pairing: racer!gojo x race engineer!reader
genre: formula 1 au, fluff
summary: he's insufferable (and wants to ask you out) and you're just trying to help him win the championship
notes: formula 1 has ruined my life. probably lots of inconsistencies but i sped wrote this. this turned out a lot longer than i initially planned. gn reader but mention of wearing a dress.
word count: ~3.2k
It's hot.
Your nose scrunches up in mild disgust as you feel a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, quickly making it's way towards the collar of your shirt before it's wiped away with a soft towel.
"Thanks," you mutter, looking up to meet a pair of bright blue eyes accompanied by a swoon-worthy smile. You huff lightly at the wink Gojo sends your way, turning away slightly to let your eyes roam over the rest of the paddock. Your lips turn up into a smile when you catch sight of Geto Suguru walking past your garage, and you return his greeting with a wave of your own before you hear Gojo grumble from his place beside you.
"Fraternizing with the enemy," he says, annoyance coating his words. He crosses his arms, unintentionally flexing and drawing your gaze towards his torso. His black fireproofs fit him snugly, and you find your mouth going dry as you try your best not to ogle him. You wonder if the temperature's gotten hotter. "That's not very nice of you."
"He's not the enemy," you protest, turning away to grab Gojo's helmet before thrusting it into his chest. "He's your best friend."
"Off track he is," Gojo agrees, holding onto the helmet. He pulls you in slightly, raising a brow when you don't immediately let it go. "But on track, he's my biggest competition. So you should be focused on me, not him. He's only a handful of points behind me."
"I'd hardly call one hundred points a handful," you mutter, turning to the side to grab a clipboard. "I think you're guaranteed to win the championship this year. Plus, Megumi's been doing great as well. Kid is in third place and it's only his second year! I think we've got the constructor's in the bag as well."
"All I need is a couple of bad races and next thing you know, Geto Suguru is the 2024 World Champion."
"Bad races," you snort, guiding Gojo towards his car and shoving his balaclava into his free hand. "Gojo Satoru does not have bad races. I don't know how you do it. I feel like you never drop below second place."
"It's all thanks to those genius strategies of yours," Gojo quips, watching in amusement as you shake your head in mild disbelief. There's a soft glint in his eye that you never seem to notice, and he finds himself wondering if maybe he should be a little more obvious about his feelings. (Everyone else on the grid and even the majority of the fans know he has the hots for you, so really, you're just the densest person to exist).
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," you say, waving him off as you start to make your way towards the rest of your team. "Pull your suit up and go get settled in."
Gojo watches you for a couple of minutes, leaning against a cement column with his arms crossed. He doesn't know how, but watching you organize the team and go over your notes has become his pre-race ritual. He's so lost in thought that he fails to notice the cameras pointed at him, broadcasting the lovestruck look on his face for everyone watching the race live to see.
"Ready to go?"
Gojo snaps out of his daze when his team principal, Yaga Masamichi, comes up to him. There's a faint smirk on his lips as he motions towards you, his sunglasses hiding the teasing glint that Gojo just knows is present. "Or is there something you need to urgently discuss with your beloved race engineer?"
Gojo rolls his eyes but chooses to remain silent before pulling his balaclava over his head. He's abnormally quiet as he settles into his seat, and when he catches sight of you giving him a thumbs up from afar, he decides to ask you out right after he beats Geto and wins first place.
"Radio check."
"I can hear you loud and clear," you respond, your voice carrying the same lilt that Gojo's does. He laughs quietly, settling into the second position after the formation lap. A glance to his left leaves him scowling when he sees Geto flip him off, and he sighs deeply before realizing that his radio is still on. "Something wrong?"
"Just Suguru being an asshole," he responds, his irritation fading away when you attempt to choke down your laughter.
"Radio is still on," you manage to spit out. "Mind your language."
"You can reprimand me later," Gojo says immediately, well aware that his radio has probably drawn the broadcaster's attention. "Over dinner, maybe? Just you and me in the candlelight at that little Italian place you like."
"Win the race and then maybe I'll consider it," you hum, amusement tinging your words as you shake your head. Gojo can't help but pout when he realizes that you're dismissing his words as a joke, and he merely huffs before turning his radio off and telling himself that he has to beat Geto to the first turn if he wants any chance of winning this race.
It isn't long until lights out, and Gojo finds himself reacting just quick enough to push past Geto's car and take the lead. He catches a glimpse of Megumi gaining on Yuuji, eventually passing him and allowing him to start catching up to Geto. Seeing that his biggest competition is now being distracted by his teammate, Gojo turns his focus back to the track, trying to put as much distance between him and Geto as possible. A few laps pass before he hears his radio crackle to life, and he hears you speak softly so as to not startle him with the suddenness of your words.
"You're seven seconds ahead of Geto," you say, earning a hum of acknowledgement in return. "You also currently have the fastest lap so please focus on managing your tyres."
"The tyres are fine," Gojo's voice trills through your headphones. You glance over at Yaga, grimacing when you see him shaking his head.
"There's been reports of graining," you respond nonchalantly. "Please take better care of your tyres unless you want us to pit you earlier than planned and switch to plan B."
"Alright, whatever," Gojo grumbles, going quiet for a few seconds before speaking once more. "Now let me focus on driving. The sooner I win, the sooner I can see your pretty face."
You roll your eyes at his words, raising an eyebrow in confusion when Yaga fails to muffle his amused chuckle.
"Something funny?" you ask, leaning back slightly to look at the older man. He holds his hands up in surrender, shaking his head as he turns his attention back to the monitor in front of him. You roll your eyes briefly before turning back to the pit wall as well, ignoring the words Yaga mutters under his breath about someone being oblivious.
The race progresses smoothly, and you find yourself feeling thankful that both you and Tsumiki (Megumi's race engineer) have had an uneventful race so far. It isn't until the race is about a third of the way through that you finally turn the radio on again, holding out a hand to stop Tsumiki from doing the same. "Gojo? We are boxing next lap, do you copy?"
"Copy," he responds immediately, his tone uncharacteristically serious for once. "Are we sticking with plan A?"
"Yes, you listened for once," you confirm, nodding your head even though he can't see you. "You have enough of a gap that we can comfortably put you on hards and have you back in the top spot in no time. The track is warm enough for those tyres."
"I always listen to you," Gojo replies without missing a beat. "Anything you say goes."
A deep sigh is all he gets in return, and he can't help the small chuckles that leaves his lips as he finishes his lap and prepares to pull into the pit lane. The stop is performed without a hitch, and you sigh in relief when Gojo emerges in third place, only a couple of seconds behind Megumi. You exchanged nods with Tsumiki, and you turn your attention back to the monitor in front of you as she radios Megumi to come in for his pit stop next.
"Okay, Gojo," you speak when you see Megumi head into the pit lane. "We're getting Megumi in and out as fast as possible. Geto is about ten seconds ahead of you, it's time to push."
"Perfect, but not as perfect as you" Gojo sings, swearing as he takes a turn a little too wide.
"Make that eleven seconds," you correct, biting your lips to hold back a laugh when Gojo swears again. "Go do your thing. I'll keep you updated."
There's no response as the radio clicks off, and you find yourself wincing when you realize that Megumi's slow pit stop has dropped him down to fifth place behind Yuuji's twin brother, Sukuna. You can hear hushed words coming from Tsumiki, and you can't help but feel bad for her predicament considering that Sukuna is the reason that Megumi hadn't been able to finish his race a couple of weeks ago after being pushed off track and into the barrier.
You watch with bated breath as the gap between Gojo and Geto begins to close, and you cross your fingers and hope that Shoko, his race engineer, will choose that moment to call him in for a tyre change. Your hopes go unanswered, and you're on the edge of your seat when Gojo managed to catch up to Geto after ten laps.
The air feels tense as you and Yaga watch Gojo get incredibly close to Geto, separating from him right as he turns a corner to avoid being hit. He's close to himâ too close, you thinkâ and you find yourself taking a deep breath to prevent yourself from turning on the radio to tell him to stop being so aggressive. A glance to your right tells you that Yaga isn't concerned with Gojo's driving, so you decide to let him be and see how the situation works out.
Your fingers grip onto your clipboard, knuckles going white as Gojo manages to swerve himself into the spot right next to Geto. You're slightly awestruck as you watch Geto and Gojo race wheel to wheel, their synchronicity impressive as they take tight corners and long straights in unison. There's a brief moment during which you wonder what it would be like if they were teammates, and you shake your head to clear the thoughts from your head. You fear that being teammates could damage their friendship beyond repair.
"There's been contact!" Yaga shouts, snapping you back to reality. You scramble for the radio button, a gasp leaving your lips as you watch Gojo swerve close to the edge of the track. You see Geto move in the opposite direction, and you quickly scan all the monitors before speaking to your racer.
"Gojo, there was contact but the car seems to be perfectly fine," you say calmly, watching as he straightens himself out and passes Geto. "That's P1."
"Great!" Gojo replies breathlessly, his voice sounding slightly strained. "How is Geto? Is he fine?"
You take a second to glance to the side, receiving a nod from Yaga before he motions to the pit lane. A soft call of your name has you turning your attention back to the radio, and you nod to yourself before updating Gojo. "He's fine, slight front wing damage so Shoko brought him in to get that changed along with his tyres. You're in the lead and we're waiting to see what the stewards will say about the incident. We think you might get a warning."
"Alright, better than a penalty," Gojo says, nodding to himself as he takes another turn. "Just a couple more laps and then I can take you out for that dinner."
"I said I'd think about it," you reply dryly, ignoring the giggle that leaves Tsumiki's lips. "Just bring it home. Geto had a bad pit stop so him, Yuuji, and Megumi are like fifteen seconds behind you."
"Whoa! Megumi made it past Sukuna? The kid's got balls."
"Language, Gojo," you remind him, sighing softly. "I'm turning the radio off now. Don't fuck this up."
"Language!" Gojo mocks, his laugh cutting out as you turn the radio off. You spend the last quarter of the race watching Megumi alongside Tsumiki, slightly impressed as Gojo manages to retain his now sixteen second lead. It isn't until Geto manages to break away from Yuuji and Megumi that you start to get nervous, and you watch as he begins to push the last few laps of the race.
"Gojo?" you ask, the radio crackling to life as you watch the monitors. "Just letting you know that Geto has managed to pull ahead of Yuuji and Megumi. I don't think he can catch up but there's still a couple of laps and he always manages to surprise us."
The silence you receive unsettles you, and you mutely turn the radio off and sit back to watch the end of the race. There's not much you can do but rely on Gojo to pull through, and you can vaguely hear Tsumiki talking to Megumi over the radio as he battles with Yuuji. You're on the edge of your seat when Geto manages to set the fastest lap in the race, and you begin to worry that he might be able to catch up to Gojo, only for your fears to be quelled when you realize that it is the final lap of the race.
"Last lap, Gojo!" you call out, turning the radio on in excitement. "Bring it home!"
"Last lap?" he asks, laughing breathlessly when he receives a hum from you. "How far behind me is the next car?"
"Fourteen seconds," you respond, bouncing your knee up and down in anticipation as he turns the last corner. The upcoming straight is the only thing between him and the finish line, and you feel your heart drop when Gojo's car suddenly starts to lose speed. "Gojo? Are you losing power?"
"Nope!" he chirps cheerily, humming softly to himself. "Are you feeling Italian? We can always choose a different restaurant for dinner?"
You do your best to ignore the anxiety creeping up your spine, watching as Gojo trails towards the finish line at what can only be described as a snail's pace compared to the speed of Formula 1 cars. Your eyes widen when you see the gap between him and Geto close, and you do your best to not let your nervousness creep into your tone. "Gojo, is really not the time to be talking about dinner."
"But you're going out to dinner with me right?" comes his immediate response.
"Gojo, please hurry up and cross the finish line."
"Not until you agree to go out with me!" he trills. Yaga shoots you a pleading glance.
"Gojo! Please! Just win the race!" you beg, swallowing harshly as your fingers begin to tap against your clipboard. You catch a glimpse of the amused look on Tsumiki's face, but you're unable to give her the scathing glare you usually would due to the fear you're beginning to feel.
"I can stay here all day," he replies smugly, giggling to himself as he speeds the car up just to slow down once more. "Well I can't, but I can stay here until I cross the finish line in P20."
"Oh my fucking god," you nearly shriek, watching as Geto takes the final turn and begins to head down the straight. "Yes! Yes, I'll go out with you, Gojo! Now please just cross the damn finish line, you dumbass!"
"My pleasure!" he teases, slamming his foot down on the accelerator just in time to cross the finish line a second before Geto. A loud whoop leaves Yaga's mouth as everyone in the pit wall relaxes, too relieved by Gojo's win to instantly realize that Megumi has managed to cross the finish line before Yuuji. The cheers surrounding you sound muted as you put your head in your hands, trying to calm your racing heart and fight off a smile as you realize that you now have a date for the night.
You barely process anything as Tsumiki drags you towards the now parked racecars, and you try your best to ignore Shoko's smug smirk as she whispers into Geto's ear. You think it's safe to assume that she's filling him in on what happened with Gojo during the last lap.
His loud laugh accompanies by a friendly wink thrown your way confirms your assumption.
You stand near the back of the crowd as Gojo stands on top of his car, holding his pointer finger up and posing for pictures before leaping back onto the ground and proceeding to congratulate Geto and Megumi for their performances. You manage to catch his eye after a few minutes, and you feel your face grow warm when a genuine smile spreads across his face, his eyes sparkling as he makes his way through the crowd towards you.
"Congrats on P1," you say quietly, trying your best to ignore the way he's looking at you.
"All thanks to your genius strategies," he quips, repeating his words from earlier. The smile on his face tells you that he wants to make a suggestive comment, and you do your best to redirect the conversation before he can.
"You should probably head into the cooldown room," you comment casually, tilting your head in the direction that Geto and Megumi had disappeared to. "Podium celebration is about to start. Don't forget to get weighed."
"Don't forget to wear that pretty, red dress I like," he responds confidently. A surprised laugh leaves your lips at his comment, and you can't help but shake your head fondly as you finally look up at him.
"You know, you didn't have to give me a heart attack during the race. You could've asked me out after the race like a normal person. I would've said yes," you confess, becoming hyperaware of all the attention the two of you seem to be drawing.
"What can I say?" Gojo responds, shrugging half-heartedly as he takes a few steps closer to you. He's close enough that you can see the varying shades of blue in his eyes, and you resist the urge to jokingly push him away when he loops an arm around your waist. "I tend to have a flair for the dramatic."
"Oh boy, don't I know it," you whisper, not giving him the chance to respond before you loop your arms around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. Both of you faintly register the whoops and cheers surrounding you, and you can't help but break apart from each other as laughter starts to bubble up in your throats.
It isn't until you fully pull away from him and usher him towards the cooldown room that you notice the sheer amount of cameras that have been pointed your way, focusing on the moment that has just been shared between the both of you. An embarrassed noise escapes your lips as you duck into your team's garage, giggling when you hear Yaga congratulating you loudly on your win. A smile spreads across your face as you settle into a seat to watch the podium ceremony, and you find yourself wondering if you and Gojo will manage to evade the press when you finally leave the track.
It's safe to say that the internet has a field day when the news of Gojo's end-of-race stunt and your spontaneous kiss breaks.
"satoru keeps an infinite amount of space between him and everyone else."
warnings: mentions of alcohol and drinking, slight angst, mentions of tampons (terrifying), suggestive comments, absurdly long, alternate universe characters
a/n: to all of my frequent readers--i have never claimed to be sane :)
*
in the broad spectrum of things, opening the door in nothing but your bathrobe and a ridiculously bright orange clay mask is not the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you.Â
oh no, puking on your first ever date at seventeen definitely takes the cake. finding your seventh-grade friends bent over a table reading your diary--in which you wrote many explicit things about them, not to mention, yourself--might be even worse. riding your bike into the pond by your house in front of all of your--much older, much cooler--neighbors, even. picking up your coffee in your favorite cafe and spilling it, which was not only devastating but humiliating because you managed to spill your mocha on every other drink waiting there (effectively banning you from returning) still haunts your dreams. even walking down the street and trying to pretend like you didn't just trip over air in front of every single one of your peers still lingers in your mind, waiting for a moment of peace before it attacks.
you're used to the feeling of dread in your stomach and the nights spent thinking about all of these moments, like a scrapbook in your mind--just there to make your skin itch.Â
but, it does get a little bit worse when you realize the man you've opened the door to is none other than a potential roommate; and when you remember that you forgot he was coming.Â
or when you have to pull your robe tighter around your abdomen just to make sure that you don't give this man a show before you even shake his hand.Â
"is this apartment 214?" he asks, looking right at you--and your legs, naturally--with a confused grin on his face, but grin nonetheless.Â
so immediately you slam the door.Â
you turn around, with wide eyes, face crackling from the movement, and check your phone frantically. yes, it is the 18th, and yes it is 11:32, which means he was supposed to be here over a half-an-hour ago.Â
and also you've just slammed the door in his--satoru gojo, the only person who's even bothered to respond to your ad about an available room--face.Â
oh, fuck.Â
so you groan, refraining from knocking your head against the door just in case he can still hear, and open it again. a little bit less this time.Â
"gojo?" you ask, voice rough and slightly irritated.Â
"the one and only. i'm pretty sure this is the right apartment," he says, and you don't fail to notice his tone of voice as he continues, "but if it's not, then fate must've brought us together."
you narrow your eyes, hoping that he doesn't notice the specks of dust that ebb from your skin. "you're late."Â
"and you're less than dressed."Â
"i thought you stood me up."Â
he snorts. "so you started an impromptu spa day? or was this supposed to be another perk of the apartment?"Â
you glower, opening the door a bit more just so he can see the fury in your eyes. "i don't think someone who doesn't even text to cancel has any right to judge my self-care practices."Â
"i didn't cancel. i'm here."Â
"you're late."Â
"so i've heard..." he drawls.Â
you blink at him, and he blinks back--or at least, you're assuming. because he's wearing sunglasses even though it's cloudy outside.Â
and he's aggressively taller than you. he might not even fit through the door.Â
you don't look away, waiting for him to break. which he does because you're well-practiced in men of his standard. "so, are you going to let me in?" he asks.Â
"are you going to apologize for being late?"Â
"i'm sorry that i'm late," he says, immediately, with an air of fake sincerity. "i got stuck in traffic. i would've called, but my phone died."Â
"really?"Â
the smile reappears, as if from magic. "no, but did it make you want to let me in?"Â
you glare even harder--which is tough, honestly--and begin to shut the door. until your plan is interrupted by a foot. "excuse you," you say, to this man, who you already hate. and his stupid chelsea boots.
