BEGIN AGAIN
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄ choi beomgyu x fem!reader
After months of being in a failed relationship believing love only breaks and ends, Y/n slowly finds something new beginning when she keeps meeting Beomgyu in a quiet café every Wednesday.
genre: fluff, slice of life
word count: 2,350 words
a/n: I actually had this sitting in my drafts since march, its long overdue for posting. heavily inspired by Taylor Swift's begin again.
Y/n used to think love ended loudly, like something the world needed to make sure you couldn’t misunderstand. Like doors slamming hard enough to shake the air still hanging between two people, like voices breaking mid-sentence in ways that made silence feel official, like fire catching too quickly for there to be time to pretend it wasn’t real. She used to believe endings had to announce themselves, that heartbreak had to be sharp and visible and undeniable in order to be true.
But her last relationship did not end like that.
It faded instead.
Slowly, without cruelty, without warning, without even the dignity of a final argument she could hold onto later as proof that something had happened. Messages began to take longer to arrive, then stopped arriving at all. Calls turned into missed calls that were never returned. His voice, once something she could recognize instantly even in noise, became something she had to remember instead of hear. And when she finally understood what was happening, there was no single moment she could point to and say this is where it broke, only the quiet realization that she had already been alone in it long before it officially ended.
What remained was not heartbreak in the way she had once imagined it would be, but something heavier in its subtlety, something that didn’t demand tears as proof, only silence that settled deeper each day until she could no longer tell where her emotions ended and her exhaustion began.
After that, she stopped expecting love to stay.
Not out of bitterness, but out of caution. Expectation felt too close to reaching, and reaching felt too close to losing.
So she built her life in repetition instead, in routines that did not ask anything of her. Same mornings, same streets, same quiet that never surprised her. And always, the café.
It was small, tucked between older buildings that leaned slightly into each other like they were tired of standing alone. Inside, the air always carried the same mixture of roasted coffee and softened noise, cups clinking gently, chairs shifting, the low murmur of lives happening without urgency. Time there did not feel like something moving forward so much as something gently dissolving, as if even hours lost their edges when they entered.
She always sat by the window. Always ordered the same drink. Not because she liked it, but because choosing differently felt like inviting change, and change had stopped feeling safe a long time ago.
Wednesdays came without meaning at first, just another day folded into the structure she had carefully built. Until something inside the café shifted in ways she could not immediately explain.
Not loudly. Not enough to disturb her.
Just… a presence.
He was there the first time like he had always been there.
A boy sitting a few tables away, slightly bent over a notebook, pen moving like his thoughts refused to wait their turn. He didn’t perform anything about himself. He wasn’t trying to be seen. He simply existed in a way that made it difficult not to notice him after a while.
The first time their eyes met, it happened by accident.
He looked up briefly, as if pulled out of thought for a second, and for a moment their gazes caught without intention. There was no surprise on his face, no intrusion in his expression—just a quiet pause, like the world had briefly acknowledged something and then moved on without making it a spectacle.
Y/n told herself it meant nothing.
People looked at each other in cafés all the time.
But the next Wednesday, he was there again.
Same table. Same time. Same quiet presence that didn’t intrude on her space but slowly began to exist inside it anyway.
By the third Wednesday, he noticed her looking before she could stop herself.
He gave a small nod that wasn’t quite a greeting but wasn’t nothing either.
She hesitated, then said, “You come here a lot.”
It slipped out before she could decide whether she wanted it to.
He blinked slightly, then gave a faint, almost amused smile.
“So do you,” he replied.
That should have ended it. Simple exchange. Nothing more.
But instead, she found herself asking, “Is it always this quiet?”
He glanced around the café as if considering it for the first time.
“It depends,” he said. “I think it gets quieter when you get used to it.”
She looked at him properly then, not just as background presence but as someone choosing words carefully.
“Or maybe you just stop noticing noise,” she said.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah… maybe that too.”
A pause.
Then, “I’m Beomgyu. Choi Beomgyu.”
Like it was something he had been holding back until the timing felt right.
“Y/n,” she replied. "Y/n L/n."
He repeated her name once under his breath, as if testing how it felt, then nodded—like it fit.
After that, he didn’t disappear into the background anymore.
He stayed.
Not intrusively. Not dramatically. Just consistently.
He came every Wednesday like it was something his life already understood, and she started noticing him without meaning to—the way he ordered something warm, the way he always sat angled toward the window, the way he paused for a second before leaving as if checking that the world still felt stable enough to return to.
One Wednesday, rain pressed softly against the glass, turning the outside world into something blurred and distant.
He sat down across from her like it was becoming normal, like silence between them was no longer something fragile but something shared.
After a while, he said, “You always sit like that.”
Y/n glanced up. “Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for something,” he said, then hesitated slightly, as if afraid of being too accurate. “Not in a bad way. Just… like you’re a little bit not fully here... like a ghost or something.”
Her fingers tightened faintly around her cup. “I’m here.”
He nodded immediately. “I know.”
That answer mattered more than it should have.
Because he didn’t argue with her reality. He simply accepted it, and somehow that made it feel safer.
After a pause, she asked, “Do you always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you think too much before you speak.”
He gave a small, almost embarrassed breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Sorry. I guess I do.”
“It’s fine,” she said after a moment. “It makes you sound… honest.”
That made him look at her differently, like he hadn’t expected that word to belong to him.
Silence returned after that, but it didn’t feel empty anymore.
It felt like something being carefully allowed.
Weeks passed like that—small exchanges folded into longer silences that no longer felt like absence. He learned the way she held her cup when she was thinking too much. She learned the way he tapped his pen when his thoughts became too loud to contain quietly.
One day, he brought his notebook closer to her side of the table without explaining why.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Things I write when I can’t keep them in my head,” he said.
She hesitated. “Can I see?”
He didn’t hesitate back this time. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t structured. It was fragments—unfinished lines, rewritten thoughts, emotions caught mid-form, like they were still deciding what they wanted to become.
“You always write like you’re trying not to lose something,” she said quietly after reading for a while.
Beomgyu didn’t look away.
“I think I am,” he admitted. “But I don’t always know what it is until it starts slipping away.”
That stayed between them longer than the words themselves.
Because she understood that feeling too well.
And for the first time in a long time, something in her didn’t immediately pull away from it.
Instead, it stayed.
Weeks became something heavier than routine. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because nothing needed to. Presence began to replace distance without either of them naming it.
And then one Wednesday, he arrived earlier than usual.
He was already there when she walked in.
He looked up immediately when he saw her, and this time he smiled first.
Not careful. Not small.
Real.
Y/n stopped for half a second before sitting down.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
Without saying anything about it, he slid a cup toward her.
“I got you something,” he said.
“You didn’t have to,” she replied automatically.
“I know,” he said softly. “I wanted to.”
Wanted to.
The word landed differently than it should have.
She wrapped her hands around the cup. Warmth spread slowly through her fingers.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Something sweeter than what you usually order,” he said.
A pause.
“I thought you might need it today.”
Y/n looked at him for a moment longer than she meant to.
And for once, she didn’t look away first.
Outside, the world kept moving like it always did.
Inside, something quiet and irreversible began to shift—not like breaking, not like healing, but like the first realization that you are no longer alone in a place you thought you had sealed yourself inside.
After a while, he said softly, “I notice you a lot.”
Y/n’s fingers paused. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, then softened when he saw her expression. “I just mean… you feel real in a way I can’t ignore.”
That sentence stayed in the air longer than either of them spoke.
Then she asked, quieter, “Why?”
Beomgyu hesitated, like he was deciding whether honesty was safe.
“I think about you when you’re not here,” he said finally. “And I think I like it too much to pretend I don’t.”
Silence followed—but it wasn’t empty anymore.
It was shared.
Y/n looked at him properly then, not as someone passing through her routine, but as someone beginning to exist inside it.
“I don’t know what this is,” she admitted.
Beomgyu nodded. “Me neither.”
A pause.
Then, softer, “But I don’t think everything has to have a name right away.”
That should have scared her.
Instead, it loosened something she had kept clenched for a very long time.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the world washed clean and unfamiliar in its quietness.
Inside, Beomgyu shifted slightly in his seat, hesitating for a moment like he was standing at the edge of something he didn’t fully understand but still wanted to reach for.
“Can I sit closer next time?” he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid of the answer even though he had just been given permission without words.
Y/n looked at him for a long moment.
Then, softly:
“You already are.”
And for the first time, Beomgyu smiled in a way that didn’t feel careful.
It felt real.
Like something beginning to happen that neither of them fully knew how to name yet—but both of them were finally, quietly, allowing.
synopsis: beomgyu is the absolute worst best friend to have a crush on. he’s loud, clingy, and always in your space—flopping on your bed, stealing your snacks, and treating your personal bubble like it owes him rent. the worst part? he’s recently gotten hot. like, dangerously hot. and lately, messing with him has become your new favorite hobby, especially when a little harmless teasing leaves him red-faced and malfunctioning.
you were just having fun testing his limits. until you accidentally pushed too far… and he pushed back.
genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, comedy, suggestive content
warnings: heavy making out, suggestive content(no full smut), partial undressing, swearing, whiny!beomgyu, reader being a menace
note: first installment of my 2k celebration yayy! also this is based off beomgyu's part in "brain empty, just you". enjoyy!
word count: 4.6k
if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3
2k event | next
the absolute worst part about having a crush on choi beomgyu is that he makes it impossible to not have a crush on him. which is ridiculous, because he’s also the most annoying person you’ve ever met. loud, clingy, and constantly in your space like a human shaped parasite. he flops onto your bed like he owns it, steals your snacks without remorse, and treats your personal bubble like it’s public property. and yet—here you are, stuck pining after your best friend like some tragic rom-com side character.
it’s a perfectly normal weekend afternoon, the kind meant for lazy reading or mindlessly scrolling through your phone, when your bedroom door flies open with a dramatic bang. you don’t even have to look up to know who it is.
"i’m dying," beomgyu announces, like he’s delivering breaking news, before collapsing face first onto your bed. the mattress dips under his weight, and you barely manage to save your phone from being crushed under his flailing limbs.
"you’re heavy," you grumble, shoving at his shoulder.
he doesn’t budge. instead, he rolls onto his back, arms spread wide like a starfish, stealing even more of your space. his hair is still damp from a shower, tousled and slightly messy, and—god, why does he have to smell so good? it’s unfair. like, illegally unfair. fresh soap and something faintly citrusy, mixed with that stupid cologne he swears isn’t for anyone’s benefit but his own. you hate that you notice. you especially hate that it makes your stomach do a stupid little flip.
"how’d you even get in here?" you mutter, trying to sound annoyed instead of painfully aware of how close he is.
"your mom let me in, duh," he says, grinning up at you like he’s won something. "she loves me."
"she has terrible taste," you shoot back, but there’s no real bite to it. beomgyu knows it, too, because his grin only widens.
without asking, he snatches your phone right out of your hands, thumb already swiping through your notifications like he has every right to. "who’s texting you?" he asks, squinting at the screen. "is this junho? since when do you talk to junho?"
you lunge for the phone, but he holds it just out of reach, laughing when you half-climb over him in your attempt to grab it. "give it back, you nosy loser—"
"make me," he taunts, wiggling the phone above his head.
you huff, resorting to digging your fingers into his side, right where you know he’s ticklish. beomgyu yelps, jerking away, but in the chaos, your fingers brush against the bare strip of skin where his shirt has ridden up.
the second you make contact, his whole body tenses like he’s been electrocuted. his breath hitches, just barely, and his cheeks go pink. not just a little flushed—full on, unmistakably red.
you freeze.
beomgyu, who’s always the one invading your space, who slings an arm over your shoulders without thinking, who leans into every casual touch like it’s nothing, just short-circuited because you touched him.
and oh.
oh, this is interesting.
a slow, dangerous grin spreads across your face. beomgyu’s eyes widen like he already knows what’s coming. "what?" he asks, voice slightly higher than usual. "why are you looking at me like that?"
"like what?" you ask innocently, letting your fingers trail lightly over his waist again, just to see what happens.
he jolts, nearly falling off the bed. "hey!"
you can’t help it. you laugh, delighted by this newfound power. "what’s wrong, gyu? you’re always all over me. can’t handle it when it’s the other way around?"
"shut up," he mumbles, but he’s not meeting your eyes anymore, his ears still burning.
and just like that, a game is born.
because if there’s one thing you love more than anything, it’s messing with choi beomgyu. and if there’s one thing he apparently can’t handle?
it’s you.
it starts as a game—just harmless teasing, really. you don’t even mean for it to become a thing. but the way beomgyu reacts every single time your fingers accidentally brush his skin, or when you lean just a little too close under the pretence of looking at his phone screen—it’s addictive. like poking a sleeping bear and watching it startle awake, all clumsy limbs and flustered noises.
at first, you tell yourself you’re just doing it to annoy him. payback for all the times he’s invaded your space without permission, flopped onto your bed like he owns it, stolen bites of your food with that infuriating smirk. but then you notice the way his breath hitches when your knee bumps his under the table. the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach back whenever you "fix" his collar, your touch lingering a second too long. the way his voice goes just a little higher when you whisper something close to his ear, like you’re sharing a secret.
it’s fascinating.
beomgyu, who’s always been the clingy one, the one who drapes himself over you without a second thought, suddenly can’t handle it when you initiate contact. and the more you test it, the more obvious it becomes that he’s not just flustered. he’s affected.
so you escalate.
you start "accidentally" letting your hand rest on his thigh when you’re sitting side by side, pretending not to notice the way his entire body goes rigid. you lean against him more than necessary when you’re tired, tucking your face into the crook of his neck just to feel the way his pulse jumps under your lips. you play with his hair while he’s trying to focus on something, twirling the soft strands between your fingers until he groans and swats at your hand, his cheeks pink.
and the best part? he never stops you.
he complains, sure. he whines and calls you annoying and shoves at your shoulders halfheartedly. but he never actually pulls away. if anything he leans into it, like he’s trying to prove he can take it, like he’s determined not to let you win.
which is how you end up here: beomgyu sprawled across your lap like an overgrown cat, his head heavy on your thighs as he scrolls through his phone. you’re both supposed to be studying, but neither of you has opened a textbook in at least an hour. instead, you’re absentmindedly running your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you know makes him melt.
he’s trying so hard to act unaffected. but you can see the way his fingers have slowed on his screen, the way his breathing has evened out like he’s fighting not to sigh.
"you’re like a dog," you murmur, grinning when he cracks one eye open to glare at you.
"shut up," he mumbles, but there’s no real heat behind it.
you hum, dragging your nails gently down the back of his neck, and there—the full body shiver he tries (and fails) to suppress. you bite your lip to keep from laughing. "you good?"
