, checking to make sure you’re okay, that little furrow between his brows that suggests he’s genuinely worried about you.)
because that’s the thing about satoru—he’s brilliant, and he knows it, and he’s absolutely shameless about wielding that intelligence like a weapon. he’s the type of person who corrects professors mid-lecture with a smile that suggests he’s doing them a favor, who finishes exams in half the allotted time and then sits there looking bored while everyone else scrambles, occasionally glancing around the room with barely concealed amusement.
but you’ve started to notice the moments when the mask slips. the way he sometimes looks out the window with an expression that’s almost wistful, like he’s thinking about being anywhere else. the way he doodles in the margins of his notes—not equations or formulas, but little sketches, delicate and precise, usually of things he can see from his seat. a leaf, the corner of a building, once, memorably, a tiny sketch of the back of someone’s head that looked suspiciously like your silhouette.
he’s condescending without meaning to be, arrogant without trying, and you’re pretty sure he’s never encountered a problem he couldn’t solve or a question he couldn’t answer. you’ve watched him turn in homework assignments written in what you can only describe as mathematical poetry, each solution more elegant than the last, and you’ve seen the way professor yaga’s mouth tightens every time satoru raises his hand.
it should be annoying. it should make you want to throw things at him like everyone else does. jennifer actually did throw a pencil at him once—it bounced off his shoulder and he just turned around and smiled at her like she’d given him a compliment, but you caught the way his smile faltered for just a moment, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to rub the spot where it hit.
instead, it makes you want to lean over and whisper ‘thank you’ directly into his ear, makes you want to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips, makes you want to mess up his perfectly styled hair just to see what he’d do. probably fix it with that same precise, methodical care he applies to everything else, but maybe—just maybe—he’d let you be the one to mess it up again.
you’re so far gone it’s not even funny anymore. it’s concerning. it’s the kind of pathetic that would make your friends stage an intervention if they knew. the kind of pathetic that has you checking your reflection in every surface before class, wondering if today might be the day he actually notices you beyond your academic incompetence.
the lecture continues, yaga’s voice taking on that particular sharp edge that suggests satoru has ruined his entire day, and you watch the way your classmates shoot covert glances at the boy three rows ahead. there’s resentment in those looks, the kind of frustrated irritation that comes from being consistently outshone by someone who doesn’t even seem to be trying.
but you’re not watching them. you’re watching satoru, cataloging the way he takes notes with the same meticulous care he applies to everything else, his handwriting neat and precise even when he’s obviously bored. you’re watching the way he occasionally glances toward the window, his expression going soft and distant, like he’s thinking about something far more interesting than derivatives.
you’re watching the way he doesn’t look back at you, but you catch the subtle way his ears are still pink, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh before he forces his hand to still. you notice the way he shifts in his seat, adjusting his position so that he’s angled slightly toward you, like he’s subconsciously trying to keep you in his peripheral vision.
you wonder if he knows what he’s doing, if he’s keeping track too, if he notices the way you always seem to be in trouble right when he’s ready with an answer. you wonder if he’s cataloging your expressions the way you’ve been cataloging his, if he’s noticed the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous.
(he is. he’s been counting too, actually, though his count is higher because he includes all the times he’s wanted to interrupt but didn’t, all the times he’s watched you panic in that particular way that makes your eyes go wide and your bottom lip disappear between your teeth. he’s been cataloging your expressions the same way you’ve been cataloging his, though he’s infinitely better at being subtle about it. he knows you bite your lip when you’re concentrating, knows you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous, knows you have this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re trying to work through a problem. he’s memorized the way you look when you’re happy, when you’re confused, when you’re frustrated. he’s got it all filed away in his brain like the most important data he’s ever collected.)
you’re wondering what it would be like to know him outside of this careful academic performance when the lecture ends, students immediately scrambling for the exits with the kind of urgency that suggests they’re fleeing rather than simply leaving. you can hear fragments of conversation as people file out—“such a show-off,” “can’t believe yaga puts up with that,” “probably thinks he’s smarter than everyone”—and you want to defend him, want to point out that he is smarter than everyone, but you’re too busy shoving your barely-touched notebook into your bag, trying to look like you weren’t just spending ninety minutes staring at the back of someone’s head.
your hands are shaking slightly as you pack up your things, a combination of leftover adrenaline from your near-humiliation and the growing realization that you’re about to be alone with him, maybe for the first time since this whole ridiculous crush started. you fumble with your bag’s zipper, curse under your breath when it catches, and generally look like the disaster you are.
when he appears beside your desk, you’re struck by how different he looks up close. all sharp angles and pale skin, the kind of boy who looks like he’d snap in half if you hugged him too tight. which is perfect, actually, because you have no interest in the alternative.
but more than that, you’re struck by how he seems to take up more space than his slight frame should allow. there’s something about his presence that’s magnetic, commanding, the way he stands with his weight shifted slightly forward, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated that makes you want to lean closer, something that makes you think of morning frost and expensive soap.
there’s something almost fragile about him when he’s not performing for the class, something that makes you want to handle him carefully. his glasses have slipped down his nose slightly, and when he pushes them up with that familiar gesture, you catch the way his eyelashes flutter against the lenses, impossibly long and pale.
“rough lecture?” he asks, and there’s something almost apologetic in the way he says it, like he’s aware that his interventions might be drawing unwanted attention to you. his head tilts slightly, and you notice the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way he doesn’t bother to push it back this time. there’s a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are serious, concerned.
you catch the way your breath hitches slightly, the way your fingers tighten around your bag strap. “depends on your definition of rough,” you reply, slinging your bag over your shoulder, hyperaware of how close he is, how the simple act of standing puts you almost at eye level with him. “if by rough you mean completely incomprehensible, then yeah, absolutely brutal.”
he laughs, and it’s nothing like the polite chuckle he gives in class. this is genuine, warm, the kind of laugh that makes his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “it’s not that bad once you get the hang of it,” he says, falling into step beside you as you head toward the door. you notice the way he shortens his stride to match your pace, the way he holds the door open for you with casual politeness, his fingers briefly brushing yours as you pass through. “calculus is just like... a language. once you learn the grammar, everything else falls into place.”
the brief contact sends a jolt up your arm, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you shiver slightly, the way your cheeks flush. you step through the door, and he follows, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. the hallway is busy with students rushing to their next classes, and you have to resist the urge to grab his arm to keep from losing him in the crowd.
“easy for you to say, mr. perfect score on every exam,” you say, and you can’t help but smile at the way he preens slightly at the compliment, his chin lifting just a fraction in that familiar gesture of pride. his eyes light up in a way that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
“perfect score is an exaggeration,” he says, but he’s clearly pleased, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, spreading down his neck in a way that makes you want to trace the path of it with your fingertips. his fingers fidget with the strap of his bag, and you wonder if he’s as nervous as you are, if he feels the same electric tension that seems to crackle between you whenever you’re this close.
“ninety-eight percent is still perfect in my book.”
“that two percent haunts me,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest with such dramatic flair that you can’t help but laugh. his eyes are dancing with mischief, and you catch the way he leans slightly closer as he speaks, like he’s sharing a secret. “keeps me awake at night, wondering where i went wrong.”
this is how it always goes with satoru—easy banter that makes you forget why you were ever nervous around him in the first place. he has this way of matching your energy, of making conversation feel like a game where you’re both trying to make the other laugh first. it’s addictive, the way he responds to your sarcasm with his own, the way he seems genuinely delighted when you give as good as you get.
but underneath the easy conversation, you’re hyperaware of every detail—the way he gestures when he talks, his hands moving in precise, elegant motions like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. the way his eyes light up when he’s about to make a joke, the way they seem to focus entirely on you like you’re the only person in this crowded hallway. the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize your expressions, the way his smile goes soft and genuine when he thinks you’re not looking.
you notice the way other students move around you both, giving satoru a wide berth, but he doesn’t seem to notice. he’s too focused on you, on the conversation, on the way you laugh at his ridiculous dramatics.
“hey,” he says suddenly, and his voice drops slightly, becomes more hesitant. his fingers find the strap of his bag, fidgeting with the buckle in a way that suggests he’s more nervous than he’s letting on. “i was wondering... would you maybe want to study together sometime? i mean, if you want. no pressure or anything, but i think i could help you with some of the concepts that are giving you trouble.”
you stop walking so abruptly that the student behind you nearly crashes into your back, muttering something unflattering about people who don’t know how to walk in hallways. satoru takes two more steps before he realizes you’re not beside him anymore, then turns back with a slightly confused expression, his eyebrows raised in question. behind his glasses, his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossible color that makes your brain short-circuit and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.
“you want to study with me?” you ask, and you hate how breathless you sound, hate the way your voice goes up at the end like you can’t quite believe it. students flow around you both like water around stones, and you’re vaguely aware of someone muttering “move it along” as they squeeze past, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“well, yeah,” he says, and now his ears are definitely pink, a flush creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweater. he pushes his glasses up his nose in that familiar gesture, and you realize it’s become a tell—something he does when he’s nervous or uncertain. “i mean, you’re smart, obviously. you just need someone to explain things in a way that makes sense. and i...” he trails off, his gaze dropping to the floor for just a moment before meeting your eyes again. “i like talking to you. about math stuff. and non-math stuff too.”
there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it, the way his fingers twist in the strap of his bag, the way he rocks slightly on his heels like he’s fighting the urge to flee. you catch the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the way he bites his lower lip briefly before releasing it.
your heart is doing something acrobatic and probably medically concerning in your chest. you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like he’s just offered you the moon, and maybe that’s not far from the truth. this beautiful, brilliant boy who corrects professors and makes calculus sound like poetry wants to spend time with you outside of class.
“okay,” you say, and you know you’re smiling like an idiot, can feel the way your cheeks are starting to hurt from the sheer width of your grin. you probably look deranged, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “yeah, i’d like that. i’d like that a lot.”
“really?” the relief in his voice is so obvious it’s almost endearing, and you catch the way his shoulders relax, the way his grip on his bag strap loosens. his smile transforms his entire face, making him look younger, softer, less like the intimidating academic weapon everyone thinks he is. “cool. great. how about friday? there’s this coffee shop off campus that’s pretty quiet, good for studying.”
“it’s a date,” you say, and then immediately want to melt into the floor because who says that, who actually says ‘it’s a date’ in response to a study session invitation, what is wrong with you—
but satoru’s smile goes soft and genuine, transforming his entire face, and he says, “yeah, it is,” and suddenly your mortification transforms into something warm and fluttery that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
there’s something different about the way he looks at you then, something that makes the busy hallway fade into background noise. his eyes seem to trace your features like he’s memorizing them, and you catch the way his lips part slightly, the way his breathing seems to quicken.
you’re standing in the middle of the hallway, students flowing around you like water around stones, and for a moment it feels like you’re the only two people in the world. you can see the exact moment when he realizes how close you are, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes.
then the moment breaks as someone jostles past you, muttering about people blocking the hallway, and you’re both laughing, a little breathless and a lot overwhelmed. the spell is broken, but something has shifted between you, something that makes the air feel charged with possibility.
“i should probably get to my next class,” you say, even though you want to stay here forever, want to memorize every detail of this moment, want to bottle up the way he’s looking at you and save it for later.
“yeah, me too,” he says, but he doesn’t move away, doesn’t break eye contact. his hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you, and you wonder what would happen if you just took that step closer, if you eliminated the careful distance he’s maintaining.
you can see the internal struggle playing out on his face, the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his fingers flex at his sides. there’s something he wants to say, something he wants to do, but he’s holding himself back.
“friday,” you say, and it comes out softer than you intended, almost like a promise.
“friday,” he agrees, and then he’s walking away, but not before you catch the way he glances back over his shoulder, the way his hand lifts in a small wave that’s almost shy.
you watch him go, noting the way other students move out of his way, the way conversations seem to pause as he passes. he’s magnetic in a way that draws attention even when he’s not trying to, and you realize with a start that everyone else sees it too—they just respond to it differently than you do.
where you see brilliance, they see arrogance. where you see careful precision, they see showing off. where you see someone who’s maybe just a little bit lonely behind all that intelligence, they see someone who thinks he’s better than everyone else.
maybe he does think he’s better than everyone else. maybe that’s part of what makes him so fascinating.
you’re still standing there, watching his retreating figure, when you realize you’re going to be late for your next class. but you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy replaying every moment of the conversation, already counting down the hours until friday.
this is dangerous territory, you think as you finally start walking toward your next class, your feet practically floating above the ground. this is the kind of crush that could completely derail your academic career, the kind of infatuation that makes you do stupid things like enroll in advanced calculus just to stare at someone’s neck.
but as you think about the way satoru looked at you, the way his voice went soft when he asked you to study with him, the way he said “yeah, it is” like he meant it, you decide that maybe dangerous territory isn’t such a bad place to be.
especially when it comes with the promise of friday afternoon coffee and the chance to finally figure out what makes satoru gojo tick.
even if he is still, fundamentally, a complete and utter show-off who somehow makes that quality devastatingly attractive.
you’re so screwed.
friday arrives like a slow-motion disaster, the kind where you can see the crash coming from miles away but you’re powerless to stop it. you’ve changed your outfit three times—first too casual, then too formal, then back to casual because this is just studying, right? just two people and some textbooks and definitely not a date despite what you said in that moment of temporary insanity.
(except he said “yeah, it is” with that soft smile and those impossible eyes, and you’ve been replaying that moment on loop for three days straight like some kind of masochistic highlight reel.)
the coffee shop is exactly the kind of place you’d expect satoru to choose—minimalist décor, overpriced drinks, the sort of aggressively hip establishment where the baristas have philosophy degrees and the wifi password is something pretentious like “nietzsche123.” you spot him immediately, sitting in a corner booth with textbooks spread across the table like he’s preparing for academic warfare.
he’s early. of course he’s early. probably calculated the exact time needed to arrange his hair in that perfectly imperfect way, probably positioned himself at the precise angle where the afternoon light would catch the silver threads woven through the pearl-white strands like he’s his own personal photographer.
when he sees you, his face transforms—eyebrows lifting slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what starts as surprise before blooming into something genuine and warm. he stands up with fluid grace, all long limbs and careful coordination, and waves you over with a gesture that’s somehow both casual and theatrical, fingers splaying wide before curling into a beckoning motion.
“you made it,” he says when you reach the table, and there’s something almost breathless in his voice, like he’s been holding his breath without realizing it. his fingers drum once against the table edge before he catches himself, shoving his hands into his pockets with a self-conscious laugh.
“did you think i wouldn’t?” you ask, sliding into the seat across from him, your knee bumping against his under the table. he doesn’t move away—if anything, he seems to lean into the contact, and you can see the way his pupils dilate slightly behind his glasses.
“honestly? kind of.” he pushes his glasses up his nose with his knuckle, and you’re starting to recognize it as his tell for when he’s being more honest than his usual performance allows. his gaze drops to the table for just a moment before meeting yours again, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. “i have this effect on people where they find me charming for about thirty seconds and then remember i’m insufferable.”
you’re watching the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way he emphasizes certain words with tiny gestures—a tilt of his head, a slight lean forward, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip when he’s thinking. it’s hypnotic, the careful choreography of his expressions, and you’re rapidly losing the ability to form coherent thoughts.
“thirty seconds? wow, that’s generous.” you’re unpacking your bag with deliberate slowness, trying to give your hands something to do so you don’t reach across the table and touch the strand of hair that’s falling across his forehead. “most people clock you as insufferable immediately.”
“ouch,” he says, but he’s grinning now, the kind of sharp-edged smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes them shine like winter light on water. his head tilts to the side, and you can see the way his hair shifts with the movement, revealing the elegant line of his neck. “and here i thought you were different.”
“i am different,” you say, finally looking up at him fully, and something in your tone makes his expression shift. his smile softens, becomes less performative, and he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand in a way that makes his eyes seem impossibly large behind his glasses. “i think you’re insufferable and charming.”
the silence that follows is loaded with the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too tight. satoru’s fingers drum once against the table—index, middle, ring, pinkie in perfect succession—before he catches himself and forces his hand to still. you can see the way his throat works when he swallows, the subtle flex of muscle beneath pale skin.
“well,” he says finally, and his voice has dropped to something softer, more intimate, the words shaped carefully around a smile that’s trying to be casual but comes out fond instead. “i can work with that.”
he’s already ordered you a coffee—somehow knew exactly how you like it, which should be creepy but instead makes your chest feel warm and fluttery like you’ve swallowed a handful of butterflies. when you raise an eyebrow at him, he shrugs with practiced nonchalance, but you can see the way his ears go pink at the tips.
“you get the same thing every morning from the campus café,” he says, pulling out his calculus notebook with movements that are just a little too precise to be natural. his fingers trace the edge of the cover before flipping it open, and you notice the way his handwriting is perfectly neat even in the margins. “vanilla latte, extra shot, no foam. you also tap your card exactly three times before you put it away, and you always check your phone right after ordering.”
you stare at him, and he meets your gaze with something that’s trying to be confident but comes across as almost shy. his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and you can see the way his breathing has gone slightly shallow.
“that’s either very observant or very stalky.”
“i prefer observant,” he says, and there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s admitting to more than just casual people-watching. his fingers fidget with his pen, clicking it once, twice, three times before he realizes what he’s doing and forces his hand to still. “i notice things. especially when they’re interesting.”
you’re hyperaware of every micro-expression—the way his eyebrows lift slightly when he’s waiting for your response, the way his lips part just a fraction when he’s thinking, the way his eyes track your movements like he’s cataloging every detail for later review.
“are you calling me interesting?” you ask, taking a sip of your coffee to hide the way your hands are trembling slightly. the movement draws his attention to your mouth, and you can see the way his gaze lingers there before snapping back to your eyes.
“i’m calling you distracting,” he says, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. his voice drops to something almost husky, and you can see the way his fingers tighten around his pen. “do you know how hard it is to focus on derivatives when you’re sitting three rows behind someone who makes the most adorable face when they’re confused?”
you nearly choke on your coffee, and satoru’s immediate reaction is to half-stand, his hand reaching across the table like he’s going to pat your back before he catches himself and settles back down. but his eyes are wide with concern, and you can see the way his whole body has tensed with the impulse to help.
“adorable face?” you manage once you’ve stopped coughing.
“mmm,” he hums, and now his smile is pure mischief. he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and you can see the way his sweater pulls slightly across his shoulders. “you get these little lines right here—” he reaches across the table and almost touches the space between your eyebrows before catching himself, his hand hovering in the air for just a moment too long. you can see the way his fingers curl slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to make contact. “and you do this thing where you bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking really hard.”
your face is burning. absolutely burning. you can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and you know he can see it because his eyes are tracking the flush with obvious fascination.
“you’re making that up.”
“am i?” he tilts his head, and his hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. his smile is absolutely wicked, and you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest. “you’re doing it right now.”
you immediately stop biting your lip, which only makes him grin wider. his whole face lights up with delight, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he does this little victorious bob of his head that’s so smug you want to throw something at him.
“see? adorable.”
“shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat in it. you flip open your own textbook with more force than necessary, and you can feel him watching the movement with obvious amusement. “we’re here to study, remember?”
“right,” he says, but his tone suggests he’s not particularly invested in the idea. you can see him in your peripheral vision, the way he’s propping his chin on his hand, the way his eyes are still tracking your every movement instead of looking at his textbook. “studying. with calculus. very serious business.”
(this is hopeless. you’re supposed to be learning about derivatives and instead you’re cataloging the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. you’re supposed to be focusing on equations and instead you’re wondering what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair. you’re so far gone it’s not even funny anymore.)
for the first hour, he actually does help you study. he’s a good teacher, you’ll give him that—patient in a way that surprises you, breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces without making you feel stupid. but he’s also incredibly distracting in ways that feel almost intentional.
he keeps scooting closer under the pretense of getting a better look at your notebook, his movements casual but deliberate. first it’s just his knee pressing against yours under the table, then his shoulder brushing against yours when he leans over to point at something in your textbook. you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated with hints of cedar and something else that’s purely him.
“you’re overthinking it,” he says, leaning closer to look at your work. his breath ghosts across your cheek, and you can see the way his eyes dart to your lips before focusing back on the page. “see, right here? you’re making it more complicated than it needs to be.”
his hand covers yours on the pen, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers are slightly longer than yours, the careful way he guides your movements. his touch is gentle but sure, and you find yourself focusing more on the pattern of his breathing than on whatever mathematical concept he’s trying to teach you.
“are you paying attention?” he asks, and there’s something almost smug in his voice, like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on you. when you look up, he’s closer than you expected, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his storm-cloud eyes, can count the individual eyelashes behind his glasses.
“yes,” you lie, trying to focus on the equation in front of you instead of the way his thumb is tracing absent patterns on your knuckles.
“liar,” he says, and his voice is low enough that you feel it more than hear it. his smile is absolutely wicked, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly. “you’re not thinking about calculus at all, are you?”
you pull your hand away, probably too quickly, and immediately miss the contact. satoru’s expression flickers—just for a moment—with something that looks like disappointment before he covers it with that trademark smirk.
“i’m thinking about how insufferable you are.”
“mmm,” he hums, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied expression. his head tilts slightly, and you can see the way his hair catches the light, the way his eyes are still tracking your movements. “and how charming?”
“jury’s still out on that one.”
“i’ll take it,” he says, and then he’s back to explaining derivatives like he wasn’t just completely derailing your ability to form coherent thoughts. but you can see the way his ears are still pink, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh before he forces them to still.
(he’s nervous too. the realization hits you like a freight train—satoru gojo, who corrects professors and makes calculus sound like poetry, who wields his intelligence like a weapon and his smile like a shield, is nervous around you. it’s a heady thought, knowing that you affect him even a fraction of how much he affects you.)
this is how the afternoon goes—moments of genuine studying interrupted by satoru being absolutely shameless about testing your boundaries. he finds excuses to touch you, to lean close, to make comments that toe the line between helpful and flirtatious.
when you get frustrated with a particularly difficult problem, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek for just a moment too long. you can see the way his eyes soften, the way his touch is gentle despite the calluses on his fingertips.
“there,” he says softly, and his voice has gone impossibly fond. “now i can see your face when you’re thinking.”
when you finally solve a problem correctly, he grins like you’ve just discovered the cure for cancer, his whole face lighting up with genuine delight. he does this little pleased wiggle in his seat that’s so endearing you want to kiss him senseless.
“knew you had it in you, smarty pants.”
when you make a joke about his handwriting being too neat, he leans over and deliberately writes something messy in your notebook, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. the movement draws your attention to his mouth, and you can see the way his lips curve around the task, the way his eyebrows furrow slightly when he’s focusing.
“there,” he says, sitting back with a pleased expression, his eyes bright with mischief. “now we match.”
(you’re in trouble. deep, catastrophic trouble. every small gesture, every casual touch, every moment of shared laughter is another nail in the coffin of your carefully constructed emotional defenses. you’re falling for him in real-time, and he seems to know it, seems to be cataloging every blush, every stutter, every moment you lose track of what you’re supposed to be doing because you’re too busy staring at him.)
it’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin, how he seems to know exactly which buttons to push to make you flustered. but it’s also kind of thrilling, the way he focuses all that sharp intelligence on figuring out how to make you smile, how to make you laugh, how to make you forget that you’re supposed to be studying.
by the time the sun starts to set, painting the coffee shop in shades of amber and gold, you’ve made decent progress on your calculus homework. but you’ve also developed what feels like a permanent blush and a serious case of satoru-induced brain fog. the other patrons have thinned out—the philosophy-major barista is cleaning the espresso machine with the kind of methodical precision that suggests closing time is approaching.
“we should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone and trying to ignore the way satoru’s face falls slightly at the suggestion. “it’s getting late.”
“probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move to pack up his things. instead, he leans back in his seat and studies you with those storm-glass eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side. you can see the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way his glasses have slipped down his nose just a fraction. “can i ask you something?”
“shoot.”
“why’d you take advanced calculus?” he asks, and there’s something genuinely curious in his voice, like he’s been wondering about this for a while. his fingers drum against the table—that same precise rhythm you’ve started to recognize as his thinking pattern. “i mean, it’s not required for your major, right?”
you freeze, your hands stilling in the process of shoving your textbook into your bag. because how do you explain that you enrolled in a class you have no business taking just to stare at someone’s neck? how do you admit that you’ve been making academic decisions based on a crush that’s gotten completely out of hand?
“i...” you start, then trail off, scrambling for a plausible lie. your eyes dart around the coffee shop, landing on anything but satoru’s face. “i thought it would be... useful?”
“useful,” he repeats, and his tone suggests he’s not buying it for a second. when you finally meet his gaze, you can see the way his eyebrows have lifted slightly, the way his mouth is fighting a smile. “for what?”
“for... life?” you try, and even you can hear how unconvincing that sounds. your voice goes up at the end, turning the statement into a question, and you can see the exact moment satoru realizes you’re lying.
his grin spreads slowly across his face, like sunrise breaking over a horizon, and you can see the way his eyes light up with delighted understanding. it’s the expression of someone who’s just solved a particularly satisfying puzzle, and you’re the puzzle.
“you took advanced calculus because of me, didn’t you?”
“that’s ridiculous,” you say, but your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal, which somewhat undermines your credibility. you can feel heat creeping up your neck, and you know he can see it because his eyes are tracking the flush with obvious fascination.
“oh my god,” he says, and his delight is so obvious it’s almost offensive. he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and you can see the way his sweater pulls slightly across his shoulders. “you actually took a class you hate just to stare at me. that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”
“it’s not—i didn’t—” you’re sputtering now, face burning with embarrassment, your hands fluttering uselessly in the air like you’re trying to grab the words back. “you’re so full of yourself.”
“am i wrong though?” he leans forward even more, resting his chin on his hand, and his smile is absolutely wicked. you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest, the way his eyes are practically glowing with mischief. “come on, admit it. you think i’m pretty.”
“i think you’re insufferable.”
“and pretty.” his voice drops to something almost sing-song, teasing, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.
“and arrogant.”
“and devastatingly attractive.” he’s practically purring now, clearly enjoying your flustered state. his fingers drum against the table in that familiar pattern, and you can see the way his whole body is angled toward you, like you’re the center of his universe.
“and completely full of yourself.”
“but pretty though, right?” his voice has gone soft, almost vulnerable, and when you look at him you can see something genuine beneath the teasing. his smile is gentler now, less performative, and there’s something almost hopeful in the way he’s looking at you. “it’s okay, you can say it. i already know.”
you want to deny it, want to maintain some shred of dignity, but the way he’s looking at you makes your brain turn to mush. his eyes are soft and warm and impossibly blue-grey, like storm clouds with sunlight behind them, and you can see the way his breathing has gone slightly shallow.
“you’re... aesthetically pleasing,” you admit finally, the words coming out barely above a whisper.
“aesthetically pleasing,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words, rolling them around in his mouth like expensive wine. his smile widens, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “wow, try not to swoon too hard.”
“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re smiling despite yourself, and you can see the way his whole face lights up when he sees it.
“make me,” he says, and there’s something challenging in his voice that makes your heart race. his eyes dart to your lips, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze again, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly.
the tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his eyes keep dropping to your mouth, how easy it would be to just lean forward and close the distance between you. the coffee shop has gone quiet around you—just the soft hum of the espresso machine and the distant murmur of the barista’s radio.
“we should really go,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t move away. if anything, you lean slightly closer, drawn by some invisible force that seems to exist in the space between you.
“yeah,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move either. his eyes are searching your face, and you can see the way his breathing has gone uneven. “we should.”
finally, finally, he pulls back with visible effort, his hands shaking slightly as he starts gathering his things. you do the same, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated, hyperaware of every brush of his fingers against yours as you both reach for the same pen.
the walk back to campus is quiet, but it’s the kind of charged silence that makes your skin feel electric. satoru walks close enough that your shoulders brush with every step, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. every few steps, he glances at you sideways, and you can see the way his mouth keeps twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
“thanks for today,” you say when you reach the point where you usually part ways, your voice soft in the gathering dusk. “for helping me study, i mean.”
“anytime,” he says, and his voice is softer now, more sincere. his hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and you can see the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “i had fun.”
“even though i’m a terrible student?”
“especially because you’re a terrible student,” he says, and his grin is bright enough to light up the growing darkness. “gives me an excuse to spend more time with you.”
your heart does that acrobatic thing again, and you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like he hung the stars. the streetlights are starting to flicker on, casting everything in a warm golden glow, and you can see the way the light catches in his hair, turns his eyes into something almost ethereal.
“same time next week?”
“absolutely,” he says, and then he’s walking away, his pace slightly hurried like he’s trying to escape before he does something impulsive. you watch him go, noting the way his hair moves in the evening breeze, the way other students still move out of his way even though he’s not trying to command attention.
(you’re so gone. completely, utterly, catastrophically gone for this insufferable, brilliant boy who makes calculus sound like poetry and looks at you like you’re the most interesting equation he’s ever tried to solve.)
you’re halfway back to your dorm, still floating on a cloud of caffeine and satoru-induced euphoria, when you realize you forgot your phone at the coffee shop. cursing under your breath, you turn around and hurry back, hoping the café is still open.
the door is unlocked, and you can see your phone sitting on the table where you’d been studying, the screen dark against the wood. you grab it quickly, not wanting to keep the staff any longer than necessary, but as you turn to leave, you nearly collide with someone coming out of the bathroom.
“oh, sorry, i—” you start, then stop dead in your tracks.
because it’s satoru. of course it’s satoru. but this isn’t the satoru you’ve been staring at for two months, the one who sits hunched over his textbooks in oversized sweaters and cardigans that hide every line of his body. this is satoru with his sweater off, standing there in just a fitted white t-shirt that clings to his frame in ways that make your brain completely shut down.
the sweater is draped over his arm, and you can see a small coffee stain on the sleeve that must have happened when you weren’t looking. but that’s not what your brain is focusing on. your brain is entirely occupied with the fact that satoru gojo has been hiding an absolutely devastating physique under all those carefully chosen baggy clothes.
he’s not bulky. he’s not some muscle-bound gym rat with biceps the size of your head. but he’s solid. broad shoulders that you never would have guessed at under all those loose sweaters, arms that look like they could pick you up without breaking a sweat, a chest that’s definitely more defined than it has any right to be.
you can see the lean muscle in his forearms, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the subtle definition of his abs through the thin fabric. he’s what people call a sleeper build—looking deceptively slight in clothes but surprisingly strong underneath. and it’s your worst nightmare and your most shameful fantasy rolled into one.
“you forgot your—” he starts to say, then stops when he sees your expression. his eyebrows furrow slightly, and you can see the way his head tilts in confusion. “are you okay?”
you’re not okay. you’re the opposite of okay. you’re spiraling, free-falling into a panic because your body is betraying you in the worst possible way. your carefully constructed preferences are crumbling like a house of cards, and you can feel your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“fine,” you squeak, but your voice comes out strangled and about three octaves higher than normal. you take a step back, then another, until you’re pressed against the wall with nowhere to go.
satoru follows, not aggressively, but with that same calculated precision he applies to everything else. you can see the concern in his eyes, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his mouth turns down at the corners. he stops just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, can smell his cologne mixed with something else—something that’s just him.
“you sure?” he asks, and his voice is soft, concerned, but there’s something else in his eyes. something that suggests he’s very aware of the effect he’s having on you. you can see the way his gaze darts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, the way his breathing has gone slightly uneven.
“fine,” you repeat, but you’re not fine. you’re the opposite of fine. you’re having a complete existential crisis because your stupid body is responding to the sight of his shoulders, the way his shirt clings to his chest, the subtle line of muscle that disappears beneath his collar.
“you don’t look fine,” he says, and now his hand is reaching up to touch your forehead like he’s checking for a fever. the movement makes his shirt ride up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin and the hint of muscle definition that makes your mouth go dry. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
his palm is warm against your forehead, and you can feel the slight roughness of calluses on his fingertips. you’re close enough to see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, close enough to count the barely visible freckles scattered across his nose.
“i have to go,” you say, but you don’t move. you can’t move. you’re trapped between the wall and satoru’s unexpected solidity, and your brain is completely offline.
“hey,” he says softly, and his other hand comes up to frame your face. his touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you might break if he applies too much pressure. “talk to me. what’s wrong?”
you want to tell him it’s nothing, want to laugh it off and pretend you’re not having a complete mental breakdown over the fact that he has shoulders. but you’re looking up at him—when did he get so tall?—and his eyes are so concerned and so impossibly beautiful, like storm clouds with lightning behind them.
“you’re—” you start, then stop, because how do you explain that you’re having an existential crisis over someone’s biceps?
“i’m what?” he asks, and his voice is gentle, patient, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to figure out how to form sentences. his thumbs brush across your cheekbones, and you can feel the slight calluses on his skin.
“you’re stronger than you look,” you finally manage, and it comes out like an accusation.
satoru blinks, clearly not expecting that particular confession. his eyebrows lift slightly, and you can see the way his mouth parts in surprise. “i... yes? i work out sometimes. is that... bad?”
“yes,” you say immediately, then realize how that sounds and scramble to backtrack. “i mean, no. i mean—” you’re spiraling again, because he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve, and his hands are still on your face, and you can see the way his muscles move under his shirt when he breathes.
“you don’t like that i work out?” he asks, and there’s something almost hurt in his voice, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his mouth turns down at the corners.
“it’s not that,” you say quickly, because you can’t bear the thought of hurting his feelings, even in your current state of panic. “it’s just... i don’t usually... i mean, i’ve never been attracted to...”
you trail off, realizing what you’re about to admit, but satoru’s eyes light up with understanding. his mouth curves into a slow smile, and you can see the way his pupils dilate slightly.
“you’ve never been attracted to guys with muscle,” he says, and it’s not a question. his voice has gone soft, almost wondering, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.
you nod miserably, feeling your face burn with embarrassment.
“but you’re attracted to me,” he continues, and there’s something almost smug in his voice now, the way his smile widens, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“unfortunately,” you mutter, but you can’t look away from him, can’t stop cataloging every detail of his face.
“unfortunately,” he repeats, and his smile is absolutely wicked now. you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest, the way his eyes are practically glowing with mischief. “so what you’re saying is that i’m irresistible enough to overcome your very reasonable preferences.”
“i’m saying you’re a problem,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. your hands have somehow found their way to his chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and you can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin material.
“a problem you want to solve?” he asks, and he’s leaning closer now, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. you can see the way his eyes dart down to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze.
“a problem i want to avoid,” you lie, but your hands are pulling him closer even as you say it, and you can see the way his smile turns fond at the contradiction.
“liar,” he says, and then he’s kissing you, soft and sweet and completely devastating.
the kiss is everything you’ve been imagining for months and nothing like you expected all at once. his lips are soft, gentle, but there’s something sure and confident in the way he moves against you. you can taste coffee and something indefinably sweet, can feel the way his hands tighten slightly on your face like he’s afraid you might disappear.
when he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. you can see the way his eyes have gone dark, the way his hair is slightly mussed from where your fingers found their way into it.
“still think i’m a problem?” he asks, and his voice is rough, affected, like the kiss hit him just as hard as it hit you.
“the biggest problem,” you say, but you’re smiling now, because maybe some problems are worth having. especially when they come with shoulders like that and eyes like storm clouds and the kind of smile that makes you forget why you ever thought muscles were a bad thing.
“good,” he says, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, with more confidence. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the strength in his arms, the way his body is solid and warm against yours.
it should terrify you. it should make you want to run. instead, it makes you want to map every line of muscle with your fingertips, want to figure out exactly how strong he is, want to lose yourself in this impossible contradiction of a boy who looks like he’d break if you handled him too roughly but feels like he could hold you together if you fell apart.
“you’re trouble,” you murmur against his lips, and you can feel the way he smiles at the words.
“the best kind,” he agrees, and his voice is pure sin, rough and low and absolutely devastating.
you’re so screwed. but as satoru kisses you again, his arms solid and sure around you, you decide that maybe being screwed isn’t such a bad thing after all.
especially when it comes with the promise of more friday afternoon study sessions and the chance to figure out exactly what other surprises satoru gojo has been hiding under those oversized sweaters.
even if he is still, fundamentally, a complete and utter show-off who somehow makes that quality devastatingly attractive.
and if his hidden muscles are just another thing to add to your growing list of reasons why you’re completely gone for him, well, that’s a problem you’ll deal with later.
right now, you’re too busy kissing the most insufferable, brilliant, surprisingly strong boy you’ve ever met to care about anything else.
synopsis — after reading about a book series that mirrored everything you’d loved about a past favourite, you were thrilled to find it in your college library. the copies were old—worn enough to still have checkout cards—but what caught your attention was the same set of initials, G.S., scrawled across nearly every one. the same G.S. who had filled the margins with sharp, thoughtful annotations. you couldn’t stop yourself from thoroughly enjoying the silly little comments written in the margins, leaving your own notes alongside theirs. it wasn’t until much later that you realised G.S. wasn’t some long-gone bookworm. it was none other than the man you had sworn to hate. gojo satoru.
pairing — nerd! satoru x reader
genre — academic rivals to lovers
word count— 32k (oops)
warnings — sexual content (unprotected sex), swearing, mentions of not eating, slight angst.
small playlist i listened to while writing
"You all can come and grab the papers now—do not ask me for any re-evaluations, the mark presented on the paper is your final mark—"
You barely listen. The professor could be reading a grocery list for all you care. Your focus is already on the stack of midterms in his hands, your heart pounding like a drum against your ribs.
The exam had been brutal—200 marks, covering classical mechanics and electromagnetism, some of the toughest material in your Physics II course. Past students had called it a horror show, a midterm designed to crush dreams and expose weaknesses. It was weighted heavily in your final grade, which meant every single mark mattered. The room is filled with a tense hum, a mixture of eager whispers and anxious murmurs. Some students hesitate in their seats, mentally preparing themselves before facing their doom. But you? You don't wait. You weave through the aisles, manoeuvring past people, determined to be one of the first to grab your paper.
And, of course, Gojo is right behind you.
"Jeez, you could at least pretend to be patient," he muses, his tone dripping with amusement as he strolls lazily down the steps, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. You roll your eyes. "Not all of us have the luxury of cruising through exams without trying."
"I do try," he says, flashing you a grin. "I try just enough." Before you can shoot back a response, you reach the professor’s desk. Professor Takeda raises an unimpressed brow as he sorts through the papers.
"You two again," he sighs. "Half my life as a professor has been spent watching you bicker."
"Don't be dramatic, sir," Gojo says smoothly, resting an elbow on the desk. "It's only been three years." Takeda shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about headaches before handing you your paper. You grab it without waiting, fingers slightly shaking as you flip it over.
98.
The relief rushes through you instantly, so strong you can’t help the triumphant burst of excitement. "Ninety-eight!" you blurt out, beaming as you hug the paper to your chest. It’s a damn near perfect score, and after all those sleepless nights, all those hours of grinding through problem sets—you earned this. Gojo, still waiting for his turn, glances at you with an expression you can’t quite place. His usual smirk is still there, but there’s something else—something quieter, almost thoughtful, before he smooths it over with his usual easy confidence.
Takeda hands him his paper. Gojo flips it over, barely reacting as he reads the number at the top.
"Ninety-five." Your grin widens.
"You mean I beat you?" You practically bounce on your heels. "Me? The one you said was ‘too uptight’ and needed to ‘relax and accept second place’? Me?"
Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head, as he folds his paper out of your sight. "Don't get too cocky," he drawls, shoving the paper under his arm. "It’s just three points."
"Three points above you."
"For now," he corrects smoothly, nudging your shoulder as he moves past you.
It’s been this way since freshman year. You and Gojo had ended up in the same introductory physics course, and from the very first midterm, it was clear: you were the only two truly competing at the top of the class. But while you poured everything into studying—late nights, flashcards, equations scribbled on napkins—Gojo seemed to barely put in the effort. He’d show up late to lectures, half-asleep in sweatpants, glasses slightly skewed, yet somehow still aced every exam. He never took notes, never stressed, never seemed to break a sweat. It drove you insane. Because no matter how hard you tried, how much effort you put in—he was always right there with you. Sometimes ahead, sometimes just behind, but never far enough to ignore.
And worst of all? He made it look easy. By now, the entire physics department knew about your rivalry. Professors expected you to fight over test scores. Study groups would take bets on who would score higher. Even during practical lab sessions, it was always a silent battle—who could get through the calculations faster, who could figure out the trick questions first. You hated him. And now, after years of this, you finally had something over him. A small, almost imperceptible shift in the universe.
You beat Gojo Satoru. As soon as class ends, you’re practically floating out of the lecture hall, midterm still clutched in your hands. The second you step into the cafeteria, your eyes scan the room for your friend, and when you finally spot her at your usual table, you don’t even bother with a greeting. “I got a ninety-eight,” you announce, sliding into the seat across from her with an undeniably smug grin. “And I beat Gojo.”
Her head snaps up from her laptop. “Wait— Gojo Gojo?”
You roll your eyes. “As opposed to what? Some other Gojo in our department?”
“Oh my God, you actually did it?” she gasps, setting her drink down as she stares at you in something close to awe. “I thought that man was unstoppable.”
“Well, turns out he’s not.” You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head. “Guess he finally met his match.” Your friend is still blinking at you in disbelief when a voice cuts in from behind you, slow and amused.
“One good score, and you think you’re the shit.” You freeze. Then, before you can even turn around, Gojo is already there, stepping up behind you like a shadow that refuses to be ignored. You feel the presence of him—tall, lazy, entirely too smug—before you even lift your head to meet his gaze. He’s leaning in just slightly, close enough to loom, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. That familiar, insufferable smirk is plastered on his face, condescending and infuriatingly amused.
You huff. “Can’t a girl enjoy her victory in peace?”
He tilts his head, that same damned smirk never wavering. “Victory?” he echoes, voice dripping with mockery. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you? One midterm doesn’t erase three years of domination.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Oh, please. Like you’ve actually dominated me.”
“Oh, you want me to bring out the stats?” Gojo hums, slipping into the seat beside you like he owns the place. He props his elbow on the table, resting his cheek on his palm as he begins, “Physics I final—97 to your 96. Thermodynamics midterm? 95 to your 91. Electromagnetic Fields exam—”
You groan. “Jesus Christ, you memorized all of them?”
“You think I don’t keep track?” He arches a brow, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s not my fault I have a consistent history of kicking your ass.”
Your friend snorts into her drink. “He kinda has a point—”
You shoot her a glare. Gojo, meanwhile, is clearly having the time of his life. He leans in, that imposing height of his making his presence impossible to ignore, his voice dropping just slightly, almost teasing. “But sure,” he drawls, chin resting in his hand. “Enjoy your one win, (name). I’ll let you have it.”
You grip your cup so tightly the plastic crinkles. “Let me have it?”
“Mmm.” He tilts his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Wouldn’t want you to cry when I obliterate you on the final.” Your friend nudges you under the table, mouthing he’s so full of shit, but you barely register it—because the air between you and Gojo is charged in a way that makes your stomach twist. You won’t admit it out loud, but part of you wonders— is this how he always talks to you?
So close, so taunting, like he enjoys watching you bristle. You hate how natural it feels, how effortless the rhythm of your bickering has become. But more than anything, you hate the way your heart stutters when he pushes himself out of his chair, hands still stuffed in his pockets, and grins down at you like he already knows how the next round of this fight is going to end.
“You should really start studying,” he hums, walking backward toward the exit. “You’ll need it.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you fuming at the table. Your friend watches him go, eyebrows raised. “So, uh,” she says slowly. “Are we sure you guys aren’t flirting?” You glare at her.
“I hate him.” She smirks. “Mhm.” You seethe a little, realising—with a stab of annoyance—that yes, that motherfucker is actually leading right now in terms of grades and rankings. It’s not even about the marks. Okay, maybe it’s a little about the marks. But you’ve always been the smart woman in your course. The one who professors hold up as an example. The one whose name has been printed on merit lists and whose email is always flooded with internship offers and research opportunities. You’ve spent years perfecting your academic standing, earning every achievement through sheer effort and discipline. But for some odd reason, none of it ever seems to matter until you’ve compared it with Gojo Satoru. You glare at his name on the leaderboard, one place ahead of yours. A single midterm shouldn’t be enough to infuriate you, and yet—
Your eye twitches. How the hell did you even get here?
Well.
Actually.
You know how. You just try not to think about it because, frankly, it’s one of the most mortifying moments of your entire academic career.
—
It was the very first week of freshman year, and you were, for lack of a better term, an insufferable know-it-all. Not in a bad way—okay, maybe in a slightly bad way. But it wasn’t your fault that you took your education seriously, or that you actually read ahead in your courses, or that you genuinely cared about learning. If anything, you were doing everyone a service by answering questions when no one else raised their hands. So, on that particular day, when your physics professor asked the class a question about vector components, you barely hesitated before speaking up.
“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”
“Ohhh, wow,” someone cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” The interruption had been so unexpected—so audacious—that it completely derailed your train of thought.
And when you turned around, irritated beyond belief, there he was. White hair, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, an undeniably punchable smirk tugging at his lips. You had no idea who he was at the time. Just some tall, obnoxious guy slouched lazily in his seat, all limbs and arrogance, tapping a pen idly against his notebook as he stared at you with barely concealed amusement.
Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, “you must be so fun at parties.” The class chuckled. Your jaw clenched. “Well, someone has to answer when no one else even tries.”
“Right, because we’re all just too stupid to understand vectors,” he drawled, stretching lazily in his seat.
“I didn’t say that,” you shot back.
“Didn’t have to,” he grinned, tapping his temple. “I could feel the superiority radiating from you.” You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to turn back around before you said something that would get you in trouble on the first week of class.
“Okay, okay,” your professor cut in, looking thoroughly unbothered by the exchange. “Let’s keep the debating to actual physics concepts.” That should have been the end of it. But then you heard a low tsk from behind you.
“I bet she memorized the textbook cover to cover before the semester even started,” the white-haired menace mused under his breath to his friend with the long, black haired locks, who seemed disinterested in what his friend had to say.
You whipped around. “I did not—”
“Don’t lie, nerd.”
“Excuse me?!” The class chuckled again. And when you shot a glare toward your professor, expecting some kind of reprimand, he just sighed and muttered, “God, I already know you two are going to be a pain in my ass.” From that moment on, it had been war.
Your first set of midterms was when you realized he wasn’t just talk. You walked into class with a 97 on your physics exam, feeling confident—only to glance over and see Gojo slouched in his seat, grinning as he casually flipped his test paper over to show a 99. He made eye contact with you as he tapped his fingers against the big red number. You nearly broke your pen in half.
And so it began.
Every exam, every assignment, every single class discussion became a battleground. You would argue over formulas, nitpick each other’s solutions, and constantly try to one-up the other. You worked your ass off to close the gap, pouring hours into perfecting your work. And Gojo? Gojo barely looked like he was trying. That was what infuriated you the most. He never seemed stressed, never looked exhausted, never talked about pulling all-nighters. He just showed up, half the time looking like he hadn’t even studied, and still somehow stayed ahead. Until now. Until your 98 finally beat his 95. A single win isn’t enough. But damn, does it feel good.
—
You step into the lecture hall, already bracing yourself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Gojo Satoru is exactly where you expect him to be—sprawled out in his usual seat, legs stretched obnoxiously far like he has no concept of personal space. His sunglasses rest on top of his head, keeping his messy white hair from falling into his annoyingly pretty eyes, and the second he spots you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips. You’re already exhausted.
“You’re early,” you mutter, slipping into your seat and pulling out your laptop.
“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back. “What, do you set an alarm just to make sure you get here before me?”
“You wish.”
“Nah, you wish.”
You pause, narrowing your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
He shrugs, propping his chin on his hand. “Still got under your skin, though, didn’t it?”
You make a sound of irritation in the back of your throat, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his smug attitude, but your friend plops into the seat next to you, completely unaware of the storm brewing between you and Gojo. You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to shift gears—there’s something more important than your ongoing war with him. Something much, much more important.
“Okay, so, I found this book series last night,” you begin, your fingers twitching excitedly as you pull out your phone. “I was going through one of those book recommendation guides—you know, the niche ones that aren’t full of the same ten bestsellers—and this one just caught my eye.” Your friend hums in interest, booting up their laptop. “What’s it about?”
You practically buzz with excitement. “So it’s kind of like—ugh, how do I explain it—it’s this really well-written like narrative, mystery, suspense, romance, but with, like, existential themes? And this insane world building? And apparently, no one talks about it because the publisher went under before it got the recognition it deserved, so it’s kind of a hidden gem.” As you speak, Gojo, who had been staring blankly at the front of the room, blinks. That sounds familiar.
“You’re really selling it,” your friend teases.
“Right?! And apparently, it’s super hard to find, but I checked, and our library actually has a few copies.” You tuck your phone away, already feeling a rush of excitement. “I’m gonna borrow the first book after class.” Gojo leans back in his seat, eyes flickering with something unreadable.
Yeah, he thinks. I’ve definitely read that.
He doesn’t say anything, though. Just rests his chin in his palm and listens as you keep gushing. Because now that he thinks about it, he really liked that series too. It had been one of those random books he picked up between classes, half expecting to get bored, but then something about it hooked him. The way it wove together philosophy and adventure, the quiet melancholy lingering in the prose—it was the kind of book that stuck with you. But he never finished it. Midterms had hit, and between exams, research papers, and group projects that made him want to rip his hair out, he just… forgot. He never went back to check out the last few books. He had meant to, but by the time he had free time again, his brain had moved on. And now here you are, unknowingly digging it back up.
His fingers drum idly against the desk, and for some reason, he can’t shake the thought: She’s gonna love it. He steals another glance at you. You’re still talking, eyes bright with excitement, flipping through your phone as you read off little details from the guide you found. The enthusiasm is contagious—he can’t remember the last time he saw you this animated about something that wasn’t academics. Usually, all your energy goes into perfecting equations, arguing with him over points lost on exams, and trying to one-up him in every possible way. This is… different.
And weirdly, he finds himself kind of liking it. Not that he’d ever admit it.
–
So after class finally finishes—thankfully, your professor had been going through a hard topic that he kept droning on and on about, emphasising how likely it was to appear in the final exam—it was enough to sate even Gojo, who, for once, shut up and took notes diligently. You head out at lightning speed, managing a small “see you later” to your friend before disappearing into the hallway. Honestly, ever since the new year of college had started, you’d barely had time to indulge in activities you actually enjoyed.
Sure, you squeezed in a few books here and there when you had the chance, but it was difficult finding ones that hit just the right way—ones with the same kind of engaging plot, the same writing style that kept you hooked. You’d tried, but nothing had stuck with you the way your favorite books used to. It had been frustrating, going through these long periods without anything to read. But this time, you had a feeling it would be different.
Turning a corner, you step into the vast college library, its sheer size never failing to impress you. The high, arched ceilings, the rows upon rows of bookshelves, and the dozens of students scattered across large wooden tables, heads buried in textbooks—it’s an environment that should feel welcoming, yet all it does is remind you how much work you still have waiting for you. You shake that thought away.
Right now, you’re here for one thing.
You glance at your phone, rereading the author’s name one last time before slipping it into your pocket and heading straight for the fiction section. It’s tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the library, past the heavier academic texts, and while it’s not as large as the science or philosophy sections, it still has an impressive selection. The shelves here are a little dustier, the books a little more worn—proof that they don’t get checked out as often as the physics or chemistry textbooks. You trace your fingers lightly along the spines, scanning for the title. When you finally spot it, you feel a flicker of excitement. There it is.
The first book in the series. The cover is simple yet striking, the title embossed in slightly faded silver lettering. You pull it off the shelf carefully, glancing around to see if the rest of the series is there. To your delight, every single book is lined up neatly in order. Some of them look well-loved, the edges softened from use, some even slightly bent, as if they’d been carried around in bags, read and reread countless times.
You flip the book over and read the blurb. Even though you already know the gist of the story from your research, there’s something about reading the official summary that makes your excitement spike. It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for—an underrated but brilliant story, the kind that feels like a hidden gem. Unable to resist, you take the book with you and settle down at one of the smaller, tucked-away tables. You’re a slow reader, someone who likes to absorb every word, letting the imagery settle in your mind before moving on. But the moment you turn to the first page and begin reading, you’re immediately pulled in.
The writing is crisp and immersive, the kind that hooks you effortlessly. Within moments, you’re completely lost in the world of the book, eyes darting across the pages, flipping to the next before you even realize it. The characters are compelling, the descriptions vivid, and the dialogue sharp. You can already tell this is going to be one of those stories that sticks—the kind that lingers in the back of your mind long after you’ve finished. Just as you reach a particularly interesting part, your phone buzzes.
You blink, momentarily disoriented before glancing at the screen. It’s a reminder you set for yourself. Right. You still need to study. A sigh escapes you. As much as you want to keep reading, you know you can’t afford to waste too much time. With some reluctance, you close the book and stand up, making your way toward the borrowing counter. You check it out quickly, securing it in your bag, already planning when you’ll carve out time to read it between your study sessions. It’s something to look forward to, at least. And if you had known just who had been the last person to check it out before you, maybe you wouldn’t be so eager.
–
The ringer from your Pomodoro timer goes off, its sharp chime cutting through the quiet of your dorm room. With a sigh, you drop your pencil onto your open notebook, rolling your shoulders back as you stretch in your seat, feeling the slight stiffness from hours of hunching over your desk. Lazily glancing at the glowing numbers on your laptop screen, a small grin tugs at the corners of your lips.
Four hours of focused work.
Good. You’ve finally finished studying for the night, trudging through a mountain of tricky concepts and endless equations—just enough to ensure you’ll keep up with the next few lectures before the actual final exam looms over you. The weight of the work you’ve put in settles in a satisfying way, a quiet reassurance that you’re keeping up. Yawning, you grab your phone, thumbing through a few unopened texts, sending half-hearted replies where needed.
Your mind is already half-tuned out, already drifting toward what you actually want to do now that your responsibilities are out of the way for the night. Pushing yourself up from your chair, you shuffle toward your bed, sinking into the softness of your mattress with a pleased sigh. And then, with an eager flicker of excitement, you reach for the borrowed library book resting on your side table, fingers running over the slightly worn edges of the cover.
Finally.
Opening it to the page you had left off, you settle deeper into the blankets, eyes scanning the words slowly, absorbing every detail. The prose is effortless, pulling you into the world woven between the lines. The atmosphere is rich, each description vivid and carefully placed, the characters full of depth. There’s a certain feeling you get when a book is just right—something that clicks into place, the rare kind of story that makes the outside world blur at the edges. You don’t rush through it.
You savor every word, taking in the dialogue, the intricate details of the setting, the careful unraveling of the plot. Then, just as you shift slightly, readjusting your grip, a small slip of paper flutters from between the pages. You blink, momentarily pulled from the trance of the story, watching as it lands lightly on your blanket.
Frowning, you reach for it, fingers brushing against the slightly yellowed, aged texture of the paper. It’s rectangular, not quite as thick as a regular bookmark, with neat printed lines running across it in faded ink.
A borrowing card.
You stare at it for a second, a vague memory surfacing. Back during your university orientation in first year, you remember a librarian offhandedly mentioning that some of the older books in the collection still had checkout cards inside them, relics from a time before everything became digitized. But since you’d only ever borrowed course-related books—ones that were constantly replaced with new editions—you’d never actually come across one. Huh.
Your fingers trace the faded lines as you sit up slightly, eyes scanning the list of names scrawled across it—
Except… there are no names. Just one. Or rather, just a set of initials, written neatly in blue ink
G.S.
The date beside it is from a while ago, though not too long. But the strange thing is, it’s the only entry on the entire card. You blink, flipping it over, checking the back. Nothing. So… no one else has borrowed this book? You hesitate, gripping the card a little tighter. You’re supposed to write your name down now, right? That’s how these things work. It’s a log of borrowers. But then—why had this person only written their initials?
A weird feeling stirs in your chest. Not unease, exactly—just something you can’t put a name to. It’s probably nothing. Maybe this book just wasn’t that popular. The only reason you found it was because of some obscure online guide, after all. Maybe no one really checked it out over the years, and the one person who did just didn’t feel like writing their full name.
Shaking your head, you push the thought aside, grabbing a pen from your nightstand. Without thinking too much about it, you write your own name neatly beneath G.S., along with today’s date. Then, you tuck the card back into its place and return to your book, letting yourself sink back into the story. A few more pages in, about a quarter of the way through the book, your eyes catch something that makes your brow furrow.
Are those… scribbles?
Your annoyance flares up immediately. Who the hell desecrates a library book? It’s practically sacrilegious. Your fingers tighten slightly around the spine as you bring the book closer to inspect the crime against literature, fully prepared to be enraged—
Wait.
They’re not just random scribbles. They’re annotations.
Your irritation dims slightly, curiosity piqued as you squint to make out the neat, slightly slanted cursive handwriting running along the margins. Some words are underlined, a few sentences circled, and in a crisp blue ink, a note is scrawled beside a particularly tense conversation between two characters:
“I can just tell he’s gonna be the one dead first. He’s overreacting to everything.”
You blink. Then, despite yourself, a small giggle escapes. Because—okay—whoever wrote this isn’t wrong. You literally thought the same thing just a few moments ago. As much as you love a good, well-written novel, you’ve read enough books in your life to recognise the telltale signs of an early death flag. And this character? He’s practically begging to be taken out of the story. Your amusement lingers as you scan the page again, eyes flitting to more scribbles running alongside the printed words.
"God, she sounds so insufferable."
You smirk a little at that, suppressing a chuckle.
"I like this line—the quote kinda speaks to me."
Your gaze follows the arrow pointing toward a particularly well-crafted piece of dialogue. Huh. You actually like that line too.
"I take the previous statement back—no way did he say that entire motivational monologue just for him to throw his morals aside..."
A small, surprised laugh escapes you. You love when characters do this kind of thing—spend pages waxing poetic about their grand principles, only to completely toss them out the window at the first sign of trouble. It’s frustrating, but also wildly entertaining, and you find yourself nodding unconsciously in agreement.
You shift slightly, adjusting your grip on the book as your initial annoyance starts to morph into something else—something you don’t want to admit is enjoyment. Because as much as you usually hate unnecessary markings in books, these annotations don’t feel disruptive.
They feel… engaging. Like you’re reading with someone. It’s a strange feeling—an unexpected, quiet kind of companionship in the margins of the book. You scan ahead, flipping a few pages forward, wondering if this mystery annotator—G.S., you assume—has left their thoughts scattered throughout the entire book.
Oh. They have. Almost every page has at least something scribbled in the margins. Some annotations are sarcastic, others incredulous. A few are simple observations or predictions about the plot, and some are just random, dramatic reactions that make you snort.
"Oh my GOD, just kiss already!"
You huff out an amused breath, shaking your head.
"He is so painfully oblivious it’s almost impressive."
Honestly, you were thinking the same thing. Before you realize it, you’ve started reading out loud—not the annotations, but the actual book. It’s something you do sometimes when you’re alone, when a scene is particularly well-written or emotional. And now, with G.S.’s thoughts scattered alongside the text, it almost feels like you’re having a conversation with them. Like they’re some ghostly presence in the book, reacting alongside you in real time.
You catch yourself before you say something back to one of the notes.
Which is insane. Because this is just a random person’s handwriting in a library book. And yet—
You exhale through your nose, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the page. You kind of… want to know who they are. Who is G.S.? Because if their annotations are anything to go by, they have the exact same thoughts as you while reading. The same exasperation, the same eye-roll-worthy observations, the same appreciation for the well-crafted lines. And you can’t help but wonder—just who was sitting with this same book in their hands, reading the same words, thinking the same things? It’s an odd, fleeting curiosity, but you push it aside for now, shaking your head as you turn the page.
You settle deeper into your blankets, the book resting comfortably in your hands as you turn the page. The words on the paper blur slightly in the dim light of your bedside lamp, but you don’t mind—you’re too immersed now, drawn into both the story and the unexpected presence of G.S. in the margins. The next chapter begins, and you take a slow breath before diving in, eyes flicking between the printed text and the handwritten notes.
"Oh, I just know this is going to go terribly."
You glance at the line it’s referencing—a scene where the protagonist makes a bold, arguably reckless decision. Yeah, G.S. is probably right. A few more pages pass. The tension in the book rises, and you’re so absorbed that you nearly miss the next annotation.
"There it is. The classic ‘staring at the moon in emotional turmoil’ scene. Authors love this one."
You snort. Okay, but they’re right. You tilt your head, momentarily pausing your reading to stare at the note. It’s a little strange, this dynamic you’ve somehow fallen into with a complete stranger. You feel like you know them, or at least, their reading habits. Their humor. The way they react to the exact same things that pull at your attention. It's unsettling in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. You flip forward, skimming ahead to see if the notes continue—and they do.
"I KNEW IT. I CALLED IT. HE’S A TRAITOR."
You blink, pausing mid-sentence. Your gaze darts back to the text, where a major plot twist has just been revealed. Your mouth parts slightly, rereading the words to make sure you’re seeing them correctly. Damn. You did not see that coming.
You exhale, a small smirk tugging at your lips. Fine. Point to you, G.S. You keep reading, now almost waiting for the next annotation, like it’s a second voice in your head providing commentary as you go. And when the protagonist makes another questionable decision—
"Why are men in fiction like this?"
—you laugh, shaking your head. It continues like that for pages. Every now and then, G.S. 's notes make you chuckle, or nod in agreement, or roll your eyes because come on, that was an obvious metaphor. And as much as you want to be annoyed by the interruptions, you find yourself… enjoying it. Maybe even liking it. At some point, you shift your position, getting more comfortable against your pillows, completely absorbed. The words feel alive, and not just the printed ones, but the ones scribbled in blue ink alongside them. It’s a conversation you never expected to have—one separated by time, by anonymity, by the unlikelihood of ever knowing who G.S. is. Your fingers brush over the ink of the annotations, slightly faded but still legible. Thinking back to the date listed on the library card from quite a while ago, you wonder if G.S. has even thought about this book since then. Or if they’ve forgotten about it entirely. You stare at the letters for a moment longer before shaking your head, pushing away the odd sensation curling at the back of your mind.
It’s just a book. Just some random person’s annotations. It doesn’t mean anything.
A reminder notification pops up on your phone—one you’d set earlier to keep your study schedule in check. You sigh. Right. You should get some sleep soon. Reluctantly, you close the book, running your fingers over the cover one last time before placing it on your nightstand. You’ll finish it later—between classes, between assignments, between all the little gaps in your schedule where you can steal a moment to read. And maybe, you’ll keep an eye out. Because now, you kind of want to know if G.S. ever came back for this book.