"look, i'm sorry. i'm trying to ease the tension--because honestly i wasn't expecting to get an eyeful this early in the morning, and you seem uncomfortable--"Â
you slam the door against his foot again.Â
gojo doesn't even wince. "and also, you're, like, the only person with a room in the middle of october. and i... could really use a place to put my bed. so, can i look around, at least? i'll keep my eyes closed every time i'm facing your direction. i can even give you my rent money today if it works out."Â Â
something in his voice already implies that it will.Â
and, well. despite your very short robe and your very dry face mask, he is the only person who's even inquired about the room. and you desperately need a roommate; someone to clean up with, someone to make coffee for, someone to argue about toilet paper direction with, and, most importantly, someone who has money and can keep you from getting evicted from the only place you've lived since high school.Â
so you sigh. think about moving back home and suffering at the will of your parents.Â
it takes about three seconds to say, "will you wait out here while i get dressed?"Â
an eyebrow peeks out from behind the sunglasses, as white as his hair. "how long?"Â
"ten minutes. maybe twenty."Â
"do you have a chair?" he asks and moves his foot from the door.Â
and so you close it without answering and rush to your room to find something that's still clean.Â
there's nothing that you'll actually wear, but satoru gojo doesn't deserve your fresh appearance anyway. he can have day-old wrinkled jeans and a t-shirt you got when you were twelve.Â
as slow as humanly possible, you remove the face mask, trying to keep your hair out of the way, and think about putting on makeup--which you probably would have done, had you remembered he was even coming--but decide not to.Â
in reality, it only takes about seven minutes for you to look mostly presentable and get rid of the mugs you left cluttered around the dining room table.Â
but you wait an extra four, just to mess with him.Â
and then, eleven minutes later, you open the door again to the man leaning against the wall, playing what looks like candy crush on his phone.Â
you attempt a fake smile.Â
"hey," he says, with that same grin, "you have clothes."Â
you drop your face. "i will close this."Â
he isn't phased, just pockets his phone and leans in to look behind you at the entryway.Â
you roll your eyes, but open the door anyway, and usher him in. he rubs his feet against your welcome mat and toys with a keychain you have hanging from a coat rack, then looks to you, like he's waiting for a tour. which, you guess, he is.
"there's only two rooms, one bath. it's not very big, so if you need a lot of space..."Â
"i can manage," he says, and follows you as you walk into the kitchen. "did you decorate?"Â
"um... sort of."Â
"sort of?"Â
"i, uh, had a roommate before and he bought most of the decorations before i moved in. but i've added a few things. i'm not picky about aesthetics."Â
gojo hums. "why'd he move out?"Â
"we were together and he cheated on me," you say, flatly, as you have been for the past month and a half. "and then told me i couldn't use his netflix account anymore after i broke up with him."Â
gojo merely blinks and gestures toward the wall behind you. "so you didn't buy that dancing frog thing?"Â
you turn around, rolling your eyes. "no. i forgot that was there."Â
"okay, good, 'cause that's hideous."Â
you snort, but nod your head and walk down the hallway. gojo's footsteps follow you as you open the door to his potential bedroom. "it's the bigger of the two," you tell him, "but the bathroom is next to mine."Â
"did you change rooms?"Â
"what?"Â
"when your ex moved out. why take the smaller one?"Â
"oh," you rub a finger against the wall, rubbing dust off of it. "it was his room before we got together. and then we shared my current room. this was his man... den?" you try, shaking your head. "gaming room? slaughterhouse?"Â
gojo snorts.Â
"what?"Â
"oh, nothing," he says, airy like he's teasing you. "just curious."
you step back so he can walk around, check the carpets for stains, or look for drywall you could've hidden a body behind. but he doesn't, only watches you as you furrow your brows.Â
"you're not going to look around?"Â
"it looks like the pictures."Â
"yeah, but what if there are, like, bugs in the carpet? blood on the walls?"Â
"are there bugs in the carpet?" he asks. "blood on the walls?"Â
"not that i know of..."Â
"great, then it's perfect," he says, and steps out of the room again, whistling as he goes.Â
this time, you follow him, like he's the one giving the tour.Â
he pauses at the door a couple of feet down. "this your room?"Â
"yes."Â
"can i see?"Â
you scowl. "no. what do you mean 'it's perfect?'"
"i mean, i'd like to live here. it's nice. besides the frog."Â
you lean against the wall, trying to inspect him for any mechanical parts. is this a ploy? some joke? "you've barely been here five minutes."Â
"twenty with all the time i waited outside..."Â
"you can't just take one look and say 'yup, this is good.'"Â
"can't you?" he asks, challenging.Â
"no."Â
gojo's grin seems to widen, impossibly. "well, i'm not picky."Â
and somehow you doubt that.Â
but you don't get the chance to tell him that, or anything else, because he leans against the wall, still smiling at you, and asks, "so, are we roommates now?"Â
"you haven't even seen the lease. or heard about the house rules."Â
"house rules?" he repeats, dubiously. like you're making this up (which you are).Â
"yes."Â
"such as?"Â
"no..." you pause, 'cause this is a fickle argument. something about his stupid smile makes you want to argue with him. or maybe it's the hair. or the sunglasses. "murdering anyone in the apartment."Â
he laughs, unexpectedly, and sighs. "well, i guess i'll take my murdering someplace else."Â
"and... you can't leave any utensils in the sink."Â
"okay."Â
"and i'm not cleaning up any beard shavings, or sharing my tampons with you, or any people you have over."Â
"these are very extensive," he says, unserious. "anything else?"Â
"i..." your brows furrow. "no hogging the bathroom. hot water is fickle. and you have to recycle."Â
"it might be challenging, but we'll figure it out."Â
"these are not negotiable."Â
he only continues to smile at you.Â
eventually, after staring back with a frown that feels slightly permanent for more than a minute, you sigh again. at least you won't have to worry about moving out.Â
"fine. you still want to live here?"Â
"mmhmm."Â
"okay," and you stick your hand out for him to shake like this is a business transaction.Â
and it seems that you'll be seeing a lot more of that grin in the future.Â
*
living with satoru gojo is not... well, it's not hard. he's a normal enough roommate.Â
he pays his rent on time and doesn't touch the coffee you make in the morning most days--coughing when he does. he man spreads on the couch and watches movies way too loud and doesn't hang his bag up at the door, preferring to, instead, set it on the counter like a maniac. he whistles when he walks, and wears his stupid sunglasses 80% of the time, and grins at you when you're irritated, and, honestly, he's not really half bad.Â
he doesn't leave any huge messes for you to clean up (mostly because he doesn't use the kitchen or the dining table ever). he doesn't invite people over that keep you up all night (because he's gone most nights). and, actually, he keeps the bathroom quite clean (even if he takes up well more than half of the shower space with his weird face creams and deep conditioning treatments).Â
but satoru gojo is hard.Â
it's not what he does, but rather who he is. with his infuriating good looks--taking up most of the fair share for the rest of the population--and his subtle charm, which, if you didn't know who he was, might actually work on you, and his morning voice and his messy hair and just the way he lives.Â
like breathing is just what he's supposed to be doing. like he doesn't need to worry about a thing because nothing should matter if he decides he doesn't want it to.Â
so easygoing and naturally intuitive and far too exhausting for you.Â
because, as a fatal flaw of your own, you love to mess with him. somedays you'll hope he shows up just so you have someone to fight with. just so you'll be irritated instead of stressed, frustrated instead of exhausted.Â
it's kind of addicting, in a way. and masochistic, but you've never claimed to be completely sane.Â
and honestly, gojo's just asking for it.Â
after a mere month of living with his aura around, you come to expect his cockiness. you live to take him down a notch.
so when he's up this early in the morning, whistling like it's his god-given right, you scowl at him just as he enters the room.Â
"woah," he says, sliding on a bar stool in front of you. "starting early this morning?"Â
"you're banned from talking to me until noon."Â
"is this about the ice cream i ate? cause there was only a little left..."Â
"no it's--" you pause, frowning at him. "you ate my ice cream?"Â
he lays his entire torso on the counter, pathetically. "i was dying, okay? low blood sugar was going to kill me, and i couldn't see anything else but that ice cream and it wasn't even very good anyway, so, really, i was saving you from having to endure the rest of it."Â
"you ate my ice cream?" you repeat.Â
"i'll buy you more. a better kind. and then you'll understand that i was doing you a favor."Â
"i might kill you."Â
"i thought we banned homicide from the apartment."Â
"i was going to eat that," you whine, shoving his hands away from trying to grab your mug.Â
he smiles, too bright for so early in the morning. "yesterday you told me sweets weren't an appropriate breakfast."Â
you scoff. "yeah, cause that's all you eat. you need a green smoothie or something in the morning just to keep your heart beating for the rest of the day."
"my heart beats very well, thank you. wanna feel?"Â
you roll your eyes and sigh into your mug. "i'll be expecting three pints of ice cream as an apology later tonight."Â
gojo has already moved on, typing away on his phone, probably to some groupies he manipulated into loving him. "i can't. it's flip night at laurent's tonight, and suguru has already threatened me into coming."Â
"why did you say laurent's like i'm supposed to know what you mean?"Â
"laurent's," he repeats, looking at you.
you blink.Â
"the bar?" he questions, like you're crazy.Â
"okay, sorry, i don't exclusively hang out at bars filled with frat boys."Â
"it's very sophisticated,â he corrects, his frat boy nature very obvious. âi mean, i frequent there."Â
you laugh.Â
"clearly you've never been."Â
"i'm still expecting ice cream."Â
he sits back in his chair. "i have class all day."Â
"like you've never skipped a class."Â
"encouraging ditching?" he asks, mock appalled. "what kind of roommate are you?"Â
"the kind that doesn't steal her roommate's food. just get one of your servants to pick it up.â
gojo waves a hand at you, and that statement, apparently. and then he types another thing into his phoneâto said servants you assumeâand grins again. his face mustâve missed the feeling. "how about i buy you a drink instead? you can come with me tonight. meet my friends. maybe make some of your own."Â
"haha," you cross your arms. "if they're as bad as you, then i'm good."Â
"you'd probably love them. they also like to torment me, even though i'm pretty and perfectly nice to them."Â
"i seriously doubt that."Â
his eyes--oh, yes, this early in the morning he skips the sunglasses--sparkle like gems. "i have to play wingman for suguru, but it probably won't take long. you can mingle. meet someone. i think you could use a way to relieve some of that stress."Â
"oh, you mean the stress that you cause?"Â
gojo grins and you realize that you've fallen into his trap. "i'm willing to help out whenever you like," he says, deviously, "you just haven't asked yet, sweetheart."Â
"nor ever will," you grind out.
gojo hums and taps his fingers against the countertop. the two of you stare at each other, grin matching scowl, and eventually, he loses the contest. "so, can i plan to steal you away from eternal solitude at six?" he asks.
and just because he's right--in his weird, satoru gojo way--you nod. it might be nice to get out of the house; and meet people other than the lost freshman at work. and because you know that gojo will continue to bother you about it otherwise. heâs a very difficult person.
as if proving it, he grins all pleased with himself, so you add, "but you're buying all of my drinks." before he can get too ahead of himself.Â
*
it's not nearly loud enough in this bar. as soon as you walk in, you're sure of it.Â
because even with a band up on the stage, singing about loving someone or money or drugs, you can still hear gojo as he flirts with every single living thing in his twenty-foot vicinity.Â
he's got his grin on, styled his hair all fancy, and his clothes are signature in the way that you've probably seen him wear the same thing fifty times. maybe in a row.Â
but the people in this bar don't care. no, they flirt back like they already know who satoru gojo is. and maybe they do.Â
you don't really care, but you do have to drag him along so he can show you where you're supposed to sit and tell you the names of his friends before you get drunk enough to forget.Â
it takes three minutes of trailing after gojo like a lost puppy to remember that you hate going out. that you hate everything about your so-called roommate and you should've shoved his invitation down the drain along with him.Â
as if gojo can hear this thought, he peeks over his shoulder, smirking at you. "enjoying the view?" he asks, and you try to trip him by stepping on his heel.Â
unfortunately, he only swings around, walking backward through the crowd like it's going to part for him.Â
oh, wait. it does.Â
you frown at him.Â
"what? you don't like the music?" he pouts because that would personally offend him, of course.Â
"where are we going? i think we've passed that table four times already."Â
"i have to say hi," he says like this is obvious. "it's rude to just walk into some place without greeting everyone."Â
"do you own this bar?"Â
"what? no."Â
"then find your friends so we can sit down," you grumble, trying not to lose him in the sea of people. it's unlikely that you've ever seen a bar this packed. more like a club, honestly, but you wouldn't put it past gojo to lie.Â
eventually, he does lead you to a table, announcing, with a flourish. "don't worry, everyone, i'm here," while he bows--because of course he does. "and," he adds, "i brought a stowaway."Â
you peek around his shoulder to meet three people, all staring at him with the same unamused expression. one, suguru--from the many photo albums and 'trips down memory lane' gojo has bombarded you with--gives you a little wave. the other two just continue to stare at gojo.Â
"everyone, this is y/n, my favorite roommate. y/n, that one is suguru," he says, pointing towards him, "which you already know. the short one is shoko, and the blonde one is--"Â
"nanami," you cut in, "hey."Â
gojo frowns, looking between the two of you. "you know each other?"Â
"we have analytics together," you answer, sliding in to sit across them, next to gojo, naturally. "i usually cheat off of his notes."Â
"she gets me coffee," nanami adds, like this information is imperative.Â
gojo grins again. "why didn't you say anything nanamin?"Â
"because i didn't realize."Â
"who else could i have been talking about? do you know several pretty girls named y/n? you a player?"Â
nanami has a very familiar frown on his face, and is about to say something when suguru seems to kick gojo under the table. "satoru, i told you to stop referring to other people as 'players.'"
gojo merely rolls his eyes. "can't fight the truth," he says.
you almost smile. almost. but your eyes drift over to shoko, who sighs. "how'd you get stuck with this one?" she asks, not harsh, but not quite soft.Â
"he promised me alcohol."Â
she nods knowingly.Â
speaking of, you turn towards him. "you and i both know there's only one reason i'm here."Â
gojo flicks your forehead, but stands up. "i'll be right back," he says, "don't miss me too much."Â
and you all watch as he walks away, conveniently stopping at least four times to talk to several different people.Â
you groan. "he's not coming back is he?"Â
"he will," suguru says, not quite reassuringly. "probably. in an hour or so."Â
you cover your eyes with your hands and listen as the three of them laugh at you.Â
*
it probably is an hour or two later that you see gojo again.Â
you'd fallen into smooth conversation with his friends, talking about classes, and dancing, and the fact that you all shared a common enemy. it was easy enough, talking to them, like ripples in a pond. but surely if gojo had stuck around, it would've been more of a tsunami. you could see the appeal--at least for someone like your roommate. they all seemed responsible enough.Â
but shoko, after a twenty-second lull in conversation, decided she was better off drinking at home, and nanami quickly agreed. watching them, compared to gojo, disappear into the crowd was a different experience.Â
you bite your cheek unnervingly, wondering if it made you a bad roommate to want to let gojo suffer here alone and walk home by himself.Â
suguru pats you on the shoulder when he stands up a moment later, brushing his pants. "i'll go find satoru," he says, softly. you feel that same irritation when you realize that gojo had probably lied to you about coming here for suguru. it was almost infinitely more times likely that suguru had come here for him. "do you want me to tell him you went home?"Â
"how likely is it that he'll go home with someone else and it won't matter if i wait for him anyway?"Â
the dark-haired man considers this with a sly grin on his face. "if i tell him you left, he'll find someone to cling to. but if you're here he'll go home with you. probably drunk, though."Â
you run a hand through your hair, waving him off. "it's fine. i'll wait, then. but tell him that the homicide clause doesn't apply to outside the apartment."Â
suguru laughs, not questioning this, and walks away.Â
you sit there, toying with a glass someone had left behind, watching the people around you dance like it really was a club. with absolutely no one watching. not even god, evidently.
as usual, gojo lied--even though you hadn't really believed him when he said this place was sophisticated. the clear air of stale beer and vomit is enough to prove that.
you almost laugh bitterly, but then a mop of white hair appears in the chair next to you, and his grin is wider, larger than you'd remembered.Â
how long had that taken?Â
"hello hello, roomie," he sings, leaning close to you. he moves his chair, shuffling across the floor so that he's near enough to touch. "i heard you were threatening me again."Â
"you could hear that over the sighs of your fan club?"Â
gojo giggles, like he's in on the joke. his breath falls on your face. "i like it when you tell me you're going to murder me, you know."Â
"of course you do. how much did you drink?"Â
"it's not the quantity," he whispers, "it's the quality."Â
"your friends told me you could get drunk off of hand sanitizer."Â
gojo leans back, his long legs knocking against yours. "are they spreading those rumors again?"
you kick his foot away from yours but don't say anything. his eyes seem somehow wider right now, even behind his dark shades. almost like you could see them.Â
you blink, and gojo does it back. his lashes fluttering just enough to tell.
it almost makes you smile. laugh a little bit at his innocence--especially right now, when he's clearly not himself--some more unperturbed version of who he normally is (if that's even possible). he probably wouldn't even remember if you did laugh at him. but you refrain anyway.Â
gojo gasps suddenly. "oh! let's go to the store. you want ice cream, right?" his elbow slides onto the table as he rests his chin on a hand.Â
you kick his foot again. "i wanted a drink," you correct, "but apparently you got distracted."Â
"'s not my fault," he almost slurs, sadly.Â
"are you ready to go home?"Â
"i'm ready to leave. so we can get your ice cream. want to share a spoon?" his grin is unabashed. you could tell him that he is a vile, disgusting creature right now and he would probably agree.Â
you don't, for whatever reason.Â
"i don't think anywhere's open, and i don't want to drag you around while you're this drunk."Â
he taps your thigh with a finger. "hey. i'll have you know that i am a very proficient walker."Â
"oh, really?"Â
"learned when i was a kid and everything."Â
"wow, gojo, i'm very impressed," you deadpan, and look around. "do you need to say goodbye to suguru?"Â
he frowns. then points to himself. "gojo," he repeats, and into the crowd, "suguru."Â
like he's an actual toddler.