"you’re the worst," he mutters, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t even try.
you’re about to tease him more, maybe poke his side, just to see him squirm, when suddenly, his hand shoots up and catches your wrust. your breath stutters.
beomgyu’s grip isn’t tight. it’s not rough or demanding. but the way his fingers circle your wrist, warm and firm, sends a jolt down your spine. your pulse jumps under his thumb.
for a second, neither of you moves.
then beomgyu tilts his head back to look at you, and—
oh.
his eyes are dark. not playful, not exasperated. just intense, in a way that makes your stomach flip.
"you’ve been messing with me all week," he says, voice low.
your throat feels dry. "i don’t know what you’re talking about."
he raises an eyebrow. "really."
"really," you say, but it comes out breathier than you mean it to.
beomgyu holds your gaze for a long, long second. then, slowly, he tugs your hand down—not away, but closer, until your palm is pressed flat against his chest. you can feel his heartbeat, rapid and unsteady, under your fingers.
"then keep going," he challenges, voice barely above a whisper. "since it’s nothing."
your brain short circuits.
because this—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. he’s supposed to blush and sputter and shove you away like always. not dare you. not look at you like that.
your fingers twitch against his shirt.
beomgyu’s lips curl into a smirk. "what’s wrong?" he taunts, echoing your words from earlier. "can’t handle it when i push back?"
oh, it’s on.
you lean down before you can second guess yourself, your nose brushing his as you stop just short of his lips. his breath catches. "who said i was stopping?" you whisper.
beomgyu’s grip on your wrist tightens.
and then—
your mom calls your name from downstairs, and the moment shatters.
beomgyu jerks back like he’s been burned, nearly rolling off the bed in his haste. you yelp, grabbing his arm to steady him, but he’s already scrambling upright, running a hand through his hair like he can’t believe what almost happened.
"i—" he starts, then stops, his ears burning red. "we should—your mom’s calling."
you stare at him. he stares back.
then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.
beomgyu groans, covering his eyes with one hand. "don’t."
"don’t what?" you ask, all innocence.
"you’re insufferable," he mutters, but he’s peeking at you through his fingers, and his lips are twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
you kick his shin lightly. "you love it."
he doesn’t deny it.
the thing about beomgyu is that he's always been tactile—always reaching for you, always in your space, always treating your personal boundaries like mild suggestions rather than actual rules. lately it’s gotten worse, with every touch feeling like something more. like there's electricity humming just beneath his skin, sparking where your fingers brush against him. and you can't stop poking at it, can't stop testing the limits of this new, fragile thing between you.
it's been days since the almost-moment on your bed, days of careful avoidance and pointed teasing and lingering touches that neither of you acknowledge. and now here you are, curled up in your room watching some b-list horror movie because beomgyu had whined until you gave in, his eyes doing that stupid, pleading thing you've never been able to say no to.
"this is so dumb," you mutter as the protagonist on screen wanders into yet another obviously haunted room. "why would anyone—"
"shhh," beomgyu interrupts, nudging your shoulder with his. "you're ruining the atmosphere."
"the atmosphere of what? bad cgi and worse acting?"
he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you've wounded him. "you take that back. this is cinematic gold."
you roll your eyes but don't protest further, settling back against your pillows. beomgyu shifts beside you, his arm brushing yours, warm and solid. you try to focus on the movie, you really do, but it's hard when he's right there, smelling like laundry detergent and that stupidly expensive cologne he pretends he doesn't carefully pick out. when he's close enough that you can see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the dim light of your laptop screen.
then—
a sudden, earsplitting shriek comes from the movie, a grotesque face filling the frame, and you're lurching sideways before you can think, fingers digging into beomgyu's arm as you let out a startled yelp.
and beomgyu—
beomgyu squeaks.
it's high pitched and undignified and absolutely ridiculous coming from someone who spends half his time trying to act cool, and for a second, you're too stunned to even process it. then the sound registers, and you're turning to stare at him, mouth already opening to tease—
but the words die in your throat.
because beomgyu is frozen, his breath caught, his eyes wide and dark and fixed on you. your fingers are still wrapped around his arm, your nails pressing crescent moons into his skin, and you can feel the way his pulse jumps under your touch. the air between you is thick, heavy, the silence stretching taut like a wire about to snap.
your own breath stutters.
beomgyu's gaze drops to your mouth, just for a second, so quick you might have imagined it—but you didn't. you know you didn't, because your heart is suddenly pounding loud enough that you're sure he can hear it, your skin buzzing where you're touching him.
then—
the moment shatters.
beomgyu clears his throat, jerking his arm away like he's been burned, his cheeks flushing pink. "you—you scared me," he mutters, avoiding your eyes.
you blink. then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face. "i scared you?" you echo, leaning closer. "beomgyu. you squeaked."
"i did not—"
"you did," you crow, poking his side. "like a—like a mouse or something—"
beomgyu groans, covering his face with his hands. "oh my god, shut up—"
"a tiny, terrified little mouse—"
"i will end you," he threatens, but there's no real heat behind it, not when he's peeking at you through his fingers, his lips twitching like he's fighting a smile.
you laugh, bright and loud, and something in beomgyu's expression softens, his shoulders relaxing as he drops his hands. "you're the worst," he grumbles, but he's leaning into you again, his arm pressing against yours.
"you love me," you sing-song, nudging him with your knee.
beomgyu doesn't answer. just rolls his eyes and turns back to the movie, but you don't miss the way his fingers flex against his thigh, the way his breath hitches when you shift closer.
the movie plays on, the tension between you easing back into something familiar, something comfortable. but beneath it all, beneath the teasing and the bickering and the easy touches, there's something new. something fragile and unspoken and achingly sweet.
and you can't wait to poke at it some more.
the moment your selfie goes up, you know it's trouble. not because there's anything particularly scandalous about it—just you in your favourite going-out top, hair styled a little more carefully than usual, lips shiny with that gloss beomgyu always says smells like candy. but something about the angle, the way the light catches your collarbones, the hint of a smirk playing at your mouth—it feels dangerous. like you're dangling bait in front of a very specific, very excitable predator.
your phone vibrates in your hand before you can even set it down.
beomgyu: ????
beomgyu: where are you going looking like that
the message burns through you like a live wire. you can practically hear his voice—that particular tone he gets when he's trying (and failing) to sound casual, the way his pitch jumps just slightly when he's flustered. your fingers fly across the screen before you can think better of it.
you: why? you wanna come with?
beomgyu: thats not—
beomgyu: i was just asking bro
you bite your lip to keep from grinning. the three dots appear and disappear three times before you finally get:
beomgyu: ...are you meeting someone?
there it is. that tiny crack in his usual bravado. you're about to respond with something suitably teasing when your doorbell rings, an insistent, impatient buzz that could only belong to one person.
when you swing the door open, beomgyu is standing there looking unfairly good for someone who supposedly rushed over on a whim. his hair is slightly damp, curling at the ends like he just showered, and he's wearing that stupid tank top that shows off his arms, the one that makes your mouth go dry. in his outstretched hand dangles your charger—the one you're 90% sure you didn't leave at his place.
"you forgot this," he announces, pushing past you into your apartment and into your bedroom, like he owns it. the scent of his cologne, something warm and expensive that clings to all your hoodies after he wears them, fills the space between you.
you raise an eyebrow as you shut the door. "did i?"
"yes," he says, too quickly, already making himself at home on your bed. "you're so forgetful. it's a miracle you function without me."
you don't call him out on the obvious lie. instead, you lean against the doorframe and watch as he tries (and fails) to look casual, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. the neckline of his tank top slips slightly with every movement, revealing more of his collarbones than strictly necessary.
"so," he says, eyes scanning your outfit with poorly concealed interest, "where are you going?"
"nowhere special," you say, moving to sit beside him. the bed dips under your weight, forcing his knee to bump against yours.
"then why do you look like that?"
"like what?" you lean in closer, watching with satisfaction as his breath hitches.
beomgyu's throat works as he swallows. "like... like you're trying too hard."
you gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. "rude. maybe i just wanted to look nice."
"for who?"
the question comes out sharper than he intended, his fingers twitching against the pillows scattered on your bed. something warm and pleased curls in your stomach at the possessive edge in his voice.
before you can answer, beomgyu suddenly flexes his arms, his biceps straining against the thin fabric of his sleeves. "you see this?" he says, grinning that stupid, cocky grin that makes you want to kiss it off his face. "this is what peak performance looks like."
you roll your eyes. "please. i could bench press you."
his eyes light up with that competitive gleam you know all too well. "oh, you wish."
"prove it."
the challenge hangs in the air for all of two seconds before beomgyu grabs the nearest pillow and smacks you square in the face with it. you shriek, more out of surprise than actual pain, and immediately retaliate by grabbing another pillow and swinging with all your might.
beomgyu blocks it effortlessly, laughing as you growl in frustration. "weak," he taunts, dodging your next swing. "come on, is that all you've got?"
in a flash of inspiration, you toss the pillow aside and lunge at him instead. beomgyu's eyes widen comically as you collide with him, sending you both tumbling across the mattress in a tangle of limbs. you end up straddling his hips, immediately going for his most vulnerable spots; his sides, just above his hips, where you know he's ticklish.
beomgyu shrieks, actually shrieks, his whole body jerking beneath you as he dissolves into breathless laughter. "s-stop—fuck—" he gasps, trying in vain to squirm away, but you've got him pinned, your fingers dancing mercilessly along his ribs.
"give up," you demand, grinning down at him.
"never," he chokes out between laughs, his face flushed pink, his hair a wild mess against your cushions.
you're both laughing so hard it hurts, the sound filling your apartment, and for a moment everything feels perfect. light. easy. like this is exactly where you're both meant to be.
then you realise.
your hands are splayed across his stomach, his abs flexing beneath your touch with every ragged breath he takes. his own hands have somehow found their way to your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin through the thin fabric of your top. the warmth of him seeps into you, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you, and suddenly you're hyper aware of every point of contact between you.
because—
oh.
oh no.
beomgyu is hot. like, stupidly, unfairly hot. the kind of hot that makes your mouth go dry and your thoughts scatter. his lips are parted as he tries to catch his breath, his eyes dark and fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. the muscles in his arms are taut where they bracket your thighs, and suddenly all you can think about is how badly you want him to choke you.
before you can finish the thought, beomgyu moves.
in one smooth motion, he flips you over, reversing your positions with embarrassing ease. your back hits the plush mattress of your bed, his weight pressing into you just enough to make your pulse skyrocket. then his arm slides around your neck in a playful, but surprisingly firm chokehold, his biceps flexing against your throat.
your mind whites out.
your mouth, unfortunately, does not.
"god, that feels so good," you moan, the words slipping out unbidden, your voice embarrassingly breathy.
beomgyu freezes.
you freeze.
beomgyu stumbles back like you’ve just set him on fire, his entire face burning so red it’s a miracle he hasn’t spontaneously combusted. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, his hands flapping uselessly at his sides as he chokes on air. you’ve never seen him like this—beomgyu, who’s always so loud, so obnoxiously confident, reduced to a stammering, malfunctioning mess because of you.
your own heart is hammering so hard you’re surprised it hasn’t burst out of your chest yet, but the longer he stands there looking like his brain has short-circuited, the more the initial panic starts to melt into something dangerously close to amusement. because god, he’s such a loser. your loser. and before you can chicken out, before you can backtrack and play it off like a joke, the words are tumbling out of your mouth—
“i think i like you.”
beomgyu’s jaw drops. like, actually drops. his eyes go comically wide, his entire body freezing like you’ve just hit him with a stun gun. for a second, you’re terrified you’ve broken him completely, that he’s going to turn around and bolt out the door and never speak to you again. but then—
“what?” he chokes out, voice cracking embarrassingly.
you swallow, suddenly feeling exposed. “you heard me.”
“i—no, say it again.”
“no.”
“please.”
“beomgyu—”
he makes a noise that’s half-groan, half-whine, dragging his hands down his face before pacing across your room like a caged animal. his fingers keep tugging at his hair, his breathing uneven as he mutters to himself, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head, smoke nearly coming out of his ears from how hard he’s thinking.
you should probably be more nervous, but mostly you’re just endeared. and a little annoyed.
“you’re freaking out,” you point out, trying to sound casual even though your palms are sweating.
“yeah, no shit,” he snaps, spinning to face you with wild eyes. “you can’t just—you can’t just say that and expect me to be normal about it!”
“i didn’t expect anything! i was just—”
“just what? just casually dropping the bomb that you like me after moaning when i choked you—”
“oh my god, shut up—”
“no, because what the fuck—”
you groan, flopping back onto your bed and covering your face with your hands. this is a disaster. a nightmare. you should’ve just kept your mouth shut, should’ve played it off like a joke, should’ve—
“i like you too, idiot.”
your hands drop.
beomgyu is standing at the foot of your bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cheeks still flushed but his gaze steady now. your breath catches.
“...what?”
he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair again. “i like you. like, like like you. have for—fuck, i don’t even know how long.” his voice drops, softer now. “i just didn’t know how to deal with it. thought you didn’t see me that way.”
you sit up slowly, your pulse roaring in your ears. “...are you serious?”
“yes, i’m serious,” he mutters, looking away. “you think i’d be this much of a mess if i wasn’t?”
you stare at him. he stares back. the silence stretches between you, thick and charged, until—
you burst out laughing.
beomgyu’s face does something complicated, caught between offence and confusion. “why are you laughing?”
“because you’re such a disaster,” you wheeze, wiping at your eyes. “all this time, and you were just—god, you’re pathetic.”
“excuse me—”
“you heard me.”
he growls, actually growls, before closing the distance between you in two long strides. his hands cup your face, rough but gentle, and then his lips are on yours—hot, insistent, perfect.
you melt into it immediately, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him back with all the pent up frustration of months of pining. beomgyu makes a noise low in his throat, something between a whimper and a groan, his grip tightening as he nips at your bottom lip. you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your stomach flip.
his hands roam your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt to trace the bare skin of your waist. his fingers are warm, calloused from playing guitar, and the way they dig into your hips sends shivers down your spine. you arch into him, pressing closer, and he lets out this noise—this pathetic, whiny little sound that goes straight to your core.
you freeze for half a second. “bro, you good?” you whisper, half teasing, half wrecked yourself.
beomgyu groans, hiding his face in your neck. “do i look good?”
“fuck,” you breathe against his lips.
beomgyu pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips swollen and shiny. “you—you’re killing me,” he whines, his voice wrecked already.
you grin, dragging him back down. “good.”
he kisses you again, messier this time, his hands sliding up your back to fumble with the clasp of your bra. he’s terrible at it, his fingers clumsy, and he groans in frustration when he can’t get it undone.