–
By the time your next Physics lecture rolls around, you’ve already finished the first book in the series. It had consumed your nights, pulling you in with its immersive world-building and gripping storyline—but, if you were being honest, the experience had been made infinitely more enjoyable because of the annotations left behind in the margins. The presence of another reader, someone who had walked the same narrative path as you and left breadcrumbs of their thoughts along the way, had made the book feel less like a solitary escape and more like a shared secret. So, naturally, when you stride into class that morning, you’re already prepared to discuss it at length with your friend.
What you aren’t prepared for is Gojo Satoru.
Not that you ever are, really. He has a habit of making his presence known, like some self-appointed force of nature existing solely to get under your skin. And today is no different—he walks past you with an easy, sauntering gait, the kind that’s deliberately slow enough to be obnoxious. There’s a telltale smirk tugging at his lips, the glint of mischief in his strikingly bright eyes as he leans in, as if he’s about to say something insufferable just to throw off your morning. You pretend not to see him.
Your willful ignorance must be obvious because you hear him scoff under his breath as he passes by, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking.
Instead, you beeline toward the row where your friend is already seated, setting your bag down with an eager bounce in your step.
“Dude,” you start, flipping open your laptop with a flourish, “remember that book I told you about a few weeks back?” Your friend raises a brow. “The one from that super niche book guide you were raving about?”
“The very same one,” you confirm, barely able to contain your excitement. “I finally finished it, and oh my god, it was so good. The plot? Phenomenal. The pacing? Perfect. But you know what actually made it even better?”
You don’t notice the way Gojo hesitates just as he’s about to settle into the seat behind you. He freezes, fingers hovering above the keyboard of his laptop as his ears zero in on your conversation.
“You found another book to obsess over?” Your friend teases, but you shake your head fervently.
“No, no, listen,” you insist, your voice lowering slightly as you lean in, “someone left annotations in it.”
Satoru’s fingers twitch.
“You mean like, study notes?”
“No! Like, actual thoughts—comments, reactions, opinions. And not just boring analytical stuff, either. They were funny. Snarky. They made fun of the characters at the exact moments I wanted to. It was like reading the book with someone, you know?”
A very distinct, yet invisible, sense of dread creeps into Gojo’s chest.
Oh. Oh, shit. The annotations. He had completely forgotten about those. He had scrawled them in the margins ages ago—mostly on a whim, partly out of boredom, and entirely because he physically could not read a book in silence. If there was one thing Gojo Satoru was incapable of, it was shutting the fuck up, even when he was the only audience for his own commentary. So, naturally, when he had found himself enjoying the book way more than expected, he had started treating it like a private conversation with himself, writing down whatever thoughts came to mind.
He never expected anyone to see them. And now, sitting barely a foot away, he’s listening to you—of all people—excitedly gush about his stupid little scribbles, completely oblivious to the fact that the person you were praising, the one whose humor you found entertaining and whose insights you had agreed with, was him. He schools his expression, keeping his head tilted just enough to appear disinterested. But his ears are wide open.
“Whoever wrote those notes,” you continue, flipping your pen between your fingers, “had some serious opinions. And honestly? I kind of love them. Like, I think we have the same brain.”
Satoru presses his lips together, biting back a grin.
You? Agreeing with him? That was new.
Your friend hums. “So you’re basically having a book club with some anonymous person who read it before you?” You chuckle. “I mean… kinda? It’s weird, but it’s nice in a way. Like, usually when I read, it’s just me and the book. But with the annotations, it’s like there’s this extra layer of interaction. I get to see how someone else processed the story, how they reacted to the same moments I did.”
Satoru knows he should stop listening. He should. But he doesn’t.
Because something about this whole situation—the fact that you, of all people, had unknowingly connected with him through a book—has him equal parts amused and intrigued. You, who always huffed when he teased you. You, who rolled your eyes at his antics, who made a point to ignore him even though he knew you were hyper-aware of his presence.
You had spent nights poring over words he had written in passing. And you had liked them. God, if you knew, you’d probably strangle him on the spot.
“I actually wanna see if this person has read the rest of the series,” you muse, mostly to yourself. “Like, maybe they annotated other books too.”
Satoru exhales through his nose, staring at his laptop screen but not actually registering anything on it. Well. This was going to be interesting.
–
You make your way to the library once again, the first book of the series clutched in your hands, ready to be returned. It feels weird, parting with it. As if you’re saying goodbye to something that had, for the past week, been a quiet companion during your late-night reading sessions. But not to worry, there’s still like five more books in the series. Your steps slow slightly as you approach the return counter, fingers absently reaching into your bag’s open pocket for a pen. Without much thought, you flip open the book and scrawl the date of return onto the inside of the back cover, where the borrowing card is located. Your thumb absentmindedly drags across the faded blue ink of the initials scrawled in the row above where you’ve signed your name.
G.S.
Whoever they were, they had made your reading experience infinitely better with their wry, sarcastic observations and strangely thoughtful insights. It was like reading alongside a particularly sharp-witted friend—one who, frustratingly, was just out of reach. You’re lost in thought, mulling over the mystery of G.S., when you abruptly walk straight into something firm and unmoving. And warm.
Something that smells like sandalwood and fresh linen and something inexplicably, irritatingly familiar.
You barely have time to stagger back before a voice—deep, lazy, and dripping with its usual brand of smugness—drawls, “My, my, pretending to walk around with your nose in a book so people think you’re more studious than you actually are?”
Your stomach sinks. You do not have the patience for this right now.
“Fuck off, Satoru,” you mutter, not even looking at him as you try to sidestep. Predictably, he moves right in front of you again, blocking your path with that insufferable ease of his. Hands in the pockets of his impeccably tailored slacks, sleeves of a stupidly expensive cashmere sweater pushed up to reveal the sharp line of his wrists and veiny forearms, and his ever-present glasses glinting under the dim library lights—he looks as if he owns the place.
His head tilts, white hair falling slightly over his frames as he glances down at the book in your hands. That smile—all teeth and smugness—spreads across his face like he’s caught you in something scandalous.
“Oh? Reading a book that isn’t course-related? Scandalous. What happened, got bored of being a try-hard? Or are you just begging to score lower than me on the final?” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk. Not that I’d expect you to actually be on my level, but it’s cute that you try—”
You stop listening after that. Normally, you’d throw something equally sharp-tongued back at him, tell him to go get hit by a bus or something equally creative, but you’re too drained to bother. The exhaustion from back-to-back lectures, plus the fact that you haven’t eaten anything substantial today, has dulled the sharp edges of your patience. A dull ache pounds at the base of your skull, and every word out of his mouth makes it throb even harder. Your expression must give away more than you intend because, for a split second, Gojo falters.
It’s quick—barely there. But you see it.
A flicker of something almost resembling concern flashes behind his glasses, like he’s actually noticed how drained you look. The moment is gone before you can process it. His usual smug expression slides right back into place, and you don’t have the energy to care.
“I need to return this,” you say flatly. “Get out of my way.”
Instead of stepping aside like a normal person, he falls into step beside you, hands still lazily stuffed in his pockets. “Oh? So now you acknowledge my presence,” he muses, voice light. “What, you didn’t miss me in class today? I even waited for you to roll your eyes at me like you do every morning. Felt almost lonely without it.”
“I genuinely do not care,” you reply without looking at him. He presses a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Ouch. Someone’s moody today. Low blood sugar? On your period? Brain finally given up trying to keep up with mine?”
You don’t dignify that with a response, instead sliding the book into the return pile with a little more force than necessary. Gojo watches, his gaze flickering between you and the book.
“What book were you returning, anyway?” The question is so casual, so offhanded, that you almost don’t clock it as strange. Almost. You narrow your eyes at him. “Didn’t take you for someone interested in my life.”
His lips curl into something unbearably smug. “Oh, I’m not.” He rocks back on his heels, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I just like knowing what my rival is up to outside of class. You know, studying your weaknesses. Gathering intel. The usual.”
You stare at him. “You are so full of shit.”
“I really am,” he agrees cheerfully. You exhale through your nose, patience wearing thinner by the second. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere being a general public nuisance?”
“This is me being a general public nuisance.” He grins. “And you’re the lucky victim of the day.”
“God, I hate you.”
“Aww, that’s cute. But you should be honest with yourself,” he says, following you as you make your way toward the exit. “I think you’d miss me if I suddenly disappeared.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You so would.”
“I would thrive in your absence.”
Gojo makes an exaggerated show of wiping away an imaginary tear. “How cruel. And here I was, thinking we had something special.”
You push open the library doors, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air. Finally, freedom. But, of course, Gojo keeps following you.
“…Why are you still here?” you ask, tiredly. He hums. “Dunno. Walking this way.”
“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “A mystery. How exciting.” You consider throwing your bag at him. You settle for walking faster. You quicken your pace, hoping Gojo will get bored and wander off. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He easily keeps up with you, long legs making it effortless, his stupid grin never fading.
“Walking faster won’t shake me, you know,” he muses, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you enjoy my company.” You don’t bother responding, gripping the strap of your bag tighter and staring straight ahead. He walks backward in front of you, head tilted, watching you with an almost lazy amusement. “So, where are you going? Café? Student lounge? Maybe a secret nerd meeting where you all discuss the best highlighters for maximum efficiency?”
You give him a deadpan look. “Yes, Satoru. That’s exactly what I’m doing. We’re all going to sit in a circle and ritually sharpen our pencils while whispering incantations about final exams.” He gasps dramatically. “I knew it. I bet you have a shrine dedicated to good grades too. And, like, a little altar where you sacrifice people who get higher scores than you—”
“I don’t need to sacrifice anyone,” you cut in, dryly. “Because I get the highest scores.” His grin widens. “Not all of them.”
You bristle, and he knows it. You both know that you and Gojo have been locked in a constant academic battle since the semester started. It’s maddening how often you end up in the top two spots. Even more maddening that he acts like he doesn’t even try. You exhale slowly, trying to focus on literally anything else. “I’m going to get food. Why don’t you go fuck off somewhere, like, I don’t know, ruin someone else’s day?”
“You wound me with such crass language,” he says, clutching his chest like you physically struck him. “I’m just being a good friend.”
“You’re not my friend.”
“Wow.” He sighs dramatically, as if genuinely offended. “All this time we’ve spent together, and you still call us enemies? I’d like to think of us more as… frenemies.”
“I would like to think of us as strangers.”
“And yet,” he says, smirking, “you still talk to me.”
You roll your eyes. “Only because you won’t shut up.”
Gojo shrugs. “Details.”
By now, you’ve reached the campus café. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries drifts through the air, making your stomach growl embarrassingly loud. You knew skipping lunch was a bad idea. Gojo hears it, of course.
“Oh?” His eyebrows lift, delighted. “Was that your stomach? Should I be worried? Are you dying of starvation? Is this how our rivalry ends?” You ignore him and step inside. The café is buzzing with students, some hunched over laptops, others chatting over coffee. You head straight for the counter, scanning the menu, debating if you should just get something quick and easy or actually sit down for a meal. Gojo, uninvited, leans casually against the counter beside you.
“Getting a drink too?” he asks, peering over your shoulder.
“Why do you care?”
“Maybe I wanna know what fuels my biggest competition,” he says, tone exaggeratedly thoughtful. “What’s the secret? Triple shot espresso? Pure willpower? The tears of your academic rivals?” You give him a look. “You’re projecting. You probably run on the suffering of others.”
“Obviously,” he says easily. “But I like to mix in a little sugar sometimes. Keeps me balanced and shit.” You’re about to tell him to go bother someone else when the barista glances up. “Next?” You quickly place your order. Just as you’re about to pull out your wallet, Gojo’s voice rings out:
“I’ve got it.”
Your head snaps toward him. “What.”
“I’m paying.” You stare at him, genuinely baffled. “Why?”
He grins. “Because I’m so generous, obviously.” You narrow your eyes. “No, really. What’s the catch?”
He puts a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You think I’d trick you? I’m hurt.”
“Yes.”
Gojo just laughs and hands his card to the barista before you can argue further. You glare at him. “This better not be some elaborate scheme to hold this over my head later.”
“Oh, it definitely is,” he says cheerfully. “I plan to bring it up all the time.”
“Of course you do.” Your drink– tea to be specific– is ready a moment later. Begrudgingly, you take it, mumbling, “Thanks.” Gojo gasps, eyes wide. “Did you just thank me?” You exhale. “Never mind. I take it back.”
“No, no, it’s too late, you already said it.” He grins. “You like me.”
“I hate you.”
“You adore me.”
“I tolerate you at best.” Gojo sips his drink, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “That’s basically the same thing.” You groan and turn to leave.
Thankfully he doesn’t make the move to follow you this time.
–
Your… somewhat friendly interaction with Sa—No, Gojo—was forgotten by the time the next week rolled around. Not deliberately, of course. But between your physics assignments, math problem sets, and an unrelenting pile of lecture notes to review, your brain had simply discarded the memory. College had a way of pushing everything that wasn’t directly necessary for survival to the furthest corners of your mind. Currently, you were in the library, hunched over a thick textbook, your fingers curled into your hair as you skimmed the same paragraph for what felt like the tenth time. Nothing was sticking.
You groaned, tilting your head back against the chair and letting your gaze drift to the high ceilings of the study space. It was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys. Your physics notes sat in front of you, covered in a desperate sprawl of formulas and diagrams, but the more you stared, the more meaningless the symbols became. You needed a break. Your eyes flickered toward the fiction section.
It wouldn’t hurt to get another book.
A moment later, you were standing in front of the shelves, fingers tracing the spines as you searched for the second book in the series. It didn’t take long to find—it was positioned neatly with the rest of the series, the cover slightly fading due to how long it had probably been there. As you turned to leave, your thumb brushed against the inside cover, where the borrowing card was located.
And there, scrawled in the same faded blue ink as before, were the initials:
G.S.
You paused. Your mystery commentator had been here before you. Again. You traced the letters absentmindedly, your mind flickering back to the first book. Their annotations had been witty, sometimes mocking, but always sharp. You had enjoyed them—more than you expected.
You flipped to the borrowing card. G.S. had checked out this book multiple times. At least three dates next to their initials. A strange feeling settled in your chest. Who were they? You shook your head, pushing the thought aside as you made your way to the borrowing counter. It doesn’t matter. It’s just some random person. Still, as you returned to your study space, setting the book beside your untouched notes, your fingers itched to open it.
You tried—really tried—to focus on physics. For maybe ten minutes. Then, with a sigh, you slid your textbook aside and cracked open the novel. This one picked up right where the last had left off—the protagonist, an ambitious scholar, now forced into an uneasy alliance with a rogue historian, both of them hunting for a long-lost manuscript said to contain the secrets of the universe. Their journey took them through ancient libraries, shadowy alleyways, and grand halls of academia filled with intrigue and suspense that you thoroughly enjoyed.
It wasn’t long before you noticed the annotations.
"What an idiot. Why would you trust someone who literally betrayed you three chapters ago?" You huffed a quiet laugh. It was scrawled in the margins of a tense conversation between the protagonist and the historian, who had indeed been suspiciously untrustworthy.
Another note, a few pages later: "This argument is painfully dumb. If they just communicated, we wouldn’t need three more chapters of tension." You found yourself smiling. Whoever this was, they were blunt, maybe a bit cynical, but entertaining.
Then, another annotation caught your attention—this one different. It was scribbled beside a passage where the protagonist was deciphering an ancient mathematical equation, trying to understand the patterns behind the manuscript’s code. The handwriting was just as casual, but the content—
"This is basically just Fourier analysis but dressed up in fancy old-world academia. If the author actually wanted to be accurate, they’d at least mention waveforms. But nooo, we get poetic nonsense instead."
You blinked. That was… oddly specific. And not the kind of thing your average literature enthusiast would comment on. For a fleeting second, you wondered—
Does G.S. study physics?
The thought was strange, lingering in the back of your mind even as you continued reading. Minutes turned into hours. Slowly, students trickled out of the library. The rustling of papers faded, the soft murmur of whispered conversations disappearing into the silence of the near-empty study space. You didn’t notice.
Not until the overhead lights dimmed slightly, signaling that the library was closing soon. With a sigh, you shut the book, stretching your stiff limbs. Physics could wait a little longer.
–
A few days later, you found yourself in yet another grueling lecture. The classroom was buzzing with low chatter as students filtered in, some sleep-deprived, some over-caffeinated, and most looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. You were somewhere in the middle—tired but functional, flipping through your notes with half-hearted interest as you tried to prepare yourself for another two-hour session of mathematical physics. You adjusted your laptop screen, took a sip of your tea, and just as you settled in, you felt a presence.
A familiar, irritating presence.
“Morning, rival,” Gojo Satoru said cheerfully, dropping into the seat next to you with all the grace of an avalanche. You didn’t even look up. “Go away.”
He tsked. “Is that any way to greet your favorite classmate?”
“You’re not my favorite classmate.” He grinned, propping his chin on one hand.
“Don’t lie. You’d miss me if I wasn’t here to make class interesting.”
You ignored him, resolutely staring at your notes. The professor arrived a moment later, quickly settling into the day’s topic—wave equations and their applications. The discussion meandered through standard examples, Fourier transforms, and the different methods used to break down complex waveforms.
You barely registered the name of the theory—just a fleeting recognition of something familiar—before you were back to jotting down notes. At first, you were focused, diligently taking notes and absorbing the information. For the first thirty minutes, you managed to avoid paying him any attention. You scribbled down notes, underlined important formulas, and even managed to listen without feeling the urge to slam your head into the desk.
But then—of course—Gojo had to open his mouth.
“So, hypothetically,” he mused, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the surrounding students, “if we were to apply this to a broader model, say… nonlinear oscillations, wouldn’t that mean—”
You immediately frowned. He was already trying to sound smarter than he was.
“That’s not how that works,” you cut in before the professor could even acknowledge him. Gojo turned to you, looking far too entertained. “Yeah, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.” You shifted in your seat, twisting to face him fully. “You can’t just apply Fourier analysis wherever you want and expect the results to be useful. Nonlinear oscillations don’t break down the same way because of the introduction of chaotic behavior—”
“Oh, come on,” Gojo scoffed, waving a hand. “It’s not that deep. Sure, chaotic elements make things messier, but that doesn’t mean the framework is useless.”
You let out a sharp breath. “It means the entire assumption of the analysis changes. You can’t approximate a nonlinear system with linear components and expect the results to hold up—”
“You can if you use a perturbative approach,” he countered smoothly.
You almost growled. “A perturbative approach only works when the nonlinear term is small relative to the linear system. If the nonlinearities dominate, your entire model collapses.”
“Not always,” Gojo shot back, shifting in his seat with that insufferable smirk. “It depends on how well you construct the higher-order terms—”
You threw your hands up. “At that point, you might as well scrap Fourier analysis entirely and just use a different decomposition method!” A few students had stopped taking notes. Some were watching out of curiosity; others, out of sheer amusement.
Gojo, completely unbothered, shrugged. “But that wasn’t the question, was it? The point is that Fourier methods can still be useful, even if the system isn’t perfectly linear—”
You gritted your teeth. “Useful doesn’t mean accurate, dumbass.” Gojo gasped dramatically. “Did you just call me a dumbass? Right here? In front of our professor?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you stopped saying objectively incorrect things—”
“Oh, please,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat. “You’re just mad because I’m right.”
Your jaw clenched. “You’re not right.”
“I am right.”
“No, you’re—”
A loud cough. You both froze. Slowly, you turned toward the front of the room, where the professor was staring at you both, unamused.
"Would you two care to bring your literary debate outside of my physics class?" You swallowed. Gojo scratched the back of his neck, looking entirely unbothered.
"...No, sir."
"Good," the professor said flatly. "Then kindly stop interrupting the lesson." You resisted the urge to sink into your chair. Gojo, of course, had the audacity to look amused. As the lecture resumed, you shot him a glare.
"This is your fault."
He winked. You swore you were going to strangle him one day. As soon as class ended, you were out of your seat, shoving your laptop into your bag with slightly more force than necessary. Behind you, Gojo was taking his sweet time, stretching like he hadn’t just spent the past two hours actively making your life worse. “Man,” he sighed dramatically. “That was a great discussion, don’t you think? Nothing like a little intellectual sparring to keep the brain sharp—”
You spun around so fast he almost bumped into you. “Discussion?” you repeated incredulously. “That wasn’t a discussion, that was you talking out of your ass like usual.”
Gojo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Wow. You wound me. You know, I feel like I say that phrase a lot. Would you prefer it if I said thee painfully wrench mine own heart with such careless words–”
You rolled your eyes and stormed out of the lecture hall, weaving through the crowd of students. Of course he followed, long strides easily keeping pace with yours. “I’m just saying,” he continued, completely ignoring your clear irritation, “it’s kind of funny how you always shoot me down but never actually prove me wrong—”
Your jaw clenched. “I do prove you wrong. Every time.”
He smirked. “Do you, though?”
“Yes!” You turned on your heel, walking backward so you could glare at him properly. “Just because you talk like you know everything doesn’t mean you actually do—”
Gojo’s smirk widened. “So you do think I sound smart.” Your eye twitched.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Sounds like that’s what you said.”
“Go kill yourself.”
“Only if you join me, sweets.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Why, you don’t like being called sweets?–”
You groaned, turning back around and quickening your pace. You weren’t going to stand here and let him twist your words into whatever self-indulgent nonsense was brewing in his head. Gojo, naturally, kept up with ease. “You know, it’s weird how you always get so mad at me. Maybe you should work on that anger problem of yours.”
“Oh, I have an anger problem?” You spun around again, narrowing your eyes. “You’re literally the most aggravating person I’ve ever met.”
“Really?” He tilted his head in mock thought. “I dunno, you seem to get pretty riled up over nothing—”
“You are nothing.”
Gojo laughed, the sound bright and infuriatingly genuine. “Damn, that was actually kinda good. You been practicing comebacks in the mirror?”
“Leave me alone, for the love of god, before I strangle you, bastard–”
“Oooh, kinky–.”
Before you could actually commit violence, someone stepped between you. “Alright, enough,” a smooth, tired voice interrupted. You looked up to see Suguru Geto, Gojo’s ever-patient best friend, standing between you with the exasperation of a man who had dealt with this before.
“Satoru,” he said, dragging a hand down his face, “leave her alone.”
Gojo pouted. “But we were bonding.”
“We were not bonding,” you snapped. Suguru gave you a knowing look. “And you,” he sighed, “stop encouraging him.”
You scoffed. “Encouraging him? I—”
A hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder. You glanced up to see your own friend standing beside you, looking just as exasperated as Suguru. “Come on,” she muttered, tugging you away. “We’re going to lunch before you actually try to kill him.” You didn’t resist, only because the temptation was strong. But as you turned to leave, you caught a glimpse of Gojo flashing that stupid, insufferable grin at you.
You stuck your tongue out at him. Gojo only winked again in response. Why did he keep winking at you? It made you wanna puke. You definitely needed lunch. Maybe something very, very spicy.
–
You're sitting in your dorm again, cross-legged on your bed, laptop open in front of you, but your mind is elsewhere. The textbooks and notes are pushed to the side of your desk, proof that at some point you had every intention of being productive tonight. A third empty cup of tea is perched precariously on your nightstand, and the finished second and third books of the series stacked besides your laptop.
It had been a slow burn, working your way through them between lectures and study sessions, but now, the empty feeling of finishing a book you enjoyed is settling in. Worse yet, it's late at night, which means you can't borrow the fourth book until tomorrow. The thought alone makes you sigh as you shut your laptop and flop back against the pillows.
You flipped open the third book, fingers brushing over the slightly worn borrowing card tucked inside. The neat, slanted initials ‘G.S.’ were there again, written in blue ink. And just like before, the pages had been marked with the same sharp, and sometimes frustratingly perceptive annotations that had made you laugh, scoff, and even—on some particularly well-argued points—begrudgingly nod along. Your mind drifts, replaying some of your favorite annotations from the books.
There was the one where G.S. had written, "Oh, he's totally gonna betray them," followed by a later note that read, "I CALLED IT. WHERE’S MY PRIZE?" That one had made you laugh out loud in the middle of the library, earning a few disapproving stares. Another one of your other favorites from the third book had been an annotation scrawled in the margins of a pivotal scene:
“The irony of this moment is almost painful. She sees herself as the heroine, but the real tragedy is that she’s just another character in someone else’s story.”
You had reread that line about five times before closing the book and staring at the ceiling, feeling somewhat existential. Another annotation had been pure sarcasm:
“Yes, because when faced with adversity, the best solution is always to run directly into danger. Genius.” That one had also made you laugh out loud in one of the study halls located in some part of your university, earning a weird look from the girl across the hall. But the annotation that had really stuck with you—really made you pause—was in the third book, written in response to a section that delved into the intricacies of time and choice:
“If you think about it, this entire dilemma can be broken down into a fundamental question of physics. If time is just another dimension, then isn’t every choice we make just another coordinate on an already-existing map? So is it really ‘free will’ if we’re just tracing a path that’s already there?”
That one had thrown you for a loop. It was the kind of thought that lingered, weaving its way into quiet moments when you least expected it. And, you hated to admit, it made you think—whoever this person was, they were kind of brilliant.You sighed, snapping the book shut. You needed to get the fourth one. Now. But a quick glance at your phone reminded you that it was almost midnight, and the library had closed hours ago. You groaned, letting your head submerge deeper into the pillows. You grabbed your phone, scrolling mindlessly, until your eyes flicked to the messages her friend had sent earlier—recommendations for movies she’d been meaning to watch. You scrolled absentmindedly, not really expecting to find anything interesting, until your thumb hovered over one title:
Whisper of the Heart.
Something about the name tugged at your memory. Wasn’t this the one with the girl who loved books and a mysterious boy who shared them? On a whim, you pressed play. The soft hum of the opening scene filled the quiet of her dorm, and soon, you were drawn in. The gentle storytelling, the warmth of the animation, the way the main character, Shizuku, slowly became obsessed with the name written in all the books she borrowed—
Oh. Oh, shit.
Your face grew hot as you sat up straighter, eyes darting to the books stacked beside you. You weren't doing that. Right?
…Were you? Because if you really thought about it—if you really thought about it—weren’t you kind of doing the same thing? You buried your face in your hands. This is so embarrassing. And yet, as you peeked between her fingers at the screen, you couldn’t help but draw the comparison between Seiji Amasawa and your mysterious, faceless G.S. Seiji had been intriguing, a presence felt long before he actually appeared. Just a name scribbled in books, a person she hadn’t met yet but somehow felt connected to. And wasn’t that exactly what G.S. was?
You groaned, flopping back onto your bed, kicking your feet against the mattress. “I need to stop,” you mumbled into your pillow, but your shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. It was stupid. This whole thing was stupid. You didn’t even know this person. For all you knew, G.S. could be some forty-year-old professor or a girl who just happened to find the same series as you on the niche book guide you were on. And yet, there was this tiny, ridiculous, completely unserious part of you that wanted to believe—
What if it was some guy? A guy with sharp wit, someone who thought deeply about things most people glossed over, someone who liked this series enough to leave behind thoughts for others to find. A guy who— No. Nope. Nope. You were not about to mentally script herself into some shoujo romance anime over marginalia.
But the damage was done. Because now, your brain had latched onto the idea, spinning daydreams faster than you could stop them. Some dramatic, cinematic first meeting. Some passing moment where you’d reach for a book, and a hand—slender fingers, ink-stained maybe—would brush against yours, and you’d look up and—
You shot up again, shaking your head violently. God, this is pathetic. But even as you scolded herself, you couldn’t wipe the stupid little smile off your face. You were allowed to have a little fun, right? Just a tiny bit of harmless romanticising? You collapsed back into the pillows, eyes drifting back to the ceiling as the movie played on. And as Shizuku’s voice echoed through the room, musing about stories, destiny, and the people we stumble upon by chance, you thought—just for a second—Maybe, maybe, you kind of liked this. The idea of it all. The way life sometimes felt like a story waiting to unfold. Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s unrealistic—but right now, in the quiet of your dorm, with the soft glow of your laptop screen and the remnants of Whisper of the Heart playing in the background, you don’t really care.
–
Satoru Gojo had always been considered a prodigy. A genius. Someone born with an innate brilliance that set him apart from others. It had been that way since he was a child—where other kids had to struggle and study, he breezed through school without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t just academics, either. He was quick-witted, sharp, and effortlessly charming in a way that made people gravitate toward him. But when you grow up with everyone expecting greatness from you, it becomes suffocating.
So he learned to play the fool.
It started as a mask—being overly cheery, always teasing, never taking things too seriously. It was easier that way. No one could see the weight of expectations if he always had a grin on his face. And at some point, the mask became second nature. Satoru Gojo, the carefree, insufferable genius. The only person he could ever drop it around was Suguru. His best friend, the one person who could keep up with him, who understood what it meant to carry something too heavy to put into words. Then, freshman year of university, he saw you.
He had noticed you before—how could he not? You were diligent, meticulous in a way that fascinated him. You always sat at the front of the class, always had color-coded notes, always took everything so seriously. And maybe that was what caught his attention first. You were everything he wasn’t. Where he coasted through life, you worked hard for it. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t quite know how to communicate with someone. So he did what he always did. He teased.
“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”
“Ohhh, wow,” he cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” He had meant it playfully. A joke. But the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes flickered with irritation, made something click in his brain. You didn’t like him. And yet, he couldn’t stop teasing you. Even when he knew it annoyed you, even when he knew you hated him. Maybe it was because you challenged him. Maybe it was because, for once, someone didn’t look at him like he was untouchable. Or maybe it was because he liked you.
Not just because you were pretty—though you were, infuriatingly so—but because you were determined. Because you cared about things deeply. Because you fascinated him in a way nothing else did. He found himself watching you more often than he cared to admit. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, the way your eyes lit up when you finally understood something, the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you were nervous when results came out. It was all so... endearing.
And maybe that’s why he finds himself watching you sometimes—when you’re scribbling furiously in your notebook, when you’re biting the end of your pen in deep thought, when you’re rolling your eyes at something he says but still, still responding. He watches, because for the first time, someone makes him want to understand more than just equations and theories. And if the only way to keep your attention was by being your rival, then so be it.
–
The next morning, you had a practical class, a hands-on session designed to reinforce the theory you’d been learning. Since it was held in a laboratory, students were sorted into small groups to share lab tables. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it—you weren’t grouped with Satoru, but by some cruel twist of fate, his group was at the same table as yours. The setup was simple: four students per group, two groups per table.
A long, clean expanse of black lab benches stretched across the room, each one covered with neatly arranged equipment: a set of metal ramps, photogates, a timer, and a set of small carts. Today’s experiment was a classic: measuring acceleration using a motion sensor. Each group was supposed to release a cart down a ramp and use the photogates to measure velocity changes over time. Simple, right? Satoru, of course, had already started causing trouble before the experiment even began.
“You know, it’s kinda unfair that I wasn’t put in your group,” he mused, leaning against the lab bench with a smirk. “Would’ve been fun watching you pretend to know more than me.” You didn’t even look up as you adjusted the height of the ramp, focusing on making sure it was aligned properly. “Oh please, Gojo, you would’ve just copied all my calculations and then taken credit for my hard work.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, feigning offense. “I’d let you take, like, fifty percent of the credit.” Your lab partner snorted beside you, shaking their head as they double-checked the photogate placement. Satoru, undeterred, watched as you bent over to place the cart at the starting position. His group was still setting up, which meant he had time to bother you before he actually had to do any work.
“I bet my group’s results will be more accurate than yours,” he declared. You rolled your eyes, finally sparing him a glance. “You do know accuracy depends on precision and minimising errors, right? Which means—” you motioned to his group, where one of them was currently struggling with the timer, “—your chances of that happening are slim to none.”
Before he could retort, your professor called for everyone’s attention, signalling the start of the experiment. Both of you fell into your respective tasks, measuring, calculating, and recording values with practiced ease. You got so caught up in fine-tuning your results that Satoru didn’t get the chance to throw more taunts your way. That was until, while waiting for your next trial to begin, you turned to your friend beside you, excitement bubbling over.
“Oh my god, I finally watched Whisper of the Heart last night,” you gushed, voice dropping into that high-pitched, dreamy tone reserved for things you were completely obsessed with. Your friend gasped, clutching your arm. “Stop. You did not.”
“I did.”
“DID YOU CRY?”
“OBVIOUSLY.”
Satoru, who had been focused on adjusting his group’s ramp, stilled slightly. He knew that movie. More than that, he could predict exactly why you were talking about it. Casually, he glanced over, pretending to check his photogate readings while shamelessly eavesdropping. Your friend squeezed your arm excitedly. “I told you it was perfect. The vibes, the music, the slow-burn romance. Tell me you loved Seiji.”
“Oh, I loved Seiji,” you sighed, eyes sparkling. “Like, the way he was so ambitious but still so soft? And the way he believed in her? And the fact that he left little signs for her without even realizing how much they’d mean?” You could feel yourself getting lost in the emotions of it, and your friend was right there with you, nodding along enthusiastically. “It was so romantic,” she said dreamily. “The idea of someone quietly believing in you and pushing you forward. It’s just—”
“SO good,” you finished for her, and the two of you squealed quietly before catching yourselves and trying to focus again. Then, almost absentmindedly, you added, “Honestly, I feel like I’m in Whisper of the Heart right now.” Your friend perked up. “How so?”
You nudged her lightly. “Because of G.S.”
Satoru, who had been handling the cart for his next trial, fumbled slightly. Your friend’s eyes widened knowingly. “No way. You mean your G.S.?”
You groaned. “Don’t call him that. But yeah. The whole leaving-annotations-in-the-books thing? And how I keep borrowing them? It’s totally giving Seiji and Shizuku. Like yeah I kinda sound corny right now–”
“Not really honestly, I get it–”
“Exactly! See? I knew I wasn’t crazy. Imagine G.S is like Seiji– scratch that, imagine he’s better, like some sweet, studious, hot book nerd–”
Satoru swallowed, suddenly feeling warm despite the sterile chill of the lab. You thought he was like Seiji? More than that, you thought G.S could perhaps even be better than Seiji? That was—that was something.
“And next week,” you continued, stretching your arms over your head, “after I finish studying, I’m going to borrow the next book.”
Satoru barely heard the rest of the conversation after that. His brain had latched onto one horrifying realisation—
The last four books weren’t annotated. Oh, shit. He hadn’t really expected you to grow this attached to his stupid thoughts scribbled on the edges of the frayed pages, hadn’t expected you to burn through the series so fast. He completely forgot that he didn’t bother annotating the last few books because he had gotten so busy with work. But you had just sat there, eyes sparkling, gushing about his notes like they were some grand romantic mystery. You liked them. You liked his words. Not just the books themselves but the tiny, scribbled thoughts he had left behind. Satoru’s stomach did a weird little flip. It seemed to be doing that a lot every time his nosy ass overheard you talking about his writing.
You really liked his writing. The writing you’d been gushing for about two weeks now. You really found it special. You liked it so much that the thought of continuing the series without it made his chest ache. Because what if you borrowed the next one and found nothing? What if you flipped through the pages, searching for his voice, only to be disappointed? No. No way. That wasn’t happening. Initially he had done it as a way to, y’know, simply yap, maybe desecrate the pages of a book from a library with his oh so superior commentary. But now? He was going to do this for you. Because the way you had talked about Whisper of the Heart—the way your face had gone soft and dreamy, the way your voice had gotten all excited—he wanted that. He wanted to hear you talk about how much you enjoyed the little quips that made their way into his head every time he read something. He wanted to be the reason you spoke like that again. Maybe it was pathetic, but he wanted– really wanted to once again be the reason why your cheeks slightly went pink when your friend called him yours. Even if they were his initials, they were his, and it insinuated he belonged to you, right?
The second class ended, Satoru bolted. There was no time to waste. He had four books to annotate, and he didn’t care if it took him all night. If you wanted G.S., then G.S. was going to be there.
–
Satoru burst into his dorm, heart pounding as he dumped his bag onto the floor. His fingers fumbled with the zipper as he yanked it open, pulling out the four books you were inevitably going to borrow next. He stacked them on his desk, staring at them like they were some kind of urgent mission—because they were. You liked his notes. You liked his notes. That thought alone sent a weird, warm feeling blooming in his chest. He flopped into his chair, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled sharply. This wasn’t just about keeping up the act anymore. It wasn’t about maintaining the mystery of G.S. or feeding into some casual curiosity you had. No, this was about you. About the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the books. The way you had called him—unknowingly, of course—your own Seiji. The way you were so excited to continue the series, fully expecting to find more of his little thoughts nestled between the pages. He wasn’t going to let you down.
Satoru grabbed the first book off the stack and flipped it open, his pen poised over the margins. He scribbled his initials in the borrowing card in the same blue ink that he always used– he always thought the blueness of the ink was much better than any other pen colour out there. Before he started reading, he did this in all the library cards, and made sure that the date corresponded to the previous dates– so you wouldn’t think it was suspicious that the last remaining books were all borrowed on the same day. He then started reading—not just skimming, but really reading, more carefully than he ever had before. Thankfully he did remember the plot of the first three books, so catching up with what was going on wasn’t too hard. Every sentence was weighed, every line considered. What would make you pause? What would make you smile?
When he hit a particularly poetic passage, he underlined it and wrote in the margin: Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing.
He smirked to himself. If only you knew.
A few pages later, he found a scene with the protagonist staring out a train window, deep in thought. The description was vivid, full of melancholic longing. He tapped the pen against his lips before jotting down: Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? He could already imagine you reading it, tilting your head slightly, considering his words. Would you reply in your head? Would you wonder what kind of person wrote something like that? The thought of it sent a thrill through him, and he leaned in closer, more invested than ever. Hours passed, but he barely noticed. The desk lamp cast a warm glow over the pages as he worked, annotating with a mix of teasing, sincerity, and the occasional cryptic remark just to mess with you. In the fifth book of the series, there was a passage about finding comfort in routine—about how little, familiar things could feel like home. He thought back to all the times during your early morning classes, how you’d bring a steaming thermos filled with a tea of some kind, something to sip on while you reviewed the lecture slides before the professor started the lecture. The half cold tea in that same thermos, he’d seen you nursing it outside the exam hall before a midterm while your eyes furiously scanned your meticulous, colour coded notes. Satoru probably guessed that it was a habit of yours– to have a warm comforting drink while you read– lecture notes, physics textbooks, or fiction.
He hesitated for a second before writing: Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this.
Would you pause when you read that? Would you glance around, suddenly hyper-aware that maybe G.S knew you? That someone had been paying attention? Or maybe you’d think he’s just like you? The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through him. By the time he reached the second last book, his hand was cramping, but he didn’t care. He stretched briefly before diving back in. This one had more banter between the characters, something he knew you loved. He played into it, adding sarcastic commentary in the margins. When the heroine had a particularly dramatic internal monologue, he scribbled: Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.
And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.
He could already hear your reaction. The annoyed little huff, the way you’d roll your eyes but secretly love it. You always did have a tendency to refute things first, only to realise you enjoyed them later. He’d sometimes see it in the way when you’d roll your eyes or let out a disapproving noise at Satoru plainly criticising one of the professors under his breath during a lecture– but Satoru’s eyes were sharp, he never missed the smallest twitch of your lips as soon as you’d finished your melodramatics. The last book was the longest, and by then, the city outside his window had gone quiet. His dorm was dim except for the glow of his lamp, and his body was buzzing with a mix of exhaustion and excitement. He was too far in now, too absorbed in the thought of you reading all of this soon. This book had a recurring theme about missed chances—about words left unsaid and moments that could have changed everything if only someone had spoken up. It hit a little too close to home, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that. Instead, he carefully underlined a sentence: Sometimes, we don’t realise what we mean to someone until it’s too late.
Beneath it, he wrote: I hope this never applies to y̶o̶u̶ whoever is reading this.
And then– and then he wrote another little thing, but it felt a bit too intimate, a bit too revealing so he neatly crossed it out. His pen hovered over the page for a moment. That was the most honest thing he had written all night. Satoru exhaled, rubbing his eyes before sitting back, staring at the stack of books now filled with his thoughts. He had done it. You wouldn’t get a single blank page. You’d find him in every single one.
–
Satoru strolled across campus with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, weighed down by four thick novels. The books—now thoroughly marked up, pages lined with his messy scrawl—felt heavier than they should have, but maybe that was just him. He’d spent the entire night annotating them, barely stopping to eat, sleep, or think about anything that wasn’t you reading his words. Now, all he had to do was return them before you got to the library. He wasn’t about to let you see him checking them in like some lovesick idiot. He carefully managed to place them back on the shelf after scanning them as ‘unborrowed’. He was a few steps from the library doors when someone rounded the corner, and before he could react—
Bam. The collision wasn’t hard, just enough to jostle him off balance, and he barely had time to reach out and steady you before you could stumble back. “Damn, could at least pretend to watch where you’re going,” he drawled, glancing down at you with a smirk. “Or do you just like running into me?”
You scoffed, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah, I totally planned that. Just desperate to bump into you of all people.”
“Oh, come on,” he teased, stepping aside so you could walk past him. “If you wanted an excuse to see me, you could’ve just said so.” You rolled your eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Please. I’m actually on my way to the library, unlike some people who just loiter around.”
His grip on his tote bag tightened for half a second, but he kept his expression easy, unreadable. “Library, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I finished this book from a series I’m actually enjoying, so I figured I’d borrow the next one today.” You didn’t even know why you told him that, but you figured it was an improvement from the usual bickering you two always had going on. He hummed, nodding slowly. “Oh, okay. Well…” He took a step back, flashing a lazy grin. “Have fun with that.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why do you sound weird?”
“I always sound weird.”
“Yeah, but more than usual.”
Satoru shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” You stared at him suspiciously for another second before shaking your head. “Whatever.” And with that, you pushed past him, making your way toward the library doors. Satoru watched you go, fighting the smug grin threatening to take over his face. He could already picture it—the way you’d flip through the pages, expecting plain text, only to find the familiar, scrawled handwriting in the margins. He wondered if you’d smile. If you’d talk about it again the way you had in class. He shook his head to himself, finally turning away. Yeah. He was so in trouble.
–
You settled into your usual spot at the campus café, tucking yourself into the corner by the window with the newly borrowed books. Yes, books. Not a book. You figured that if there were just four more books left in the series, you’d just borrow them now, instead of continuing the annoying walk from your dorm or lecture rooms to the library. The familiar scent of aged paper and coffee beans wrapped around you, grounding you in your routine.
With your drink beside you and your phone silenced, you flipped the fourth book open, eager to dive in. You didn’t even bother to check the borrowing card this time, neither had you written your own name in it yet, heart beating a little faster as you childishly hoped that the familiar cursive scrawls were still present in the weathered pages. You had barely made it past the first few pages when your eyes caught something in the margins next to one of the more romantic lines.
Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing. You blinked. Your stomach did an odd little flip, completely unprovoked. Honestly speaking, your heart did that little flip more in regards to the familiar blue handwriting rather than the line on the page. You knew exactly whose handwriting that was.
G.S. had struck again. A slow smile pulled at your lips as you traced the ink with your fingertip. You had gotten so used to these notes, the little jokes, the occasional deep thoughts, that it almost felt like a conversation now. Like you weren’t reading alone, but with someone who understood exactly what you’d linger on, what you’d pause to appreciate. And yet… something about this one felt slightly different. You glanced at the ink again. It looked a little… darker? Not as faded as some of the earlier notes in the series.
You frowned slightly but shook the thought away. Maybe it was just your imagination. You kept reading. A few pages later, the protagonist stared out of a train window, lost in thought. The description was melancholic, vivid, and all too relatable.
Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? You exhaled sharply through your nose. Yeah, you thought. All the damn time. You tapped your fingers against the table, feeling that same strange connection as before. Whoever G.S. was, they had a way of making their presence known—not just through the words they chose to underline, but in the little thoughts they left behind, the questions they posed, the moments they chose to comment on. It was like they could hear your thoughts before you even formed them, like they knew exactly where your mind would linger on the page.
The sun dipped lower outside the arched windows of the campus café, casting long shadows across the floor as golden light pooled over the tables. The afternoon crowd had begun to thin, students trickling out one by one, their conversations fading into the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clatter of cups behind the counter. The once-busy space was quieter now, more intimate, like the world had momentarily shrunk down to just you and the book in your hands. You traced the ink of the latest annotation with your thumb, barely skimming the words but feeling them all the same. It was a strange thing—to be so affected by someone you had never even met. Had you met them? The question pressed at the edges of your mind, unspoken yet persistent. The specificity of some of these notes, the way they seemed to know you—it made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t quite sure how to name.
You glanced at the café entrance, as if expecting to see someone standing there, watching you, waiting to see your reaction. But no one lingered. Just the usual stragglers—people buried in their own work, in their own stories. Still, the feeling remained. With a quiet exhale, you pulled your focus back to the page and turned it, sinking further into the book. The story continued, but now, each annotation felt like something more. Like a conversation waiting to happen. And by the time you could hear the cicadas chirping outside, you had successfully finished the fourth book.
–
Your luck today had been astoundingly awful. The first sign was your hair—a complete disaster from the moment you woke up. Brushing it down did nothing. Water made it worse. Mousse? A grave mistake. You finally resorted to tying it up, accepting defeat. Then came the sharp pain on your forehead, a telltale sign of a forming pimple, because of course your skin had decided to betray you too. But the true betrayal came from your kettle, which, after years of faithful service, had chosen this morning to stop working. No tea. No caffeine. No hope. And now? Now, as if the universe hadn’t already tested you enough, you were seated next to Gojo Satoru, his chair pushed obnoxiously close, his long legs stretching out under the desk like he owned the place. His expression was insufferably smug, like he had personally orchestrated all of this just to get under your skin.
Have you ever mentioned that you shared more than one class with Gojo? Sure, you were both in the same physics course, but once again, your luck with picking extra subjects was nothing short of terrible. That’s how you ended up in psychology—a field that couldn’t be further from the world of physics you were so deeply immersed in. You had figured it would be a nice change, to explore a different kind of science.
Unfortunately, a certain white haired freak seemed to share the same thought process.
You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. “We’re not choosing your dumb topic.” Gojo gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Excuse you, my brilliant topic.”
“You want to write about the psychology of humor.”
“Exactly! It’s fascinating.” He grinned. “What makes something funny? Why do people laugh? Why am I so naturally hilarious?” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We’re in a psychology class, Gojo, not a stand-up workshop.”
“And yet, humor is deeply psychological.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe if you had a better sense of humor, you’d agree with me.” You scowled. “I have a perfectly fine sense of humor.”
“Sure you do,” he teased, “in the same way a brick has mobility.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not doing a research paper on why people laugh.”
“And I’m not doing one on cognitive dissonance,” he shot back, drumming his fingers against the desk. “It’s been done to death.”
“It’s interesting,” you argued. “It actually ties into real-world behavior.”
“So does humor.” You stared him down. He stared right back, his lips curving just slightly, like he was having the time of his life getting you riled up.
A muscle in your jaw twitched. “Rock, paper, scissors?”
Gojo snorted. “What are we, five?” You held out a fist. He sighed, then did the same.
Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Your scissors to his rock. Your eye twitched. His grin was downright gleeful. “Looks like we’re writing about humor.”
“You are insufferable.”
“I’m a visionary,” he corrected, stretching his arms behind his head. “You’ll thank me when we get a great grade.” You grumbled something under your breath, flipping open your notebook to at least try and plan the assignment. You weren’t about to let him ruin your GPA over jokes. But Gojo wasn’t looking at the notebook. He wasn’t even thinking about the project anymore. His gaze lingered on the way a few wisps of hair had escaped your ponytail, framing your face. He wasn’t used to seeing your hair tied back—it made your features more striking, somehow. It made him notice the little things, like the way your brow creased when you were annoyed, or the way your lips pursed slightly when you were trying really hard not to snap at him. And it was funny. All morning, you’d been looking at him like he was a headache, while he… well. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t kind of enjoying himself. He propped his chin in his palm, watching you jot something down in your notebook.
“You know,” he mused, “for someone who’s so against my topic, you sure do make me laugh a lot.” You shot him a suspicious look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Gojo smirked. “Just an observation.” You scoffed. “An annoyance is not the same thing as amusement.”
“Tell that to your cognitive dissonance.” You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back, something distracted you. A shift in the air, a fleeting scent—something clean and warm, like cedar and the lingering spice of cologne. You blinked. You didn’t know why you noticed it now, of all times, but the way he smelled was… oddly pleasant. You shook it off, focusing on your notes again. Only, now you were very aware of other things, too—like the fact that his hand, resting casually on the desk, was a lot bigger than yours. His fingers were long, his knuckles prominent, and his nails were annoyingly well-groomed for someone who clearly put zero effort into most things. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to refocus. It’s just Gojo, you told yourself. He’s just being annoying. As usual. I’m probably ovulating or something. Gojo, meanwhile, had caught the way your eyes flickered over to him, how you quickly looked away after.
He tilted his head. “Something on your mind?”
“Yeah,” you muttered, deadpan. “How fast I can finish this project so I don’t have to deal with you.” Gojo chuckled, and despite yourself, you felt the sound of it—low and amused, like he found you far too entertaining. “Oh, sweets,” Gojo drawled, his voice lilting with amusement, “no way in hell am I gonna let you finish this project fast enough to escape me. C’mon, in our three beautiful years of rivalry, you’ve never once tried to get to know me—”
“Let’s just start the project,” you cut him off, already pulling out your stationery and notebook, flipping to a fresh page with more force than necessary. You barely resisted the urge to groan at the topic glaring back at you. Humour. Ugh.
Gojo, of course, noticed immediately. He didn’t even have to try—he just always noticed things. The way your lips pressed into a thin line, how your fingers fidgeted with the cap of your pen, how your shoulders tensed slightly, like you were already resigning yourself to suffering through an assignment you hated. His smirk faded—just a little. And then, before he could think about it too hard, he sighed.
“You know what?” he said, nudging his notebook aside. “Screw it. Let’s do your topic.”
You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, waving a hand. “Cognitive dissonance, weird little psychology experiments, all that jazz. It’s fine.”
Your eyes narrowed. “This feels like a trick.”
“Wow, you think that low of me?,” he said, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “I am capable of compromise, you know.”
You gave him a flat look. “Since when?”
Gojo rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows propped on the desk, watching you with a lazy kind of curiosity.
“Seriously, though. If you hate my topic that much, let’s just do yours. No big deal.”
You stared at him, suspicious. Gojo Satoru? Giving up? It felt wrong.
“Wait,” you said suddenly, narrowing your eyes further. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch,” he insisted, but the way he said it, all breezy and casual, made you even more suspicious.
“… You want me to owe you a favor, don’t you?”
He gasped, scandalised. “Sweets, I would never manipulate you like that.”
You scoffed. “You absolutely would.”
“Okay, yeah, I would,” he admitted easily, grinning. “But this isn’t that.”
You hesitated, drumming your fingers against the notebook. Then, you exhaled, shaking your head. “No. We’ll do humor.”
Now he was the one taken aback. “Huh?”
“I don’t want to hear you complain about how boring cognitive dissonance is for the next two weeks,” you said, scribbling down a rough outline. “And you’re actually interested in humor, so we’ll get it done faster.”
Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“Hold on. You’re giving in?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh, I’m definitely making it weird.” His grin was slow, teasing, like he had just won something. “This is, like, a historic moment. I should get it framed.”
“Gojo.”
“I mean, imagine if people knew—”
“Gojo.”
“—that you actually care about my interests? That you—gasp—want to make me happy?” You kicked him under the desk.
“Ow!” He laughed, rubbing his shin. “That was uncalled for.”
“You deserved it.”
“But really,” he said, still grinning, “this is kinda nice.”
You quirked a brow. “What is?”
He shrugged, tilting his head. “Usually, we’re arguing for ourselves. This is the first time we’ve argued over, like, what’s better for the other person.” Your lips parted slightly. You hadn’t thought about it like that. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, absurdly, a little laugh slipped out of you. Just a small one, but it was enough to make Gojo’s eyes flicker with amusement. And before you knew it, he was laughing, too. It wasn’t even that funny, but somehow, the realisation of how ridiculous this entire thing had been—bickering for fifteen minutes over who should get their way only to insist on the opposite—had you both quietly shaking with laughter in the middle of the library.
“Okay, okay,” you finally said, breathless. “Let’s get this outline done before we completely fail this class.”
“I’d never fail,” Gojo said, flipping open his notebook. “I’m naturally brilliant.”
“You would if I weren’t here keeping you on track.”
He grinned. “See? You like being my partner.” You rolled your eyes, but as you both started drafting the project together, something about this—about working with him, actually working—felt… nice. And even though he was still Gojo, still distracting, still annoying, still insufferably smug, for once, he didn’t feel like an opponent. He just felt like Satoru. Not Gojo, but Satoru. Of course, the moment things got too productive, he ruined it.
“Y’know,” he mused, leaning back in his chair, “I am gonna make sure our humor project includes at least one joke at your expense.”
You deadpanned. “Then I’m making sure our references include an article on the psychological effects of annoying classmates.”
Gojo gasped. “I would love to read that.”
You smacked his arm with your notebook. And, as usual, he just laughed. You two managed to get a lot of the work done– not just a solid outline of your project, but the finer details too. Gojo suddenly shoved his chair back, standing up so abruptly that you startled. “I need to do something,” he announced, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes. You frowned, confused. “What? Where are you going?”
“Just wait here,” he said, already turning on his heel. Your brows furrowed. “Wait—what? Gojo—”
“Just wait!” he called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway. You stared at the empty space where he had been, utterly bewildered. What the hell was that about? For a moment, you debated packing up your stuff and leaving just to be petty, but curiosity got the better of you. Huffing, you tapped your pen against your notebook, drumming your fingers impatiently. Three minutes passed. Then five. Then—
Gojo reappeared, striding back toward your table with an obnoxiously triumphant grin. In one hand, he held two drinks, in the other, a small paper bag. He set them down in front of you like he was presenting some kind of grand prize.
You stared. “... What is this?”
“Snacks,” he said, like it was obvious. “I see that,” you said, eyeing the drinks. One was clearly milk tea—yours, probably—but the other was some sugary monstrosity topped with whipped cream, which was obviously his. “But why?”
“Well, we’ve been working,” he said easily, plopping back into his seat. “Figured we deserved a break.” You blinked, then looked down at the tea again. It smelled… exactly how you usually ordered it.
Suspicion prickled at you. “Did you—did you get this on purpose?”
Gojo took a sip of his own drink, unbothered. “Yeah?”
Your eyes narrowed. “How do you even know what I drink?”
Gojo shrugged. “Dunno. Guess I just noticed that one time when I ended up paying for it.”
You paused. The thought of Gojo Satoru noticing anything about you—remembering how you liked your tea, going out of his way to get it without even asking—made your brain short-circuit for a second. You weren’t sure what to do with that information, so you just focused on unrolling the top of the pastry bag, peering inside. There were two croissants—one chocolate, one plain.
“… Okay, but the pastries?”
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got both.” You squinted at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He smirked. “Sure it does. If you like chocolate, I got it right. If you don’t, more for me.” You stared at him, then at the pastries, then back at him.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head.
“Unbelievably thoughtful?” he supplied.
“Unbelievably annoying.”
Gojo grinned. “That too.” Rolling your eyes, you took the chocolate croissant anyway, breaking off a piece. The tea was still warm when you took a sip, and you hated that it was perfect—hated that Gojo Satoru of all people had somehow memorized exactly how you liked it. He propped his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand as he watched you. “Y’know, for someone who’s been roasting me for the last five minutes, you seem to be enjoying that a lot.”
You shot him a look. “Don’t push it.” He only laughed, reaching for his own pastry. “No promises.”
–
Over the next week, you and Gojo fell into an oddly stable rhythm. It wasn’t immediate—nothing with Gojo ever was—but slowly, the sharp edges of your interactions dulled. The bickering still happened, but it felt different, less like clashing swords and more like an inside joke neither of you wanted to drop. Your study sessions were always in the same corner of the library, where Gojo insisted on pushing the limits of how far back he could tilt his chair before it inevitably crashed to the floor.
(“Gojo, if you fall and crack your head open, I’m not calling an ambulance.”
“Nah, you totally would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Yes, you would, sweets. You like me too much to let me die like that.”)
You’d grumble and go back to your notes, but a traitorous part of you was starting to find his antics almost… endearing. Your actual progress on the project was steady. It surprised you—Gojo might’ve been infuriating, but when he actually focused, he was sharp. He had a way of cutting through useless information, pinpointing the most interesting angle on a subject, making connections you hadn’t considered. Begrudgingly, you kind of understood why he was always neck to neck with you in grades.
(“So, humor as a psychological coping mechanism?”
“Mhm.”
“And you want to include self-deprecating humor as a subsection?”
“Well, yeah,” he said, twirling a pen between his fingers. “It’s like, prime material.”
“You literally never make fun of yourself.”
“I make fun of myself all the time.”
You scoffed. “Oh, really?”
He smirked. “Yeah. I mean, look at me—six-foot-three, gorgeous, built like a god—my life is so hard, y’know?”
You stared at him. “That was not self-deprecating.”
“No?” He shrugged, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach do something weird. “Maybe I just want you to compliment me.”
You threw a balled-up piece of paper at his head.)
There were… moments. Small, fleeting things you didn’t know what to do with. Like the time your pen rolled off the table and he picked it up, spinning it between his fingers before handing it back to you, and you noticed—really noticed—how big his hands were. Or how, sometimes, when he was reading something on your laptop, he’d lean in too close, and you’d catch the faint scent of his cologne—fresh, clean, but with something warm underneath. You ignored these things. Obviously.
But then came the gym. You were only there because you needed to de-stress. The project had been long, your classes demanding, and you just wanted to move your body and clear your head. You weren’t expecting to see him there. At first, you didn’t even realize it was Gojo. You were just filling your water bottle, minding your business, when your gaze flickered to the squat rack and landed on a very tall, very shirtless figure. And then your brain short-circuited. Because it was Gojo.
And Gojo was—
Built.
Like, really built. You had known he was tall. You had known he was in shape. But knowing and seeing were two different things. His usual oversized hoodies and button-ups had hidden the fact that his entire torso was carved like a damn statue. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, a defined chest, abs for days and—
Your gaze dropped lower.
—Happy trail. Something inside you malfunctioned. Because, okay, fine, sure—objectively speaking, Gojo Satoru was attractive. You had always known that. But this? This was different. This was some kind of cruel joke. This was the universe personally handing you a vision of a half-naked Gojo and saying, Hey, enjoy struggling with this one! You were staring. Oh, god, you were staring. You needed to leave. You were about to spin on your heel and get the hell out of there, but that was when he noticed you. His gaze locked onto yours in the mirror, and something slow and amused curled across his lips.
“Yo,” he called, turning around fully now, like he knew exactly what he was doing. You were so close to pretending you hadn’t heard him, but there were only so many places to run. You forced yourself to walk over, as if this was normal, as if your brain hadn’t just imploded from seeing Gojo Satoru shirtless. “You work out?” he asked, wiping sweat off his forehead with a towel, and you hated that even that was distracting.
“Yes, Gojo, I work out,” you said flatly, crossing your arms. He grinned. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He just shrugged, all easy confidence and knowing smirks. “You don’t exactly look like the gym type, sweets.”
“Because I don’t look like I can deadlift a hundred kilos?” you shot back.
He tilted his head. “Can you?”
“… No.”
He laughed, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Then I rest my case.” You scowled. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re staring,” he quipped, and your breath caught in your throat. Your face heated. “I—I am not.” His smirk deepened. “Sure you aren’t.”
You clenched your jaw, trying to school your expression into something neutral. You refused to let him know he was right. But as you turned on your heel and all but stomped to another part of the gym, you could still feel his gaze on you. And the worst part? You didn’t hate it.
The next day, you almost considered canceling your study session. Not because you were avoiding Gojo. Obviously. You were just busy. Lots of work. Essays. Big academic responsibilities. But you weren’t a coward. (And okay, fine, maybe a tiny part of you was curious to see if things would be normal again. Not that things were weird, but—well. Whatever.) When you arrived at the library, Gojo was already there, feet kicked up on the chair across from him, lazily flipping through his notes.
“Look who decided to show up,” he said without looking up. You dropped your bag onto the table with a little more force than necessary. “Shut up.” He smirked. “Feisty today, huh?” You ignored him, pulling out your laptop. “Did you actually get any work done?”
He held up a single, crumpled page.
You groaned. “Gojo.”
“Hey, hey,” he said, leaning forward, “in my defense, I was busy yesterday.” You knew exactly what he was referencing. You refused to react. Instead, you snatched the page from his hands. “We’re never finishing this at this rate.”
Gojo leaned on his hand, watching you with a lazy smile. “Maybe I just like dragging this out so I can keep seeing you.”
Your fingers twitched around your pen.
He was messing with you. Obviously. That was what he did. But it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered sometimes. Or the way your stomach dipped when he said things like that. You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to focus. “We’re getting this done today, whether you like it or not.”
“Bossy,” he murmured, still watching you. You gave him a look. And then you got to work. And as much as you hated to admit it, your study sessions with Gojo had started to feel… comfortable. It was weird. In some ways, nothing had changed—you still bickered, still teased, still rolled your eyes at each other every five minutes. But there was something different underneath it now, something you couldn’t quite name. And you weren’t sure you wanted to. Not yet.
–
The lecture hall was packed, the dull hum of students settling in filling the air as you pulled out your notes. Today’s topic was something about fluid dynamics—not that you were paying too much attention. Mostly because you were tired. And, maybe, because there was a certain someone sitting behind you. You don’t know when or why it had started– maybe it was the fact that you’d, well, always been deprived of male attention (since you were hyper focused on academics instead. Those men won’t bring you scholarships, but your GPA will!), or the fact that you had seen him multiple times in the past weeks without feeling the urge to rip his head off, or maybe you actually were ovulating, you hadn’t checked your cycle on your period tracking app yet but it was likely—
You had been doing your best to ignore it, to ignore him, but Gojo had a way of making his presence known. Even when he wasn’t doing anything, you were now even more hyper aware of him—the occasional shift of his chair, the absentminded tapping of his pen against the desk, the quiet sighs of boredom that you knew were dramatic. And then, just as you were finally starting to concentrate, you felt it. A presence leaning in behind you, the faintest brush of breath against your ear.
“Sweets,” Gojo whispered, his voice low, teasing.
Your whole body went rigid. “What,” you hissed, barely moving your lips, keeping your eyes trained on the professor at the front of the room.
“There’s a fatal flaw in this lecture,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. You refused to turn around. “Gojo, I swear—”
“I mean, really,” he continued, like you hadn’t spoken, “how can they expect us to focus on physics when you’re sitting right in front of me?” Your grip on your pen tightened. Your face was definitely heating up. Slowly, finally, you turned your head just enough to glare at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me in the middle of a lecture on fluid dynamics?”
Gojo grinned, chin resting on his palm, looking utterly unrepentant. “I’m not flirting. I’m just… y’know… testing like behaviourism, or whatever.”