you shake your head and stand up, still looking. "can you text him?"Â
"i guess," he mumbles, getting out his phone and almost dropping it. he frowns like this is deeply upsetting.Â
so you grab it from him. "what's your passcode?"Â
"one one one one." you look at him with a brow raised. "cause i'm number one," he answers, pridefully.Â
you scoff, but look through his texts anyway, and tell suguru that you're taking him home--and never ever coming out with him again--and then hand it back to gojo.Â
he smiles at you. you roll your eyes.Â
then he grabs your hand, and begins to pull. "c'mon before they find us," he says, and it doesn't make any sense.Â
but were you really expecting it to?Â
*
perhaps the aftermath of drunk gojo is even more entertaining than the actual thing.Â
shoko hadn't been kidding when she said he was the worst drunk--and even worse when hungover.Â
how do you know this? oh, because you woke up at one in the afternoon--perfectly respectable for a saturday--and as soon as you dared to even open your door gojo was already groaning about the noise. so you slam it a little as you leave.Â
there's a grunt, like a dying cat, and two minutes later he is walking into the kitchen with slits for eyes and cotton for hair. you're not sure what he's wearing--some video game shirt--but it's wrinkled enough to match your roommate's appearance. disheveled and slightly peeved, he's almost glaring at you--like he's capable of such a thing.
you try not to laugh.Â
"where's the bacon?" he asks, almost slipping off of the counter as he leans on it. his hands rubbing at his eyes.Â
"sorry?"Â
"wheres the bacon?" he repeats, his voice a different register this morning. "i need emergency bacon."Â
"so make some. there's a pan and probably a package in the fridge."Â
he whines, falling against the counter again. his natural habitat. "i can't make it, i'm dying. you really want your terminally ill roommate to cook for himself?"Â
"i want my overdramatic roommate to act like an adult for a change."Â
he blows a raspberry, and his face is hidden beneath the tile of your table. you can only see his hair, which looks surprisingly soft for his state.Â
"did you lose some pigment in your hair?"Â
gojo snaps up, immediately, gasping. he pulls a strand so he can look at it, blinking rapidly. his panic quickly fades, and he blows the strand out of his eyes. "it's just dirty."Â
"from what?"Â
"i forgot to buy new bedsheets," he grumbles, once again hiding his face.Â
"your bedsheets are dying your hair?" you ask, with a raised brow.Â
"they're dirty," he repeats, rolling his eyes as he sits up. "i need to go to the store."Â
"um..." you look at him as he slumps against his own body, feeling greatly concerned for his survival abilities. "you buy new bedsheets?" you confirm, "instead of washing them?"Â
he waves a hand, blowing you, and your clearly audaious sentence away. "bacon," he says, flatly.Â
you roll your eyes. "pan," you point, "stove."Â
gojo looks like he might start crying.
and it might be his state or the fact that you don't think you've ever seen him like this--in the month you've known him--all lost and confused and a little bit ruffled at the edges. gojo's snark is usually in its top form when you see him in the morning.Â
so, just this once, you grab a pan, and turn on the burner.Â
"i'll be expecting payment for my time," you say, as you grab the bacon from the fridge.Â
and maybe you get your first real smile from your roommate.Â
*
you're lying on the couch reading a book when he appears, swarming like a fly.Â
"hello, roommate," he says, uncharacteristically pleasant, and then he sits on your legs. you try to kick him, but it proves futile because apparently he's a giant, so you wiggle your way out from under him and sit up, frowning.Â
"don't you have a room?" you ask.Â
"i could ask you the same thing," gojo tries to tickle your feet, but you move them away before he can. your frown turns into more of a glare. "what?" he asks, "we can't hang out?"Â
"no."Â
gojo pouts. "but we're roommates," he says as if it's an explanation. like being roommates binds your souls and forever intertwines the two of you.Â
"we are roommates because i had an extra room and you had money. that doesn't seem like thrilling grounds for friendship."Â
"well, how about the fact that i let you use my hair dryer the other day?" he lays down on the other side of the couch, smirking at you. "that's a friendly thing to do."Â
"that's the polite thing to do. i'm trying to train you. speaking of which..." you point towards the floor, "down boy."Â
he takes off his sunglasses, throwing them on the coffee table--which probably explains the broken mug pieces you found in the trash the other day--and lays back with his arms behind his head. his eyes are closed. "i can't be trained."Â
"clearly."Â
you sigh and relax in your corner of the couch, picking up your book again. his presence lurks like a nightmare, but, you figure, eventually, he'll get bored.Â
you just can't entertain him. it's like the advice you'd give to a kid being bullied: they only care about your reaction...Â
as if proving your point, after twenty-seven seconds of silence, he opens one eye, peeking at you. "whatcha reading?"Â
"a book."Â
he plucks it right out of your hands, inspecting the cover. how he got across the couch in 0.2 seconds, you don't know.Â
"what is this?" he asks, snickering a little. "word porn?"Â
you take it back. "it's called romance, gojo. not that i'd expect you to be familiar with anything of the sort."Â
he smirks, laying back down. "i have references if you need proof."Â
you shake your head, flipping him off, and continue to scan the words on your page without retaining any information.Â
seriously, his presence is impending doom itself.Â
"it's okay," he whispers, "you don't need to be embarrassed. everyone craves intimacy."Â
"i crave my fist on your face."Â
he snorts. "that's not very friendly."Â
you sigh, dropping the book again so you can look at him and his obnoxious eyes. "look, i'm tired, it's been a long week, and if you don't leave me alone i'll probably lock you outside."Â
"probably?"Â
"it's that or throwing you out the window."Â
gojo laughs once again, but mimes zipping his mouth shut. you roll your eyes and open your book again. your feet are entwined, but you don't mock this--if only because you're sure that gojo will start an argument about it.
the quiet lasts for two minutes and then he turns on the tv.Â
you groan and he laughs at you.
*
you're getting used to having him around, at least. and in turn, his friends. because they seem to be a package deal.Â
after that night at the bar, gojo--apparently--feels much more comfortable having them over. trying to bake cookies with shoko or interrupting what's supposed to be a study session between the four of them.Â
at least, you think, watching this happen, that you're not the only person forced to endure him.Â
but it's kind of... nice to see him act like a normal person, for once. to get teased by someone other than you and pout like a begrudged younger brother. the person who invites his friends over for game night (getting aggressively angry every time he loses) isn't satoru gojo, the man whom everyone is drawn to. he isn't some drunk guy charming everyone around him or a roommate that you just happened upon.Â
he's just another college student, laughing along with people who aren't nearly as bad as him.Â
and, naturally, you find yourself intertwined with these 'hang-outs' because the apartment is small, and you don't want to be left out--no, you choose not to think about how pathetic it is that satoru gojo has more friends than you do, so please don't bring it up.Â
and it's on this night when you're not playing uno with the four of them, but rather, watching behind all of their backs and trying to mess with gojo as much as possible.Â
you pretend to be idly cleaning in the kitchen, when really you're standing behind him, mouthing to suguru what color he has whenever he's about to win.Â
"hmm," the sly-mouthed man says this time, "green."Â
shoko puts down a seven, and gojo groans again. "seriously?" he asks, but begins drawing cards.Â
you try--and fail--not to giggle behind him. to which, of course, he turns around with an obvious glare in his eyes. "what are you doing?"Â
the sink isn't on, and there are no dishes to be seen in the kitchen. nonetheless, you point uselessly to the roll of paper towels on the counter. "cleaning."Â
"you're cleaning air?"Â
"sorry, i didn't realize i was banned from loitering in my own home."Â
he turns back around, looking at suguru for a moment, then back at you. it's very hard to keep the smile off of your face, especially when nanami looks like he's about to break and shoko is pretending to rifle through her cards again.Â
how many times have you done this to him? oh, just a mere eight.Â
to be fair, it would've ended a long time ago if gojo wasn't such a sore loser.Â
he looks back and forth once more. then he frowns. "what are you doing?"Â
"do you want me to go hide in my room, gojo?" you ask, trying to scowl. "because i will. i was just trying to be hospitable--"Â
"nanamin," he interrupts. "go."Â
so another round of cards is placed, and this time suguru plays normally, keeping his face straight to not draw any suspicion. you lean against the wall, enjoying yourself.Â
(don't tell anyone, but this is the most fun you've had in a while).Â
and then, after a couple of rounds go by, you finally clear your throat. gojo turns to glare at you through his sunglasses and says "go stand behind suguru if you're going to watch. i don't trust you."Â
you raise your brows but do as he says.Â
and when shoko has to draw the next time, you smile and tap a couple of times on your thigh.Â
suguru does his best impression of gojo's grin, and says, "draw four," to shoko.Â
she smiles back. turns to gojo. "draw four," she repeats.Â
and he stares at the two of them, then the cards stacked on top of each other, and then to you, right across him. "what are you doing? i know you're doing something."Â
"satoru, she's just watching--"Â
"no, she's smiling." he looks back to you, "you're smiling. you don't do that unless i'm in pain."Â
"so you just assume that you're losing cause i'm... what? drawing your cards for you? shuffling the stack so only you get the bad hands?" you cock a brow at him, willing yourself not to look at anyone else at the table. it would only end in disaster.Â
"i--" gojo runs a hand through his hair. then he sighs and begins drawing his eight cards.Â
and several rounds later--with gojo losing once again--you've begun moving around the table like you're inspecting each player. gojo doesn't let you look at his cards though.Â
and it takes a while before he notices anything. particularly after suguru wins for the third time in a row.Â
he looks at everyone--brows pulled together, irritated eyes hiding behind his sunglasses, and his cheeks are flushed from how frustrated he is--and as soon as you start laughing at his face, everyone else does too. suguru throws his cards down and shakes his head. nanami shuffles the deck while trying to keep his laugh muffled--but it's there. and shoko is outwardly laughing at him, pointing at gojo and then at you.Â
"are you guys stealing the cards?" he asks, almost disbelieving, his voice so childlike that you start laughing even harder. "look at the deck! it's half the size that it was."Â
and then he's standing up and inspecting you, sticking his hands up your sleeves and finding dozens of cards hiding there, falling onto the floor.Â
gojo gasps in outrage, but it doesn't even matter to you.Â
everyone else is clutching their stomachs and gojo begins to pout. "you're all traitors," he's saying, and "how long have you been doing that?" and you almost can't breathe--Â
so yeah. you don't really mind these kinds of nights. and you don't complain about the messes gojo and his friends leave behind.Â
*
you shouldn't have given suguru your number. this much is obvious.Â
but, to be fair, you weren't exactly thinking when you were talking to him about a self-help book you'd picked up, and he was mentioning a podcast, and then he was taking your phone and putting himself in it--which, in itself, should not be dangerous--telling you that he'd send you a link and that you should let him know if you liked it, and that was that.Â
and really, there shouldn't be any repercussions to this. suguru is your sort of friend, and sort of friends can text on occasion.Â
except for the fact that he's also satoru gojo's friend. so when you wake up at ten--silently thanking yourself for taking a day off before a week of back-to-back classes and work--he's already texted you, and it's obvious that you failed somewhere in life.Â
maybe when you accidentally invited a demon into your house and allowed him to stay.Â
from suguru :p :Â
hey satoru is supposed to be in class right now and he won't answer meÂ
can you please kick him awake?Â
but maybe it wasn't a mistake. because at least you have a good excuse to give gojo a bruise.Â
so you creep down the hall, reluctantly knocking on his door even though it ruins the element of surprise (you're not a monster) and listening as there's no response.Â
gojo must be asleep. or dead. honestly, you might've killed him in your sleep--wouldn't be the first time.Â
so you peek the door open, realizing now that you haven't been in his room since he moved in, and watch as a figure slithers under the covers almost before you notice. gojo is completely covered except for the foot he's left hanging off of the side of the bed.Â
"get up," you tell him, looking around at the sparse decorations he's put up. there are books, candy wrappers, and socks all over the floor, but it's not the messiest room you've ever seen. which is slightly surprising, considering all that you know about gojo.Â
he whines from under the cover, turning so you get a view of exposed skin on his back. "sleeping," he says as if you might believe him.Â
so you creep over trash and textbooks and pull the blanket right off of him.Â
gojo is already looking at you, pouting. his hair is in his eyes and his mouth is puffy--probably from kissing his pillow in his sleep. "what if i was naked under here?" he asks you, very seriously. "i don't let just anyone see that, you know?"Â
"you're wearing the same silk pajamas you wear every night."Â
he tries to pull the blanket away from you, his fingers peeling yours away. he huffs. "it's the principle. you don't just wake a man up from slumber."Â
you snort. "did you travel a century in your sleep?"Â
"yes, now go away." and then he falls back into the blankets, his words muffled.Â
"you have class, your highness. i've been sent to fetch you."Â
one eye appears from under the blanket. "how do you know my schedule?"Â
"telepathy. now get up."Â
"i can't," gojo fake coughs. "i'm sick."Â
"suguru said you'd say that."Â
he groans, turning over and muffling a few explicit words that sound like a curse upon his best friend.Â
you poke his back. "did you sleep through your alarm?"Â
he doesn't answer. his body has gone limp like you might not notice that he's there if he stays still for long enough. so you pull his hair, turning his head towards you. "you're not usually this whiny in the morning," you tell him.Â
"why are you so mean to me?"Â
you hum, pretending to consider it. "i think it's the hair. i find it pretentious."Â
"i could sue you. discrimination is very serious. i've got a good lawyer, too."
"i'll sue back for mental damages."Â
he laughs, and wiggles from your grasp.Â
you sigh and finally sit down at the edge of his bed, observing the lollipops he's left lying on his bedside table. gojo's bones seem to crack as he sits up with you, moaning the whole way.Â
you're silently observing him--with his slightly red eyes and heinous mouth. you're not used to seeing him like this in the morning; usually, he's chipper and annoying. when he walks into the kitchen in the morning you half expect him to start singing.Â
but this gojo is tired. he rubs at his eyes. "did suguru text you?"Â
"yup."Â
"he's a terrible friend."Â
you nudge him, almost like an agreement. "why aren't you in class?"Â
"what's even the point of going? it's not like i get a reward."
"i think the reward is graduating, but you might have to fact-check that one."Â
he nudges you back and then takes your hand. his fingertips are soft as they trace the tendons and veins he can see on your skin. his hands are softer than you'd have expected. his eyes are wary as they look towards the floor, his mouth twisting in displeasure. but he doesn't stop touching you, he does so idly that you almost don't notice. "i have an a in the class," he tells you, "and i already know most of the material so why would i go to every lecture?"Â
maybe it's the way he says it; so sure and nonchalant, in his typical over-dramatic fashion. maybe it's just that he's never mentioned any of his classes to you, or the fact that he's taking any. maybe he's just crazy--that's the most likely option--but you're suddenly curious.Â
"what class is it?"Â
"theoretical physics."Â
you whistle, shaking your head. "and you already know most of it?"Â
gojo drops your hand and looks at you. his eyes are wide. maybe he's just realized that he's been talking to you this whole time. "when i was a kid my, uh, my dad had a bunch of textbooks in his office that i used to read through every time i got in trouble," he grins, "which was a lot."Â
"i can imagine."Â
"well, it turns out you can only read something so many times before it becomes ingrained in your brain."Â
you pull at his bedsheet. "do you have a test today, or something?"Â
"no, suguru just thinks i'm lazy."Â
you laugh, because he is. gojo rolls his eyes at you so you don't say it. you're a little bit surprised, actually. you knew that gojo wasn't stupid (or at least, you might've known) but there's something about the proof of it. like you can't just read right through him. like maybe there's still more to learn about your roommate and maybe there always has been.Â
or maybe you're just tired, and he's always had the strange ability to draw irrationality out of you. and also he's an idiot.
"i just..." he starts and his smile fades, but only a little bit. he keeps a layer on while he peels a layer off. "i mean, i like the class. math is cool. but i just don't feel like it today, you know?"Â
and there's something about his voice as he says it. steady and true, as always, but softer. but compeltely honest.Â
and you've heard him complain about a million things, like every time you and suguru talk about something he doesn't understand or when the door isn't unlocked when he gets home, or when you won't add his one shirt to your laundry. you've heard every whine and every groan come from his lips.Â
but he's not complaining about this. just confiding.Â
and there's such a drastic difference that it takes you a moment to respond.Â
but you do eventually. "yeah, i know," you tell him and rest a hand on his thigh to squeeze.Â
and the way that gojo looks at you after--like you might just be saying it to make him feel better--is perplexing. his eyes are blue and maybe you've just noticed this--just started to realize that you're actually sitting with him like a normal person. and that he actually looks grateful.Â
you shake your head, willing yourself to look away, because maybe there is something sort of magnetic about your roommate. and it feels impossible to only have noticed this now. to realize how warm he is next to you, and how your muscles tense up when he shifts. gojo is looking at you, and it might be the first time.
so you stand up, flicking his chin. "i'll tell suguru that you're puking your guts up."Â
"really?"Â
"yup. but next time you sleep through a class i'm going to wake you up by pouring ice water on your face."Â
he grins. "cruel."Â
"and i'll record it."Â
you step over candy wrappers and dirty socks as you leave his room, and as soon as the door is closed you sigh in relief. you're probably better off never opening that door again.
*
it's a ridiculously cold night when he shows up.Â
you're sitting at the front desk in the library, pretending to study for a mid-term, and trying to smile at the fifth lost library card you've heard about tonight. you got this job at the beginning of the year, and it pays horribly. but at least you can sit around and study, most weekends it's quiet enough to take a nap, and no one tends to bother you when you're drooling all over the reception desk.Â
most weekends, that is, because as soon as he walks in through the door--letting in air so brisk that it has the potential to kill you--it gets significantly louder.Â
because satoru gojo is not affected by trivial things such as snow, or blizzards, or the fact that the library is supposed to close in less than ten minutes...Â
still, you don't really notice him--a rare circumstance that you will question later that night--until he's right next to you, breathing in your ear.Â
"slacking on the clock?" he asks, and just for a moment, you almost disembowel him with the pen you're holding in your hand.Â
but then you grunt, used to this sort of intrusion from your roommate, and push his head away. "how did you find me?" you ask him, because, honestly, this job is just an escape from his neverending antics at your house (no, it doesn't matter that you got the job before you knew that such an annoying person could possibly exist).Â
"i microchipped you in your sleep," gojo says, smoothly, sitting in the chair right next to yours, swiveling around. "i thought i told you about that?"Â
you blatantly look at the clock and ignore him. "you know that the library closes in seven minutes?"Â
"...and?"Â
"so go torment someone else," you answer, standing up with a stack of fileable papers, "i'm busy until eight."Â
"i'll help," gojo says, eager as always, and takes half of your stack. "where to?"Â
it is from two months of experience that you know he will not leave you alone. even if you chew off his fingernails and keep them to make into necklaces, gojo will follow you around as long as you make it clear you don't want him to.Â
so you walk towards the copying room, smiling at all of the sleep-deprived students you pass by and rolling your eyes when gojo does the same.Â
"how did you even find the library?"Â
gojo walks like he has absolutely no equilibrium; knocking into you every couple of steps, and then falling in the other direction. it must be a consequence of all of his strenuous leaning.Â
so he bumps into you as he replies, "tracker," like it's obvious.Â
you snort. "no, seriously. i didn't think you knew that libraries existed. aren't you allergic to reading?"Â
"hey!" he tries to trip you. "i'll have you know that i am very studious. top of my class."Â
"that's why you pay suguru to write your papers for you, right?"Â
gojo makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "he doesn't write them," he grumbles. "well, not all of them."Â
you snort and open a door for him to follow through.