“help me,” he mumbles against your mouth, his cheeks burning.
you laugh, reaching behind you to undo it for him, and the way his eyes darken when he realises what you’ve done is priceless. his hands slide up your bare back, his touch hesitant at first, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to do this.
“you’re so pretty,” he murmurs, his voice shaky as his fingers trace the curve of your spine. “fuck, you have no idea—”
you cut him off with another kiss, rolling so you’re straddling his hips. his hands immediately fly to your waist, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. you grind down experimentally, and the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers dig into your skin—god, you could get addicted to this.
“please,” he whimpers, his hips jerking up involuntarily. “please, i—fuck, i can’t—”
you lean down to nip at his earlobe, grinning when he shudders. “can’t what?” you whisper.
“you know what,” he groans, his hands sliding up your thighs. “you’re evil.”
you laugh, kissing him again, slower this time, savouring the way he melts under you. when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.
“fuck, fuck—” he’s babbling now, his usual eloquence completely gone as he kisses down your neck, your collarbones, his teeth scraping lightly over your skin. “you’re—shit, you’re so pretty, i can’t—fuck—”
you tug at his hair, pulling him back up to kiss him properly, swallowing his desperate noises. his hands are shaking where they grip your thighs, his breath coming in ragged pants against your lips.
“beomgyu,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing. “you’re such a mess.”
he groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “you did this,” he mumbles, his lips brushing your skin. “you turned me into this.”
you hum, running your fingers through his hair. “and you love it.”
he lifts his head just enough to glare at you, but there’s no heat behind it—just fond exasperation and so much want it makes your chest ache. “yeah,” he admits, his voice rough. “i really fucking do.”
synopsis: beomgyu is the absolute worst best friend to have a crush on. he’s loud, clingy, and always in your space—flopping on your bed, stealing your snacks, and treating your personal bubble like it owes him rent. the worst part? he’s recently gotten hot. like, dangerously hot. and lately, messing with him has become your new favorite hobby, especially when a little harmless teasing leaves him red-faced and malfunctioning.
you were just having fun testing his limits. until you accidentally pushed too far… and he pushed back.
genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, comedy, suggestive content
warnings: heavy making out, suggestive content(no full smut), partial undressing, swearing, whiny!beomgyu, reader being a menace
note: first installment of my 2k celebration yayy! also this is based off beomgyu's part in "brain empty, just you". enjoyy!
word count: 4.6k
if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3
2k event | next
the absolute worst part about having a crush on choi beomgyu is that he makes it impossible to not have a crush on him. which is ridiculous, because he’s also the most annoying person you’ve ever met. loud, clingy, and constantly in your space like a human shaped parasite. he flops onto your bed like he owns it, steals your snacks without remorse, and treats your personal bubble like it’s public property. and yet—here you are, stuck pining after your best friend like some tragic rom-com side character.
it’s a perfectly normal weekend afternoon, the kind meant for lazy reading or mindlessly scrolling through your phone, when your bedroom door flies open with a dramatic bang. you don’t even have to look up to know who it is.
"i’m dying," beomgyu announces, like he’s delivering breaking news, before collapsing face first onto your bed. the mattress dips under his weight, and you barely manage to save your phone from being crushed under his flailing limbs.
"you’re heavy," you grumble, shoving at his shoulder.
he doesn’t budge. instead, he rolls onto his back, arms spread wide like a starfish, stealing even more of your space. his hair is still damp from a shower, tousled and slightly messy, and—god, why does he have to smell so good? it’s unfair. like, illegally unfair. fresh soap and something faintly citrusy, mixed with that stupid cologne he swears isn’t for anyone’s benefit but his own. you hate that you notice. you especially hate that it makes your stomach do a stupid little flip.
"how’d you even get in here?" you mutter, trying to sound annoyed instead of painfully aware of how close he is.
"your mom let me in, duh," he says, grinning up at you like he’s won something. "she loves me."
"she has terrible taste," you shoot back, but there’s no real bite to it. beomgyu knows it, too, because his grin only widens.
without asking, he snatches your phone right out of your hands, thumb already swiping through your notifications like he has every right to. "who’s texting you?" he asks, squinting at the screen. "is this junho? since when do you talk to junho?"
you lunge for the phone, but he holds it just out of reach, laughing when you half-climb over him in your attempt to grab it. "give it back, you nosy loser—"
"make me," he taunts, wiggling the phone above his head.
you huff, resorting to digging your fingers into his side, right where you know he’s ticklish. beomgyu yelps, jerking away, but in the chaos, your fingers brush against the bare strip of skin where his shirt has ridden up.
the second you make contact, his whole body tenses like he’s been electrocuted. his breath hitches, just barely, and his cheeks go pink. not just a little flushed—full on, unmistakably red.
you freeze.
beomgyu, who’s always the one invading your space, who slings an arm over your shoulders without thinking, who leans into every casual touch like it’s nothing, just short-circuited because you touched him.
and oh.
oh, this is interesting.
a slow, dangerous grin spreads across your face. beomgyu’s eyes widen like he already knows what’s coming. "what?" he asks, voice slightly higher than usual. "why are you looking at me like that?"
"like what?" you ask innocently, letting your fingers trail lightly over his waist again, just to see what happens.
he jolts, nearly falling off the bed. "hey!"
you can’t help it. you laugh, delighted by this newfound power. "what’s wrong, gyu? you’re always all over me. can’t handle it when it’s the other way around?"
"shut up," he mumbles, but he’s not meeting your eyes anymore, his ears still burning.
and just like that, a game is born.
because if there’s one thing you love more than anything, it’s messing with choi beomgyu. and if there’s one thing he apparently can’t handle?
it’s you.
it starts as a game—just harmless teasing, really. you don’t even mean for it to become a thing. but the way beomgyu reacts every single time your fingers accidentally brush his skin, or when you lean just a little too close under the pretence of looking at his phone screen—it’s addictive. like poking a sleeping bear and watching it startle awake, all clumsy limbs and flustered noises.
at first, you tell yourself you’re just doing it to annoy him. payback for all the times he’s invaded your space without permission, flopped onto your bed like he owns it, stolen bites of your food with that infuriating smirk. but then you notice the way his breath hitches when your knee bumps his under the table. the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach back whenever you "fix" his collar, your touch lingering a second too long. the way his voice goes just a little higher when you whisper something close to his ear, like you’re sharing a secret.
it’s fascinating.
beomgyu, who’s always been the clingy one, the one who drapes himself over you without a second thought, suddenly can’t handle it when you initiate contact. and the more you test it, the more obvious it becomes that he’s not just flustered. he’s affected.
so you escalate.
you start "accidentally" letting your hand rest on his thigh when you’re sitting side by side, pretending not to notice the way his entire body goes rigid. you lean against him more than necessary when you’re tired, tucking your face into the crook of his neck just to feel the way his pulse jumps under your lips. you play with his hair while he’s trying to focus on something, twirling the soft strands between your fingers until he groans and swats at your hand, his cheeks pink.
and the best part? he never stops you.
he complains, sure. he whines and calls you annoying and shoves at your shoulders halfheartedly. but he never actually pulls away. if anything he leans into it, like he’s trying to prove he can take it, like he’s determined not to let you win.
which is how you end up here: beomgyu sprawled across your lap like an overgrown cat, his head heavy on your thighs as he scrolls through his phone. you’re both supposed to be studying, but neither of you has opened a textbook in at least an hour. instead, you’re absentmindedly running your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you know makes him melt.
he’s trying so hard to act unaffected. but you can see the way his fingers have slowed on his screen, the way his breathing has evened out like he’s fighting not to sigh.
"you’re like a dog," you murmur, grinning when he cracks one eye open to glare at you.
"shut up," he mumbles, but there’s no real heat behind it.
you hum, dragging your nails gently down the back of his neck, and there—the full body shiver he tries (and fails) to suppress. you bite your lip to keep from laughing. "you good?"
"you’re the worst," he mutters, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t even try.
you’re about to tease him more, maybe poke his side, just to see him squirm, when suddenly, his hand shoots up and catches your wrust. your breath stutters.
beomgyu’s grip isn’t tight. it’s not rough or demanding. but the way his fingers circle your wrist, warm and firm, sends a jolt down your spine. your pulse jumps under his thumb.
for a second, neither of you moves.
then beomgyu tilts his head back to look at you, and—
oh.
his eyes are dark. not playful, not exasperated. just intense, in a way that makes your stomach flip.
"you’ve been messing with me all week," he says, voice low.
your throat feels dry. "i don’t know what you’re talking about."
he raises an eyebrow. "really."
"really," you say, but it comes out breathier than you mean it to.
beomgyu holds your gaze for a long, long second. then, slowly, he tugs your hand down—not away, but closer, until your palm is pressed flat against his chest. you can feel his heartbeat, rapid and unsteady, under your fingers.
"then keep going," he challenges, voice barely above a whisper. "since it’s nothing."
your brain short circuits.
because this—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. he’s supposed to blush and sputter and shove you away like always. not dare you. not look at you like that.
your fingers twitch against his shirt.
beomgyu’s lips curl into a smirk. "what’s wrong?" he taunts, echoing your words from earlier. "can’t handle it when i push back?"
oh, it’s on.
you lean down before you can second guess yourself, your nose brushing his as you stop just short of his lips. his breath catches. "who said i was stopping?" you whisper.
beomgyu’s grip on your wrist tightens.
and then—
your mom calls your name from downstairs, and the moment shatters.
beomgyu jerks back like he’s been burned, nearly rolling off the bed in his haste. you yelp, grabbing his arm to steady him, but he’s already scrambling upright, running a hand through his hair like he can’t believe what almost happened.
"i—" he starts, then stops, his ears burning red. "we should—your mom’s calling."
you stare at him. he stares back.
then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.
beomgyu groans, covering his eyes with one hand. "don’t."
"don’t what?" you ask, all innocence.
"you’re insufferable," he mutters, but he’s peeking at you through his fingers, and his lips are twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
you kick his shin lightly. "you love it."
he doesn’t deny it.
the thing about beomgyu is that he's always been tactile—always reaching for you, always in your space, always treating your personal boundaries like mild suggestions rather than actual rules. lately it’s gotten worse, with every touch feeling like something more. like there's electricity humming just beneath his skin, sparking where your fingers brush against him. and you can't stop poking at it, can't stop testing the limits of this new, fragile thing between you.
it's been days since the almost-moment on your bed, days of careful avoidance and pointed teasing and lingering touches that neither of you acknowledge. and now here you are, curled up in your room watching some b-list horror movie because beomgyu had whined until you gave in, his eyes doing that stupid, pleading thing you've never been able to say no to.
"this is so dumb," you mutter as the protagonist on screen wanders into yet another obviously haunted room. "why would anyone—"
"shhh," beomgyu interrupts, nudging your shoulder with his. "you're ruining the atmosphere."
"the atmosphere of what? bad cgi and worse acting?"
he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you've wounded him. "you take that back. this is cinematic gold."
you roll your eyes but don't protest further, settling back against your pillows. beomgyu shifts beside you, his arm brushing yours, warm and solid. you try to focus on the movie, you really do, but it's hard when he's right there, smelling like laundry detergent and that stupidly expensive cologne he pretends he doesn't carefully pick out. when he's close enough that you can see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the dim light of your laptop screen.
then—
a sudden, earsplitting shriek comes from the movie, a grotesque face filling the frame, and you're lurching sideways before you can think, fingers digging into beomgyu's arm as you let out a startled yelp.
and beomgyu—
beomgyu squeaks.
it's high pitched and undignified and absolutely ridiculous coming from someone who spends half his time trying to act cool, and for a second, you're too stunned to even process it. then the sound registers, and you're turning to stare at him, mouth already opening to tease—
but the words die in your throat.
because beomgyu is frozen, his breath caught, his eyes wide and dark and fixed on you. your fingers are still wrapped around his arm, your nails pressing crescent moons into his skin, and you can feel the way his pulse jumps under your touch. the air between you is thick, heavy, the silence stretching taut like a wire about to snap.
your own breath stutters.
beomgyu's gaze drops to your mouth, just for a second, so quick you might have imagined it—but you didn't. you know you didn't, because your heart is suddenly pounding loud enough that you're sure he can hear it, your skin buzzing where you're touching him.
then—
the moment shatters.
beomgyu clears his throat, jerking his arm away like he's been burned, his cheeks flushing pink. "you—you scared me," he mutters, avoiding your eyes.
you blink. then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face. "i scared you?" you echo, leaning closer. "beomgyu. you squeaked."
"i did not—"
"you did," you crow, poking his side. "like a—like a mouse or something—"
beomgyu groans, covering his face with his hands. "oh my god, shut up—"
"a tiny, terrified little mouse—"
"i will end you," he threatens, but there's no real heat behind it, not when he's peeking at you through his fingers, his lips twitching like he's fighting a smile.
you laugh, bright and loud, and something in beomgyu's expression softens, his shoulders relaxing as he drops his hands. "you're the worst," he grumbles, but he's leaning into you again, his arm pressing against yours.
"you love me," you sing-song, nudging him with your knee.
beomgyu doesn't answer. just rolls his eyes and turns back to the movie, but you don't miss the way his fingers flex against his thigh, the way his breath hitches when you shift closer.
the movie plays on, the tension between you easing back into something familiar, something comfortable. but beneath it all, beneath the teasing and the bickering and the easy touches, there's something new. something fragile and unspoken and achingly sweet.
and you can't wait to poke at it some more.
the moment your selfie goes up, you know it's trouble. not because there's anything particularly scandalous about it—just you in your favourite going-out top, hair styled a little more carefully than usual, lips shiny with that gloss beomgyu always says smells like candy. but something about the angle, the way the light catches your collarbones, the hint of a smirk playing at your mouth—it feels dangerous. like you're dangling bait in front of a very specific, very excitable predator.
your phone vibrates in your hand before you can even set it down.
beomgyu: ????
beomgyu: where are you going looking like that
the message burns through you like a live wire. you can practically hear his voice—that particular tone he gets when he's trying (and failing) to sound casual, the way his pitch jumps just slightly when he's flustered. your fingers fly across the screen before you can think better of it.
you: why? you wanna come with?
beomgyu: thats not—
beomgyu: i was just asking bro
you bite your lip to keep from grinning. the three dots appear and disappear three times before you finally get:
beomgyu: ...are you meeting someone?
there it is. that tiny crack in his usual bravado. you're about to respond with something suitably teasing when your doorbell rings, an insistent, impatient buzz that could only belong to one person.
when you swing the door open, beomgyu is standing there looking unfairly good for someone who supposedly rushed over on a whim. his hair is slightly damp, curling at the ends like he just showered, and he's wearing that stupid tank top that shows off his arms, the one that makes your mouth go dry. in his outstretched hand dangles your charger—the one you're 90% sure you didn't leave at his place.