You inhaled sharply, willing yourself not to react. Noticing your silence, his smirk grew.
“Or,” he whispered, tilting his head, “is the idea of me flirting with you not so bad?” Your brain short-circuited for half a second. Then you turned back around, focusing very hard on your notes, pretending you hadn’t heard him, pretending your heart wasn’t doing something very annoying in your chest. Behind you, Gojo chuckled softly, and you could feel his smirk.
You hated him. You hated him. Nah, you didn’t. You just… now mildly disliked him.
–
By the time the physics final rolled around, your life had been reduced to a frantic cycle of cramming formulas, flipping through notes, and barely surviving on caffeine. The psychology project with Gojo had taken up way more time than you expected—not just because of the work itself, but because of him. His constant presence, his insufferable teasing, the way he somehow made long study sessions more bearable with his antics. It was irritatingly easy to fall into a rhythm with him, and by the time you’d turned in your joint paper, you were too mentally exhausted to even think about anything else. Which was probably why you forgot about book five. When you finally let yourself have a break, that you found it tucked away in your bag.
The sight of it sent a flicker of guilt through your chest—you’d been so eager to read it, and then you just… hadn’t. You curled up by the window, the campus café bustling quietly in the background, warm drink in hand as you flipped open the book. This one was slightly smaller than the other ones in terms of length– you’d be able to finish it in an hour or so. The familiarity of the prose was comforting, like stepping back into a world you knew well. And then, right beside a passage about finding comfort in the little things—the warmth of a cup of tea, the quiet joy of returning to a familiar book—was an annotation.
Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Okay. That was… oddly specific.
A chill—not unpleasant, but strange—crept up your spine. It wasn’t just the words themselves, but the fact that G.S. knew this about you. It was as if they’d noticed your habit of your love of tea. But it was probably a coincidence. I mean, tea is enjoyed by millions of people in the world, right? You exhaled slowly, shaking the feeling off as you flipped a few more pages. The wittiness of the quips grew, and you eagerly read through each one with heightened interest. In about forty five minutes, you had managed to finish the fifth book with ease. Since you had some free time to spare, you started on the second last book.
The first note you came across was pure sarcasm, scrawled beside a particularly dramatic inner monologue from the protagonist.
Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.
And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.
You huffed a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes. The teasing was familiar, familiar enough to imbue a sense of relaxation in you. The annotations drew you in, the ink curling across the margins like whispered thoughts meant just for you. It was easy to imagine G.S. sitting beside you, their presence warm and familiar, flipping through the pages with quiet amusement. Someone who knew exactly which passages would make you pause, who understood the way certain lines lingered in your mind long after you’d read them.
Your fingers traced over the words they had left behind, and for a moment, you let yourself daydream. You imagined meeting them—G.S., whoever they were. The two of you sitting in some hidden corner of a library, books stacked high around you, the world outside fading away. Maybe their voice was soft, thoughtful, the kind that made you want to lean in a little closer. Maybe they smiled when you argued about a particular passage, when you pointed out something they’d written in the margins.
Maybe they would look at you like you were something worth understanding.
The thought sent a strange warmth curling through your chest. It was silly, this little fantasy, but you let yourself indulge in it anyway. And that was when your brain betrayed you.
For a brief, horrifying moment, the faceless idea of G.S. wasn’t faceless anymore. The image of Gojo flashed into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. But it wasn’t just him reading beside you, wasn’t just him scrawling out these notes with his long, annoyingly pretty fingers.
It was him kissing you.
Gojo’s lips brushing against yours, lazy and confident, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand sliding up your spine, the heat of him pressing against you, that teasing voice of his murmuring something you wouldn’t quite catch—
Your entire body froze.
No.
No, no, no.
You tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the book in front of you, but the words blurred together, unreadable. Your mind was stuck, caught on the vividness of the thought that had just invaded it.
Gojo.
Not just Gojo sitting across from you, running his mouth like he always did. Not just Gojo tossing a wadded-up paper at your head or poking at the end of your pen when you were trying to write. No—your brain had conjured up something else entirely. Gojo leaning in too close, his breath warm against your lips. The weight of his hand pressing into the small of your back, fingertips splayed across your lower back, your waist, your sides. The slow, unhurried way he would kiss you—because of course he’d be like that, because he was always so damn self-assured. Because he never did anything halfway.
And worse—worse—you could almost hear him. That stupid teasing voice, low and amused, murmuring something between kisses, something only meant for you. Your fingers twitched, and you slammed the book shut.
No. Nope. Not happening.
Your pulse was erratic, your skin burning like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. You blinked rapidly, as if that alone could erase the thought from existence, but the sensation lingered, the imagined heat of him refusing to dissipate. It was just stress. That’s all it was. You were exhausted, overworked, and had spent way too much time in Gojo’s orbit lately. Of course your brain was short-circuiting. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to reopen the book. Back to reality. Back to G.S.
Back to anything that wasn’t Gojo Satoru and the absurd, fleeting idea of what kissing him might feel like.
–
Gojo’s deep voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back into the present as he tapped the end of his pen against the open physics textbook in front of you both.
“And then—are you even listening to me?” You blinked, realizing you’d been zoning out. “Yeah—yeah,” you mumbled, scrambling for something relevant to say. “Professor Takeda can be an ass sometimes, even if he’s awesome at teaching.” Gojo grinned, apparently satisfied with your response, and continued yapping as he absentmindedly worked through some small equations on the paper in front of you both. His handwriting was quick and fluid, annoyingly neat for someone who acted like he never took anything seriously.
You didn’t quite know how it had happened, but after the two of you had finally submitted the psychology project, something between you shifted. It wasn’t spoken aloud, wasn’t even acknowledged outright, but it was there—an unspoken understanding. You still bickered, still argued over trivial things, but there was something else now too. A companionship. A quiet, reluctant camaraderie that neither of you had actively sought out but somehow settled into with surprising ease. And now, you were in the library with him, ironically revising for the upcoming physics final, less than a week away. You weren’t sure when he had become your unofficial study partner, but here he was, scribbling down formulas as he complained about Takeda’s obsession with fluid dynamics.
“You’re still struggling with Bernoulli’s principle?” you teased, shifting your chair slightly to get a better look at his notes.
“Struggling is a strong word,” he said, twirling his pen between his fingers. “I prefer ‘strategically choosing to ignore it until I absolutely have to care.’”
You scoffed, but before you could argue, your eyes landed on the book beside your bag—the sixth book in the series you’d been slowly working through, the second-to-last one before the finale. You had completely forgotten about it. You were pretty sure you had hit the maximum borrowing period, and at this rate, you were lucky the library hadn’t sent you an overdue notice.
“I need to go return this,” you muttered, grabbing the book and standing up.
Gojo glanced at it, tilting his head slightly. “That again?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“That series,” he clarified, nodding towards the book in your hand. “You’ve been reading it forever. What’s the deal?” You hesitated for a moment, not really sure why you felt the sudden urge to explain, but then the words slipped out before you could stop them.
“I… I don’t know. It’s comforting, I guess,” you admitted. “It’s one of those series that just sticks with you, you know? And it’s not just the story—it’s the annotations.”
Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Annotations?”
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. Someone else read these books before me, and they wrote all these little notes in the margins. Some of them are funny, some are insightful, some are just straight-up teasing—but they make the whole experience feel… shared, I guess.” For once, Gojo didn’t say anything. He just listened, head tilted, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.
You coughed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Anyway, I should go return this.” You turned before he could say anything else and made your way to the library’s return section—only to find the drop-off shelves completely blocked off with construction tape. A small sign informed students that book returns had to be made manually at the front desk. With a sigh, you made your way to the librarian’s desk. She smiled at you as you set the book down.
“Returning this?” she asked, flipping open the cover to check the borrowing card.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding. She hummed, scanning the barcode. “You know, someone else borrowed this whole series a while back.”
No way.
No way, no way, no way.
Is this how you were going to finally find out who the faceless stranger you had grown attached to was? Your heart skipped a beat. You forced yourself to keep your voice casual.
“Oh? Can you recall who?”
She paused, tapping her chin as if trying to recall. “Give me a moment dear. He’s a male…about the same age as you, actually. Well I think he might be the same age as you. Hmm, he was tall, quite tall, had this head of brilliant white hair, and glasses. His eyes were startlingly blue too. I can’t remember his name but you two’d get along, he seemed very interested in these series too!” She chuckled, taking the book from you to store it under one of the accompanying shelves.
Your blood ran cold.
She continued, oblivious to your internal panic. “Had this little keychain on his bag too. It tinkled a lot when he came in to borrow the books.” Your mind flashed back to the small jingling sound of Gojo’s keychain— a digimon one. The one that always made a tiny noise whenever he slung his bag over his shoulder. Oh my god.
Your grip tightened on the desk. “Right. Thanks.”
Somehow, miraculously, you managed to return the book without your hands shaking. But the moment you turned away, the weight of the realization slammed into you like a tidal wave. Your breath hitched, your vision tunneled slightly, and for a second, you weren’t sure if your legs would carry you back to the table.
Gojo.
Gojo was G.S.
The knowledge settled in your bones with a dizzying clarity, making the library around you feel unreal, like you were wading through a dream you couldn’t wake up from. The notes, the teasing comments, the underlined passages—it had all been him. The same Gojo Satoru who drove you insane with his arrogance, who somehow wormed his way into your study sessions, who made physics revision bearable with his endless chatter. And he had never said a word about it. By the time you reached the table, your emotions were tangled beyond recognition—embarrassment, frustration, something dangerously close to hurt. You dropped into your seat, a little too forcefully, the noise drawing his attention.
Gojo barely glanced up from his notes. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
You swallowed, pulse thrumming against your ribs. Your fingers curled into fists against your lap. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something sharp, something that could cut you open if you weren’t careful.
“It’s you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
He finally met your gaze, his pen stilling against the page. For a second—just a second—there was nothing but blankness in his expression, as if he truly didn’t understand what you meant. But then, recognition flickered in those bright, unreadable eyes. And slowly, like he had been waiting for this exact moment, he grinned.
“Took you long enough.”
A sharp breath escaped you, like the wind had been knocked from your lungs. Something twisted in your chest. He knew. He had known. You exhaled shakily, trying to hold onto your composure, but your voice wavered when you spoke again. “You—” You swallowed hard. “You knew it was me reading those books, and you just—”
He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try. You hated the way he was looking at you, like this was funny, like this was just some game he had been playing all along. Like he had been waiting for you to connect the dots, to put the pieces together while he sat back and watched. Something inside you cracked.
“You were just messing with me.” The words came out quiet, but there was something raw beneath them, something unsteady. “That’s what this was, right? Just another one of your games?”
For the first time, his smirk faltered.
“That’s not—”
But you didn’t let him finish.
You stood up too fast, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few heads turned, students shooting you mildly annoyed glances, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You felt like the library was closing in around you, like you needed to get out before you drowned under the weight of it all.
“Forget it,” you muttered, voice tight. You grabbed your bag, barely able to look at him. “I’ll see you in class.” And before he could stop you—before he could say something that might make you stay—you turned on your heel and walked out of the library. Your pulse roared in your ears, your face burned with humiliation, and your heart—God, your heart was a tangled, aching mess you weren’t ready to unravel yet.
–
You didn’t talk to Gojo for three days. Not once. Not in class, not in the library, not even in passing. If he was in a group conversation, you found an excuse to leave. If he tried to sit next to you, you conveniently needed to be somewhere else. And if you caught even a glimpse of him from across campus, you turned in the opposite direction before he could call your name. It wasn’t out of pettiness. At least, you didn’t think so.
You were hurt.
The weight of it had settled deep in your chest, a slow, heavy ache that didn’t fade no matter how much you tried to distract yourself. You felt stupid, looking back at all those late nights spent tracing the loops of G.S.’s handwriting, at the way you had let yourself get caught up in the fantasy of someone—someone you thought understood you. Someone who had felt just as deeply about those books as you had. And the whole time, it had been him.
Had he just been laughing at you? Watching you get wrapped up in his words, in him, while he sat back and waited for you to figure it out? Had it all just been some kind of joke? You didn’t know what answer would hurt more. Gojo, however, wasn’t making your avoidance easy.
He noticed, of course. The first day, he seemed ashamed. You saw it in the way he frowned when you brushed past him after class, in the way his gaze lingered when you sat on the opposite end of the library instead of your usual table.
The second day, he got annoyed.
“Are you serious right now?” he had muttered when you blatantly ignored him outside the lecture hall, your fingers tightening around your books as you sped up. By the third day, his frustration had given way to something else—something quieter, something bordering on concern.
He caught your wrist as you passed him in the hallway that morning, his grip loose enough for you to pull away if you wanted.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Are we—?” He hesitated. “Did I—?”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, you saw it—uncertainty.
Gojo Satoru was scared. But you weren’t ready to talk. Not yet. So you shook him off and kept walking.
He let you go. For the rest of the day, you tried to pretend like it didn’t feel like a mistake. That night, unable to sleep, you reached for the last book in the series—the one you had borrowed before you found out. You had been meaning to return it. The thought of flipping through those pages again felt wrong after everything that had happened. But something about the weight of it in your hands made you pause. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you curled up in bed and opened to the first page.
And read.
At first, it was mechanical. You skimmed. Skipped paragraphs. Let your eyes pass over the words without really taking them in. But then—somewhere along the way—you found yourself slowing down. The story was familiar, but it felt different now. The annotations were there, just like before. The same small, thoughtful notes in the margins. The same underlined passages, the same occasional sarcastic remark scribbled beside overly dramatic monologues.
And it still felt intimate.
Your chest ached. Gojo’s handwriting had always been a little messy, but now, you could hear his voice in it. The playful quips, the teasing corrections, the occasional rambling thoughts that trailed off mid-sentence. He hadn’t just read these books. He had shared them. With you. But it wasn’t until you reached the end of the book that you froze.
A note, scrawled beneath a passage about missed chances. About how sometimes, you don’t realise what someone means to you until it’s too late.
To whoever is reading this, I… really hope that this never applies to you.
And then, right underneath it, you spot a small sentence. Your eyes narrow as you lean in, catching the faint blue ink beneath the initials G.S., nearly lost beneath the hurried strike-through. It’s messy, almost like he had written it in a rush, then panicked and scratched it out before anyone could see. The ink is slightly smudged, the letters not quite as crisp as they should be. But you can still read it.
Your breath catches. The frustration twisting in your chest falters, cracking under the weight of what you’re seeing. This wasn’t just about G.S. This wasn’t just about some stupid rivalry, some elaborate, long-running inside joke only he was in on. He had liked you.
All along.
The truth of it presses against your ribs, turning your anger into something else—something hot and unbearable and aching. Because of course Gojo Satoru wouldn’t have just let you take that book without noticing. Of course he wouldn’t have just been some faceless mystery behind the initials. He had been right there, all this time. Watching. Waiting. Never saying a damn thing. You press your lips together, gripping the book tighter, torn between wanting to shove it in his stupidly smug face and the overwhelming realization that this—this whole thing—had never been a game to him.
Not really. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the page, heart pounding. You should be mad. You are mad.
But now? Now you don’t know what to do with the way your chest is clenching, your stomach twisting, the words replaying in your head over and over again. He really, really liked you. And he had been too much of an idiot to say it.
It wasn’t just a game. It never had been. Your fingers curled around the edge of the page, heart hammering against your ribs. And in that moment, without a second thought—
You didn’t hesitate.
You barely registered slipping on your shoes, grabbing your jacket, heading across campus toward the dormitories. Your pulse roared in your ears as you climbed the stairs, the weight of the book heavy in your bag. You remembered the way he’d joked about it once—how it was almost too easy to find his dorm because the boys’ rooms were stacked directly above the girls’.
("It’s like fate, babe," he’d drawled, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "You’re literally sleeping right below me."
"Don’t say it like that," you’d deadpanned, shoving him off.
He’d only grinned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What? It’s true. If you ever get lonely, just know I’m right there—" he pointed up dramatically "—in room sixty-nine."
You’d groaned at that. "Of course it’s sixty-nine."
"Oh, absolutely." His smirk had been positively insufferable. "The universe practically insisted on it.”)
And now, here you were. Standing in front of his stupid door, his stupid room number glaring at you, mocking you, reminding you of how easily he had wormed his way into your life. You knocked. There was a pause. Then—footsteps. The door cracked open, and Gojo blinked down at you, disheveled, his glasses slightly askew. He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, and for once, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered sharply. “What if the dean catches you? It’s past curfew.”
You ignored him. “Explain.”
Gojo stared at you. Then, with a sigh, he opened the door wider and let you in. His dorm was surprisingly neat, save for a few open textbooks on his desk. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling before leaning against the edge of his bed.
“You want an explanation?” Gojo muttered, rubbing his temple as if trying to collect his thoughts. His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, lacking its usual teasing lilt. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze.
“Fine.”
And then—something shifted in his expression. That raw, unguarded look returned, cracking through the facade of the cocky, untouchable Gojo Satoru.
“I liked you this entire time.”
Your breath caught. His words were quiet, but they landed like a stone in your chest, sending ripples through every assumption you had made about the past few months. No—longer than that. Yes, you had gathered from that scribbled annotation that he had liked you, but hearing it was different from reading it. The weight of what he was saying pressed down on you, curling around your ribs, making it hard to breathe. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze flickered away for a second, like he was considering taking it back, like he was still terrified of saying it out loud. But then, with a short breath, he pressed forward.
“I—” He licked his lips, shaking his head slightly. “When I overheard you talking about the books, about G.S., I thought… I don’t know. At first, it was funny.” He let out a weak laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You, of all people, getting caught up in my annotations.”
A pang of hurt flared in your chest at that, but Gojo’s face twisted almost immediately, like he regretted saying it that way.
“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmured. “I just mean—” He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You always had this way of looking at me, like you had me all figured out. Like you already knew what kind of person I was. And I guess… part of me thought it was funny that I got to be something different in your head for once.”
Your fingers curled at your sides. You weren’t sure how to respond to that, but Gojo wasn’t done. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His eyes darted back to you, searching, waiting for you to interrupt, to tell him he was ridiculous. When you didn’t, he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was bracing himself.
“But it wasn’t just the books,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “It wasn’t just some joke to me.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he continued. “Because the truth is, I—” He hesitated, then finally met your eyes again, his own brimming with something raw and unguarded. “I’ve liked you since freshman year.”
The air between you shifted. Your fingers curled at your sides as his confession settled in. You wanted to say something—anything—but all you could do was stare at him, pulse pounding in your ears.
He let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Long time, huh?” His voice was softer now, tinged with something almost self-conscious. “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. But I did. I do.”
Your mouth felt dry. “Since freshman year?”
His lips twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should smile. “Yeah.”
Your mind reeled. Freshman year. That meant before the rivalry, before the teasing had turned sharp, before you had convinced yourself that he was just some cocky, insufferable show-off who loved to push your buttons. Before you had started believing he only saw you as an opponent to one-up. Gojo sighed, dropping his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at you. “You remember that first day of class?”
You blinked. “Where we had to introduce each other to the class?”
He nodded. “You were wearing that stupid oversized sweater that practically swallowed you, and you kept tugging at the sleeves like you wanted to disappear. I just– at first I thought you were just so cute” His lips quirked slightly at the memory. “And then you opened your mouth when we argued for the first time in class– remember? When you answered that question on vector components and I poked fun at you or something, and when you responded back to me, you had this… fire in you. You wouldn’t let me get a single word in edgewise, like you had something to prove.”
His expression softened, something unbearably fond flickering in his gaze. “And I just remember thinking—shit.”
Your breath hitched.
“I wasn’t supposed to like you,” he murmured, like it was a confession he had never meant to say out loud. “But I did. And when we started arguing all the time, when it turned into this whole thing between us, I thought—fine. If I couldn’t have you the way I wanted, then I’d settle for getting under your skin.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And trust me, I tried to stop thinking about it. About you. But I couldn’t. And then you started borrowing those books, and it was like—” He exhaled sharply, like he didn’t even know how to put it into words. You swallowed hard, heart hammering.
All this time.
Every argument, every smug grin, every lingering glance across the room—he had liked you this entire time.
“But then you kept reading them.” His voice had softened, like he was talking to himself now as much as to you. “You kept flipping through those pages, talking about how much you liked G.S– and god, who am I to deny you when you speak like that? When you speak like that about my thoughts, my feelings, spilled onto the pages of those stupid books? And suddenly, I was waiting for you to borrow the next book. Waiting to see which parts you’d pause on, which annotations you’d react to. Waiting to hear what you’d say about G.S. So I–”
He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his hoodie.
“– I borrowed the remaining four books or so. I annotated every last one of them, annotated them so maybe, maybe I’d get to hear that gorgeous voice of yours talking about it in class again. I’d get to see that giddy smile when you’d refer to me as your Seiji Amasawa again. As your G.S. And honestly, it was worth the entirety of the long night I spent, just so I’d see you fucking smile throughout the day and snap less at me because G.S. wrote something that made you think he was similar to you– because in reality, with the way you viewed me– entirely my fault by the way– it would never be possible.” He took a deep breath after saying that.
“And I realised—” He paused, just for a second, like he needed to steady himself. “I liked it. I liked you. Not that I didn’t already like you, but— but I was falling. Like really deep.”
Something inside you twisted painfully. Your lips parted, but you couldn’t force out a response. You had spent the past three days agonizing over the idea that he had been toying with you, that this had all been some elaborate joke, but this—this was different. This was Gojo Satoru, stripped of his usual bravado, laying his feelings bare in a way that felt like it might physically hurt him.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Gojo let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He looked away, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I’m an idiot?” he said dryly. Then, quieter, “Because I’m Gojo Satoru, and I figured you’d never take me seriously?”
Your chest tightened at that.
Before you could process that, he spoke again.
“I know I was arrogant. I know I still am arrogant,” he muttered, his lips curling bitterly. “I push too hard. I’m too much. I act like I know everything, and maybe I do most of the time, but—” He swallowed thickly. “Those annotations… they were the only time you ever saw me.” His voice had dropped lower now, almost vulnerable, and something about it made your pulse stutter.
“Not the dumbass you argue with in class. Not the rich kid with the perfect grades. Not the guy who has to prove he’s the smartest person in the room.” He let out a slow breath. “Just… me.”
The silence between you stretched, thick and charged.
Gojo’s hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles going white. He looked like he was bracing for impact, like he had just thrown every last piece of himself at your feet and was waiting to see if you’d step on them. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for him.
Then—
You stepped forward. Gojo stilled the moment your fingers brushed against his hoodie, his breath catching in his throat. He stood up, towering over you, an unfamiliar glint in his cerulean eyes. You hesitated, your fingertips barely grazing the fabric before curling into it, fisting it lightly like you needed something solid to hold onto. His whole body went tense under your touch, his usual easy confidence absent now, replaced with something far more uncertain—far more vulnerable.
“You really are an idiot,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath against the space between you. His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, wanted to tease, wanted to be Gojo—but he didn’t. Instead, he just let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening against his hoodie. “Yeah.”
The word hung in the air between you, weighty and full of something neither of you had the strength to name. And then—before you could second-guess yourself, before doubt could creep in—you surged up onto your toes and kissed him. Gojo made a startled sound against your lips, his whole body going rigid for half a second, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. But then—slowly, desperately—he melted into it. His hands found your face, cupping it with a tenderness that made your heart twist. His palms were warm, his grip firm, like he was terrified you’d slip away, like he needed you to know this wasn’t a joke to him. That it had never been. He kissed you like a man making up for lost time—deep, searching, like he had been waiting for this moment far longer than even you had realized. When he tilted his head, his lips pressing more firmly against yours, you felt it—all of it.
Every unspoken word. Every missed chance. Every moment that had teetered on the edge of this but never quite fallen. His fingers slid into your hair, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek, like he was memorising the way you felt beneath him. Your heart was a wild, unsteady thing in your chest, thundering against your ribs as you pressed yourself closer, your hands sliding up from his hoodie to clutch at his shoulders. Gojo let out a quiet, almost desperate sigh against your lips, like he had been holding back for so long that finally getting to kiss you was unraveling him.
And maybe it was.
Because as much as you had spent the past few days convincing yourself that this had all been a game to him, this—the way he was holding you, the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin—told a different story. Gojo Satoru didn’t play games with things that mattered. And you—somehow, impossibly—mattered. When you pulled back, slightly breathless, Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
Then, slowly, he grinned. “So,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away. “Don’t push it.” Gojo laughed, bright and real, before pulling you back into his arms.
“God, do you know how beautiful you fuckin’ are? It drives me insane,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm against your lips before he swoops down, capturing your mouth with his own again, his large hands grounding themselves against your waist as if he’s afraid you might slip away.
You giggle against his lips, trying to push him off, but he refuses to budge. “S-Satoru—wait!” Your protest is muffled, barely audible between the kisses he keeps stealing, his lips soft but insistent against yours.
He lets out a quiet, needy sound, almost a whimper, his grip tightening on your hips. “Shut up,” he murmurs breathlessly, squeezing lightly at your waist as if that alone will silence you. “Been waiting to kiss this pretty mouth for sooo fuckin’ long… Let me get my fill, yeah?” You barely have time to respond before his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. The second you allow him in, he kisses you deeply—desperately—his tongue sliding against yours, tasting, claiming. The soft little noises you make against him seem to spur him on, his fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he tugs you even closer. His legs bump against the edge of the bed, steadying you between his parted thighs, and the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you tangled up in each other.
A surprised squeak leaves your lips when his thumbs slip just beneath your shirt, brushing against your bare skin. His hands are cold, the contrast against your warmth sending a jolt of electricity through you. He laughs—a quiet, smug chuckle—and then the bastard has the audacity to bite your bottom lip in amusement. “Shh,” he teases, lips brushing against yours. “Don’t wanna get caught sneakin’ into my dorm after hours, do you?”
Before you can even process a response, his hands move to the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifts you off the ground with ease. A gasp leaves your lips, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he manoeuvres you to the bed. He turns smoothly, lowering you down onto the mattress before climbing over you, his movements slow, deliberate, eager. And this time, you don’t hesitate. Your hands fist the front of his hoodie, yanking him down in a clumsy rush to kiss him again, your breath mingling with his as your noses bump. His glasses shift slightly from the movement, and with an annoyed huff, he pulls them off, setting them aside carefully before his gaze returns to you—hungry. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, moving with a mixture of urgency and something softer, something deeper. His lips trail from yours to your jaw, to the delicate skin of your neck, to the dip of your collarbone—his hands following the path his lips leave behind, fingers toying with the fabric of your open jacket. He pushes it off your shoulders tentatively, almost testing, waiting for you to stop him.
You don’t.
A pleased hum vibrates against your throat as his confidence grows, his hands sliding over your arms, your waist, memorizing the shape of you beneath him. Your arms wrap around his neck, tugging him impossibly closer, like you could mold yourself against him if you just tried hard enough. The kiss is more than just the heat of the moment. It’s more than just the weeks—months—of built-up tension. It’s the culmination of years of frustration, of stolen glances, of biting words laced with something deeper neither of you had wanted to acknowledge until now.
And maybe, maybe, it’s also the weight of finally realising—fully understanding—that the only person who had ever been able to keep up with you, to challenge you, to drive you absolutely insane, yet make you feel like this… was him. Satoru groans against your skin, nipping at your neck as his hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers splaying across your waist. But even in the heat of the moment, he’s calculated. His lips map out a path of possessive little marks just below your collarbone—places that can be covered easily. Even now, he’s thinking things through. Your breath hitches when his fingertips skim the skin of your hips again, this time firmer, testing. Your cheeks burn, and the words slip out before you can stop them.
“You can—you can take it off.”
Satoru goes very, very still. You swear you can feel the exact moment he processes what you’ve just said, the exact moment he realizes that you mean it. His hands tighten slightly against you, his breath coming out a little shakier than before. And for once, for once—he doesn’t have some cocky remark ready to go. Because this? This is real. And for the first time, Gojo Satoru doesn’t want to ruin it with a joke. He gently tugs your shirt up and over your head, eyes eyeing the new expanse of skin that has just been made available to him.
“My gorgeous girl…”
He whispers out, before he’s back to lavishing your skin with attention, paying close attention to your breasts, lips lovingly, reverently moving across your skin with gentleness you hadn’t thought possible by him. You don’t know what possesses you, but something suddenly clicks and shyly, you unclasp your bra, leaving your entire upper half bare, making Satoru’s breath hitch. And then, in a moment that takes you completely by surprise, he does something that makes your heart both melt and swell—if that was even possible.
Because instead of his usual teasing, instead of his cocky grin or some flirtatious remark that would make you roll your eyes, Satoru simply looks at you. Really looks at you. His intense blue eyes don’t dart downward like you half-expected, don’t darken with some unchecked hunger. Instead, they stay locked onto yours, unwavering, all traces of playfulness and impulsive need fading away. What replaces them is something quieter—something gentler. A tenderness that makes your breath catch, your chest tighten.
Satoru, who always had a joke ready. Satoru, who always teased and never took anything too seriously. Satoru, who could have had anyone but had spent years bothering you instead—staring at you now like you were something fragile, something precious, something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch. His throat bobs as he swallows, and then, carefully, softly, he speaks.
“Are you sure you wanna… do this?” His voice is quieter now, laced with something that sounds an awful lot like uncertainty. Like he’s terrified of ruining whatever this is. “I’m not—pressuring you or anything, am I?” His fingers twitch slightly at his sides before he hesitantly lifts a hand, reaching out toward you—not to pull you in, not to take what you’ve offered, but to tuck a few strands of your hair away from your face. His touch is featherlight, barely there, but it sends warmth spreading across your skin.
“I just—” He exhales, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching, as if trying to read your thoughts. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to. If me kissing you made you think you needed to… y’know, do anything more—then I’m sorry.” The words leave his lips like a confession, like the idea of you feeling obligated to be with him hurts him. And that—that simple fact—makes something inside you ache. Because Gojo Satoru, for all his arrogance, for all his relentless teasing and larger-than-life presence, was standing before you now with uncertainty in his eyes. Not because he didn’t want this—God, did he want this—but because he needed to be sure that you did too. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.
Because this isn’t how you thought this moment would go. Not with him—not with Gojo Satoru. You had braced yourself for teasing, for him to say something infuriatingly smug, to grin like he had won some long-fought battle. But instead, he was looking at you with quiet hesitation, with care. With something that felt like love. Your throat tightens.
“Satoru.” His name– his first name, not Gojo– leaves your lips in a breath, barely above a whisper. His hands—so sure and confident only moments ago—remain frozen where they rest against your sides, like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll change your mind.
“I want this,” you say, and you make sure there is no room for doubt in your voice. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his hoodie, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I’m not saying it just because you kissed me, or because I think I have to. I want this.” His lips part slightly, but no words come out. His grip on you tightens just a fraction, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real.
You take a breath, steadying yourself, because you need him to understand—really understand.
“I’ve wanted this for longer than I want to admit,” you confess, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat. Your fingers flex where they rest against his chest, feeling the steady thud-thud-thud of his heart beneath your palm. He’s warm, impossibly so, like he’s radiating heat just for you. “And it scares me, Satoru. You scare me.” His brows furrow, the corners of his mouth dipping slightly downward. “Scare you?”
You nod. “Because you make me feel things I don’t know how to deal with. You drive me crazy. You make me want to strangle you half the time, and the other half I—” Your voice catches, and you swallow thickly before continuing. “I want to be near you. I want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.” His hands slowly slide up your sides, not rushing, not pushing—just holding. His thumbs brush against your ribs, barely ghosting under the underside of your chest, but even that light touch sends a shiver up your spine.
“You have to know this isn’t just some impulsive decision for me,” you tell him, voice softer now, filled with something you can’t quite name. “I don’t do things just because they’re convenient, or easy, or expected. I do them because I choose to.” You reach up, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. His breath stutters when you stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks completely lost. “I’m choosing you,” you whisper, staring straight into those brilliant blue eyes. “Not because you kissed me. Not because of some annotations in a book. But because I want you, Satoru. I want this.”
A shaky exhale leaves his lips, and for a second, you swear he stops breathing altogether. His grip on you tightens just enough for you to feel it, his fingers pressing into your waist like he’s holding himself back. Then, slowly, so slowly, he leans in, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm against your lips when he speaks.
“You can’t take that back now, y’know,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost reverent.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
In a flurry of kissing and movement, his hands roamed over your breasts, fingers pressing and kneading with a slow, deliberate touch that sent shivers down your spine. Every brush of his palm left a burning trail in its wake, making you arch into him, craving more—needing more. His lips never left yours for long, only breaking away to breathe, to murmur your name against your mouth like a prayer, before diving back in, desperate to claim every inch of you. Your own hands found their way under his hoodie, fingertips exploring the firm ridges and planes of muscle beneath. He was all taut sinew and warmth, his body solid beneath your touch, the faintest tremble betraying just how much he wanted this too. Heat pooled in your lower belly, a slow and delicious ache, as you pressed your palms flat against his stomach, feeling the way his muscles flexed under your touch.
And then you felt it—the thin trail of hair below his navel, soft against your fingers, leading downward. Your breath hitched at the realisation, a flush creeping up your face as your hands lingered there, tracing along his happy trail. The sensation made him shudder, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he let out a low, breathy chuckle. “You’re teasing,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rougher now, his grip tightening slightly where he held you.
You shook your head, though your fingers betrayed you, still trailing feather-light touches just above the waistband of his sweats. “Just exploring,” you whispered, emboldened by the way he reacted to your touch, the way his muscles tensed as if he was barely holding himself back. His entire body felt heavier now, weighted with desire as he sucked in a slow breath. His fingers twitched against your sides, like he was restraining himself, before he finally gave in.
With one fluid motion, he pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it aside, leaving his torso bare. The sight of him knocked the air from your lungs. He was beautiful—lean but strong, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, skin warm and golden in the dim light. The definition of his abs trailed down to his happy trail, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this, vulnerable yet utterly self-assured, the usual cocky glint in his eyes replaced with something softer, something just for you. You traced your fingers lightly over his stomach, watching the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His breath came a little heavier, his hands gripping your waist like he was holding onto the last thread of his restraint.
"You're staring," he teased, though his voice was lower now, rough around the edges.
"Maybe," you admitted, dragging your fingertips just a little lower, reveling in the way his breath hitched. His lips curled into a smirk, but there was a heat in his gaze now, something dark and wanting. “Careful,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I might start thinking you like what you see.”
Your pulse thrummed wildly, heat licking at your skin as you met his eyes.
“I do.”
He gave you a full-blown grin, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, his canines glinting in the dim light of his dorm room. It was a look you had seen a hundred times before—mischievous, teasing, effortlessly confident—but now, there was something else underneath it. Something softer. Something real. His hands, warm and slightly rough, hesitated at the waistband of your sweats, fingers grazing the fabric as if waiting for permission. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. But despite the heat in his gaze, despite the way his breath was uneven and his chest rose and fell just a little too fast, he didn’t move forward. Not yet.
“Are you sure?” His voice was lower now, quieter, cutting through the thick silence that had settled between you. His usual bravado was nowhere to be seen—no teasing remark, no cocky smirk. Just Satoru, looking at you like you were something delicate, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have. Like he was terrified of doing something wrong, of ruining this moment before it could fully begin. You could feel his hesitation in the way his fingers flexed against your waist, could hear it in the way his voice wavered just slightly, as if he was bracing himself for you to change your mind.
It made your heart ache. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your thumb brushing over his cheek. His skin was warm under your touch, and he leaned into it instinctively, like he couldn’t help himself. His breath hitched, just slightly, and you saw the way his lips parted, the way his lashes fluttered when your fingers traced along his jaw.
“Satoru,” you murmured, voice steady despite the way your heart was hammering against your ribs. His eyes flickered to yours—deep, cerulean, searching.
“I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you.” For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was letting the words settle, like he needed to make sure he heard you right. And then—
He exhaled, something tight and heavy leaving his chest, and his hands finally gripped your waist properly, fingers digging in just a little, grounding himself in the reality of the moment.
“God,” he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice almost shaky. “You have no idea how much I fucking love hearing you say that.”
He gently coaxed you out of your sweatpants, hand finding itself atop your underwear, breath hitching at the dampness that was present. Seems like this fueled his ego a little bit too much, because the next thing you knew, the Satoru you knew was back.
“Dang you’re wet as fuck.”
You gave him a pointed look and he faltered, the smirk on his lips morphing into a grin as he ushered out apologies. Your hands clutched the sheets when his fingers began to gently touch you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you eyed his hand with need. You couldn’t stay mad with him for long the way his fingers tugged the flimsy material down and began to work his hand between your legs. He grinned, experimentally probing around, ocean eyes half lidded.
“This is where you’re weak, right?” He murmured sensually, fingers finding your sensitive nub, eyes flickering up to watch your reactions, his pretty pink lips parted open in pleasure as he watched you come apart under him. He was precise with his fingers, circling you, teasing, pinching and rubbing, before thrusting in all the right spots, reaching places your own hand was unable to take you. Before long you had to let out muffled whimpers into his big palm that he had slapped gently across your lips; it covered almost the entirety of the lower half of your face– you were a bit loud.
Unable to take it anymore, you finally reached your breaking point, squirming underneath him as you came all over his fingers. Your chest was heaving, rising and falling in rapid succession, your breath coming in short, uneven pants as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through you. Every nerve in your body felt like it had been set alight, over sensitised and trembling in the lingering warmth of his touch. Your skin was flushed, heat radiating from every inch of you, and the room felt impossibly small, like it was holding the weight of everything that had just passed between you.
Hungry for more, you made quick work of his sweats, sliding them and his boxers down (pokemon boxers but you were too needy to make fun of him for it). Satoru loomed above you, shakily guiding himself to your entrance, pale lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. He was hard– had been hard the moment you two had started kissing, pressing up against you in a needy manner.
“Su–Sure you can take it? Don’t need a break?” He breathed out, referring to the fact that you had practically jumped at the opportunity to take things further right after having an earth shattering orgasm thanks to his lanky fingers.
“So fucking sure– please, Satoru.” You flutter your eyelashes up at him, and he swears he almost comes from the sight. He nods, leaning down to kiss your lips gently, all the while he ushers himself inside you slowly.
Now you knew he had meant you not being able to take it because you might have been tired after your first orgasm, but now it felt more like he was warning you, because he was long, pressing inside of you deliciously. Once he had buried himself to the hilt, he halted in his tracks, giving you time to adjust. His face was screwed in pleasure, likely trying not to give in the urge to move. After a few minutes, when you deemed the feeling of him inside you as highly pleasurable and not the slight uncomfortableness that you initially felt while being split open in two, you murmured out a small “I’m ready,” and that was all it took for Satoru to start moving.
He kept up a slow, steady yet deep pace, his muscular form looming over yours, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him. The dim light of his dorm cast shadows along the sharp lines of his body, emphasizing the taut muscles in his arms, the sculpted contours of his chest, and the way his abdomen flexed with each controlled movement. His skin was flushed, a faint sheen of sweat glistening over his toned physique, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch. His broad shoulders framed his lean build perfectly, his biceps taut as he braced himself above you, his fingers curling into the sheets as though restraining himself from losing control entirely.
And then there was his face. Messy white hair fell into his eyes, strands sticking to his damp forehead, and his lips—God, his lips—were parted, slightly swollen from kissing you breathless. His sharp jaw clenched subtly, his throat bobbing with a swallow, and when his gaze flickered down to meet yours, you felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.
His usual cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was intense—raw, focused entirely on you, like nothing else in the world mattered. His impossibly blue eyes, darkened with something deep and consuming, dragged over your face, your body, drinking you in like you were something precious, something his. “Satoru—” you breathed, voice barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to make him groan, his grip on your waist tightening as he dipped down, pressing his forehead against yours.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, strained. “You have no idea how good you look right now. How good you feel right now.” He moved his hands from your waist, his fingers trailing over your skin as he shifted, bracing his forearms on either side of your head. The new position brought him even closer, his body pressing against yours, heat radiating between you as he continued to move within you. His breath was heavy, mingling with yours, and for a moment, it was all-consuming—the feeling of him, the weight of him, the slow, deep rhythm that sent shivers down your spine. When you had imagined being with Satoru like this, you’d thought it would be… different. You had expected teasing, cockiness, maybe even some ridiculous commentary, because that was just who he was. You thought he’d smirk down at you with that usual self-assured gleam in his eyes, crack some joke between kisses, whisper something infuriating just to make you blush. You had even braced yourself for the possibility of him being downright kinky, because he was Gojo Satoru, and he loved pushing limits.
But this? This was something else entirely.
This wasn’t just cocky flirtation or the result of years of pent-up rivalry and tension—this was intimate. It was raw, real, and so incredibly him, stripped of bravado and playfulness, leaving behind only the man in front of you. The one who had been waiting, wanting. The one who had loved you quietly, even when you didn’t know. His movements were deliberate, his touch reverent, his normally mischievous eyes dark with something softer—something deeper. When he leaned down, his lips ghosting over your cheek before pressing to the corner of your mouth, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a silent confession. A plea. A promise. His fingers threaded through your hair, brushing over your temple, before trailing down to cup your jaw with aching gentleness. “You okay?” he murmured, voice hushed, almost breathless. You swallowed, overwhelmed by the warmth in his voice, the concern laced into every syllable, and you nodded, reaching up to lace your fingers through the soft strands of his hair. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t expect this.”
A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head slightly, pressing another lingering kiss just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t expect what?”
“For it to feel like this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “For you to be like this.”
Satoru stilled for half a second before exhaling softly, lowering himself further so his chest was flush against yours. His nose brushed against yours, lips hovering just out of reach, and when he spoke, his voice was almost fragile. “I don’t think you realise how long I’ve wanted you,” he murmured. “It was never just some passing thing, y’know? It was always you.” Your chest tightened, your fingers gripping his hair just a little harder as his words settled deep within you. The air between you felt electric, charged, as if the weight of every unspoken feeling had finally caught up with you both. He kissed you again—slow, deep, purposeful—and you melted into him, your hands roaming over his bare back, nails lightly dragging along his spine. He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing against yours as he moved, his body fitting against yours so perfectly that it made your heart ache. There was no rush, no urgency—only the quiet, lingering touches, the shared breaths, the whispered words against flushed skin. It wasn’t just about desire or need anymore. It was about something much more.
And before long, you were coming again, whispered cries of his name leaving your mouth as you tightened around him– and if he had indulged in the feeling a second longer, he would have finished inside. He splattered on your stomach, hissing at the feeling, pale eyes fluttering shut. After a few seconds of basking in the afterglow, he quickly went into his bathroom, grabbing a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach down. Your breath came in quick, unsteady gasps, each inhale failing to steady the trembling in your limbs. A slow burn lingered beneath your skin, every nerve alight with the remnants of his touch. The air felt thick, pressing in around you, charged with everything that had just transpired. Heat clung to you, pooling in the spaces where his hands had been, leaving you adrift in the aftermath.
Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, gripping them like an anchor, like you needed something to steady yourself against the dizzying sensation still coursing through your veins. A shuddering breath escaped your lips, and you swore you could still feel the phantom imprint of his hands on your skin, the way they had mapped out every inch of you with a reverence that made your chest ache. Satoru was watching you.
You could feel his gaze—heavy, intense, something unreadable flickering behind those endless blue eyes. His hands hadn’t left your body entirely, his fingertips still resting against your hips, warm and grounding. There was something in his expression that made your breath catch—a mixture of awe and something softer, something tender. Like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, like he was committing every second of this moment to memory. He swallowed, his own breathing uneven, before he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder—slow, lingering, like he just needed to feel you. His lips brushed over your skin again, trailing up toward your jaw, soft and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.
–
The room was bathed in the dim glow of his bedside lamp, casting long shadows across tangled sheets and discarded clothes. Your body still hummed from the aftermath, warmth pooling in your limbs as you lay half-draped over Satoru, your cheek pressed against his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. For a while, neither of you spoke. His fingers idly traced shapes along your spine, the touch featherlight and absentminded, while his other hand rested lazily on your hip, holding you close. You could still feel the heat radiating from his skin, the aftershocks of everything you had just done settling between you in the form of comfortable silence.
It was intimate, more than anything. More than the way he had touched you, more than the way he had moved inside you—this moment, the stillness, the way he exhaled softly like he was content, was what made your chest tighten.
Then, of course, he ruined it.
“So,” he drawled, breaking the peaceful quiet. “Would it be weird if I rated that experience a solid twelve out of ten?” You groaned, weakly smacking his chest, but he only laughed, the vibrations rumbling beneath your palm. “Oh my God, Satoru—”
“I mean, I am the strongest,” he continued, completely undeterred, stretching one arm lazily above his head. “So it makes sense that I’d be great in every department.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He grinned, tilting his head to peer down at you. His hair was a mess, white strands sticking out in different directions, and his lips were still kiss-bitten, smugness radiating off of him in waves. “Oh, don’t worry, sweets, I’d never joke about my performance in bed—”
You smacked him again, this time harder, and he let out a dramatic oof, clutching his chest like you’d wounded him.
“You were being so sweet just a second ago,” you muttered, pouting as you nestled closer against him. “Why do you have to ruin it?” Satoru chuckled, his arms wrapping securely around you as he pulled the blanket over both of you. “C’mon, you wouldn’t want me any other way.”
You sighed, exasperated, but deep down, you knew he was right. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so he could face you properly, one long leg tangling with yours. His hand came up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch softer than you expected after all his teasing.
“…Was it really okay?” he asked, voice quieter this time. Almost hesitant. Your heart ached at the sincerity laced in his words, the way he was still Satoru, even after everything. Still checking in. Still making sure. You smiled, cupping his face in your hands as you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “It was perfect.”
A slow, almost shy smile spread across his face, and for a moment, the cockiness was gone, replaced by something softer. Something real.
Then, of course—
“Perfect, huh? So you are saying I’m the best you’ve ever had—”
“GOJO SATORU, I SWEAR TO—”
His laughter rang out through the dorm, loud and unfiltered, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but laugh too, the warmth of it curling around your heart. The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the lazy way his fingers traced along your spine—it was all lulling you into the kind of peace you hadn’t felt in a long time. The teasing had settled into something softer, something quieter, and as sleep tugged at the edges of your consciousness, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you could stay like this forever. Satoru shifted beneath you, his hand sliding from your hip to your waist, pulling you just a little closer. His lips brushed your temple, his breath warm as he murmured, “Hey.”
You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. His fingers tapped against your skin, hesitant. “Be my girlfriend.”
That woke you up. Your eyes fluttered open, your head lifting slightly to look at him. “Huh?”
He huffed out a soft laugh, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it. The Satoru everyone else knew was loud, arrogant, untouchable. But right now, he was just a boy with messy white hair and sleep-heavy eyes, holding you close like he was afraid you might slip away.
“I mean,” he continued, clearing his throat, “we’re already doing all this. And I like you. A lot. So…” He exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over your waist. “Be my girlfriend.” Your heart clenched at the quiet sincerity in his voice, at the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t just another one of his playful remarks. This was real. A slow smile spread across your lips. “Wow. That was kind of romantic.”
He groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, sweets.” You giggled, shifting to prop yourself up on one elbow, fingers threading through his hair. “You really like me?”
He turned his head back toward you, his eyes—those striking, endless blues—soft in the dim light. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I really do.” Your chest felt too full, your heart racing faster than it should have been after everything you’d already done tonight. But it wasn’t nerves or fear—it was excitement, warmth, the dizzying rush of knowing Satoru Gojo, of all people, wanted you in a way that wasn’t fleeting.
“Okay,” you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be your girlfriend.” He grinned instantly, arms wrapping around you as he rolled you onto your back, settling half on top of you with a triumphant look. “Took you long enough to say yes,” he teased, but the relief in his voice gave him away.
You laughed, shaking your head. “I hate you.”
“Liar,” he murmured, kissing you again, slow and deep, like he was trying to seal the moment in time. And maybe he was. Maybe you both were.
—
Getting into a relationship with Gojo Satoru was like being swept into a whirlwind—one that was loud, chaotic, and entirely consuming. Everyone around you had the same reaction when they found out: About time.
Shoko had rolled her eyes, exhaling smoke from her cigarette as she smirked. “Honestly, I thought you guys were already dating. You’re both just that disgusting.” Nanami had simply given Gojo a long, knowing look before shaking his head, muttering something under his breath about finally. Even Geto—before everything—had grinned, clapping Satoru on the back and saying, “I was starting to think you’d never get your head out of your ass.”
Satoru, naturally, took it all in stride, tossing an arm around your shoulders and grinning like he’d won the lottery. “What can I say? She couldn’t resist me forever.”
Your life since then had been… a lot. In the best way possible. Because being with Satoru meant being at the center of his world, whether you liked it or not. And he was obsessed with you. Absolutely obsessed. It was the way he always had to be touching you—his hand warm on the small of your back, his fingers playing with yours, his arm slung around your shoulders. It was how he looked at you, like you were the most fascinating thing in existence, eyes always following you, filled with nothing but admiration. It was the teasing—“I get it, babe. I’m super hot, but please let me study for five seconds without you getting distracted by me.”
It was the sweetness—bringing you your favorite snacks when you were stressed, pressing kisses to your temple when he thought you weren’t looking. Intertwining his large hand with yours and placing it in his coat pocket And, well, it was also the other things—
“Satoru, we have a lecture in twenty minutes—”
“Plenty of time, sweetheart. What, you don’t want to study with me?”
“This isn’t studying. You’ve been making out with me for the past ten minutes. And you really do need to stop. What if someone catches you in my dorm?”
“C’mon, I can’t resist you–”
“Sure you can, ‘Toru.”
“But you love me.”
You did. God, you did. And he loved you. He never let you forget it. You’d studied together for your physics final, working hard side by side. Even though Satoru acted like everything came easy to him, he did work for it. And so did you. You spent countless nights pouring over equations, bouncing theories off each other, fighting over who got to use the good highlighters.
And when results day came—
“Oh my God,” you whispered, staring at your score.
100%. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the paper, the weight of all those late-night study sessions, the stress, the endless debates with Satoru over formulas and theories—everything culminating in this moment. Pure, unfiltered pride swelled in your chest. Before you could fully process it, a loud whoop filled the air.
“YES! I knew it!”
Suddenly, you were lifted off your feet, spinning in a dizzying circle as Satoru’s wild laughter bubbled over. His strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you pressed to him as he twirled you around the hallway like an overexcited kid.
“My baby’s the smartest person in the world!” he crowed, not caring about the amused stares from your classmates. “Geniuses bow to you! The world kneels before you! Einstein weeps in his grave—”
You were laughing breathlessly by the time he finally set you down, his hands still firm on your waist as he grinned down at you. Your heart swelled at his excitement. “You did well too, right?”
“Pfft, of course.” He flipped his own paper up dramatically, flashing his score.
99%.
“I mean,” he sighed, shaking his head with mock sorrow, “you totally obliterated me, absolutely wrecked my pride, but it’s fine. Matter of fact, I think it was the fact I didn’t revise Bernoulli’s principle enough that resulted in me getting only 99%-”
In another world where he wasn’t your boyfriend, you would've smirked and gloated about beating him, and he would’ve snapped back with something equally smug. But instead, all you felt was pride—pure, unrestrained pride for him. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.” Satoru melted into you, his arms encircling your waist as he hummed into your shoulder. “Mmm, say it again. I like hearing that.” You chuckled, pulling back slightly—just enough to see the sheepish grin creeping onto his face.
“Actually…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes glinting with something suspicious. You frowned. “What?” He exhaled dramatically. “You’re probably gonna kill me when you hear this.” Your eyes narrowed. “Satoru.”
“Okay, okay—” He raised his hands in surrender, before leaning in like he was telling you a juicy secret. “Technically, I got a 99 on the midterm.” You blinked. “…What?” He grinned. That smug, trouble-making, up-to-no-good grin. “Buuuut you looked so beautiful when you were all happy about your score, so I lied and said I got 95 last minute.”
Your mouth dropped open. “You—WHAT?!”
Gojo Satoru—the cockiest, most competitive man you knew, the one who never let anyone forget how brilliant he was—had lied about an exam score for you? He burst out laughing at your expression, reaching out to ruffle your hair. “Don’t go feeling all bad about it, sweets. This final weighed more than the midterm, so technically—” he booped your nose, “—you’re better than me.”
You were still reeling, warmth spreading through you as you realised he had lied to see you happy. “You changed your answer for me—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved off your shock, smirking. “I’m the best boyfriend in the world. You can say it out loud, babe.” You rolled your eyes, exasperated, before tugging him down into a kiss.
He instantly responded, his grip on your waist tightening, his lips warm and eager against yours. The teasing faded for just a second, replaced by something softer—something real. When you finally pulled back, he looked way too smug.
“…Still smarter than you, though,” you teased, just to knock him down a peg. Satoru gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh, you absolutely crushed my heart and then ate it—”
Before you could react, he suddenly straightened, towering over you with a wicked glint in his eye. His large hands slid around your waist, ushering you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. His voice dropped, suddenly deep and velvety, amusement laced with something more sensual. “Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me in bed, huh?”
You groaned, immediately shoving at his chest. “You’re the worst.”
“Your worst.” He waggled his eyebrows, entirely unashamed. You shoved his face away, laughing as he grinned, easily catching one of your wrists in his hand. Instead of saying anything else, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to your wrist, his lips warm against your skin.
–
Later that night, you were curled up in his dorm, forcing him to watch Whisper of the Heart. He had grumbled and groaned, saying he’d already watched it way back in high school and that he "totally got the whole love and dreams thing," but you still made him sit through it. He spent the first twenty minutes sulking, arms wrapped around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder like a spoiled cat.
“I’m way better than Seiji,” he huffed after a particularly sweet scene. “Like, a million times better.” You snorted. “Jealous of an anime boy, Satoru?”
“I’m just saying,” he drawled, tightening his arms around you. “If I was in this movie, she wouldn’t even look at him.”
“Uh-huh.” You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the warmth. “Sure, babe.” His fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your sleeve, and for a while, you both watched in silence, the glow of the laptop screen painting soft shadows over the room. Halfway through the movie, you reached into your bag to grab your laptop, but something tumbled out and hit the floor with a soft thud. You blinked at the familiar cover of the last book.
“Oh crap,” you muttered, picking it up. “I forgot to return this.”
Satoru turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait…” He plucked the book from your grasp, flipping through the pages with an expression that immediately made you suspicious. “You didn’t return this yet?” You nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Guess I kinda forgot.” His fingers slowed as he reached the back cover, eyes landing on the borrowing log where the name “G.S.” had been scrawled in blue ink.
For a moment, he just stared. His thumb ran over the initials like he was absorbing the weight of them, of what they had meant to you before you knew the truth. His usual teasing expression softened, something almost nostalgic flickering in his eyes. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he grabbed a pen from his desk, twirled it between his fingers, and, without saying a word, carefully crossed out “G.S.”
You watched as he replaced it with something else—his full name, written neatly, in the same familiar shade of blue ink in the column beneath the crossed out G.S. He paused, then handed you the pen. Understanding settled between you like an unspoken promise. Without hesitation, you leaned down, pressing the tip to the page to the column under his name, adding your own in smooth, looping letters.
The same date. The same ink. Together.
Satoru stared at it for a long moment, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his lips, something softer, something fonder. He looked at you with that unreadable, almost reverent gaze—the one that always made your breath catch. And then, with absolutely no warning, he grinned and yanked you straight into his lap.
“Sooo,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear as his arms locked around you. “How does it feel to know you’ve been fantasising about me this whole time?” You groaned, swatting at his arm. “Satoru—”
He just laughed, effortlessly dodging your weak attempts at smacking him. “Nah, nah, don’t try to deny it! I knew you had a crush on me.”
“I did not—”
“G.S.,” he sing-songed, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzled into your shoulder. “You thought I was some mysterious, tortured genius. Bet you used to daydream about me in class, d’you think I showed up as some mysterious faceless guy in your wet dreams?—” You grabbed a pillow and shoved it into his face. His muffled laughter rang through the room, and when he pulled the pillow away, he was still grinning. He kissed your shoulder, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.
And this time, you let him gloat.
a/n: summary of this entire fic basically (art creds to su2kuna on 𝕏)
sorry if there are error/grammar mistakes or slight plot issues uni is lowkey gnawing at the folds of my brain and a girl gets sick of reading 32k words over and over again.. but i hope you all enjoyed reading this because i really enjoyed writing it :) huhuhuhu much love
↬ summary: gojo satoru was a storm—reckless, untouchable, and wholly unwilling to be bound by duty. you, the viscount’s daughter, were everything he was not—poised, dutiful, the perfect noble. an arranged marriage should have been nothing more than a cold alliance, but nothing with gojo was ever simple. by day, you wage a quiet war of sharp words and tense silences. by night, you are drawn into a far more dangerous game. one of courtly intrigue, betrayal, and a conspiracy that could shatter all you know. for a while, you both pretend it’s only politics, only necessity. but gojo has never been one for rules, and when the line between duty and desire blurs, you’ll find that some battles aren’t meant to be won. they’re meant to be surrendered to.
↬ genre: jjk x regency era au; bridgerton au; arranged marriage au; drama; romance; angst and then fluff; slowburn basically; happy ending i promise but it takes angst to get there.
↬ warnings: nsfw; alcohol; mentions of pregnancy; mentions of fencing; corruption kink lowkey; mirror sex; carriage sex; p in v; oral (fem receiving); fingering; angsty !!!! etc
↬ word count: 25.5k.
↬ note: part two to my brain child. @gojover ily forever and always :3
↬ navigation: part one, jjk masterlist.
Present, Highgrove House.
It has been three days.
Three long, cloistered days since the masquerade at the Marquess Ieiri’s estate—the night when the chandeliers glimmered like stars and the music was so lovely it almost made you forget the weight of your own name. Since the ball ended in silence, in whispers, in scandal. Since the paper came.
You sit at your writing desk, spine straight, hands still, the air around you thick with the scent of lavender oil your mother insisted be applied to calm your nerves. As if perfume could unwrite disgrace. The window is open, but the curtains are drawn, and a breeze stirs the edges of the paper resting in front of you like a ghost just beginning to wake.
You haven’t touched it since that morning. Haven’t dared to. You’ve just been staring. Staring at the crisp, expensive print of the Quill, like it's something foreign, alien, capable of betraying you simply by existing. You remember how it was delivered. Silver tray, linen gloves, a footman with eyes politely turned down, even though you knew he'd already read it. Everyone had.
Your mother hasn’t spoken to you in full sentences since. Her disapproval is quiet now, but no less punishing. It lives in her eyes. It lives in the hallway, because you are not to go out of your room. It lives in the drawing room, where she receives no guests. Where she smiles thinly through closed windows when carriages pass by.
Shoko and Utahime came yesterday. Loyal, warm, loud-mouthed girls who still believed this could be mended. They brought flowers and lemon cake, but your mother turned them away after tea, with all the calm and cruelty of a hostess shooing away the stench of something rotten. “She is resting,” she said. “She’s not to be disturbed.”
But you were listening from the stairs. You wanted to be disturbed.
You are a pariah now. A woman no longer whispered about in curiosity, but in caution. The type of girl mothers point out at parties so their daughters know what not to do. And it’s not even because of what you did—it’s because of how it looked. Because you left the ballroom. Because he followed. Because no one else was there to confirm anything, and so everyone assumes everything.
The Duke of Six Eyes. And you. On a balcony. Alone.
You lower your gaze to the article again. It lies open on your desk like a patient on the operating table. You know every sentence. Every phrase. You know the rhythm and the scorn, the barely-concealed venom beneath the lace of polite language. The words had come easily. Too easily.
Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.
That line alone had traveled faster than any carriage. Mothers had gasped. Fathers had frowned. Daughters had clutched their fans, eyes alight with hungry joy. Because it wasn’t about you, not really. Not to them. It was about what you represented: the unraveling of someone prettier, smarter, better. You, the girl who had once worn the season like a crown. And now here you were, being eaten alive by your own myth.
You press your palms to your thighs. Try to breathe. Try to pretend you hadn’t written it. That someone else had.
But that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it? Because you did. And no one knows.
You try to console yourself with the notion that, perhaps, this is the better outcome. That in the grand scheme of things—reputation tarnished, invitations rescinded, your mother pacing the drawing room like a woman betrayed by fate—at least no one suspects you’re the Phantom. No one could imagine that the girl locked inside her home, disgraced and discarded, had ever penned those biting words, that she had whispered scandal into the ears of the ton with the sharpness of a dagger dressed in velvet.
This is the lesser evil, you tell yourself. Over and over.
And yet, it still pricks. The silence. Gojo’s silence. His absence. Three days have passed, and not a single letter. Not a flower, not a raven, not a knock on the door. You don’t even know what you would say if he did come. Whether you’d scream at him or fall to pieces in his arms. Whether you’d admit that you kissed him and then wrote about it in the third person, hoping to save yourself by damning the memory.
Your mother watches you like she’s watching the slow ruin of a once-favored gown, threads pulled loose by foolish fingers. She doesn't shout. She doesn't need to. Her silence is a punishment sharper than words.
And the only one who tries—truly tries—is Yuji. He comes in with arms full of pastries from the corner bakery and jokes that don’t land, and makes exaggerated attempts to dance with the footman until you almost laugh. Almost. But even he doesn't know what to do with your grief. You see it in his eyes. In the way he holds your hand a second longer than needed, as if to say he wished he knew how to fix this.
But he doesn’t. No one does. Because they don’t know what you've done. They don’t know who you really are.
That evening, the silver glints dull beneath the candlelight as you reach for your water glass. But the dining room is oppressively quiet. It has been like this for the past few days—each meal a silent, calculated exercise in civility. The clink of forks against porcelain. The hesitant lifting of soup spoons. The sharp, faint scratch of your father’s knife slicing through roast.
And then your mother clears her throat.
It is not a gentle clearing, not a casual sound to free her voice—it is sharp, intentional, a prompt. A summoning. She looks at your father, a subtle incline of her head, a tightness in her jaw. He sets his cutlery down with just a little too much force, and clears his own throat in response. Yuji pauses with his bread halfway to his mouth. You look between them, your stomach a knot. You know something is coming.
“We are hosting a fête at Hyde Park,” your father says finally. His voice is careful, practiced. “This coming weekend.”
You blink, looking at him. He does not meet your eyes—his gaze already returned to his plate, as though what he has said is trivial, administrative.
You glance at your mother. “What about the Duke?” you ask slowly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“The Duke and your father had a verbal agreement,” she replies with clipped precision, each word knotted with cold disdain. “After this ridiculous scandal, we must salvage what we can.”
Your mouth parts, your brows knit. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking slightly now. “You and I both know it. The ton won’t believe anything unless we make it feel true. There must be appearances, affection, connection. Not just obligations. If we make it look romantic—”
Your mother slams her glass onto the table. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to make you jump.