"my study group meets here on wednesdays," gojo answers, finally.Â
"you're a part of a study group?"Â
"where do you think i go all of the time?"Â
you briefly consider this, setting the papers down. "cemeteries to mourn all of the people you've annoyed to death, probably. or your girlfriend's house." you shrug.
gojo sets his stack on top of yours, diligently lining them up. "i don't do that every night," he drawls, rolling his eyes. and then he winks at you. "and i don't have a girlfriend. thanks for asking."Â
you mess up his stack and turn away from him. "sorry, i meant girlfriends as in plural. girlfriends."Â
"nope, again."Â
gojo follows closely behind you as you begin to lock up all of the spare rooms, turning off lights and looking for any lost items. "commitment issues?" you ask, fake sympathy clouding your voice.Â
"sweetheart, if you want me, then just say that. you don't need to pretend to worry about anyone else." his cockiness is infuriating, but you don't even bother to scold him for it. you turn towards him with sharp eyes.
"do i seem worried to you?"Â
"no, but you're a bad actor," gojo hums, fingertips grazing along your skin as he inspects your face. "denial is serious. you might want to see a doctor."Â
"you would know," you answer, glaring and pulling away from him. the two of you walk as people begin to trek out of the library, no longer held captive by the idea of studying.Â
gojo is much too close, as usual, his sweater brushing against yours.Â
"how'd you even know i was here?" you ask him, after a minute of silence.Â
"please," he answers, grinning down at you. "i got a PI as soon as you gave me my key."Â
you squint. "did you actually?"Â
he laughs. "no. you told shoko, and shoko told me..."Â
you nod, clearing the desk of your things, tossing your bag at gojo for him to carry. "so why are you here?"Â
he clears his throat, unplugging the cord to your computer and wrapping it around his hand. "i was walking by, and i thought i'd see if you wanted to come with me for drinks after your shift."
"drinks?" you repeat, taking the cord from his hands.Â
"flip night."Â
you groan. "i am never participating in that again after what happened last time."Â
"it wasn't that bad."Â
"i had to drag you home and you almost threw up in my hair."Â
gojo smiles. "consider yourself lucky."Â
you push him out of the way and put your coat on. then you turn off the lights and push in all of the chairs, gojo not helping at all. "i didn't even get my drink," you remind him.Â
"okay, so let me make it up to you."
and his voice is a bit different. still arrogant, naturally, still smiling and easy--but maybe he means it? maybe beneath his, frankly, soft exterior, he feels bad for getting drunk before you could? maybe he's not actually a complete monster?Â
you laugh that thought away as soon as it comes.
you sigh. "are your friends going to be there?"Â
"yes, our friends are. they suggested i invite you."Â
you sigh--again, because the air is quite thin when gojo is around--and consider it. for just four seconds. but eventually, you shake your head. "i can't," you tell him, looping your arm around his so you can drag him out of the building.Â
"why not?"Â
"i'm tired, and i still need to study for a test on monday..."Â
"do it in the morning."Â
you give him a blank look. "i won't want to study if i'm hungover."Â
"then don't study."Â
you let go of his arm, shivering from the cold. gojo, of course, is not wearing a jacket, or even a little bit bothered by the air. "you're a terrible influence."Â
he grins. "i get it from you."Â
you shake your head, keeping the smile off of your face. "maybe some other time? when it's not freezing, and i don't have a big test?"Â
gojo looks like he wants to argue with you some more--which he usually does--but eventually, his grin ebbs into something simple and he nods. "okay, but you have to come next time i ask."Â
"no. what if i'm sick, or something?" you definitely would not put it past him to ask you as a method of torture.Â
"that's what alcohol is for." he sticks out his hand, too big and too sly.Â
but you relent, shaking with him, and rolling your eyes.
"okay, gojo. have fun. do not wake me up when you get home."Â
and you turn to walk away, but his hand catches your wrist. "what are you doing?" he asks, brow furrowed.Â
"...going home?"Â
he lets go of you and flicks your forehead. "you're not walking back by yourself," he says, like it's a crime. "c'mon."Â
and he falls into pace with you, even with his longer legs and fervent energy.Â
"this is stupid--" you start to complain, but gojo reaches for the strap of your bag, sliding it off of your shoulder. he then slings it on his own, and pulls you in a bit closer by the hem of your jacket.Â
he doesn't say anything, just shoves your hand in his pocket, and whistles as he walks you home.Â
*
its a couple of weeks later when you're standing at the door again, trying not to open it more than necessary.Â
but, really, how wide is too wide? will a half-opened door signal any longing? will he think that you want him back if you open it more than three inches to pass him his box of stuff that he'd left behind and take your key back?Â
how do you navigate the trade-off of a frog statue that will probably haunt your dreams till the end of time?Â
"key," you say, without any pleasantries, not bothering to even really look at him.Â
even though he looks just the same, your ex. still the lying cheater you'd almost fallen in love with.Â
is it wrong to miss his netflix password more than him?Â
"thanks," he says, and you've probably been standing there with him for thirty seconds when a head appears on your shoulder.Â
white hair gets in your eyes, and you try to push gojo away, but he's already intruded on this exchange and you know he's not going to leave.Â
"go away," you tell him, not very softly.Â
"hello," gojo holds his hand out over your shoulder, because, again, he is ridiculously tall. "i'm--"Â
"key," you say again, swatting his hand away.Â
your ex looks at your new roommate--with all of his charm and irritating sunglasses and perfectly shaped teeth--with obvious disdain. you want to push both of them out the door and live here by yourself forever, but unfortunately, living prices disagree.Â
so you grab the key from his hand, give him a bland smile, and slam the door with gojo's fingers still in between.Â
he pulls them back just in time, still almost on top of you, and smiles when you turn around with a scowl. "a friend of yours?" he asks, slyly. he's about as subtle as a third-grader.
"no."Â
he messes with your hair idly, pretending to fix it. "i noticed an obvious absence where our dancing frog used to be."Â
"i told you, that's not mine."Â
"so you gave it away?"Â
you cross your arms. he is far too close to you. "you told me it was hideous."Â
"it was," he nods, vehemently, and you know his eyes are grinning at you behind those dark shades. "but now there's an empty spot on that shelf."Â
"we can put your tongue there when i cut it out," you give him an innocent smile and walk past him to sit on the couch. your pocket burns with the key you put there, metal like an obvious stain on your skin.Â
it's not that you care about him anymore, really. you don't, not even when you lay alone at night and think about him. it's more that... he doesn't think about you. he didn't, and he wouldn't have, even if you were still together.Â
is it wrong to be wanted by someone whose opinion is worth about as much to you as a penny you could or could not pick up on the street? should you crave being cared about by someone as awful as him?
you want to throw his key in bleach. maybe take a dip yourself.
gojo follows you, throwing himself down on the couch, and brushing you as he does so. he is very used to this kind of proximity, and the annoyed look you give him. "so that was your ex?"Â
"yes."Â
there's a brief pause, and a nice person might leave it like that. might try to console you, tell you better off. but satoru gojo is not nice, and he probably never has been. "really?" he asks. then clicks his tongue.Â
you interrupt whatever obnoxious statement is supposed to follow: "if you're about to say that there are a lot of more eligible bachelors, including yourself, then i'm going to say that you should probably make a zillow account."Â
gojo pinches your thigh. "i would never say something like that."Â
you look at him, just barely able to make out the shape of his eyes when he's this close. "you told me that last week when i was complaining about dating apps."Â
"well, it was true then."Â
you roll your eyes.Â
"i wasn't going to say that anyway."Â
you hum, relaxing into the hold his legs begin to have on yours. despite his abrupt and terrible personality, gojo is very warm. and he's already intruded into so much of your space--your home, your head--that it almost feels normal.Â
with his thighs pushing against yours and his fingertips trailing up the back of your neck.Â
you should slap him away, but you don't.Â
the last person you cuddled with was the same man who gave you the greasy key in your pocket.Â
you look at gojo with inquisitive eyes. "really? no bad pickup line? you were going to say something meaningful?"Â
"would've blown your mind, but you interrupted..." he teases, and pulls on a strand of baby hair.Â
"whatever will i do now?"Â
his hand falls from your neck, and if you weren't as comfortable as you are currently, you might think about what he's doing.Â
like the fact that you haven't even questioned this, or his following you around, or the fact that he knew you needed someone to pull you away from that door.Â
you don't think about that, but maybe you should.Â
still, his hand wraps around your shoulder, and you slump against him without question.Â
"i was..." his voice is softer, calmer than you've maybe ever heard it. it should jolt you away from him. it should do anything but keep you planted on the couch right next to him. "i was just going to say that i'm glad he's an idiot."Â
"getting turned on by my pain?"Â
he laughs. "no, but, i mean, your pain my gain."Â
you don't even notice it when he slips off his glasses, his fingers curling around your forearm.Â
"where else would i find a roommate that threatens me with bodily harm?" he asks, right in your ear.Â
it's true enough, you guess. and at least for a moment, you don't want to rip off his arms.Â
and gojo mutters something that sounds like "stupid," but you aren't listening.
*
gojo has called in your agreement; that is the only reason you're sitting at the bar, watching him dance around with shoko--purposefully stepping on her toes--and sipping on some drink he ordered for you.
it's terribly sweet and reminds you of lotion but you drink it anyway. it's not like you bought it, and you're sure that gojo wont buy you anything else until finish it. plus it's giving you a light buzz, just enough to feel comfortable sitting there, and not like you want to run away.
it's not as busy as it was last time, the music slightly quieter, the air in the room less stiff. gojo seems less energized tonight--considering that he hasn't abandoned any of you to talk to the houseplant in the corner--even with the dancing.Â
which he is terrible at. it's like watching an eight-month-old learn how to stand. or a man trying to impress absolutely no one. his limbs move like they aren't even attached to his body.
"is he drunk?" you're asking suguru and nanami--who have been sitting there longer than you have. "i didn't see him order anything."Â
nanami laughs and suguru ruffles your hair. "that's satoru completely sober."Â
"...are you sure?"Â
"yeah, he doesn't usually drink. even that," he nods to your drink which you're sipping with a wince, "is too bitter for him."Â
you raise a brow, watching shoko frown at him, and then nudge him away. "he drank last time i came, though?"Â
suguru nods, looking away like he knows something you don't and nanami snorts.
"what?"Â
"he was nervous last time," nanami answers. he's got less than a smile on, but it's better than the frowns you've observed sitting next to him in class.Â
your brow furrows. "about what?"Â
suguru is about to answer, nudging nanami not very subtly, when the very topic of conversation pops up, bumping into you as he squeezes himself in between you and suguru. his presence is an interruption in itself, but he's smiling like he always does, acting like he's been there the whole time.Â
you might've pushed him away a week or two ago. now you just sigh and move a little so he can fit.
"did you miss me, sweetheart?" he asks you, leaning against suguru. "don't worry, i'll dance with you next."
"no, and i don't dance."Â
gojo rolls his eyes. "everyone dances."Â
you look pointedly between him and the group of people dancing in the middle of the room. an image of him almost tripping over shoko makes you smile. "well some people shouldn't."Â
suguru laughs and gojo grins even wider at you--his hair is slightly sweaty and his eyes are peering at you over the glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. "let's test that theory," he says, taking a step back. his tone is nothing less than suggestive. and his fingers wiggle towards you, beckoning for you to follow.
there's a twinge in your stomach and you adjust in your seat, frowning at him. "i told you that i don't dance."Â
"well, i do. and you owe me for last time."Â
you balk. "owe you for what? making sure you didn't get murdered on the street?"Â
gojo pouts, his face so unserious and completely genuine at the same time. "you made me dance all alone. you didn't even come watch."Â
"you left me--"Â
"just one dance?" he asks, leaning in towards you. his eyes are sparkling. "i'll get you another drink."Â
"you'll get me that anyway."Â
"i'll let you pick it this time."Â
"that's usually expected, you know?"Â
he ignores that, "c'mon," he pleads, "you know that you want to."Â
"i don't know that, actually."Â
and then someone coughs behind gojo and you realize that your friends have been listening to this entire interaction and that you'd completely forgotten they were there. how long has he been standing like that? just two inches away from your face?Â
"just go, y/n," shoko says, "put the rest of us out of our misery. i've been listening to him whine all night."Â
"hey--" gojo turns, his voice defensive.Â
but you take another sip of your drink, sighing as you stand up. "fine," you tell him, rolling your eyes when he turns to you with a smile. "one dance, and you can't ask me for anything else tonight."Â
his teeth are like rows of knives. sharp and inviting. "okay."Â
he holds his hand out for you again, and you take it, feeling that strange pull in the pit of your stomach.Â
it's probably just the alcohol, though.Â
*
you don't know how long you've been dancing with gojo.Â
it started with one dance where he didn't do anything except twirl you around and sway with you, like he'd accepted the fact that you weren't exactly light on your feet, singing along to the music in your ear, making snide remarks about where you'd placed your hands. moving them like pieces on a chess board.
his breath was hot on your ear. condensation on a glass.Â
and then you'd gradually moved to letting him lead you, after who knows how many songs, following his steps and not apologizing when your foot slammed against his, or when you bumped shoulders with him, probably creating marks on your skin.Â
and then his hands were on your hips, his chin resting against your shoulder, and it felt almost nice to be dancing with him. almost relaxing to forget momentarily about where you were and who you were with. it shouldn't surprise you that you're comfortable with him, but it does. there's no worry about the way you're looking at him or if anyone is watching the two of you--but then again, you might be slightly drunk.Â
gojo hasn't commented on how long the two of you have been dancing, and evidently, you've let the alcohol sway you into staying for more than just another song.Â
so now, with his lips on your ear, you're almost smiling into him. your heart is fast, and the adrenaline rush you're experiencing is a pleasant thing; if someone ripped out your heart right you wouldn't even notice.
"see?" gojo says, his voice just a murmur with all of the music swimming in your ears. "you're not so bad."Â
it sounds like something else to you.
"you won't be saying that in the morning," you tell him, stepping on his toes, but he doesn't pull back or move too quickly. if you thought rationally about his movements you might notice that everything he's doing is slow; like you're an animal he's trying not to scare.Â
"i'm used to it," he pulls back a little bit. "shoko does that too."Â
"'cause you deserve it."Â
he laughs and leans in, so you follow him.Â
are you just swaying now? or is he leading you in something more complex? a dance you've never heard of, or a simple in and out?Â
you don't know, and you really don't care.Â
after a moment, you sigh. "i've never danced with anyone before," you whisper to him, almost like not saying the words at all. it might be a lie, you're not quite sure.Â
your words are just thoughts now with no sort of intervention between your brain and your mouth. intoxication fills your lungs.Â
"really?"Â
"mhm," you hum, "no one's ever asked me."Â
"i don't believe you," his voice might be teasing, or serious, or he might be barking at you.
you laugh anyway. gojo's hands are firm against your skin. he feels kind of hazy, like a dream. so you laugh again.Â
"you okay?"Â
"i think i might be a little drunk."Â
he snorts, his breath short. "really? i didn't think you'd be a lightweight."Â
"you're a lightweight."Â
"yeah, but you already knew that. i only drink when we come here, anyway. nanami doesn't like having to drag me home."Â
"you're heavy," you agree, looking up at him. you can see his eyelashes from under his glasses. you can see his tongue as he moves it, and the tip of his nose. you can almost feel it when he swallows.
"sorry," he teases. his face looks different under these lights. it looks different when you're looking at him this close.Â
"you're kinda pretty," the words fall from your mouth as you think them, and you grin. "huh."Â
it shouldn't be an odd realization, but it is. his skin is almost translucent, and his mouth is sinful. his eyes are wide and bright and satoru gojo could be a sculpture if he wasn't a man.
gojo looks down at you, his brows raised. "you just noticed?"Â
"i don't look at you a lot."Â
"oh, please," he shakes his head. "i've caught you staring."Â
"i only stare when i'm worried that you're a robot planted by aliens or something. you say weird things."Â
he laughs, and his hands squeeze your waist. he could stab you in the back right now and it wouldn't even matter. you're not even worried about it. he could flirt with you all night and you don't think you'd quite mind.
you giggle at the thought, heart beating fast with every breath that comes from him.Â
"what?"Â
"you're not a bad roommate, you know?" you ask him, but maybe you're asking yourself.
"i'm not?"Â
"no. you're actually... kinda considerate. my old roommate--my ex--he never wanted to go anywhere with me. he wouldn't have asked me to dance."Â
"why not?"Â
"i think he thought i was stuck up. or embarassing. or not worth it," you breathe, almost airly, the words are true but they don't matter to you. not like this, pressed up against him. "i don't know."Â
gojo's brow furrows. "how?"Â
your brows furrow. "how what?"Â
"how could he think you're not worth it?" he repeats, and you laugh back. because it's a joke.
"you'd have to ask him."Â
"i don't think i'll ever be talking to him," he answers, voice rough. "it wouldn't be good for either of us. and i don't trust people with such terrible taste."Â
you giggle at the thought of the frog sculpture, the disgusted look on gojo's face. you can almost see through him.