"you forgot this," he announces, pushing past you into your apartment and into your bedroom, like he owns it. the scent of his cologne, something warm and expensive that clings to all your hoodies after he wears them, fills the space between you.
you raise an eyebrow as you shut the door. "did i?"
"yes," he says, too quickly, already making himself at home on your bed. "you're so forgetful. it's a miracle you function without me."
you don't call him out on the obvious lie. instead, you lean against the doorframe and watch as he tries (and fails) to look casual, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. the neckline of his tank top slips slightly with every movement, revealing more of his collarbones than strictly necessary.
"so," he says, eyes scanning your outfit with poorly concealed interest, "where are you going?"
"nowhere special," you say, moving to sit beside him. the bed dips under your weight, forcing his knee to bump against yours.
"then why do you look like that?"
"like what?" you lean in closer, watching with satisfaction as his breath hitches.
beomgyu's throat works as he swallows. "like... like you're trying too hard."
you gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. "rude. maybe i just wanted to look nice."
"for who?"
the question comes out sharper than he intended, his fingers twitching against the pillows scattered on your bed. something warm and pleased curls in your stomach at the possessive edge in his voice.
before you can answer, beomgyu suddenly flexes his arms, his biceps straining against the thin fabric of his sleeves. "you see this?" he says, grinning that stupid, cocky grin that makes you want to kiss it off his face. "this is what peak performance looks like."
you roll your eyes. "please. i could bench press you."
his eyes light up with that competitive gleam you know all too well. "oh, you wish."
"prove it."
the challenge hangs in the air for all of two seconds before beomgyu grabs the nearest pillow and smacks you square in the face with it. you shriek, more out of surprise than actual pain, and immediately retaliate by grabbing another pillow and swinging with all your might.
beomgyu blocks it effortlessly, laughing as you growl in frustration. "weak," he taunts, dodging your next swing. "come on, is that all you've got?"
in a flash of inspiration, you toss the pillow aside and lunge at him instead. beomgyu's eyes widen comically as you collide with him, sending you both tumbling across the mattress in a tangle of limbs. you end up straddling his hips, immediately going for his most vulnerable spots; his sides, just above his hips, where you know he's ticklish.
beomgyu shrieks, actually shrieks, his whole body jerking beneath you as he dissolves into breathless laughter. "s-stop—fuck—" he gasps, trying in vain to squirm away, but you've got him pinned, your fingers dancing mercilessly along his ribs.
"give up," you demand, grinning down at him.
"never," he chokes out between laughs, his face flushed pink, his hair a wild mess against your cushions.
you're both laughing so hard it hurts, the sound filling your apartment, and for a moment everything feels perfect. light. easy. like this is exactly where you're both meant to be.
then you realise.
your hands are splayed across his stomach, his abs flexing beneath your touch with every ragged breath he takes. his own hands have somehow found their way to your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin through the thin fabric of your top. the warmth of him seeps into you, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you, and suddenly you're hyper aware of every point of contact between you.
because—
oh.
oh no.
beomgyu is hot. like, stupidly, unfairly hot. the kind of hot that makes your mouth go dry and your thoughts scatter. his lips are parted as he tries to catch his breath, his eyes dark and fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. the muscles in his arms are taut where they bracket your thighs, and suddenly all you can think about is how badly you want him to choke you.
before you can finish the thought, beomgyu moves.
in one smooth motion, he flips you over, reversing your positions with embarrassing ease. your back hits the plush mattress of your bed, his weight pressing into you just enough to make your pulse skyrocket. then his arm slides around your neck in a playful, but surprisingly firm chokehold, his biceps flexing against your throat.
your mind whites out.
your mouth, unfortunately, does not.
"god, that feels so good," you moan, the words slipping out unbidden, your voice embarrassingly breathy.
beomgyu freezes.
you freeze.
beomgyu stumbles back like you’ve just set him on fire, his entire face burning so red it’s a miracle he hasn’t spontaneously combusted. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, his hands flapping uselessly at his sides as he chokes on air. you’ve never seen him like this—beomgyu, who’s always so loud, so obnoxiously confident, reduced to a stammering, malfunctioning mess because of you.
your own heart is hammering so hard you’re surprised it hasn’t burst out of your chest yet, but the longer he stands there looking like his brain has short-circuited, the more the initial panic starts to melt into something dangerously close to amusement. because god, he’s such a loser. your loser. and before you can chicken out, before you can backtrack and play it off like a joke, the words are tumbling out of your mouth—
“i think i like you.”
beomgyu’s jaw drops. like, actually drops. his eyes go comically wide, his entire body freezing like you’ve just hit him with a stun gun. for a second, you’re terrified you’ve broken him completely, that he’s going to turn around and bolt out the door and never speak to you again. but then—
“what?” he chokes out, voice cracking embarrassingly.
you swallow, suddenly feeling exposed. “you heard me.”
“i—no, say it again.”
“no.”
“please.”
“beomgyu—”
he makes a noise that’s half-groan, half-whine, dragging his hands down his face before pacing across your room like a caged animal. his fingers keep tugging at his hair, his breathing uneven as he mutters to himself, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head, smoke nearly coming out of his ears from how hard he’s thinking.
you should probably be more nervous, but mostly you’re just endeared. and a little annoyed.
“you’re freaking out,” you point out, trying to sound casual even though your palms are sweating.
“yeah, no shit,” he snaps, spinning to face you with wild eyes. “you can’t just—you can’t just say that and expect me to be normal about it!”
“i didn’t expect anything! i was just—”
“just what? just casually dropping the bomb that you like me after moaning when i choked you—”
“oh my god, shut up—”
“no, because what the fuck—”
you groan, flopping back onto your bed and covering your face with your hands. this is a disaster. a nightmare. you should’ve just kept your mouth shut, should’ve played it off like a joke, should’ve—
“i like you too, idiot.”
your hands drop.
beomgyu is standing at the foot of your bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cheeks still flushed but his gaze steady now. your breath catches.
“...what?”
he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair again. “i like you. like, like like you. have for—fuck, i don’t even know how long.” his voice drops, softer now. “i just didn’t know how to deal with it. thought you didn’t see me that way.”
you sit up slowly, your pulse roaring in your ears. “...are you serious?”
“yes, i’m serious,” he mutters, looking away. “you think i’d be this much of a mess if i wasn’t?”
you stare at him. he stares back. the silence stretches between you, thick and charged, until—
you burst out laughing.
beomgyu’s face does something complicated, caught between offence and confusion. “why are you laughing?”
“because you’re such a disaster,” you wheeze, wiping at your eyes. “all this time, and you were just—god, you’re pathetic.”
“excuse me—”
“you heard me.”
he growls, actually growls, before closing the distance between you in two long strides. his hands cup your face, rough but gentle, and then his lips are on yours—hot, insistent, perfect.
you melt into it immediately, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him back with all the pent up frustration of months of pining. beomgyu makes a noise low in his throat, something between a whimper and a groan, his grip tightening as he nips at your bottom lip. you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your stomach flip.
his hands roam your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt to trace the bare skin of your waist. his fingers are warm, calloused from playing guitar, and the way they dig into your hips sends shivers down your spine. you arch into him, pressing closer, and he lets out this noise—this pathetic, whiny little sound that goes straight to your core.
you freeze for half a second. “bro, you good?” you whisper, half teasing, half wrecked yourself.
beomgyu groans, hiding his face in your neck. “do i look good?”
“fuck,” you breathe against his lips.
beomgyu pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips swollen and shiny. “you—you’re killing me,” he whines, his voice wrecked already.
you grin, dragging him back down. “good.”
he kisses you again, messier this time, his hands sliding up your back to fumble with the clasp of your bra. he’s terrible at it, his fingers clumsy, and he groans in frustration when he can’t get it undone.
“help me,” he mumbles against your mouth, his cheeks burning.
you laugh, reaching behind you to undo it for him, and the way his eyes darken when he realises what you’ve done is priceless. his hands slide up your bare back, his touch hesitant at first, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to do this.
“you’re so pretty,” he murmurs, his voice shaky as his fingers trace the curve of your spine. “fuck, you have no idea—”
you cut him off with another kiss, rolling so you’re straddling his hips. his hands immediately fly to your waist, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. you grind down experimentally, and the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers dig into your skin—god, you could get addicted to this.
“please,” he whimpers, his hips jerking up involuntarily. “please, i—fuck, i can’t—”
you lean down to nip at his earlobe, grinning when he shudders. “can’t what?” you whisper.
“you know what,” he groans, his hands sliding up your thighs. “you’re evil.”
you laugh, kissing him again, slower this time, savouring the way he melts under you. when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.
“fuck, fuck—” he’s babbling now, his usual eloquence completely gone as he kisses down your neck, your collarbones, his teeth scraping lightly over your skin. “you’re—shit, you’re so pretty, i can’t—fuck—”
you tug at his hair, pulling him back up to kiss him properly, swallowing his desperate noises. his hands are shaking where they grip your thighs, his breath coming in ragged pants against your lips.
“beomgyu,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing. “you’re such a mess.”
he groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “you did this,” he mumbles, his lips brushing your skin. “you turned me into this.”
you hum, running your fingers through his hair. “and you love it.”
he lifts his head just enough to glare at you, but there’s no heat behind it—just fond exasperation and so much want it makes your chest ache. “yeah,” he admits, his voice rough. “i really fucking do.”
synopsis. the elders have always warned you that men lose interest over time. that they’re bound to find a younger, prettier toy years down into the marriage. you think your day has come.
contents. hurt/comfort, established relationship, husband!gojo, pining (so much of it), insecurity, miscommunication, mentions of pregnancy, gojo is a freak for his wife, shoko is the voice of reason as always
notes. im back n this is not proofread. what’s new!!! anyways, enjoy yet another self indulgent piece!
You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.
The walls of the Gojo compound were made of wood and paper, thin enough for you to hear secrets that weren’t made for your ears. You had grown up used to tuning out the constant noise from footsteps on tatami and shuffling robes to muttered curses from sorcerers-in-training. But today, the voices were just close enough, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Still no heir after five years?”
“What a shame. All that potential, and she retires to become a housewife.”
“They marry young these days, but if a woman can’t carry on the clan, then what’s the point?”
“She’s not a wife. She’s a waste.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the screen door. You forced yourself not to make a sound, not to breathe too loudly in fear of revealing your hiding spot. It was foolish to care—foolish to let the words of the elders dig into your skin. You knew better than to let the words cut you, but they did anyway, like each syllable was barbed.
You weren’t stupid. You knew that in the world of jujutsu sorcery, women were rarely praised for their power. They were expected to surrender it and retire gracefully—to raise heirs. Instead of bearing blades, they were expected to bear babies. You’ve seen it through countless of women. Satoru’s mother. Your own. And so many others. It was a quiet, lifelong obligation to the clan’s legacy.
You have been married to Gojo Satoru for five years now. Five long, loving years. And still, there were no children.
To be fair, the two of you had married young—too young, perhaps—but he had insisted. He couldn't wait, he’d said, pulling you to the altar like a man starved. He had kissed you with feverish devotion in front of the shrine, promised you the world, the stars, and everything in between.
But somewhere along the way, you felt like those promises had gone quiet. The talk of children, of anything beyond “next week” or “next mission,” had never come. The topic had never once left his lips.
Maybe he was too busy. Your Satoru wasn’t just yours, after all. He was a teacher. A leader. The head of the Gojo clan. A living symbol of power.
He spent his days shaping the next generation, mentoring students who looked at him like he was invincible. Perhaps he already had too many children who weren’t truly his. Too many young eyes to protect, young graves to prevent.
Or maybe… maybe he just didn’t want them with you.
You stirred the soup with absent hands, the wooden spoon swirling through the broth like it might uncover something at the bottom. The scent of miso filled the kitchen, but it felt hollow. Your expansive kitchen felt too quiet and it was slowly driving you mad.
Satoru was late. Again.
And when you hear the front door finally open, you don’t bother moving. You listened to the familiar sound of shoes slipping off and a coat sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap by the door. His footsteps were slower these days. Even the great Gojo Satoru—your indestructible, overpowered husband was starting to sound… tired.
Tired of what, you’re not sure.
You, perhaps.
He appeared in the kitchen, the ever-present blindfold slung loosely around his neck. His cerulean eyes looked exhausted.
But he still smiled. Still leaned down and kissed your cheek like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.
“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”
And without another word, he dragged himself toward the bedroom and collapsed face-first into the sheets, asleep before you even turned off the stove.
You stood there for a moment, spoon still in hand, watching the soft ripple of the soup.
This had become a pattern.
He used to be insatiable—always touching you, reaching for you, teasing you like the mere idea of being apart from you made him physically ill. There had been times where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself even in public. Where he used to whisper sweet nothings into your skin that he couldn’t wait to fulfill.
But now he barely looked at you.
He said he was tired. That the curse rate had skyrocketed. That the weight of the world was getting heavier.
You believed him. Of course you did.
But the belief didn’t make the cold side of the bed any warmer. It didn’t make the silent distance between you any less unbearable.
It happened in a moment of weakness.
The bathroom door closed behind him, and the sound of the shower was on. It was one of his regular short, cold showers. You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the phone he left on the nightstand.
It was face down and silent, yet all the more inviting.
You hesitated, telling yourself not to look. You try to convince yourself that you trusted the man that you married. The one that had been in love with you far longer than you had even known. That after everything, you had no reason to doubt.
Your fingers moved anyway as if you were a woman possessed. The lock was no match for your memory. His passcode hadn’t changed—it was still your birthday. You’re not sure if that fact made you feel worse for the act that you were committing.
But the messages were right there.
And what you saw made your stomach drop.
Gojo: Shio, I need your help.
Shio: Gojo-kun, I thought we agreed that calling me just “Shio” was improper. It is not right.
Gojo: You know we’re past that stage, Shioooo.
Shio: I should like to have a word with your wife about your behavior.
Gojo: Ha! You and my wife? Over my dead body would I let you two meet. She’d kill me~~~
Shio: That would be a tragedy indeed.
You blinked.
No.
No, no, no.
The bile that rose in your throat was immediate. The evidence was damning: the banter, the flirtation, their familiarity—it was something you had once shared with him.The way he spoke to her mirrored so perfectly the way he used to speak to you. It was the same cadence, the same wry humor, the same intimacy that had once made your heart leap.
You didn’t even know who this woman was. But she had something you no longer did: his attention.
And it made you sick.