“But it isn’t romantic, is it?” she spits. “It isn’t real. I raised you better than this. Better than to slip away with a man in the dark, to a balcony, with no chaperone. God knows what the two of you did there.”
“We spoke,” you hiss. “That’s all. He... he listened to me. Which is more than I can say for either of you.”
The silence after is electric. Yuji shifts slightly in his seat, uncomfortable. Your father says nothing. Your mother stares at you like she doesn’t recognize you. Her voice, when she speaks again, is laced with something curdled and sharp.
“How dare you speak to your mother like that?” she says, rising to her feet. Her hands are trembling against the tablecloth. “You go to your chambers this instant.”
You stand, slowly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. You place your fork and knife down on the plate, too carefully, almost shaking. The china shudders beneath the weight. You turn, leaving the room without another word, your heart pounding in your throat.
You take the stairs two at a time, not because you're in a hurry, but because you can’t trust yourself to walk with dignity. Your fists clench at your sides. Your eyes blur. You refuse to let the tears fall here—not where they can see. The door slams behind you harder than intended, echoing like a slap across a cheek. You glance back just once—Yuji’s eyes meet yours from down the hallway. Not your parents’.
Never your parents’.
And then the room is quiet. Too quiet. The only sound is your breath, shallow and uneven, and the faint echo of your shame.
You’ve been lying still for hours now. The curtains are half drawn, and the sky beyond your chamber window is starless—an inky, unbroken dark. You don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the linden tree outside, where the swing sways gently in the night wind. You think of everything and nothing. You think of the column you finished earlier: a benign, delicately worded piece about the upcoming fête, a light-hearted nod to a young gentleman’s garden proposal. You wrote it slowly, methodically, because it was easier to write about someone else’s happiness than to wonder why your own had been so quiet these past days.
Because he hadn’t written. He hadn’t come. Gojo Satoru, who made entire rooms feel too bright with his presence, had gone completely silent.
You try not to dwell on it. Because if you do, you will spiral. You will remember the way his breath caught when he said your name. The way his hands trembled just slightly when they touched your waist. The way he said goodbye without saying goodbye at all.
So you don’t think. You simply lie there.
Until the sound comes.
A sharp, sudden thunk against the glass. Not loud, but just wrong enough to set your whole body on edge. You sit up too quickly, a jolt of alarm running down your spine. And then it comes again, more urgent this time. You push the blankets aside and cross the room barefoot, your dressing gown whispering across the floor behind you.
You ease the window open, the old hinges creaking like something wounded. And there, in the yard, under the silhouette of the linden tree, you see him.
Satoru. The Duke. His white hair glints faintly in the moonlight, and he is standing just where the tree splits, beside the swing your father had once ordered strung up when you were six. You remember tugging at his sleeve and saying you wanted to fly. Now, all you feel is the dizzying weight of having fallen.
He looks up, and when he lifts his hand, something in your chest unknots.
You lean out, voice hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”
“Did you not get my letters?” he calls, brows drawn together, voice tight with something frantic and raw. You freeze. “What letters?”
His jaw clenches, and then he exhales a breath of near disbelief. “Dear God, how cruel is the Viscountess?”
A pause. A beat. And then, "Can you come down?"
You don’t answer. You nod, once, and pull the window closed.
You move on instinct, quietly opening your chamber door and making your way down the corridor. The house is still. The air is heavy. You step softly, your bare feet silent on the stairs, your heart anything but. You don't bother with shoes. You don't bother with a shawl. The only thing that matters is getting outside. Getting to him.
When you emerge from the side door into the courtyard, the world feels unnaturally quiet. You pass the swing, still moving slightly, as though it had been disturbed only moments ago. He turns the second he sees you, and his entire posture softens. The tension in his shoulders vanishes. He looks like he’s been holding his breath since the night of the masquerade.
And then, his voice. Gentle, almost boyish in its tenderness. “Are you alright?”
You stop a foot away from him. His eyes flicker over your face, searching for something. An answer, a wound, a sign. But the wound is deeper than that. So is the answer.
“Do you want me to lie or tell you the truth?” you ask quietly, the words barely breaking the hush of night. You don’t wait for an answer as you walk toward the swing. It creaks faintly as you settle onto it, the ropes groaning against the branch overhead. You don’t look back to see if he follows. You assume he won’t. You expect him to stay standing, half in moonlight, half in shadow, because that’s where he belongs—half-truths, half-promises, always somewhere in between.
But then you feel the shift. A weight beside you. The warmth of him, close but not quite touching.
“I’d never want you to lie to me, darling,” he says softly. That word again. Darling. As though nothing between you has unraveled. As though you are still exactly what you were before the Phantom—you—wrote that damned line. Before the ton decided you were a ruined woman.
You keep your gaze fixed ahead. Past the swing. Past the tree. Past the soft swell of earth where the grass folds in on itself. You do not trust yourself to meet his eyes. You do not trust yourself to remember how to breathe if you do. But you glance anyway.
He’s already looking at you, as if he never stopped. His eyes are patient. Not pleading. Not angry. Just quietly, achingly, there. You exhale, unsteady. “I was terrified,” you whisper. The admission is small, but it tastes enormous.
He doesn’t flinch. “Understandably so,” he says, voice gentle, like something carried in cupped hands. “I sent you four letters the first day.” A pause. “When you didn’t reply, I sent five more the next. And three after that. I thought... perhaps your mother confiscated them in case the Phantom could find out.”
“Twelve letters?” you ask, your voice catching on a smile that wants to live but can’t quite find room in your chest. “In three days?”
He shrugs, the motion elegant and deliberately careless. “Call me smitten.”
“Are you?”
That stops him. Or maybe it unmoors him. You’re not sure which. He turns his body slightly toward you, not all the way, but enough that the side of his leg brushes yours, barely, like an afterthought. His lashes dip with the breeze, and for a moment, it’s just breath between you. Breath and silence and everything you haven’t said.
“Aren’t I?” he says finally, low, certain.
You swallow. The words hang in the air like condensation, like something half-solid. You look away again, the weight of it too much. “How did you get into the courtyard?” you ask, if only to say something.
He hums, brushing his shoulder against yours, an answer without force. “It’s not hard to bribe a footman,” he says, almost smiling. “Especially when you’re a Duke.”
There’s a beat. Then you speak again, without looking at him. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I did,” he says. “Because if you asked me again—‘Are you?’—I would still say it. Again and again. Aren’t I?”
And this time, when you meet his eyes, you don’t look away.
You purse your lips, fingers knotting loosely in the folds of your dressing gown. The words leave your mouth more bitter than you mean them to. “My parents are throwing a fête at Hyde Park this weekend. We have five more days of suffering until the ton shifts its feeble attention from my ruined reputation to my mother’s tireless heroism. Apparently, she's saving me from becoming a harlot.”
The air stills between you. The kind of silence that thickens before it breaks.
Satoru smiles faintly, more rue than warmth, and then exhales, slow and shallow. “And what am I to do at this fête to make them believe I’m hopelessly taken with you?” His voice is gentle, but there's a tension running under it. The kind that suggests he’s speaking past the question, asking something much deeper.
You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “You're hopelessly taken with me?”
He flinches, barely, as if it wounds him. Feigns indignation a second later. “Darling,” he says, softly and steadily now, “a man wouldn’t write you twelve letters in three days, send flowers chosen for meanings he researched himself, or sneak into your courtyard under a watchful moon—during a scandal, no less—if he didn’t…”
He falters. Just long enough for the truth to slip past his guard. His voice softens again. “If he didn’t love you.”
You go still. The words hang there. Fragile and too large for the space they occupy. You blink once, slowly, trying to breathe through the tightness blooming in your chest. He doesn’t look away. His gaze holds steady, clear and unyielding.
“You...” You breathe, not quite able to finish the sentence. “You love me.”
There’s a half-second where something flickers in him, as if he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. He blinks, his lashes wet from the wind. And then he laughs. A dry, breathless thing. “I didn’t intend to say it like that. Quite anticlimactic, isn’t it?” His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s laced with nerves. “I imagine this is not what you pictured when you asked me for a proper courtship.”
You don’t speak. Not at first. You sit there, staring at him—at this man who is all contradictions, who carries titles and expectations and yet stumbles through love like a boy. And something inside you shifts, just slightly, just enough.
You reach out. Not with words, but with your hand, gentle against his sleeve. His eyes meet yours again, and this time, they’re wide with something vulnerable, something almost childlike.
“I didn’t want perfect,” you whisper. “Just honest.”
He watches you for a long moment before he speaks, his voice hushed with something brittle, like he’s afraid it will shatter the stillness between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for following you into the balcony that night.”
It’s said gently, but there’s an edge to it. Guilt tangled with longing, remorse tinged with hope. You turn to look at him, fully now, and for a beat, you don’t respond. You’re watching his profile, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch as though unsure of what to do with themselves. As though he wants to reach for you, but won’t unless you allow it.
And then, finally, you smile. It blooms slowly. Tentative at first, then warm, then utterly full. “It’s no matter,” you whisper, your voice thick in your throat. “I wouldn’t have known what it felt like… to kiss the man I love if you hadn’t followed me onto that balcony.”
There’s a silence so sharp it almost hurts. It draws itself tight between you. His head turns, slowly. His eyes widen. Not dramatically, but just enough for you to see the shift. The full weight of your words lands on him like a sudden gust of wind, catching him off balance. And you see it clearly: the disbelief, the hope, the fear that he has misheard. That he’s allowed himself to believe too much.
He stares at you, his breath visibly trembling as it escapes him. “I hope you know,” he says finally, voice hoarse, like it’s caught in his throat, “I stopped breathing for a moment when you said that.”
You laugh, softly, but it’s not mocking. It’s trembling at the edges. “I hope you know,” you say, drawing your knees up to your chest, hands curled at your ankles, “I couldn’t breathe either. Not when you said it first.”
And then, the tension dissolves. Not all at once. Not like a string snapping, but slowly, like a pressure valve being loosened. Like the breath you’ve both been holding for far too long is finally allowed to exhale.
He leans forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours, the tips of his fingers brushing against your knee. There’s no rush to kiss, no sudden swell of music. Just the knowledge that something sacred has passed between you. It's irrevocable. It's something neither of you dares name again too quickly, as if saying it once was enough, and more than enough.
The next afternoon, Gunter's Tea Shop in Berkeley Square, London.
“The Phantom released the article about the Viscount's fête this morning,” Utahime says, her voice low and tightly clipped. “At least that wretched wench didn’t say anything outrageous about you this time.”
You press your lips together and dip your spoon delicately into the small glass dish of rose ice cream, letting the cool pink mound dissolve slowly against your tongue. You nod, pretending to mull over her words when in truth, you are thinking only of the ink that stained your fingers when you wrote those vile words about yourself—how it refused to come off in the morning, how your name looked so sharp and elegant in print.
Two tables away, your mother laughs too brightly with Shoko’s and Utahime’s mothers, a hand fluttering to her chest like a pale moth. They sit beneath the sage green awning, teacups in hand, surrounded by other women in shades of cream and lemon, and the occasional gentleman in fitted coats who glances over with a kind of casual, habitual curiosity. You are used to it—the way they look at you. Not with desire, not anymore, but with expectation. As if waiting for a performance to begin again.
“I still can’t believe she praised you so thoroughly at the start of the season and then... that. Out of nowhere,” Shoko says, swirling her tea idly as she watches you with eyes that miss nothing. “At this point, I almost want to know who she is. Just so I can send her horse dung. Or spill milk through her letterbox.”
You nearly choke on the ice cream. The spoon clangs gently against the glass, and both girls look up, though neither seems overly concerned. You recover fast enough to avoid suspicion. The laugh you offer is thin. “I don’t think I’d want to know anything about her. The less I know, the better.”
“How utterly boring,” Utahime murmurs, plucking a raspberry from her plate and inspecting it before placing it in her mouth. “I’d send her a dozen letters lined with the purest vitriol. Maybe lace them with perfume and powdered rage. She also mentioned that bit about me slipping in the ballroom and Nanami catching me.” Her gaze flicks to you, narrowed. “That was hardly newsworthy.”
Shoko sets down her teacup with a small, decisive clink. “Any word from the Duke?”
You straighten slightly. “Yes,” you say, voice light but careful. “He appeared in the courtyard last night. Bribed the footman. He’s sent twelve letters in the last three days.”
Shoko’s smile is slight but sharp. “Your mother is slowly becoming just as cruel as the Phantom.”
You swallow hard, as if you do not understand what she does not mean. The dark little crease folded into her words like a pressed flower between pages. But you do understand. And worse: it makes sense. In that terrifying, private way that truths only you know often do.
You lean forward, elbows lightly touching the edge of the linen-covered table. Your voice drops into something more fragile, more deliberate, and both girls respond the way they always do—Shoko arching a brow with amusement barely disguised as detachment, Utahime still too earnest to pretend she isn’t hanging on your every breath.
“There is… one more thing.”
Their shoulders tilt inward. You close your eyes, just for a moment. It is not for dramatic effect—it is, rather, the only way you can steel yourself. Your breath catches in your throat like a ribbon being drawn tight.
“He said he loves me.”
The words are small, almost shy. But they land like an aria. Utahime gasps. Not shrill, not childish—but loud enough that three heads turn in unison. Your mother, resplendent in lavender silk, squints suspiciously in your direction. Shoko’s mother says something behind a teacup, and your mother forces a laugh. But the tightening at the corners of her mouth betrays her.
You shoot Utahime a withering look. Shoko, without glancing away from you, reaches beneath the table and delivers a sharp, practiced pinch.
Utahime’s mouth snaps shut. You exhale, a whisper escaping with the next revelation. “I said it back.”
For a moment, they both stare at you. Neither scoffing, neither doubting. Just quiet, giddy awe. As if they know the gravity of such a thing. As if they understand how rare it is to say it and mean it, to hear it and believe it.
Shoko leans back, amused. “You’ve grown into such a bold woman,” she says, mock-reverent, and lifts her teacup in a tiny, invisible toast. “'Hime, if you so much as squeak again, I will kick you hard enough to knock your stocking garters out of place.”
“I’m trying,” Utahime mutters through clenched teeth, reaching for her cake with something close to desperation. She stabs her fork into the raspberry cream and takes a resolute bite.
You laugh then—quiet, contained—but it feels real.
After half an hour, your mother begins her retreat, masked in the practiced grace of social obligation. She is making excuses artfully, to remove you from the crowd, from the warmth of laughter and companionship, from the subtle but undeniable attention you’ve begun to draw again. She murmurs something about needing to visit Hatchard’s—to collect your father’s volumes on parliamentary history, and, pointedly, to procure something poetic for you, as if that might remind you to behave like a girl worth writing sonnets about.
You smile at Shoko and Utahime. Not joyfully, not even convincingly, but enough to satisfy the performance of it, then bow your head politely to their mothers, whose eyes, you feel, have never quite left your figure.
Then you are in the carriage, and your mother’s voice, once syrupy and social, sharpens like a knife. “What were you doing in there?” she hisses, the words so bitter they practically blister. “Laughing? Gossiping? While I’m out here sewing together the scraps of your reputation?”
“We just talked,” you murmur, gaze fixed on the passing blur of shops and parasols outside. The glass is warm where the sun catches it. You imagine being anywhere but here. Your mother sighs, long and theatrical. And begins a tirade you’ve heard so many times the syllables barely register. Something about your fall from grace. Something about dignity and self-control. Something about how you were once the season’s prized possession, and now you are something dulled, tarnished, unworthy of the settings once offered to you.
But you are not listening. You are thinking of last night. Of the Duke. Of the wild, impossible thing he said with his hands still trembling and his breath uneven—I love you. And worse: how you said it back.
At Hatchard’s, she strides ahead, elegant and exacting, giving orders at the counter about your father’s precious editions. “Wait here,” she commands, not glancing back. You nod dutifully, already drifting away.
The shop is dimly lit toward the back, dust moats caught in the slant of early afternoon light. You move without thinking, fingers trailing across the worn spines—books of sermons, scandal, feminism, philosophy.
And then, a glint of silver. A figure that is lean, familiar, almost out of place among the cracked leather bindings. You freeze. And in that suspended breath between recognition and response, the quiet, heavy weight of anticipation settles into your bones.
“I had a footman stationed at the ice cream parlour while passing it en route to the palace this morning,” he says absently, eyes trailing the gilded spine of a Byron edition. “Saw you and the Viscountess by the window. Thought it wise to orchestrate a timely appearance. For her benefit, of course.”
You stifle a laugh, glance to your left and right to ensure no familiar eyes linger, and step closer. The air between you tightens—not scandalous, not improper, but something soft and secretive all the same. Your shoulders brush as the two of you face the towering mahogany shelves like confidants in quiet rebellion.
“One might say you’re an impertinent fellow of ill repute,” you murmur, turning your attention toward the philosophy section. Your fingers find a new bound Mary Wollstonecraft book—A Vindication of the Rights of Woman—and you lift it with care, your gaze lowered to its burgundy cover.
Behind you, he chuckles. “You’re alright?” he asks, voice gentler now. You nod, but it’s a brittle thing. “If you consider bearing witness to my mother’s theatrical lament on my fall from grace, how I was once a diamond of the season, and now I’m Icarus mid-plummet, then yes. Perfectly alright.”
“She’s rather fond of dramatics, isn’t she?” he says, turning to look at you fully now. His eyes flit to the book in your hands. “I never took you for a radical.”
“Everyone should be a radical, Your Grace,” you reply quietly, lifting your chin. “And if reading this makes me one, then I’m already behind on my studies.”
He smiles at that, something glinting in his expression. Half pride, half awe. “I see now why your mother despises when you act of your own volition.”
“And yet,” you say softly, “I’m still standing.”
A beat. And then: “I have a copy of all her writings. Wollstonecraft’s. If you’d like, I can send them over. Via footman, of course.”
You blink, startled by the offer. By how casually he makes it, as though sharing sacred texts were a simple thing. Your heart hitches. “You do?”
He nods, as if it costs him nothing to hand you entire revolutions.
And just when you are about to say yes, just when the softest edges of something warm begin to settle in your chest, you hear her voice.
“Your Grace.”
You turn, too fast. Eyes wide. Breath caught. Your mother appears from between the shelves like smoke rising from scorched silk—elegant, composed, but furious in the way only a woman with power over your life can be. Her eyes cut to Gojo with a diplomat’s charm, all surface and calculation. But when they land on you, the temperature drops. It is the kind of stare that sears beneath the skin.
“Viscountess.” Gojo inclines his head with just the right measure of politeness and ease. “I was merely informing your daughter that I’d be sending along a few books she seemed fond of. We appear to share taste in authors.”
You swallow hard. Too hard. The muscles in your throat tighten against the tension stretching in your chest. You feel yourself retreating inward while their voices float past you, muffled, distorted. Something about politics. Something about propriety. The sound of your own heartbeat begins to blur their words. You are still trying to breathe when Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours so gently it might have been imagined.
“I had something to ask of you, my lady,” he says then, and though he looks at you for a breath of a second, it is your mother he addresses. His voice is calm, almost careless. He is playing a long game, you realise.
“Yes, anything,” your mother replies, sweet as overripe fruit, while her fingers curl tighter around the parasol in her hand, as if she might strike you with it if no one were watching. Her smile holds.
Satoru’s gaze drifts back to her with diplomatic patience. “I wondered if we might take supper at my estate before the fête. I’ve been hoping to speak with the Viscount—your husband—but my schedule at the palace has kept me from paying a proper visit.”
There’s a pause. A tiny, ruptured silence in which you realise just how much this means. How calculated the ask is. How public, how binding.
Your mother blinks. Visibly thrown. She gathers herself in the space of two breaths. “I would need to ask, Your Grace. The fête requires all our attention at present.”
“Of course,” Gojo replies smoothly, tucking a hand into his coat pocket. “But do consider it. It would mean a great deal.”
You see the moment her mind shifts. When she begins to weigh the proposal for its implications, its potential, its danger. And then: “Very well. I shall speak to my husband.”
“Splendid,” he says, and offers that smile. That smile—the one that turns the tide of every ballroom he enters and has the heart of every woman in the ton.
Your mother turns to you then. Something clipped and polite leaves her mouth. Something about how it is late, how you must go. She takes your arm with the practiced grip of control masked as care. You nod, too stunned to protest, feet following without meaning to.
And just as the threshold nears, just as the scent of old paper and pipe tobacco begins to give way to carriage smoke and rain-slick cobblestone, you look back.
Satoru is still there, framed in the hush of mahogany shelves. He lifts the Wollstonecraft from your hands like a keepsake, not a book. Then, with maddening calm, he winks. And you leave, as your heart pounds like thunder beneath silk.
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume II, Issue XII
Walks and Whispers Between Pages
My dearest gentle readers,
Though the Season presses forward with its usual rhythm of dances, dinners, and decorum, this particular week has proved most diverting. And not for reasons your chaperones would approve.
Let us begin with a scene that could have been lifted from a sentimental novel: on Monday afternoon, none other than Mr. Nanami Kento—staid, solemn, and as serious as any eligible bachelor can be—was observed calling on Miss Iori Utahime at her family residence. Yes, calling. One might argue it was a simple gesture of civility, but we are not in the habit of reporting mere civility, are we? Are we to expect a courtship announcement soon? Or is this simply a case of a baron’s daughter charming a man of fewer words?
And on Tuesday, if you were fortunate enough to stroll through Hyde Park before the hour grew too warm, you might have spotted Mr. Geto Suguru—that ever-pensive gentleman with the air of a tortured poet—walking beside Lady Ieiri Shoko, daughter of the Marquess. The two were seen in hushed conversation, walking chaperoned by the lake. While neither party is a stranger to intellectual pursuits (and, one imagines, complex inner lives), this particular pairing has not gone unnoticed. Are we witnessing the quiet beginning of a romance?
But nothing—not even the potential entanglements of society’s sharpest minds—has caused quite so much ink to flow as the return of the Viscount’s daughter.
Yes, dear readers. She has reappeared.
After days spent in discreet withdrawal following that unspeakable scandal, the former darling of the ton was seen in the public eye once more, making her entrance not in ballrooms or drawing rooms, but at Gunter’s Tea Shop—a choice cunningly poetic. Seated beside the aforementioned Miss Utahime and Miss Shoko, the trio appeared shockingly at ease, laughing over rose-flavored confections and whispering secrets so thrilling that even this Phantom burns to know them. (What did they say between bites of raspberry cake? Were those secrets sweet, or devastatingly bitter?)
And yet, dear reader, this is not where the tale ends.
No sooner had the daughter of the Viscount re-emerged than she was whisked away by her mother—who, in a fit of theatrical duty, dragged her to Hatchard’s in Piccadilly under the guise of purchasing political readings for her husband and poetry for her daughter. But what poetry, I ask, could possibly compare to what transpired there?
For as fate would have it, His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, was already present there. Sources say his carriage arrived no sooner than fifteen minutes before the Viscountess took her daughter there.
That’s right. The Duke—elusive, dazzling, dangerous—was seen among the shelves just before the Viscountess arrived with her wayward charge. The two—our scandal-touched lady and His Grace—were together once again. And when she emerged? The very same lady who once held all of society's hearts in the palm of her glove? Dazed. Distant. As if touched by lightning or haunted by something only she, and perhaps the Duke, could name.
What occurred in those hushed book-lined corridors? What was said? What was felt? Did the Duke offer her consolation? Or temptation? Whatever the answer, one thing is certain: the Season just became far more interesting.
With ink-stained fingers and a heart attuned to secrets,
Phantom.
You wear a cloak that night—midnight blue, hood drawn, hem grazing the stone like a hush. In your gloved hands rests the latest issue of The Veiled Quill, its contents still warm from ink. You'd just written it. The house is silent. Ladies of the ton are meant to be dreaming by now, tucked beneath canopies of silk and embroidered virtue. But you are wide awake, each step down the stairs as soundless as sin.
The courtyard is damp with moonlight. You move quickly, past the clipped boxwoods and sleeping roses, to the waiting carriage hidden behind the garden wall. No lanterns. No insignia. Just an old, nondescript cab driven by a footman who knows not to ask questions. You pay him enough for it, anyway.
London slips by in a blur of cobblestone and gaslight. Southwark lies across the Thames—far enough from Mayfair, far enough from the Crown's watchful eye. Far enough from genteel society that no one would even think that this is where your secrets lie. Its streets stink of sweat, smoke, and secrets. This is where your printing press lives. Nestled between a tavern and a forge, behind a crooked sign that never bears your name.
You hand over the last issue, neatly folded. The printer, a wiry man who smells of tobacco, presses a pouch of your earnings into your palm without a word. He knows better. You count the coins by feel, because ever since the scandal, your earnings had almost quadrupled.
By the time you return, dawn is still a rumor. You step out two streets down from your house, pulling your cloak tighter. Your hair is unpinned. Your cheeks bare. In your plain cotton dress, you look nothing like the daughter of a Viscount. And that is the point.
Men pass you in the misty dark—some weaving home from gaming halls, others from beds not theirs. They do not see you. Not really. At best, you are a maid. At worst, a curiosity. But never a danger. Never the storm behind the scandal sheets.
There is a narrow cobblestone street you turn onto, slick with the memory of rain and lined with oil-lanterns that flicker like half-breathed secrets. The hem of your cloak catches against your ankle as you walk, quickly, quietly, alone in the way only women can be when they are trying not to be noticed. You barely register the figure behind you until you feel the tap against your shoulder.
You flinch. And then you freeze. Because it is him. Lord Nigel Berbrooke. His eyes are glassy, his breath thick with drink. “Thought it was you,” he slurs, teeth yellowed under the dim gaslight.
You feel your spine go taut. Nigel Berbrooke is a man of deeply unpleasant reputation. Older than most eligible bachelors, and yet more infantile in his sense of entitlement. You remember the way he cornered women into dancing at Utahime’s ball, how he refused to take no for an answer. How he had asked you more than once that night. You had declined each time. You hadn't spoken of it. Not to your mother. Not to Utahime. You had wanted to preserve the memory of your first dance with Satoru, not tarnish it with Berbrooke's presence.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, m’lord,” you say, quick to adjust your voice into something meek. Small. Working-class. Your gaze darts, calculating. Escape routes, light, witnesses. The street is quiet. A carriage rattles past on the far side.
Berbrooke steps closer. You step back.
But his hand is fast. He grabs your arm—tight, unrelenting—and your body goes still. “The daughter of the Viscount,” he sneers, too loudly. “Out for a moonlit stroll, is it? Gone to meet your Duke?”
Your stomach lurches. You tug at your arm, but he doesn’t let go. He reeks of brandy and sweat, and something older, something rotted. Panic scratches its way up your throat. His grip tightens, and he begins to speak again. Vulgar things about balconies and what might have transpired there. Your vision blurs. Your breathing shortens.
You don’t think. You simply react. Your knee finds the soft of his stomach and drives upward. He wheezes, collapses forward with a grunt. You stumble back, barely registering the sharp stop of a carriage just ahead.
Two figures leap down. Moving fast. Familiar.
Satoru reaches you first. His hands are cupping your face before you realize it’s him. His touch is careful but firm, thumbs warm against your cheekbones. “I knew it was you,” he breathes, eyes wide with something that looks frighteningly close to fear. “What in God’s name are you doing out so late at night?”
You blink, still breathless, the panic clawing at your lungs as you try to make up a lie. “I went out for a walk,” you say, voice tight, fragile. “It felt... it felt suffocating at home.”
“You know better than to leave your courtyard,” he says, his voice softer now, but still edged with tension. “You could’ve sat on the swing. Cleared your head that way.”
Suguru steps past you, his eyes hardening as they fall on Berbrooke’s groaning form. “Are you hurt?” he asks, gentle.
You shake your head. “He just... grabbed me. Said things about me and—”
You look to Satoru. His jaw clenches. Suguru doesn’t ask for more.
“What were the two of you doing out?” you ask, trying to collect yourself, to change the subject.
“Club,” Satoru replies, almost too quickly. He glances at Suguru. “I’ll walk her home. Suguru, deal with this poor excuse of a man, will you? Wait for me in the carriage. I won't take long.”
Suguru nods, and gives you a look—one part reassurance, one part apology—as he moves to drag the lord out of sight.
Satoru slips his arm around yours, his pace slow, deliberate, every movement saturated with concern. “I keep finding new things about you,” he murmurs.
You glance at him. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not at all.” A smile flickers across his lips, crooked and soft. “I’m even more smitten.”
“You are,” you say, voice quieter now, the fear beginning to settle into a tremble. “Such a tease.”
“A tease you said you love, nonetheless,” he replies. Then, more seriously: “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Just shaken,” you murmur. “I thought the cotton dress would be enough. I thought he wouldn’t recognize me.”
Gojo’s eyes trail down the length of your cloak. “It’s the silk,” he says gently. “No maid would wear a silk cloak, my dear. Though you do play the part well. No one would have noticed, except Nigel Berbrooke. He's a lecherous man.”
You exhale. “Oh.”
His grip tightens on your arm. Warm, anchoring. You're nearing the back gate of your home. The iron is cool beneath your gloved fingertips as the courtyard stretches before you, bathed in the faint light of a gas lamp swaying gently in the night wind. You pause, cloak curling around your ankles, the weight of the evening pressing into your bones.
"I suppose this is it," you murmur, voice feathering out into the quiet.
Satoru stops beside you, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders drawn with restraint. You want to say something. Ask him what happened in Hatchard’s earlier. You want to bury your face in his chest and confess how your hands still tremble. But instead, you wait. Hoping. Maybe he’ll say something first. Maybe he'll linger.
“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he says, and there’s something raw in the way his voice cuts through the hush.
“Like what?” you ask, blinking up at him.
His jaw clenches slightly. “Hurt.”
You force a smile, small and crooked. “I’ll be alright. I just... I can’t believe I hit him.”
At that, he laughs. A startled, quiet laugh that still feels like it shakes the stars loose overhead. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to muffle the sound, but his shoulders still tremble with it. You can’t help it—you laugh too, albeit breathlessly.
And then, silence. But not the cold kind. The kind that stretches softly between two people who’ve begun to understand each other. Satoru looks at you, eyes gentled. “You’re much, much more than just the Viscount’s daughter,” he says. “I hope you know that.”
You can’t speak. Not immediately. The words settle in your chest like warmth from a hearth after a long frost. So instead, you step forward. One breath, then another. And then your arms are around him—soft cotton sleeves brushing velvet lapels—your head pressed to his chest, where his heart is beating far too fast for someone so composed.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He holds you close. “Whatever for?”
“For being there,” you murmur. “For being here.”
Two days later, Highgrove House.
It is late in the evening when Gojo Satoru arrives.
Tomorrow is Saturday, and the garden fête is scheduled for Sunday afternoon. The house is still, lamps dimmed to a golden hush, and you are in the drawing room, seated beside the fire with Yuji at your side. One of the books His Grace had promised—the very same Mary Wollstonecraft, finely bound—had arrived just yesterday, and you'd been reading it aloud to your brother before a rustle in the doorway makes you both look up.
“His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, has arrived, miss,” the maid announces.
Yuji perks up instantly. “D’you think he’s brought his brother?”
“It’s do you, and he has,” you correct gently, closing the book and setting it on the low table between you. “And I don’t know. I hope so. You’d like him, I think. His name’s Megumi. He’s your age.”
“You told me,” Yuji says, already tugging at his coat to neaten it, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve. You smile at his eagerness.
“You look very handsome,” you assure him. “If I were a twelve-year-old boy, I’d absolutely want to be your friend.”
“That’s great consolation,” he says dryly, “coming from someone who’s good at fencing, horse riding and pall-mall.”
“Exactly,” you reply, rising and smoothing the folds of your skirt. From the hallway, you hear voices. Your father’s clipped, courteous tone, and the unmistakable lilt of Gojo’s. You take Yuji’s hand and step into the corridor.
Satoru stands tall in the foyer, the picture of composed elegance, all wintry hair and effortless charm. He is speaking to your parents with the easy grace of someone who has nothing to hide and everything under control. Beside him stands a boy, black-haired and blue-eyed, quieter in stature and presence, his gaze lowered to the polished floor. So unlike the Duke. And yet, unmistakably kin.
You glance down at Yuji, giving his hand a small encouraging squeeze. “Go on,” you whisper. “Introduce yourself. Maybe the two of you will be great friends.”
Yuji nods, swallowing his nerves before releasing your hand and stepping forward. You follow, casting a soft, searching smile in Satoru’s direction. He bows his head ever so slightly in return—calm, unreadable, collected. As if nothing has shifted. As if everything has unfolded precisely according to his own private design. As if the chaos of the past weeks has been nothing more than a prelude he anticipated all along.
And you, despite everything, trust him enough to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he’s right.
When the six of you settle into dinner and have only just finished the first course—an almond soup delicately spiced, accompanied by poached fish and its garnishes—you notice it. A shift. Subtle at first. The change in Satoru's tone when he turns to your father. It is not unkind, but it is unmistakably deliberate. His posture straightens, a certain stiffness entering his shoulders, and his voice loses its usual lightness.
You glance over just as you're breaking your bread roll, and catch it. The flicker in his eyes, the way he glances down at his lap, as if preparing for war rather than dinner. The maids move soundlessly between chairs, clearing plates with practiced ease. The air tightens.
"I must admit," Satoru says, tone formal but softened by a trace of humility, "I’ve come here this evening with something of an ulterior motive."
You still. Your mother lifts her wineglass to her lips, eyes narrowing faintly. Your father sets down his knife and fork, attention now fully focused. Across the table, Yuji and Megumi have taken to whispering, clearly fast friends already, blissfully unaware of the shift in atmosphere.
"Ulterior motive?" your father repeats, arching a brow. His voice is calm, but it rings like a bell in the stillness. "And what might that be?"
Gojo doesn't hesitate. "We'd spoken, briefly, of marriage. Informally, yes, but earnestly. I'm here tonight to make my intentions plain."
The servants begin to lay out the second course—roast venison, its juices glistening, followed by pigeon pie, soufflés, and a new round of gleaming cutlery. Yet no one reaches for a fork.
Satoru presses on as though the entire table has not gone silent. As though the air is not pulled taut between expectation and propriety.
"I believe," he says, carefully, clearly, proudly, "it is time we put an end to the whispers. The scandal, as it were. I've come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage."
You pause. The air in the dining room stills, despite the low clink of cutlery and the rustle of napkins. Your eyes move slowly. First to your father, then to your mother, and finally to the two boys at the other end of the table, who’ve gone entirely silent. Yuji’s eyes are round with awe, flicking between you and Satoru as if he’s accidentally wandered into a play. Megumi, more composed, simply watches his brother with a dark, unreadable gaze, then glances once at you.
Your father says nothing at first. He seems to weigh the moment in his head, brow furrowed—not out of anger, but as if turning something over in his mind. Something unsaid. Something unresolved. And then, finally, he speaks. “I don’t see why not,” he says, quiet but firm.
It should feel like relief, but it doesn’t. Gojo grins then, quick and boyish—triumphant in the way of someone who’s just executed a clever move on a chessboard—and turns to you as though to confirm the checkmate. You try to mirror it, to offer back the expression he wants, but all you can manage is a soft, uncertain smile. A twitch at the corner of your mouth. The tiniest scrunch of your nose. Confusion creeps up your spine.
Then Gojo continues, this time to your father. “My father knew the Archbishop of Canterbury personally,” he says, voice smooth, even, practiced. “We can arrange for the license swiftly. I could speak to him, if expedience is preferred, of course.”
“Lovely,” your mother says at once, almost too quickly. Her voice lilts upward, hopefully. And there it is: the shift in tone. As if she’s just remembered that marrying a Duke’s heir erases scandal, clears reputations, sets everything straight.
You say nothing. Because what is there to say? Gojo speaks again. “We shall have the license in a matter of days,” he announces, his tone tipping slightly toward command. “Preparations for the wedding can be made, I assume?”
He speaks with such certainty now, such composure, that you feel, absurdly, as though he’s rehearsed it. As if this evening were a script and he knows every beat, every line. You wonder if he’s always this calm when negotiating outcomes that affect other people’s lives. That affect your life.
It unnerves you. Not the proposal. Not the dinner. But the ease. The precision. The sheer confidence of it. You can’t decide whether to admire him or recoil.
You listen quietly as the dinner continues—soufflés arriving, plates cleared, wine glasses half-drunk. You play the part of the composed daughter, the future duchess, but your mind is elsewhere. Picking apart the pieces of him that you thought you knew. Wondering what else lies beneath that smile, that grace, that armor of polished charm.
And later, much later, once the servants have cleared the table and the doors to the parlor have been shut—you find yourself outside. The evening air is cool, soft, still edged with the scent of crushed lavender and stone warmed by day. The garden is dappled with dusk. You and Gojo stand near the courtyard, half in shadow, watching the boys—Yuji and Megumi—laughing as they take turns pushing one another on the swing.
They’re just children. Careless. Weightless. You, on the other hand, feel the full heft of everything that just transpired pressing like a hand to your spine.
“How is it,” you ask, voice low, “that you can so confidently, so easily, dictate what you want from others and receive it without resistance?”
Satoru’s brows knit, but not out of annoyance. It’s curiosity. He turns toward you, his eyes pale and searching in the twilight. The golden light of the garden lanterns flickers softly over the lines of his face. “What do you mean?” he says gently.
You glance up at him, then away, toward the swing where Yuji’s laughter is fading. The boys are slowing now—less shrill joy, more tired amusement. “It just felt like… you and my parents were speaking in a room I wasn’t in,” you murmur. “Like I was sitting beside you all and somehow still not quite present.”
He exhales. It’s soft, careful, as if he knows he’s treading somewhere delicate now. “Trust me, darling,” he says, “I was waiting for you to speak. For you to stop me, if you wanted to.”
You shake your head slowly. “It’s all right. I suppose I should’ve expected this. Mother will take the fête as an opportunity to make an announcement about the wedding.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks, quiet but not unkind. “To be married? To me? Does it not make you happy?”
“I am happy,” you say, lifting your eyes to meet his. “Delighted, even.” But your voice betrays you—too soft, too even, too polite. You glance back toward the children. “It’s just… I never thought it would happen this way. Not through scandal.”
He hums faintly, a note of regret in his tone. “If it’s any consolation,” he begins, “I’m sorry for following you into the balcon—”
“No,” you interrupt gently. “I don’t regret it.”
He grins, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve made that quite clear.”
The moment stretches, quiet and not entirely uncomfortable. Then he steps back a little, brushing down the front of his coat. “I should leave. The sun’s gone, and I’ve got appearances to keep with the Archbishop in the morning.” He glances sideways at you. “I wrote him this morning. About our… situation.”
You blink. “So you knew my parents would jump at the offer for the expedited license.”
“I did,” he confesses, a note of guilt tucked behind the smile. It’s not smug, not quite. Just certain. Just planned. You nod, slowly. The smile you offer isn’t warm. It’s the kind of smile one gives upon solving the last riddle in a long line of riddles. “That’s what I thought. I keep finding out more about you than I bargained for,” you murmur. “It’s terrifying, in a way.”
“I had the same feeling,” he says, lips curling, “when I saw you knee Nigel Berbrooke right in the corner of Grosvenor Square.”
You almost laugh. He calls to Megumi then, and the moment fades—replaced by the sound of feet on gravel, of the boys returning with flushed cheeks and wide grins.
“Can I visit my sister often once you’re married?” Yuji pipes up as the four of you enter the house. The light indoors feels warmer than before, too bright. Too staged.
Satoru laughs, ruffling Yuji’s hair. “You can visit Megumi and I, too. Whenever you like.”
Yuji beams, then turns to Gojo as though just remembering. “Did you know she plays chess? And that she's great at pall mall? Oh, did you know she can fence?”
Gojo lets out a laugh now. Loud, full-bodied. “Trust me,” he says, “she can do far more than just fence.”
And later, when the Duke and his brother have gone—when the house has quieted and the laughter of dinner has faded into memory—you find yourself in the parlor again. Yuji chatters beside you, dreaming aloud of the escapades he’ll have as the Duchess’s brother. You nod, smile where you should, tease him gently. You walk him to his bed, tuck him in, promise him summer rides and borrowed hounds and library keys. You press a kiss to his forehead and bid him goodnight.
Then you retreat to your room. You set pen to paper, intending to finish the article you began yesterday. You write a single line about the fête, then stare at it for too long. Eventually, you set the pen down. It’s late. The fire’s burned low.
You lie in bed, hands clasped over your stomach, and think of your parents’ expressions at dinner. Not startled. Not overwhelmed. Just... prepared. Just ready. As if they’d known all along. As if Gojo had handed them the lines to read.
It sits heavy in your chest.
You are delighted. You are engaged. You are on the cusp of a future some women would kill for. And still, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, behind it all, a conversation occurred that did not include you. And it unsettles you.
Late afternoon of Sunday, Hyde Park.
It is astounding, what your mother can do when she sets her mind to something. This is not merely a fête champêtre. It is a declaration. A staking of territory. A performance, curated down to the last spun sugar petal and silk-draped pavilion. And it has Hyde Park—no, the entire season—in its palm.
Your family arrives half an hour before the invitations permit. It is early enough to watch the event take shape, late enough that the magic has already begun to settle. Enough for your mother's watchful eye to make sure everything is up to the mark. You step from the carriage, feet sinking just slightly into the trimmed grass, and it takes you a long moment before you can do anything other than simply stand. Breathe. Take it in.
The Parade Grounds have been transformed into a dreamscape. Tents and pavilions bloom across the green like ivory flowers, their silken walls rippling in the breeze. Musicians tune their violins on a raised dais in the centre, the light catching on the brass fittings of their flutes. Fortune-tellers settle into their tents with velvet-draped tables and cards worn to softness. Puppeteers test the wires of their painted marionettes, hands moving with the delicacy of surgeons. Pavilions with refreshments like champagne, ice-cream, sugared strawberries, and pies and cakes are blended into the lot of the rest like a beautiful painting.
Lanterns, hundreds of them, are strung from poles and trees, not yet lit, but already trembling with anticipation. By dusk, they will burn like stars. It is beautiful. Not the fragile, private sort of beauty one tucks away—but a theatrical kind, curated to be admired. To be envied.
You walk slowly across the grounds, your gown catching slightly at the knees. It’s a soft pastel blue muslin, airy enough for a day on the lawn, but intricate where it counts—lace tracing the collar and hem, tiny pearl buttons running down your spine. Your mother insisted on this shade. Said it would make you stand out just enough: an echo of the sky, a suggestion of innocence, but unmistakably tailored for attention.
Lawn games are cordoned off by rope garlands—pall mall, lawn archery, and some whimsical game involving hoops and ribbons you don’t even recognize. Musicians drift between the setups like well-dressed ghosts, their instruments resting against their chests like lovers. There is movement everywhere—an elegant chaos. You think, briefly, that it all feels too perfect.
And then you remember the reason behind it. Your engagement will be announced today. To the Duke.
The thought rushes through you like wind. A thrill. A knot. You clasp your hands at your waist, feeling the fine tremble of anticipation settle under your skin. This will be the most talked-about event of the season. Perhaps the next, too. Of that, you are certain. And it is your name they will whisper behind fans. Your mother’s triumph. Your family’s rise.
Your story—beginning, here. In full view.
You hardly have time to name the miracle of it before the crowd begins to pour in. An endless stream of silk, laughter, and social ambition. Lords, barons, and the finely powdered elite of London arrive in carriages and on foot, their presence declaring the event the apex of the season. It is, you realize, too perfect to be anything but deliberate. Everyone has come.
The gentlemen drift toward the card pavilions like moths to candlelight, already leaning over hands of whist and hazard, murmuring their wagers beneath the pluck of lute strings. The ladies—lace-gloved and flushed—gather at the fortune-tellers’ tents, giggling as their futures are read in cryptic symbols and feathered cards. Children are spellbound before puppet stages and in pall mall, their laughter lifting into the air with the scent of sugared pastries and lemonade. The entire world has converged here, in Hyde Park, under your family’s name. All of London, is here.
“I cannot believe your mother did this in a week,” Shoko says beside you, one brow raised in something between disbelief and admiration. The three of you stand tucked beneath the awning of a lemonade stand near the musicians’ dais, where a lively tune hums beneath the swell of conversation. The lemon in your cup tastes like a dream—sweet and tart and fleeting.
“I can’t either,” you murmur, still wide-eyed, still unsure how to take it all in. “I almost wish I weren’t the host, just so I could wander and enjoy it properly. But I know she’ll come to collect me any moment now, drag me off to meet half the peerage.”
“How tragic,” Utahime says with a faux pout, raising her glass. You narrow your eyes at her, amused. You open your mouth, close it again. Then, a breath. The words come out quiet. “I have to tell you something. Before it's announced.”
Shoko stills. Utahime’s brow furrows slightly. You glance between them. There’s something in Shoko’s expression already, something knowing, even wicked. She sets her cup down delicately on a side table and folds her arms with too much casualness.
“I am engaged,” you say. “To the Duke.”
Silence. A moment suspended in air, stretched thin. Utahime blinks once, twice. Her mouth falls open slightly. Shoko only smiles.
“Congratulations,” she says at last. “You’re going to be the wealthiest duchess in London.”
You groan, rolling your eyes. “That’s not the point. I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know. It might be the scandal, but I’ve had this pit in my stomach all evening. Something feels off.”
“Well,” Utahime says quietly, unusually tempered, “He did the decent thing. A scandal always weighs heavier on the woman, anyway.”
You nod slowly, lips pressed together. The moment passes, melts into something easier, something lighter. Conversation shifts, laughter returns. But not for long.
Your mother appears, glowing, and whisks you away. You catch only the briefest glances of the crowd, of your friends, of the festivities still in full swing. You’re passed from one conversation to another, introduced to a daisy chain of barons, counts, viscountesses—faces whose names blur at the edges. You're charming and gracious, just as you've been taught. But it drains you. Every compliment is a cut; every polite chuckle a rehearsed deflection.
It’s only after what feels like an hour and a half of curated smiling that you spot a glimmer of silver. Across the lawn, near the champagne pavilion, stands Satoru. He is unmistakable, even among the cluster of tall men and expensive coats. His hair catches the last remnants of sun like snow under candlelight. He’s surrounded by familiar faces—Suguru, Nanami, and others you recognize at once—but it’s him you focus on. Him, who hasn’t looked your way once.
You stay by your parents, trying not to show the fatigue that pools in your feet, in your jaw, in your chest. You imagine Yuji somewhere far off, shrieking with laughter as Megumi scowls at a lawn game or scampers after a puppet. It comforts you.
And then you quietly step away. Slipping between groups, down toward the edge of the fête where the pie and pastry tent waits. It’s quieter here, easier. The smell of spiced apples and butter fills the air, and you breathe in as if you haven’t tasted air in an hour.
“Look at you,” a voice drawls behind you. “Unchaperoned. Again.”
You smile, turning to him. “And look at you, following me while I’m unchaperoned. Again.”
Satoru steps toward you with that grin—the boyish, maddeningly pleased-with-himself one—and wraps his arms around you without hesitation. You let him. The tent is empty but for an older woman arranging pastries with tender focus, unconcerned with royalty or reputation.
“You look beautiful in blue,” he murmurs, his voice low near your ear.
“I wore it for that very reason,” you reply, unable to stop the smile blooming across your face.
Gojo glances around, his expression shifting. Still playful, but with a note of caution. His gaze sweeps the tent: the older woman arranging lemon and cherry tarts has her back turned, wholly immersed in her task, and the rest of the fête stretches just far enough to grant them a rare sliver of privacy.
Then, without fanfare, he leans in and brushes his lips against yours.
It’s not a dramatic kiss, not the kind poets string sonnets from, but it unravels you in its simplicity. Quick, secret, a punctuation mark rather than a full sentence. Still, you feel it. All the way down. It is the kind of kiss that feels like a promise kept. He pulls back just as easily as he leaned in, his expression unreadable for a moment. And then that grin returns, tugging at the corners of his mouth, softening him.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” he says.
You don’t reply. You don’t need to. He takes your silence for what it is—something between stunned affection and aching anticipation—and presses one last glance to your hand before he slips back into the crowd.
Time moves oddly after that. It doesn’t speed up, exactly, but it begins to blur. You find your way back to the center of the parade grounds, the sky now fully dark above Hyde Park, where lanterns float like tiny stars strung between trees. The air is cooler, but the excitement thrumming in the crowd keeps it from chilling. You spot Shoko and Utahime near the ring toss stall and slip back into their orbit as naturally as if you’d never left.
You laugh, truly laugh, as Utahime flings her final ring and narrowly misses the wooden peg she’s aiming for. “You’re absolutely hopeless,” you tease, watching Shoko collect a small paper prize for herself—a folded fan painted with florals.
“I’ll have you know,” Utahime mutters, “I let Shoko win. She looked like she needed the morale.”
You're about to reply when something cuts through the air. The music stops. It dies not with a jarring crash but with a soft, deliberate diminuendo, as if the musicians were told to lay their instruments down slowly, one by one. Like a curtain falling at the end of an act.
You freeze.
All around you, people are turning. Faces lift. Heads angle toward the central dais where the string quartet had been playing only moments before. The effect is like a tide: all at once, the sea of conversation ebbs, leaving only a hush thick with expectation.
Your mother steps up onto the dais, flanked by your father. Their expressions are composed, practiced—faces made for portraiture and politics. Your father’s voice is the first to rise. You feel it before you hear it, the anticipation threading into your spine, a quiet and inevitable dread.
It’s time. The announcement is about to be made. And somehow, impossibly, you're not ready.
You search the crowd for him—your eyes scanning beyond the flushed cheeks and swirling silks, past the clamor of card tables and puppet shows, beyond the lords in powdered coats and the ladies in florals—as if you could summon steadiness in the shape of a man. And then, there he is.
Gojo stands at the edge of the dais, tall and immaculately composed in deep navy. The silver of his hair glints beneath the lanterns strung like stars between trees. His gaze is already on you. Of course it is. He nods once, slow and certain. And something inside you stills.
"It's happening," you whisper.
“Go,” Shoko murmurs, voice lower than the hush that’s fallen over the crowd. “Make the most of it. Go. Rid yourself of this ridiculous scandal and present yourself as the Duchess-to-be.”
You hesitate. You feel the weight of your name before it is ever spoken, the pressure of your title before it has been officially given. Then Utahime presses a warm hand to the small of your back for a gentle, grounding push.
You inhale, and then step forward.
Your feet move before your thoughts do, weaving through a sea of murmuring guests, muslin and satin brushing against your skirts as you pass. You are walking toward a future already being written by someone else’s hand. Toward a dais that gleams beneath lanternlight, toward a father whose face betrays nothing and a mother whose tears have been perfectly timed.
Gojo is waiting for you at the bottom step. He offers his arm. His fingers brush your glove as you take it. And then, together, you ascend. The dais is high enough that it feels like a reckoning. The musicians have fallen silent. The air is charged now—still, brittle, like glass waiting to break.
Your father clears his throat and raises his glass, his posture the kind that comes from years of hosting, of ruling from parlors and private dinners. “My lords, ladies, and honoured guests,” he begins, and his voice is practiced, warm, unshaken, “this spring has brought with it more than sunlight and blossoms. It has brought my household a most… unexpected delight.”
A ripple of polite laughter spreads, though it is laced with curiosity.
Your gaze flits across the lawn to the hundreds of faces, eyes fixed on you. You cannot see your brother or Megumi among them, but you imagine them somewhere near the puppet tents, unaware of the consequences of this moment. The nausea threatens you again, rising from somewhere deep and quiet, but Gojo is beside you, unmoved, hands clasped behind his back like he’s been born for this. When you look at him, he is already looking at you. And when he blinks reassuringly, it is like a balm.
“It is with great pride,” your father continues, “and no small measure of astonishment, that I announce the engagement of my daughter…”
He gestures to you. There is an audible swell of breath from the crowd.
“…to His Grace, Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes.”
The lawn erupts. Gasps, applause, chatter—voices tangling with one another in a crescendo of disbelief and fascination. Your name flies from mouths like confetti. The match is a triumph. The scandal has been rewritten into something desirable. You are not ruined. You are beloved. You are desired. You are his.
Your mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, already performing the part of a sentimental parent, though you’ve never known her to cry unless there was an audience to receive it. Your father raises his glass higher, nodding with a smile that only barely touches his eyes. The musicians begin again, a stately waltz, and suddenly the fête transforms. This is no longer a party. It is a coronation.
And you? You are the Duchess-to-be.
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume II, Issue XIII
From Folly to Fête
My dearest gentle readers,
The Season wears on, and with each passing week, it becomes more evident that propriety is but a delicate veil—and some among us would do well to remember how sheer that veil truly is.
Let us begin, regretfully, with an incident that one wishes could be brushed away like errant crumbs from a silk tablecloth. On Wednesday evening, Lord Nigel Berbrooke—yes, that Berbrooke, of the unfortunate hairline and even more unfortunate manners—was seen in a most unbecoming state at the upper corner of Grosvenor Square. After an evening of drink at one of those gentleman’s clubs where very little gentleness is ever in practice, he was observed harassing a maid, poor thing, who was merely trying to see to her business without being cornered by a stumbling peer. One needn’t be a woman of high society to know: a title cannot soften a man's character, and all the coin in Mayfair cannot erase behaviour as coarse as gravel. A note to all mothers: do not let your daughters wed a man whose respectability is stitched only to his coat.
But enough of men whose presence is as welcome as last season’s hemline. Let us speak, instead, of something divine.
The fête champêtre held this past weekend by the Viscount and Viscountess at the Parade Grounds in Hyde Park was nothing short of legendary. There are events, and then there are moments—and this, dear reader, was a moment. A vision in silk tents and silkier rumours, with the sound of waltzes drifting between lanterns hung like moonlight on string. There was champagne that sparkled like diamonds, wines that warmed like affection, and refreshments more decadent than any secret whispered beneath a fan.
And if one may abandon objectivity for but a moment—this author must confess a particular fondness for the ring toss tucked beside the dais. A charming, utterly diverting little affair. And let us not forget the pastries at the far edge of the lawn. (This author certainly returned for seconds. Possibly thirds. Do not ask.)
Alas, there was no time for the fortune-tellers, whose tent brimmed with silks and mystery. A true shame. This Phantom had quite hoped to learn whether scandal or sentiment lies ahead. But let us speak of something more fateful than fortune.
For while the fête itself would have been enough to keep the ton buzzing for months, the Viscountess had one last waltz up her sleeve. Just as the final gold thread of sunlight gave way to evening’s velvet, a hush fell upon the crowd. The Viscount raised a glass. The musicians quieted. And in that breathless hush, it was announced: the engagement of His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, to none other than the daughter of the house.
Yes. That daughter. The same young lady who has danced, withdrawn, and returned to society in a swirl of rumours and restraint. Now, she is to be Duchess.
What a triumphant turn of events. What a coup. What a game.
For who among us suspected the Viscountess would answer scandal not with silence, but with spectacle? With beauty, with orchestration, with the most dazzling alliance of the season? And yet here we are, watching the curtain fall on speculation, and rise on certainty.
This author, who has watched the highs and lows of their courtship with an ink-stained heart and cautious hope, is glad—genuinely glad—to see the pair united at last. They stood atop the dais like two characters pulled from a sonnet, their expressions unreadable but their bond unmistakable.
Let the poets scribble, the gossips gasp, and the Season spin onward. This couple, it seems, has already found their story.
With admiration (and perhaps a little envy),
Phantom.
The next three weeks unfold like a fever dream, equal parts lace and tyranny. Your mother, possessed by a singular vision, insists on a wedding ceremony “proper enough to make even royalty envious.” You recall her words precisely—how she said them with her mouth full of sugared plums and her eyes alight like a general waging war. “No only daughter of mine shall be married off intimately. We will be making it grand.”
And grand it becomes. Fittings upon fittings. Layers of silk and tulle, endless consultations with the modiste, who eyes your figure like a sculptor assessing marble. There is no time to think, let alone write. The quills remain mostly untouched, save for four rushed columns and some letters to Satoru you managed in a haze of candlelight and exhaustion. The rest of your hours are spent with your mother, overseeing seating arrangements, breakfast menus, guest lists, flower orders, and learning that hosting a ball as a future duchess is not a matter of preference, it is proof. Of stature. Of ability. Of survival.
You choose the fabric yourself, of course. Something ethereal. A blue so pale it becomes a rumour of white in the light. The modiste called it moonmilk. Said it would arrive the night before, perfectly pressed, wrapped in muslin, a ribbon pinned to its bodice like a secret.
The ceremony is to be held at St. George’s, Hanover Square. The breakfast will be at the Six Eyes Estate, arranged by Satoru himself. He wrote to you last three days ago. His letter is thoughtful, brief. “I do not expect a reply. I imagine you are being devoured by gowns and spectacle. I am being devoured by longing.”
And so the night before the wedding comes. You wear your softest ivory silk dress robes, the kind only meant for nights where sleep seems like a betrayal of time. In your hand is the cravat pin he gave you, small and gold, now dulled by touch and memory. You sit by the window. The box containing your wedding gown lies nearby, gaping open like a soft-mouthed promise. You reach in, touch the lace—like spun sugar, like breath. You look outside, to the swing in the courtyard. To your desk. Then you stand, move to the cabinet beneath, and pull it open.
There lie the quiet spoils of your secret: pouches of coins, neatly tied, the sum of months spent in disguise. The Phantom. Every ounce of ink-stained effort has led to this. And now, all of it must come with you. You do not know how. But it will. Your life—your dresses, your books, your horse, your fencing kit—is about to be moved piece by piece to a house that is not yet home.
You do not sleep. You cannot. Instead, you watch the sky tilt gently from night to dawn, the blue bleeding into gold. Your maid, Agatha, rushes in with the first light, surprised to find you already upright, silhouetted at the window like some lonely patron saint of anxiety. She mutters something about tea and biscuits. That your mother insists everything begin early. That the water is already being drawn for your bath—lavender, rose petals, and sandalwood steeping into warmth. That your hair must be washed and bound with care. In case the Phantom is watching, she says with a wink. In case she is to write about the Duchess-to-be.
And for a moment, you wonder if she knows. And if she does, whether she approves. You sip your tea in silence. And the city readies itself for the wedding of the season.
Hours later, seated before the mirror, you look like a bride but feel like a stranger to the word. Silks the color of moonlight—barely blue, more the shade of milk steeped in twilight—pool around you. Your hair is pinned with sapphires and a certain pin, your wrists with diamonds. It is all too fine, too formal, too far from the girl who once wrote under candlelight and tasted freedom in ink.
Your mother has finally allowed Utahime and Shoko to your side, though not without dramatic protest. They burst through the upstairs corridor like wind through opened windows, all breathless smiles and wide eyes. For a brief second, it makes you laugh. But the moment is fleeting, swept away by the inevitability of the hour.
Then the carriage. Your father sits across from you, his hands gloved, his posture formal. But his voice, when he speaks, is not.
“I hope you know,” he says, “this was my only way of ensuring you married well in your first season. You could have done it on your own, but I had my reasons.”
You look at him. And, for the first time in a while, you understand. “It’s alright,” you say quietly. “I like him. I truly do. I think... it ended up being for the best.”
He blinks at you, once, twice, and clears his throat. His gloved hands fold tighter. “It is time.”
When the church doors open, the world sharpens. You see nothing but him.
Not the rows of nobility, not the whispers fluttering through silk fans, not the parish priest waiting by the altar. Only him, at the far end of the aisle. In full military dress, medals gleaming at his chest, and two hairpins tucked boldly near his lapel—the ones he stole from you that he never gave back. You smile without thinking. And when he sees his cravat pin in your hair, he smiles too, just slightly. His lips curving up at the left corner, like a secret passed only between the two of you.
You walk the aisle like one moving through water. Slow, dreamlike, distant. The priest speaks: “Dearly beloved...”
And after that, you hear nothing. Only the sound of your heartbeat, and the shape of his name in your mind. Vows are said, rings exchanged—gold, warm when he slips it onto your finger. In the vestry, you sign your name alongside his. Beside you, your father and Suguru sign too, witnesses to the quietest revolution of your life.
You are wife. You are Duchess. And though your hand trembles slightly, your signature is steady.
The wedding breakfast is a pageant of civility and careful joy. You are gracious, poised, every inch the duchess society expects you to be. But behind your smile, there is a secret truth: you are still learning what this all means.
Later, finally, the carriage. Your husband beside you. Your new home ahead. And the rest of your life—undecided, unspoken, unwritten—waiting just beyond the window.
You do nothing of consequence during the day. You tour the estate on Satoru’s arm, your hand clasped in his when no one is looking. You kiss him—softly, quietly—beside doorframes and between corridors, in corners the help dare not turn. The library is your weakness, and he knows it. He shows you the shelves first—where he keeps his favorites, bound in blue cloth and smelling faintly of cedar—and then, a little alcove, tucked behind a narrow ladder. There lie your favorites, arranged as if he has known your mind long before he ever held your hand. You kiss him there, too. Longer, this time.
Dinner is simple, for once. Roast duck, rosemary bread, and spiced wine. You think you are content—until the letter arrives. Stamped with a seal you don’t recognize, handed over with hushed voices. “From the Palace,” he says, rising quickly. You blink, watching his silhouette disappear past the parlor door. He does not return for nearly an hour.
In his absence, you busy yourself. You learn the rhythms of the house. The butler, standoffish at first, warms when you mention fencing. The Duke, he admits, was once obsessed—used to practice at dawn in the old hall before lessons. You store that detail like treasure. The housekeeper is more reluctant, her replies tidy and measured. But when you ask about Satoru’s mother, her face softens. “She preferred the country,” she says. “He lived here with his father, mostly. Genius child, but too quiet for it.”
And then, unasked, unprovoked: “The previous Duchess passed of fever. His Grace was barely four.”
Your chest tightens. You imagine him, alone in this grand place of carved marble and echoing stairwells. Then you remember Megumi.
“But... Megumi is twelve,” you say slowly, at the threshold of your chambers. “That’s well after her passing.”
The housekeeper hesitates, then lowers her voice to a breath. “The late Duke’s by-blow. But hush, your Grace, he is the Duke’s brother in all but blood. He raised him. That is what matters.”
You nod, and say nothing more. The matter is closed. You retreat into the quiet hush of your bedchamber, where Agatha is already laying out your robe. The one familiar face you insisted accompany you to your new life. She buttons you in, her fingers deft and gentle. You glance out the window just in time to see the Duke’s carriage pulling into the courtyard.
When he walks in, he looks like something unravelling—gloves off, cufflinks half-undone. You nearly startle.
“Is something the matter?” you ask. He stills, then shrugs it off too casually. “No. Just a few papers. Palace bureaucracy. Nothing worth troubling you over.”