"you shouldn't," you answer, not even thinking. Â
there's a moment where the room is quiet, everyone inhaling at the same time, and then exhaling. you feel like you fit here, somehow. like everything is moving at just the right place. this silence is a comforting feeling, the bubbles bursting in your stomach reiterating it.Â
"hey," gojo says, interrupting that feeling.Â
"what?"Â
"you're a good roommate, too. you're not stuck up. or embarassing."Â
"i'm not?"Â
he smiles at you. "well, you're a little mean."Â
you smile back. "only to you, satoru."Â
his face drops, but you don't notice. you lean against his chest again, your eyes fluttering shut. if you were focused enough, you could feel his heartbeat. but you don't. and you don't watch as he swallows. as his voice falters, for only a single second.
but you do look at him when he says, "my friends like you."Â
"they do?"Â
he laughs, pushing his sunglasses back up on his face. "wasn't it obvious?"Â
you shake your head. you're not sure how long you've been standing with him, or if it even matters. you're not even sure if you're still in the bar, or your bed, being covered with your blanket, tucked in by gentle hands.Â
how long has it been now?Â
"i like you too," gojo whispers, "just so you know."Â
and you could be at home, with your roommate. you could be right next to him. it doesn't matter, because you only whisper, "good," and then it's all gone.Â
*
when you wake up the next morning, gojo is already laughing at you.Â
your headache is a curse. your mind is in shambles. and your body aches with the manipulation of only one person.Â
you hate your roommate and his terrible taste in drinks and that he doesn't even say anything when you slump against the counter, not even bothering to make fun of you or complain about how terrible you are when you're drunk.Â
he just smiles easily, ruffling your hair. Â
and when he starts to cook some bacon in the pan, you don't say anything, but you go and stand next to him, letting him hold you up.Â
there are no words. only the popping of oil in a pan.Â
and that feeling, of course. because it wasn't the alcohol.Â
*
so maybe satoru gojo is your friend. you will not admit this to anyone aloud, but you concede a little bit in your head, because it's a fragile place there, and you're a terrible liar.Â
and so maybe you hang out with him sometimes.Â
it's not just the game nights or study sessions anymore. you sit on the couch and play with your phone and he sits down next to you. he'll rub your feet, or massage your legs and you let him.Â
only because he's kinda good at it, of course.Â
and sometimes you'll turn on a movie and he'll appear out of nowhere, complaining about whatever you picked, but laying down nonetheless. and after several minutes he'll move closer to you, resting his head on your thigh. and you might play with his hair, but only because it's unreasonably soft.Â
and some mornings when you wake up and make yourself breakfast, not even trying to be quiet, you'll make a little extra. but it's not for him, it's just a coincidence.Â
and he stops by the library on his way home from suguru's, or some girl's house, and the two of you will walk home together, talking about class, or the weather, or whatever gojo wants. you let him do this, because it's usually dark outside, and you don't like walking home alone.Â
and if he barges into your room sometimes--obviously not knocking--you only complain a little bit. and then you let him lay in your bed and mess with your things.Â
but only because it's the easier option, of course.Â
and you've missed the feeling of having someone near. and satoru gojo is easy to be around.Â
*
"gojo," you gasp, as soon as the door opens in your face. and then you scowl. "don't you knock?"Â
he pushes you so he can move past, raising a brow at you. "i live here." his hands are empty, and he's not wearing a coat again. just a weird button-up probably more expensive than your share of the rent. how he's survived over two decades, you're not sure.Â
your brows furrow at him. "well, you could give some warning if you're going to kick open the door. what if you broke my nose?"Â
"well, why were you standing right in front of the door when i kicked it?" gojo mimics, flicking you away, then looking down to your hands where your wallet and keys are piled up. "you going somewhere?"Â
"to the store."Â
"it's eleven."Â
"why thank you for that update, gojo. i really appreciate it," and then you move beside him to open the door.Â
but gojo grabs your hand, making sure to roll his eyes at you where you can see it, and pulls you away so he can step in front of the door. "what could you need from the store right now?"Â
"i need stuff."Â
he crosses his arms, uncharacteristically stern. "like what?"Â
"stuff. girl stuff. you wouldn't get it."Â
he gasps, mouth dropping. "oh no, did i steal too many of your tampons again?"Â
"first of all, that's against the apartment rules, so you better hope not. second of all, please move," you glare at him. "i need to hurry."Â
"you can't leave right now."Â
"i believe there's such a thing as free will..." you try and push him away, but he doesn't budge. "and you're not the boss of me."Â
"it's too late for you to walk to the store. go tomorrow."Â
you cross your arms. "when have i ever listened to you?" you ask him, feeling that familiar irritation crawl up your skin.Â
but then gojo is pulling your arms apart and resting them at your sides and saying "stop that," as a gentle chide. and that irritation molds. you push his hands away.Â
you want to push his hands off of the edge of the earth just so that he'll never touch you again.
"seriously, gojo, i need to go. they close at midnight."Â
"you can't walk to the store by yourself in the dark."Â
"i can do whatever i want."Â
"then i'm locking you in your room until tomorrow. you're grounded."Â
you poke his shoulder. you can't decide if he's serious or not. his voice is always teasing, and you can't see enough of his eyes. and you can't trust a single thing he says. "when did you become so overbearing?" you ask him, trying not to grind your teeth.Â
"when i realized how weak you are."Â
"weak?" you balk at him. "i'm not weak. please retract that sentence before i accidentally punch you."Â
"you can't even push me away from the door. i'll take my chances with your fists."Â
"that's because you're irritating me," you tell him, as you try to do it again. "anger distracts me."Â
he laughs at you, leaning even further against the door.Â
"gojo," you whine, trying to pinch him away instead. "stop being an ass. just get out of the way."Â
he holds a hand to his chest, offended. "i am showing concern about your safety," he claims, shaking his head at you.Â
"you are ruining my mood."Â
"oh, good."Â
you scowl. "move. right now."Â
"that was very intimidating," he grins at you, "but maybe try again."Â
you groan and try to stab him with your key, which he pushes away, still smiling, still completely the worst.Â
"i--" you sigh, "i don't like you very much."Â
he snorts.Â
then you pout at him, fluttering your eyelashes. "please, gojo. i'll be back in fifteen minutes."Â
"what is that?"Â
you frown. "what?"Â
"what's wrong with your face?"Â
you throw your arms up, shaking your head. then you mutter another thing about hating him under your breath and finally turn away. you set your keys and your wallet on the counter, pouting as you sit down on the couch.Â
gojo is there a moment later, laughing at you. "was that supposed to be convincing?"Â
"don't talk to me. ever again."Â
you shake your head, fed up with him and everything about this living situation. how are you locked in your apartment right now?
gojo tilts his head back, and then pauses for a moment. Â
"then how am i supposed to ask if you want to come with me to the store?" he asks, nonchalantly. "i need some stuff."Â
and you should be angry at him--you should probably break one of his fingers or cut his hair off in his sleep. you should tell him that you hate his company and that if he ever tells you what to do again--Â
but instead, you jump up from the couch, smiling at him. "let's go," you say, quickly, before you change your mind.Â
and you don't get to see it when gojo smiles back at you, softly.Â
*
"hey," he whispers, "you shouldn't sleep here."Â
gojo is shaking your shoulder gently, his breath on your face, his voice soft--even in the haze of disrupted sleep. there's a warm feeling in your belly as he speaks to you, an unknowing smile on your face.
"hmm?" you answer, trying to remember who you are and why you're here. who he is.
"it's almost midnight. what are you doing on the couch?" gojo is helping you sit up. his hands are ridiculously warm, and you don't think about how nice they feel on the bare skin of your back.Â
"gojo?"Â
he laughs. "the one and only. c'mon, i'll tuck you in."Â
"did you just get home?" you must still be sleeping, because his hands are so soft right now. and his voice is so quiet--like the creaking of an old house.Â
"yeah. are you going to get up?" he's kneeling in front of you, and his face is bare. you almost want to laugh at how bright his hair is even in the dark.Â
"where were you?"Â
he shakes his head, smiling up at you, and moves from the floor. "c'mon, sit up," he beckons, trying to get you to move your head from its place. you wince. eventually, he gives up and your heart almost disappears when he picks you up, tapping your legs so that you'll wrap them around his waist.Â
you do it, but only because you don't want to fall.Â
"why are you so tall?" you complain as he carries you to your room, feeling much more awake when you're this high in the air.Â
gojo snorts. "i'll take that as a thank you," he whispers in your ear and sets you on your bed. then he sits on the edge and takes your socks off, pulling the covers out from under you. his movements are slow as he covers every inch of skin he can see, his breath the only sound between the two of you.Â
it's colder when his hands move, and he looks at you for a moment as if trying to make sure he's satisfied with his job.Â
"are you going to make fun of me for this in the morning?"Â
gojo grins, squeezing your leg as he stands up. "probably. but only a little."Â
"okay," you yawn, blinking as he backs up towards the door.Â
"night, sweetheart," he whispers to you, and then a flash of hair is all you see before your door is closed and you drift back to sleep.Â
and in the morning you wake up and can't remember how you got in bed. gojo doesn't say a thing.Â
*
satoru gojo can say so much without saying a single thing.Â
when he burst into your room--surprising you because you hadn't realized he was home--throwing himself on your bed and mumbling something about hating his life, you didn't say a word.Â
and he'd sat there for ten minutes while you typed out a paper on your laptop, glancing over to him every couple of minutes, slightly worried because he hadn't moved an inch.Â
you've seen a lot of his moods recently. you've seen him excited about some movie you didn't understand, exhausted after a long day of classes, angry when suguru and you leave him out of a joke. but most of that, you assume, is just him being himself. every feeling he has is probably seven times larger than the average person's.
but now that he's groaning into your bed, you can tell, just from the way his body deflates, that there's something wrong. you could see it when he walked in the room, and felt it because he'd told you he was getting dinner with his parents tonight.Â
but if you know one thing about him, it's that he won't talk about it if you ask.Â
because after a couple of weeks of spending more and more time with him, you'd quickly realized that you didn't actually know much about his life. he doesn't tell any stories about his childhood, or high school years--minus the ones that he tried to suffocate suguru for letting slip. he doesn't mention his parents much, and when he does, it's nothing but the bare minimum. he mentions classes so offhandedly that you hadn't even known how extensive his studies were until suguru was teasing him about an award he'd gotten a couple of years ago.Â
he could talk to you for hours on end, but he wouldn't say anything.Â
so after realizing this, you'd resorted to asking suguru about it.
that night, gojo was asleep on the floor between your feet. his hand was under his head, and he was snoring loud enough for you to notice. you'd sat down to watch a movie with him after he'd claimed that you and suguru were losers for being tired at this hour and that he was the youngest of you all.Â
suguru only smiled a little bit at your question.
"satoru keeps an infinite amount of space between him and everyone else," he'd said softly, into the warm air of your apartment. "even with me, and i've known him since we were kids. his family..." he trailed off, shaking his head.
you'd frowned. "what?"Â
"he's always been too much for them, in a way. i mean, you know, he is too much most of the time. but he does all of it purposefully; the arrogance, the bravado. i don't know... i think he just wants to control whatever image everyone has of him. to the extent that his personality is based on pushing people away, just so he can figure out who's actually going to stick around."Â
you'd watched him then, with his fluttering eyelashes--his sunglasses lying on the ground next to him--and his bright hair. the gentle movement of his lips as he dreamt. he was softer like this, less forceful, less of a burden, and more of a boy.
and beautiful, of course, but that's an offhanded thought you wouldn't acknowledge.
"so, he doesn't talk to you about--" the words felt wrong, and you almost felt guilty for talking about him like this, with his best friend. but still. "--important stuff?"Â
"he talks to me about a lot of things. but, no, not really. i get a long-winded rant sometimes, but not often."Â
"then how are you supposed to know anything about him?"
suguru smiled at you, looking between you and gojo like there was a secret he didn't want to tell. he sighed. "satoru doesn't really tell me any of the important stuff because we've known each other for so long. i understand how his family is because i've watched him deal with them. i can guess how he's feeling based on his expression. but for people he hasn't known as long, like you, getting to know him is like i-spy."Â
suguru didnât need to elaborate. you got it.
like trying to find little hints of him hidden between all of the mess. you'd snorted and agreed.Â
and it feels even more true now, with him cowering in your blankets. but still, you say nothing.Â
you get it, to a certain degree. vulnerability was one of the feelings you liked to push away; secrets were only supposed to be coveted by you. getting close to people was a dangerous thing, risky in its own way.Â
but, thinking that gojo doesn't trust you--couldn't trust you... it's more irritating than it should be. and maybe that's just because you're arrogant, and think yourself to be trustworthy. or maybe it's because you trust him, in your own unique way, even with all of his too much and extremeness.Â
you don't say that to him though, just like he doesn't say anything to you.Â
"hey," you push him with a foot. "are you drooling on my comforter?"Â
there's a moment of silence, then gojo rolls over. "not a lot."Â
you roll your eyes at him and type another sentence--a collection of words that have nothing to do with the actual essay you're writing, naturally--waiting for him to say something else.Â
and, predictably, he does. "why aren't you paying attention to me?"Â
"i'm busy, gojo."Â
"no, you're not."Â
"i am doing homework."Â
he looks up at you. his sunglasses are somewhere on your floor. "well, then you're definitely not busy," he grins.Â
you swat away a hand that tries to steal your computer.Â
"aren't you supposed to be at dinner?" you ask him, trying to seem like you don't care about the answer.Â
he sighs again. "canceled."Â
"why?"Â
"my dad had a meeting or something."Â
"oh."Â
you let the silence wade for a minute or two, trying to be discreet when you watch his face for any signs of discontent. but gojo just has his eyes closed. his hands above his head.Â
eventually, you nudge him again. "did you eat anything?"Â
he shakes his head.Â
"do you want me to make you something?"Â
an eye opens. he turns over and rests his head on his hands, squinting at you. "are you being nice to me?"Â
"not intentionally."Â
he snorts, poking you, almost in awe. "you are."Â
"i'm just trying to make sure you don't die, okay? who knows what you've eaten today."Â
he crawls up your bed, sitting right next to you so he can rest his head on your shoulder. and you should push him off, but you don't. "it's okay. i'm not very hungry."Â
"that's not what i asked."Â
gojo laughs against you, his hair brushing against your neck.Â
you shouldn't say anything more. you shouldn't even entertain him and his antics, and you shouldn't even care (but you do. for some, stupid, infuriating reason).Â
so you look at him, and your voice is soft when you ask, "you okay?" to him, hoping that it doesn't seem too intrusive. wishing that you didn't actually care if he was or not.
gojo's eyes meet yours, and for a brief moment, you get that feeling again.Â
that feeling in your stomach that makes you want to jump away from him. that makes your hands want to shake, and your voice fade. that feeling that you know--too well, too much--but can't get rid of.Â
like an itch you're not really supposed to scratch.Â
gojo swallows. "yeah," he answers, with no grin, no conceit. "i'm okay."Â
and it shouldn't feel like a relief to hear, but it does. you nod, look away, and go back to your computer. back to your actual life, which shouldn't have any satoru gojo in it.Â
but a minute later he adds: "i'd be better if you made me dinner, though."Â
and you pull on his hair a little. you try to pretend like his smile doesn't fill you with butterflies.Â
*
this shouldn't be happening.Â
it's the only reasonable thought running through your brain at the moment. the only echo you can discern, the only words you can make out in the jumble of anxiety and horror running through your mind.Â
he should not be this close.Â
gojo had only picked you up from work once again, his easy smile meeting yours as soon as he walked through the door--you'd been waiting, wondering when he was going to show up.Â
at seven-thirty he was there, letting in the cold air and sitting in the seat next to yours, complaining about the fact that you had a job that diverted your attention away from him while you rolled your eyes.Â
he sat there for the half an hour remaining in your shift, distracting you.Â
two months ago you would've kicked him out. would've called some make-believe security.Â
but you just listened while he talked to you about space theories that didn't make any sense.Â
and then he'd grabbed your bag for you, turning off the lights before you could, pushing in chairs while you organized the reception desk.Â
and his hand grabbed yours before you thought to notice--swinging along while the two of you began the walk home.Â
and halfway there, gojo stopped, looking up at something. "hey," he'd poked you. "look at the stars."Â
you'd done it, begrudgingly, squinting. "i can count, like, three."Â
"there's at least five."Â
"why did you stop me to do this? it's cold."Â
"because they look nice," he argues, looking down at you. "you have no eye for beauty."Â
and, really, you might've agreed with him. you might've pushed him away from you and told him to hurry up and you might've not cared at all.Â
but you could see his eyes, just a little bit, behind his sunglasses. and his smile was alabaster, and that feeling--that gasping for breath, trying to hold on to anything feeling--was there again.Â
and it was poking you. like a push in some direction. like a laugh telling you that you were too afraid to do anything.Â
you were looking at him. right at his face and the only thing you wanted to say was that he was wrong.Â
he was wrong because at least you knew that he looked beautiful.Â
but those words wouldn't leave your lips--that thought couldn't leave your head--so you were only staring at him. wishing that you'd never let him into your apartment and that he hadn't started becoming a person to you.Â
it wasn't fair like this.Â
"what?" he whispered, his smile dropping, like he could tell there was something wrong with you. like he knew you that well.Â
if he'd kept on smiling, you wouldn't have done it. you wouldn't have pushed up on your toes and leaned into him, and you wouldn't have kissed him like you did.Â
like you're doing.Â
and it would've been fine because you never would've started this knowing that it would eventually have to stop.Â
and even though it takes him less than a second to kiss you back--his lips molding to yours like an automatic reaction--you know that you shouldn't be doing this.Â
that you can't be doing this. not with him. not like this.Â
so when gojo's hands move to your waist, his breath even in your mouth, you push at his chest. and you want to run away.Â
"i'm--" you swallow, trying not to taste him, the bubblegum flavor of him, and almost flinch away. "i'm sorry."Â
gojo's mouth is frozen from where he stands two feet away. his hands are in the air like he doesn't know what to do with them. "you..."Â
and you've never heard him speechless before. just the idea of it makes you blurt out whatever comes to mind. "i shouldn't have done that," you tell him, and, "i didn't mean to--i don't--" you shake your head. "sorry. i'm sorry. can we forget about this? can we get home because i'm really cold?"Â
"you kissed me," gojo says, so simply.Â
the words are another blow to your heart. you were hoping that he wouldn't have noticed.Â
and wince and watch him, his face as it shifts, moving with each thought in his head.Â
"gojo, i'm really--"Â
"no," he interrupts, taking a step towards you.Â
"what?"Â
"that's not my name."Â
you frown. "yes it is?"Â
he shakes his head. "no, it's satoru. you've said it before, you know. you should keep saying it."Â
"when have i said it?" you ask, momentarily blinded by how he demands this. who is he to demand anything?Â
"when you were drunk."Â
you scoff. "i'm not just going to call you by your first name cause you want me to," you tell him, "who do you think i am?"Â
and then satoru laughs, shaking his head at you, his grin full-force on his face. "are you serious? you kissed me and now you don't want to call me by my first name?"Â
you freeze. "i said i was sorry about that," you say, weakly.Â
you feel like who you've always felt around him. not as easy, not as cool, never as smooth. you feel like a child caught doing something they're not supposed to. you want to run away from him, but he knows where you live.Â
"you're sorry?"Â
"i didn't mean to."Â
he quirks a brow. "you didn't mean to?"Â
"it was an accident?"Â
he takes another step closer. "it was an accident?"Â
"are you just going to keep repeating everything i say?" you ask, voice hard. this must be a dream.Â
satoru shakes his head at you. "no, but i have a question."Â
"...okay."Â
"if i try to kiss you right now, are you going to try and murder me? i know that we're away from the apartment right now, but it would really ruin the mood."Â
you stare at him.Â
it must be answer enough because he steps forward and he kisses you again. but this time, it feels less mechanical. his lips are soft and smooth as they push against yours--and he pushes like he's demanding something from you. like he knows more about what you can give than you do.Â
and he grins against you like he's doing everything exactly right.Â
but when satoru pulls back, your eyes stay shut. you try and banish the feeling in your stomach from your body, but it doesn't respond to idle threats.Â
"we shouldn't do this," you whisper to him. you don't open your eyes. you don't want to see his face and fall victim to another one of his schemes.Â
"why not?"Â
"the last time i kissed one of my roommates..." you imply, hoping that you don't have to tell him that you're scared.Â
"oh, right," he brushes some hair from your face. he has not moved an inch away from you. "i forgot that you're experienced."Â
"wasn't it obvious?"Â
he laughs, and then nudges your cheek with a finger. "look at me."Â
you shake your head.Â
"c'mon, just a little."Â
his voice is so soft. satoru is whispering like it's just for you. and you've never heard him like this and you don't think you want to see him.Â
"please, sweetheart?" he asks, one last time, and you have to. if only to put yourself out of your own misery. "good. now listen--"Â
"don't tell me what to do."Â
he rolls his eyes. "listen," he repeats. "i know you don't like me very much. and i know that you only keep me around for my rent money and my pretty face--"Â
you kinda want to hit him.Â
"--but i've wanted to kiss you for weeks. and i'm not good at the..." he swallows, blinking just briefly. "all of the telling stuff, but i want to be. with you. for you."Â
you're not sure if that's the end, or if it's the beginning. your eyes are stuck on his smile, and you're not listening to anything he said.Â
he's very close right now. so accessible. and it's just another reason to want to push him away.Â
satoru clears his throat, nudging your head with his nose. "and i'm tired of shoko and suguru calling me a coward, so it'd be great if you'd mention that you kissed me first."Â
your brows furrow. "you told shoko and suguru?"Â
"i didn't say anything," he almost swears. "they tricked me into admitting it."Â
"when?"Â
"...the day after i introduced you to them."Â
you pull away to observe his face. "really?"Â
he groans. "stop looking at me like that," he says, "it's mean."Â
you almost smile at him again. then close your eyes. "okay."