Before you could scroll further, the sound of water stopped. You dropped the phone like it had burned you and threw yourself beneath the covers, forcing your body to still, your breathing to slow.
He came in moments later, humming faintly, smelling like the clean soap he had insisted on the both of you sharing. It is only right that we smell like each other, he had once told you. You wanted to scoff at the memory. Satoru pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before settling in beside you.
You didn’t move. You don’t end up sleeping that night. You don't even think you let the breath you were holding in for the rest of the night.
Just like clockwork, Satoru was late again.
The table was set. The food that was once warm had grown cold. You sat alone for an hour before you gave up and placed plastic wrap over everything, sliding the dishes into the fridge.
When the door finally opened, he walked in with a bounce in his step. A cloth bag hung from his fingers.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out brightly. “I brought dinner!”
You turned slowly, eyeing the contents. You didn’t need to open the bag. One glance told you everything.
It wasn’t takeout. Rather, the meal appeared to be homemade and carefully prepared. It must be a subtle message from his mistress to you.
Inside was Kyoto-style soup—vegetables simmered in dashi, hints of seaweed and root. You had watched the compound servants make it a hundred times growing up. There was even yamaimo, shredded fine and folded in.
“Where were you?” you asked softly, hoping it would mask the edge in your words.
Satoru grinned.
“Kyoto. Had a mission there. Thought I’d bring something special back.”
Your stomach dropped.
Kyoto.
Of course it would be there. In the house where you were both born. In the same halls where those whispers about your empty womb had first begun. You imagined him surrounded by a dozen younger women, all wide-eyed and obedient who were excited to please the clanhead. The thought alone made you dizzy.
“I’m not hungry.”
You stood before he could stop you, the chair screeching against the wood.
He looked up, his smile flickering, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows.
But you didn’t look back. You didn’t want him to see your face. If he did, he might see the cracks forming. And you weren’t sure you’d survive long enough to be pieced back together.
“I miss you, [Name]. Come work here,” Shoko says on the phone, her voice in its casual cadence. “You’re an excellent sorceress. You were born for this. Plus, I miss you. Satoru’s been keeping you away for far too long.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as your fingers trace a wrinkle in the blanket.
“Yes, but… Satoru and I agreed I’d stay out of the field. I’m retired now, remember?”
“You’d only be teaching,” she replies gently. “Nothing too intense. And besides… Gojo’s an idiot. What does he know?”
You laugh quietly, but it’s thin and brittle.
A silence stretches between you.
Shoko picks up on it. She always does.
“What’s wrong?”
You hesitate.
Vocalizing the thought seemed so shameful.
When you do summon the courage, it comes out in a hushed whisper: “I think Satoru is cheating on me.”
There’s a pause.
“Is this a joke?”
“No.” Your voice is flat. “I went through his phone.”
Another silence. This one lands heavier.
“[Name]…” Shoko says slowly, “I don’t think that’s possible. I mean—he worships you. He annoys everyone at Jujutsu Tech talking about you like you’re the second coming of the sun. We get it, he married up.”
You close your eyes. You can almost hear his voice echoing in Shoko’s. How you missed that version of your husband.
“He pulled you from the field not because he wanted to chain you down, but because he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared until you came back bleeding that day. He looked like someone tore the world from under his feet.”
“Shoko… you don’t get it.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No. Not yet, but—”
“Then you don’t get to spiral like this until you do.”
You sigh and lean back.
“I just feel so... stuck. I’m tired of this house and how quiet it is all of the time. The growing distance in between us. It used to feel like home, but now it feels like— I don’t even know.”
Her voice softens again. “Consider coming back to Jujutsu Tech. At least for a while. Let yourself breathe again.”
You’re quiet.
“I’ll consider it. Domestic life’s been… suffocating lately.”
“There she is,” Shoko says warmly. “There’s the [Name] I know.”
You smile, and this time it’s real—even if it is just a little. But it doesn’t last long after the phone call.
The moment you step out of the bedroom you walk directly into a solid chest. You freeze and your heart sinks.
Standing in front of you was your husband. But he looked more like Gojo Satoru than your Satoru. He was home early and he did not look happy. Once bright eyes were now shadowed and unreadable.
“You’re returning to Jujutsu Tech?” he asks, voice calm in the way a man trying to keep his emotions at bay would. “After we decided you were done risking your life?”
You blink, startled. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear my wife thinks staying home with me is ‘suffocating.’” His jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think?”
Something in you snaps.
“Don’t you dare make this about you.”
He stares, stunned.
“You decided I’d retire, Satoru. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even give me a choice.”
You lightly push his chest to make space. He doesn’t move but his hand reaches for yours automatically, gently, like he can’t help but hold onto you even when you’re furious.
You don’t pull away. His grip was firm enough for you to know better.
“I thought it was for my safety,” you whisper. “But now I see it was just to make room for your little affair behind my back.” The words were meant to shame Satoru, but it felt more like a double edged sword with the way your heart ache at the reminder of his infidelity.
He flinches.
“What?”
“I read your messages,” you hiss. “With Shio. You don’t even delete them, Satoru. Are you that arrogant? Or did you just stop caring?”
“[Name], it’s not what you think—”
“Then explain it!” Your voice breaks.
“Explain the messages. The dinners. The way you’ve been avoiding me like touching me might burn you alive. I can feel the distance growing every night, Satoru, don’t you?”
You yank your hand back.
“Tell me. Is she prettier? Younger? Is she too naive to see through your bullshit? Does she—”
You laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter.
“—does she even know you hate bitter vegetables? Or did you choke it down for her anyway when you brought the yamaimo home?”
Gojo looks like he’s been hollowed out.
You see it. The tremble in his fingers. The way his mouth opens and shuts, like he wants to speak but can’t breathe through the guilt.
You step back.
“Forget it,” you whisper. “I want a divorce—"
“Don’t.”
His voice is quiet. Desperate.
“Don’t finish that sentence. P-please.”
“Why not?” you whisper. “Give me one reason not to walk away when you’ve already left me in every way that matters.”
He shakes his head. “You think I left you? [Name]… I was trying to building a life for us.”
You stare at him, your heart in your throat.
“Shio’s not a mistress. She’s not even close to being my type—unless I suddenly go for women in their late eighties.”
You blink.
“She’s my great-aunt. She’s half-senile with hands like prunes! I—that day, when we visited the compound, she asked me why we didn’t have any kids yet. I told her… I told her I wanted them.”
His voice falters. “So badly. With you. Only with you.”
You suck in a breath.
He steps closer, eyes pleading.
“I know you’re scared of pregnancy. I know what it means for sorcerers. I’ve seen it, [Name]. So I never brought it up. I didn’t want to pressure you, not ever.”
His hands hover near yours. Not touching. Not yet.
“Shio said she’d help. That she’d cook meals, ones she thought would bring good fortune or increase fertility. The traditional route. And I let her. Because I thought… if I just waited long enough, maybe you’d bring it up on your own.”
You’re frozen. Tears sting your eyes, unspilled.
“I never wanted to lie to you. I just—”
He lets out a broken laugh. “I was embarrassed that I wanted a dozen tiny monsters who’d take after you. That I wanted to hold your hand through every contraction and cry harder than the baby when it was born.”
You collapse into his chest, allowing your tears to stain his uniform.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“Takes one to marry one.”
“You should’ve just told me.”
“I know.” He holds you up, cupping your face gently now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I was trying to protect you from everything. I—I never realized I was hurting you in the process.”
You close your eyes and press your forehead against his.
“I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much it hurts. It always has.”
You breathe him in, your voice shaky.
“So… you want kids?”
“Only if they’re bossy and brilliant like their mother. Every night, I imagine that they’d know at least ten ways to manipulate me by the age of five.”
You snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”
“That sounds like heaven.”
He kisses you again, except it is long and slow this time. It’s unlike the desperation from earlier, rather, apologetic and full of everything he’s been too much of a coward to say in the past few months.
When you part, breathless, your voice is softer.
“We’ll take it slow. I’m not saying yes to ten—”
“Nine.”
“—but we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
His grin is smug, but his eyes are misty.
“You mean I’m finally allowed to touch you again without you pretending I’m a curse?”
You smile. “I’ll think about it.”
“Can I bribe the jury?”
“With what?”
“My undying love. And, I’ll do the dishes for a month.”
synopsis: Campus golden boy. Physics prodigy. Gojo Satoru. Your constant Tuesday night walk partner. You know all his smiles, his laugh, and the way his knee brushes yours under the library table. You also know you're in love with him. Senior year shatters the routine as Satoru's world expands into a future that doesn't seem to have a place for you.
tags: college/university AU, physics major!gojo, fratjo, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, pining, jealousy, soft gojo satoru
word count: 10.4k
creds: dividers from cafekitsune, gojo art from pinterest i can't find the op (T_T)
You can’t decide if you should thank fate or curse it for the friends you ended up with in university.
It was early in freshman year, and you had seen the post on the university’s blog page where prospective freshmen can advertise their personalities to find friends. The post was simple, charming, and sheepish.
Gojo Satoru: hi im Satoru! incoming physics major because i like questions that dont have easy answers＼(≧▽≦)／im also planning to join some clubs maybe even a frat? i am open to ideas or warnings lol
i make pretty decent pancakes, eat an alarming amount of sugar, and have been told my laugh is too loud for quiet places. message me if u also have no idea what you’re doing but kinda excited to not know it together. or if u know where the library is lol ʕ •̀ ω •́ ʔ
You’d read it, a strange flutter in your stomach, an audible giggle leaving your lips. You already know who he was, well, not personally, but by campus osmosis. Satoru was the guy from welcome week orientation who seemed to know everyone already. The one with the boyish smile, already rumored to have secured a bid for a top fraternity. He was exactly the kind of boy who your high school self had carefully avoided, the kind who existed in a bright, noisy world that felt miles away from your quiet library corner.
You closed the tab. You hadn’t posted your own ‘looking for friends’ ad, the thought of even drafting a post made your palms sweat. You resolved to find your people the old-fashioned way, the way you wanted: through proximity. Your person, it turned out, was your randomly assigned roommate, Shoko, also a pre-med biology major. The day after you read his post, Shoko bounded into your shared dorm room, her lab coat still on and her eyes sparkling. Although you have only known her for a week or two, you knew that sparkle came with a scheme.
“Get up. Now. We’re getting dinner off-campus.” You looked up from your biology textbook, completing the reading you both had to due before tomorrow’s lecture.
“Since when do we have money for off-campus dinners?” You raised your brows.
“Since I made a new friend in my History class who’s terrible at knowing monumental dates but has a car and a generous wallet.” She was already rifling through your closet, tossing a sweater at you.” “He’s bringing his roommate. It’ll be fun. A double date, but like, a friend one. No pressure.”
You groaned, but a part of you was relieved. You didn’t have it in you to finish the remaining pages of the reading, and you already felt behind with making friends, feeling as if everyone had already settled into their respective friend groups. An hour later, you were squished into the backseat of a slightly beat-up sedan, Shoko in the passenger seat, chatting animatedly with the driver, Suguru.
“This is my roommate,” Shoko introduced you, gesturing over her shoulder to you as you stared out the window, trying to calm your social jitters.
“Nice to meet you!” Suguru said, catching your eye in the rearview mirror with a kind smile while a strand of long, dark black hair fell from his half-up bun.
“And his roommate,” Shoko continued, motioning her head to the right, you followed the direction, finally glancing at the boy beside you. You froze. Leaning against the window, scrolling on his phone with a faint, familiar smile on his face, was him. The boy from the blog post. Satoru.
You can’t decide if you should thank fate for its precision or curse it for its cruel sense of humor. One day, you’re anonymously admiring a witty blog post from a boy in a bright, distant orbit. The next day, that same boy is sitting across from you in a sticky diner booth, stealing your fries and dissecting the campus shuttle schedule with a focus usually reserved for quantum physics.
Fate hadn’t just introduced you. It had embedded him, neatly and irrevocably, into the very center of your university life. It felt less like a meeting and more like an ambush, a charming, grinning ambush that left you equal parts thrilled and completely disarmed.
But your feelings about fate didn’t matter. Not when the four of you have been tied to the hip since that night during Freshman year. Now you four have meals at the diner every other week and ritual Tuesday night library study sessions. You always arrived first and claimed the same square table tucked in the back corner of the fourth floor, the one with the view of the old oak tree. Satoru would arrive exactly seven minutes later, every time, smelling like the crisp night air and faintly of his frat’s communal fabric softener. He’d slide into the chair across you with a soft, weary sigh. He pulls out his quantum problem sets, and without a word, his hand would dart out and pluck the blue highlighter–the one with Cinnammoroll printed on it– from your pencil case. For the next two hours, the world narrowed to the pool of lamplight on your shared table. Shoko and Suguru would walk in together, having a debate about something obscure. It was warm, constant, and familiar. Home.
You never expected you’d fall into this routine, or even know Satoru as much as you do now in your senior year. Not as the fraternity social chair, but the quieter, more real version of him. To you, he wasn’t the guy everyone on campus seemed to know. He was just Satoru. Satoru, who chewed on the end of his pen when he was stuck on a thermodynamics problem, who muttered equations under his breath, and whose knee would inevitably brush against yours under the table.
You avoided thinking about these feelings you had for him. But you felt them, and you couldn’t avoid it. The chaos and comfort you felt in the way he’d slide his computer to you without a word, a silent request for your approval on an essay. Or when he brings you your boba order, just the way you like it, without you having to ask. The feeling was very much present in the lingering moments after Shoko and Suguru finally caved and left for the night, when the silence deepened, and the space between you two felt charged.
After an hour more of studying, you both finally step out of the stuffy atmosphere of the library and into the night. The campus is quieter, the path lit by old street lamps that cast long shadows.
He’s less animated now, his shoulders looser. You fall into casual conversation, he tells you about his professor who believes in him a little too much, and you tell him about your lab partner who can’t do a titration to save her life.
“Sometimes I think I picked physics because the rules make sense,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Forget the chaos, just give me an equation, you know?”
“Do the equations de-chaosify?” you ask. He glances at you, a soft, tired smile on his face, the warm yellow streetlight shining on his white hair, turning it golden. “Not even a little.”
He always walks to your door, telling you that since you and Shoko live in different apartments now, he doesn’t trust you walking alone, even though his frat house is quite literally on the opposite side of campus. You linger on the steps, the silence between you feeling heavier, sweeter than it did in the library.
You tried not to overthink what these walks meant. For your heart’s sake.
However, one particular night, after a hard organic chemistry exam, you’re shivering slightly in your thin sweater. “You’re cold,” he says, and without thinking, he shrugs off his zip-up and hands it to you. It smells like him– fabric softener, his cologne, and something uniquely Satoru–and is several sizes too big.