You walk toward him, slow and careful, undoing the other cuff for him. “I’ve never seen you anxious,” you murmur. “Not truly. You’ve always been so… composed. Charming. So utterly sure of yourself.”
He laughs quietly, remembering. “You saw me flustered the day you kicked Nigel Berbrooke into the street like a rogue from the Peninsula.”
You smirk, helping him out of his coat. “I was too preoccupied to notice, your Grace.”
He winces, theatrically. “Don’t call me that. Not now. Not here. I am just Satoru to you. No titles. No masks.”
Then he sighs, dragging the cravat from his throat and tossing it onto a table. He steps closer, the air between you thinning. “We're married now, and yet the most affection I’ve received are a few stolen kisses.”
“I...” you begin, but falter. There’s something about the way he says it. As if he’s genuinely uncertain. “That’s all I know how to do.”
His brow arches, amused and something softer. “That’s all you know how to do?” he echoes, voice lilting. He sinks into the armchair by the fire, pulling off his boots, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. You swallow as he rises again. He crosses the floor with quiet, unhurried steps. His hand comes to your face—not possessive, not urgent. Just reverent. His fingers trace your temple, brushing a loose curl behind your ear.
“The Viscountess surely is cruel,” he says lowly, “keeping you in the dark for so long.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, but the question dissolves. The warmth of his palm has scattered your thoughts. And then, with the gentlest tug at your robe, the satin slips to the floor. Only your gown remains. It feels like the beginning of something you’ve been circling for years.
He steps closer, slow as dusk. His breath brushes your forehead before his lips press to yours. They're warm, sure, almost trembling with restraint. You kiss back instinctively, but it feels as though you are chasing something he’s already running from. Still, he lets you catch him. Or perhaps he slows down just enough to be caught.
His mouth grazes the edge of your jaw, then your ear, then lower. A scattering of kisses down your throat, each one igniting something unfamiliar. You're not sure whether it's embarrassment or anticipation. He draws you backwards until your knees meet the edge of the bed, and when you stumble slightly, more from dizziness than misstep. He catches you, hands strong at your waist. You’re not hurt, but your heart races all the same.
"Tell me you've touched yourself, at least," he murmurs, voice husky. "That one doesn’t take anyone’s guidance."
You blink up at him, the question foreign, almost impolite. "Touched myself?"
Your brow furrows. Not in modesty, but confusion, honest and childlike. He exhales, not in disappointment, but awe. It’s tender, the way he kisses your forehead. As if to apologise for the question. As if to promise you'll never be left behind again.
"You haven’t?" he asks. You shake your head.
"I don't understand," you whisper.
He doesn’t mock you. He doesn’t smirk or tease. Instead, he helps you lie back, careful as ever, as if you’re made of glass. You feel something between anticipation and fright—like standing on the edge of something beautiful and vast, not knowing how deep the fall will be.
He trails kisses lower now. Along your collarbone, the hollow beneath your throat, and then to the swell just above your chest. Every press of his lips sends sparks under your skin, so much so that the first sound you let out—soft, breathy, involuntary—startles even him.
"It feels good?" he asks, and you nod quickly, eyes wide, glassy.
"I... I don’t know how, but yes."
"Shhh," he soothes, brushing his lips against yours, reverently slow. Then, his hand trails lower. Over your stomach. Down further. And when he finally reaches between your thighs, when his fingers just barely brush where you're most sensitive, your breath hitches. His touch is featherlight, and he speaks while his fingers ghost over your bare folds.
"This," he says, gaze locked with yours, voice low, "is what I meant."
And when your thighs part instinctively, as if your body has answered for you, he smiles. Half gentle, half rogue. As though you’ve just let him into a sacred place.
His finger slides upward, tracing a delicate path along your slit, and the soft sounds that escape you make your eyes widen in startled delight. The slickness of it all catches in your throat, and you search his gaze for something. He finds it easily, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes. His finger finds a sensitive bud, and the sudden touch makes you jump, thighs instinctively closing, but he holds them open with a firm weight that makes your heart twist.
His arm rests against your upper thigh, the hem of your dress riding far too high to be considered proper. You have never been like this before. Never felt such a wild, unfamiliar fire. And yet, it is as if this is exactly where you are meant to be. The pad of his finger moves with increasing urgency against your bud, setting every nerve alight. Your blood rushes fiercely to your cheeks and pools between your legs, your back arching of its own accord, desperate to draw nearer to him. Your breath hitches, and you gasp his name over and over. Like a hymn, or a whispered prayer.
He chuckles softly, knowingly. “This is how you learn to pleasure yourself,” he murmurs. “You touch where it feels good, especially between your legs. I imagine your breasts are sensitive, too, if you’ve never explored them like this. And you keep touching, keep seeking, until you come. Until you reach a crescendo—a pinnacle that frees your mind of doubt and untangles every knot in your body.”
You grasp his shoulders, gasps spilling from your lips as you reach the peak, just as he had described it.
“I know, darling. I know,” he murmurs teasingly, and with those words, every knot in your core unravels, every doubt in your mind dissolves, every weight in your body lifts. You feel as if you are floating, weightless and free. You don’t notice when his hand slips away until your eyes flutter open, coming down from your high, and find him standing at the edge of the bed, watching you with a look that promises delicious sin.
“Come closer,” he commands softly. You obey without hesitation, dropping to your knees at the bed’s edge. His hands cup your face with a tenderness that makes you feel fragile and cherished all at once. His fingers nimbly undo the hooks of your dress, the speed making your eyes widen in surprise. Then, with care, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to it before sliding your arm through the sleeve. The other follows, and the dress slips from your frame as if it had never belonged there.
You swallow hard as his gaze roams over you—lingering on the swell of your breasts. He says nothing at first, only caresses your cheek. His eyes dark and intense, sending heat pooling deep within you, the same place he touched moments ago. Your lips part, and his expression shifts, expectant, waiting for your voice.
“I want you,” you confess, breath trembling. “I don’t know what it means to want you, but I do. All of you.”
A shaky breath escapes him. “You don’t know what you’re asking, but you still want it?”
You nod, and he chuckles softly before taking your hand and guiding it to his breeches. “Undo them for me.”
You blink, surprised. “You mean take them off?”
He grins playfully, and you comply. As you do, you notice the bulge pressing against the fabric—unmistakably urgent, almost uncomfortable. You touch it hesitantly, unsure what to expect, and he winces.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Keep going,” he urges, voice low and breathy. “I like it. Keep going.”
You peel away the last barrier of clothing, and he springs free—long, thick, veined. It’s more than you imagined, but you follow his lead, your hands exploring as he instructs. You stroke, you caress, obeying every whispered command, until his sounds mirror your own—moans, gasps, low grunts—until he shakes his head and pulls your hand away.
“L-lay back.”
In seconds, he is upon you, parting your thighs, pressing kisses to your lips and wherever he can reach. His hands find your breasts, and you return his hunger with equal fervor, cradling his face in your hands.
“More,” you plead, arching your back as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts. “I want more.”
He pauses, positioning himself above you, his gaze softening. “Are you sure? We can stop now, if you’d like—”
“I am sure,” you whisper. “I want you—”
Without hesitation, he enters you, and it feels unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your heart swells, your body overwhelms, and the gasps that escape feel as natural as breathing—terrifying and right all at once. He pulls back, then thrusts forward again, sending stars across your vision as your back arches involuntarily. He moves steadily, up and down, again and again, each motion a delicious torment. You cling to him, whispering his name between moans. His grunts grow louder, pace quickening, skin slapping against yours in a rhythm that sets your senses ablaze.
The crescendo builds again, the undoing you crave. Eyes closed, he cups your face, pressing his forehead to yours as his pace accelerates. Your faces nearly touch, lips parted but not meeting. He stares deep into your eyes, breath ragged, before murmuring, “F-for me, it happens the same way.”
“The pinnacle,” you gasp.
He nods, voice rough. “Unlike you, however,” he grunts, “When I come, I ejaculate.”
“And what does that entail?” you ask breathlessly, as he pulls back slightly to look at you. Your blush deepens under his gaze as it drifts over your breasts and flushed cheeks while he continues his steady rhythm. He laughs softly—not mockingly, but warmly.
“It’s how a woman becomes pregnant. If I do it inside you.”
“O-oh,” you whisper, swallowing hard. He slows just a fraction, panting. “I’m close.”
“So am I,” you admit, feeling yourself unravel further, the knots in your stomach loosening, fraying at the edges. His pace slows, but the intensity only deepens. The sound of skin meeting skin grows louder, more urgent. You feel it—an overwhelming need to hold him, to keep him inside you forever.
And then it happens again. But this time, it feels warmer, fuller, more profound than when it was just his hand. You feel him twitch inside you, the two of you releasing in tandem. He moans your name, forehead pressed to yours, as if you are the very prayer he utters.
When he pulls away slightly, the two of you share a soft, breathless laugh.
In the weeks that follow, you move through the world as if through gauze—dutiful, poised, every smile measured. Your mother basks in the social currency of your title, gathering compliments like pearls on a string. You accompany her, watch the other mamas whisper and envy and flatter, all of them under the illusion that she orchestrated your fate with the Duke. You say nothing. You nod when appropriate. What use is truth to people so fluent in fiction?
You write, of course. The Phantom still breathes beneath your skin. Your newest column, delicate and saccharine, reads: This author has it on good authority that the Duchess looked divine on her wedding day. And that His Grace, upon seeing her, smiled so sweetly it might’ve given the ton a collective toothache.
The estate is yours now, or at least it behaves as if it is. The staff take to you with the kind of slow, sturdy fondness earned rather than assumed. You ask the butler for history, the housekeeper for stories. You learn the creaks of the halls, the way the morning light falls over the courtyard. You walk with purpose, like a woman trying to believe the ground beneath her belongs to her feet.
You try, once or twice, to speak to Megumi. He is polite, reserved, rarely reactive. It’s not coldness. It’s watchfulness, a kind of quiet calculation. And so, you wait. You plan the ball with your mother and the staff, ask about musicians, arrange the refreshments with an exactness that makes the housekeeper blink in approval.
It’s a Friday afternoon when you drift to the library, exhausted but restless. And there he is.
Megumi sits curled sideways on a sofa, a book open in one hand, long legs stretched comfortably along the cushions. He doesn’t notice you at first. You say nothing as you wander to the shelves and pull down a weighty volume—The Monk, by Lewis. You move toward the window, settle into the light like it’s a familiar friend.
You don’t miss the way his eyes flick to the cover.
“I didn’t know you liked Lewis,” he murmurs. His voice is dry but curious.
You raise a brow. “For that, you’d have to speak to me.”
He closes his book slowly. “What else do you read?”
“Wollstonecraft,” you say, glancing at him. “Radcliffe. And yes, I like Austen.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ve heard all women do.”
“She writes brilliantly,” you reply. “If you've read her, you'd know. And it's not just women. She's better than half the men paraded through the canon.”
He grins then, truly grins. “You have taste.”
You let the smallest smile slip. “I have more than just taste, Megumi. Want to put that to the test?”
The sound of soft laughter at the door makes you turn.
Gojo leans against the frame, arms folded, an unreadable expression just beneath the familiar amusement on his lips. “I would advise against challenging my wife, Megumi. You’re not nearly clever enough to win.”
Megumi smirks. “She was just about to lose.”
Gojo steps into the room. He doesn’t touch you, but he stands close enough to be felt. “Don’t be so sure,” he says, eyes still on you. “She tends to surprise. And you, brother, are twelve.”
You feel his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary before he turns away, joking lightly with Megumi about the arrangement of the shelves and how the boy seems to have claimed a whole corner as his own. But even when he’s across the room, you still feel the weight of him.
That night, in your shared bedchamber, the laughter has long since faded.
You sit at your vanity, unpinning your hair slowly, the soft scrape of the comb the only sound in the room. Gojo enters quietly, not with the dramatic flourish he often employs, but with something more subdued. Thoughtful.
“You like Megumi,” he says after a beat, tone mild.
You glance at him in the mirror. “I do. He’s clever. Kind, even if he tries to hide it.”
Gojo’s eyes narrow slightly, though he doesn’t move. “He talked more with you than he did with me in the last few weeks.”
“Perhaps you should read Lewis,” you offer, tone light but not unkind.
He chuckles faintly, walking behind you. His hands rest on your shoulders, firm and warm. “Perhaps I should.”
For a moment, nothing is said. The air is thick with something you don’t yet name. His thumbs press into the muscle of your neck, a tender pressure. You close your eyes. You let him touch you.
You catch his reflection in the gilded mirror, and your breath catches sharply as your eyes meet his—Satoru. The name tastes like a secret on your tongue as you say it.
"Hm?" he murmurs, bending with a languid grace to press a kiss just where your shoulder curves into your neck. The sensation is exquisite, a sudden, exquisite ache blooming within you. Your eyes flutter half-shut, heavy with desire, and you turn to brush your lips against the sharp line of his jaw. He sheds his coat with careless urgency, the fabric falling away as if impatient to be discarded.
Before you can gather your thoughts, he has you pinned against the wall, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you. His hands move with a fevered haste, peeling away your dress as if it were a mere barrier to the communion he craves. Your thighs part beneath his touch, trembling, and a soft moan escapes you as he sinks to his knees.
You watch, breath caught, as he lifts your dress with one hand, his gaze rising to meet yours. An unspoken claim, as if you are the axis upon which his world turns.
“Satoru?” Your voice is fragile, a whisper on the edge of surrender. But before you can brace yourself, his tongue finds you; hungry, desperate, as if he has wandered a desert for months and you are the oasis. It laps your cunt and circles your clit with a devotion that steals your breath and weakens your knees.
You arch, clutching the edge of the vanity to anchor yourself, one hand gripping the polished wood, the other tangling in the thick strands of his hair.
“Satoru,” you gasp, voice trembling, “Please... don’t stop. It feels too good. Too much.”
He smirks against you, the vibration of his satisfaction pressing into your skin. You feel the swell of his pride, the fierce possessiveness that makes him hold you by the hips as he remains kneeling before you, as though you are the very thing he has long been denied.
“I’m going to come,” you breathe out, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and surrender. “I didn’t know it could feel so... oh.”
You dissolve into him as his tongue slips deep into your cunt. He giggles low against your skin, the sound vibrating in you, and it nearly breaks you to remain upright. His voice, husky and intimate, murmurs into the depths of you, “You can’t just—”
“Can’t I?” he replies, pulling back with a slow, deliberate grace. Your dress, reluctant as if mourning its loss, slips down to its rightful place when he releases the hem, and you whimper softly. His smile is wicked, a devil’s promise as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. You hate the taste of yourself on his tongue. At how sweet it is, and it only stokes the fire, leaving you craving more.
You gaze at him, eyes glazed with a heady intoxication, and he brushes the stray drool from the corner of your mouth with a tender finger. “As much as I would adore keeping you awake until dawn,” he says, voice teasingly low, “I cannot exhaust you entirely in the first month. I fear you might grow weary of me.”
“I could never,” you whisper, breath still ragged, your chest rising and falling beyond the confines of your neckline. His eyes soften, just for a moment, before he pulls you close by the waist. You look up at him, heart pounding, as he says, “Here.”
He moves toward the vanity, a few deliberate steps, and pushes the stool aside. He guides you to stand before the mirror. You blink, catching your reflection—eyes meeting his through the glass once more. But now, you look undone. Less a lady of society, more a woman laid bare by desire. It is slightly unbecoming, wildly improper, yet you revel in it. You like seeing yourself this way, transformed by him. He sees it too, because his voice drops to a whisper, “You are something else. But you're mine. All mine.”
“You as well,” you retort, a mischievous spark lighting your gaze. “You are all mine, too.”
He chuckles, dark and amused. “Jealous, are you?”
You shake your head firmly. “No. Merely staking my claim, as befits a Duchess.”
His hands settle on your back, commandingly warm, fingers splayed across the expanse of your bare skin as he slowly undoes your dress. It falls away with surprising ease this time. He inhales sharply, a shaky breath betraying his restraint, before his hands roam to your nipples needily. The playfulness has vanished; now, he needs you with a raw intensity that leaves you breathless.
He sheds his breeches with haste and bends you forward. You gulp, shuddering as he enters you like this. You watch yourself in the mirror—your breasts bouncing with every thrust, his pupils dilating in rapture, his body making sounds that are equal parts grunt, moan, and whimper, all for you. It inflates your pride, a delicious arrogance, as if you hold dominion over him.
You yelp, breath catching as he pulls you back upright, continuing his relentless pursuit while standing. Your eyes widen in surprise, but hunger simmers beneath the shock. You pivot halfway, lips crashing against his with a feral hunger. His hands spread wide across your chest, gripping you with a fierce possessiveness that borders on pain—sharp, intoxicating, like the burn of port sliding down your throat, searing yet exquisite after a moment. Your half-lidded gaze and ragged moans confess everything; you are on the precipice of coming, and so is he.
“I can feel it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire. “Almost there, aren't you? You’re quite transparent, darling.”
“Shut up,” you grunt, a whimper escaping as his hand pinches your nipple with sudden, merciless insistence. Eyes closed, you surrender to the symphony of sensation—his hands on your breasts, his length buried deep within your cunt, his breath hot against your neck, his voice a low caress, his chest pressed firmly to your back. The more you dwell on it, the closer you spiral toward the edge.
He grunts into your ear, lips trailing kisses along the sensitive skin, and then it happens. The world narrows to the exquisite clenching of your body against him—against the veins of his cock, the tip pressing mercilessly against your cervix. Your core tightens, gripping him with a fierce, repeated rhythm as your entire frame trembles. And then, you feel him releasing inside you with a shuddering surrender.
You remain locked in that trembling embrace, panting, eyes drawn to the mirror where your reflection entwines with his. He holds you with a desperate tenderness, arms wrapped tight around your waist as his face buries itself in your hair. His breath is ragged against your neck, and your gaze softens.
For all his strength—Gojo Satoru, the man who devours you with such ferocity—there is fragility here. Though he has just claimed you utterly, there is something vulnerable in the way he closes his eyes and clings to you, as if you are the very air he needs to breathe.
And then it strikes you. The Gojo you know is a different creature entirely. Confident. Jovial. A master of wit and flirtation, as if life itself depended on his charm. Ever adorned with that infuriating smirk, so composed that every lady of the ton still whispers his name as London’s most coveted bachelor.
But tonight, you realize it with a shock. You do not know this man at all.
There is nothing particularly remarkable about the ball you host—not in the way society defines remarkable. It is exquisite, of course. Lit like a painting, gilded in every corner, with flowers perfuming the air and crystal glinting off every surface. But you’re tired of it. Tired of society and its pageantry, tired of the performance. Your mother goes on about appearances and honeymoons and duty. You nod, you smile, you dance. You watch Satoru disappear into his study with Suguru for ten minutes and return as if nothing happened. But you know better now. You can read him.
Later that night, while he checks in on Megumi, you sit in bed and think of all the things you have learned about him, and all the things you still haven’t. When he returns, you pretend to be asleep until he presses a kiss to your temple, tenderly quiet. You open your eyes and reach for him.
"You seemed upset when you came back," you murmur. He raises a brow. Waits.
"You left to speak with Suguru. In your office. Is everything alright?"
He blinks. “I didn’t expect you to notice. It’s nothing.”
"You’re the one who said you keep finding new things about me,” you whisper. “Why is it I feel I hardly know you at all?”
He exhales slowly. “It's nothing. A document won’t clear through. I’m looking for a way around it.”
"Can I help?" you ask. He shakes his head. “Not really.”
You card your fingers through his hair. “I’ve been exploring,” you say. He hums, eyes half-closed, waiting for you to continue.
"There are paintings in the drawing room. Your mother’s.”
“She was good,” he says, turning toward you fully now. “She painted. Played pianoforte. Taught me how to ride. To speak. To think. Refused to let a blasted governor near me. Said she wanted to know what I was becoming.”
“You must miss her.”
“Every fucking day,” he says simply. “As much as I hated my father, I loved her.”
You still. “You hated him?”
He stiffens. A beat of silence. Then, “Forget it. Tell me when Yuji’s coming next. I’d like to see him.”
That night, you don’t sleep. You rise before dawn and write, ink staining your hands as you sign your name as the Phantom once more. By sunrise, you’re dressed, prepared, and smiling again.
The months pass like breath. Days folding into one another with dizzying, golden repetition. You and Satoru move like clockwork: breakfast, duty, desire. He touches you constantly behind closed doors, between conversations, in the dark, and often in daylight. You let him. You welcome it. Sometimes it’s gentle, sometimes it’s rough, but always it’s worshipful. You start to wonder if it is his way of apologizing—for what, you don’t yet know.
You begin to bond with Megumi. He softens around you, especially when you bring books or speak of poets he’s only just begun to admire. Yuji visits often, and his presence feels like a memory of something easier. You tend to your duchess duties—entertaining the wives of foreign dignitaries, inspecting the kitchens, reading reports. You make appearances in town. You host teas. You smile.
But something hollows. Slowly, stealthily, as if dug by a spoon from the inside. There is a pit in your stomach that no wine or laughter can fill. Something unnamed. It stirs when you hear Suguru’s voice through the study door. When Satoru smiles just a little too easily. When silence settles between you after the pleasure is gone, and nothing is said at all.
You do not name the feeling, but it grows. Like a storm swelling in the distance. Like an ache you will eventually have to reckon with.
A few weeks later, with Satoru gone to the palace for some diplomatic affair, the house feels quieter than usual—emptier, though not lonelier. You’re curled on the parlor settee, half-lost in the novel he brought you, some token gesture to distract you from the silence blooming between you. Megumi is with his governor. There is no company to keep but the book in your lap and the ache that has been growing in your chest since before you could name it.
You're just about to turn the page when the butler enters and announces, “Lord Geto Suguru has arrived, Your Grace.” You blink, surprised. A smile curls faintly across your lips.
“Send him in,” you murmur, rising slightly.
He steps in moments later, breathless and urgent as though the world has ended, but his expression softens when he sees you. “Hi,” he says, almost sheepishly.
You smile wider, if only to push away the unrest in your chest. “Hi. Come to see my husband and not me, I presume?”
“Something like that,” he offers, bowing a little as he crosses the room to sit. “I don’t mind spending time with my old friend, though.”
“The old friend you haven’t written to since her wedding,” you tease, though your voice is light, practiced. “Seems you preferred me as a debutante.”
“Don’t say that,” he replies quickly, with genuine affection. “You know I never could. You’re like a sister to me.” A beat. “How have you been?”
You hesitate. The silence stretches, hangs. You could say everything. You could say nothing.
“I’m the same as I’ve always been,” you say instead, quiet. He narrows his eyes, then tilts his head, not fooled. “You’re angry with him.”
“No,” you say, too quickly. “Not at all.”
“You are,” he insists, gently. “Is this still about the contract?”
You pause. “Contract?”
“Yes, the one he and your father signed. The one to keep your father’s seat and to secure Satoru’s inheritance.” He says it like it’s common knowledge. “Though there’s a complication now—he’s been chasing down the notary ever since—wait.”
He stops. His eyes narrow again, before widening. “You didn’t know?”
You blink. “Keep my father’s seat at court...?” you echo, your voice louder than you mean it to be.
He sits upright, suddenly aware. “Satoru said he’d told you. Before the wedding—”
“Suguru,” you interrupt, your voice low but steel-threaded. “Explain. All of it.”
He looks at you then, and something in his face breaks. The guilt, the shame. He’s folding into it. And now you understand, how fools are made not by ignorance, but by trust.
“Satoru’s father was cruel,” he says slowly. “Raised him like a prisoner after his mother died. Tuberculosis, they said, though Satoru just called it wasting. His father never let him live, never let him feel. And in his will, he wrote that Satoru could only inherit at twenty-five if…”
“If?” Your voice is a whisper.
“If he marries. And sires an heir.”
There is a ringing in your ears. A coldness at the base of your neck. You feel the edges of your world tilting. “And my father?” you manage.
“Your father’s mistakes almost cost him the magistrate,” Suguru says, still not meeting your gaze. “Satoru saw it unravel. And so he... he made a deal.”
You exhale, slow and long. “He married me,” you say, voice flat. “Gave my father protection. Took a wife for an inheritance.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“I think you should leave,” you say quietly, rising from the lounge. “It was lovely having you, my lord.”
You do not watch him go. You sit back down only after you hear the door shut. You do not cry. Not yet. There is still too much to unravel before the grief can even begin. When Satoru returns that evening, the house is quiet. You’ve already retreated to your bedchambers, the light dimmed, the curtains drawn. You lie still beneath the covers, feigning the deep quiet of sleep. The housekeeper had passed along the lie without question—lightheadedness, perhaps exhaustion. A long day. Soup had been left on your nightstand. You hadn’t touched it.
He enters quietly. You feel the shift in the mattress, the creak of polished floorboards. Then the weight of his hand, gentle against your forehead, as though measuring something deeper than fever. His lips press to your crown with that practiced tenderness you once believed was instinct rather than performance. His hands rub soothing circles along your sides, warm through the thin linen. He murmurs something—your name, maybe. A prayer. A hush meant only for the sick and beloved.
You should soften. But instead you lie still, breathing steady. Pretending. And beneath the layers of blanket and silence, guilt blooms. You shouldn’t feel guilty. You remind yourself that.
Shouldn’t you be the one owed remorse?
Shouldn’t he have felt it when he let you fall in love with him under false pretenses? When he danced with you at that first ball—so attentive, so sweet—and didn’t think to mention the contract your father signed behind your back? When he smiled at your skirt in Utahime’s garden, saying he didn’t know how to speak to you, when in fact he knew precisely how to weave the web?
And wasn’t it too convenient, too perfect, that he followed you onto that balcony? That he kissed you? The thought clenches something hard inside your chest. You feel it rise like bile. You think: he knew. He must have known exactly what would happen, how quickly duty would follow affection. How clean the trap would spring shut.
You close your eyes tighter, swallowing thickly. His hand lingers on your waist, and all you can think is how expertly he has always known how to hold you.
The next few weeks are agony in silk and lace. Your mother insists on appearances. Says the London season has had its fill of your marital bliss, and it is now time to retreat—just the two of you—to Limitless Hall, the sprawling country estate that belongs to the title you now carry like a weight across your chest. A honeymoon, she calls it. A reward. A blessing. You nod and say yes, and wear the dresses she picks, and sign the letters addressed to "Her Grace," and you avoid your husband as best you can.
But even that is its own kind of torment.
Because pretending is a game you’ve grown good at, but never with him. It is hell to dodge his gaze. Hell to say you're tired when you're not. And it is hell—true, visceral hell—to lie beneath him and pretend it doesn’t make you feel everything when his mouth finds your breast, when his hips snap forward, when his voice rasps out your name like it’s the only prayer he's ever known. To bite your lip and not cry out when his breath fans your throat, when he worships your body like it belongs to him and you alone. When he says, hoarse and raw, “There is nothing I love more than being inside of you.”
It isn't the inheritance that hurts. Or the condition tied to it. You understand selfishness. Ambition. You understand needing to survive. What you cannot forgive—what burns through your chest like frostbitten fire—is that he didn’t tell you.
Because you loved him. Foolishly, fully. You still do. And that is the tragedy of it all. That love makes a fool of both of you. Because deep down, you understand: had you never written that column, you’d never have married so soon. Had you said nothing, done nothing, waited… maybe he would have told you. Maybe you’d have found out the truth slowly, from him, without contracts or obligations or shame.
Maybe, in another life, there would have been no trap. No balcony. No bargain sealed in ink and silence. So you pretend. You keep pretending.
You don’t flinch when he tells you he loves you. You smile when he calls you brilliant for suggesting Megumi stay with Yuji for when the two of you will retreat to the countryside. You laugh when he says he can’t wait to spend forever with you. And you don’t let your voice shake when he presses a kiss to your fingers, or when he draws you in close and murmurs that Limitless Hall will be perfect. That the two of you deserve this. That you’re his everything.
You don’t tell him that that—more than the lie, more than the contract—is what hurts most of all.
A week passes in silence and silk. A week of aching contradictions, of your body wrapped in his sheets, your limbs entangled with his, your mind aching with truths that he, at last, begins to share.
He tells you things he’s never told anyone. Of how he was raised at Limitless Hall while his father lingered in London, always out of reach. Of his mother’s slow unraveling, her health waning while his father watched—unmoved, preoccupied with bloodlines and legacy. Of Megumi’s mother, a woman his father ruined, cast aside, left to die bearing his child. Of the argument that fractured what little remained between them, of the promise Satoru made as his father lay dying: that Megumi would be his ward, his brother, his heir.
He apologizes quietly, without drama. Says he never meant to hurt you. That Megumi will remain first in line, and that he cannot change that. You only nod, and smile gently, placing a hand to his cheek. “I would have done the same,” you tell him, and you mean it. He calls you an angel and falls asleep beside you, breathing softly into your collarbone.
The next day, he returns home lighter, glowing. “It’s all done,” he says. “Everything here in London. We can begin the preparations.”
So, you do. You go home first—your old one. You speak with your mother and with Yuji, make arrangements for Megumi’s stay. Your mother acquiesces easily now. She rarely denies you anything since your rise in rank.
“But will it be alright, truly, if I stay here?” Megumi asks, just as you're about to leave. You kneel slightly, pressing your palm to his cheek with practiced ease. “You’ll be just as happy as I was, growing up with Yuji. I’ll write to you three times a week, and next time, perhaps the two of you can come with us.”
He shifts, frowning. “No, I meant—”
“You meant, is it alright to stay where only my brother knows you?” you finish, voice gentle. “Trust me. I’ll make sure of it. And if you have any trouble with my mother, well, I’ll handle her for you.”
You wink. He smiles. And just like that, you’re back at the estate, the soft click of carriage wheels forgotten by the time your footsteps echo along the polished floors. You’re in the corridor of the Duchess’s antechambers, gathering books, letters, and a few quills from your personal writing desk. A familiar silence blankets the space, until it’s broken.
You push open the door.
He’s standing there, framed by lamplight, a pouch of silver coins in one hand and something far worse in the other. A page. Thin, cream-inked, and damning. The look on his face is neither fury nor shock—it is betrayal in its purest form, so deep it roots itself in the set of his jaw, the stunned slack of his lips. “It’s you?” His voice is strained. “The Phantom is... my wife?”
Your eyes flick to the page in his hand, your stomach dropping, lungs collapsing into themselves.
“Satoru—”
“No.” His voice cracks, shakes, recoils. “No. I truly believed it could be anyone but you. I thought...” he laughs, brokenly, “I thought the way you looked that night. So betrayed. So wounded. Out by the swing, you were ruined, I thought. And it turns out, all of it—all of it was a lie? Was I a lie?”
Something hollows inside you. Slowly. Carefully. Then fills with heat. You freeze, just for a moment. The wind has gone from your body. But when you speak, it’s not with shame. It’s with a soft, terrifying calm. “And what of your deception, Your Grace?” Your voice is dangerously low. “Duke of Six Eyes. Gojo Satoru?”
He laughs, bitter now, clutching the piece of parchment in his hand tightly. “What lies?” he snaps. “I have done nothing but love you. Everything you asked, I did. You asked me to court you. I courted you. You asked me to write, I wrote. You wanted flowers. God, I sent you the damn flowers—”
“What I wanted was truth,” you cut in, your voice suddenly cold, slicing. “And what I received was a man who needed his inheritance. Who bargained for his bride like she was currency. Who shared a bed with her solely so he could sire an heir to secure his standing. ”
He stares. Breathing hard now. The coin pouch slips from his hand and crashes to the floor, the silver scattering like bones at your feet. As if there is nothing left to fight for.
“You made sure my father didn’t lose his judgeship. You made sure I was paraded around with you, easy to catch, easier still to wed. You calculated every word, the kiss, every flower.”
“I loved you,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a plea.
“No,” you stand your ground. “You needed me. And you never told me why.”
There is a ringing silence in the room, interrupted only by the scattered coins still rolling gently to stillness across the wooden floor. He’s staring at you, mouth parted, chest rising and falling as if words might yet come. But none do.
You wait. One second. Two. Five.
He does not move. He does not say anything. And somehow that is the thing that shatters you more than anything said between you tonight.
You turn. You do not speak. Your slippers are near-silent on the carpet, but the rustle of your skirts sounds deafening in the stillness. You walk out of the Duchess’s study as if walking out of a fever dream, your limbs trembling with the weight of all you’ve just learned—of all you’ve lost. There’s a hollowness blooming in your chest, tight and terrible, threatening to undo you right there in the hallway. He does not come after you.
You do not look back. Because if you do, and he is still standing there, you might fall to your knees. He does not come after you, he does not come after you, he does not come after you.
You do not ring for help. You do not tell anyone where you're going. You simply walk. Out the hall. Through the grand front doors of the Six Eyes estate. The butler calls after you faintly, confused, but you wave him off.
The night air bites at your skin. You don't care. Your hands shake as you call for the carriage and give your family’s address in a voice that barely sounds like your own.
And the worst part is that he does not chase you. He does not come after you. Not even once. And that is what makes it excruciatingly painful.
That night, when you walk into Highgrove House, your mother shrieks.
The way she gasps at your state—your half-undone hair, your expression, your silence—is almost theatrical. She rushes to you with a flurry of questions. Why you aren't packed, why you're not on your way to the countryside, why you look like you've been to hell and back.
You don’t answer. Not a word. In the parlor, Megumi and Yuji go still when they spot you. Yuji rises halfway from his seat, brows creased. Megumi looks at you like he's trying to figure out what happened, like he's trying to read something in your face. But there’s nothing. Not grief, not rage. Only absence. You walk right past them. Straight to the study. You close the door behind you. Lock it. You wait for the clink of the lock to register with the footsteps behind you and then silence. Just you and him.
Your father.
He sits at the desk, pen frozen above a page. You don’t look at him yet. Not immediately. You inhale. Once. Twice. Then you turn.
“When were you going to tell me?” Your voice is low. Controlled. Thick.
He blinks slowly. “I thought… I thought he would have told you. Before the wedding. That you knew.”
“You thought I knew?”
There’s no tremble in your voice now, just steel. “You didn’t think to ask me yourself? You didn’t think that your daughter deserved to know she was being sold off like property so you could keep your judgeship? What am I, a broodmare?”
“That is not the only reason—”
You laugh. Bitterly. “Oh no. Certainly not. You also thought he’d make a good match. Because, what? Because of his name? His estate? You thought I’d be content to be wanted for everything but who I am?”
“You said you were fine with it. In the carriage,” he says, desperate now. “You said you were—”
“I said I’d marry him,” you cut in, sharply. “Because I had no choice. Because I thought there was a chance it was love. Or something like it. I didn’t know there was a contract. A transaction.”
Your father exhales, heavy and old. “It was a good match. You’ve gone up in rank. You’re a Duchess. You have power. For a woman of your wit, your education, that’s no small thing.”
“But not because I chose it. That’s what matters,” you say, voice quieter now. More dangerous. “You should have told me. All of you should have.”
He pauses. Then, almost brokenly: “I’m sorry.”
You stare at him.
“I thought you were better than this. A better man. A good man,” you say. “But in the end, you’re just like the rest of them.”
You turn on your heel. The door clicks open. Your mother stands just beyond, hand hovering in the air as if she’d just been about to knock. She says nothing as you pass her. Yuji and Megumi rise, both watching you in a stunned kind of silence. You don’t look at them. Don’t give them anything.
You climb the stairs. You open the door to your old bedroom and shut it behind you. And this time, you don’t just close it—you slam it. Letting it echo. Letting it speak for you.
A week passes. Then another. You write a column about a ball you didn’t attend, inventing details about the color of the lady’s gown and the exact note the violinist missed. The gossip is cheap: some debutante without dowry, trying to entrap a second son before the season ends. It’s exactly what people want to read.
You remain at Highgrove House. The world believes you’ve gone to the countryside for your honeymoon. Only your family, and Shoko and Utahime, know the truth. No letters come from Gojo. Not one. He doesn’t appear at your doorstep, doesn’t write, doesn’t send a single flower or verse or scrap of himself.
“You must go back,” your mother insists one morning, as you come down for breakfast, hair pinned and face bare. You pick up your teacup, sip slowly, and then glance over at her. “Mother,” you say, voice thin but not without edge. “As the Duchess, I command you to stop urging me to return. And I would ask that you use my title, not my name. It is improper.”
She blinks. Her mouth opens, but then closes again. She says nothing more.
The days pass in muffled repetition. You read until your eyes ache, write until your wrist cramps, and in between you sulk in corners like a ghost that hasn’t made peace with the world. At night, after dinner, you sneak off to the courtyard with Megumi and Yuji to fence. You move fast and silent and precise, so that if anyone sees, it will be nothing more than a blur. You read aloud to them after. Tuck Megumi in. Pretend it doesn’t hurt to see your old life stretched out before you, still whole, without you in it.
It rains tonight. Heavy and thick, slapping against the windows like it’s angry too. You sit in the parlor long after the candles have burned low, watching the swing sway in the stormwind. You’ve thought of cutting it off more than once. But Yuji still uses it. That’s the only thing that stops you.
A throat clears behind you. You don’t turn. “Are you here to tell me to go back to the estate too?” you murmur.
“No,” your father says, and the familiar sound of pouring liquid follows. “That’s your mother’s job.”
He walks over with two glasses. Hands you one. Sits beside you. You eye the drink suspiciously, then take a sip. It burns too fast, too loud, too bitter. You cough, a little.
“That is as ghastly as my relationship with the Duke,” you mutter. Your father laughs. It’s soft, worn. When the sound fades, he speaks again, gently. “I should have told you from the beginning. But it isn’t easy to tell your daughter that her father’s about to lose his place in the world. That everything you built could vanish overnight. I still have the land, yes. But I am not just a lord. You know that.”
You keep your eyes on the window. “It’s alright,” you mumble.
“No. It isn’t,” he replies. “And you haven’t forgiven me.”
You say nothing. He continues. “But that’s alright, too. In time, perhaps you will. Or not. I’ll make my peace with either. I came to say one thing.”
You turn your head toward him, slowly.
“One day, when you’re older, when your hands tremble and your pride begins to rot inside your chest, you’ll make a decision that hurts someone you love. You’ll think you’re doing the right thing. Or the only thing. You’ll try to justify it, and you won’t be able to. And your child—your brilliant, furious child—will hate you for it.” He pauses, eyes on the fire now. “And in that moment, you’ll understand. That love is not made up of right choices, or even honest ones. It’s made up of people who come back. People who are willing to stand in the wreckage and ask to be forgiven.”
You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.
“If the Duke returns,” he says softly, “then don’t rob him of the chance to be that kind of person.”
He stands then, says he must rise early for the magistrate. Wishes you good night, tells you not to sit here too long, his voice worn and resigned. The door clicks shut behind him.
Still, you do not move. You remain there, in the armchair, staring through the misty glass at the swing swaying gently in the rain. Your body feels like it doesn’t belong to you anymore; your limbs weightless, your chest heavy. And then you stand. Quietly. Without thinking. You step out of your shoes, let the silk hem of your dress fall limp around your ankles, and walk barefoot to the door.
Your lady maid gasps behind you—“Your Grace!”—but the sound fades behind the groan of the door as it opens.
Rain meets you like an old grief. Cold, piercing, and relentless. It bites into your skin, soaks you in seconds, strips you of the pretense you’ve been wearing like armor.
You make your way to the swing. Sit down with a soft, defeated sigh. Water pools into the folds of your dress, clinging to your body like sorrow. You bow your head. Close your eyes. The rain is merciless, but it is real. Honest in a way nothing else has been for weeks.
Time passes. You don’t know how long. But then, the rain above you quiets. Only above you. The sky is still crying. But you are not. You open your eyes. An umbrella. And behind it, him. Satoru.
Soaked through, hair flattened to his forehead, water running down the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He’s holding the umbrella above your head like a vow, letting himself drown.
“Why are you here?” you ask, softly. Flatly.
“To take you back home. So we can go to Limitless Hall,” he says. As though it’s already decided. As though your heart will fall into step behind his voice like it always has.
“We aren’t,” you whisper. “I feel colder with the umbrella. Put it away.”
He pauses, watching you. And then, without argument, he folds it shut. The rain returns. Full. Immediate. Honest.
“Why are you really here?” you ask again, your voice nearly lost to the wind.
He swallows, once. “I couldn’t stand it,” he says. “The house without you. The silence. I know what I did. I know what I didn’t say. But I—” he falters, as if there are no words that will suffice, “—I couldn’t breathe without you.”
You turn away. “And what if I say no? What if I can’t forgive you?”
He nods, once. “Then I will wait. Until you can.”
A pause. And then, quietly, he says, “I didn’t come here to take you. I came here to ask.”
“Really?” you say, sharp and bitter, your voice cracking against the rain. “Because so far it just seems like you want me to play the perfect Duchess. Have me in your bed, give you heirs, secure your fortune.”
He flinches, visibly, as if you’ve struck him. Still, he moves closer. Rain slicks through his hair as he lowers himself beside you on the swing, the wood creaking beneath both your weight and the unbearable silence that stretches between.
Then, quietly, “You forget that you lied too.”
“I lied to protect myself,” you murmur, a tremor slipping into your voice. “I am the Phantom, yes, but I never lied about loving you. I never once lied about that.”
He turns, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Are you saying I didn’t? Love you?”
You look at him, truly look. At the water dripping from the tips of his lashes, at the shiver in his breath, at the hollow behind his ribs that you know, without being told, mirrors your own.
“Is that truly what you believe?” he asks, breathless now. “That I haven’t been in agony? That I haven’t been waking each morning and hating myself for not telling you sooner? You do not know the torment of every day that I live without you.”
Your throat tightens. The wind cuts through your soaked gown, and yet the ache inside is worse.
“Do you think I wasn’t in pain?” you say, staring ahead, blinking through the downpour. “Do you think I enjoyed being here, pretending? Every second without you is a second I spend pretending I know how to breathe. You are in every thought I have. Every breath. You are the reason I am sitting here, in this storm, not knowing what is to become of us. Of our marriage.”
He swallows. The sound of it feels louder than the rain.
“Then why won’t you come back?” he asks, voice low. “Why won’t you come home to me?”
Your gaze drops to your lap. Your fingers curl, trembling.
“Because you lied,” you whisper. “You stood in front of me, kissed me, promised me the world. And not once did you tell me that our marriage was a transaction. That I was a means to an end.”
Silence again. Then: “Say the word,” he breathes, “and I will give it all up. The title, the estate, my name. All of it. I will sign everything over to Megumi and we will go to Limitless Hall and be nothing more than husband and wife. No titles. No heirs. No obligation. Only us.”
You look at him. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold nothing but stillness. Steady. Certain. Blue like summer light through cathedral glass.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says. “And I am sorry. But I did not lie when I said I loved you. I do. I love you in every way a man can. I love you when I’m beside you. I love you when you’re not there. I love you when I hate myself.”
You inhale, a slow, stunned breath, as the thing inside you—whatever grief that curled around your spine like ivy—finally, finally cracks. Rain bespeckled gems upon his skin bring his beauty into every clearer definition, and you see it. You feel it.
“Satoru,” you murmur, voice too soft to hear. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have written what I did about us. I-I didn’t know what else to do.”
He shakes his head, already leaning in.
“I don’t care that you wrote it,” he whispers. “You could write a thousand more. I’d read every one of them, if it meant you were still mine.”
And then, slowly, reverently, he leans in and kisses you—rain-drenched and desperate, a kiss full of apologies and promises, a kiss that is not a fix but a beginning. You fall into it. Because there is nothing else left to do.
“Satoru—”
“N-no,” he interrupts, shaking his head with a desperate urgency, pulling you into a fierce kiss within the confines of the carriage. His hands tangle in your hair and slip beneath the damp fabric of your dress. “I need you. I miss you.”
Earlier, he had insisted on returning home at once, and you had found yourself unable to refuse. Now, you kiss him back with equal fervor as his fingers tug your sodden dress downward, exposing skin kissed by rain and longing. His lips trail fevered pecks along your collarbone, growing more reckless as he reaches the upper swell of your breasts. His hands grasp them boldly, and you gasp.
“What are you doing? The driver will hear us—”
“Let him,” he growls, voice thick with need. “I pay him well enough. I’ll give him more for his silence.”
“S-Satoru?” you breathe, eyes wide and shimmering. He whispers the words between heated kisses, as if uttering them might ease some ache deep within. “I love you. I burn for you. I am yours, forever and always. It is torture to be apart from you.”
He pulls you closer, settling you onto his lap with a soft yelp. Your hands cup his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the wet strands of hair clinging to his skin. His grip tightens on your hips as he kisses you hard, maddeningly, and you respond by trailing your fingers along his face. His hands slide down your sleeves, damp from the rain, and drag them lower until your breasts spill freely from the dress’s confines. A low moan escapes you as your lips find his jaw, his neck—devouring him piece by piece.
He undoes his breeches with swift urgency, then returns to your lips with a slow, tender kiss before withdrawing to bare himself fully. His hands lift your dress higher, already gathered at your thighs.
“Satoru,” you whisper, breathless, as he enters you. The sensation is full and warm, encompassing and right, as if every moment before this was merely a prelude. His hands cradle your face, compelling your gaze to meet his. His eyes are like ocean shores, sea foam dancing with every breath; warm sunlit currents with a depth that pull you under as he thrusts upward, kissing you senseless.
It is maddening. It steals your breath away. It feels so utterly right that you wonder if you have ever truly belonged anywhere else—here, in this carriage, scandalous and exposed, rain tapping a steady rhythm against the windows, while he claims you in every way possible.
You marvel at how blue can burn with such fierce heat until your gaze locks with his eyes. He is breathtaking, a living tempest of beauty and desire, and you cannot help but roll your hips with abandon as he thrusts into you with a desperation that threatens to shatter your restraint. Your moans spill freely, careless of the driver’s ears or any prying eyes. You gasp softly as his lips find the tender swell of your tits once more, then drift lower. You arch back willingly, offering him better access, and his mouth envelops your nipples, warm and insistent, as you ride him with fevered urgency. It feels like heaven incarnate.
He watches you with eyes glazed and wild, as if your naked form is the most bewildering sight he has ever beheld. You are soft beneath his touch, your breasts flushed and warm as his kisses trace the valley between them. There is a vulnerability in his gaze—a raw, unguarded longing that you cannot resist.
“I love you,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his as you move with fervor. “I love you so much.”
“I see that,” he murmurs, laughter soft and low, pinching your nipples with one hand while gripping your hips with the other. “I’m going to come, you know. You’ve kept yourself away for far too long. I can’t help it.”
“You can’t help it?” you tease, feeling the twitch of him deep inside you. The warmth floods every nerve, every thought, electrifying your senses. The ache of weeks apart has made this moment so tangible, so desperate. You murmur his name into his ear, nipping playfully, and he groans, pulling you closer. Your breasts press against his soaked coat, and his grip tightens in your hair. “Make me come. Fuck yourself on my cock.”
You gasp, breathless, as one of his hands slides lower, fingers seeking, until the pad of his thumb circles your clit. It is messy—pathetically messy and raw with need, but you live for it. You obey, bouncing wildly on him, rocking the carriage with your fervor as he spills his seed inside you. You watch him tremble, but you do not relent. You keep moving, keep riding, until your body spasms uncontrollably, your stomach fluttering with butterflies, your skin aflame, and your mind dissolving into a blissful haze.
The carriage rocks to a halt, the wheels hissing against wet gravel, but no one knocks. No one calls out. The drivers must have heard everything—how could they not?—but they say nothing.
You laugh, breathlessly aching, still straddling him in the cramped dark of the carriage. His hands are warm against your back, buttoning your gown again with a clumsy reverence, as if dressing you were an act of worship. The bodice sticks to your skin where his mouth had once been. His hair is mussed. His heartbeat still hammers beneath your palm like a war drum. It is steady, unrelenting, and devoted.
He touches your face with both hands now. Thumb at your cheekbone, fingers cradling the curve of your jaw as though you might dissolve between one blink and the next.
“What did you even do these last few weeks?” you ask, quietly, as your fingers draw idle patterns on his chest. It’s not teasing, not really. It’s the question of a woman who wants to know if he missed her with the same intensity that she missed him.
“I sulked,” he says, voice hoarsely low. His lips brush yours between syllables, like the words ache to leave him. “I reread every article you ever published. And I kept reading the newer ones you wrote and released while you were gone. I sat on the settee in the library where you used to read to Megumi. I tied a swing to the linden tree in the garden, so when you came back, it might feel a little like home. I cried. I sulked. I was unbearably miserable.”
You smile, forehead pressing gently to his. His breath is sweet with the sharpness of wine and desperation. He breathes you in like you’re something holy.
“I yearned for your presence,” he continues. “And now... now I have you on top of me, glowing. The world has found its axis again. Everything is where it should be.”
You scoff, but it’s soft, full of affection. “'The world has found its axis again'?”
He nods, brushing your damp hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. “It has. Now that you're here.”
“Does that mean,” you murmur, lips ghosting across his cheek, “you’ll finally take me to Limitless Hall?”
“I’ll take you anywhere you want,” he says, without hesitation. “Anywhere you ask. Even if the world burns behind us, I will follow you. I’ll build you a home on its ashes.”
His fingers find your chin and tilt your face to meet his, eyes wild and clear. “I’m never letting you go anywhere again.”
“Never? Is that a promise, Your Grace?” you whisper. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just breathes the words into your mouth as he kisses you again—slow, reverent, trembling: “It’s not a promise. It’s a vow.”
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume III, Issue I
A Blooming of Secrets and Springtime Hearts
My dearest gentle readers,
Another Season begins. How swiftly the world turns. The countryside, with its dewy mornings and rose-laced winds, has offered this author a most peaceful respite. But even amidst the loveliest of meadows and the most fragrant of orchards, one finds that serenity can only satisfy for so long. For what is tranquility without a touch of scandal to season it? This author returns to Mayfair with ink at the ready and ears tuned sharply to the whispers behind every fan.
Why, none other than the Duchess of Six Eyes herself.
Yes, it is Her Grace who offers the first invitation, and society has been all aflutter since. After all, a woman who once moved through ballrooms as an enigma now stands at their helm. If she’s inherited even a hint of her mother’s celebrated flair for fête and flourish, this author wagers the night will be one to remember.
Of course, a new season brings with it new whispers. One can hardly ignore the epistolary bond blooming between Mr. Nanami Kento of Hastings and a certain marquess’s daughter. Just friendship, you ask? Perhaps. But a friendship that has weathered a year of travel, distance, and longing glances exchanged across ballrooms is hardly a trivial thing.
And speaking of matches: Nigel Berbrooke, last season’s most unlikely groom, is now a married man. His bride? A young lady of the ton whose courtship years were long and fruitless—until now. While this union may lack the sparkle of romance, it serves as a reminder that sometimes, settling is simply surviving.
But not all tales are so quiet.
Lady Shoko, Lady Utahime, and the Duchess herself were seen promenading in Hyde Park just this week, their laughter mingling with the scent of roses and rain. The trio, once heralded as the most promising of their debutante year, now stand together in something even more precious: enduring friendship. A lesson, perhaps, that womanhood is not forged in marriage but in who we choose to walk beside.
And now, dear reader, for the loveliest whisper of all. The Duchess of Six Eyes is with child.
There is no scandal in this news. No sharp turn or twist. Only something quietly radiant. A love that once began in shadows has softened, bloomed. Her Grace is said to be in excellent health, and the Duke—who has, at last, exchanged restless wanderings for a settled life at her side—is said to be utterly besotted.
For a couple who began as a tempest gilded in ruin, they have become the season’s finest portrait of devotion—steady, luminous, and achingly sincere. Their story is no longer one of survival, but of sanctuary. Of two hearts choosing, again and again, to remain entwined.
How rare it is to witness love unfold not in spectacle, but in steadiness. In letters tucked into breakfast trays, in gardens newly planted, in gentle hands resting on rounded bellies. In futures not demanded, but chosen.
Let us commence this season, then, with a bit of hope. For happy endings. For new beginnings. And for love, in all its quiet, remarkable forms.
With quill in hand and heart ever listening,
Phantom.
↬ summary: gojo satoru was a storm—reckless, untouchable, and wholly unwilling to be bound by duty. you, the viscount’s daughter, were everything he was not—poised, dutiful, the perfect noble. an arranged marriage should have been nothing more than a cold alliance, but nothing with gojo was ever simple. by day, you wage a quiet war of sharp words and tense silences. by night, you are drawn into a far more dangerous game. one of courtly intrigue, betrayal, and a conspiracy that could shatter all you know. for a while, you both pretend it’s only politics, only necessity. but gojo has never been one for rules, and when the line between duty and desire blurs, you’ll find that some battles aren’t meant to be won. they’re meant to be surrendered to.
↬ genre: jjk x regency era au; bridgerton au; arranged marriage au; drama; romance; angst and then fluff; slowburn basically; happy ending i promise but it takes angst to get there.
↬ warnings: DRAMA; profanity; gojo being a dick at times; mentions of alcohol; politics; mentions of death; regency era inconsistencies because i am clearly not from that time nor am i british; OH ALSO slight geto and shoko shipping solely for plot purposes i promise; etc.
↬ word count: 27k.
↬ note: hi! so this is a little thought child of mine that i wrote per request of my best friend, aspen. it was supposed to be her birthday gift. but unfortunately, i am so very late because of. um, reasons (uni i hate you). @gojover ily :3
↬ navigation: part two, jjk masterlist.
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume II, Issue I
A Tempest Gilded In Ruin.
My dearest gentle readers.
The impossible has come to pass—the Duke of Six Eyes, the most elusive bachelor in the kingdom, is to wed at last. Yes, you read that correctly. The very same His Grace, Gojo Satoru, known for his mastery of duels, razor-sharp wit, and a scandalous fondness for the less refined pleasures of high society, has finally been caught in the silken snare of matrimony. But before we all begin preparing our congratulatory sentiments, let us examine the matter closely—for this match is as perplexing as it is impractical.
His betrothed? The Viscount’s daughter, a lady of unimpeachable standing, one whose name has never been inked in these pages for any wrongdoing. No moonlit dalliances, no whispered improprieties, not a single rumor worth repeating. A model of grace and virtue, bound in wedlock to a lord of reckless indulgence. A match ordained by fate? Or a disaster waiting to unfold?
The Duke of Six Eyes, after all, is no ordinary noble. He is a man who bows to no one, who treats duty as a suggestion rather than a law, whose very presence in court is an unpredictable tempest—one moment dazzling with charm, the next vanishing into the night with a knowing smirk. That such a man should take a wife is scandal enough—that he should take this wife, a woman so wholly unlike him, is beyond comprehension.
And yet, dear readers, not all is as it seems.
For while the public sees a coldly arranged union, those with ears close to the court whisper of a history shared. It is said that this betrothal is not as sudden as we are meant to believe—that, in their youth, the Duke and his intended were not strangers but rather childhood acquaintances. Could it be that the ever-unattainable Gojo Satoru once harbored a softness for the Viscount’s daughter? Did they once exchange lingering glances, secret words, or something far more telling?
It is, of course, equally possible that the Duke treats this match as he does all matters of duty—with complete disregard and thinly veiled mockery. After all, has he not been seen in the finest gambling halls and gentlemen’s clubs well past the hour of reason? Does he not revel in the company of artists and libertines rather than the noble ladies who sigh longingly behind their lace fans?
Perhaps His Grace is merely playing along for now—letting the world believe he is tamed, while he quietly plots his escape.
Or perhaps—just perhaps—the storm that is Gojo Satoru has met his match.
Will this marriage be a battle of wills, a contest of untamed hearts, or something far more dangerous—a love that neither party dares to admit?
One can only wonder… and watch.
With quill in hand and ears ever listening,
Phantom.
Present, Highgrove House.
“Dear God, she has published it already,” your mother whispers, her fingers tightening around the edges of the scandal sheet as though she might wring the ink from the very pages. Her wide eyes scan the print for what must be the fourth or fifth time, her lips parting slightly in disbelief before pressing into a tight, unimpressed line.
You shift in your seat, smoothing the already immaculate folds of your dress for the twelfth time that morning. A nervous habit, unbecoming of a lady, she would say, though she is too preoccupied with the article to scold you for it. You have already pushed stray wisps of hair from your face half a dozen times, exhaled sharply in impatience twice, and asked—oh-so-politely—to see it yourself, only to be ignored.
"Mother," you begin again, schooling your voice into something calm, something reasonable, something that does not betray the unease curling in your stomach. "Might I read what she has written?"
Your mother inhales through her nose, a measured breath of restraint, before exhaling as though she might expel her frustration along with it. "It is about you and the Duke." The words are clipped, firm. A statement of fact, as though that alone should answer your question. And then, after a pause, she presses the paper into your waiting hands.
She reaches for her tea—her tea, imported all the way from India, an indulgence she would rather die than go without—and sips hurriedly, as though the warmth might quell her distress. Her movements are too quick, too rushed, betraying a nervous energy she would never otherwise allow herself to display.
Your eyes skim the first few lines, and then, "My goodness," you whisper. Your fingers tighten against the paper. "She has written ‘coldly arranged union.’"
Your mother exhales sharply through her nose. "I ought to strangle whoever is behind that wretched column. She writes about our family as though we are characters in some sordid stage play." She sets down her teacup with a decisive clink and reaches for a scone, biting into it with the kind of measured elegance that suggests she is doing it to keep herself from saying something truly unladylike.
Your lips press together. You have read 'The Veiled Quill' before. Everyone has. It is as much a staple of the ton as afternoon tea, as illicit whispers exchanged behind lace fans, as the suffocating expectation that every daughter of good breeding must wed, and wed well.
“She is using the word outright," your mother continues, still fuming. "Arranged. And now, of course, the ton will talk."
You sigh, refolding the paper in your lap, though the words still burn behind your eyes. "Mother, you and I both know that the ton talks regardless of what we do."
She waves a hand, dismissive but restless. "Yes, but now they will have proof of it. Do you know how many women will seek me out simply for the pleasure of wringing a detail from me? The very same women who once turned their noses up at us? And now, I shall be forced to endure their chatter, their smiles, their insipid little remarks—"
Her hand comes up to rub delicately at her temple. A headache, then. It is always like this. For all the elegance and etiquette and carefully curated perfection, your mother has never been able to stomach the ton.
"Well," you say, sighing once more. "All we must do is let it happen."
Your mother makes a noise of disapproval but says nothing, lifting the scandal sheet once more, her sharp eyes scanning it as though, just perhaps, she might find some new offense hidden within its words.
The season has not yet begun, and yet already, the whispers have started. Your engagement to the Duke of Six Eyes is the subject of every hushed conversation, the ink of the latest gossip column barely dry before the news spreads like wildfire. Ladies in drawing rooms clutch their pearls, gentlemen murmur over brandy, and your mother, ever composed, feigns indifference while discreetly watching for your reaction.
But, of course, there is no engagement. Not officially. No rings have been exchanged, no letters of intent sent, no courtship witnessed. Instead, there is only a verbal agreement—one you had no part in, sealed in your absence over a quiet dinner, as if you were a parcel to be negotiated rather than a daughter to be consulted.
You had been in Bath, visiting your aunt, a summons orchestrated by your father under the guise of familial duty. Yuji, your younger cousin brother and your father’s heir, had been your only companion, blissfully unaware of the deception at play. And so, while you strolled the Crescent and sipped tea in the Pump Room, your future was being carved out without so much as a whisper in your ear. You had returned home only to find yourself already spoken for.
The rage had come swiftly, burning hot beneath your skin, but it had nowhere to go. A lady does not raise her voice. A lady does not question the will of her father. A lady does not—
But then, had you not spent your whole life believing in a different story?
You had pictured it all so vividly. A proper courtship. A lingering glance across a crowded ballroom. A hand, gloved and steady, extended in silent invitation. Walks through Hyde Park with your mother as chaperone, stolen moments at the edge of a dance floor, a gentleman—your gentleman—asking for more than one waltz, a sure sign of intent. You had imagined choice. That at the very least, you would be allowed to choose.
Instead, your father has chosen for you.
Gojo Satoru.
Once, he had been a friend, a familiar presence in your childhood—sharp-tongued, reckless, a boy who could outrun any governess and charm his way out of any scolding. But then his father had died, and he had disappeared into the halls of Oxford, far away from the world you knew. And when he had returned, he had been someone else entirely. A man, but not the kind you had dreamed of.
He was too much of everything society feared. Too powerful, too ungovernable, too beautiful in a way that unsettled rather than soothed. He moved through the ton with a knowing smirk, collecting whispers like trophies, indulging in every vice afforded to a man of his station. He did not court women—he ruined them. And now, he is to be your husband.
Your mother has spent the last two years warning you away from him, and now she expects you to wed him.
You wonder if she, too, feels the cruel irony of it.
Your father is a landowner, a judge, a man of principle and quiet power. He is neither cruel nor unkind—no, far from it. He is, in every way, the finest father a daughter could ask for. He has always treated you not as a delicate ornament to be admired from afar, but as something far greater—a mind to be sharpened, a will to be forged.
While many girls in the ton spent their childhoods perfecting embroidery and reciting poetry, you were schooled in far more than the expected graces. You had both a governess and a governor—the former tasked with refining your posture, your curtsies, your ability to charm a ballroom, while the latter instructed you in history, arithmetic, science. You understood the rise and fall of empires as well as you understood the language of flowers, could debate the structure of a sonnet while knowing precisely when to demur in conversation. Your father made certain of it. You'd only recently questioned if it was because he didn't have a son.
It was he who, on one long summer in the country, placed a bow in your hands and taught you how to steady your breath, how to hold, aim, release. He had laughed when you hit the target dead-center, a sound rich with pride, and when you returned to London that spring, your mother had been horrified to find her daughter capable of such things. You had been ten. Your father had endured her fury with nothing more than a knowing smile, and later that evening, you had laughed about it together in the drawing room, the kind of conspiratorial laughter shared only between the dearest of friends.
Yes, he is a good man. A great man, even. But good men, great men, can still wound.
Because now, all these years later, that same father—the one who once pressed books into your hands and promised you the freedom to become whoever you wished to be—has arranged for you to marry a man you did not choose. Not just any man, but Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes.
He had done it quietly, too. So quietly that even you had been unaware.
You have not spoken to him since. When he enters a room, you leave it. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear. You have spent your life learning how to shoot arrows, how to weave through the intricacies of court, how to carry yourself like the perfect daughter of a viscount. But you never learned how to forgive.
Not when the betrayal cuts this deep.
Once your mother leaves the room, you sink back against the pillows of the lounge, exhaling slowly. The tension in your limbs unwinds, but the weight in your chest remains. You close your eyes, tilting your head back, listening to the faint crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of servants moving about the house.