"havent you listened to anything i've said to you?" he asks, rhetorically. "i flirt with you every day."Â
"you flirt with everything."Â
"mmm, true," he leans his chin against your head, breathing you in. "now that i've poured my heart out for you, can we go home? it's cold out here, and i'd rather make out on our couch than that bench over there."Â
"who said anything about making out?"Â
"please," he wraps an arm around your shoulder, and smiles down at you--with all of the typical swagger--and maybe this time you let him.Â
synopsis : satoru always saw you as suguruâs little sisterâuntil you came back different, and dangerous to want. fighting it should be easy, but summer has a way of breaking rules. and some mistakes feel too good to stop making.
tags â childhood friends au, mutual pining, summer romance, beach setting, forbidden romance, brotherâs best friend trope, fluff, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, public sex (car), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pussy drunk satoru, overstimulation, virgin reader if u squint, unprotected piv sex, pull out method, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use, 13.9k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.
a/n : i tried dialogue heavy writing instead of my usual sensory and internalization on one bit and all i can say is im never doing it again it felt so icky im so sorry TvT art is not mine, i am in the middle of finding the source ><
five years vanish like smoke, curling into nothing.
summer presses heavy on the cracked asphalt, heatwaves shimmering like ghosts rising from the dunes. the pop-up ice cream stand sags under the sunâs relentless weight, its faded awning flapping lazily in the salty breeze.
satoru leans against suguruâs rusted truck, sunglasses slipping down his nose, a greasy bag of fries teetering on his knee. theyâre parked beside the shack, the lull in customers letting them sink into idle chatter, cheap food, and the sticky rhythm of a beachside summer.
heâs mid-biteâsalt and vinegar stinging his tongue, sweat trickling down his neckâwhen he hears it.
a laugh.
not just any laugh.
bright and sharp, it cuts through the cicadasâ drone and the surfâs restless crash like a blade through silk.
he looks up, annoyed firstâwhoâs that fucking loud?âthen stunned, breath punched out of him like heâs taken a fist to the chest.
you step into view like youâve walked out of a dream he didnât know he was having, framed by the blazing sky and the oceanâs glitter. alone, you drag a beat-up duffel bag, its strap slung over your shoulder, sneakers kicking up little clouds of sand. the sundress you wearâwhite, gauzy, catching the breezeâclings to your thighs, the hem flirting with every step.Â
a wide-brimmed beach hat sits tilted on your head, casting dappled shadows across your face, and your hair, sun-lightened and wild, spills down your back like itâs daring the wind to tame it.
youâre older. taller. you move with a confidence that scrapes at satoruâs ribs, leaves them raw and aching. youâre gorgeous in a way that feels like a hazard, like a spark too close to dry tinder. you shine, bright and untouchable, and heâs caught, staring, helpless.
his fry drops to the pavement, forgotten.
âyo,â suguru says, elbow jabbing satoruâs side, hard enough to rattle the truck. âyou good, or did the sun fry your brain?â
satoru canât answer. his tongueâs too thick, his heartâs lodged somewhere near his ankles. all he can do is watch you, the way your dress shifts with each step, the way your hat tilts as you turn your head, scanning the beach.
then you see them.
your face splits into a grin so bright it dims the sky, and satoru feels the ground tilt beneath him.
âsatoru!â you shout, waving with a reckless joy that cracks the world open.
he pushes off the truck, heart hammering like itâs trying to break free, shoving his sunglasses up to hide the way his eyes are drinking you in. he hopes suguru doesnât notice, hopes the heat crawling up his neck doesnât betray him.
he saunters over, all false swagger, pretending his knees arenât loose, pretending heâs still the same satoru who used to tease you mercilessly. âlong time no see, squirt,â he drawls, flicking the brim of your hat. itâs a mistakeâthe hat makes you look too fucking cute, the way it frames your face, the way it dares him to keep looking.
you laugh, breathless and bright, and before he can brace himself, you throw your arms around his neck.
he freezes, arms caught mid-air, your warmth slamming into him like a wave. your body presses closeâsoft, real, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. your scent, something sweet and sun-warmed, wraps around him, and heâs drowning, his hands hovering before instinct takes over.
he wraps you up, too tight, too desperate, your curves fitting against him like you were made for it. your fingers fist into the back of his shirt, a brief, greedy clutch, and he feels the tremor in your grip, the way it lingers one second too long.
then you pull away, leaving him blinking, bereft, his skin tingling where you touched.
suguru joins a moment later, his lazy grin in place, oblivious to the storm raging in satoruâs chest. âdidnât know you were back today,â he says, pulling you into a quick hug. âwouldâve picked you up from the station.â
he ruffles your hair, that annoying big-brother move, and you swat at him, your hat tilting precariously. âsomeone needs extra hands at the stand,â suguru continues, slinging an arm around your shoulders, his fondness clear in the crinkle of his eyes. âand since youâre back in town with nothing better to doâŠâ
heâs teasing, but thereâs warmth there, a quiet pride in having you close again. satoru watches, jaw tight, as you lean into suguruâs side, your ease with him sparking something sharp and ugly in his chest. itâs not jealousyânot of suguru, never thatâbut something else, something that claws at him, hot and restless.
âfigured youâd be perfect,â suguru adds, smirking at satoru now, like he knows somethingâs off. âplus, toru here was whining about being bored.â
âwas not,â satoru mutters, kicking at the sand, heat climbing his neck. heâs lying, and suguru knows itâsatoruâs been restless all summer, chasing distractions to fill the hollow in his gut.
you laugh again, sweet and effortless, sweeter than the cotton candy sold at the stand. itâs a sound that hooks into satoruâs ribs, pulls tight, leaves him aching.
that shitty little diner down the road, with its cracked vinyl booths and milkshakes so thick you need a spoon. the three of you used to haunt it every summer, sprawled across a booth, stealing fries, laughing until your sides hurt. nostalgia hits satoru like a fist, sharp and sudden. heâs fourteen again, all knees and elbows, stomach hollow with a hunger he couldnât name.
âlast one there buys dessert,â you chirp, already jogging ahead, duffel bag bouncing against your hip, sneakers flashing white against the sand. your sundress flutters, catching the light, and satoruâs eyes linger too long on the curve of your calves, the sway of your hips.
he tells himself youâre off-limits, a mantra heâs worn thin over the years. youâre suguruâs little sister, untouchable, a line heâd never cross. but the air smells like salt and possibility, and you feel like a second chance he didnât know he needed.
heâs marching after you before he can stop himself, pretending heâs still just satoruâyour brotherâs idiot friend, the guy who used to pull your pigtails and sneak you extra ice cream. pretending heâs not burning up inside, pretending the rules still hold when youâre close enough to touch, close enough to taste.
pretending heâs not already, irreversibly, fucked.
the diner sits like a time capsule at the edge of town, neon sign buzzing like a trapped firefly, its pink and blue glow flickering against the dusk. same warped menu boards, same cracked vinyl booths, same sticky linoleum floor that clings to your sneakers.
nothing ever changes here, and satoru both loves and hates itâloves the way it holds you in its amber, hates how it reminds him of everything heâs tried to outrun. itâs the backdrop to a thousand memories, all of them sharp with you and suguru.
you slide into the booth across from him, your sundress whispering against your thighs, beach hat tossed beside you like an afterthought. satoruâs hyperaware of his knees brushing the air just shy of yours under the chipped formica table, the space between you electric, too small.
suguru slips in next to you, casual as ever, but thereâs a protective edge in the way his arm drapes across the boothâs back, fingers grazing the vinyl an inch from your shoulder.
âso,â suguru says, sliding a laminated menu your way, its edges curling like old paper, âcollege treating you okay?â
you shrug, lips curving into a half-smile that catches the dinerâs dim light. âitâs just school. nothing as exciting as the beach.â
âsheâs being modest,â satoru teases, forcing his voice to stay light while his pulse hammers, your nearness a live wire under his skin. âprobably acing everything.â
your eyes flick to his, a hint of pink blooming high on your cheeks, soft and fleeting like a sunset. âhardly. nearly failed calculus last semester.â
âyou? fail math?â satoru grins, leaning forward, the memory of you hunched over graph paper, explaining equations to him and suguru, vivid as yesterday. âimpossible.â
âcollege math is different,â you protest, but youâre smiling, holding his gaze a second too long, your lashes casting faint shadows.
suguru glances between you, eyebrow twitching upward before he grabs a menu, oblivious to the way satoruâs heart stumbles. âfoodâs still exactly the same here. bet they havenât cleaned the grill since we were kids.â
âthatâs what makes it good,â you say, laughing, the sound bright and warm, like the clink of sea glass against the shore. ânothing beats greasy diner food after a day at the beach.â
the waitress appears, pen poised, her gaze lingering on satoru, lips curving in a way thatâs too sweet, too practiced. âwhat can i get for you folks?â she asks, voice syrupy when it lands on him.
you straighten in your seat, fingers tightening on the menuâs edge, a flicker of something sharp in your eyes. âiâll have a chocolate shake and fries,â you say, voice clear, pulling her attention like you meant to.
âdouble cheeseburger, extra fries, chocolate shake thick enough for a spoon,â satoru orders, not glancing at the menu or the waitress. some things never changeâhis order, this booth, the way his chest tightens when youâre close.
âyou still get the same thing?â you ask, smile soft with nostalgia, like youâre seeing him for the first time in years. âyou used to make such a mess with those shakes.â
âremember when he got chocolate all over your new white shirt?â suguru chimes in, grinning, leaning back with an ease satoru envies. âyou cried for like an hour.â
âi did not cry for an hour,â you protest, cheeks flushing, a spark of indignation in your eyes. âmaybe ten minutes. tops.â
âand then satoru gave you his hoodie,â suguru continues, smirk sharp now, âand suddenly the tears magically stopped.â
âshut up,â you mutter, kicking suguru under the table, your gaze skittering away from satoruâs.
he remembers that day like itâs burned into himâyou, twelve, small and devastated, tears streaking your face over a ruined shirt. him, awkward and too tall, draping his oversized hoodie around your shoulders, your eyes lighting up like heâd given you something precious. the memory sits heavy in his chest, warm and aching.
âyou kept that hoodie for years,â suguru adds, ignoring your glare, voice teasing but fond. âpretty sure i saw you packing it for college.â
âoh my god, can we talk about anything else?â you plead, face scarlet, fingers twisting the straw wrapper into a knot.
satoruâs heart lurches. you kept his hoodie? all these years? the thought blooms inside him, dangerous and warm, like a spark he canât smother. he wants to ask, wants to know if it still smells like him, if you ever wore it and thought of him, but he swallows it down, terrified of what his face might give away.
âwhat brought you back this summer?â he asks, voice steadier than he feels, desperate to shift the focus before he betrays himself. âjust break, orâŠ?â
âinternship fell through,â you admit, shrugging, the motion small, almost apologetic. âfigured iâd come home, make some money at the stand if you guys needed help.â
âalways need help,â suguru nods, stealing a sugar packet from the caddy, spinning it between his fingers. âtourist seasonâs crazy this year.â
âplus satoruâs been whining about needing days off,â he adds, smirking, tossing the packet at satoru.
âi have not been whining,â satoru protests, catching the packet mid-air, his grin masking the way his pulse spikes at your laugh.
âyou literally said yesterday that if one more kid dropped their ice cream and cried, you were going to walk straight into the ocean,â suguru deadpans, folding his arms.
you laugh, bright and clear, and satoruâs heart does a stupid, reckless flip. god, he missed that soundâmissed it like air, like something vital he didnât know heâd lost until itâs here again, filling the hollow in his chest.
âsounds like you need me to save you,â you tease, eyes locking with his across the table, a flicker of softness there, warm and unguarded.
âmaybe i do,â he says, too honest, voice low, watching the pink deepen on your cheeks, the way your lips part just slightly.
the food arrives, breaking the moment like a wave against the shore. you take a bite of a fry, eyes fluttering shut, a small hum of contentment slipping out that has satoru gripping his glass so tight heâs surprised it doesnât crack. the soundâs innocent, but it lands like a spark, igniting something restless in him.
âgod, i missed real food,â you sigh, dipping another fry in ketchup, the motion careless, perfect. âdining hall stuff is awful.â
âthat fancy school doesnât feed you right?â suguru teases, stealing a fry from your plate, dodging your swat with a grin.
âhey!â you protest, brandishing your fork like a weapon. âand no, itâs all kale and quinoa and weird vegan options.â
âpoor baby,â satoru mocks, but his voice is soft, and when suguruâs not looking, he slides a few of his fries onto your plate, a quiet offering.
you catch it, eyes warming, lips curving into a private smile that feels like a secret stitched between you. your fingers brush the tableâs edge, inches from his, and he wonders what itâd be like to close that gap, to feel your skin against his.
âremember that summer we practically lived here?â you ask, stirring your shake, the spoon clinking softly against the glass. âafter suguru got his license?â
âand dadâs old pickup,â suguru adds, nodding, his eyes distant with memory. âweâd come every day after the beach.â
âyou two would eat your weight in fries,â you laugh, the sound wrapping around satoru like a tide, pulling him under. âand then race each other back to the water like idiots.â
âwhile you timed us,â satoru recalls, grin tugging at his lips, the memory vividâyour small hands clutching a cheap stopwatch, shouting times as he and suguru sprinted, sand flying. âalways the competitive one.â
âsays the guy who insisted on best of three every single time he lost,â you counter, eyebrow raised, a challenge in your gaze.
âwhich was most times,â suguru adds, smirking.
âi let you win,â satoru protests, clutching his chest like heâs wounded, but his eyes are on you, drinking in the way you laugh.
âsure you did,â you say, not buying it, your eyes bright with that old, familiar spark.
suguruâs phone buzzes, shattering the moment. he checks it, sighs, and pushes his plate aside. âdad needs me to pick up stuff from the hardware store. you two good here? i can come back.â
âweâre fine,â you say quickly, waving him off, your hat slipping slightly as you turn. âi remember the way home.â
suguru hesitates, eyes narrowing as he glances between you, like he senses the shift in the air. âbehave yourselves.â
âwhatâs that supposed to mean?â you ask, voice too innocent, lips twitching.
âit means donât let satoru convince you to do something stupid like that time he talked you into jumping off the pier,â suguru says, sliding out of the booth, his sneakers scuffing the floor.
âthat was one time,â satoru defends, spreading his hands. âand she wanted to do it!â
âi was twelve and you told me it was totally safe,â you remind him, but youâre smiling, no bite behind it, just warmth.
âand it was safe,â he insists, leaning back. âyou just canât dive.â
suguru rolls his eyes, already halfway to the door. âiâll be back in twenty. try not to burn the place down.â
the door jingles as he leaves, and the air shifts, charged, heavy with the weight of being alone with you for the first time in five years. the diner feels smaller, the hum of the neon sign louder, the space between you crackling like static.
âso,â you say, twirling your straw in your shake, eyes meeting his through your lashes, a hint of vulnerability beneath the tease. âdid you miss me at all while i was gone?â
the question lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through him. he wants to say everythingâhow the stand felt empty, how summers dragged without your laugh, how heâs been chasing pieces of you in every distraction. but he canât, not when youâre looking at him like that, soft and expectant.