“Thanks,” you murmur, slipping it on, trying to ignore the fact that your heart is beating so hard that it might bruise your ribs. So much for not overthinking. The hoodie drowns you, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips.
He looks at you, his eyes soft in the dim streetlights. “Cute,” he whispers so quietly you almost missed it. Then he clears his throat.
As you approach your apartment porch, he smiles, “Get some sleep, yeah?” while softly rubbing the top of your head. You tuck the memory of this particular Tuesday night, the memory of Satoru- the version of Satoru meant only for you- into the back of your mind, a bittersweet souvenir and reminder for the day this all inevitably ends and he’s no longer yours to accompany you in your walks home. And you let yourself overthink–just this once–that these walks meant as much to him as they do to you.
You and Satoru, to everyone else, including Shoko and Suguru, are just two parts of a four person friend group that started in a diner. But in the quiet heart of Tuesday nights during your walk home, you were a universe of two, orbiting a shared, unspoken center of gravity. It was the most comfortable friendship you’d ever had, and the most terrifying, because you knew, deep in your bones, that you were standing on a fragile line. And you had no idea if you wanted the ground to stay still, or to finally, catastrophically, give way.
You just hadn’t realized that the first tremor-the first subtle, seismic shift-would feel so mundane.
It was another Tuesday. You were in your usual seat, the Cinnamoroll highlighter placed deliberately on your side of the table. It was nearing 7 minutes after 7pm, but this time no Satoru in sight.
At 7:22pm, your phone lit up on the wooden surface, a notification in your 4 person groupchat.
toru (≧ x ≦) : shit guys sorry. got roped into a senior welcome thing at the house with some of the sorority chairs. can’t escape. (｡•́︿•̀｡) rain check?
You stared at the message. Rain check? For Tuesday? Tuesday wasn’t something you checked for. Tuesday was a law of nature. It was natural. Thankfully, though other variables followed the equation like usual, Shoko and Suguru arrived together a few minutes later, dropping their bags with their usual synchronized chaos. Shoko reads the message over as you flip your phone towards her.
“Ugh. Figures,” she said, pulling out her genetics textbook. “Those senior mixers are a drag, but he's social chair.”
“More quiet for us,” Suguru grinned, already booting up his laptop.
But it wasn’t quieter. It was just empty. The table felt unbalanced as you stared at the Satoru-less view in front of you, expecting to see the familiar slope of his broad shoulders, the way he’d run a hand through his white hair, the shine in his blue eyes. Your stomach fluttered with an uncomfortable feeling, cursing yourself for always finding comfort in the routine, or in him.
However, the feeling flew away when at 7:07pm the next Tuesday, Satoru arrives, smelling of his frat’s communal fabric softener and an apology. “I owe you boba,” he said softly, sliding into his chair. For a split second, everything snapped back into place, Shoko and Suguru walking in a few minutes later.
But at 7:27pm, 20 minutes later, his phone buzzed 4 times. He glanced at it, and a small, unfamiliar smile touched his lips, polite and warm. You knew all his smiles. This one wasn’t for you, or for Shoko and Suguru’s dumb jokes.
“Who’s that?” Suguru asked without looking up, typing rapidly on his keyboard.
“Hmm? Oh, just someone from the pre-law society. She’s sending me a link to an alumni panel.” He tapped out a quick reply. ‘thanks suzy!’, the text bubble read as he showed everyone at the table.
Suzy. The name landed in the quiet space between you all. “Since when are you pre-law?” Shoko asked, intrigued.
“I’m not. But the guy she’s connecting me with works at an aerospace thing. It’s for my grad school apps.” He said it so casually, as if ‘grad school apps’ and ‘Suzy’ were established stars in your group’s solar system.
The following Tuesday, he was physically present, but his focus was splintered. He was reviewing a shared document with his Physics400 partner, Kimie, her comments glowing in a neat, precise blue on his screen. He had shown you them to make sure his tone was perfect. He’d frown, type a response, a silent conversation happening in a world you couldn't access.
“Can you pass the highlighter?” you asked, breaking a long silence, gesturing to the Cinnamoroll highlighter beside his laptop. You had other highlighters with other Sanrio characters on them that you could use, but you didn’t let that stop you from asking him for the blue highlighter back.
He didn’t hear you, eyes glued to a complex feedback loop from Kimie. “Earth to Satoru,” Suguru said, snapping his fingers.
He blinked, looking up. “Sorry. What?”
“The highlighter,” you repeated, your voice softer than you intended.
“Right, sorry.” He handed it to you, his gaze already drifting back to the screen. “Just need to settle this one thing with Kimie about the simulation parameters.”
Shoko and Suguru exchanged a look, then went back to their work, accepting this new version of the night. But you couldn’t. The shared, focused silence you and Satoru built was now perforated by the silent presence of Kimie, Suzy, and the ghost of a Miya, the sorority philantrophist chair he’d mentioned in passing from the senior welcome social.
He was still your best friend, sure. But he was also becoming a person with a foot in another world, a world of future plans, professional networks, and partnerships that were practical instead of comfortable and goofy Tuesday study sessions. And you were left behind in the old world, holding a Cinnamoroll highlighter and wondering if you were now just a part of his past, while all these new names were building his future.
You shake the thought away. It’s senior year, of course, he would be busy planning post grad plans. You had no reason to be sad or angry. Your daily walk home still happened after tonight’s study session, but it felt as if you were losing the pull you had on him, and that idea made you sad.
It’s a Thursday, not a Tuesday. But you’re still at your corner in the library, drowning in lab reports, stressed, and sweet treat-deprived.
Your phone buzzes.
toru (≧ x ≦): basement of the library. now. emergency!!!!
Your heart lurches. You scramble to collect all your pens, feeling the side eye of other burnt-out college students as your supplies clatter. You finally collect all your belongings, scrambling to walk down the stairs of the library and into the basement.
To your surprise, you find him leaning against a wall next to the library cafe, holding two boba teas. He grins, holding one out to you. “Emergency treat?”
“You scared me,” you say, furrowing your brows, but you can’t stop your hand from taking the drink. It’s your usual order, your favorite flavor, and toppings. He remembers.
“I was in a seminar in the building and saw the place was still open,” he says, nodding toward the cafe’s kiosk. “Thought you could use it,” he shrugs, like it was just an afterthought.
“How did you know I was in here?”
He taps his temple, “I’m psychic.” Then he laughs at your expression. “Shoko may have mentioned it. Also, it’s Thursday, you’re always at the library on Thursdays.” The fact that he knows your schedule this semester, that he sought you out on a non-Tuesday just to bring you a drink, makes something warm and dangerous bloom in your chest. It makes you feel important.
“Want to sit?” he asks, gesturing to a small table. “I can pretend to understand your biology notes for a few minutes.” You sit. Your shoulders touch. He doesn’t move away. Maybe your pull didn’t loosen at all.
Shoko had insisted on the full transformation. “We are going to look so good it’ll be a public service,” she declared, wielding a straightener like a weapon. By the time you, Shoko, and Suguru piled into an Uber, you barely recognized yourself in the window’s reflection.
Satoru’s frat was a throbbing beast of bass and colored lights. It was a post-midterm celebration, but also to build traction for their upcoming fundraiser. Luckily, with Satoru’s reputation and the number of times the last few years he had begged you three to attend every party, you were allowed to enter the frat pretty quickly. Although this wasn’t your first time at one of his frat’s parties, you still stuck close to Shoko and Suguru, not feeling fully comfortable in this type of setting.
You were barely halfway into the drink Shoko had mixed up for you before you saw him. Satoru was across the room, near the makeshift DJ setup. He looked devastatingly at home, laughing with a group of frat brothers. He was in his element, the flashing LED lights colored his hair, and an easy smile on his lips.
Then his eyes found yours.
The trajectory of his gaze was a physical thing; it cut through the crowd, the noise, the bright lights. His smile, which had been general and bright, shifted– it softened, deepened, became specific– for you. He excused himself from his group and started making his way over. Every step he took made your heart stutter into a frantic rhythm.
“Hey,” he said, arriving in your orbit. His eyes swept over you, giving you the same look he does right when he drops you off on your porch. “You look- You look good.”
“O-Oh. Thanks, Shoko insisted on the full beat,” you managed to let out a giggle, ignoring the lump in your throat. He stayed by your side, well, beside all three of you. He introduced you three to a stream of people, the ones working with him for Greek life activities that you still didn’t understand. He brought you water when he saw you eyeing the too-sweet punch– that he obviously had a say in. During a fast song, he grabbed your hand and Shoko’s, pulling you both into the dancing crowd, his laugh loud and free. For a perfect, suspended hour, you weren’t on the sidelines. You were at the center, with him. The universe of two had expanded to fill the entire, pounding room.
Then, a guy from your biochemistry class, Koji, appeared at your elbow. “Hey! Fancy seeing you here,” he yelled over the music. He was nice, smart, and easy to talk to. You fell into a conversation about the past midterm, a safe, familiar topic. You shifted your eyes around, wondering where Satoru went, but you shrugged the thought away- it was his frat party, and he was social chair, of course, he would be busy.
You were laughing at one of Koji’s jokes when you saw Satoru across the room. You looked over. His gaze on Miya, the sorority philanthropy chair, her hand on his forearm, pulling him down to hear her over the loud music. He leaned in, his lips pulling into a smile he had never before saved for you. The warmth of the moment turned to ash in your mouth. Koji was still talking, but you couldn’t hear him. You just watched as Satoru and Miya walked toward the quiet hall leading to a different room, her still talking, him nodding. They looked Capable. Connected. Perfect.
Shoko materialized, looping her arm through yours. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” you said, forcing a smile. “Just… loud.” You fell into light conversations with her, Suguru, and Koji. You spent the rest of the party anchored to them, the glittering sense of belonging completely gone. You’d gotten a taste of the spotlight at Satoru’s side, only to watch him walk out of it with someone else, for a reason that mattered more than dancing. You hated yourself for being greedy, for wanting more of his attention, for wanting more of him in general.
When you, Shoko, and Suguru finally left, you felt the cold night air hit your skin, you didn’t look back at the house, and you walked away without saying goodbye to Satoru. He was far too busy talking and dancing with Miya in a way that made your stomach twist so bad that you couldn’t blame it on the alcohol. The memory of his smile, the feeling of his hand in yours on the dance floor, you filed it away carefully, right next to his zip-up and the quiet walks home. Another bittersweet souvenir for the museum of things that could have been, if only your gravity had been a little stronger to hold him.
After the party, a strange, numb quiet settled over your friendship with Satoru. It wasn’t a fight. It was the opposite. The Tuesday sessions continued, but they felt like a relic you were both dutifully preserving just cause it had been a routine. He was there, but he wasn’t your Satoru. He stopped grabbing the Cinnamoroll highlighter, he didn’t slide his laptop over for your opinion, and when his knee brushed yours under the table, he moved it away.
You hated it. It felt like a black hole had opened up in the space between your usual chairs, swallowing all the easy words and quiet laughter.
Shoko noticed. “What’s going on with you and Satoru?” she asked one day, sliding a matcha latte across the café table to you. Her voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual teasing edge. “Did you finally have a fight about which element is the best?”
You stirred your drink, watching the green swirl. “We’re fine.” You shrugged, the movement feeling stiff and unconvincing.
“Bullshit.” Shoko didn’t blink. “When I brought up the party, you changed the subject. And last Tuesday, the silence between you was making Suguru, and I want to rip our heads out.” She leaned forward, her eyes missing nothing. “You’re my best friend. And he’s one of my best friends. So talk.”
The directness was a relief and a terror. You swallowed hard, your gaze fixed on the table’s wood grain. “It’s nothing he’s doing wrong. It’s just… he’s moving. And I’m standing still. And I don’t know how to be in his life if I’m not moving with him.” Shoko was quiet for a long moment. “You know,” she said finally, her voice gentle, “Suguru mentioned that Satoru turned down a winter break trip with some of the brothers and the sororities. Said he already had plans.”
Your head snapped up. “He didn’t tell me that.”
“I know,” Shoko gave you a sad, knowing smile. “Because his ‘plans’ were probably just… being around. In case you were around and not going home again this break. He’s terrible at this, you know. The big feelings stuff. He’d rather solve a thousand quantum problems than admit one vulnerable thing.”
A lump formed in your throat. “He doesn’t need to admit anything. He’s building a whole future. I see it. It’s got other people in it. People who make sense there.”
“People like who? The sorority girls?” Shoko guessed, her eyebrow arched.
You nodded, the admission pulling another truth up with it, one you’d never said out loud. The words tumbled out, raw and quiet. “And I just don’t make sense there. In his future. I’m not a networking contact who knows aerospace people or a smart physics partner. I’m just… me. And I like him, Shoko. Like, like him. I have for a while. Since before that diner trip! And I’ve never said it because it was easier to just be his friend than to risk being nothing. But now I feel like I’m becoming nothing anyway, and I’m just confused. And sad. And really, really tired of pretending I’m not.”
There. It was out. Hanging in the café air between you, fragile and terrifying. Shoko didn’t look shocked. She didn’t gasp or lean in. She just looked at you, her expression a soft mix of affection and exasperation. She took a long, slow sip of her matcha.
“Oh, thank god,” she sighed, placing her cup down with a definitive click. “I was starting to think I’d have to hit you over the head with my textbook before you’d admit it.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re stupid,” she stated plainly, a grin finally breaking through. “Funny, brilliant, and my best friend. But so, so stupid. And so is he. You two have been doing this weird, painful mating dance for years. The rest of us were just waiting for the music to stop.”
“It’s not a dance,” you protested weakly, your face heating. “It’s just complicated.”
“It’s not complicated. He looks at you like you hung the moon in a sky he’s trying to map out. You look at him like he is the moon. You borrow his clothes, you have a shared custody agreement over a highlighter, and you have a standing weekly date you call ‘walking home together.’ The only thing complicated about it is how hard you’re both working to ignore it.”
Her words, so blunt and sure, carved through the confusion like a scalpel.
“But… the other girls. The future stuff.”
“Are you listening?” Shoko leaned forward. “He’s terrified of the future. So he’s doing what he knows: planning, connecting, solving. He’s putting up guardrails. But none of that means anything if the person he wants waiting for him on the other side doesn’t know she’s supposed to be there.”
You stared into your matcha, the whirlpool of green mirroring the chaos in your chest. “What if I get to the other side and he’s not there?”
Shoko’s smile turned gentle. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not looking. The future he’s scared of is a future without you in it. My professional diagnosis, as your friend and an observer of human nonsense, is that you two need to talk. Actually talk. Not in library whispers. Not over boba. Just talk.”