You do not even remember what Gojo looks like anymore. Not truly. Not as he is now. You remember him only as a boy—wild and untamed, silver hair always a touch too unkempt for polite society, eyes the color of an open sky. Not the pale, dreary sky of London, but the endless blue that stretched above Hyde Park in late spring, when you would lay in the grass beside your father and watch the clouds drift past. Or the blue that deepened on winter nights, when the stars freckled the heavens like scattered pearls.
And his lips—his lips had been pink. Pinker than yours. That, you remember most of all. You had been so terribly jealous of it, so convinced he must have stolen his mother’s rouge and used it in secret. You had accused him of this many times, demanded to know his trick, but he had only laughed, infuriating as ever, and made a jest at your expense.
You suppose Geto Suguru would know what he looks like now. Of all people, he would. They had been inseparable once, and it seems they are still so, even now. Both of them had gone to Oxford. Suguru’s father was an earl—not as powerful as a duke, but powerful enough. Powerful in ways your father, even as a viscount and a magistrate, would never be.
Even Nanami Kento, you think with some resentment, still knows Gojo. They, too, had studied together.
It has always been this way. The men of your acquaintance, bound by privilege, free to pursue knowledge, free to roam the halls of Cambridge, of Oxford, of Aberdeen, their futures unshackled by duty, by expectation. You wish—oh, how you wish—that you could have had the same. That you could have spent your days in lecture halls, poring over books that were not simply for passing time but for something greater. Instead, you are left with the shelves in your father’s study, with well-worn books on law and history, with fiction that serves as both an escape and a reminder of what you cannot have.
And then, of course, there is the matter of your impending betrothal.
The only ones who know of it are Shoko and Utahime. You had whispered it to them as though speaking it aloud might make it more real. It had been meant to be your first season—the first real step into society, into the world you had spent years preparing for. And yet, before you have even had the chance to take that step, your name is already on the lips of the ton.
It is not scandal, not yet. But it is gossip. And soon, it will be something much, much worse.
You rise from your seat, smoothing the creases from your skirts with absent fingers. The house is quiet, save for the distant chime of the drawing room clock and the occasional murmur of servants passing in the hall. Soon, Yuji will return from his lessons—fencing today, if you recall correctly. No doubt he will burst into the room, eyes alight with enthusiasm, eager to regale you with every detail of his triumphs and failures alike.
Your father, too, will return before long. The steady rhythm of his day is as predictable as the turning of the seasons—court in the morning, deliberations through the afternoon, home by dusk. You know the moment he steps through the door, he will expect to see you. Perhaps he will look for you in the parlor, where you used to wait for him as a child, eager to listen as he recounted the day's affairs. Or in the library, where he once pressed heavy tomes into your hands and smiled at the way you devoured their contents.
But you will not see him. Not today. Let him return to a house that is quieter than it once was. Let him feel the absence of your voice, the weight of your silence.
Present, Six Eyes Estate.
“My lord,” intones a footman, his voice carefully modulated, betraying none of the wariness Gojo Satoru knows must lurk beneath the surface. The servants have long since mastered the art of appearing unaffected, though he suspects they are anything but.
Seated at his desk, he lifts his gaze, the polished mahogany smooth beneath his palm, cool and grounding. The dimness of the study is deliberate. Heavy velvet drapes block out the afternoon sun, leaving the space shrouded in shadows, touched only by the flickering glow of a single oil lamp. He prefers it this way—cold, dark, uninviting.
This house—his house—is as much a prison as it is a fortress, grand in its architecture, suffocating in its legacy. The towering bookshelves of mahogany and walnut, the thick tomes bound in gold leaf, the scent of aged parchment and wax—it all feels like a taunt, a reminder that none of this was ever meant for him, and yet, it belongs to him all the same.
The title. The estate. The responsibility.
All of it a curse disguised as a crown.
“Mr. Geto Suguru is here to see you, my lord,” the footman continues, his gloved hands folded neatly behind his back. “He says it is urgent. He waits in the parlor.”
Gojo exhales, a sound halfway between amusement and resignation. Of course Suguru would come running.
The scandal sheets had found their next great obsession, and for once, it was not his latest indiscretion at the gaming hells or some sordid rumor regarding a widowed countess. No, this time, it was his impending marriage.
He rises languidly, his movements unhurried, calculated in their ease. There is no reason to rush. Suguru will wait.
His footsteps echo through the marble halls as he strides toward the parlor, a sound as sharp and deliberate as the man himself. When he enters, Geto is already pacing, an unreadable expression clouding his usually composed features. Suguru is rarely unsettled.
But then, it is not every day that one learns that Gojo Satoru—the most notorious rake in the ton—is to be wed.
“I see you’ve read it,” Satoru drawls, making his way toward the drinks table. He need not specify which ‘it’ he speaks of. The Veiled Quill had wasted no time in ensuring all of London knew of his so-called betrothal.
Suguru turns sharply to face him, eyes dark with something like disbelief. “You’re marrying her? The viscount’s daughter?” He takes a step forward, voice edged with incredulity. “How, in God’s name, did you even court her? The season hasn’t even begun!”
Satoru merely hums, reaching for a crystal decanter. He pours himself a measure of brandy, the amber liquid catching the light. “I didn’t,” he replies, lifting the glass to his lips. “It was arranged.”
Suguru stills. “Arranged?” The word drips with distaste, as though it offends him on principle.
Satoru smirks. “Her father’s in a bit of a predicament. Some legal entanglement, he may well lose his position in the magistrate. As it happens, I owed him a favor from long ago.”
Suguru’s gaze sharpens. “And for that, you’re marrying his daughter?” There is judgment in his tone, threaded through with something that almost resembles concern. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am always serious,” Satoru murmurs, tilting his head in amusement.
“And what, pray tell, are your own reasons?” Suguru presses.
Satoru exhales slowly, swirling the brandy in his glass before setting it down with a quiet clink. “I recently discovered,” he says, voice deceptively light, “that my dear, departed father—may his soul never rest—saw fit to include a rather tedious clause in his will.” He lifts a brow. “I retain control over my estate and fortune for a limited time. Unless, of course, I wed.”
Suguru exhales sharply, shaking his head. “That blasted man,” he mutters. “Let me guess. He also wanted you to produce an heir.”
Satoru grins, wolfish and without humor. “Undoubtedly. I suspect he imagined a parade of them.”
Suguru scoffs, lifting his own glass as Satoru finally offers it. “Well, if nothing else, you likely already have a few running about near the brothels.”
Satoru laughs, the sound rich, unbothered. He leans back against the edge of the table, swirling his drink in idle amusement.
“She hasn’t seen you in ten years, you know,” Suguru murmurs, swirling the brandy in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. “You must speak to her soon. Can’t very well marry a woman you haven’t spoken to. Society dictates it.”
Gojo exhales, sharp and unimpressed. “Oh, fuck society.” He downs his drink in one go, the burn of it sharp but hardly unpleasant. When he looks back at Suguru, his expression is unreadable, impassive. “I’ll indulge in their stupid rules, their expectations, their ridiculous romantic gestures—only when I have to.”
Suguru huffs, shaking his head with something between amusement and exasperation. “You’re unbelievably bitter.”
“And you’re only just realizing?”
Suguru’s lips curve, but his eyes remain scrutinizing, searching. “Come now, don’t you want to see her?”
Gojo’s fingers tighten imperceptibly around his glass before he sets it down with an easy shrug. “Not really,” he admits. “I’m doing this for the money, nothing else. You know well enough that I can’t be seen falling in love with someone like her.”
Suguru doesn’t answer immediately, merely watching him. There is a knowing in his gaze, an unspoken challenge. Gojo ignores it.
“Well,” Suguru finally says, setting his own glass down, “you’ll have to speak to her at some point. And as it happens, you will get your opportunity soon enough.”
Gojo lifts a brow.
“The season begins next week,” Suguru reminds him. “The baron—Utahime’s father—is hosting the first ball of the year at his estate. The entire ton will be in attendance, including your betrothed. You’ll have to speak to her then. Tell her what needs to be said.”
Gojo hums noncommittally, though he knows Suguru is right. He cannot very well avoid you forever—not when the papers are already buzzing, not when his name and yours are being whispered through drawing rooms and parlors across London.
Still, you cannot know the truth.
You cannot know that this arrangement is nothing more than a means to an end, that he does not care enough to spare your feelings. He does not care enough to be cruel. To tell a naïve, sweet little thing that she is a pawn in a game she never agreed to play—well, what purpose would that serve? You would wed him regardless. That was the only truth that mattered.
Present, Hyde Park.
The afternoon sun glows golden over the lake, shimmering over its glassy surface, where swans glide in elegant arcs, their feathered forms mirrored perfectly in the water. A gentle breeze carries the scent of blooming roses from the manicured gardens, ruffling the ribbons of Utahime’s dress as she clutches her parasol with an iron grip, her expression one of pure indignation.
"I cannot believe it. That conniving, ruthless, insufferable gossip columnist—writing such things about you, and before the season has even begun!" Utahime seethes, her dark eyes flashing with irritation. She has always been quick to anger, quick to take offense on behalf of those she holds dear. You’ve always admired that about her.
You exhale softly, smoothing a hand over your skirts. The fabric of your gown—soft mauve, embroidered with delicate gold thread—catches the light. You chose it carefully this morning, hoping to appear composed, serene, unshaken. But your hands still tremble at your sides, betraying you.
Shoko, walking beside you with her usual air of easy indifference, hums thoughtfully at Utahime’s words. "Have you even seen him yet?" she asks, pushing a loose curl behind her ear. "Last I recall, your father made this arrangement without so much as a word to you. It’s not as if you’re engaged yet. Not officially, anyway."
You hesitate, glancing at her. "I haven’t seen him since that day," you murmur. "Since he left."
Shoko whistles low under her breath. You widen your eyes at her, though you say nothing. She has always had the tongue of a sailor, regardless of how improper it is for a lady. You only thank the heavens that your maid lingers a few paces behind, out of earshot.
"Well," Shoko continues, stretching her arms above her head before linking them behind her back, "you’ll see him at Utahime’s ball, won’t you? That’ll be your chance to talk to him."
"Hopefully," you say, though your gaze is fixed on the water, watching the swans usher their young through the rippling lake. You hesitate before adding, "I just… hope he isn’t as they say."
Utahime snorts, twirling the handle of her parasol between gloved fingers. "Oh, he is exactly as they say," she tells you with a sigh. "When I visited Oxfordshire with my father last year, I caught sight of him. He isn’t that unruly, wild, funny child we knew anymore. He’s beautiful, yes, but he is utterly wicked."
Her words send a chill down your spine. Wicked. The papers whisper of his indulgences, the ton gossips behind painted fans, and servants murmur when they think no one listens. He drinks himself to the brink of ruin in the afternoons, smokes cigars in dimly lit gentlemen’s clubs until his lungs turn black, and courts women with no regard for propriety or consequence.
Your stomach churns at the thought. Perhaps the rumors are exaggerated. Perhaps this is nothing more than the cruel nature of society, tearing down a man whose power and beauty make him untouchable. But what if it isn’t? What if Gojo Satoru is everything they say? What if he is a man wholly incapable of being a good husband?
A warm hand squeezes your arm. Shoko, whose face is unreadable, leans in just slightly, her voice a murmur meant only for you. "You’ll be fine," she says. "And if you aren’t, if he so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll whisk you away myself, and we’ll hide somewhere far, far away from all of this. Yes?"
The corners of your lips lift, just slightly. Shoko has never been one for empty words. If she says she would, then she truly would. You nod once, grateful.
"Now," Shoko sighs, stretching her arms again, "let’s find a parlor and have some tea, shall we? I’m absolutely famished."
Utahime huffs, still disgruntled, but she links her arm with yours anyway, steering you toward the tree-lined path that leads away from the lake. "You’re lucky we adore you," she mutters.
A small laugh escapes you, the first you’ve allowed yourself since the news broke. Yes, you think, you are lucky. Even if everything else in your life feels utterly uncertain, at least you have them.
One week later, Highgrove House.
You sit before the looking glass, hands folded neatly in your lap, your spine held straight despite the quiet storm of doubt brewing beneath your ribs. The candlelight flickers against the polished wood of your dressing table, casting a golden glow over your reflection, illuminating the gown that has taken hours to perfect.
It is a breathtaking thing, this gown—spun from the finest silk, dyed the softest, most luminous shade of blue. Not the sharp, icy hue of a winter sky, nor the deep, endless navy of a turbulent sea, but something delicate, something ethereal. A blue reminiscent of morning mist, of moonlight against still water, of something just barely tangible yet impossible to ignore. The fabric shimmers with the movement of your breath, embroidered with threads of silver that catch the light, mimicking the stars that will no doubt hang over the ballroom tonight. The bodice, fitted to perfection, traces the lines of your figure with an almost agonizing precision, while the shoulder sleeves rest against your collarbones, leaving the length of your neck and the gentle slope of your shoulders bare.
Your maid had worked tirelessly on your hair, curling each strand with careful fingers, arranging it into an elaborate coiffure secured with delicate pearl-tipped pins. But it is the tendrils left loose; the soft curls framing your face that make you look softer, more like yourself. You had insisted upon them.
You picked blue for a reason. For him.
If you were to see him again—if you were to truly face him—you must be as impeccable as they come. Unimpeachable, as the Phantom had said. Untouchable. You must be the picture of poise, of elegance, of control. The perfect woman. The perfect bride. If there was to be a game played, you would not be the one left floundering. And yet, as you stare at yourself in the mirror, you cannot help but feel like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s silks and rouge.
The pink on your lips is too soft, too sweet. The flush on your cheeks feels artificial, an imitation of a woman rather than the mark of one. You look the part. You know you do. Every detail is meticulous. Every choice, intentional. You should feel powerful. But all you see is someone pretending. A girl in a beautiful gown, swallowed whole by a role she is not certain she knows how to play.
A knock at the door jolts you from your thoughts. Your maid’s voice, gentle yet firm, follows shortly after. "My lady, the carriage is ready."
You exhale, smoothing your gloved hands over your skirts one final time. The silk whispers beneath your touch, reminding you that there is no turning back now. You lift your chin, push aside the lingering doubts, and rise to your feet. If you are to be seen, then you will be seen as nothing less than magnificent.
You descend the staircase with careful poise, the soft rustle of your gown whispering against the polished wood. The chandelier overhead casts golden light over the marble floors, glinting off the banister like droplets of molten sun. But your attention is drawn to the familiar sight of Yuji darting through the grand hall, his laughter echoing as one of the maids scurries after him in exasperation.
"Yuji," you call, your voice firm yet warm.
He halts at once, turning to you with wide, bright eyes, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of his play. You have always loved this about him—his boundless energy, yes, but also his unwavering devotion to you. Mischievous as he was, he always listened when you spoke, always sought your approval as if it was the only one that mattered.
He straightens, brushing dust off the waistcoat that had likely been pristine mere hours ago. "You look magnificent," he announces with the confidence of someone much older than his twelve years. "Truly. I must admit."
A quiet laugh escapes you. "You do not sound your age," you say, reaching out to ruffle his unruly hair. He protests with a scrunched nose, but you see the flicker of affection in his eyes. "If only children were permitted at balls, I would bring you with me in a heartbeat."
He folds his arms, feigning great insult. "I am not a child. I am twelve."
"And yet," you tease, bending slightly to press a small, carefully wrapped chocolate into his palm, "still young enough to be bribed with sweets. Do not tell anyone, yes? And make sure to go to bed on time."
He huffs, but his fingers curl around the confection, tucking it into his pocket with a smirk. "Of course I will. What else is there to do? I will attend my fair share of balls when the time comes."
You smile, squeezing his shoulder before stepping away. "That, I do not doubt."
At the threshold of the grand entryway, your mother waits, a vision of authority wrapped in deep emerald silk. The moment she sees you, her lips press into a firm line—not disapproving, but calculating, assessing every detail of your appearance with the sharp eye of a woman who has spent years navigating the unforgiving scrutiny of society.
"At last," she sighs, reaching out to adjust the lace at your sleeve, though nothing about your attire is amiss. "We are already late."
You arch a brow. "We are precisely on time. Early, even."
She does not acknowledge this, instead fussing over a curl near your temple, tilting your chin one way, then the other. Then, at last, she concedes, though her words are clipped. "You look well enough. But make sure you are seen dancing with the Duke at least once tonight."
You school your expression into something neutral, something agreeable, though your stomach tightens at the mention of his name. Gojo Satoru. The man who had once been your friend, and now—what? A stranger? A specter of your childhood, now grown into a man with a reputation that preceded him like an ill-fated storm.
Your mother’s hand is warm but insistent on your arm. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes," you murmur. "I hear you."
The words feel distant, detached from the quickening pulse at your throat. As the footman opens the carriage door for you, a quiet dread settles in the hollow of your ribs. It is not the ball that unsettles you. Not the music or the dance or even the careful performance of polite conversation. It is him.
You had spent years imagining what this night might feel like, picturing yourself gliding across a ballroom floor with a suitor of your choosing, your heart light, your fate unwritten. But now, your fate is inked in a gossip column, whispered between fans and champagne flutes before you have even had the chance to shape it yourself.
You breathe in, steadying your hands in your lap as the carriage door clicks shut. It will be fine, you tell yourself. You will endure it, as you must. And yet, no matter how much you smooth the fabric of your skirt, no matter how straight you sit, you cannot shake the feeling that something has already slipped out of your grasp.
As the carriage rolls to a gentle stop in front of the Baron’s estate, your breath catches in your throat. The house stands tall and grand beneath the soft glow of lantern light, its stately brick façade softened by cascades of flowering vines. Roses—deep crimson, blush pink, and pale ivory—twine themselves along trellises and drape over the archways, their scent lingering in the cool evening air. It is breath-taking, the kind of beauty that belongs in fairytales rather than reality.
A footman steps forward to open the carriage door, and you gather your skirts as you step down, careful not to let the hem of your gown brush against the damp gravel. Your mother is at your side in an instant, ever the vigilant chaperone, pressing a dance card into your palm with a firm nod.
"Keep it full," she whispers, her voice edged with quiet urgency. "And make sure Gojo is on it."
You barely have time to roll your eyes before she ushers you through the grand doors, where the ballroom unfolds before you in a dazzling display of opulence. Chandeliers glitter above, casting golden light over the polished floors, the air thick with laughter, the hum of conversation, and the soft strains of the string quartet.
And then, amidst the sea of swirling gowns and tailored coats, your gaze finds her. Utahime. Dressed in the loveliest shade of pastel yellow, her gown shimmers under the light, the delicate embroidery of pink blooms catching in the movement of the fabric. She looks radiant, every inch the hostess, her posture poised yet warm as she welcomes guests into her home.
A smile tugs at your lips as you make your way toward her.
"You look stunning," you greet her, reaching for her hand in a friendly squeeze.
Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she takes you in, the corner of her mouth quirking up knowingly. "So do you. But don’t think I don’t know why you chose blue tonight."
"Must you always read me so plainly?" you murmur, voice barely rising above the growing hum of conversation. The ballroom is filling quickly now, an endless stream of silks and lace and fine-tailored coats. A dizzying array of faces—some familiar, others unknown—flit through the gilded candlelight, their gazes sharp, appraising. You haven’t been surrounded by this many people since last season, but that had been different. You had been merely an observer then, a quiet shadow lingering at the edges of ballrooms, an unnoticed presence in a sea of more important introductions.
But tonight, there is no escaping their eyes.
Their stares settle on you like a heavy weight, pressing against your skin. Some are curious, speculative, but most are laced with something sharper. Resentment, envy, a quiet kind of loathing that sends a shiver down your spine. The young ladies of the ton watch you with barely concealed scorn, their lips forming perfect little pouts, their gloved hands tightening around their fans. They do not see you as one of them—not anymore. You are the interloper, the girl who has taken something they believed belonged to them. The Duke was meant to be theirs, a prize to be won, a man to be chased and captured. That he had never truly belonged to any of them does not seem to matter.
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.
"I want to leave," you whisper, voice trembling as you turn to Utahime. "Truly, I-I can’t do this. Look at them." Your fingers clutch at the soft fabric of your skirts, knuckles turning white. "They look as if they wish to devour me whole."
Utahime exhales, her lips curving in something that is not quite amusement but not quite pity either. "They’re jealous, that’s all. And they should be." She casts a deliberate glance over you, eyes sweeping from the elegant slope of your shoulders to the careful draping of your gown. "You are exquisite tonight. No fault to be found anywhere. And they hate that. They hate that it is you he is bound to, and not them."
You let out a shaky breath, gaze falling to the polished marble beneath your feet. "From what you’ve told me, nobody can have him," you murmur, almost to yourself. "Not really."
For the first time that night, you allow the thought to settle, to linger.
"I’m afraid of him, Utahime," you admit, voice barely audible over the music.
She does not answer immediately. Instead, she looks at you carefully, as if trying to gauge whether this is simple nervousness or something deeper, something more dangerous. And when she finally speaks, her words are careful, measured. "You should be. But you must learn to be two steps ahead of him. Always."
And yet, she offers you her arm, guiding you further into the golden haze of the ballroom, into the heart of everything you have been dreading.
You try not to think about it—the stares, the murmurs, the way the ladies of the ton glance at you from the corners of their eyes, pretending not to whisper while making no effort to lower their voices. Instead, you focus on smiling politely at the guests who approach you, offering pleasantries and subtle compliments on their gowns, their jewelry, their finely coiffed hair. You let them fawn over your own attire, bask in the envy laced beneath their admiration. The game of socializing is a delicate one, and tonight, you must play it well.
But then, the whispers shift.
It happens gradually, a ripple through the gilded air of the ballroom. A murmur here, a hushed exclamation there. And then—something else. A tension that winds through the space like a taut string, stretching, pulling, waiting to snap. You feel it before you hear it, the weight of it pressing against your skin. Utahime’s fingers tighten around your arm.
Your breath hitches as you follow her gaze.
And there, standing at the grand entrance, bathed in the flickering glow of the chandelier, he appears.
Gojo Satoru.
He strides into the ballroom like a tempest draped in navy and silver, an effortless conqueror stepping into his kingdom. His tailcoat, cut from the richest midnight blue velvet, fits him like a second skin, accentuating the broad expanse of his shoulders, the lean strength of his frame. The waistcoat beneath gleams with delicate embroidery, an intricate pattern of silver thread that catches the light with every measured step. His cravat is immaculately tied, starched white against the deep hues of his attire, and it rests against the hollow of his throat, drawing the eye to the elegant lines of his jaw. He wears white gloves, pristine against the dark fabric, and his boots shine with a polish so fine they reflect the glow of the chandeliers above.
And then, there are his eyes.
A glacial blue, the shade of an unforgiving winter sky—too pale to be entirely human, too piercing to be ignored. They sweep over the room with an unsettling sort of ease, as if he is only half-interested in the spectacle before him. As if none of it matters. As if he has already seen it all and found it wanting.
You are not the only one staring. The entire room has fallen under his spell.
Because for the last ten years, the Duke of Six Eyes has been a ghost, a whisper, a legend. A man who refused to play society’s games, who had no need for the approval of men and even less patience for the affections of women. He had not graced a single ball in the years he's been of age. And yet, here he stands now. Regal. Untouchable. Magnificent.
The sight of him is nearly unbearable.
"I might faint," you whisper, more to yourself than to Utahime. "He’s—he’s beautiful."
"Close your mouth," Utahime mutters under her breath, her tone sharp despite the amusement dancing in her eyes. "He is yours, is he not? You mustn’t look so taken. Do not be a sheep in the herd."
You swallow hard, willing your expression into something unreadable, sculpting your features into an indifference that feels almost unnatural. You know what is expected of you. You must not appear enthralled. You must not let them see how he affects you.
And then, his eyes find yours. A cold shudder races down your spine, sharp as a blade against bare skin.
It is as if he has known you were here all along, as if the weight of his gaze has been pressing upon you even before he turned his head. He looks at you, and for a single, breathless moment, there is no one else in the room. The chatter, the music, the rustling of skirts and the clinking of glasses—it all fades into nothing as his lips curl into a knowing smirk.
Because he is looking at you. And you are looking at him.
And whether you are ready or not, the game has begun.
The evening is drawing to its inevitable close, and yet, not once has Gojo Satoru spoken to you. Not once has he taken your hand and led you to the dance floor, nor has he even so much as acknowledged you with a glance. The rumors swirl heavier with each passing moment, whispering through the gilded ballroom like a breeze slipping through a cracked window. Was the gossip column mistaken? Had the engagement been nothing but a fabrication? A scandalous lie meant to provoke amusement before being tossed aside as all great gossip eventually is?
You could not bear it any longer.
The weight of their eyes, the suffocating murmur of their voices—it is all too much. So you slip away, unnoticed, into the quiet embrace of the garden. The air is cooler here, untainted by perfume and sweat and the heady warmth of too many bodies pressed together in dance. A slow trickle of water hums from the grand marble fountain at the garden’s center, its melody soft and unhurried. The night is fragrant, thick with the scent of roses and jasmine, their petals brushing against one another in the breeze. If you close your eyes, just for a moment, you can almost pretend you are somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
Your hands smooth over your skirts once more, a motion you have repeated so often tonight that the silk must be near-worn beneath your fingertips. You had spent the evening waiting, pretending not to, but waiting all the same. Shoko and Utahime had remained at your side for as long as they could, offering distractions, idle chatter, even half-hearted jokes to ease the tightness in your chest. But it had not changed the fact that not a single man of noble standing had come to ask for your hand.
It should not bother you.
It should not wound you so terribly to watch others be chosen, to see Utahime’s dance card fill with ease, to hear Shoko’s delighted laughter as yet another gentleman approached. And yet, with every passing waltz, with every invitation extended to someone who was not you, a little piece of your heart splintered.
You had smiled. You had sipped your lemonade and picked at your hors d’oeuvres, nodding politely to every acquaintance who passed by. You had feigned indifference so masterfully that even you nearly believed it.
But you could not pretend anymore.
Here, in the solitude of the garden, you allow yourself the moment of surrender. A deep sigh escapes you, long and quiet, and you lower your gaze, watching the ripples disturb the fountain’s surface as though they might offer you some semblance of clarity. And then—
"You do that a lot."
The voice is smooth, low, almost amused.
Your breath catches in your throat as you spin sharply, your hands frozen mid-motion against the fabric of your gown. Your pulse stumbles, tripping over itself as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and then—there he is.
Gojo Satoru leans against a stone pillar, arms crossed over his broad chest, the silver embroidery of his waistcoat glinting beneath the lantern light. His posture is relaxed, effortless, as if he had been standing there for hours, waiting for precisely this moment.
You swallow. "Excuse me?"
He shifts, pushing off the pillar, and strolls toward you with the kind of easy grace that makes your stomach tighten. "You touch your skirt a lot," he says. "Nervous habit?"
You narrow your eyes, heat prickling at your cheeks. "And why, exactly, have you been watching my skirt?"
"Well," he hums, as if contemplating, "it is very pretty."
The air stills. You blink, caught between indignation and something dangerously close to breathlessness. He is impossibly close now, close enough that you can see the faintest curve of a smirk playing at his lips, close enough that his presence alone threatens to unravel every careful piece of composure you have spent the night holding together.
You stare at him, searching for something—mockery, insolence, some trace of jest in his expression. But there is only observation. Consideration.
Every single thing about him is unreachably perfect.
And that, more than anything, unsettles you the most.
"Why are you here?" His voice carries the same lazy amusement he wears so well, as if it were not already glaringly obvious that he is the very reason for your current misery. Every whisper, every sideways glance, every pointed murmur of speculation that had followed you through the evening—all of it, his doing. He is the source of it all.
You exhale sharply, leveling him with a pointed stare before shifting your gaze back toward the fountain. You do not wish to look at him, not when his presence alone is enough to send your thoughts scattering in all directions. And yet, resisting the pull of him—his voice, his eyes, his entire being—is proving to be an impossible task. "I hate it," you mutter at last, voice quiet but firm. "The whispers, the prying eyes, the women who watch me like I have stolen something from them. I hate it all."
"Ah." He follows your gaze to the water, where the moonlight ripples over its surface, casting silver shadows along the stone. "That would be the fault of the gossip column, I suppose. Which is precisely why I am here tonight, actually."
Your eyes flick back to him, brows lifting in mild surprise. He meets your curiosity with a slow, knowing smile, one that feels so thoroughly practiced that it unsettles you in a way you cannot name. "You don’t seem like a man who has been dragged here against his will by ink and idle words."
"Because I haven’t spoken to you all evening?"
"So you do know what you've done," you huff, crossing your arms. He chuckles, the sound low and quiet, before shaking his head.
"I wasn’t sure how to approach you," he admits, so easily, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to say. "For that, I apologize."
You hesitate, watching him carefully. The soft glow of the lanterns casts light along the sharp lines of his face, illuminating every refined angle. He looks wholly unbothered by the evening's events, by the storm of rumors and speculation swirling within the ballroom. And yet, there is something unreadable in his expression as he watches you now, a quiet deliberation that makes your breath catch.
A moment passes. Then another.
And then you ask, softly, "Is it true?"
His brows lift slightly. "Is what true?"
"Our betrothal." Your voice is steady, but the weight of the evening hangs heavy over every syllable. "You have not spoken to me all night. I thought—" You trail off, unwilling to finish the thought aloud, but he sees it. He sees the doubt, the uncertainty, the quiet ache of being left alone beneath so many watchful gazes.
His expression shifts, barely, but enough. The teasing glint in his eyes dulls, if only for a moment, replaced by something more thoughtful. "Give me your dance card."
You blink. "What?"
"We might still have time for one last dance," he says, tilting his head as though listening to the distant melody still playing within the ballroom. "Come now, give me your card."
You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. "That is not how one asks for a dance."
"And what kind of gentleman would that make me?"
"A poor one," you retort, lips pressing into a thin line.
He smirks. "One that is marrying you, regardless."
A pause. The air between you is thick with the unspoken, the uncertain, the strange weight of an engagement neither of you had chosen yet could not escape.
"Card," he says again, and this time, without truly knowing why, you relent.
He signs his name with an effortless flick of his wrist, and before you can fully comprehend what has just transpired, he presses the dance card back into your gloved palm. The warmth of his fingers lingers for a fraction too long before he steps back. Then, with the same insufferable ease that he carries himself with, he straightens his cuffs and nods at you—a silent instruction. You are to walk in first. He will follow, but only after enough time has passed to ensure that no one suspects where the two of you have been.
And so, you do.
The moment you step back into the ballroom, the air feels heavier, thick with the scent of candle wax and expensive perfume. The murmur of voices swells and contracts, but your ears are trained on the music—the delicate, courtly notes of one of Haydn’s minuets swelling from the quartets. The notes weave around you like a silken ribbon, but even the music cannot drown out the weight of your mother’s gaze. You feel her before you see her, the sharpness of her scrutiny cutting through the room from where she stands near the French doors.
She is watching. Waiting.
You turn your head, just slightly, and meet her eye. The look you send her is as composed as you can make it, a delicate reassurance. You have done what was expected of you. The situation is in hand. She need not worry. But when the Duke of Six Eyes enters the room not moments later, her face tightens ever so slightly.
Because she knows.
She alone has seen the two of you return separately, a paltry attempt to erase the sin of having been alone together, unchaperoned. She knows how easily ruin can find you. And so, she does not speak. She does not move. She only watches, and in that quiet scrutiny, you know what she will say to you when the night is over. But you know, that she, too, is glad.
The dance continues, couples spinning across the ballroom in elegant, calculated formations. Shoko and Utahime are among them, dancing with Geto Suguru and Nanami Kento, respectively, their gowns moving like ripples upon the water. You move to the edge of the room, keeping your back straight, your gloved fingers smoothing over the silk of your skirt in a mindless attempt to keep yourself occupied. The hem of your gown barely brushes the floor, the intricate embroidery catching the glow of the chandeliers as you exhale softly. It is almost over. The night is almost—
A tap.
Light, but firm.
You turn, and for the second time that evening, you forget how to breathe.
There, standing before you, is Gojo Satoru. And this time, he does not simply look at you. He touches you.
A single, gloved finger grazing the barest part of your shoulder, just where your silk sleeve meets skin. A mere whisper of contact, but in a room such as this, with eyes as sharp as blades, it is enough to set the ton ablaze. Gasps ripple through the crowd like the first drops of rain upon still water. The Duke has touched you. In public. With purpose.
His lips curve into something dangerously close to amusement, though he keeps his voice carefully composed as he tilts his head, offering his hand. “May I have this dance?”
Your heartbeat thrums at the base of your throat. You know this is a performance—an answer to the rumors that have begun to spin faster than the dancers on the floor. And yet, when you slide your hand into his, allowing him to lead you forward, the thrill that rushes through your veins is far from artificial.
He guides you into position, his movements effortless, a man who has never once faltered in his confidence. His hand comes to rest upon your waist—lower than what propriety would dictate, but not enough to be scandalous. Just enough to be noticed. His fingers, even through the thin barrier of your gown, are warm. His breath, when he leans in just slightly, brushes your temple.
The orchestra begins again. A minuet.
Gojo steps forward, and you step back, your fingers lightly resting upon his shoulder as he leads you into the first figure of the dance. The motion is deliberate, an intimate familiarity masked within the rigid formality of the steps. Every movement—every turn, every glance—is a performance. And yet, beneath it, something unfamiliar stirs.
The room is watching. Every pair of eyes follows your movements as if they are witnessing something unfold that is too significant to be ignored. The whispers are deafening. But for the first time tonight, you do not hate them.
“Would you say,” Gojo murmurs, his lips barely moving as he twirls you beneath his arm, “that we have given them something to talk about?”
You inhale, steadying yourself as he pulls you back into place, his fingers pressing ever so slightly into your waist. Your pulse skitters against your ribs.
“I would,” you say softly.
His smile deepens. “And do you still despise the whispers?”
You glance up at him then, the candlelight catching the blue of his eyes, making them glimmer like something celestial.
“No,” you admit, lips curling in a slow, deliberate smile of your own. “I think I love them.”
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume II, Issue VI
A Tempest Gilded In Ruin.
Dearest gentle readers,
It has come to everyone's utmost watchful eyes that Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes, shared his first dance with the woman he is to marry at the Baron Iori’s splendid ball.
One must note that the pair caused quite the spectacle, as His Grace, ever the master of theatrics, deliberately ensured all eyes were upon them when he reached out and touched his betrothed’s shoulder. A scandalous display? Perhaps. But one executed with such confidence, such deliberate ease, that no one could look away. If the Duke sought to silence the wagging tongues that doubted the truth of their engagement, he has done so in the most spectacular fashion.
And what a dance it was, dear readers. It was neither stiff nor forced, but filled with quiet conversation, subtle glances, and the kind of smiles that make poets of men and fools of women. For a lady who had spent much of the evening as a mere observer, [Y/N] [L/N] had finally stepped into the light, and how radiant she was. Even more telling, however, was the way the Duke held her—his hand resting at her waist just a fraction lower than propriety would deem appropriate. But not low enough to cause a scandal. A pity.
One must also extend their deepest admiration to the Baron and Baroness Iori, who outdid themselves with the evening’s arrangements. The ballroom, bathed in the golden glow of a hundred flickering candles, was a sight to behold, while the soft strains of Haydn’s minuets carried each couple across the floor with effortless grace. The air was thick with the scent of roses and gardenias, a fragrance that only heightened the romance of the evening. Even the refreshments, which included the most delightful lemon cakes and delicately spiced wine, left no guest wanting.
And yet, dear readers, while one pair commanded the room’s attention, another conducted a quieter, but no less intriguing affair on the dance floor. It would be remiss of me not to mention that Lady Shoko Ieiri and Lord Geto Suguru danced not once, but twice.
A single dance is a courtesy. A second is an intention.
Whispers of their companionship have existed for some time, but last night, those whispers grew louder. Lord Geto Suguru, whose sharp wit is matched only by his elusive nature, seemed entirely unbothered by the attention, while Lady Ieiri, in all her effortless elegance, bore the scrutiny with that knowing smirk of hers. But what does it all mean? Is this simply the mark of a long-standing friendship, or is there something more to be said for the way Lord Geto’s gaze lingered, even after the music had ended?
I shall leave you with that thought, dear readers. But rest assured, this writer shall not be resting until the truth of the matter is known.
Yours in unwavering vigilance,
Phantom.
Six Eyes Estate.
"Your Grace?"
Gojo Satoru does not look up immediately. His gaze lingers on the crisp pages of the morning’s most scandalous publication, the ink still fresh, the words razor-sharp. And yet, they amuse him more than they should. A slow, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips—something caught between triumph and mischief, something practiced, yet effortless. He exhales through his nose, folding the paper with precise fingers before finally glancing up.
"That will be all, Jeffrey. Thank you."
The footman bows his head, his posture unwavering, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He turns to leave, but just as his fingers graze the handle, Satoru speaks again.
"Although, Jeffrey," he muses, rising to his feet with a languid stretch, his movements measured, "send a card to Highgrove House. I’ll be calling today."
There is a moment—brief, nearly imperceptible—where the servant hesitates. Just a second’s pause, a sharp intake of breath that would go unnoticed by most. But Satoru notices everything.
Still, Jeffrey recovers swiftly, nodding before stepping out of the room.
Satoru smooths a hand down the lapels of his coat, fingertips grazing the fine embroidery. That night lingers at the edge of his mind, a memory he cannot seem to brush away. The music, the warmth of candlelight flickering against polished floors, the way you had fit so perfectly in the crook of his arm. It has been years since he last attended a ball and engaged in anything resembling courtship. The notion should feel ridiculous. And yet, for reasons he refuses to examine too closely, he had enjoyed it.
For a moment, he had felt as though he were ten again, when you, an eight year old, had accused him—with such assurance—of using rouge on his lips, convinced that no mere boy could possess such an unfair shade naturally. He had, of course, retaliated by claiming yours were far too pale, that you would never understand.
A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest as he sets the paper down, his expression shifting—bemusement giving way to something unreadable. He exhales, running a hand through his hair, then steps into the corridor.
"Jeffrey," he calls out, voice steady, self-assured. "Have these articles stored properly. Any mention of me or the Viscount’s daughter—bind them in leather and keep them in my study."
The footman bows in acknowledgment, already moving to fulfill the request.
Satoru does not wait for confirmation. He strides toward the entrance, the morning light catching against the sharp planes of his face. There is work to be done at the palace, obligations to fulfill.
But the afternoon—well, that belongs to something else entirely. To you.
Late afternoon, Highgrove House.
When the calling card arrives at Highgrove House that morning, your mother gasps as though she has been struck. A hand flies to her chest, eyes wide with something between delight and disbelief. Within moments, the household is set into a flurry of movement—servants rushing to press linens, to polish silver, to prepare the most delicate sandwiches and the finest selection of tea. The Duke of Six Eyes is calling. And your mother is making a big commotion, even though she knows he is your betrothed.
Ever since that night at the ball, the ton has regarded you with a particular sort of wariness, their once-inquisitive glances now imbibed with caution. You had expected, rather naïvely, that suitors might come forward in the days following. That, with no formal announcement to them, other gentlemen might take their chances. And yet—nothing. No flowers, no eager letters, no lingering gazes from across the promenade.
It leaves you with an unsettling thought.
Are they afraid of him? Or are they wary of you, of the way you had allowed yourself to stand so close to a man like him, in full view of the world?
Perhaps you have let yourself be swept away by it all. The thought lingers as you stand before the mirror, securing an extra pin into your hair, just in case. The strands have a tendency to loosen, much like your thoughts—unruly things, slipping free when you least expect them. You exhale, settling into the quiet solitude of your room. You despise this feeling. The uncertainty of it.
But it does not matter. Not really.
You have chosen blue again. A gown of the softest periwinkle, its fabric light as air, embroidered with the most delicate florals at the hem and sleeves. The bodice is fitted, the square neckline elegant but modest, drawing just enough attention to be considered fashionable. The empire waistline gathers beneath your chest before spilling into a graceful cascade of silk, moving like water when you shift. It is a dress designed to make an impression. To suggest quiet refinement, subtle beauty, and a touch of something just out of reach.
Your hands smooth over the skirt, an unconscious motion—until you catch yourself. You stop mid-gesture, the Duke’s words surfacing in your mind. A nervous habit, he had called it. And just as quickly as the memory arrives, so does the faintest trace of a smile. You blink it away.
This is a role. You must remember that. You must play it well.
You tell yourself this again and again, yet it feels alarmingly like courtship. A staged one, certainly, but a courtship all the same. The papers have called you one of the great beauties of the season, but that hardly matters now. The Veiled Quill—or rather, the Phantom—only writes of you when necessary, when you step into the public eye. And now, you suppose, you are to give them something to write about once more.
Your gaze drifts toward the desk, where quill and parchment await. A familiar temptation. But before you can act on it, a knock sounds at the door.
“My lady?” your maid calls softly. “The Duke is here.”
You nod. “Thank you, Agatha.” Then, with a knowing look, you glance at her, and she smiles—warm, familiar, and just a touch amused.
"You look beautiful," she says, adjusting the sleeve of your gown with practiced ease. "I trust the Duke will look at you the way your mother looks at her tea. Or the way your father looks at your mother."
Your breath catches, just for a moment. "Do you think so?" you ask, voice quieter now, uncertain.
"I do," Agatha replies, firm and fond. Then, with a gentle nudge toward the door, she adds, "Now, go on, Miss. He has been waiting for ten minutes already. Best not to keep a Duke waiting too long."
With a sigh, you descend the staircase, smoothing your skirts as you go. From the tea room, you can hear your mother’s voice, lilting and graceful, guiding the conversation with ease. She speaks of trade, of land, of matters that seem so far removed from the present moment, and yet, she makes it sound effortless. It unsettles you. You have never possessed her mastery of small talk. No, you have always preferred to remain silent until directly spoken to. You did have the skill for polite, gliding conversation, although that wasn't useful until someone actually spoke to you.
A sudden hiss—soft, but unmistakable—draws your attention, shaking you out of your thoughts.
"Psst."
You blink, glancing toward the parlor, and there, peeking his head around the door, is Yuji, grinning like a boy who has just discovered some delightful secret. You hesitate, checking the tea room. No one has announced your arrival yet. So, with a quick step, you make your way toward your younger brother.
"Something wrong?" you ask, crouching slightly to meet his eyes.
He shakes his head, mischief written all over his face. "Quite the opposite, actually."
"Oh?" You tilt your head. "And what might that be?"
"He's handsome," Yuji whispers, eyes wide with the weight of his revelation. "Really, really handsome."
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. "Well, if you'd like to make his acquaintance, you are welcome to accompany me, you know. Mama might leave us be after a while, considering we are already betrothed."
Yuji merely grins. "No need. Just let him know that you have a rather intelligent and devastatingly good-looking younger brother, and if he happens to have any sisters, I might be interested in the future."
"You are utterly shameless," you murmur, fighting a smile.
"I like to think of myself as opportunistic."
Shaking your head, you move to leave, but Yuji gasps, stopping you in your tracks. "Wait. If Mother leaves after ten or twenty minutes…" His eyes sparkle with mischief. "That means you won’t have a chaperone in the room." He waggles his brows. "How scandalous."
You narrow your eyes at him. "Stop reading my novels. Go study. Or whatever it is you do when your governor is ill."
He grins wider. "You wound me."
You merely roll your eyes and turn on your heel, making your way toward the tea room—where, waiting on the other side, is the Duke of Six Eyes himself.
"Good afternoon," you say, dipping your head in a practiced nod.
Gojo mirrors the gesture, his knowing smile as sharp as ever. His appearance, for lack of a better word, is immaculate. It is impossible not to take note of it—the crispness of his finely tailored coat, the perfect fold of his cravat, the waistcoat that fits so precisely, you can discern the strength beneath the layers. He is, undeniably, a man who commands attention without effort.
"I shall be just over there," your mother announces as she rises from her seat, smoothing down her skirts with practiced ease. "And I will call for refreshments. Do sit, dear," she adds, giving you a look so layered with meaning that it hardly requires words. She moves across the room, gesturing to a maid before settling herself near the unlit fireplace, a book in hand.
"Blue again?" Gojo muses, stepping closer. "Is it your favorite?"
His gaze lingers, not improper, but appraising. You blink, caught off guard, before shaking your head. "Not particularly, no."
He hums as though this is interesting, as though it is something to be considered. "I must apologize—I have come empty-handed. I had every intention of bringing flowers, but my morning was consumed by matters at the palace. Time, it seems, was not on my side."
"You needn't trouble yourself," you reply, shaking your head. "There is no need for pretense here. Not in my home."
"Oh, but I must," he counters smoothly, tilting his head with amusement. "How else will we ensure that tales of our great romance sweep through the ton? The Phantom, that ever-elusive wretch, is already watching our every move. Did you read this morning’s issue? An entire column dedicated to us. Well, and Geto Suguru. But mostly us."
You arch a brow, suppressing a smile. "And that pleases you? The ton whispering about you and me?"
"Immensely," he grins, leaning in just so, as if sharing a secret. "Consider it much like that moment at the ball. The hush of voices, the stolen glances, the weight of every lingering touch. You enjoyed it, did you not?"
His words settle in the space between you, light and teasing, yet holding something heavier beneath. You say nothing for a moment, only letting the silence stretch. Then, finally, you concede—just barely. "Perhaps. You have a way with words, I must say."
"A way with words?" He lifts a brow, his tone edged with amusement. "You think so?"
"Well," you murmur, glancing away, "everything you say seems effortless. I could never speak to people like that."
He exhales a soft chuckle. "And yet, you are. Right this very moment."
His gaze lingers, sharp yet unreadable, before he lifts a hand slightly, hesitating. A silent request. You offer the smallest nod, and he takes it as permission, his fingers brushing the space between your brows, smoothing the faint crease there.
"Worrying will do nothing but wear you down," he murmurs.
Your breath catches, the words barely registering. His gloves are absent today, and his touch is cool against your skin—a stark contrast to your own warmth. It sends a shiver through you, unexpected and not entirely unwelcome.
"A-ah," you manage, barely above a whisper.
His fingers linger for a moment longer than they should, a deliberate pause, before he withdraws his hand. The absence is felt immediately.
He regards you for a lingering moment before tilting his head, his voice quieter now, as if extending an invitation to something far more intimate than mere conversation. “Would you care to take a walk in the park tomorrow? In the morning?”
You inhale, just enough for it to steady you. “That would be nice,” you murmur. “I would like that.”
There’s a rustle of movement behind you—the faint shift of silk against the upholstery, the careful closing of a book—and then the unmistakable sound of your mother’s footsteps retreating down the hall. You blink, half-turning your head to confirm that she has, indeed, left. When you glance back, Gojo remains exactly where he was, only a foot away, watching you with an amused expression that suggests he knew before you did that you were now alone.
Your throat feels oddly dry. “Would you like some refreshments?” you ask, a touch too quickly. “You must be hungry, after working at the palace for so long.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t be so nervous, darling,” he chides, his voice threaded with amusement. “I promise I won’t tease you for having pale lips, as I did when we were children. On the contrary,” he pauses, his gaze dipping for just a fraction of a second, “they seem perfectly pink to me.”
Your breath catches. He steps forward.
“I used rouge,” you say hurriedly, pulse quickening. “That’s why they’re pink, and—”
He hums, as if he isn’t really listening, as if his attention has shifted elsewhere entirely. Slowly, he lifts a hand to your temple, fingers brushing against your hair with the lightest of touches. You freeze.
“What’s this?” he murmurs, almost to himself. And then, before you can answer, he plucks the small silver pin from where you had tucked it so carefully.
A curl tumbles free, slipping forward to frame the curve of your cheek. The weight of it is unfamiliar—you had fastened it back for a reason, and now it lingers there, soft and unruly, as though it had always belonged in that place.
Gojo exhales, quietly, his fingers still twirling the pin between them. “You didn’t have this piece pinned at the ball,” he says, eyes flicking up to yours. “You look beautiful with it loose.”
Your lips part, though you are uncertain of what to say. He has the gall to smile at your silence, as if pleased by it.
“You are…” You hesitate, though the words still come, hushed and half-formed. “You are terribly confident, aren’t you? Too confident, to stand this close, to touch a lady so effortlessly with no chaperone to witness it. Does it not affect you at all?”
Gojo’s lips curl. “Should it?” he counters, slipping the pin into his palm. “If I recall correctly, you were quite fond of whispers when they were about you.”
His words flicker through you like the ghost of a touch. He does not need to step closer to overwhelm you—you are already caught in the weight of his gaze, in the suggestion of something unspoken between you.
The curl still rests against your cheek. He does not tuck it away.
For a moment, you can only stare at him, words caught somewhere between your throat and your lips, tangled like a ribbon left too long in the wind.
He pockets the pin with an air of easy arrogance, as if it were his by right, as if the act of taking it—of taking something so small yet so intimately yours—was as natural as breathing. His fingers, still lingering near your temple, trace the space where the pin once sat, brushing against your skin with the faintest pressure, the kind that lingers long after the touch is gone.
“Don’t tuck it away,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you at the park tomorrow.”
And just like that, he steps back, turning on his heel with all the unbothered grace of a man who knows exactly what he has done, what he has left behind. You watch as he strides toward the door, the soft click of his boots against the polished floor grounding you in a moment that feels altogether unreal.
Your heart pounds, heavy and insistent, so loud that you half-wonder if he can hear it. If, just before he disappears past the threshold, he catches the way your breath wavers, the way your hand curls ever so slightly into the fabric of your gown as if to steady yourself.
But he does not look back.
The door shuts with an infuriatingly soft click. And you exhale, the weight of it shuddering through you, as if only now your body remembers how to breathe.
That night, you lay in bed with your hands clasped over your chest, as if to still the erratic rhythm of your heart. It is foolish, you tell yourself, to let a mere touch, a stolen pin, a murmured promise set your thoughts ablaze like a hearth stoked too eagerly. And yet, the warmth refuses to fade. You turn onto your side, the ghost of a smile threatening to surface before you school your features into careful neutrality. This is not real—it is a performance, a spectacle for the ton to admire and dissect until the wedding is done, until the curtain falls. And still, when you close your eyes, you see the way he looked at you, hear the quiet weight of his voice, feel the phantom touch of his fingers at your temple. You sigh, sinking deeper into the sheets, knowing full well that sleep will not come easily tonight.
The next morning, Hyde Park.
You're standing near the lake when his voice reaches you, smooth, curling around your senses like a ribbon caught in the breeze. Your fingers tighten slightly, a reflex more than anything, before you turn to face him. A short distance away, your mother lingers in quiet conversation with Lady Iori, their voices hushed but ever watchful. They are, after all, your chaperones for the day.
"You're early," he observes, his tone edged with amusement. "Punctuality is quite the virtue, my lady."
"No, you've simply always been late," you reply, a small smile touching your lips.
That earns you one of his own—slight, knowing. And then, with practiced ease, he offers his arm. "Shall we?"
You glance toward your mother, who gives the smallest nod of approval, before resting your gloved hand against his sleeve. The fabric is rich beneath your touch, the arm beneath it firm and steady. A fleeting moment of awareness washes over you, but you shake it off as the two of you begin walking.
The morning air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and freshly bloomed roses. Your gown—pale blue with sleeves that reached just above your wrists, flows just so with every measured step—had seemed the most appropriate choice for a walk. Your other option had been lilac, but something about blue always felt safer. More composed. More perfect.
Satoru, of course, is immaculately dressed. He always is. The navy of his tailcoat deepens the striking brightness of his features, the white of his cravat impossibly pristine. He carries himself with the careless elegance of a man who has never had to doubt his place in the world.
"So," you begin, breaking the silence, "how shall we go about today?"
"You tell me," he muses. "I should like to know you better. Do you still delight in the same things you did as a child? Or have the years refined your tastes?"
You tilt your head, puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"
He nods toward you, his expression betraying nothing but idle curiosity. "For instance, do you still prefer the taste of rose in your ice cream? Or is it something else now? And once upon a time, you swore pink was the loveliest color of all. Yet now, every time I see you, you're dressed in blue. I begin to wonder if your affections have shifted."
"Ah," you murmur, glancing down at the path ahead, "I suppose I like blue."
"And why is that?" he asks, his tone light, though there’s something knowing in the way he watches you.
You narrow your eyes at him, sensing the trap he is laying. "I do like lilac more, actually. Purple, lavender—shades of that sort."
He hums, considering this. "So the color of my eyes holds no particular intrigue for you?"
You laugh softly, shaking your head. "I never said that. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is precisely why I have been wearing blue more often, as of late."
His lips curve, a flicker of triumph there. "Ah. So you admit it, then. You wore it for me."
"I did," you confess with a sigh, before adding, with exaggerated regret, "Regrettably."
He places a hand over his chest, feigning injury. "You wound me, my lady. How cruel."
"You sound like my brother," you tease, grinning as he huffs in mock indignation.
His expression shifts slightly, brows knitting together. "Since when do you have a brother?"
You inhale, the shift in conversation catching you slightly off guard. "He is my uncle’s son—my father’s younger brother. My uncle died in an accident while traveling, and his wife did not long survive him. The shock of it all, you understand. And so, Yuji is the heir now. The next Viscount [L/N]." A warmth spreads through your voice as you add, "He is quite impossible. But I adore him."
"How old is he?" he asks, voice tempered with quiet curiosity. "Perhaps he is the same age as my brother. Megumi. You remember him, don’t you?"
You nod, recalling the solemn-eyed boy who had once clung to his elder brother’s side. "They are both twelve, if I remember correctly. Megumi was only two when you left, wasn’t he?"
"He was," Satoru confirms, a faint smile playing at his lips. "I made certain to take him with me to Oxfordshire. I had purchased a house there before my studies began, and while I was at Oxford, he remained. I would visit whenever I had a day to spare. And now—" he exhales, shaking his head with the ghost of a laugh. "Well, now he goes wherever I go. I cannot keep him away too long, I’m afraid. He claims it is for his own sake, but truthfully, I think it is for mine. I would not sleep soundly without knowing where he is."
You soften at his words, a warmth settling in your chest. "He must be wonderful company. You care for him a great deal."
"I do," he admits, something unspoken lingering in his expression.
"And that," you say gently, "is a very good thing."
A quiet moment passes between you, the air shifting as you hesitate. Your feet still against the gravel path, your gloved fingers twitching at your sides. There is something you wish to say, something that has lingered on the tip of your tongue since this arrangement was first thrust upon you. You wonder if it is foolish to ask.
"If I were to make a request," you murmur at last, voice softer now, measured, "would you deny me?"
He tilts his head, considering you with an air of lazy amusement. "How could I possibly refuse anything of you?" he says. "You are my betrothed. The future Duchess. It is my duty to fulfill your every wish."
The words make your breath catch, an unfamiliar warmth curling in your chest. You lower your gaze, fingers idly smoothing the fabric of your gloves. "I—" You clear your throat, suddenly self-conscious. "I have a few requests, actually."
He chuckles, as though entertained by your hesitance. "Then speak them."
You nod, inhaling deeply. "As you know, I had no say in this. I did not choose it. I did not even know it was to happen."
"Do you not want it?"
"No!" Your response is too quick, too sharp, and his lips twitch as though he might laugh. You press on, determined. "What I mean is… I want a courtship. A proper one."
"A courtship," he echoes, amusement laced through every syllable. "That is all?"
"I want it to be real," you say, voice firm now. "The sort of courtship the ton will whisper about for years. The kind with grand balls and afternoon strolls. Flowers, letters—" You lift your chin, meeting his gaze. "Eight or nine balls, bouquets once a week, and letters. I do not care what you write in them. They must simply arrive."
He exhales dramatically. "Balls are dreadfully tedious. What if we agree on four?"
"Eight," you say, unwavering. "That is the lowest I will go."
He sighs as if in great suffering, though the gleam in his eyes betrays him. "What if I send flowers every other day?"
You laugh, shaking your head. "If you were truly courting me, you would buy out every florist in London."
"The things we do for love," he muses, his voice carrying the weight of amusement, of something unspoken yet lingering between you. His arm is warm beneath your touch, the scent of bergamot and something faintly sweet clinging to him, as if he had walked through a garden before arriving.
You shake your head, exhaling softly. "I think this was merely my parents’ way of ensuring I marry within my first season. A practical arrangement, nothing more. There is no love involved." You pause, a flicker of something betraying you as your fingers brush against the fine fabric of your gloves. "Not yet, at least."
The admission unsettles you. It sits on your tongue like honey, too rich, too sweet, and you wish you had not said it aloud.
He presses a hand to his chest, staggering back half a step as though truly wounded. "How cruel you are," he sighs, his expression caught between laughter and mock despair. "To suggest that I have done all of this without the guiding force of affection."
"You have done all of this because you must," you counter, though your voice lacks conviction.
He hums, tilting his head as though contemplating your words. Then, softly, with an edge of mischief, he murmurs, "Perhaps. But I believe 'the things I do for you' would be a far more fitting phrase, in this situation."
Your breath catches, the weight of his gaze pinning you to the moment. You turn away before he can see the way your lips curve upward, before he can witness the foolish, giddy beat of your heart betraying you entirely.
“Shall I see you here again? Tomorrow?” His voice is soft, coaxing, laced with something so light it could almost be mistaken for sincerity. “I want to see you as much as I can. As much as I must. Before the engagement. Before the wedding.”
You pause, your fingers still resting lightly on the crook of his arm. He is watching you intently, the sharpness of his gaze at odds with the slow, amused curve of his lips, and for a moment, you forget how to respond. The world around you—the crunch of gravel beneath passing carriages, the gentle ripple of the lake, the distant laughter of children—fades into nothing but the space between you.
“We cannot be seen together every day,” you murmur at last, recovering with a measured breath. “It would not be proper. I have no desire to court scandal.”
“Ah.” He tilts his head, all feigned contemplation. “Of course. The darling of the season cannot be seen lingering too often with just one suitor.”
You exhale sharply, narrowing your eyes at him. “That is not it, and you know it.”
His laughter is quiet, knowing. He steps closer, lowering his voice to something just above a whisper. “You concern yourself too much with the idle tongues of the ton. Must we truly care for their approval?”
“They are not idle tongues,” you reply, voice firm but quiet. “These are the men and women who hold influence, who shape reputations, who decide futures. Even those at the top, like us, must abide by the rules of society.”
His smile lingers, as if amused by the notion of rules at all. “And is it still considered improper to swear in front of a lady?”
You give him a look, and he chuckles, shaking his head. “Very well. If I cannot see you, I shall send flowers. Tomorrow morning, without fail. And a letter the day after—though I make no promises about its contents.”
You fight back a smile. “And then?”
He hums, considering. “Then, I shall see you at—”
“The opera,” you supply, blinking as the thought strikes you. “Beethoven's Fidelio. Father has secured a box for Friday evening. Will you be there?”
Satoru regards you for a beat longer than necessary, as if debating whether to make you wait for his answer. But then, with a slow tilt of his head, he murmurs, “Then I shall get myself there.”
And though the air between you remains light, easy, there is something about the way he says it that makes your breath catch.
Friday, Highgrove House.
"Darling," your mother calls just as you fasten the last clasp of your pearl necklace.
You glance at your reflection—a vision of refined elegance, bathed in candlelight. The gown, a delicate shade of powder blue, clings to your frame with a quiet kind of opulence, the empire waist cinched just beneath your bust in the latest Parisian fashion. The short, puffed sleeves offer an air of charm, though the fine embroidery cascading down the skirt is silently sophisticated. The fabric shimmers under the glow of the chandelier, the minute movements of your body catching the light just so. You tug your gloves higher up your arms, adjusting them over your wrists, the silk cool against your skin.
"Yes, Mother?" you ask, turning as she stands in the doorway. She takes a moment, eyes sweeping over you, a keen gaze that misses nothing. Finally, she hums in approval, smoothing an invisible crease in her own gown.
"You look beautiful," she declares. "We must hurry, though."
"Of course," you nod, casting one last glance at your maid, who smiles at you as she adjusts a wayward curl behind your ear.
The carriage ride to the Royal Opera House is quiet, save for the gentle hum of conversation between your parents and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone. But you? You can only think of him. It is always this way before you see him—before you are faced with those impossibly blue eyes, before you are once again reminded that he is no longer just the mischievous boy from your childhood but something else entirely. Something overwhelming. And yet, when you are finally before him, the weight of it all always seems to dissipate, as though he were the only person in the world capable of setting you at ease.
When the carriage draws to a halt, footmen step forward, their hands outstretched to assist you down. The Royal Opera House glows with the flickering warmth of a hundred lanterns, its grand facade imposing yet utterly magnificent. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of perfume and candle wax, with the low murmur of anticipation as elegantly dressed men and women sweep through the corridors, their laughter lilting through the space like a melody of its own.
You find yourself seated within your family’s private box, your gloved fingers smoothing over the silk of your skirt as your eyes drift over the audience below. The Duke's box is positioned centrally, of course—the best seat in the house. You scan the gilded tiers, recognizing familiar faces. There, across the way, sits Utahime’s family, their box filled with quiet chatter. A few seats down, you spot Shoko, languid and unbothered, her mother speaking to a rather enthusiastic lord.
You lean toward your mother, voice barely above a whisper. "Shall I go to the retiring room to adjust my gown? And perhaps see Utahime or Shoko on the way?"
"Not now, dear," she replies, shaking her head. "It would be improper to leave just as the performance is beginning."
And indeed, the orchestra has already begun its overture, the first deep, resounding notes of Fidelio filling the hall like the swell of an oncoming tide. You settle in your seat, folding your hands in your lap as the curtain rises, revealing a scene bathed in dramatic lighting.
The first act unfolds before you—Leonore, disguised as a man, moving through the prison in search of her husband, Florestan. The music is rich; melodies weave around you, as if binding you in place, the soprano’s voice soaring through the rafters, carrying with it the weight of longing and sacrifice.
And yet, your thoughts begin to drift. Not entirely, but enough. Enough to notice the way your heart beats a little faster at the thought of who sits just a few boxes away. Enough to wonder if he is watching the performance with the same rapt attention as everyone else, or if, perhaps, his eyes have wandered—to the audience, to the private boxes, to you.
It is only at the close of the first act, as the applause swells through the opera house, that your mother gives you a nod. A silent permission. Now is an appropriate time.
You rise gracefully, smoothing down your skirts before slipping toward the corridor, the air cooler beyond the warmth of the auditorium. A few ladies have already made their way toward the retiring room, their voices hushed, their steps careful. You follow, though a part of you wonders—would he follow, too?
The hush of the corridor is exhilarating, the murmur of the opera fading behind heavy velvet curtains and gilded doors. You move quickly, the silk of your gown whispering against the marble floor, the candle sconces casting yellow light upon the stretch of hall. A glance over your shoulder and you exhale, relieved that you're alone.
You should turn toward the retiring room, as you had planned. It would be the proper thing, the expected thing. And yet, your feet hesitate, lingering just a little longer. What harm would there be in taking a few more steps, just enough to draw you closer to the direction of his box? You tell yourself it is nothing—merely a coincidence, a passing fancy. After all, the halls are empty. There will be no whispers. No scandal.