ânah,â he says, breezy, then grins at your mock outrage, the way you puff out your cheeks. âmaybe a little. the stand was too quiet without you dropping things.â
âi was not that clumsy!â you protest, laughing, the sound bright enough to drown out the dinerâs hum.
âyou knocked over an entire display of sunglasses trying to reach the top shelf,â he reminds you, smirking, the memory sharpâyou, sixteen, stretching on tiptoes, cursing under your breath as plastic frames clattered to the ground. âtwice.â
âbecause you and suguru kept putting things where i couldnât reach them,â you counter, pointing a fry at him, your eyes narrowing playfully.
âit was funny watching you try,â he admits, smile softening, remembering the determined set of your jaw, the little huff youâd let out. âyouâd get this wrinkle right here.â he taps between his brows, his finger lingering in the air too long.
your cheeks color, and you drop your gaze to your plate, lips twitching. âi can reach the top shelf now,â you say quietly, almost a challenge.
âi noticed,â he replies, the words slipping out, low and warm. too much, he thinks, but your smileâpleased, a little shyâmakes it worth the risk.
âcollege has some perks,â you say, glancing up, your eyes catching his, holding them.
âlike sukuna?â he asks, the name sour on his tongue, suguruâs earlier comment gnawing at him. he hates himself for it, for the way it slips out, sharp and unfiltered.
your smile falters, just for a second. âsukuna was just a friend.â
âa persistent friend,â satoru presses, leaning forward, unable to stop the edge in his voice.
âjealous?â you challenge, but thereâs a hopeful spark in your eyes, a crack in your teasing that makes his pulse race.
âmaybe,â he admits, surprising himself, the honesty raw, reckless. âor just protective. like suguru.â
âyouâre not my brother,â you say softly, holding his gaze, the words heavy, deliberate.
âno,â he agrees, throat dry, heart pounding like itâs trying to break free. âiâm not.â
something shifts, a dangerous possibility curling in the air like smoke. you look away first, tucking hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. your smile stays, small and secret, like youâre holding onto something fragile.
âanyway,â you say, voice lighter, âsuguru mentioned youâve been working on games?â
he grabs the lifeline, grateful for the shift. âyeah, indie stuff. nothing major yet, but iâve got a few things published.â
âthatâs amazing!â you say, eyes lighting up, genuine excitement in your voice. âyou always were crazy talented with that stuff.â
âsays the college girl,â he teases, but your praise sinks into him, warm and heavy, like a touch he can still feel.
âitâs just school,â you shrug, stirring your shake again, the spoon clinking softly. ânothing special.â
âit is special,â he insists, leaning forward, needing you to hear it. âyou always were the smart one.â
you roll your eyes, but your smileâs pleased, soft. âsays the guy who helped me pass physics senior year.â
âonly because you helped me through lit,â he counters, grinning, the memory of late-night study sessionsâyour patience, your quiet focusâstirring something tender in him.
you laugh, the sound wrapping around him like the sunâs warmth. âwe made a good team.â
âwe still could,â he says, the words escaping before he can catch them, heavy with meaning he didnât intend.
your eyes widen, lips parting, a flicker of hope crossing your face before you mask it with a laugh. âwell, weâll see how we do at the stand first,â you say lightly. âmight get sick of me.â
ânot possible,â he replies, too quick, too honest, his voice low enough to feel like a confession.
your smile turns shy, fingers fidgeting with your straw, twisting it into a knot. âyou might be surprised. i sing in the mornings now,â you admit. âreally loud, really off-key.â
âthatâs not new,â he teases, leaning back, grateful for the lighter ground. âyou used to screech taylor swift at the top of your lungs while restocking.â
âi did not screech,â you protest, laughing, your indignation bright and perfect.
âyou absolutely did,â he insists, smirking. âscared away customers.â
âyouâre such a liar,â you accuse, grinning, eyes sparkling like the ocean at noon. âyou told me i had a nice voice.â
âmaybe i lied then,â he suggests, voice dropping, playful but edged with something softer.
âor maybe youâre lying now,â you counter, leaning forward, your elbows on the table, closing the distance between you.
âguess youâll have to sing for me again so i can decide,â he says, voice low, the words a dare, a pull.
your cheeks flush, but you hold his gaze, challenge sparking in your eyes. âmaybe i will.â
the air crackles, five years of distance collapsing into this moment, this booth, this look. youâre not a kid anymore, and satoru canât pretend he doesnât see itâthe way youâve grown into yourself, confident, bright, a fire he canât look away from.
âwe should probably head back,â you say finally, glancing at your phone, your voice softer, like youâre reluctant to break the spell. âbefore suguru sends out a search party.â
ârace you to the truck?â satoru suggests, grinning, a callback to countless summer days, his heart lighter than itâs been in years.
âdeal,â he says, already sliding out of the booth, his pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with running.
you grab your hat, fingers brushing the brim, eyes gleaming with mischief. âready?â
and then youâre off, dashing through the diner, sundress fluttering like a sail, laughter trailing behind you like a melody. satoru follows, heart pounding, knowing suguru might kill him for the thoughts burning through his mindâyour smile, your voice, the way you feel like homeâbut right now, watching you run ahead, he thinks it might just be worth it.
summer melts over the beach in thick, sticky waves, clinging to the chipped paint of the pop-up stand, to the sweat-damp curls at the nape of your neck.
you work the stand with suguru and satoru, slinging snow cones that bleed syrup, fries that glisten with grease, and cheap sunglasses that tourists snap up despite their complaints about the prices. they wilt under the sunâs brutal glare, faces flushed and shiny, while you move through the chaos with an ease that twists something in satoruâs chest.
itâs only been a week since you started helping out.
satoru tries to be normal. he swears he does.
but then thereâs you, stretching on tiptoes to grab a stack of napkins from the top shelf, your tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of soft stomach, a tiny mole just above your hip that heâs never seen before. itâs a punch to the gut, that small mark, and he ducks behind the register, fumbling with keychains, pretending to sort them while his pulse hammers.
heâs not staring, he tells himself, but his eyes keep dragging back to you, to the way your skin catches the light, warm and alive.
thereâs you, perched on a stool, slurping a cherry popsicle thatâs melting faster than you can keep up with, your tongue darting out to catch the drips, lips stained red.
your eyes are half-lidded, lazy with heat, and your sandal taps a restless rhythm against the counterâs edge. every tap is a countdown, every slick of your tongue a slow execution, and satoruâs dying, his hands gripping the counter to keep from reaching out, from doing something stupid.
heâs fucking dying.
âdude,â suguru says one afternoon, lobbing a wadded-up receipt at satoruâs head, the paper bouncing off his temple. âyour math is shit today.â
satoru startles, blinking at the till where heâs been staring for god knows how long, a customerâs change still clutched in his fist, coins biting into his palm. the tourist in front of him shifts impatiently, fanning herself with a crumpled map.
âwhatever,â he mutters, shoving the coins across the counter, his voice rough. âitâs hot. iâm fried.â
âsure,â suguru drawls, slow and amused, leaning against the freezer, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. not suspicious, thank god, just teasing.
you laugh, swinging your legs where youâre perched on the counter, your denim shorts riding up to show the smooth expanse of your thighs, gleaming under the flickering neon âopenâ sign. youâre flipping through a gossip magazine, the pages crinkling under your fingers, your nails painted a chipped sky blue.
satoru nearly trips over his own feet grabbing a water bottle from the cooler, the cold glass slipping in his sweaty grip.
âearth to satoru,â you tease, crumpling a napkin into a ball and tossing it at his head, your aim perfect.
he catches it one-handed, tosses it back with a grin that feels too tight, too sharp, because youâre a fucking hazard, a loaded gun with your finger brushing the trigger, and you donât even know it. your smile is lazy, your eyes bright with mischief, and heâs drowning in the heat of you, in the way youâre everywhereâyour laugh, your scent, your warmth.
suguru cackles from the back room, sorting straws, oblivious to the storm in satoruâs chest.
âbet you canât make another shot,â you taunt, grin wicked, leaning forward so your tank top dips just enough to make his throat dry.
âbet you i can,â he fires back, because itâs you, and heâs an idiot who canât say no to you, not ever.
he grabs a plastic spoon, flicks it with a practiced snap of his wristâit arcs across the stand, bounces off the freezerâs handle, and lands neatly in the trash can with a soft thud.
you whistle low, impressed, your lips pursing in a way thatâs entirely too distracting. âshow-off,â you say, but your smile softens, warm around the edges, like youâre proud of him.
later, youâre all sprawled in the sand behind the stand after closing, the air cooler but still thick, heavy with the dayâs lingering heat. suguru strums a beat-up guitar he dug out of his garage, the strings twanging softly, his voice humming off-key to some old song.
you and satoru lie side by side, close enough that your arm brushes his when you shift, the contact sending sparks skittering across his skin. the sand is cool under his back, but heâs burning, every nerve attuned to you.
you doodle nonsense shapes into the sand with a stick, biting your lip in concentration, your brows furrowing just slightly. satoru watches from the corner of his eye, heart aching like itâs been bruised, the sight of you so close and so untouchable carving something raw inside him.
âwanna play chicken fights in the water tomorrow?â you ask suddenly, looking up at him, your eyes catching the last of the sunset, bright and alive.
âonly if i get to be your ride,â he says without thinking, voice rougher than he means, the words heavy with want he canât voice.
you grin, wide and blinding, and itâs like the sun never set, like youâre carrying it inside you. he almost blacks out, his breath catching, his world narrowing to the curve of your mouth.
âdeal,â you say, offering your pinky, the gesture so familiar it hurts. he hooks his around yours, the brief press of your skin a vow he feels in his bones, sacred and binding.
he starts inventing excuses to stay after closing. restocking chips that donât need restocking. double-checking the cash register he balanced hours ago. making sure you get home safe, as if the quiet streets of this town could ever hurt you. and you let him, every single time, your presence pulling him like gravity.
you let him linger, let him stand too close when you count the till, your fingers brushing his as you pass a bill, the contact fleeting but electric. you bump shoulders when you sweep sand off the counters, your laughter spilling into the night, loud and easy, hooking into his ribs and tugging until he aches. the string lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft glow over your face, tangling in your hair like a halo.
sometimes suguruâs there, tossing keys, joking about âkids these daysâ before bailing early to meet some girl at the pier, his footsteps fading into the dark. sometimes itâs just you and satoru, alone under the lights, the salty breeze stirring your hair, the beach stretching out endless and shadowed behind you, waves whispering secrets to the shore.
one night, after suguru ditches early, you and satoru ride home together. you slide into the cab of his truck, knees knocking against his in the cramped space, the scent of your sunscreenâcoconut and sea saltâand the faint sweetness of sugar from the snow cones you snuck filling the air.
itâs suffocating, intoxicating, and he grips the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.
the windows are down, the radio humming a low, dreamy song, its melody weaving through the warm night. the wind whips your hair across your face, and you laugh, batting it away with a careless hand, your fingers catching the light from passing streetlamps.
he thinks about crashing the truck just to have an excuse to feel your hands on him, to pull you close and never let go.
at a red light, you turn to him, voice soft, lilting, like youâre sharing a secret. âyouâre staring.â
he jerks his eyes back to the road, ears burning scarlet, heart thudding so loud heâs sure you can hear it. âam not,â he says, voice cracking, betraying him.
you hum, unconvinced, leaning your head against the window, a small, knowing smile curling your lips. âliar,â you murmur, so soft itâs almost lost to the music, but it lands like a dart, sharp and precise.
âwhatever,â he mutters, flustered, his usual swagger crumbling under the weight of your gaze.
the drive stretches on, every stoplight a torture, every bump in the road vibrating through the cab, tightening the tension until itâs a living thing, thick and heavy.
you hum along to the radio, voice low and sweet, your fingers tapping the dashboard in time, a rhythm that syncs with his pulse. every so often, you sneak glances at him, quick flicks of your eyes that burn, that make him want to pull over and confess everything.
you point out a diner glowing neon against the dark, its sign buzzing faintly. âwe should go sometime,â you say, casual, but thereâs a thread of hope woven into your voice, delicate and bright.
âyeah,â he says, too fast, too eager. âyeah, totally.â
your smile breaks over him like dawn, warm and inevitable, and heâs helpless, caught in its light.
when he drops you off, you linger by the truckâs door, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, fingers twisting the strap. âthanks for the ride,â you say, voice feather-light, your eyes catching the moonlight.
he nods, swallowing hard, his throat tight with everything he canât say.
you lean in, close enough that he can see the faint freckles dusting your nose, smell the sweet trace of your lip balmâstrawberry, he thinks, dizzy with it. for one wild, reckless second, he thinks youâre going to kiss him, and his heart stops, his world narrowing to you.
but you just tap his chest with two fingers, right over his racing heart, the touch light but searing, like a brand. âsee you tomorrow, toru.â
you bounce up the porch steps, pausing to throw him a wink over your shoulder, quick and playful, before slipping inside. the door clicks shut, and heâs left staring after you, the engine ticking softly in the warm night air, the ghost of your touch burning against his skin.
he slumps back in the seat, groaning into his hands, the sound raw and desperate. âoff-limits,â he mutters, thudding his head against the steering wheel, each word a knife. âoff. fucking. limits.â
he drives home on autopilot, your laugh echoing in his ears, the memory of your fingers against his chest a pulse he canât shake. he dreams of you that nightâsoft, warm, impossibly close, your breath against his skinâand wakes up aching, the line between want and need blurred beyond recognition.
the next evening, satoru offers you a ride home again, his voice casual but his pulse anything but. suguru waves you off, barely glancing up from his phone, thumbs flying as he texts his latest fling about meeting at the bonfire later.
âdonât wait up,â he calls, a smirk in his voice, and satoru nearly stumbles, cheeks flushing despite the eveningâs cool bite, the implication landing like a spark in dry grass.
outside, the sky bleeds watercolorâorange and gold streaking into deep lavender, fading to dusky indigo at the horizon. the air carries salt, the smoky tang of distant bonfires, the faint sweetness of wildflowers clinging to the dunes.
you slide into the passenger seat, kicking off your flip-flops with a clatter, the soles dusted with sand. you prop your bare feet on the dashboard, toes flexing, a silver anklet glinting in the fading light, and satoruâs chest tightens at how easily you claim the space, like the truckâs always been yours.
âair conditioningâs broken,â he says, wrestling with the crank windows, the handle sticking under his grip.
âwho needs it?â you shrug, a carefree grin spreading across your face, bright as the last sliver of sun. you lean your head out the window, letting the sea breeze whip your hair into a wild halo, strands dancing like theyâre alive.
the truck rattles down the coastal road, tires kicking up clouds of sand that drift in the orange glow. you fiddle with the radio, twisting the dial past static until a slow, dreamy track hums through the speakers, its bass vibrating deep in satoruâs bones, syncing with the thud of his heart.
your fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your bare thigh, the hem of your shorts frayed and soft, and heâs dangerously distracted, his eyes flicking to you when he should be watching the road.
âpull over,â you say suddenly, sitting bolt upright, pointing to a dirt path half-hidden by seagrass.
âwhat?â he blinks, hands tightening on the wheel.
âthere. pull over. trust me.â
your excitement is a current, electric and contagious, and heâs turning the truck before he can think, tires bumping over the uneven path. the clearing opens to a view that steals his breathâan endless ocean, molten and shimmering, the sun sinking into it like a dying ember. the horizon burns, fierce and fleeting.
before he can ask whatâs next, youâre halfway out the door, tugging your tank top over your head, the motion fluid, careless. âswimming, obviously,â you call over your shoulder, voice bright with mischief.
he stares, heart slamming against his ribs, the air in his lungs gone. you shimmy out of your shorts, revealing a plain black bikiniâsimple, unadorned, but devastating, the fabric hugging your curves like it was made for you. his throat goes dry, words dissolving on his tongue.
âwe donât haveââ he starts, but you cut him off, flashing a cheeky grin.
âi always wear it under my clothes,â you say, winking. âjust in case.â
just in case you decide to unravel him, to turn his world inside out with a smile and a strip of fabric.
âwell?â you challenge, standing in the sand, barefoot and fearless, like a siren born from the waves. âyou coming or what?â
common sense is a faint echo, drowned out by the roar of his pulse. he yanks his shirt over his head, the cotton catching on his hair, and follows you, helpless.
the water is warm, lapping at his skin, the tide playful, salt stinging his lips. you dive under a wave, your body sleek and sure, cutting through the current like you belong to it. you surface with a triumphant laugh, hair plastered to your forehead, water streaming down your face, and satoruâs caught, staring, the world narrowing to you.
âchicken?â you tease, flicking water at him, your grin sharp and daring.
he pushes deeper into the surf, muscles burning, fighting the urge to just float there, to watch you move. ârace you to the buoy,â you say, pointing to a marker bobbing in the distance, its silhouette dark against the fiery sky.
âyouâre on,â he grins, teeth flashing, adrenaline spiking.
you take off, a blur of motion, and he has to push to keep up, slicing through the water with long, powerful strokes, the ocean dragging at his limbs. by the time he reaches the buoy, youâre there, clinging to it, laughing breathless, your chest heaving. ânot bad,â you concede, splashing water in his face, the droplets cool against his flushed skin. âfor an old man.â
âold?â he splutters, feigning outrage, lunging for you.
you shriek, twisting away, but heâs faster, catching you around the waist, his fingers slipping against your slick skin. he dunks you under, the water swallowing your laughter, and you surface, sputtering, eyes blazing with mock fury.
you launch yourself at him, crashing into his chest, and the momentum sends you both tumbling under the next wave, limbs tangling, breathless and weightless.
when you surface, youâre wrapped around him, legs locked at his hips, arms looped around his neck, your body pressed so close he can feel the heat of you through the water. the ocean rocks you gently, the sunset bathing you in fire and velvet, your faces inches apart. he can see the flecks in your eyes, the faint salt clinging to your lashes, and his heart stutters, a painful, desperate thing.
âi win,â you murmur, voice low, triumphant, your breath warm against his lips.
his hands steady you at your waist, fingers splaying over your skin, slick and warm, and heâs drowning, every nerve alight. âcheater,â he rasps, the word barely audible, his throat tight.
your smile is slow, dangerous, your eyes flickering to his mouth for a heartbeat, and satoru feels the world tilt, gravity slipping away. he leans in, instinct overriding reason, drawn to you like a tide to the shoreâ
a wave crashes over you, tearing you apart with a roar of laughter and salt spray. youâre both gasping, grinning, the moment shattered but still humming between you.
you beat him back to shore, stumbling through the shallows, your laughter ringing like bells. by the time he catches up, youâre shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, the first stars blinking awake overhead, faint against the deepening indigo.
without a word, he grabs his hoodie from the truck, the fabric soft and worn, and drapes it over your shoulders. it swallows you, sleeves dangling past your hands, but you tug it tight, burying your face in the collar, and the sight of you in his clothes does something vicious to his chest.