You did talk to him. Just not productively. Or in a way that helped your situation. At all.
The next Tuesday, you walked into the library and felt Satoru’s gaze lock onto you the second you rounded the corner. You were always first to the study sessions, but the constant changes between you two didn’t shock you anymore.
“Hey,” you said, sliding into your chair. Your voice sounded normal. Good.
“Hey.” His was tighter. He watched as you pulled out your notebook, a plain white one, not the one he’d doodled a terrible cartoon atom on last semester. “You, uh, you weren’t at your spot on Thursday.”
The observation was casual, but the edge in his voice wasn't. You looked up, meeting his eyes. They were searching yours, a faint line of tension between his brows.
“Oh. Yeah, Koji from my biochem section had a study group. We went to that new place by the engineering quad.” The name, Koji, landed between you like a physical object. Satoru’s jaw ticked. He leaned back in his chair, the casual posture at odds with the intensity in his eyes. “Koji. Right. He’s always at parties cycling through all the girls.”
“So? He’s just a guy in my class.” Your brows furrowed at the dig at Koji. You knew of Koji’s reputation, and you weren’t planning to build a deeper relationship with him anyway. However, you were confused as to why Satoru would have a problem with that in the first place.
“You’ve been hanging out with him a lot.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation, flat and cold. A spark of defensive anger flared in your chest. You gestured vaguely at his laptop, still glowing with what you assumed was a chat log with Kimie’s. “And you’ve been ‘hanging out’ with Kimie or Miya a lot. What’s the difference?”
“The difference,” he said, his voice low, “is that they’re for a purpose. It’s for my resume. For my applications. It’s work.”
The hypocrisy was so blatant that it stole your breath for a second. You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, right. Your work. Your very important, future-building work with all your new, very important friends. So what? Am I just supposed to sit here while you’re off ‘working’? You can build a new life, but I’m not allowed to make a new friend?”
“It’s not the same,” he insisted, his hands curling into loose fists on the table. “You’re… you’re…”
“I’m what, ‘Toru?” Your voice shook. “I’m just your friend. And friends make other friends. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all semester?” He stared at you, a storm of frustration and something else, something that looked an awful lot like hurt, swirling in his blue eyes. He looked at you like you were a problem he couldn’t solve, an equation that kept breaking.
He opened his mouth to speak just as Shoko and Suguru arrived, their usual noisy entrance shattering the charged silence. “Are we interrupting?” Suguru asked dryly, glancing between your heated faces.
“No,” you both said in unison, the old habit feeling like a mockery.
Satoru slammed his laptop shut, the sound sharp in the library. “Actually, I have to go. Kimie needs to sync before her seminar.” He didn’t look at you as he shoved his things into his bag.
“Of course,” you said quietly, staring down at your blank notebook page. “Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.” He paused for a fraction of a second, his shoulders rigid, he then walked away without another word.
Shoko slid into his still-warm seat, her eyes wide. “What the hell was that?” You just shook your head, the anger cooling into a sick, heavy dread. You’d wanted a reaction. You’d wanted him to see you, to feel the same sharp sting you’d been feeling for weeks. You’d gotten it. But the raw, jealous anger in his eyes hadn’t felt like a victory. It felt like watching the last intact piece of your friendship shatter on the floor. He could build his future with a dozen Kimie’s and Miya’s, but the second you tried to build something of your own, even just a simple friendship, he acted like you’d broken a rule he’d never written down.
The next day at the cafe, Shoko found you staring blankly at your biology textbook, the same page open for twenty minutes. “So. The nuclear explosion at the library. You're gonna tell me what that was, or am I supposed to keep watching this tragic silent movie?”
You closed the book with a soft thump. The fight with Satoru replayed in your head on a loop,his cold accusation, your defensive anger, the way he’d looked at you like you’d betrayed him.
“He got mad,” you said, your voice hollow. “Really mad. Because of Koji.” Shoko’s eyebrows shot up. “He got jealous?”
“No. Not jealous. Angry.” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “He said it wasn’t the same. That his stuff with Miya and Kimie was ‘for a purpose.’ That it was work. And I was just making a new friend for fun. Like I was breaking some unspoken rule.”
“The unspoken rule being that you wait for him forever while he gets his life in order?” Shoko said, her tone flat. “Something like that.” You let out a shaky breath. “And I wanted to scream. I wanted to say, ‘You don’t get to be the only one who moves on. You don’t get to build a future with other people and then get mad. But I didn’t.”
“Why not?” Shoko asked gently. “That sounds like the exact talk I told you to have.” A wave of pure, cold fear washed over you just thinking about it. “Because if I say that- if I really say it, then we’re talking about us. About what we are, and what we’re not, and what we feel. And once we start that conversation, we can’t go back. We can’t pretend we don’t know.”
You looked at her, desperate for her to understand. “Right now, we’re broken, but we’re broken in a way that could still be fixed if we’re both careful. If we just let time pass or something. But if I dare look him in the eye and say, ‘You hurt me, and I’m jealous, and I love you,’ there’s no fix for that, Shoko. I’m scared that he’ll look at me, realize what a mess I’ve been hiding, and just walk away for good. Because it’s easier than dealing with it, because he doesn’t like chaos.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’d rather live in this miserable, confusing middle where he’s still technically my best friend, than have a real, honest talk that ends with him not being in my life at all. At least it meant I still mattered enough to make him feel something yesterday.”
On Thursday, you were sitting at your usual spot at the square table. It had been a few weeks without the Tuesday ritual study sessions, but you accepted it as a stalemate. You knew you or Satoru would come around at some point, and balancing friendship problems with lab reports was not a good combination for your mental health.
You liked the alone time while studying, and you got your work done. You weren’t distracted by Satoru’s eyes or the whispered bickering between Shoko and Suguru. A shadow fell across your notebook. The one with the cartoon atom that Satoru drew. You looked up to see him, holding two boba teas. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink; his usual effortless posture was gone, replaced by a hesitant stiffness. He set one of the bubble teas down in front of you. Your order.
“Can I sit?” he asked, his voice quiet. The gesture was awkward; it was his designated seat, and he knew he didn’t have to ask.
You nodded, though, too surprised to speak. He slid into the chair, placing his own bubble tea down but not drinking it. He stared at the condensation that pooled around the plastic cup, gathering himself.
“I owe you an apology,” he began, his blue eyes still fixed on the cup. After a beat, he finally looks up, meeting your gaze. “What I said about Koji was out of line. I was being hypocritical and cruel. I had no right to police your friendship when I’ve been…” He gestured vaguely with his hands, a frustrated motion, “doing the same thing. Just labeling it as ‘work’.”
He took a breath, his shoulders tense. “The truth is, I was angry because I was scared. Seeing you move on, even just a little, with someone else, not me, not Shoko or Suguru. It made the future feel real in a way I didn’t like. A future where you’re fine without me. And I panicked. I tried to make it your fault instead of mine.” He shook his head, a bitter twist to his mouth, his eyes full of regret. I’m sorry.”
The raw honesty of his spiel stole the air from your lungs. This wasn’t a mumbled, casual ‘sorry’ or an apology sent over text. This was a dissection. He’d laid his own insecurities bare, naming the fear you’d both been circling.
“Thank you,” you said softly, your own voice thick. “For saying that.” He nodded, the movement sharp with relief. He picked up his boba just to have something to do with his hands. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted, the words quiet but clear. “Tuesdays are really quiet without everyone.”
A faint, sad smile touched your lips. “Yeah. They are.”
The silence that followed was different. Lighter. Cleared of the poisonous tension. He took a sip of his drink, then seemed to remember something. “Oh. Um.” He set the cup down again, shuffling to grab something from his backpack. A black envelope.
“There’s the gala next Friday, for the frat fundraiser. It’s the big finale I’ve been planning for.” He looked at you, his expression open, “I know things are weird right now, but it would mean a lot to me if you were there.”
“Shoko and Suguru are going, obviously. You wouldn’t be stuck with me or anything. I just… I’d like you to be there.” He added. It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a guilt trip. It was a request. An invitation was extended on the newly leveled ground of his apology.
You looked at him, your best friend, your Satoru, who had just shown up with boba and courage and named the ugly truth, and felt the first real thaw in weeks.
“Okay,” you said, and this time, you meant it. “I’ll be there.” A genuine, weary smile broke through on his face, transforming it. It was the first real Satoru-smile you’d seen in what felt like forever.
“Okay,” he echoed. “Good.”
Later that night, in the quiet of your room, you pulled the black envelope from your bag. It was heavy, expensive cardstock. You slid out the formal invitation, printed in crisp silver ink. And tucked behind it, on a simple scrap of graph paper—the kind he used for physics problem sets—was a note in his familiar, slanted handwriting.
Look, I know the chicken will be bad, and the speeches will be long. But there’s a chocolate fountain. And I’ll save you the seat next to mine. Because I want you there. - S
You stared at the note, at the little chocolate fountain doodled in the corner, at the vulnerable, hopeful simplicity of because I want you there. It wasn't a grand romantic gesture. It was a quiet, specific promise: a saved seat, a chocolate fountain, a request for you. And in its utter lack of pretense, it felt more honest than any bouquet of flowers ever could. He wasn't asking for a date. He was asking for you. And for the first time in a long time, you believed him.
The apology didn't fix everything. It couldn't erase the weeks of distance or the memory of his jealous anger. But it did something more important: it laid down a new foundation. You were no longer shouting across a trench; you were standing on the same side, quietly surveying the damage.
The group chat sprang back to life, filled with logistics about the Gala: rides, times, the strict "no jeans" dress code Suguru kept ignoring. Satoru texted you directly, just to confirm the car service he'd booked for the four of you. He said his frat provided it, but you think it was his own little idea.
toru (≧ x ≦): black car, 7pm. don't let suguru convince you to pre-game too hard
You: no promises. shoko’s already planning "efficiency cocktails"
toru (≧ x ≦): i'll bring backup water (҂ `з´ )
It was easy. Familiar. But laced with a new awareness.
Tuesday came and went without a study session, but it didn't ache like before. Instead, there was a shared, unspoken understanding that Friday was the new focal point. You saw him once across the quad, heading into the physics building with Kimie. He saw you. He didn't look away. He raised his hand in a small, casual wave; an acknowledgment, not a retreat. You waved back.
The night before the Gala, Shoko commandeered your apartment for a "fashion emergency."
"Okay, serious question," she said, holding up two dresses. "Are we aiming for 'I am a chic, independent woman who is completely unaffected by a certain six-foot-tall physics major frat boy,' or 'I am a vision who will subtly ruin his night because he can't stop looking at me'?"
You groaned, falling back onto your bed. "Is there a 'I just want to get through this without crying in the bathroom' option?"
Shoko tossed a pillow at you. "Not an option. You made up. He apologized. You're going to a fancy party. This is a rom-com, not a tragedy. Now pick." You chose a dress. It was simple, elegant. It made you feel like a version of yourself who belonged in a ballroom, not hiding in a library corner.
As you got ready on Friday, a strange calm settled over you. The dread was gone, replaced by quiet, steady nerves. This wasn't about confronting him anymore. It was about showing up. For your friend. For yourself.
When the black car pulled up, Satoru got out to hold the door. He was in a perfectly tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt complete with a black tie, his white hair stark against the dark fabric. He looked… older. Like the man he was becoming. His eyes found you, and for a second, he just looked. The same soft, stunned look from the night of the party, but softer now. Less surprised, more appreciative. His blue eyes, always so bright, were darker, more intense in the low light. They traveled over you, from the careful sweep of your hair, down the lines of the dress you’d chosen, and back up to meet your own wide-eyed stare. It wasn't a quick glance. It was a study. The stunned, arrested look melted into something deeper, warmer. It was pure, undiluted appreciation, mixed with a quiet awe that made your cheeks heat.
A slow, soft smile touched his lips, not his usual brilliant grin, but something private and sure. "Hey," he said, his voice warm.
"Hey yourself," you replied, sliding into the car where Shoko and Suguru were already bickering about music.
He got in beside you, his knee brushing against yours in the close quarters. This time, neither of you moved away. The car pulled into traffic, carrying you toward the glittering unknown of the Gala, the speeches, the crowded room. But for the first time, you weren't afraid of the quiet between you.
The Grand Hall was beautiful and stifling. The air hummed with low conversations and the clink of fine china. You moved through it beside Satoru, a silent satellite in his orbit. His hand was a constant, warm weight on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd, a steadying point of contact whenever an alumnus pulled him aside.
He was perfect. Charming, attentive, making every person he spoke to feel like the only one in the room. He introduced you, Shoko, and Satoru to other members of Greek life, incorporating their embarrassing moments at parties that he has collected over the last few years. But you could feel the tension thrumming through him, a silent vibration beneath the flawless surface.
Miya found him once, and they spoke in low, efficient tones for two minutes about the silent fundraiser totals before he smoothly extricated himself. You four sat through a painfully dry speech from the university’s chancellor, and you three clapped when Satoru gave his thank-you speech as social chair. And you all made a face after taking the first bite of the chicken on your plates.
When the clock neared midnight, Shoko yawned dramatically, leaning into Suguru. “I’m fading. You guys ready?”
Suguru nodded, checking his phone for an Uber. Satoru’s response was instant. “You two go ahead. We’ll catch another one.” Shoko and Suguru share a knowing look, their gazes flicking between you and Satoru.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Shoko kissed your cheek, Suguru clapped Satoru’s shoulder, and they melted into the crowd, leaving the ballroom.
The noise seemed to drop by several decibels. Satoru watched them go, then turned to you. The polite, social chair smile was gone. In its place was a deep, weary restlessness. “I don’t want to go home,” he said, his voice low.
“Okay,” you said.
He pulls out his phone to order an Uber as you both walk outside. The cold was a shock after the hall’s warmth. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders without a word. When you both entered the Uber, the silence wasn’t empty. It was thick with the ghost of your freshman year selves, two nervous kids in a beat-up sedan, heading to the diner for the first time. You were walking the same path, but everything was different. The city was quieter. You were older. The space between your shoulders, which had once been measured in feet of awkward uncertainty, was now a mere inch of charged, exhausted awareness.
The Uber pulls into the familiar parking lot, a landmark in the timeline of your friendship, the diner where everything started. A lump rose in your throat.
He pushed the door open. The same bell jingled. The same greasy, comforting smell of fried food and coffee hit you. It was like stepping through a portal. The place was nearly empty. The same worn booths, the same flickering fluorescent light over the pie case.
You slid in on one side of the booth, the vinyl cold through the fabric of your dress. He slid in across from you. For a moment, you just stared at each other under the harsh, unflattering light. It stripped away the gala’s glitter, the fraternity’s polish, the personas you’d both been wearing all night, all semester. Here, in this booth, you were just two people at the end of a very long night, at the end of a very long semester.