And yet, would he think less of you for it? Would he see you as another girl caught in the thrall of his presence, desperate for his notice? The thought unsettles you. You let out a quiet sigh, smoothing the fabric of your skirts, over and over, as if the motion could still the indecision in your heart. You keep your eyes lowered, lost in thought, your fingers tracing absent patterns along the delicate embroidery at your waist. You don't see him until it is too late.
“I take it you wanted to see me.”
The voice, rich with amusement, startles you. Your breath catches as your gaze snaps upward. And there he is.
He stands just a few paces ahead, half-shadowed beneath the candlelight, the sharpness of his features softened by the golden glow. His lips curl into something just shy of a smirk, though his eyes tell another story—a more knowing warmth. You feel the tension in your shoulders ease, the weight of uncertainty lifting in an instant.
“I was headed to the retiring room, actually,” you say, though the words sound unconvincing even to your own ears.
“Really?” He steps closer, the polished heel of his boot barely making a sound against the marble. He looks at you, properly looks at you, before tilting his head. “Powder blue is a good color on you.”
A warmth unfurls in your chest, curling at the edges of your composure. “Thank you,” you murmur, fighting against the smile that tugs at your lips. “I chose it myself.”
You try, truly, to keep your expression composed. To keep yourself from betraying the foolish, fluttering joy that his presence stirs within you. But it is a losing battle, and you know it the moment he catches you in it. His grin widening as yours finally, inevitably, breaks free.
Miserable failure, indeed.
"Alright," you concede, barely more than a whisper. "I wanted to see you."
A low hum escapes him, a sound of amusement, of satisfaction, of something else you dare not name. He steps forward, the candlelight catching the sharp edges of his cheekbones. It is ridiculous, truly, the way he moves—like he is always dancing, even when he is standing still. And you, despite your better judgment, step right into his rhythm.
But then, your breath stills. You see it.
The realization seizes you all at once, rushing through your veins like a violin bow gliding, taunting, over tightening strings. Your heart flutters with the giddy, breathless delight of a child discovering a long-lost secret. Your pulse stumbles, as if it, too, is caught in his spell.
Duke Gojo Satoru, in all his insufferable glory, had once plucked the silver hairpin from your tresses with all the entitlement of a man who takes what he likes. "Don't tuck it away," he had murmured, thumb brushing against your temple. And then, with a smirk that had burned itself into your memory, he had sauntered off, leaving you there, untethered, your heart hammering in the hollow of your throat.
And now—now, he wears it.
The silver hairpin sits proudly at his throat, nestled against the folds of his cravat, as if it has always belonged there. Not discarded, not forgotten, but displayed. Claimed.
You stare, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to delight. He follows your gaze, feigning ignorance with a performance so masterful it is almost admirable. Almost.
"That's..." You swallow, pointing, though the words stick to the roof of your mouth. "Surely, you didn’t—"
His lips curve, slow and deliberate, into something entirely too knowing. A smile that is both playful and perilous, like a masked reveler inviting you into a waltz where the steps are known only to him.
"Oh, this?" he drawls, tilting his head ever so slightly. As if it is nothing at all. As if he has not just set the entire world off its axis.
The violins in your chest reach a fever pitch.
"You are wearing my hairpin?" The words escape you before you can gather them, before you can make them sound anything less than incredulous. You step closer, closer than is proper, closer than is wise. Close enough to see the flicker of amusement in his gaze, the way his lips curve. Not in a smirk, no, but something softer, almost perilous.
It is intimate. It is scandal. And yet, you do not step away.
"Why?" you ask, though you suspect you already know the answer.
"Do you not want me to?" His voice is languid, coaxing, as if he is leading you into a game where he alone knows the rules. But you know them, too, don’t you? You know exactly what this is.
He wears it so boldly, that silver pin nestled against the folds of his neck, an open declaration for the entire world to see. He has taken something of yours, and in doing so, has turned it into something of his own. It is not lost on you. Not at all.
"You know I do," you murmur, eyes narrowing slightly. "You know, you really are something."
"Something?" he echoes, laughing under his breath. "You say that as if it is a compliment. And yet, you—"
His gaze flickers over you, unrushed, deliberate. "You’ve tucked your hair away again, despite my asking you not to. You wear the color of my eyes every time you know I will be near. And you act so coy."
"Coy?" You blink at him, lips parting as if he has accused you of something utterly preposterous. "I am anything but coy."
"Oh, but you are," he counters, eyes gleaming, stepping ever so slightly forward. "You know exactly what it is you do. You always have. You like the whispers, the stolen glances, the way the ton watches you with thinly veiled envy. You like being the most exquisite creature in every room you enter. You like knowing that your name will be the first on everyone’s lips before the night is through."
There is no malice in his voice, only certainty, as if he is merely stating what has always been true.
"And is that so wrong?" you ask quietly, looking into his endless eyes.
"Not at all," he replies, shaking his head. "But do not pretend it is not what you want."
Something flickers between you, something fleeting and restless, like a waltz that never quite ends.
"You are not like the others," he says at last, voice softer now. "You never have been."
You watch him carefully, brow furrowed. "What are you trying to say?"
He exhales, shaking his head as if he himself cannot quite place it. Then, so effortlessly, so easily, he lifts his hand to your temple.
And just like before, he plucks the delicate pin from your hair. A breath stills in your throat as the curl falls to frame the side of your cheekbone again.
"Shall I take this one with me, too?" he murmurs. You do not answer immediately. You cannot. You swallow, feeling the weight of the moment press against your ribs, feeling the world narrow down to nothing but the space between you.
And then, finally, you nod.
The violins stop in your mind. A hush falls over your thoughts, quieting the flutter in your chest. You blink, once, twice, the spell nearly breaks. "I should be getting back."
His fingers close gently around your wrist before you can step away. Not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to halt you mid-motion. You stiffen, not out of fear but something else entirely—something dangerously close to anticipation. He must feel the way your pulse stutters beneath his touch because he hesitates, eyes flicking down to where his hand lingers on your glove. A second passes, a breath held. Then, just as carefully, he releases you.
“Wait,” he says, softer now, glancing around as if remembering himself. The corridor remains empty, scandal held at bay by sheer luck or fate. You watch as he reaches into his coat pocket, producing something small and gleaming, and then pressing it into your palm. Your fingers close around it instinctively.
You glance down, and the breath catches in your throat. A cravat pin. Gold filigree, impossibly delicate, intricate in its craftsmanship, and set at its center is an iridescent pearl. A thing of beauty, understated but unmistakably precious. You run your thumb over its cool surface, marveling at it.
“Perhaps this will make up for the two pins I stole from you,” he muses, voice light but laced with an unreadable tenderness.
Your heart does something traitorous in your chest. You look up at him, lips parting slightly as if to say something, anything, but the words never come. There’s something in his expression, something teasing yet entirely sincere, that roots you to the spot.
“I should like to see it on you sometime,” he murmurs. A confession, barely more than a breath.
You blink, heat blooming high on your cheeks. The world shrinks—there is only you and him, only the steady weight of the pin in your palm, only the sharp realization that he has just given you a token, a gift that means something. Your fingers tighten around it, delicate but possessive.
“A-alright,” you manage, hating the waver in your voice.
He smiles then, slow and warm, his teeth flashing through it. The kind of smile that holds secrets, the kind that lingers in the mind long after it is gone. “Alright?” he echoes, amused.
You nod, eager to break free from the gravity of his gaze, from the peculiar thrill his presence stirs in you. He chuckles, a sound low in his throat, and it does something strange to your resolve.
“I should let you go,” he says at last, though he does not move.
You hum, unable to trust your voice, and step back first. He follows suit, a breath of space reappearing between you, though it does nothing to quell the sensation that he is still far too close. The moment stretches, fragile as glass.
Just as you turn on your heel, he speaks again, voice quicker now, as if afraid the words will be lost if he does not say them fast enough. “I might head back to the countryside for a week. I thought I should tell you.”
You pause, tilting your head slightly. “Oh,” you say, and the word sounds far too small. “Alright. I suppose I’ll see you at Shoko’s ball, then. It's next Sunday.”
His lips quirk, something knowing in the set of them. “I’ll look forward to it.”
You linger for a second longer than you should, long enough to see the quiet amusement in his eyes, the way the candlelight catches in his hair. Then, with a breath you barely manage to steady, you turn away and walk back toward the theater.
As you reach the entrance to your family’s box, you pause. Against every rule of decorum, against every lesson your mother ever instilled in you, you allow yourself one last indulgence. You turn your head, just slightly, just enough.
He is still standing where you left him. He catches your glance immediately, as if waiting for it. And then, impossibly, he bows his head ever so slightly—deferential, teasing, a farewell wrapped in a gesture that feels too intimate for a public hall.
Your breath hitches, and you slip inside before you can embarrass yourself further. The murmur of the opera house washes over you again, but it does nothing to quiet the thrumming in your chest. You settle into your seat, hands folded primly in your lap, the weight of the pin pressing gently against your palm.
It is only then that you realize—your curls are loose again. They are framing your face just the way he likes. And you are starting to like it too.
The next evening, Whites' Gentlemens' Club.
The crystal tumbler pauses midway to Suguru Geto’s lips. A single dark brow lifts, his expression unreadable save for the slight, measured tilt of his head.
"You did what?" he asks.
Across the table, Gojo Satoru exhales, slow and unbothered, before knocking back another sip of whiskey. The amber liquid catches in the dim glow of the club’s chandelier, casting fractured light across the polished mahogany.
"Well," Satoru says, stretching out the syllable with languid ease. "She did say she wanted a proper courtship. I am merely obliging."
Suguru sets his glass down with deliberate care. "That," he begins, after a measured pause, "is the most foolish and psychotic thing I have ever heard." His voice does not rise, does not waver; it is the same as always—cool, composed. But there is something sharp beneath it, a blade’s edge just barely concealed.
Satoru scoffs. "It is not psychotic."
"It is," Suguru replies flatly.
"You cannot expect me to neglect her happiness," Satoru continues as if he has not heard him. "This is what she wants, and I am simply fulfilling her wishes."
"You are setting her up for disaster," Suguru counters, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching the liquid lap at the rim. "A marriage that will ruin her, that will weigh her down like an anchor." His voice has lowered, quieter now, but with the distinct cadence of someone biting back something stronger.
Satoru only raises a pale brow. "Ruin? I am only ensuring she likes me."
Suguru exhales sharply, gaze narrowing. "At this rate, she will fall in love with you." A beat. "And you, my friend, are known for being a rake."
Satoru laughs, light and careless, tipping his head back against the velvet of his chair. "I am also known for being rich, handsome, and the most eligible bachelor in the ton," he says, as if that alone is reason enough.
Suguru does not laugh.
Instead, he watches Satoru with that unnerving stillness of his, the kind that has always been far too perceptive, far too knowing. "You cannot play with her like a toy," he says at last, voice tempered steel. "You know that. This foolish courtship of yours will only end one way—with that damned gossip column painting your engagement as something out of a fairytale, and her believing it." He leans forward, just slightly, fingers threading together over the tabletop. "And we both know that, once the vows are exchanged, you will not look at her twice."
Satoru’s easy grin fades. His expression darkens, just slightly, as he shifts in his seat. "Oh, come off it," he mutters. "I am not that horrible."
Suguru lifts his glass again, studies the golden liquid inside before taking a slow sip. "You surely don’t believe that, do you?"
A waiter approaches, pouring another generous measure into his glass before slipping away. Suguru does not look away from his friend, not even for a moment.
"Satoru," he says, voice softer now. "Do not hurt her."
There is something unsettling about the way he says it, something that pricks at Satoru’s skin like a splinter too deep to be removed. He shifts again, forcing a chuckle, reaching for his own glass. "What," he says, "just because she’s friends with the lady you’re pursuing?"
Suguru shakes his head. "No, you insufferable fool," he sighs. "Because she is my friend, too."
Satoru stills.
"We do not see each other often," Suguru continues, "not like we once did, not since the expectations of the ton came between all of us. But I exchange letters with her, now and then." He lifts his glass again, but his gaze remains unwavering. "And I would not like to see her broken at the hands of someone who does not deserve her. She is smart, kind, and most of all, capable."
Satoru’s fingers tighten around his tumbler, grip pressing into the etched glass. A muscle twitches in his jaw. "You care for my fiancée," he says, voice edged with something unreadable.
Suguru rolls his eyes. "Can you," he asks, exasperated, "for once in your privileged, insufferable life, not make this about yourself?"
This time, Satoru does laugh—quietly, breathlessly, because what else can he do?
"Alright, fine," Satoru exhales, tilting his head back against the plush chair, the very picture of theatrical resignation. "When the time is right, I shall tell her. That I am only pursuing her to secure my life. There. Are you happy now?"
Across from him, Suguru does not move. Does not so much as blink. He only watches, fingers idly tapping against the rim of his glass, his mouth set in something thoughtful.
"Please do not say that to me for the sake of saying it," he murmurs, scratching lightly at his temple, voice steady but lined with the faintest trace of exhaustion. "Follow through with it, Satoru."
Satoru presses his lips together in something close to a pout. "When the time is right," he repeats, firm now. "Not before, nor after. Exactly when it is right."
Suguru exhales, slowly. "Gojo."
Satoru grins. "Geto."
It is a long-standing habit of theirs, this game of cat and mouse, of half-truths and veiled warnings. It stretches between them now, weighty in the air, the gap between their gazes shrinking, their wills clashing in the silence.
Suguru, unyielding. Satoru, unrepentant.
And then, after a moment that drags on too long, Satoru huffs, tossing his head back in the most cavalier manner possible. "Fine. You win. Whatever." He waves a careless hand. "I'm still telling her when the time is right."
"Before the wedding," Suguru insists, quieter this time. "She has the right to know."
Satoru’s fingers tighten around his glass. "Right, of course," he echoes, tone light, easy—so easy, in fact, that it is clear he is only going along with it to move the conversation along. "Before the wedding."
Suguru watches him, his expression unreadable, but he does not push further. Instead, he lifts his drink again, taking a slow sip, as if washing away the bitterness of this conversation.
Satoru shifts in his seat, stretching out one long leg, as if restless. His fingers drum against the edge of the table before he finally exhales, long and slow, and says, "I should be heading back to Limitless Hall for a week. Tonight, actually. The carriage is ready, I'm assuming. To take me back home."
Suguru glances up at him at that, brow furrowing slightly. "So soon?"
"There are matters that need attending to." Satoru’s voice remains flippant, but there is the smallest shift in his expression—a quirk of the brow, a flicker in his otherwise unreadable gaze. And Suguru, being who he is, catches it.
Ah. The will. Complications regarding it, again. Suguru knows it immediately.
Suguru says nothing. But his fingers tighten, ever so slightly, around his glass.
Satoru does not elaborate. Instead, he leans back, the ghost of a smirk curling at his lips, masking whatever discomfort lingers beneath. "Try not to miss me too much," he drawls, pushing back his chair, the legs scraping against the floor.
Suguru rolls his eyes, but it is not an exasperated thing. It is something softer, something knowing.
Satoru merely grins, tipping his head in a lazy farewell before turning on his heel, the tails of his coat sweeping behind him as he makes his exit.
And then, just like that, he is gone.
One week later, Highgrove House.
It had now been a week—seven days of silence from him, and yet not a moment without him.
Every morning at precisely half-past nine, as if summoned by clockwork or divine orchestration, the doorbell would ring. And there, in the arms of a solemn-faced footman dressed in Six Eyes livery, would be the day’s bouquet—carefully cradled in a box lined with silk, as if it were not a gift but a relic. Accompanying it, every other day, came a letter. Each folded in thick parchment, the Duke’s seal pressed in wax so burgundy it appeared almost maroon, and every word inside bearing the elegant slant of a hand you had once seen scrawl nonsense on napkins and map the constellations on your skin as a child.
He had written, quite plainly, that the flowers were to be delivered in the evening. And yet they arrived each morning, at the very beginning of your day, without fail. You wondered—was it a deliberate mistake, or a silent confession? That he wanted to be the first thing you thought of when you awoke. That he was thinking of you still, and with an urgency that made him careless with time.
On the first day: white musk roses—their scent faintly sweet, their petals soft, their message unmistakable. A flower meant to tell a lady she is charming, as if you required a floral confirmation of what he’d already made abundantly clear that night in the corridor of the opera. On the second: hibiscus, deep and plush, the colour of crushed velvet, meant to symbolise grace and beauty that does not wither. Then came the irises, their purple-blue hue catching the light like a secret; they spoke of messages unspoken, of conversations unfinished, of all the things one cannot say in public.
Daffodils followed—bright, golden, cheerful, unassuming things—and something in their simplicity made your breath catch. They meant regard. They meant sincerity. They meant, “I see you.”
And then, as if unable to choose just one sentiment, he began sending them all. The last three days had brought arrangements so lavish they eclipsed the windowsills they sat upon. Musk roses nestled against hibiscus; irises leaned toward daffodils in a floral communion. Their fragrance filled your chamber from dawn until long past dusk. Every bloom felt like a word he could not say aloud. Every petal felt like a confession too scandalous to name.
You feared your rooms might begin to overflow. And still, you kept them all.
You told yourself it was for courtesy at first. But each time your eyes rested on the riot of colour blooming across your desk, your windowsill, your bedside, something in your chest turned warm and disobedient. As if love—quiet, and unnamed—had found its way into the gaps he’d left behind.
And the Phantom? She had made sure—whoever she was—that the entire ton was made aware of what was going on. Today's issue read: It would appear that the Duke of Six Eyes, most eligible and most incorrigible, has taken to the art of floristry with startling devotion. Daily deliveries, never once delayed, have been seen arriving at a certain young lady’s doorstep with a consistency that would put even the Royal Mail to shame. Musk roses, hibiscus, irises, daffodils—each bouquet more extravagant than the last. And though His Grace has not been seen in London all week, one might argue he’s made his presence known in the most fragrant way possible. One wonders: is it affection, obligation… or something far more performative?
Tonight is Shoko’s masquerade ball.
The city has been humming about it for days—its guest list a battleground of status, its gowns measured in silks and sequins, its secrets poised to bloom in candlelit corners. And though the evening promised anonymity, it was the kind fashioned only by masks—fragile, feathered, and far too beautiful to truly conceal anything at all.
Satoru was meant to return tonight. Whether he would actually arrive remained to be seen, but of one thing you were certain: the Duke did enjoy an entrance. He adored pageantry, the hush that fell over a room when he walked in, the way people tilted their heads to get a better look. He liked spectacle. He lived for it.
You had, perhaps to your own surprise, learned to stomach that kind of attention too. There was something oddly thrilling about it—about being watched, speculated upon, whispered about behind lace-gloved hands. But the masquerade was different. It was not simply about being seen. It was about being misseen. Unseen. A room full of people pretending not to know who they were, while revealing more of themselves than ever before.
And yet, of all those attending, Gojo Satoru could never disappear into such a crowd. With those silver lashes, that startling constellation of blue behind his mask—he would always be recognized. He was, in every sense, unmistakable.
You, however, were not.
And that, somehow, sat ill with you.
But you were never the sort of person to completely retreat into shadows simply because the sun chose to shine elsewhere. No—whatever else the world thought of you, you would not be eclipsed. Not tonight.
Your gaze drifts to the corner of your writing desk, where the gold cravat pin sat like a quiet talisman. It had arrived with him and remained long after he'd gone, left behind in the hush between touches and secrets. It is absurd, truly, how something so small could possess such a commanding presence. Even now, it glints faintly in the slant of late afternoon light, as if in silent challenge, as if daring you to pretend he hadn't happened at all.
You reach for your quill instead.
The scent of ink had become something of a second perfume to you—less roses and daffodils and irises, more candle wax and steel. You had written more in the past week than you had in the fortnight before, your thoughts unspooling like silk from a spindle.
You bend your head lower, brows furrowing in concentration as your quill moves over the parchment. You barely look up until the floorboards creaked, light and practiced, and the scent of your mother’s rosewater perfume announce her before her voice does.
You flip the page over in one fluid motion, a subtle twitch of your wrist honed from too many close calls. The parchment looked innocuous now—blank, untouched. Being clever, as you had learned, was not always loud. Sometimes it was quiet and elegant, like a breath held too long.
She stands in the doorway, her head tilted, one brow arching in mild curiosity. "You must begin getting ready, darling. Agatha will require considerable time tonight. As you know, masquerades demand more… grandeur."
She does not say it, but you could hear what she meant: tonight would be unlike the other nights. The ball would be a tempest of satin and secrets, of glittering masks and veiled intentions. Everyone would be watching everyone else—and yet no one would be truly seen.
You smile faintly and nod. It is a demure expression. Practiced. The kind of smile they loved to write about in columns—the beauty who never said too much, who always wore pretty colors, who'll become a duchess.
They knew so very little.
Your mother lingers for another moment, studying you with eyes that have seen too much of the world to ever be fully deceived. But then she turned, her silks whispering behind her like waves pulling back from shore, and left you once more to your silence.
You let the blank parchment sit there a moment longer. Then, slowly, you flip it back over.
Once you’ve finished the final strokes of your entry, you rise from the chair with a slow breath. “I’ll be ready in a moment, Agatha,” you say, voice smooth but distant. “I just need to wash my hands. I've got ink on them.”
The washstand stands discreetly in the corner, a porcelain basin nestled atop polished wood, flanked by folded linen and a jug of rosewater. You rinse your hands quietly, the chilled water biting at your fingers, grounding you. The sky outside will soon darken. The hush of anticipation coils beneath your ribs because of it, like a ribbon waiting to be pulled.
When Agatha returns to you, her fingers are brisk, the fabric of your gown whispering as she moves with measured grace. Her touch is calloused but reverent, as if dressing you were a kind of ceremony. “Stand still now, m’lady,” she instructs, voice steady but softened with pride. “This silk wasn’t made for fidgeting.”
Your gown—dusky ivory, heavy with grace—settles over your frame like a second skin. The bodice, boned and very flattering, is embroidered with gold thread and fine blue vines. Tiny beads are sewn like dew along the seams, glimmering faintly in the lamplight. At your shoulder sits a bow, understated but elegant, anchored by a brooch the size of a coin.
The train flows behind you in a spill of silk, light as mist and twice as elegant. In your gloved hand, Agatha places a fan of marigold-dyed plume and satin, aged like pressed flowers between the pages of time. But it is the mask that draws the room still.
She holds it delicately, almost full of wonder—a confection of ivory lace, gold and blue filigree, with fine feathering. “Lift your chin,” she murmurs. The satin ribbons are tied carefully at the back of your head, disappearing into the sculpted tumble of curls she’s pinned with expert care.
When you meet your reflection, you hardly recognize her—the woman in the mirror. Her gaze is yours, yes, but shadowed by lace, her mouth painted with precision, her figure full of riddles. A vision. A story waiting to be told.
Agatha hums faintly. “Tonight, you’re not merely a viscount’s daughter.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Tonight, you are mystery.”
There’s a quiet in the room, as though something is about to shift.
“Agatha?” you say softly, your gaze drifting toward the desk. “There’s a pin. On the desk. Would you place it… somewhere? My dress, or perhaps, my hair?”
She moves toward it without a word, the rustle of skirts the only sound between you. And then she stops.
The cravat pin gleams in the waning light, the gold glint unmistakable. She stays still a beat too long, her eyes resting on it, reading it as one might read a secret. You wonder, briefly, whether she understands. Whether she realizes that the Duke's pin has sat there for days, nestled among your journals, overlooked by everyone but you.
When she returns, she says nothing. But her eyes linger a moment too long at your temple as she pins it into place.
“Be careful, m’lady,” Agatha murmurs, letting a final curl fall into place with the lightest touch. Her voice held that same hushed reverence it always did when she looked at you like this—not as the girl she laced into stays and slippers, but as something rarer. “You look beautiful. As always.”
You gave her a small smile, but it barely reached your eyes. The mask covered most of your face now anyway.
Your descent from the staircase was measured, the fabric of your gown whispering against each step, your gloved hand ghosting along the rail. Outside, the carriage gleamed under lamplight, and your parents were already seated within, their expressions unreadable. You climbed in without a word. The door shut behind you with a definitive click. The carriage jolted forward.
And silence pressed in like silk drawn too tight. Your father sat across from you, his eyes finding yours in the half-dark. You felt the weight of them—curious, expectant, perhaps even repentant—but you did not lift your gaze. He was waiting for a sign, a word, even the softest acknowledgment. You gave him none.
You had decided, weeks ago, that he would not be granted the luxury of your voice. Not yet.
The ride is quiet save for the polite, practiced exchanges between your parents—about the weather, the guest list, Lord Zenin’s latest indiscretion. You stare out of the window, watching as countryside gave way to torchlight and splendor.
And then, you arrive.
Shoko’s estate, Greymoor, rises before you like a dream veiled in gold. You’ve been here more times than you can count—weekly teas with her and Utahime in the east parlour, that one summer you swam in the pond just beyond the gardens and pretended not to hear the scandalized screams of the maids. And yet, tonight, it feels wholly unfamiliar. Bewitched.
The first sign of it—of what the evening is becoming—is the lanterns. Hundreds of them. Hung from wrought iron posts, threaded through the trees like constellations come to earth. The drive shimmers in their golden light, dappled and warm, with long shadows stretching across the gravel path as though the night itself has fingers.
The manor reveals itself slowly, its limestone façade glowing with the light of dozens of sconces and beeswax candles. Garlands of white roses and ivy twist around the banisters and columns, breathing scent into the air—green and wild and just on the edge of decay. Guests glide toward the entrance like ghosts in silk and tulle, their faces hidden behind elaborate masks—plumes, beads, velvet, and glittering glass.
At the doors, masked attendants offer feathered fans or tiny velvet pouches filled with confetti, tied with ribbon and meant, perhaps, to be thrown at the height of the music—or at the height of scandal. Music, live and lilting, spills from within: the soft ache of violins, the steady hum of cello, the seduction of a flute weaving through it all. The scent of bergamot, beeswax, and blooming orange trees clings to the night like perfume.
You step forward, your heels clicking against the stone.
And for a moment—for the briefest, most decadent moment—you are not yourself. Not a daughter. Not a silent fixture in your father’s ambitions. You are something else entirely. A whisper in the crowd. A woman in silk and shadow. A mystery, poised to be unravelled.
The ton is already here, of course. The entire glittering menagerie of them—masked, perfumed, gloved, and grinning. The lords and ladies who pretend not to recognize each other even as they scheme, flirt, and perhaps even betray. There will be gossip. There always is. But tonight… tonight feels different.
It doesn’t take you long to notice him.
He stands near the corner of the ballroom, framed in golden light, laughing about something with Geto Suguru. His posture is easy, careless, like he owns the room and has only decided to amuse himself with it tonight. And perhaps he does.
Because that’s the thing about Gojo Satoru—he is impossible to overlook. The silver-white of his hair gleams like frost under the chandeliers. His eyes, when they flick toward you, are the colour of ancient ice and distant oceans, the sort of blue that makes astronomers go quiet. It’s as if he carries entire constellations behind his irises. You are not sure how he sees you through the mask. But he does.
He always does.
His smile widens when your eyes meet, slow and feline, all amusement and sharpened teeth. You see the glint of his canines. You feel it in your knees.
You begin to move before you’ve even decided to.
The crowd parts around you like silk being drawn aside. Gossamer dresses and cologne-thick gentlemen vanish into a blur. Someone calls your name—your mother, by the tone—but you don’t look back. You keep walking. So does he.
The distance between you shrinks like something inevitable.
When you reach him, he tilts his head. “No blue?” he murmurs, feigning disappointment, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “And here I was hoping you’d try to woo me again.”
Your spine straightens at once. “I have done no such thing,” you say crisply, praying your voice does not tremble. “You’re the one who sent flowers every day for a week. You’ve practically declared to the entire ton that we are to be wed.”
He chuckles, low and far too pleased. “The ton has known for weeks. Ever since that dreadful gossip column named us the pair to watch.” His gaze flickers over your face, deliberately slow, stopping somewhere near your lips. “Everyone knows I am yours. And that you are mine.”
You blink.
The words land somewhere beneath your ribs. Not quite romantic. Not quite unserious. Not love, not yet—but something far more dangerous. Something that wears the shape of affection but hides its teeth.
You want to say something clever. Something that makes him smile again. But all you can do is stand there, beautiful and blinking, while the music swells behind you.
“Dance?” he asks, head tilting with that familiar, infuriating charm. You nod, already reaching for your dance card when he steps forward—and takes your wrist in his hand.
Your breath catches. The contact is brief, featherlight even, but it’s enough. Enough to send your heart thudding in your chest. Enough to toe the line of scandal. Because no self-respecting lady of the ton allows a gentleman to touch her like this unless they are engaged—properly engaged. And even then, never so brazenly. Not in public.
Which, in hindsight, you are. But the ton still whispers.
“Leave the formalities behind, darling,” he murmurs, gaze sweeping over your masked face. “Really. There’s no other man here who’d dare ask you.”
You blink at him, your voice momentarily lost. But then you clear your throat, soft and composed, and place your hand in his. “Just one. For now. I don’t want to cause a scene.”
“A scene?” he echoes, brow arched as he leads you into the figures of the minuet, your steps mirroring the others’. “You're playing safe?”
“It’s not playing safe,” you reply, voice low. “It’s avoiding scandal. Avoiding the ton calling me names wrapped in sugar.”
He chuckles. “Ah. Of course. You love caring what all these idiots think.”
You narrow your eyes at him as you glide through the turn. “You can’t possibly say you don’t care at all. You must care about something.”
“The ton thinks I’m a rake,” he says smoothly. “They think I drink myself into ruin and haunt all the… let’s say, less reputable establishments of London. They only tolerate me because of my name. My charm. My wealth.”
He turns you elegantly beneath his arm. You arch a brow. “Less reputable establishments?”
“Unladylike places,” he confirms, voice utterly casual.
You frown as the two of you cross paths again. “What do you mean unladylike?”
“I told you,” he says, smiling lazily. “Improper conversation for a lady of your standing. You’d be scandalized.”
Your steps falter for half a second—but only just. You recover quickly, offering him a withering look beneath your mask as the final notes of the minuet echo in the air.
You drop his hand. “I doubt it. But do enjoy your… unladylike places.”
And you turn, leaving him with a smirk tugging at his lips and far too many eyes watching.
In the corner, you spot Utahime near the refreshments table, and make your way toward her, weaving between the ladies and gentlemen of the ton. The scent of sweet wine and candlewax hangs heavy in the air. On the table are silver trays lined with fruit jellies and sugared rose petals, delicate meringues shaped like swans, and crystal glasses filled with golden ratafia that glows under the chandelier light.
You reach for a meringue and begin exchanging pleasantries with Utahime, your voice soft, your smile loosening. But then, something splinters the air.
“She must think herself so clever. Dancing so boldly with the Duke. That mask can’t hide everything, after all.”
The words drift from somewhere just beyond the curtain of chatter. You freeze, fingers still brushing the edge of your glass. Utahime stiffens beside you, her eyes narrowing as she turns ever so slightly toward the voices.
“I’d bet my father’s stables back in the countryside that whatever the Phantom wrote about them is true.”
You can feel it: the flush rising to your cheeks, the thrum of your pulse tapping out a rhythm in your throat. You don't turn to look at them—you won’t give them the satisfaction—but the words wedge themselves into your ribs, unyieldingly sharp.
Utahime’s hands are clenched now, her fingers trembling slightly around the stem of her glass. She’s seconds from saying something—you know her well enough to recognize the tell—but you reach out, catching her hand gently, anchoring her.
“Just let me say something,” she whispers through her teeth.
You shake your head, soft but firm. “No. It’s alright.”
“It is not—”
“‘Hime, really,” you murmur, forcing your voice steady. “I don’t even know who they are. I haven’t even bothered to look.”
But it’s a lie. Not the part about not looking—no, that’s true—but the part where you pretend it doesn’t matter. You’ve already started to hear the words echo in your skull like the toll of a distant bell.
Besides, you add, swallowing tightly, “Whatever they’re saying… it’s mostly true. It doesn’t affect me.”
She looks at you like she doesn’t believe you—and she shouldn't—but before she can argue, a gentleman approaches and bows politely. Utahime throws one last lingering glance over her shoulder as she’s led to the dance floor for a minuet. And just like that, you’re alone.
Alone, and the words catch up to you.
You try to sip your ratafia, but the sweetness sticks in your throat. Your gaze roams over the glittering crowd, looking for something—anything—to focus on, but nothing helps. Your thoughts have already turned inward, cruelly fast.
The flowers Gojo had sent—had he meant them? Or had it all been part of the same careless charm he wears like a second skin?
Where was any of this going? What were you doing? What was he doing? You grip the edge of the table to ground yourself, but it doesn’t help. You need air.
You glance around once, then again. No one is looking at you. The music swells and dancers twirl, too consumed with their own steps to notice you slipping away.
You walk. Past the columns and into the corridor, your shoes muffled against the carpet. Your mind is loud enough for both.
You know this house. You know there’s a balcony just up the stairs and to the right, the one overlooking the Marchioness’ rose garden. You’ve stood there with Shoko and Utahime before, whispering secrets into the flowery air. Tonight, though, you don’t want company.
You climb. One step, then another. Your hands tremble as they brush the banister. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a warning. You glance behind you, half-expecting a maid or a chaperone to call out—but no one comes.
At the top of the stairs, you see it—the small door to the balcony. You unlatch it, heart thudding, and step outside.
Cold air hits your skin like absolution.
You exhale, a sound that trembles more than you’d like. For the first time in what feels like hours, you breathe freely. The stars blink overhead, silent witnesses. Below, the roses are bathed in silver moonlight.
And still, you can hear the voices in your mind, cruel and glittering like broken glass.
You grip the railing, trying not to let it show—how badly it hurt, how much it still does.
Sure, you were betrothed to Gojo. That was the simple part. That was the easy, socially palatable narrative: two names inked together, a man offering his hand, a girl accepting it. He had done what was expected—presented himself as a gentleman, sent flowers, held doors open, looked at you like you mattered. And maybe, for a time, you'd believed it. Maybe you’d even tried to believe it harder than you should have. His cravat pin is still in your hair, and yet it feels heavier now than any ornament has a right to be, like a weight holding your head to the past.
You exhale. Or try to. The breath doesn’t quite come. It catches somewhere in your throat, turning brittle, sharp, as if the air has collapsed into shards of glass and is slicing its way down. The night air doesn’t help. It’s colder out here than you remembered. Your chest constricts, a visceral tightness, and for a moment it feels as though someone has reached down into your ribcage and is slowly, steadily pulling you apart.
You press your palm to the balcony railing. The iron is damp with dew, slick beneath your skin. You stare out into the garden but you can’t see anything, really. The roses blur together, a smear of gray in the darkness. You blink against the sting in your eyes. Useless. You are, perhaps, on the verge of crying, though you wouldn’t call it that—not exactly. It’s quieter, more private, a mourning for something that never had a name.
You were to be married by the end of the season. That, too, was a fact. Your father had signed you away with the calm certainty of a man arranging a chessboard, as though you were just another piece to position in the pursuit of legacy. And now here you were: promised, claimed, still standing alone in the dark with questions that had no shape, only weight. Almost half the season had already slipped by in a blur of silk gowns and empty laughter and unreadable glances across candlelit rooms. You had come to know Gojo—or something like him—but the more you understood, the less solid it all seemed. Absurd. Stagnant. Like treading water in a glass ballroom.
And then, “Are you alright?”
You flinch. Truly flinch. Your whole body contracts as if struck. You hadn’t heard footsteps. You hadn’t expected him.
He is there. He is already beside you. Gojo. The Duke. Satoru. In moonlight, he looks unreal, less a man than the idea of one. He steps forward without hesitation and cups your face in his hands, tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet his eyes.
His palms are warm, but he winces as soon as he touches you. “You’re cold,” he says, softly, more accusation than observation.
“N-no,” you lie. Your voice fractures on the first syllable. “I am alright.”
He tilts his head, almost pityingly. “Darling,” he says, and the word sounds too intimate, too practiced. “Who do you think you’re lying to?”
His thumb traces just beneath your eye. “Your lashes are wet,” he says. “You’ve been crying. You’re struggling to breathe.”
You say nothing. You look away. You try to turn, but he doesn’t let you.
“Please,” you whisper. “Leave me be.”
His hand shifts, not gripping but anchoring. “And what would I gain from doing that?” His voice is lower now, tight, like he’s trying to rein something in. “You think I came out here just to watch you unravel from a distance?”
You say nothing again. Because part of you did want to be seen. And the other part—larger, quieter—didn’t. Didn’t want him to see you like this. Red-eyed and aching and unsure of where she begins and the arrangement ends.
“I don’t want to speak of this to you,” you say. Your voice wavers, thin and frayed, as if it’s being pulled through a narrow throat. “I can’t speak of this to you.”
There’s a silence. Not stunned, not yet. Just momentary confusion. Then he inhales, sharply, audibly.
“What do you mean, you can’t?” he asks. His voice has an edge to it now. Not anger, not even indignation, but something coarser. More human.
“I am your intended,” he says, as though this alone should undo your fear. As though this name—intended—means safety, or intimacy, or understanding. “If there is anyone you can tell anything to, it is I.”
You shake your head once, slowly. It’s not a rejection, not entirely. It’s grief. It’s weariness. “I cannot,” you repeat, quieter this time. “I cannot possibly wrap my head around this arrangement of ours.”
Something flickers across his face—hesitation, incomprehension. He falters, just for a second, as though your words are a foreign tongue he’s suddenly forgotten how to speak. You watch him blink, mouth parted, eyes too sharp for the softness you need right now.
“What do you mean?” he whispers, and it’s so gentle you almost mistake it for tenderness. But no, it is need. It is demand, cloaked in stillness.
You breathe in through your nose, and it does nothing to steady you. Your lungs feel small, crumpled, like there isn’t enough space inside you for all the things you want to say but don’t know how to phrase.
“I mean,” You stop, start again. “I mean I am to be yours someday, and yet I hear the whispers. From the ton. The women. The men. The ones who smile too sweetly and speak too loud. They bother me. They didn’t, not at first. I thought I could ignore them. I even felt good about it. But now—”
You stop again. Your hand trembles against the fabric of your dress. “Now they follow me. They echo. And I hate that they get to decide what this is when I don’t even know.”
He doesn’t speak. You continue, not because he urges you to, but because the words are spilling now, unstoppable.
“I don’t know what you and I are doing,” you say, the confession unraveling between your teeth. “You sent me flowers that meant things. You write the most beautiful, absurdly romantic things in your letters. You tell me about your estate and your travels and the time you were almost caught in a storm in Vienna and how the horses wouldn’t settle until you spoke to them. You—”
Your voice shakes again. “You speak to me like I matter. But we’ve only ever existed together in the controlled light of ballrooms. We’ve had one walk. One. You hold my hand when no one sees it and kiss it when everyone does.”
Your voice lowers, threads thinner. “And sometimes, I think you care for me. But then I wonder if you care for me in private, or if you simply perform well in public.”
That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? That you no longer know which version of him is real. The man who looks at you as if you are worth something more than what you’ve been bartered for—or the one who stands beside you in every ballroom, polished, smiling, untouchable.
You look at him now, and his expression is unreadable. His hands have fallen away from your face. His mouth is tight. His eyes do not waver from yours, and yet they do not reach you either. Not yet.
“Say something,” you whisper. Your voice is quieter than you intend it to be—threadbare, cracking just at the edge. It barely makes it past your lips.
He licks his bottom lip, almost absently, as if he's buying himself a second he doesn’t need. His eyes stay on you. Unmoving. Unflinching. And then he steps forward, and the world tips.
He is too close. The heat of him—his body, his breath, his scent—folds over you like a second skin. Your chest grazes his, and even through layers of silk and wool and stays and satin, you feel it: that subtle, invisible friction of skin craving skin. One of his hands moves to your waist, settling there without question. The other rises, past your shoulder, your jaw, until it finds your temple.
You flinch when his fingers reach the ribbon at the side of your mask. He pulls. Not harshly, not roughly, but with the kind of assuredness that leaves no room for refusal. The silk comes undone, the mask slides from your face and falls. You don’t look at him. You watch the mask land near the edge of your skirt, pale and gleaming like something defeated.
“You’ve had your turn,” he says, low and certain.
He raises his other hand, and without ceremony, yanks off his own mask. He lets it fall, too. He doesn’t even glance at it. It lands beside yours, two halves of a secret now exposed.
“Now it’s mine.”
You blink up at him, swallowing hard. You try to step back—because that is what you are meant to do. Because you are still a woman of the ton, still a daughter, betrothed to him. Still, all the things that require distance and decorum. But he moves with you. He closes the space again. Your back brushes the cold marble balustrade of the balcony and there is nowhere left to go.
“What are you doing?” Your voice hitches, your breath catching against the air between your mouths. “We can’t be seen like this. If anyone—”
“No one is around,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, soft but certain. “I assure you.”
You want to say something else. You don’t. You can’t. Because now his hand is on your cheek, steadying you, and everything you’ve known of propriety and performance begins to fray at the seams.
“Say my name,” he murmurs, and it’s so soft, so unbearably soft, that for a moment, you pretend you didn’t hear it. As though silence will dissolve it. But he says it again, thumb tracing the fragile line of your jaw, as if he could etch the sound into your skin by touch alone.
You freeze.
He’s looking at you in that way he sometimes does. Like you are the only fixed thing in the room, like everything else is dissolving into fog and static except for the breath that leaves your lungs and the weight of your name in his mouth.
“G-Gojo,” you manage, and it slips out like a confession. Unsteady. Uncertain. The syllables awkward and formal on your tongue, like a glove worn inside out.
He lets out a low laugh—gentle, but not mocking. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
His hand stays at your jaw. Still moving, barely. Just enough that you feel the pad of his thumb stroking over your pulse, coaxing rather than restraining. Your instinct is to shake your head, and you do. A soft, futile gesture of denial that even you don’t believe. Because you’re still standing here. Still letting him touch you. Still breathing in the sharp, expensive scent of him like it’s something you need to stay upright.
He leans in closer than before. It makes your heart claw its way up your ribs. You can hear it, stupidly loud, like it wants out.
His forehead almost brushes yours. His breath, ratafia and mint-laced, ghosts over your skin. And you hate that it affects you so wholly. That it turns your spine to water. That it makes your knees consider giving in.
“Call me by my name, sweetheart,” he says again, quieter this time. That voice. Low, silken, exact. Not a demand. A request dressed in velvet. One that leaves no space for refusal.
You blink up at him—once, twice—long, deliberate lashes like shutters trying to close over something you don’t want to see. You wish the weight of your gaze could communicate everything you can’t say aloud. That it could beg him to stop without the indignity of a verbal plea.
But he does not stop. He watches you with that unbearable patience. That silent certainty.
“Satoru,” you whisper, the name pliant on your tongue. You barely recognize your own voice. It is reverent. Intimate. It tastes like a secret that belongs.
He exhales, visibly, and you see it—how the sound of his name in your mouth does something to him. His jaw flexes just slightly. His fingers tighten at your waist. He looks at you like he wants to ruin something delicate.
“You're only saying because if I forced you,” he says, after a pause. “Is that how it’s going to be, then?”
You blink, startled. “Excuse me?” Your voice pitches, halfway afront. “That’s rich, coming from you. When I had to ask you to send me flowers—”
But he kisses you before you finish.
There is no warning. No breath between words. Just the abrupt, dizzying heat of his mouth on yours. Firm and consuming and wholly unapologetic. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise and a challenge. One that makes your breath stutter in your chest and your body lean into him before you even realize you’ve moved.
It swallows whatever protest you were about to make.
Because suddenly, words are useless.
There is only him. And the feel of his lips pressing against yours like he has wanted to do it for months. Like he deserves to do it. Like you have already said yes.
The next morning is unremarkable. Pale light filters through the gauzy curtains and the air is thick with the perfume of yesterday’s roses, already starting to curl at the edges. You’re seated in the parlor, spine curved delicately over the book in your lap, the weight of the morning sun pressing down against your shoulder. There’s a fire lit, but it’s more for routine than warmth. The room smells faintly of cinders and lavender water, and the house is, for once, still.
You are trying to read. Or pretend to. Your thumb rests against a paragraph you haven’t comprehended. Your mind drifts, unwilling to be anchored. Last night plays over in your head like a quiet theatre performance, played in reverse and in candlelight.
After the kiss, you had stayed there with him. The two of you alone on the balcony, the cold night lapping at your skin through silk and velvet, but you hadn’t minded. Neither of you had spoken for a while; there was something sacred in the silence. Then, slowly, he had begun to talk. His voice hushed but rich with warmth, like a confession kept safe just for you. He had spoken of his brother—Megumi—with rare fondness, describing a boy who sounded infinitely solemn and a little peculiar, who had learned to swordfight before he could write his name, and who kept a handkerchief folded perfectly even when there were ink-stains on his fingers.
You had laughed softly, and told him of Yuji—your brother, still all elbows and mischief. You had said, quietly, that Yuji would adore Megumi. That they’d probably drive everyone mad together.
It was absurd, really, how tender the night had been. It felt like a portrait of another life. One you one day will inhabit, though you cannot imagine what it would take to get there. And still, it had taken that kiss—his hand at your waist, your mouth pulled into his, the barely-there drag of his teeth against your lower lip—to remind you that this was no mere flirtation. That you would marry him. That eventually, you would become the Duchess. And last night had felt like the beginning of something. As if, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so terrible to belong to someone.
Then comes the sound of rapid footsteps, heels against polished floor. And the door slams open.
Your mother enters as though dragged by a hurricane, the breath stolen from her body. Her hair, normally sculpted into perfect coils, has broken free from its usual form: strands hanging limp against her cheeks, frizzing at the temples, the neatness of her person unraveling at the seams. Her lips are parted, trembling faintly as though she’s run across the lawn barefoot.
“Are you all right?” you ask, startled, rising from your seat. Your book slips off your lap and lands with a gentle thud against the rug.
She doesn’t answer you. Instead, she brandishes a sheet of newsprint as though it were a sword.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demands, her voice shaking. She stands directly in front of you, holding out the paper like a piece of damning evidence in a courtroom.
Your heart has begun to thrum. You frown, your fingers reaching out, and take it carefully from her grip.
The Veiled Quill.
This morning’s edition. Still smelling of ink and gossip. The front page is creased where she has clutched it, and you smooth it with nervous hands.
“What’s happened?” you murmur, but you already know. You feel the foreboding crawl in your stomach before your eyes finish reading the words.
Someone saw.
Someone had seen you go up the stairs last night. Someone had lingered long enough to watch you disappear into the balcony wing. Someone had noted the Duke—your Duke—following not long after. And someone, of course, had written it all down.
The implication is clear. That the two of you were alone, unchaperoned. That your reputation, still so fragile, is now hanging by a thread knotted by candlelight and breathless silence.
Your name is in print. His name is, too.
Your mother exhales sharply, as if she’s been holding her breath for hours. “Half the ton has read it already,” she hisses. “And the other half is whispering.”
You stare at the paper. The words blur slightly, though not from tears. From dread. From the creeping realization that something small—intimate, lovely—has now become public domain.
Everything divine about last night now feels vulgar under scrutiny. And the worst part is: it is still true. You did want him. You still do. You are still his, and he is yours. But somehow, it feels horrible.
The entire ton thinks you're a woman without honor.
Present, near Earl Geto's Residence.
The carriage rocks gently on its iron wheels, the sound of hooves rhythmically sharp against the early morning street. The sky outside is still fog-colored, like London always is, but inside the carriage, the tension is immediate—palpable, as if the walls themselves are waiting to collapse. Suguru climbs in with none of his usual grace. He is taut, mouth set in a grim line, knuckles white around a crumpled sheet of parchment.
“You can’t be serious,” he says, his voice low, roughened by restraint. Not a greeting. A condemnation. He doesn’t look at Satoru as he says it, just throws himself onto the opposite seat and shoves the gossip column in his friend’s direction with a force that makes the paper flutter like a wounded bird.
Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sits back, eyes hidden behind the silver-rimmed spectacles he’s only recently started wearing, fiddling absently with the hem of his cuff. He has the air of someone trying desperately to appear composed. “What do you mean?” he asks, finally, almost innocently. But the damage is already in the air.
Suguru snaps the paper open with a tremor in his hands. He flips it toward him, finger jabbing a passage near the headline, the printed words smeared slightly from where his grip has bruised the ink. His lips twitch. He doesn’t yell, not quite. But his voice is strained, fraying. “What did you do?” he hisses. “How could you be so utterly stupid?”
Satoru squints at the print, then—absently, childishly—reaches for it, tugging the paper into his lap and bringing it close to his face. His fingers tremble ever so slightly as he reads. His silence is sudden, awful. A pause that says everything.
“I—I didn’t know someone saw us—” he begins, and it’s worse that he sounds surprised. That he sounds genuinely caught off guard.
Suguru makes a sharp sound—part disgust, part disbelief—and sits back, dragging a hand down his face like it physically pains him to keep talking.
“You said you were courting her, Satoru,” he says. The word is spit out, hollow and bitter. “That’s what this was supposed to be. A performance. You know, flowers. Letters. Public outings. The idea of affection without any of the reality. Nothing... nothing unchaperoned. Nothing that could damage her standing.”
Satoru’s jaw tightens. His throat works around something unsaid. “She was upset,” he says, quietly. “Panicked. I followed her to calm her down. That’s all.”
“You were alone with her. God knows what else you did. You probably kissed her too,” Suguru bites.
It is not a question. It’s a weapon.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Yes,” Satoru admits, and there’s something dangerous in how still he becomes. “We kissed.”
Suguru leans forward, hands braced against his knees, as if the rage needs physical anchoring. “You haven’t even asked for her hand yet,” he says, and now his voice cracks, subtle but sharp. “There may be an agreement, but that’s all it is for now—an arrangement. She isn’t your wife. She isn’t even your fiancée.”
Satoru opens his mouth, but Suguru keeps going, faster now, harder. “Do you even realize what this means? The entire ton is reading this column. They saw. They know. You were alone with her. No chaperone. No witnesses. That kind of thing destroys girls like her, Satoru. Women don’t have the kind of armor we were born into.”
He gestures to the crumpled newspaper. “Her name is now synonymous with scandal, and we both know she won’t be able to walk into a room without whispers trailing behind her like a veil. She’ll be branded. And for what? For you? For a kiss?”
Satoru’s nostrils flare. He crumples the paper further in his fist until the print disappears beneath the creases. “It wasn’t just a kiss,” he says, and now his voice is loud, defensive, wounded. “And I’m not marrying her for my own benefit.”
Suguru stares. It’s a long, cool look. “Then who? Her father?” His voice is clinical now, like a physician cutting a wound open to see if it festers. “Because I know what you did, Satoru. I know you spoke to the Ministry. I know you convinced the Crown not to retire him early. That was the deal, wasn’t it? You get the girl and your inheritance. He keeps his title. Everyone wins.”
“It’s not that,” Satoru says. This time, there’s no heat—only weariness. “It’s not like that.”
But Suguru’s already watching him with a different expression. One that is quieter, sharper. One that hurts.
“Don't tell me you're starting to like her,” he says, softly.
Satoru doesn’t answer.
He straightens in his seat, stiffening in the expensive fabric of his coat. His lips press into a line, and his gaze flicks toward the window, away from Suguru. Away from the pain. The city slips by slowly—stone buildings, gas lamps still lit, an old woman sweeping the front of a bakery. The paper in his hand droops, forgotten now, ink staining his palm.
He cannot say it aloud.
Because it would make it real. Because it would mean surrendering—finally—to something larger than the contract. Larger than legacy, or family, or profit.
He does like you.
And he doesn’t know how to undo that.
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume II, Issue VIII
Masquerade of Masks, Moonlight… and Mistakes
Dearest gentle readers,
It was a night of gleam and grandeur at the Marquess Ieiri’s masquerade ball—where silk whispered across marble, champagne flowed like secrets, and anonymity cloaked even the most polished of reputations. But as every seasoned guest knows, masks may hide a face, but never intent.
The night’s most divine spectacle? The breath-taking minuet shared between His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, Gojo Satoru, and his ever-graceful intended. Their performance was less a dance and more a declaration: of beauty, of power, of something else we couldn't see. Eyes followed them. Mouths whispered. And still, none could look away.
Yet not every lady glided so gracefully. Poor Lady Utahime (yes, that one) suffered a most theatrical stumble mid-reel—though it did result in the conveniently timed intervention of a certain eligible lord. Rumor has it she’s begun monogramming her handkerchiefs with his initials already. Ah, to fall... and fall fast.
But readers, let us not trip past the true indiscretion of the evening.
While the ballroom twirled in oblivion, a certain young lady—our darling future duchess-to-be—slipped quietly up the stairs, her departure masked only by the glitter of the chandeliers and the hum of a minuet. She thought no one saw her.
She was mistaken.
Because moments later, none other than the Duke of Six Eyes himself abandoned the ballroom and followed her. Straight to the balcony. Alone. Behind closed doors. With no chaperone in sight.
One might say it was a stolen moment under moonlight. Others might call it exactly what it is: a scandal of the highest order.
Whatever the truth, one thing is clear—whispers have already become war cries, and reputations don’t survive moonlight meetings without consequence. Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.
pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader
summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.
it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head
tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities
satoru hates being late.
he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.
he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.
now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.
and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.
“excuse me.”
he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—
“i need you to model for me.”
his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?
he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”
his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”
“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.
“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”
your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”
he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”
without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”
he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.
you must be so down bad.
“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”
he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.
there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.
“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.
your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”
he blinks. “uh. thanks?”
you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”
his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.
“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.
and maybe he is.
satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.
his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”
“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”
not want. need.
and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.
for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.
“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.
“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”
his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”
“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”
he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”
you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”
he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.
and he sees it.
the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.
…ugh.
satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.
a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.
then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”
he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”
the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.
your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.
he should be bored—but he’s not.
“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.
satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.
“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.
“yes.”
“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.
“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.
satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”
“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.
he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.
"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.
his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”
“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”
satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.
you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”
he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”
you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”
he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”
“fix your posture.”
satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.
"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”
satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”
you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”
he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”
you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”
“that’s just my natural aura.”
your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.
“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”
you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”
he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”
acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.
and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.
but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.
at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.
satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.
he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.
not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.
so he keeps coming back.
SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.
the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.
“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.
“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.
the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.
“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.
“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”
“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”
his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.
you start talking more.
not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”
“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.
“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.
“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.
you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”
his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.
he starts talking more, too.
about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.
“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.
“listen, it was a short fall.”
there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.
and then you laugh.
it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.
he wasn’t expecting that.
it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.
“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”
“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.
and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.
so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.
“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.
“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.
“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.
“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.
“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.
sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.
(he starts winning. he always wins.)
but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.
because he catches himself watching you between poses.
satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.
catches himself waiting for your sessions.
it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.
one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.
because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.
sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.
it’s nothing more than that.
right?
but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.
it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.
“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”
“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.
suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”
satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”
suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”
satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”
he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.
but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.
instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.
he doesn’t even hesitate.
SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.
satoru gojo is losing his mind.
your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.
“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”
“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.
he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”
you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.
it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.
satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.
and he’s used to you, too.
he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.
so he stays.
“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.
“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.
“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.
“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”
he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.
he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.
the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.
yeah. he could stay a little longer.
“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”
you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.
“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.” you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.
he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”
and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?
so it turns into a game.
at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.
“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”
“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.
his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”
you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.
he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”
you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.
his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.
(point goes to you.)
when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.
his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
“do you always paint this obsessively?”
“yes.”
“do you ever eat?”
“obviously.”
he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.
“…you sure?”
your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.
“what’s with the interrogation?”
“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”
you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”
satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.
and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.
his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.
his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.
“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.
he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.
(he’s still winning.)
but then—he moves too much.
a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.
you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.
satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.
he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.
instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.
satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.
you don’t stop there.
your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.
before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.
“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”
“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.
“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”
your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.
“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.
“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.
you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.
“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.
he doesn’t dare move.
not because he suddenly respects the process.
but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.
because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.
and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.
...oh.
he’s in grave danger.
AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.
it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.
satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.
because you’re routine now.
just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.
it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.
at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.
you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.
“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.
you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.
satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.
“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.
different how?
but you don’t elaborate.
you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.
and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.
and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.
so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.
it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.
“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”
you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.
“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of tanned skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”
you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.
then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.
“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.
“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”
your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.
but it still doesn’t feel like enough.
satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.
so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.
“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.
“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.
you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”
his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.
“was it?”
satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”
you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.
but then—
“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”
the change is immediate.
satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.
oh. oh, no.
“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”
he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.
clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.
because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.
the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.
because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.
the crowd erupts.
the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.
because satoru is playing with purpose.
his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.
the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.
“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.
“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.
“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.
but this isn’t just about winning.
because every time he scores, he looks at you.
he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.
he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.
the timeout huddle is a mess.
players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.
“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.
satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.
or rather, someone.
“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.
then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”
suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.
his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.
“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.
but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.
the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.
the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.
he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.
he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.
you shouldn’t be this invested.
but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.
you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.
he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.
the other team is beyond frustrated.
they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.
his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.
the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.
he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.
the crowd gasps.
the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.
the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.
or rather, at you.
it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.
the reaction is immediate.
“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.
“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.
“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”
meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.
satoru freezes.
for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.
then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.
the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.
their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.
the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.
the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.
a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.
he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.
because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.
his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.t
he gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.
satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.
but you? you don’t stand a chance.
you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.
the game is already over.
the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.
his next move is straight-up cruel.
their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.
a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.
you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.
he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.
your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.
your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.
and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.
the final seconds tick down.
the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.
final score: 112-39.
satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.
his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.
but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.
he doesn’t find you right away.
by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.
but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.
“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”
too late.
you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.
“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”
you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.
“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”
he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”
you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”
there’s a pause. a long one.
satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.
you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.
“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”
you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.
he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”
“yup.”
“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”
you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”
his expression crumbles.
“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”
you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.
“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”
he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.
his brows lift.
“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.
you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”
his lips twitch.
“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.
you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.
then—slowly, teasingly—
“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”
your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.
“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.
satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.
but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.
he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.
satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.
“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.
you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”
“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.
his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”
you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”
satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.
you don’t look away.
outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.
“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.
he doesn’t answer right away.
he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.
“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”
the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.
the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.
and then, there’s finals.
campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.
and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.
satoru sees it before you do.
he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.
but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.
at first, he doesn’t say anything.
because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.
so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.
he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.
so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.
he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.
“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.
“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”
you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”
he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”
you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.
and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.
he starts texting you more, too.
[10:47 PM] still awake?
[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.
[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.
[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.
[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.
[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.
[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.
he doesn’t reply right away.
you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.
[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.
[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?
[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.
you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.
[10:56 PM] okay.
you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.
then, one evening, it happens.
you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.
satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”
“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.
“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”
you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”
he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.
you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.
something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.
“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”
"“huh?”
your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.
then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.
his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.
“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.
your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.
panic flares white-hot in his gut.
“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”
you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.
“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.
satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.
you don’t answer.
his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.
“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”
you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.
satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.
“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.
“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.
his eyes narrow.
“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”
you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.
he doesn’t like the way that sounds.
“yeah, no shit.”
you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.
then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”
you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.
but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.
he won’t let you.
his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.
he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.
when you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.
your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—
satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.
his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.
“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.
satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.
“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.
he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.
“you died.”
you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.
he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”
your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.
you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.
“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.
satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.
then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."
your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.
he notices.
satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?
“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.
his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”
you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.
“it’s private.”
“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”
“no.”
his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”
“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.
his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.
a challenge.
but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.
so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.
“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.
you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.
he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.
and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.
outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.
autumn is ending. and winter is near.
WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.
the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.
but he’s in your dorm all the time now.
it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.
your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.
he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.
(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)
and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.
finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.
you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.
he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.
he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.
tonight, though, you’re running late.
some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.
he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.
but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.
it’s right there.
he’s been curious for months.
he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.
and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?
his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.
he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.
what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.
not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.
his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.
him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’
satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.
him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’
he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.
he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’
his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.
another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.
he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.
and then—he flips another page. this one is different.
not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.
he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.
but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.
oh.
his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.
but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?
his stomach does something weird again.
like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.
his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.
he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.
he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.
the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.
but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.
you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.
“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.
he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”
you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.
he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”
“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.
he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”
"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.
“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”
“i was drawing!—”
“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.
you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.
he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.
“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.
outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.
“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”
“i am not running away.”
“you totally are.”
“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.
the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.
your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.
“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.
“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”
“—infuriating!”
he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.
“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.
you don’t answer.
snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.
satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.
so, naturally, he kisses you.
he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.
but you don’t.
and oh—oh.
his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.
his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.
you freeze for half a second.
then, you melt.
your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.
and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.
when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.
doesn’t want to.
his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.
“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”
your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.
“…i do.”
his breath hitches.
“you… do?”
“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”
his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.
“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”
your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.
he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.
but this time, you don’t walk away.
instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.
“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.
“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.
“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”
“no.”
“cold.”
he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.
when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.
but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.
he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.
when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.
when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.
when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.
outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.
the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.
campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.
and satoru gojo is a public menace.
he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.
but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.
“my beloved!”
his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.
you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.
“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”
you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.
“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.
he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”
“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.
he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.
“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”
you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”
he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”
your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”
satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.
you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.
you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?
but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.
a lot of:
“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”
“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”
“no way. no actual way.”
a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.
it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.
he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.
and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.
you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.
one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;
“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”
you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”
“yeah, but still.”
he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.
you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”
“no.”
he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”
“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”
your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”
he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”
you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”
“yes. all.”
you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”
“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.
you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”
his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.
“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”
“obviously.”
“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”
your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.
his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”
you shove his face away.
but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.
and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.
you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he’s already won, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.
spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.
and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.
a/n: i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.
kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic^^
summary — when you inherited your grandparents' victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. what you weren't prepared for was satoru gojo—your insufferably perfect neighbour with his perfect smiles and unexpected talent for home repairs. but maybe, just maybe, he's exactly the kind of renovation partner you need. because four seasons might not be enough to fix a century-old house, but it might be just enough time to fall in love—moment by moment, season by season.
word count — 14 k
genre/tags — home renovation AU, neighbours to lovers, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn, domestic fluff, idiots in love, misunderstandings, found family, tension, happy ending, gentle romance, cozy vibes
warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, small renovation accident, references to past family deaths (grandparents)
author's note — would you believe this fic has been sitting in my drafts since last year haha. but i finally finished it after months of adding scenes and expanding seasons. i wanted to keep it shorter but well, now it is what it is lol. hope you enjoy <3
masterlist + support my writing
When you inherited your grandparents' old Victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. The sagging porch, the outdated wiring, the kitchen that hadn't been updated since the 1970s — these were all problems you could tackle with enough time, money, and YouTube tutorials.
What you hadn't counted on was Satoru Gojo.
Your new neighbor lived in the equally grand house across the street, though his was perfectly maintained with its pristine white paint and perfectly tended rose bushes. You'd noticed him the day you moved in, impossible not to really, with that white hair and those eyes in the colour of summer skies that seemed to find you no matter where you were.
It was frustrating, to say the least.
You'd first noticed him through your kitchen window one morning, still half asleep and clutching your teacup. He was at his mailbox, and for a disorienting moment, you thought you were still dreaming. No shirt. Sweatpants low on his hips. It was really way too early for someone to look that good. It felt almost unfair, frankly. But then he turned, caught you staring and flashed you a smile that could belong in a stupid toothpaste commercial.
You'd ducked under the counter so quickly you'd spilled tea all over yourself. It was ridiculous, really—hiding in your own kitchen.
Your first actual meeting came three days later, when you were balanced precariously on a ladder, trying to clear the gutters of last autumn's soggy birch leaves. You were reaching for a stubborn clump when a voice drifted up from below.
"You might want to secure that ladder before it slides."
You looked down. Satoru stood there, one hand casually steadying the ladder, the other holding a steaming mug. His white hair caught the spring sunlight, shimmering like spun moonlight, and his eyes were the kind of blue that made you grateful you were already holding onto something.
“It’s fine, really” you said, even as the ladder wobbled slightly.
“Famous last words.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “But humor me? I’d hate to call an ambulance before I know my new neighbor’s name.”
That had set the tone for everything that followed.
He had an uncanny ability to appear whenever you were struggling—or perhaps he was stalking you. Either way, he had a way of offering help in a way that somehow never felt condescending. It was subtle at first—the way he'd bring over coffee when he saw you starting an early morning project, or how he seemed to have an endless supply of useful tools that were "just gathering dust anyway", as he always said.
He never pushed, never overwhelmed, but he was always there, across the street and you found yourself looking over to his house more often than you'd care to admit.
You told yourself it was just practical. He knew the neighborhood, understood old houses, and happened to be surprisingly knowledgeable about house renovation. The fact that he had a smile that made your chest tight, or that he looked unfairly good in everything he wore was entirely irrelevant. He's just a neighbour, you told yourself, even as heat rose in your cheeks. A ridiculously attractive neighbour—unfortunately.
But as spring melted into summer, and summer faded into autumn, you started to realize two very inconvenient truths: One, restoring this house was going to take far longer than you'd planned. And two, Satoru Gojo was becoming a much more relevant aspect of this restoration than you'd wished.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It all began with the pipes in spring.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Spring was supposed to be about fresh starts and birdsong or whatever stupid idyllic nonsense romance movies peddled. Your old Victorian home, however, had other ideas. Because on one peaceful Sunday morning, the pipe under your kitchen sink decided it had had enough of gravity and time.
You were making coffee when you heard it—a suspicious gurgle, followed by a crack that could only mean trouble. And suddenly, your cabinet was a fountain. Lovely, really, if it didn’t threaten to turn your kitchen into an indoor pool. You managed to shut off the water and were now flat on your back under the sink, surrounded by tools, muttering curses at the rusted pipe, when a knock sounded.
“Having fun down there?”
You jumped in surprise and, naturally, hit your head on the cabinet. Of course it was him. Of course your ridiculously, unfairly attractive neighbor would appear right when you were sprawled on the kitchen floor, soaked and probably looking like a drowned rat.
“Ha ha,” you called dryly, not bothering to move. “I’ve got this.”
“That’s why there’s water running down your driveway?”
You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. “Don’t you have your own house to maintain?”
“Much less entertaining over there.” A rustle of movement, and then Satoru was crouching beside you. His white hair fell forward as he tilted his head, those stupidly handsome blue eyes assessing the situation. “You’re using the wrong wrench.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” He reached past you, picking up a different wrench. “Pipe wrench, not adjustable. Unless you’re aiming for an indoor pool, in which case, carry on.”
You glared at him, which was significantly less effective from your position on the floor. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"
"On a Saturday morning? Please." He settled onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in to examine the pipe. "Besides, this is a two person job. One to hold the pipe, one to remove the fitting. Unless you've grown extra arms?"
You hadn’t. Hence the problem. You'd spent the last hour trying to manage it alone and had only succeeded in getting thoroughly soaked and increasingly frustrated.
"Fine," you sighed, scooting over to make room. "But if you make one more smart comment—"
"Would I do that?" He gave you an exaggeratedly innocent look that almost made you smile.
Working together, it took only minutes to remove the damaged section of pipe. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms, the sleeves bunching just below his elbows. You tried not to notice how he smelled faintly of sandalwood, or how his presence made your kitchen feel suddenly so much smaller.
"You'll need to replace this whole section," he said, examining the corroded pipe. "The hardware store opens in an hour."
"I know that." You definitely hadn't known that.
"Of course you did." His smile made you want to punch him. "Just like you knew about using the pipe wrench?"
"I will set your house on fire."
He laughed, the sound filling the small space. “No, you won’t. You like having someone around who knows a pipe wrench from an adjustable one.”
A strange warmth spread through you, followed by a healthy dose of suspicion. Was he…flirting?
No. Impossible. Satoru Gojo didn't flirt. Or better said, he flirted with everyone—the barista at the coffee shop, the elderly woman selling tomatoes at the market, even the hardware store clerk he’d charmed into giving you a discount the other day. It was just his way.
Still it did make the small space feel a little warmer. And the worst part was, he wasn't entirely wrong. You did appreciate his help. But you'd rather deal with a thousand broken pipes on your own than admit that and witness his self-satisfied grin.
“Don’t you have your own projects?” you asked, pushing yourself up, feigning a nonchalance you absolutely did not feel.
“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, looking far too comfortable sprawled on your kitchen floor. “My house is perfect. Which leaves me free to watch you struggle with yours. Better than Netflix.”
You grabbed a dish towel and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, because of course he did.
"Come on." He stood in one fluid motion that had no right to look that graceful. "I'll drive you to the hardware store. Unless you want water running down your driveway all day?”
You looked between him and your ruined cabinet, weighing your options. Pride demanded you handle this alone. Practicality pointed out that he actually seemed to know what he was doing, and you really did need that pipe fixed today.
"Fine." You sighed. "But I'm buying my own supplies." You blurted it out, remembering how he’d somehow paid the entire bill before you’d even reached for your wallet last time you'd run into him in the hardware store.
"Whatever you say." He was already heading for the door, keys jingling in his hand. "Though you might want to change first. Not that the wet look isn't working for you, but—"
You looked down at your soaked clothes, then back at him. Your white shirt clung to you like a second skin and was practically see through. Heat rushed to your face.
Why was he only mentioning this now?
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
After the Saturday sink incident, you'd sworn to handle the rest of the plumbing yourself. You weren’t entirely sure why—maybe it was pride, maybe it was the way he’d teased you endlessly about it, or maybe it was the strange flutter in your chest whenever he was near.
Whatever the reason, you’d plotted your renovation schedule around his presumed absences, binged YouTube tutorials until your eyes blurred, and even took your coffee breaks in the backyard, convinced he couldn’t possibly find you there.
But somehow, Satoru Gojo kept appearing anyway.
"That pipe threading looks wrong," he'd say, appearing beside you like some stupid house ghost. Or, "Those measurements seem off," right when you were about to make a cut. Or worst of all, saying nothing at all. He’d simply stand there with that look until you finally snapped and asked for help.
On one stupid cursed Monday afternoon, the bathroom pipes were your breaking point. You'd been at it for hours, surrounded by copper fittings and pipe dope, when his shadow fell across your work. You really needed to start locking the door.
“Don’t,” you warned without looking up.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it loud enough.”
“I was just admiring your work.” His voice held that familiar amusement that made your skin prickle. “Though if you’re planning on running water anytime soon—”
Your wrench clattered to the floor. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”
“Would you believe me if I said everything?”
But the most infuriating part wasn’t just that he was right. It was the way he showed you. His large hands moving gently as he demonstrated the proper technique, his voice low and soft as he explained what you were doing wrong with such patience that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him.
By the time the bathroom was finished, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t need his help. By the time you tackled the upstairs pipes, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t want it.
It became a routine. You’d start a project, he’d appear with some tedious fact about old houses, and together you’d work until the sun dipped below the horizon. He never pushed, never took over, just quietly adjusted your grip on a tool or handed you the right fitting before you even asked.
“You know,” you said one evening, both of you tired and dusted with grime, “for someone with a perfect house, you spend a lot of time in my disaster zone.”
He was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, his voice, when it came, was different—softer, the usual teasing edge gone. “Maybe I like watching something beautiful come back to life.”
You looked up, a question forming on your lips, but he was already focused on the pipe in his hands again, his expression shadowed in the fading light.
The last pipe was replaced on a cool evening in late spring. You both stood in the basement and looked at your work.
“Guess you’ll have to find someone else to annoy now,” you said, trying for a light tone, though a strange heaviness settled in your chest.
“Your electrical panel looks pretty old.”
“Satoru—”
“And those windows definitely need reglazing before summer.”
“You don’t have to—”
“And don’t even get me started on that porch roof.”
You stared at him. “You’re not going to let me do any of this alone, are you?”
He smiled. “Now you’re getting it.”
And standing there in your basement, covered in dust and sweat, you finally admitted what you'd been fighting all spring—maybe you didn't want to do this alone after all.
Even if you’d never say it out loud.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Summer arrived like a slow exhale, bringing humid days and the kind of heat that made everything a sweltering ordeal.
The porch was your next project so that you could reclaim the space before the season completely slipped away. You envisioned lazy afternoons spent sipping iced tea in the shade, reading a book or simply napping. But looking at the porch now, with its peeling paint, crumbling railings, and warped floorboards, that vision felt miles away.
It had become normal to find Satoru on your porch in the mornings, armed with iced coffee and opinions about latest movies. You'd stopped questioning how he always seemed to know your schedule, or why he willingly sacrificed his free time to help you strip old paint from equally old wood.
“This is bad,” he said one stifling morning, poking a section of railing that crumbled at his touch. “How did it get this neglected?”
You swiped at the sweat trickling down your forehead, probably smearing paint stripper across your cheek. “Ask that my grandparents’ bank. Two years of bureaucratic hell before I could even touch the place.”
“I’m more concerned about what you’re doing there. You’re taking off more wood than paint.” His hands hovered for a moment before gently adjusting your grip. “Like this. Gentle but firm. Let the stripper do the work.”
Months ago, the correction would have annoyed you. Now you just moved your hands and noticed how the work immediately became easier. But the warmth of his breath on your neck and the familiar scent of sandalwood still sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, ignoring the flutter in your stomach. "Not all of us have a natural talent for restoring historic houses."
"No, some of us just inherited beautiful old houses and decided to learn through trial and error." His voice carried that warm amusement that had become familiar. "Mostly error."
You turned to glare at him, but he was already moving on to the next section, the muscles in his arms flexing as he worked. Not that you were staring. You definitely weren't staring. And if you were, it was purely to study his scraping technique.
So the days fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for demolition—tearing out rotten planks and stripping paint before the heat truly settled in. Afternoons were for repairs, matching new wood to old, rebuilding piece by piece as sweat dripped down your backs.
"My grandmother used to bring us lemonade out here when we were kids," you said one afternoon, both of you sprawled in the shade of the half-finished porch, and as you said it, you could almost smell the lemon, tart and sweet. Hear the clinking of the ice in the heavy glasses. "She had this really pretty set of vintage glasses."
Satoru lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes against the sun. “Let me guess—they’re still in the attic somewhere?"
“Along with about a hundred years’ worth of other stuff.” You took a long sip from your water bottle. “I’m almost afraid to look.”
He propped himself up on his elbows, the movement pulling his damp t-shirt tighter across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his abs and the curve of his bicep. A few stray beads of sweat trickled down his temple, catching the sunlight. "We should check it out. After the porch is done."
"We?"
"Unless you're planning to handle whatever horror show is up there alone?" He smiled. “Besides, I’m invested in this house’s resurrection story now.”
"Is that what this is?"
"Isn't it?" He gestured at the porch around you. “Old becoming new. Though hopefully with better plumbing this time.”
You threw a paint chip at him, which he dodged easily. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never.” He stood and offered you a hand. "It's too good a story.”
You took his hand, and for a moment, you simply looked at him. It struck you then how familiar his presence had become—the easy banter, the shared work, the comfortable silences. It felt like you’d known him forever.
“Alright, let’s get back to it,” he said, his hand still holding yours. “This porch isn’t going to rebuild itself. Unless you’re planning on serving me lemonade on a pile of rotted wood?”
“Who says I’m making you lemonade?”
He tugged you closer, just a little, until you were almost toe to toe. You tilted your head, your gaze locked with his, and something playful flashed in those sky blue eyes of his. “Aren’t I entitled to a little refreshment after all this hard work?”
“You have quite the ideas.”
“Hmh. I have another one.” He released your hand. “You should have a party here when it’s finished. Lemonade and those vintage glasses of your grandmother’s.”
“To celebrate what?”
He glanced over his shoulder, something soft in his expression. “That good things are worth the work.”
You looked away first and focused back on your own section of railing. If your cheeks were warm, it was definitely just the summer heat.
The porch took two more weeks to finish. Every board was carefully replaced or restored, every detail attended to with a gentle care that would have made your grandmother proud. You spent the final evening painting together, working in silence as the sun set.
“It’s beautiful.” You stepped back to admire your work. The fresh white paint glowed in the twilight, making the whole house seem to breathe easier.
“It is.” But when you glanced over, Satoru wasn’t looking at the porch. His gaze was on you.
You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in cleaning your paintbrush. "So, about that attic..."
His smile, when you dared to look back, was warm and genuine. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," you echoed, trying to ignore the way your heart quickened at the way he said it—like a promise, like there would always be another project, another reason to spend these long summer days together.
And it felt… good.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The attic turned out to be exactly the treasure trove you'd hoped but also feared it to be—a cavernous space choked with dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering through grimy windows. Air hung thick and still with the scent of dried wood and dust. Piles of furniture shrouded in white sheets were scattered among stacks of old books with brittle pages and dusty hatboxes tied with faded ribbons.
It was chaotic, let's just say that.
But it was also so familiar it tugged at the edges of your memory, a feeling of coming home to a place you hadn't seen in years.
The attic had started as a simple weekend project, mostly to fix the insulation before autumn. But each box you opened was like a time capsule of memories. You'd find yourself lost in old photo albums or mesmerised by your grandmother's book collection, renovation plans long forgotten as you sifted through the memories of their lives—and yours. And what you'd initially considered a "weekend project" had clearly been a wildly optimistic estimate.
You were so absorbed in sorting through another box that you didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until Satoru's head popped through the access panel.
"Your door was unlocked," he said, as that would explain why he always appeared out of nowhere is your house. "I brought lunch."
"Normal people call first," you replied, not looking up from the box in your hands.
"Normal is boring." He pulled himself up without any effort, which was almost offensive considering how you'd stumbled up here earlier. "Besides, you skipped breakfast again. I heard your stomach growling from across the street."
"That's not even possible." But the gnawing in your stomach told a different story. You were hungry, but you hadn't even noticed between the years and years of memories coming back to life.
"And yet." He settled beside you, closer than strictly necessary in the cramped space, and peered into the box. "What's caught your attention this time?"
You held up a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. "I think they're my grandparents' love letters."
His eyebrows rose. "From the war?"
"Maybe?" You were surprised for a second, not expecting him to remember the little detail you had told him one lazy afternoon in the sun—that your grandfather had served in the army and had been separated from your grandmother for some time. You untied the ribbon, handling the aged paper like it might crumble. The first envelope was postmarked 1943. "Oh. They are."
Satoru leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as you pulled out the first letter. His body was warm in the cool attic air next to yours, and you caught a subtle hint of sandalwood—a scent that had become inseparable from these shared afternoons.
"My dearest heart," you read aloud, then paused, suddenly feeling like you were intruding on something private. But it’s been over half a century, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t mind, surely. After all, they left all this to you. You continued, "The cherry trees are blooming here, and all I can think about is how we walked through the park last spring. Do you remember? You were wearing that blue dress, the one that matches the sky, and I knew right then I would marry you—"
"Your grandfather was a romantic," Satoru commented, a soft smile in his voice.
"Shh." You elbowed him lightly. "I carry your picture with me everywhere. The other men tease me about it, but I don't care. When things get dark over here, I just look at your smile and remember what I'm fighting for..." Your voice caught unexpectedly at the written words of your grandfather.
Satoru shifted closer and whispered, "Let me.” His chest brushed against your shoulder and his fingers slid over yours as he took the paper, the touch lingering for a moment longer.
“Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I'm back home with you," he continued, lips close enough to your temple that you could feel the words as much as hear them. His usual playful tone was gone, replaced by something that made your heart melt. "Sitting on that porch swing, watching the sunset. Nothing grand or fancy, just you and me and the quiet. That's what keeps me going, the thought of coming home to you."
Satoru stood up, brefting you of his warmth and sat down on a dusty stack of boxes near the small window opposite you to get a better view of the letters. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his white hair, making them glimmer like starlight. He looked younger, almost boyish in the soft light as he continued to read the letter. You watched him, struck by this unfamiliar sight.
"There are dozens more," you said after he finished, gesturing to the box. "Looks like they wrote to each other every week."
"Different time.” His startlingly blue eyes met yours, and for once there was no trace of his usual teasing smile. "People knew how to love back then. They took their time with it."
"You don't think people know how to love now?"
"I think we've forgotten how to do it slowly. How to let it build, letter by letter, moment by moment."
Your heart fluttered strangely, like a trapped bird. It was like glimpsing a part of him he usually kept hidden, a hint of the man beneath the playful nonchalance. Before you could process the feeling, before you could even form a coherent thought, he picked up another letter, breaking the moment with a small, almost apologetic smile.
“My darling," he read, "Today Mrs. Henderson's cat got stuck in our rosebushes again, and all I could think was how you would have laughed..."
You smiled and settled back against the old boxes as he read, his warm voice washing over you like a soothing dream. The afternoon light caught dust motes dancing in the air, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
August arrived with a heatwave so oppressive, even the cicadas seemed to fall silent. You suggested starting at dawn, hoping to get some work done before the worst of the heat set in, and to your surprise Satoru had no objection, even though you knew he hated early starts and loved sleeping in.
And you were even more surprised when Satoru showed up right on time and you didn't even have to wake him up, armed with paintbrushes and a concerningly large supply of water bottles.
"You really don't have to help with this," you’d told him. "I can do it on my own, really. It’s not complicated or something.”
He arched a brow. "When has that ever stopped me?"
The house was a dull greenish colour. It had originally been a soft sage green, but it had faded over time. It was a colour your grandmother had loved, a shade that reminded her of the rolling hills of her childhood home. So you decided to paint it sage again. But by midday the heat had become almost unbearable, pressing down on you. Air thick and shimmering.
"You need to take a break," Satoru said, watching you sway slightly on the ladder. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," you insisted, even as your head throbbed. "We're almost done with this section."
"The paint will still be here in a few hours." He was already taking the painbrush from your hands. "Go rest before you fall off that ladder and give me a heart attack."
You wanted to argue, but the world was starting to spin in a way that suggested he might have a point. "Just for an hour.”
"Whatever you say." His hand steadied you as you climbed down the ladder, swaying slightly. "Go. Sleep. I've got this."
You wanted to lie down for a moment, just until the throbbing in your head subsided. Instead, you woke to the first gentle breeze of early evening, carrying the distant hum of a lawnmower from a neighboring garden. You stumbled outside, still groggy, and stopped dead.
The house.
It was finished.
Every inch of peeling paint had been replaced with perfect sage green and the trim was crisp white. It looked like a completely different house, restored to its former beauty.
Satoru was putting away the last of the brushes, his white hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his clothes splattered with green. He looked exhausted, but a genuine smile touched his lips when he spotted you.
"You did all that?" you asked, still not quite believing it.
He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned stomach with sharply defined abs that you quickly looked away from. He must have seen your reaction, but for once, he didn’t comment. When you looked back, his shirt was down.
“You needed the rest. And I had the time.”
"Satoru, this would have taken days—"
“A few hours with the right motivation.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Besides, couldn’t leave it half finished. Would have ruined the aesthetic of the street."
You knew that wasn’t the real reason. Just like you knew he didn't spend every free moment helping you with this house because he was concerned about the aesthetic of the street.
It was absurd. He was Satoru, infuriatingly charming, impossibly handsome Satoru. There was no way he could—no, it couldn't be. But the evidence piled up. It was the way his eyes lingered on yours, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way his presence filled every corner of your attention. It was a ridiculous notion, a phantom feeling that had no place in reality. He was a neighbour, a friend, someone who was simply helpful.
That's all.
The setting sun painted everything in shades of gold, catching in the wet paint and making your house shimmer like a scene from a fairytale. Satoru was still putting away brushes, his movements slower now, betraying his weariness even as he tried to play it off.
"You didn't have to do this," you said. "Any of it, really. The pipes, the porch, and now this."
He glanced at you, then back at the house. “I wanted to.”
"But why?" The question that had been burning in your throat all summer, since spring, since the first leaky pipe, finally escaped. "You have your own perfect house. Your own life. Why spend every free moment helping me with mine?"
“Would you believe me if I said I just like restoring things?”
"Not really," you said, trying to ignore the way your heart picked up speed when he moved closer.
He reached out to brush something from your cheek. "You have a little…paint.” His thumb lingered against your skin, sun-warm and gentle. "Right here."
Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching like honey in the golden light. You could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the fine lines at the corners, the way his hair curled at his temples from sweat, and the small smudge of sage green along his jaw. He was so close. Too close.
"Satoru," you breathed, not sure if it was a question or a warning.
"Besides, watching you love this house back to life, even without knowing anything about renovations—" He paused, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. "It's unexpectedly cute."
You could feel his breath against your lips, could see the question in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer. His other hand came up to cradle your face, and you found yourself swaying towards him, drawn in by the gravity of this moment you'd both been circling since spring.
But then a car door slammed somewhere down the street and broke the spell. You both stepped back.
Had that…had that almost just happened? You blinked, trying to clear the lingering warmth from your face. It must have been the heat. Or the paint smell. There was no way—
"I should—" He gestured vaguely at the remaining equipment.
"Right. Yeah. Sure" You were babbling, your heart racing like you'd been running. You desperately tried to convince yourself that you’d imagined the whole thing, that the almost kiss was just a figment of your overheated imagination.
He turned to gather his things, nearly dropping his water bottle twice. You watched him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound desperate or awkward, but your mind was stuck on the phantom feeling of his thumb against your cheek.
At the garden gate, he paused, turning back with that smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Try not to break anything else before tomorrow?"
You smiled. "No promises."
He lingered for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something else, but then just nodded and stepped out onto the street. Just before he reached his door, you found yourself moving, yanking open your garden gate without thinking. "Satoru!"
He turned.
"Thank you!" you called out, hoping he could hear everything else you couldn't say in those two words. Thank you for helping. For caring. For almost kissing me.
His smile softened into something genuine, something that made your heart stumble in your chest. "Anytime!”
You stood there long after he'd disappeared into his house, your fingers absently touching the spot on your cheek where his hand had been, wondering how you were supposed to go back to normal after almost kissing your irritatingly perfect neighbour.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You'd never felt more ridiculous than when you found yourself standing on Satoru Gojo's immaculate porch, holding a slightly lopsided stawberry cake in your hand. After three attempts to ring the doorbell without letting the cake fall to the ground, you were seriously considering just leaving it on his doorstep with a note and running back across the street. But before you could execute your escape plan, the door swung open, and suddenly all coherent thought left your brain.
Satoru stood there in low-slung sweatpants and a fitted dark blue shirt that clung slightly to his still damp skin. A towel was draped around his neck, and his white hair was darker with moisture, falling into his eyes in a way that should be illegal. Droplets of water traced down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
Not that you were staring, of course.
His eyes widened and a stupid, handsome smile lit up his face. "Don’t tell me your kitchen is underwater again?”
"No, no…no emergencies today.” You thrust the cake forward like it’s something hot. "I made this. To say thank you. For all the help." The words tumbled out in a rush. "It's stawberry. Though now I'm realizing you might not even like stawberries, which would be really inconvenient, and—"
"I love them," he interrupted your rambling and took the cake out of your hands. "Did you make this just for me?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Come in. It’s too hot to stand out here."
You hesitated at the threshold. In all these months of him appearing at your house, you'd never actually been inside his. It felt like crossing some invisible line you hadn't even realized existed.
"Unless you're scared," he added with that familiar teasing note in his voice.
You groaned and stepped inside. Where your house was still a work in progress, his was... perfect. Somehow both modern and classic, with original hardwood floors that gleamed and a fireplace in the centre of the living room. The furniture was clearly expensive but comfortable, and large windows filled the space with natural light.
"This is—"
"Not what you expected?" He walked past you towards what you assumed was the kitchen, and you caught another whiff of his shower fresh scent.
"I was expecting more mirrors, actually. You know, so you could admire yourself from every angle."
He laughed. "Those are all in the bedroom."
You felt heat creep up your spine at his words and tried very hard not to think about Satoru and bedrooms in the same sentence. You followed him into his kitchen that was equally perfect like the rest of his house. Without thinking, you hopped up onto the wooden island and watched him move around the room.
"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for mugs.
“Please.” Your legs swung idly as you watched him slice the cake. "Though I should warn you, I don’t bake often.”
“Should I be afraid?"
"I take it back. No cake for you."
"Too late." He slid a plate across the counter. He leaned against the island opposite you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his. "So, I was thinking about your kitchen.”
"What about it?"
"You need new countertops. And fresh paint." He took a bite of cake, his eyebrows rising. "This is actually good."
"Don't sound so shocked."
You tried not to focus on how silly domestic this all felt—you on his kitchen island, sharing cake and talking about future projects like you were some kind of … couple.
"I was thinking," he continued, "we could start on that next week? I know a good carpenter who makes really cool wooded countertops that would match the original—"
Your gaze wandered as he spoke, taking in the space. That's when you saw it—a framed photo on the windowsill above the sink. Satoru, looking unfairly handsome in what appeared to be a suit, and a stunning woman with pale hair pressing a kiss to his cheek.
They looked intimate.
Happy.
Like an actual couple.
Your stomach dropped.
"—and the marble could be saved if we—" He paused, noticing your distraction. "What's wrong?"
"Actually." You set down your cake, sliding off the counter, "I just remembered I have this... thing. I need to go."
"Now? But we haven't even finished—"
"It's important." You were already heading for the door, trying to ignore how low his sweatpants hung, revealing a bit of his perfect abs, how at home he looked in this perfect kitchen with its perfect photos of him and his perfect girlfriend. "Thanks for the coffee. And, um, good luck with... everything."
"Wait, what about your kitchen?" He followed you into the hallway. "Shouldn’t we talk about it first, before—"
"I'll figure it out," you said quickly, nearly stumbling in your haste to reach the door. "You probably have other plans anyway. With... people. Important people. I'll just YouTube it or something."
"Other plans? What are you—"
"Bye!"
You practically fled down his porch steps, not daring to look back at his bewildered expression. You made it across the street with lightning speed, slamming your front door behind you and sliding down against it.
"Stupid," you muttered to yourself, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone that hansome, that charming, that annoyingly perfect—how could he not? And here you were, bringing him cake like some lovesick teenager, reading too much into things.
He was just being polite, probably feeling sorry for the disaster of a neighbour who couldn't even fix a leaky pipe without flooding her kitchen and you were making a complete fool of yourself. You wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.
You could never face him again. How were you supposed to look him in the eye knowing you'd been almost kissing him in your backyard while his gorgeous girlfriend smiled at him from picture frames in his perfect kitchen? How could you ever stand on your porch again without remembering how you'd practically fled from his house like a guilty teenager?
Your kitchen tabletops would just have to stay ugly forever. You'd learn to love them. You pressed your forehead against your knees and groaned.
And now you'd just have to avoid him for... oh, the rest of your life.
Easy.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Summer melted into autumn with surprising speed, the maple trees lining your street turning from green to orange and crimson. As the days grew shorter, your grandmother's herb garden was dotted with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. Even the air felt different—crisper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of colder days to come.
And you threw yourself into the next project—the kitchen, armed with nothing but YouTube tutorials, sheer stubbornness and the grudging advice of the grumpy guy at the hardware store (who, you were convinced, hid whenever he saw you approaching).
Things weren't exactly going smoothly. You'd managed to miscalculate the measurements for the new cupboards (twice), and you were pretty sure you'd cracked the new sink while trying to install the tap. But it was your mess, your project, and you were determined to see it through, even if it meant several trips to the hardware store and more withering stares from grumpy guy.
"Back again?" he'd grumble. "What'd you break this time?"
"Nothing's broken," you'd insist, even as you clutched a piece of pipe that was definitely not supposed to bend that way. "I just need... clarification."
Your kitchen was slowly, painfully coming together. Sure, the subway tiles weren't perfectly aligned, and maybe one cupboard door hung a little lower than its neighbours, but it was yours. Every imperfect angle and slightly wobbly shelf represented hours of YouTube research and grumpy guy's reluctant advice.
If sometimes, late at night, you found yourself staring at your uneven grout lines and remembering how easily Satoru had fixed your sink that first day—well, that was between you and your slightly tipsy reflection in the new (only somewhat streaky) backsplash.
You'd gotten good at avoiding him. Early morning hardware store runs, late evening painting sessions with your curtains drawn. You'd even mapped out his routine—when he left for work, when he usually arrived home, which days he typically did yard work. All so you could time your own activities to minimize any chance of running into his blue eyes.
This was all totally normal, of course. Perfectly reasonable behavior for an normal adult obviously.
Some days were harder than others. Like when you could hear him on his porch in the evenings, chatting with Miss Tanaka about the weather and whether he wanted to go out with her granddaughter. She's so pretty and can cook such good beef stew, she'd say. As if Satoru didn't already have a girlfriend. A perfect girlfriend who could for sure cook a fantastic, wonderful, amazing beef stew. While you ate burned toast.
But you were managing. Mostly. The kitchen was... well, "finished" might be a strong word, but it was functional. Sort of. If you didn't mind that one burner that heated unevenly, or the fact that the new faucet made a strange gurgling sound when you ran hot water.
Even grumpy guy had stopped wincing visibly when you showed him your progress photos, which you counted as a win. "Could be worse," he'd said last week, which was basically a compliment coming from him.
You told yourself it was better this way. Better to have a slightly crooked kitchen than to face the mortification of asking for help from your impossibly perfect neighbour with his impossibly perfect girlfriend. Besides, character was important in old houses. That's what all the renovation shows said. And your kitchen certainly had... character.
It happened on one of those perfect late autumn evenings, when the sky turned deep purple and the air smelled like pine and fallen leaves. You were trying to hang a lamp in your dining room—the sort of task that would definitely require two people, but stubbornness had convinced you otherwise.
The ladder seemed stable enough. The wiring looked mostly right. You stretched, straining to connect the final wire, when you heard it. A soft groan from above, followed by the distinct sound of old plaster giving way. Everything happened at once. The ceiling cracked, raining down decades of dust and debris. The lamp slipped from your fingers, and your balance followed.
You hit the hardwood floor hard, the light crashing beside you in a shower of glass and plaster. For a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the hole in your ceiling and questioning every life decision that had led to this moment.
The sound of your front door bursting open echoed through the house, followed by rapid footsteps.
"Hey! Are you—" Satoru’s voice trailed off as he appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—you sprawled on the floor, surrounded by debris, the ladder tipped against the wall, and the sad remains of what was supposed to be your new dining room light.
"Don't say it.”
"Say what?" He crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside you. "That trying to hang a lamp by yourself is stupid? Or that you're lucky you didn't break your neck?"
"Both. Neither." You winced as you tried to sit up. "How did you even get in here?"
"Your door was unlocked. I was on my porch, heard you scream." His hands hovered near your shoulders, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to help. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine.”
You tried to push yourself up, but your ankle protested.
"Don’t be stupid." He moved closer, dust from your ceiling clinging to his dark sweater. "Let me see."
"It's nothing—"
"Let me take care of you.” His usual teasing smile was gone, replaced with genuine concern that made your chest tight. "Please?"
The 'please' did you in. You nodded weakly, and before you could process what was happening, Satoru slid one arm behind your shoulders and the other under your knees. He lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all.
"What are you—" you started, your hands automatically gripping his sweater.
"Kitchen has better light.” He carried you through the doorway, nudging it open with his shoulder. He set you down gently on the counter, careful of your ankle. His hands were warm where they rested at your waist, steadying you.
For a moment, he stayed close, closer than he had any right to be, and you found yourself level with those sky blue eyes that always made you weak.
"Stay," he whispered, finally stepping back. "Let me take care of this."
You wanted to protest, to maintain even a little bit of distance. But your ankle really hurt and you were really tired. So you sat there, perched on your counter (which was definitely not as level as you'd claimed to grumpy guy) and watched Satoru move around your kitchen.
He found a clean dish towel in the second drawer he tried and wrapped some ice in it. His movements were precise, practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before. Probably for his girlfriend, you thought.
"Your cabinet organization is creative,” he said.
"It's a new system I'm trying out."
"Is that what we're calling chaos these days?" He returned, ice pack in hand. The counter put you at perfect height for him to—no. My god. Stop that train of thought immediately.
He carefully lifted your ankle, his touch impossibly gentle as he pressed the ice against it. The cold made you flinch, and his other hand came to rest just above your knee.
"Too cold?"
“No, it’s…” You swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand through your jeans. “It’s fine.”
He hummed, his attention focused on your ankle. He slowly rotated it, checking for damage. You studied his face—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his hair fell across his forehead, begging to be brushed back.
“Doesn’t seem broken,” he finally said, looking up at you. “But you should stay off it for a few days.”
“I have renovations to finish.”
“The renovations can wait.”
“Says the man with the perfect house.”
He frowned. "You know, for someone so smart, you can be surprisingly dense about—"
A phone buzzed loudly, making you both jump. His phone, you realized, as he pulled it from his back pocket with his free hand, the other still holding the ice pack against your ankle. Probably his girlfriend wondering where he was.
You pulled your leg back, ignoring the pain. "I should let you go," you said, trying to figure out how to get down the counter without falling on your face. "I'm sure you have... plans."
“No wait.” He kept you were you sat with his hand on your leg. He spoke briefly to the caller, then said, “Just work,” and silenced the phone. His hand returned to your ankle, adjusting the ice pack.
"Oh." You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart hammering. "I thought... maybe it was your girlfriend." The words came out small, hesitant. "I wouldn't want to keep you. From her, I mean. She probably wouldn't want you touching other women's ankles and all that..." You were rambling now, a nervous habit you'd never quite kicked. "Not that you're really touching my ankle, I mean you are, but medically, like a doctor, not that you're a doctor—"
"What girlfriend?"
“The one in the picture? In your kitchen? Pretty. Blonde. Kissing you?”
To your surprise, Satoru started to laugh. "That's my sister. From her wedding. Is that why you've been avoiding me the last few weeks? Because you thought I had a girlfriend?"
"Your... sister?"
"She'd kill me if she heard you thought we were dating."
"But you're so..." Your mind scrambled for words that weren't 'anyoingly attractive' or 'unfairly perfect.' Like, for real, how can he still be single?
"I'm so...?" He was definitely teasing now, thumb stroking your skin just above your ankle in a way that made it very hard to think straight.
"Annoying," you finally managed, which only made his smile widen.
"Annoying enough that you made me cake, then ran away?" He moved closer, until he was standing between your legs, still holding the ice pack but now definitely invading your personal space. "Annoying enough that you've been avoiding me for weeks because you thought I was taken?"
"I wasn't avoiding you," you said. "I was very busy. With renovations."
"Mhm." His free hand came up to brush some plaster dust from your cheek. "Is that why you tried to hang a lamp by yourself?" His fingers traced your jaw and you swayed towards him despite yourself, your heart pounding.
"You're insufferable."
"Some of us," he murmured, now close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "believe good things are worth waiting for. Worth doing slowly, properly." His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "Letter by letter, moment by moment. Remember?"
Before you could respond, he stepped back. "Your ankle should be fine in a few days. Try to stay off it. And maybe..." He paused at your kitchen door. "Maybe next time you need help with something, ask your annoying neighbour instead of risking you life?"
You managed a nod, your mind still reeling.
"Oh, and by the way?" He looked back at you, his smile softening. "I really like stawberry cakes. In case you feel like baking again."
With that, he was gone, leaving you perched on your counter with a rapidly melting ice pack and the strange feeling that renovating this house wasn't the only project that was going to take time to get right.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Autumn fully arrived, bringing crimson leaves, cloudy skies, and more of Satoru's overbearing everything. Your renovation plans resumed, though now with significantly less chance of bodily harm as Satoru was helping you again. He'd show up at your door with brownies and supplies, his teasing somehow both more and less bearable now that you both knew why you'd been avoiding him.
The universe, however, had a sense of humour. It was on a warm Saturday afternoon, while you were both covered in paint from freshening up your living room panelling, that his sister showed up unannounced. She burst into your house, barely containing her glee at finally meeting the neighbour who had mistaken her for her brother's girlfriend.
You wanted to sink into the floor as she told you cheerfully how hard she'd laughed when Satoru called to tell her about the misunderstanding. Her amusement only grew as she took in the sight of the two of you, splattered with paint and clearly at ease in each other's company. She left you with her phone number and the promise of embarrassing childhood photos of her brother, while Satoru tried and failed to get her out before she could do any more damage.
The rest of autumn rushed swiftly into the frozen stillness of winter as the lines between your lives began to blur more and more—his tools mixed with yours in the garage, his coffee mug claimed permanent residence in your cabinet, and his presence became as much a part of your home as the creaky floorboards and old doorknobs.
It felt…natural in a way.
Natural that he'd show up at your house in the morning with fresh pastries and you'd make coffee for the two of you, and natural that you'd work on your house and do something fun at the weekends. Even the way your heart stuttered whenever he was near felt strangely normal, a natural rhythm in this new, unexpected something—something you never named. And yet, amidst the rush, there were moments when time seemed to slow, stretching out like taffy, each shy glance, each lingering touch, each shared laugh becoming a precious memory.
One of those moments was at the pumpkin patch. You'd been wandering through the rows of pumpkins, Satoru trailing behind you, searching for the perfect ones to decorate your house for Halloween. It was a tradition you loved since childhood, bringing back memories of visiting the local patch with your grandfather. You could almost feel the scratchy wool of his sweater against your cheek as he hoisted you onto his shoulders, hear his happy laughter, and feel the warmth of his hand in yours.
"Wait!" you called out, stopping so suddenly that Satoru almost bumped into you. "Look at that one!"
Off to the side sat perhaps the largest pumpkin you'd ever seen. It was definitely lopsided, one side bulging more than the other, and its stem curved at an odd angle.
"That's...quite a pumpkin." Satoru tilted his head. "Though maybe something a bit more manageable would—"
"It's perfect." You already tried to figure out how to lift it. The thing had to weigh at least twenty kilos.
"Perfect might be a stretch." His lips quirked up at the corners as he watched you circle the massive thing. "It's practically your size. And that's definitely not its best side."
You shot him a look. "Not everything needs to be perfect to be beautiful." Your hands settled on your hips as you studied your chosen pumpkin. "Sometimes the imperfect things are the best things."
"Like your crooked kitchen cabinets?”
You ignored his comment and attempted to lift the pumpkin, managing to get it about two centimeters off the ground before setting it back down. "It’s called character."
“Character?” He watched your continued attempts with clear amusement. "It's a safety hazard."
“Are you going to help me or just stand there looking pretty?”
“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?”
“Shut up and help me with this pumpkin.”
“As my lady commands.”
He stepped forward, effortlessly lifting the massive pumpkin like it weighed nothing. Show-off, you thought. Was there anything he wasn’t good at? Renovations, apparently, and now this.
Back home, he carried the pumpkin to your porch, the orange leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You carved the pumpkins on your newly renovated porch as neighbours raked leaves, the crisp autumn air carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Later, his pumpkin looked like some stupid sculpture out of a museum. Of course. Because apparently, Satoru Gojo was good at literally everything. Yours? Well, yours was…cute. You’d call it ugly. Satoru insisted it was cute, and you almost, almost, believed him.
“Why are you so good at everything?” you sighed, more to yourself than him, leaning back and gazing upwards. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would, actually.” Your cheeks flushed as you quickly sat up, a nervous stumble sending you straight into his face, as he leaned in too. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
Something flickered in his expression, a subtle twitch of his brow as his gaze flickered down to your lips. For a heartbeat, you thought he might—but then a single leaf drifted down and the moment shattered. He cleared his throat and turned back to his pumpkin.
"So, where do you want to place them?" he asked.
You let him return to safer topics, frustration washing over you, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingled where his leg had brushed against yours. This had become your new normal—these almost-moments, these near-misses that were driving you absolutely mad. Were you imagining things? Reading too much into every look, every touch? Or was he intentionally playing some game, dangling the possibility of something more, only to snatch it away at the last moment? It was agonizing, a slow torture that was getting harder and harder to endure.
You placed the pumpkins on your porch. Satoru excused himself, saying he had some work to do. Apparently, he was working on something international, fielding calls from overseas offices at ridiculous hours.
"I've got that conference call at two," he said, already backing towards his house. "Dinner later? I'm trying out a new recipe."
It wasn't the first time he'd invited you over—these casual dinners had become a natural part of your... whatever this was. But was it just natural? Or was it something more? You'd thought, with every invitation, every lingering look, every almost-kiss—and at this point, with almost-kiss number 3000, you were starting to lose count—that this time would be different. But maybe, just maybe, it was all in your head. Maybe you were reading too much into everything, again.
"What time?" you asked.
"Seven? Bring wine. And maybe that stawberry cake recipe you've been perfecting?"
"You just want me for my baking."
"Among other things." Before you could respond, he was already heading back to his house, calling over his shoulder, "Don't be late!"
You watched him go, your heart stuttering, wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
Dinner at Satoru's had become a natural part of your week, but something felt different that evening. Perhaps it was the early autumn darkness pressing against the windows, or the intimate warmth of the kitchen under the amber pendant lamps. Or maybe it was just how he moved around you in his kitchen, always somehow managing to brush past even though there was plenty of space.
He'd outdone himself with dinner, though you'd never tell him that—his ego was big enough already. But he was, you had to admit, a surprisingly excellent cook. Watching him plate the food with the same careful attention he gave to everything, you had to admit he had a talent for this too. Of course he did. It was starting to seem like there wasn't anything Satoru Gojo couldn't do perfectly.
The wine you'd brought paired perfectly with his cooking, because of course it did. He'd probably somehow predicted exactly what you'd choose and planned the meal around it. You wouldn't put it past him, not with how he seemed to anticipate your every move these days. Conversations flowed easily between you. He shared work stories, you gave updates on your projects, and somehow, your feet ended up on his lap beneath the table. He massaged them absently, after you complained about standing all day.
When he suggested a movie afterward, it felt natural to say yes. You watched him make popcorn on the stove and then moved to the couch. The movie was something neither of you really paid attention to, both too aware of how close you sat on his ridiculously comfortable couch. Every time you reached for the popcorn bowl between you, your hands would brush, sending little sparks up your arm. You caught him watching you more than the screen, but whenever you turned to catch him at it, his eyes were innocently focused forward.
As the evening wore on, the warmth of the wine and his presence made your eyelids heavy. You tried to stay awake, but when he gently draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, resistance melted away. You drifted off against his shoulder, the last thing you remember is the soft brush of his lips against your hair as sleep pulled you under.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
November deepened into December, and the air grew cold with the promise of winter. One morning, the first snow fell, lightly covering your porch and making everything look like a Christmas card. The holiday market downtown was in full swing by mid-December, stalls lined with evergreen boughs and twinkling lights that reflected off fresh snow. You'd been surprised when Satoru suggested you both go, casually mentioning it while helping you install new crown molding in your dining room.
"They've set up an ice rink this year," he'd said, measuring tape in hand, not looking at you directly. "Thought it might be fun."
Which is how you found yourself wandering between market stalls on a Saturday afternoon, your breath clouding in the cold air as Satoru walked beside you, unfairly handsome in a charcoal peacoat and blue scarf that matched his eyes.
"Have you tried the hot chocolate?" Satoru asked, nodding towards a stall where steam rose from copper pots. "I've heard they make it with real Belgian chocolate."
"Are you trying to fatten me up for winter?" But you were already moving.
He followed, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just trying to keep you warm. Can't have you catching a cold before we finish that bathroom tilework."
The hot chocolate was rich and velvety with a hint of cinnamon, the warmth spreading through your chest as you continued to wander the market. Your fingers grew numb despite your gloves, and Satoru must have noticed because he suddenly handed you his cup.
"Hold this a second." Before you could question him, he removed his own gloves—expensive-looking leather ones—and handed them to you. "These are better insulated. Trade me."
"I can't take your gloves."
"You can and you will." His tone left no room for argument. "Besides, my hands run hot."
You reluctantly made the exchange, noticing how his gloves swallowed your hands but feeling instantly warmer. Something about wearing his gloves made your heart do a strange flutter. As it always seemed when you were near him.
As afternoon stretched into early evening, the market lights came on, making everything look magical. That's when you spotted it—the ice rink, lit up with fairy lights, skaters gliding in circles across the surface.
"Ready to try?" Satoru asked, following your gaze.
"I haven't skated since I was a kid."
"Perfect time to remember then. I'll make sure you don't fall."
Ten minutes later, you stood at the edge of the rink, wobbling precariously on thin blades while Satoru waited patiently beside you. He'd stepped onto the ice with infuriating grace, as if skating were as natural to him as breathing.
"How are you already good at this?" you said, clutching the railing.
"Can’t help it," he replied, like that would explain it. "Come on. I've got you."
Taking a deep breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, as he pulled you onto the ice. Your legs immediately threatened to slide in opposite directions, but Satoru kept you upright.
"Small steps." His other hand came to rest at your elbow for support. "Don't think about it too much. Let your body remember."
You focused on not falling, even though all you could focus on was his hand in yours, his presence beside you as you slowly made your way around the edge of the rink. Other skaters whizzed past, some holding hands, others chatting to their friends.
After one cautious lap, you began to find your balance. Your death grip on Satoru's hand loosened slightly, though you weren't about to let go completely.
"See? You're a natural," he said, his voice warm.
"I wouldn't go that far. You're doing most of the work."
He smiled, adjusting his pace to match yours. "We make a good team."
The way he said it—so casually, so confidently—sent your thoughts spiraling. Did you make a good team? The evidence was certainly there—the beautifully restored porch, the new plumbing that never leaked, the kitchen with its even countertops that you'd finally finished together. But was that all this was? A renovation partnership?
Because holding his hand like this, skating side by side under twinkling lights with Christmas music playing softly in the background—it felt like more. It felt like a date.
Like something couples did.
Your mind raced as you made another lap around the rink. When had Satoru Gojo become more than just your annoying neighbour? When had his smug smile started making your heart race instead of your blood pressure? And why, despite all the lingering touches and loaded glances over the past months, had he never once tried to kiss you?
"You're thinking too hard again," Satoru said, interrupting your thoughts. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
"Just trying not to fall."
"Relax. I've got you." He squeezed your hand reassuringly, and you couldn't help but wonder if he meant it beyond the ice rink.
Was it possible you were imagining the whole thing? Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe this outing was purely neighborly. Maybe he wasn't interested in you that way at all. Or worse—what if he was gay? No, that couldn't be it. You'd met his ex-girlfriend when she stopped by to drop off some mail that had been mistakenly delivered to her place. Besides, no straight man looked at a woman the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
So what was it then? Was something wrong with you? Were you not his type?
"Ready to try without the railing?" Satoru asked, pulling you from your spiral.
"Um, I don't think—"
"Trust me," he said softly, and despite your better judgment, you did.
He guided you towards the center of the rink, one hand still firmly clasping yours, the other now resting lightly at your waist. The contact, even through layers of winter clothing, sent a jolt through you.
"You're doing great," he said as you wobbled slightly. "Just find your balance."
"Easy for you to say. You're apparently good at everything."
He laughed. "Not everything."
You didn’t believe him for a second.
Your right skate hit a rough patch of ice, and suddenly you were pitching forward, arms flailing. Time seemed to slow as you prepared for the inevitable crash onto hard ice. But instead of cold pain, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, catching you. Satoru pulled you against his chest, steadying you both.
You found yourself pressed against him, your hands clutching his coat, faces inches apart. His blue eyes were wide, a few strands of white hair falling across his forehead. You could feel his heart racing—or was that yours?
"Are you okay?" he asked, breath warm against your cheek.
You nodded, unable to speak, certain that this was it—the moment he would finally close the distance between you. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there as one of his hands moved up to brush a strand of hair from your face. Your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, heart hammering against your ribs.
"You know," Satoru said, amusement colouring his tone, "for someone who managed to restore an entire Victorian house, you're surprisingly bad at staying upright on a little ice."
Your eyes snapped open to find him grinning down at you and the moment shattered. He set you back on your feet, though he kept one arm loosely around your waist for support.
"I think I need a break," you said, trying to hide your frustration. "My ankles are killing me."
"Of course." He led you to the exit, his hand returning to yours like it belonged there. "Hot cider? My treat."
As you made your way off the ice, you couldn't help but think that for someone so skilled at fixing things, Satoru Gojo seemed determined to leave whatever was between you two beautifully, frustratingly unresolved.
Despite your disappointment at the almost kiss, the rest of the evening at the market had been pleasant enough. You'd shared warm cider at a wooden table, watching children chase each other through the snow while Satoru told stories about his own childhood winters. He'd insisted on buying you a knitted scarf when he'd caught you admiring it, and wrapped it around your neck himself with aching tenderness. And it made you want to die that he didn't kiss you while he wrapped the scarf around you.
By the time you'd explored every stall, your earlier frustration had mellowed into a dull ache of confusion. Satoru seemed completely at ease, carrying your purchases and guiding you through the crowd with a gentle hand on your lower back—another gesture that felt so intimate, yet so casually offered.
The drive home was quiet, snowflakes dancing in the headlights as Satoru navigated the slippery roads. You stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of your neighbourhood change under the touch of winter, your mind replaying that moment on the ice over and over again. Why hadn't he kissed you?
He must have felt it—that perfect alignment of circumstances, that electric current running between you. For months now, you'd been dancing around this thing, this unspoken whatever it was.
"You're quiet," Satoru said, his voice breaking through your thoughts as the car came to a stop in front of your house. The snow was falling harder now, collecting on the windshield.
"Just tired." You forced a smile. "Thank you for today. It was fun."
"Are you sure that's all it is?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"
Before he could answer, you gathered your bags and pushed open the car door. "Goodnight, Satoru."
You hurried up the now perfectly restored steps of your front porch, fumbling with your keys as snowflakes clung to your hair and eyelashes, desperate to bury all those confusing feelings deep down, underneath a lot of chocolate and trashy romance Christmas movies. But then the sound of a car door closing behind you made you stop.
"Hey," Satoru called, his footsteps crunching through fresh snow. "Wait a second."
You took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was standing at the bottom of your porch steps, snowflakes catching in his white hair, his forehead furrowed. "Something's wrong. I can tell."
"It's nothing. Really, I'm just tired."
"After all these months, I'd hope you'd know you can't lie to me." He climbed the steps slowly until he was standing in front of you. "Did I do something? Say something?"
You shook your head. "It's not about what you did."
"Then what?" He took another step closer, and you could see the genuine confusion in his eyes. “What is going on?”
"It's about what you don't do, Satoru." The words escaped before you could stop them, tumbling out in a rush of frustration and longing. "What you never do."
He blinked. "What I don't do?"
You gestured helplessly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. You fix my pipes and paint my house and take me ice skating. You look at me sometimes like—" You paused. "But then nothing. You never... you never try to..."
"You think I don't want to kiss you," he said.
"Well, what am I supposed to think? You spend every waking moment at my house, you bring me coffee every stupid day, you watch movies with me and like, you buy me cute little scarves and, I mean—who does that?”
You were pacing now, your frustration building as months of confusion spilled out. Snowflakes swirled around you as you moved, melting against your flushed cheeks.
"Do you have any idea how confusing that is? One minute you're touching my face like you can't help yourself, the next you're acting like we're just neighbours working on a house together. Am I imagining things? Are you just being nice? Is there something wrong with me—"
Your rant was suddenly cut short as Satoru closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His hands came up to frame your face and before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours. His mouth was warm despite the cold, his lips soft but insistent against yours, effectively shutting down every coherent thought.
You stood frozen for a split second before your body caught up with reality. Then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his coat, pulling him closer as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours as one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, little clouds forming in the cold air between you, his hands still cupping your face.
"For the record," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than you'd ever heard it, "I've wanted to do that since the moment I steadied your ladder that first day. Every time I've been in a room with you. Every time you've chewed your lip while concentrating on something. Every damn time you've worn my chequered shirt".
You blinked up at him, still dazed from the kiss. "Then why didn't you?"
"Because I was trying to be a gentleman." His thumb traced your lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "Because I didn't want to complicate things when you were already dealing with so much. Because I wanted to be sure you felt the same way." A small, self-ironic smile touched his lips. "And because every time I worked up the courage, I'd get lost in those eyes of yours and forget how words work."
"So instead you taught me about crown molding?"
"I'm better with my hands than with words," he admitted, then immediately looked chagrined at the unintended innuendo. "That's not what I—"
This time, you cut him off, rising on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you slightly so you fit perfectly against him as snowflakes continued to fall around you.
"For future reference," you said as you broke the kiss, "I'd much rather you kiss me than explain proper grouting techniques."
"Noted."
Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, one hand supporting your back, the other beneath your knees, and carried you towards your front door with the same effortless strength he'd shown lifting drywall and moving furniture.
"The door," you reminded him, fumbling with your keys.
"I've got it." He somehow managed to balance you perfectly while taking the keys and unlocking the door. "I'm very good with my hands, remember?"
Satoru carried you over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. Snowflakes melted in his white hair as he set you down in the dim entryway, but he didn't step back, holding you between his body and the wall.
"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." His hands slid up your sides as his mouth claimed yours once more. "How many nights I've lain awake across the street, thinking about you in this house."
And you nearly fainted as you imagined him in his house across the stress, thinking about you, his hand down his pants and—
"Every room in this house," he said, his voice rough as he pushed your coat from your shoulders. "I've thought about having you in every single one."
"We did renovate them all." Your voice faltered as his lips found your neck, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot where it met your shoulder. "Seems only fair we should... test our work."
"I think I’d like that." His hands slid beneath your sweater, warm against your chilled skin as they traced up your sides. Your own fingers tangled in his snow dampened hair, pulling him back to your mouth for a kiss that quickly burned away any remaining cold.
"Bedroom?"
"Too far," you breathed, already tugging at his sweater. "Besides, we just redid the living room couch."
He smiled. In one fluid motion, he lifted you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you towards the living room. The last snowflakes in his hair melted as he lowered you onto the couch you'd spent three weekends reupholstering together. His body covered yours perfectly, like he belonged there, had always belonged there.
And as the snow continued to fall outside, covering your Victorian home in a pristine blanket of white, Satoru Gojo finally showed you exactly what his hands were capable of—proving once and for all that some things were worth the wait.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Spring arrived with a gentle persistence, coaxing crocuses from the soil and washing away the last traces of winter. Your Victorian house looked lovely in the morning light, its sage green paint gleaming, and its porch ready for the warmer days ahead.
The sound of knocking preceded Satoru's arrival, followed by a short pause and his usual sigh when he'd remembered he had keys, before his familiar footsteps echoed across the parquet floors you'd refinished together. You were in the kitchen, still in your pyjamas, going over the plans for the sunroom you'd decided to add to the back of the house.
"Morning," Satoru called, appearing in the doorway with his usual—two coffee cups balanced in one hand, a small paper bag of pastries in the other. His white hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he'd rushed out without taking the time to comb it properly.
"You know you don't have to knock anymore," you said as he handed you the coffee. "You have a key."
"Force of habit." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the chair next to you. "Besides, what if you were up to something scandalous?"
"At seven in the morning?"
"I distinctly remember yesterday morning getting pretty scandalous. And the day before that—”
Heat rushed to your cheeks as memories flooded back of the way he'd pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other explored your body with agonizing slowness. The way he'd whispered in your ear exactly what he was planning to do to you, his voice dropping to that low register that always made you shiver. The way he'd taken his time, so thorough in his attention that you'd been reduced to breathless pleas before he finally gave you what you needed and—okay, stop. Not now.
Three months into your relationship, and he still made you blush like a stupid teenager—among other things.
"Those were special circumstances," you said, trying not to smile.
"Oh yeah? What kind of special circumstances?"
"You brought croissants." You peeked into today's bag, ignoring his teasing. "Are these the chocolate ones from that bakery downtown?"
"Maybe." He smiled, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip. "I had an early video call with our research partners about the new pharmaceutical trial. Thought I'd pick up breakfast on the way back."
You paused, coffee halfway to your lips. "Wait, you already had your meeting? I thought that wasn't until nine."
"Started at five." He shrugged, stealing a piece of your pastry. "The Munich lab had some promising results they wanted to discuss right away. Worked out, though—wanted to catch you before you got too deep into those sunroom plans."
Warmth blossomed in your chest. In the months since that snowy night on your porch, Satoru had slowly woven himself into every aspect of your life. He still brought you coffee every morning, still helped with renovations, still looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
The only difference was that he now often spent the night, his clothes gradually migrating into your wardrobe, and his shower gel suddenly appeared one day in your bathroom. Even his microbiology textbooks and research papers had found their way onto your coffee table, his lab notes sometimes mixed in with your renovation plans.
"Speaking of the sunroom," he continued, "I think the windows we recently found in the attic would look great in there. The original glass has that slight waviness that would catch the light beautifully."
"I was thinking the same thing." You slid the blueprints towards him. "I've been playing with the dimensions to make sure they'd fit."
He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. "This looks perfect. Though we might need to adjust the framing here to account for the original hardware."
You smiled at his use of “we”—so natural now, so right. Every project had become a shared undertaking, every decision made together.
"By the way," he began, "I've been thinking—"
"A dangerous pastime for you."
"I'm serious." He took a breath, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. "The house is looking amazing. We've fixed almost everything that needed fixing."
"Except that creaky step on the back stairs," you reminded him.
"And the slight warp in the pantry door," he added.
"And the—"
"Okay, so there's still a list." He laughed. "But my point is, we've done so much work here. Together."
"We have," you agreed, wondering where he was going with this.
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Meanwhile, my house is just sitting there. I'm barely even there anymore except to grab clothes or check if anyone's stolen my mail."
Your heart began to beat faster as you caught his meaning. "Satoru Gojo, are you trying to say something specific?"
“What if we just... you know, focused on one house instead of two?" His eyes met yours, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. "Maybe focusing on just one house instead of maintaining two?"
"Are you asking to move in together?" You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face.
"Well, technically I'm asking which house we want to live in. Though I'm kind of partial to this one. We've put so much of ourselves into it."
You twisted in your chair to face him fully. "You'd leave your perfect house with its perfect kitchen and perfect view?"
"My perfect house feels empty without you in it." The simple honesty in his voice made your throat tight with emotion. "Besides, this house has better bones."
"Yes," you said, sliding your arms around his neck. "Yes to consolidating our renovation efforts. Yes to deciding which house. Yes to all of it."
"You sure? I know you like your space and I don't want to, like, suffocate you or—"
You cut him off with a kiss, soft and sweet and tasting of chocolate pastries. "Satoru, you've been in my space since the day you showed up to fix my stupid leaky pipe. At this point, it doesn't feel like my space without you in it."
He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a moment. When he looked at you again, there was that softness, that tenderness that still made your heart flip.
"I love you," he said simply. "In case that wasn't clear."
"I figured that out somewhere between you painting my entire house during that insane heatwave."
He laughed, the sound echoing in the kitchen you'd rebuilt together. "And here I thought it was my extensive knowledge of old pipes that won you over."
"That helped," you admitted, fingers playing with his hair. "Though it was really your hands that sealed the deal."
"My hands, huh?"
"Mmhmm." You pressed closer, coffee and blueprints momentarily forgotten. "Very skilled hands."
"Well" he murmured, those hands already finding their way under your pajama top, "some things deserve special attention to detail.”
"Are we seriously still doing renovation metaphors?"
He laughed and pressed a kiss to your neck. "Some traditions are worth keeping."
Later, as sunlight streamed through your kitchen windows—windows he'd helped you restore months ago when you were still pretending to be just neighbours—you lay tangled together on the kitchen floor.
"You know," you said, tracing patterns on his chest, "your house does have that amazing bathtub."
"True." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But this house has you."
You smiled against his skin. “We could always redo the bathroom here. Get an even better tub."
"I like how you think." His arms tightened around you. "Though we'd need to check the floor supports first, maybe upgrade the plumbing—"
You propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him, at this impossible man who'd somehow become your everything.
"I love you," you said simply. "Even when you're being a total renovation nerd."
His smile was soft, genuine, the smile he saved just for you. "Especially then?"
"Especially then."
Outside, spring painted the neighborhood with fresh green. But inside, in this house you'd brought back to life together, you'd found something even better—a future you were building together, room by room, day by day, one cup of morning coffee at a time.
masterlist + support my writing
author's note — omggg, we made it through all four seasons and a complete house renovation ! kept thinking while writing that the most unrealistic thing about this story is not satoru gojo being a perfect neighbour and fixing leaky pipes for us, but owning a house in this economy lol.
anyway, thank you so much for reading this silly little story and i hope it brought you as much joy as it did me while writing it. until next time ! <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.
gojo satoru is a starer. his chin is propped up on his fist and he looks at you like you’re a burning house he wants to live in, to crawl inside of you and find all of your worst parts so he can love you there. he stares at you when you feel your messiest, smeared makeup or eating dinner, 10 maybe 15 minutes out of bed in the morning but he studies you, crystalline blues memorising every part.
“you’re staring again, satoru.” you’ll laugh and he’s all wrapped up in his own little world, he barely hears you until you’re tapping playfully on his cheek but he doesn’t look away, not when your eyes are on his. never. not when a mere look from you feels like it opens suns in his heart.
sometimes he’ll laugh it off, shoot you a wink and a cheeky grin but he’ll still stare at you like he’s loved you since the beginning of everything, like you’re two souls from the same star. like he’s seen heaven without ever entering it.
jacobvanloon
2087
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
jbbartram-illu