But even in this light, he looked more like himself than he had all night. The harsh fluorescence carved out the tired shadows under his eyes, the faint crease of worry between his brows that had become permanent this semester. The way his white hair fell messily across his forehead was without the remnants of his usual product. This wasn't the polished social chair or the charming guy from the blog. This was just Satoru. Exhausted. A little lost. And utterly, completely real. Seeing him like this, stripped bare of every defense, didn't make him look lesser. It made him look like the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
The waitress ambled over, coffee pot in hand. “The usual?” she asked, her voice a gravelly monotone. She didn’t wait for an answer, already filling two thick, white mugs. He nodded, his voice gone. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and a little lost, like he’d been running a marathon and had only just now been allowed to stop.
When she left, he wrapped his hands around the mug, the heat seeming to anchor him. He stared into the black liquid as if it held answers. “I keep thinking about that first night,” he said, his voice raspy. “You were so quiet. I talked enough for both of us because I was so terrified you’d think I was an idiot.” He looked up, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “You probably did.”
“A little,” you admitted, a small smile breaking through your own exhaustion. You looked at him, at the ghost of that impossibly confident boy from the blog post, now sitting across from you, looking utterly dismantled. “I wasn’t just quiet,” you said softly, “I was quiet because of the blog post.”
His brows drew together in confusion.
“I read it. Before I ever met you. The one you wrote freshman year.” You chanced a glance up at him. “The one looking for people who had no idea what they were doing but were kinda excited to not know it together.”
Recognition dawned, followed by a slow, dawning horror. “You-you saw that?”
“I saw it.” You let out a shaky breath. “And I thought you were… magnetic. And totally out of my league. You seemed like you already had your whole life figured out. I closed the tab and thought, ‘That’s the kind of person who belongs in a different universe than me.’” You gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “And then Shoko shoved me into a car with you the next day. And you stole my fries. And you were just… a person. My person.”
He was staring at you, completely still. “You never said anything.”
“It felt stupid. And then it just became… background noise. The origin story.” You met his eyes, the truth feeling both terrifying and freeing. “But that’s why I was so quiet that first night. I wasn’t judging you. I was intimidated.”
He let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, running a hand over his face. “God. That’s- that’s the most messed up part of all this.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. “That person in the blog post? He was a total fraud. I was so scared I was going to eat alone for four years. The ‘easy smile’ was pure panic. I wrote that post because I was terrified of being the lostest guy on campus.” He shook his head, a look of profound irony on his face. “And you… You are the one who actually knew what they were doing. I mean, you didn’t need to join a frat to pay for friends,” He chuckles.
The symmetry of it, his fear masquerading as confidence, your quietness mistaken for judgment, hung in the air between you, beautiful and heartbreaking. The confession hung in the air, rearranging everything you thought you knew. You had spent years building him up in your head; the golden boy, the one who navigated the bright, noisy world with effortless grace, the one who belonged everywhere. You’d wrapped your own insecurities around the idea of him, using his perceived perfection as proof of your own lack.
And here he was, under the diner’s unforgiving light, telling you it was all a lie. That the boy you’d been intimidated by, the one you’d compared yourself to, was just as scared and lonely as you’d been. That the person everyone on campus seemed to know and love was, in his own head. The realization hit you with a dizzying, tender clarity. You weren't the only one who had been living in a story. He’d been trapped in one, too. And for the first time, you saw him, not as the protagonist of your campus daydreams, not as your ‘Toru, but as a boy. A brilliant, charming, deeply insecure boy who had just wanted to find his way, and had accidentally found you instead.
“All this time,” he said, wonder in his voice. “I’ve been trying to live up to that blog post, or the people that I talked to at orientation. Trying to be the guy who knew who he was, for everyone. And the whole time- the person you read about was a fraud.”
“Not the fraud,” you corrected gently. “The real one. The one who showed up. The one who’s here.”
He looked at you for a long, long moment. Then, slowly, he reached his hand across the table, palm up. An invitation. Not a grab, not a demand. Just an open question. You looked at his hand, then back at his face. You placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours, warm and sure. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The silence that settled between you wasn't the tense, perforated silence of the last few months. It was the old silence. The good one. The quiet of two people who finally, finally, see each other clearly.
The silence between you was no longer a chasm to be crossed, but a comfortable, shared space. His blazer was still around your shoulders, and this time, his hand found yours, fingers lacing together as naturally as breathing. When you reached your apartment steps, you both stopped. The yellow porch light buzzed softly overhead, painting everything in a familiar, warm glow.
He turned to face you, not letting go of your hand. The confident, weary, real version of him stood under the light, his white hair almost gold in its glow.
“I have to tell you something,” he said, his voice low and serious. “And I need to say it here. Before I lose my nerve.” You nodded, your heart beginning a slow, heavy beat in your chest.
This was the part where the walks always ended. But tonight, it felt like a beginning.
He took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. “When I was writing that stupid blog post, I was trying to project someone who could handle the future even though he didn’t know what future he wanted. Someone who wasn’t afraid.” He gave a small, self-conscious shake of his head. “And this whole semester, I’ve been trying to become that guy, to search for what I want. For me, for the fraternity, for Shoko and Suguru, for you.”
His thumb stroked the back of your hand. “But the truth is, the only time I’ve ever felt like I was actually working towards what I want is when I’m with you. Not when I’m connecting with alums, not when I’m working on physics projects or even social events. I know what I want when I’m on the walk home. In the library. Even sitting in silence at that sticky diner booth… all with you.”
He stepped closer, closing the small distance between you. His free hand came up, cupping your cheek. His touch was tender, reverent.
“I’m not scared of the future anymore,” he whispered, his blue eyes holding yours with an intensity that stole your breath. “Not when you’re in it. I’m scared of a future that doesn’t have you in it. Not as my study buddy. Not as my plus-one.” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a raw, vulnerable rasp. “As mine. In every way. I am so deeply, stupidly, completely in love with you. I think I have been since I explained the campus shuttle schedule to you and you didn’t laugh at how lost I was.”
Tears pricked your eyes. This wasn’t a grand, polished confession. It was a quiet, desperate truth, offered up on your doorstep under a buzzing light. “All those other people, they were just me trying to build a life impressive enough that maybe, someday, I’d feel worthy of a future. With you.” He shook his head. “But I don’t want a life that impresses you. I just want a life with you. Even if we both really don’t know what we’re doing. But we’re not knowing- together.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “You’re my future,” he murmured, the words a soft vow in the quiet night. “And I don’t ever want to have anything different.” You brought your hand up to cover where his rested against your cheek. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers.
“You don’t have to,” you whispered, your own voice thick with emotion. “You’re my future too.” He let out a shaky breath, half a sob, half a laugh of pure relief. Then he leaned in, and finally, after years of almosts and misunderstandings and quiet walks, he kissed you.
It wasn’t dramatic or desperate. It was soft, and sure, and tasted like the coffee at the diner, and hope and uniquely ‘Toru. It was the answer to a question you’d both been too afraid to ask. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours again, both of you breathing each other’s air.
“Okay,” he whispered, a real, bright smile finally breaking through. You smiled back, your heart so full you thought it might burst. “Okay.”
He kissed you once more, sweet and quick. “Get some sleep,” he said, his voice warm. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he ruffles your hair like it’s a calm routine on a Tuesday night after the library.
He turned to leave, but you caught his hand. “’Toru?” He looked back.
“You don’t need an equation for this, for us,” you whispered, the truth of it settling deep in your bones. “The answer was always just- yes.” The smile he gave you was the most beautiful, unguarded thing you’d ever seen, full of a joy so pure it stole your breath. You stood on your porch long after he’d disappeared from view, wrapped in the warmth of his jacket and the quiet, certain hum of a universe finally, perfectly, aligned.
The rest of the semester didn’t feel like a dramatic new chapter. It felt like slipping into a favorite, well-worn sweater you’d forgotten you owned. The change was in the small, quiet details. The small square table in the library had resumed hosting Tuesday nights, but now, when Satoru’s knee brushed yours under the table, he’d let it stay, a warm line of contact. When he reached for the Cinnamoroll highlighter, he’d press a quick kiss to your temple first. Shoko would roll her eyes and kick Suguru under the table, a silent told you so.
Finals week was a blur of stress, but it was shared stress. You camped out in his frat’s common space, surrounded by empty bubble tea cups and your color-coded notes. He’d slump over his physics textbook, groaning about thermodynamics, and you’d wordlessly slide a bag of his favorite gummies across the table. There was no fanfare. It was just the seamless, practical language of care you both always spoke, now underscored with a new, tender ease.
The banter with the four of you shifted, becoming warmer, full of knowing smiles. Shoko, over pizza: “So, Satoru, need Kimie to double-check those problem sets?”
Satoru, without looking up from where he was stealing a pepperoni from your slice: “Nah, I’ve got all the approval I need right here.” He’d nod at you.
Suguru would grin. “Disgusting. I love it.”
He became unapologetically casual about you. If someone from his class or frat asked him to grab a meal to study, he’d say, “Can’t, already promised my girlfriend I’d quiz her on cellular respiration.” He’d mention your name in meetings, not as a strategic partner, but as his person. “My girlfriend mentioned this neighborhood has good transit,” or “I’ll have to ask my girlfriend, she’s better at spotting errors in the data.” The other girls faded into the background, not with drama, but with simple, quiet obsolescence.
Winter break arrived, emptying the campus. Shoko and Suguru left to visit family, leaving a quiet, snowy world behind. Your break was just Satoru. It was lazy mornings in your apartment, making pancakes that were only slightly better than “pretty decent.” It was marathon movie sessions on his frat house couch, the common room deserted and silent around you both. It was wandering through the snowy, empty quad at midnight, sharing a single pair of gloves, your linked hands tucked into his coat pocket.
One afternoon, tangled together on your couch under a blanket, a physics textbook abandoned on the floor, he traced idle patterns on your arm. “You know,” he said, his voice sleepy and content, “I think I finally solved it.”
“Solved what?” you mumbled into his shoulder.
“The problem of de-chaosifying.” He shifted to look at you, his blue eyes soft. “It’s just you! You’re the constant. The one that balances the whole thing out.”
You smiled. “That’s terrible science. You can’t just make a person a constant.”
He grinned, that old, boyish, effortless grin that was now yours alone to see every day. “Watch me.” He kissed you then, slow and sweet, in the quiet afternoon light. And in that moment, the future didn’t feel like an unknown or a mess of events to find connections. It just felt like this: the warmth of his lips, the smell of his fabric softener, the sound of his laugh, the quiet certainty that no matter what came next, you’d face it the same way: together, a little chaotic, and completely, irrevocably home.
The blog post was right, in the end. Not just about the part that mattered, but about the details, too. The pancakes are, in fact, excellent, fluffy, golden, and his share is always served with a truly staggering amount of maple syrup. The sugar tolerance remains clinically concerning. And the library? He still gets lost if he has to go anywhere besides your fourth-floor corner. But the rest of it, the hopeful, sheepish heart of it, turned out to be the truest thing he had ever written and you had ever read.
I like questions that don’t have easy answers. It was there in the terrifying, wonderful chaos of senior year, in the silent fractures and the clumsy, honest repairs. It was there in the unspoken question that hung between you on every walk home, in every shared glance over a study date. Message me if you also have no idea what you’re doing but kinda excited to not know it together.
Even though you never did message him. Fate, in its messy, perfect way, shoved him into the backseat of Suguru’s car instead. And you figured it out. Not all of it, not the post-grad addresses, or the long-term career paths, or how to survive his idea of a “balanced” breakfast (which is just pancakes with extra sprinkles). But you figured out the answer to the only question that ever truly needed one.
You look at him now, asleep on your couch, his physics textbook abandoned on the floor. The future is still a vast, unmapped equation, a chaotic problem with no easy, single solution. But he knows the constant. He’s always known. You reach over and gently slide strands of his hair away from his eyes. He stirs, blinking sleepily at you. “Hey you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and sugar crash.
“Hey,” you whisper back, thumb brushing away the chocolate.
A slow, syrupy-sweet smile spreads across his face, the one that’s just for you, the one that holds all the not-knowing, and all the sheer, giddy excitement for it. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, as if reading your mind. It’s not a promise of solutions. It’s a promise of the company. Of shared bubble tea and stolen fries and Tuesday nights that never really end.
You smile, your heart full and quiet. “Together.”
He nods, his eyes already closing again, his hand finding yours, his fingers sticky from the gummies he’d been eating before he dozed off. “Yeah. Together.” And just like that, the question with no easy answer becomes the only answer you’ll ever need, a shared life that promises to be perfectly, chaotically, overwhelmingly sweet.
author's note: i haven't written in soooo long so bear with me (o_O)! i also wrote this sleep deprived and a nap in between but i hope u enjoy it regardless <3 let me know what u think!
God, every time I swear to myself that I won't read late, and every time I look at how much time I have left before my alarm goes off, I have this reaction:
why am i even studying for my degree when the possible new president of the philippines (bbm 🤮) doesn't have one and faked his credentials?
why is an actor (robin padilla), who has zero experience in governance and is actually a sexist leading the senatorial race; when have candidates who are lawyers, human rights defenders, and over all more qualified than him can't seem to make it to the top 12 (e.g. chel diokno).
why are we over-looking people who has credentials and clean track records?? ang taas-taas ng standard natin sa ibang bagay pero sa mga politiko natin, hindi?
why are we ignoring leni robredo's contributions to our country especially during the pandemic? tha fact that she was being belittled by the duterte administration but was still able to achieve things says a lot about her leadership and skills.
why are we ignoring our history?
forgetting about the people who suffered under the marcos' regime, the wealth and resources that was taken from our country. we are still suffering because of what they did and we will suffer more under the hands of another marcos.
to anyone that would say "but they built infrastructures", are you really putting more value on infrastructures than the lives that were lost? the families who still suffer because of them? the victims who were never found? the people who were tortured, raped? do you not value their lives?
also, sa dami-dami nilang utang dapat lang may pinagawa sila but majority of the money they borrowed, they used it only for themselves.
foreign investors in our country are already pulling out. the stock market slowly going down. do you know why? because they don't trust marcos. our economy will suffer.
those you are rich enough will not experience the consequences of this elections. do you know who will? the poor, the marginalized, the people who we should have been thinking about when we voted.
to my fellow filipinos, do not stop protesting this election. this is for our future. we must stand our ground and fight for what is right and what we deserve. the comelec was biased and because of that we lost a bright future.
the entire world is watching as a dictator's son take power.
i am not crying because leni lost and bbm won. i am crying because our country lost and our people will suffer.