âthanks,â you whisper, voice soft, nearly lost to the wind, your eyes catching his, warm and unguarded.
neither of you moves. the moment stretches, fragile as glass, strung between the stars and the restless waves, the air thick with salt and unspoken things. satoruâs heart hammers, every beat a confession he canât voice.
âsuguru would kill me,â he blurts, the words rough, desperate, a lifeline to keep him grounded.
you tilt your head, studying him, the wind tugging at your hair. âfor what?â
for wanting you. for almost kissing you. for dreaming of you every night since you came back.
âfor keeping you out too late,â he lies, voice scraping, hating how weak it sounds.
you laugh, soft and knowing, like you see through him, like you always have. âiâm not a kid, toru.â
he swallows, throat burning. âyouâve always been⊠different. special.â the words slip out, raw and unguarded, and he regrets them instantly, but your eyes soften, something tender flickering there.
you step closer, close enough that he can smell the salt on your skin, the faint coconut of your sunscreen lingering. âmaybe iâm tougher than you think,â you say, brushing sand off his shoulder with fingers so light they feel like a dream, your touch lingering a second too long.
âmaybe,â he croaks, voice breaking, his hands twitching to pull you closer.
you hold his gaze, long and steady, then sigh, stepping back, the space between you cold and sudden. âwe should go,â you murmur, voice laced with something heavy, something he canât name.
he drives you home slowly, windows down, the radio murmuring a low, slow song that weaves through the night. you curl up in the passenger seat, still in his hoodie, humming softly, your voice a thread he wants to chase forever. the road stretches, quiet and dark, the ocean a shadow to your left, its rhythm steady against the chaos in his chest.
at your house, the porch light glows, a soft amber pool, but suguruâs truck is gone, the driveway empty. âthanks for the swim,â you say, lingering with your hand on the door, your fingers brushing the handle like youâre reluctant to leave.
âanytime,â he says, meaning it too much, his voice low, heavy with everything heâs holding back.
you lean across the console, and his breath catches, time slowing as you press a kiss to his cheekâsoft, quick, a fleeting devastation. your lips are warm, barely there, but they burn, a spark that could set him ablaze. then youâre gone, darting up the steps, pausing to throw him a wink, bright and teasing, before slipping inside.
he sits there, hand pressed to his cheek, heart pounding like itâs trying to escape. the engine ticks, the night presses in, and heâs alone with the ghost of your kiss, the weight of it heavier than the ocean.
âyouâre fucked,â he tells his reflection in the rearview mirror, voice rough, eyes wide and stunned.
his reflection doesnât argue, just stares back, helpless.
the next morning at the stand, suguruâs quiet, frowning over inventory lists, his pen scratching too hard against the clipboard. âyou okay?â satoru asks, dread curling in his gut, the memory of last night still burning.
âlate night,â suguru mutters, scribbling a note, his voice clipped.
relief floods satoru, sharp and dizzying, nearly knocking him off balance. âthe bonfire girl?â he asks, forcing a grin.
suguru smirks, a glint in his eyes. âvery flexible.â
normal. itâs normal. nothingâs changed.
then you appear, hair twisted into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame your face, wearing cutoff shorts andâsatoruâs breath catches, a punch to the chestâhis hoodie, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the fabric loose but claiming you in a way that makes his head spin. âmorning!â you chirp, dropping your bag behind the counter, the zipper jingling softly.
âyouâre late,â suguru grumbles, mock stern, tossing you an apron.
âby like, five minutes,â you protest, rolling your eyes, your lips twitching with a smile.
âstill late,â he insists, but thereâs no heat in it, just the easy rhythm of family.
you catch the apron one-handed, sticking your tongue out at him when he turns away. satoru pretends to fiddle with the register, fingers clumsy on the keys, trying not to stare at you, at the way his hoodie looks on you, at the way it feels like a claim he didnât mean to make.
but when you catch his eye across the stand, your smile slows, turns secret, full of promises heâs not sure he can survive. itâs a look that says you remember last nightâthe swim, the almost-kiss, the kiss that wasâand his heart lurches, knowing heâs lost, knowing he doesnât want to fight it, not with the annual bonfire party looming, its heat and chaos waiting to pull him under.
the bonfire party pulses against the darkening sky, flames clawing upward, casting amber and gold across faces slick with sweat and laughter. satoru nurses a beer, the bottle cool and slick in his palm, half-listening to a friend drone on about swell patterns and reef breaks. his attention frays, eyes slicing through the crowd, searching for you, a reflex he canât tame.
when you appear, the world collapses to a single, searing point.
you step from the beach path, a peach sundress clinging to your curves, thin straps shimmering like liquid firelight, the hem teasing high on your thighs. your hairâs loose, wild from the salt air, curling against your shoulders like itâs daring the wind to try harder. you look shy at first, eyes darting through the chaos of bodies, searching for an anchor.
then you find him.
your eyes lock across the fire, and your smileâsmall, devastating, a curve of lips thatâs both invitation and bladeâcuts through him. it steals his breath, roots him to the sand, the beer bottle nearly slipping from his grip. his heartâs a traitor, pounding loud enough to drown out the music, and heâs terrified suguruâs nearby, that his best friendâs sharp eyes will catch the way satoruâs unraveling.
âdude, you even listening?â his friend asks, waving a hand in front of his face, voice tinged with annoyance.
âwhat? yeah,â satoru mumbles, not hearing a damn thing, unable to tear himself from you, from the way the firelight dances across your face.
a shadow moves beside him, and suguruâs there, beer in hand, leaning back against a driftwood log. âyouâre zoning out,â he says, voice neutral, taking a slow sip. his eyes flick to the crowd, casual, but satoruâs stomach lurchesâsuguru knows him too well, reads him like a book, and satoruâs been anything but subtle tonight.
âjust hot,â satoru mutters, tipping his beer back, the bitter fizz doing nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck. he forces his gaze to the fire, to the sparks spiraling into the night, praying suguru doesnât push.
suguru hums, noncommittal, and says nothing more, but the silence feels heavy, like heâs waiting for satoru to crack. satoru tries to play it coolâlaughs at a half-heard joke, tosses a stick into the flames, watches it catch and burn. but youâre a tide, pulling at him, relentless.
the way your dress shifts with the breeze, tracing the dip of your waist; the bare slope of your shoulders, kissed by firelight; the glint of your anklet, a silver thread against your ankle. itâs torture, and heâs burning, every nerve alight with want heâs desperate to hide.
you drift through the party, a fleeting spark, never staying long. you laugh with girls from the rival stand, their voices sharp and bright, then pause to chat with a guy satoru half-remembers from high schoolâtanned, smug, standing too close.
you tilt your head back, laughing, throat bared, and satoruâs grip dents his beer can, the metal creaking under his fingers. the urge to cross the sand, to shove the guy back, is a live wire in his veins, but he stays put, jaw tight, because suguruâs right there, watching the fire, and one wrong move could betray him.
âyouâre gonna break that,â suguru says, voice low, nodding at the can, his tone too even to be safe.
satoru sets it down, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat. âiâm fine,â he says, too sharp, and regrets it instantly, the words too defensive.
suguru raises an eyebrow, but doesnât push, just takes another sip, his gaze drifting to the crowd. satoru follows it, and there you are, catching his eye again, your stare steady, unflinching. you take a slow sip of your beer, tongue flicking out to catch a drop on your bottom lip, and desire coils in satoruâs stomach, hot and heavy, his mouth dry as the ash at his feet.
he shifts, crossing his arms, trying to ground himself, to look anywhere but at you. suguruâs too close, too perceptive, and satoruâs walking a tightrope, every glance a risk. he forces a laugh at something his friend says, but itâs hollow, his focus fractured by the way you move, the way you exist, like youâre pulling the air from his lungs.
youâre there suddenly, standing before them, your sundress glowing orange in the firelight, sand dusting your bare ankles, a faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone. âhey,â you say, voice soft, a little breathless, like the crowdâs worn you thin, like youâre seeking refuge.
suguru shifts, patting the space on the log between them. âplenty of room,â he says, easy, tossing you a chip from the bag at his feet. âhungry?â
âiâm your only sister,â you point out, rolling your eyes as you settle onto the log, careful with the short hem of your dress, thighs brushing the rough wood.
youâre too closeâsatoru can smell your shampoo, coconut and sweet, weaving through the smoky air. your knee presses against his, a steady heat through his jeans, and he shifts, angling away, terrified of leaning into it, of suguru noticing the way his hands twitch.
you slip into easy talk, the three of you passing the chip bag, laughing at suguruâs tales of tourists losing sunglasses to the waves. but thereâs a charge humming under it all, a current satoru canât ignore.
heâs hyperaware of youâthe way your fingers tuck a stray curl behind your ear, the soft hitch of your breath when you laugh, the way your eyes find his in the firelight, each glance a spark that could ignite him. suguruâs right there, sprawled and relaxed, but satoruâs nerves are a live wire, every moment a test of his restraint.
the speaker blasts a new song, bass thumping across the sand, and couples start dancing near the fire, shadows twisting against the flames. a guy approaches youâtall, cocky, hand outstretched, all easy charm. âdance with me?â he asks, grinning like heâs already won.
satoruâs jaw clenches, a spike of something hot and reckless surging in his chest, but you just smile, polite, shaking your head. âmaybe later,â you say, voice light, and relief crashes through satoru, sharp and unearned, loosening the knot in his gut.
the guy shrugs, moving on, and suguru watches, finishing his beer in a long gulp, the bottle glinting in the firelight. he stands, stretching, his shadow long across the sand. âgonna grab another,â he says, voice casual, but his eyes linger on you for a beat, then flick to satoru, unreadable. âyou two want anything?â
âiâm good,â satoru says, too fast, his pulse still settling, his hands gripping his knees to keep still.
âiâll take another,â you say, holding up your empty can, fingers brushing the rim, a faint smudge of lipstick on the edge.
suguru nods, then heads off, weaving through the crowd, his absence leaving a void that hums with possibility. the fire crackles, music pulses low, and the silence between you and satoru stretches, thick with smoke and want, the air heavy with everything heâs fighting to hide.
âhaving fun?â he asks, voice rougher than he means, cringing at how weak it sounds, like a kid fumbling for words.
you smile, eyes on the fire, flames dancing in your gaze like theyâre part of you. âyeah. itâs nice being back for the summer.â you turn to him, face half-shadowed, half-glowing, your expression soft, open. âbetter than i expected.â
âyeah?â he asks, heart hammering, the sound too loud in his ears, terrified suguruâs watching from the drink table, catching every slip.
you nod, holding his gaze, steady, unflinching. âyeah.â
the silence deepens, heavy as the tide, pulling at him. you take a deep breath, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress, tugging it down, and he canât look away from the nervous bite of your lip, the way it shines, wet with beer and firelight. heâs drowning, and suguruâs absence is a dangerous freedom, every second a chance to break.
âactually, iâm feeling a littleâŠâ you trail off, glancing at the crowd, the laughter and chaos swelling around you. âitâs kinda loud. kinda crowded.â
âwe can move down the beach,â satoru offers, instant, eager, desperate to keep this moment. âif you want quiet.â
you shake your head, lip caught between your teeth, a gesture thatâs a fucking dart to his chest. âi was thinking⊠maybe you could drive me home?â
his brain stutters, blanks. âhome?â he echoes, keys already burning in his pocket, his hands itching to move.
âif you donât mind,â you add, quick, a blush blooming across your cheeks, soft and real, like youâre offering more than youâre saying. âiâm just⊠tired.â
he knows youâre not tired. knows it like he knows the pull of the ocean, the sting of salt. your eyes are too bright, too awake, the lie a fragile veil over something bolder. heâs nodding, fumbling for his keys, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the fireâs crackle. âyeah, of course. let me just tell suguruââ
âalready texted him,â you say, holding up your phone, a shy smile curving your lips. âhe says itâs fine.â
satoruâs pulse spikes, panic and want twisting together. suguruâs out there, somewhere, and satoruâs terrified heâs watching, that heâll see the truth in his face, the way heâs crumbling under your gaze. but he stands, offering his hand, voice rough. âletâs go.â
you take it, fingers warm, slightly sticky from the beer, letting him pull you up. you sway, bumping his chest, and he steadies you, hands on your waist, the thin fabric of your dress no barrier to the heat of your skin. âsorry,â you murmur, looking up through your lashes, not stepping back, your breath a soft tease against his jaw.
âthatâs okay,â he says, voice raw, barely holding it together. âiâve got you.â
you weave through the crowd to the parking lot, your hand still in his, a tether heâs terrified to break. satoru spots suguru by the drink table, their eyes meeting across the sand. suguruâs gaze is steady, a small nod passing between them, no words, just an acknowledgment that feels like a warning: donât cross the line.
satoru nods back, a silent promise heâs not sure he can keep, and guides you to his truck.
the driveâs quiet at first, just the engineâs low growl and the distant rhythm of waves. satoru grips the wheel, knuckles white, hyperaware of you in the passenger seatâyour bare legs catching moonlight, the way your dress rides up, revealing the soft curve of your thigh.
you turn the radio on low, a sultry summer song with a bassline that matches his pulse, heavy and slow. your knee brushes his, stays there, a deliberate heat that sets him ablaze, and heâs fighting every instinct to keep his hands where they belong, to keep suguruâs trust intact.
âthank you,â you say, voice soft, cutting through the dark like a lighthouse beam. âfor the ride.â
âanytime,â he says, and itâs a vow, heavy with everything heâs burying, everything heâs too afraid to let suguru see.
another mile hums by, the radio crackling low, a sultry bassline weaving through the dark. tires whisper against cracked asphalt, a secret shared between the truck and the night. the windows are cracked, letting in slivers of humid, salt-heavy air, thick with the scent of seaweed and distant bonfires. it does nothing to ease the heat coiling inside the cab, a fever that clings to your skin, makes every breath feel flushed, electric, like the worldâs poised on a knifeâs edge.
satoru feels it before he sees itâyour gaze, molten and heavy, searing into the side of his face. the air shifts, sharp, trembling, a wire stretched to snapping. weeks of want, maybe years, spill over, uncontainable, a tide breaking against a crumbling dam.
âsatoru,â you whisper, voice catching, raw with a need that slices through him. âpull over. please.â
he glances at you, and itâs a fucking mistake. your eyes glitter in the dashboardâs dim glow, wild and wide, lips parted, hands fisting the hem of your peach sundress, knuckles pale like youâre clinging to sanity. âwhat?â he asks, voice fraying, teetering on wrecked.
âplease,â you say again, lip quivering, voice splintering under the weight of desperation. âi canât hold it anymore.â
he doesnât hesitate. the blinker clicks, sharp and urgent, the truck veering onto the sandy shoulder, ocean roaring below the cliffs, a primal pulse in the dark. he shifts into park, and the world catches fire.
âi canât,â you whisper, eyes wide, pleading, like youâre unraveling. âi canât pretend like youâre not everything anymore.â
he freezes, waiting for you to laugh, to take it back, but your hands are on him, yanking him across the console, your mouth crashing into his. you taste like desperation, strawberry lip gloss, and something achingly sweet, a heartbreak he canât name. he moans, low and stunned, hands flying to your hips as you pour into him, a wave finally breaking, relentless and all-consuming.
your kiss is frantic, messy, teeth catching his lip, tongue sliding against his in a clumsy, starving dance. heâs drowning, your body pressing closer, like you could meld into him, erase every inch of space. âwait,â he gasps, pulling back, forehead knocking against yours, breath jagged, the air between you steaming. âbaby, youâve been drinking. i canâtââ
âsatoru,â you whimper, fingers digging into his shirt, nails biting through cotton, dragging him back. âi know what iâm doing. iâve wanted you since i was sixteen. please. just tonight. let me have you.â
the raw truth in your voice shatters him, every defense crumbling like sand. âoh, sweetheart,â he coos, teasing but hungry, kissing you again, deep and reckless, tongue chasing yours like heâs been starved for you. âwe shouldâshit, we should find a bed, somewhere betterââ
âno,â you cut him off, voice fierce, climbing over the console, straddling his lap in the driverâs seat. your dress rides up, thighs bare and warm against his jeans, and he chokes, breath hitching at the heat of you. âhere. now. i canât wait.â
heâs trying to be good, trying to think of suguru, of the lines he shouldnât cross, but youâre too muchâtoo pretty, too desperate, grinding against him, the friction making his vision blur. âbackseat,â he murmurs, voice low, fraying with impatience, hands gripping your waist to lift you. âmore room, pretty girl.â
you nod, frantic, and you both tumble out into the humid dark, clumsy with need, the night thick with the buzz of cicadas and the oceanâs restless crash. he catches you when your sandal snags on the doorframe, your laugh breathless, a sound that hooks into his ribs and pulls tight.
he shoves open the back door, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, firm but gentle, the leather seats gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
the backseatâs a tight cocoon, windows fogging, the air steaming with heat and lust. you climb in, pulling him after you, straddling him again, knees bracketing his hips, the seat creaking under your weight. your sundress is a crumpled mess, straps slipping off your shoulders, and heâs lost, staring at you like youâre a fucking vision, eyes glinting with want, skin flushed and alive.
âcâmere, gorgeous,â he coos, voice dripping with tease, but thereâs a tremor beneath it, a hunger he canât hide. he drags you closer, hands sliding under your dress, palms worshipping the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the soft dip of your waist.
you gasp, grinding against him, and he feels himself, thick and aching, pressed against your core through his jeans, every roll of your hips a sweet kind of torture.
âyouâre gonna fuckinâ ruin me,â he murmurs, breath hitching, hands trembling as he pushes your dress higher, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate lace of your panties. his voice is all tease, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown, betraying the impatience clawing at him.
you giggle, wrecked and sweet, and he grits his teeth, your laugh a spark to his fraying control. âlemme touch you,â he pleads, voice low, edged with a need thatâs almost painful, fingers itching to claim every inch of you.
âyes,â you breathe, thighs parting, a flower opening to the sun, offering him everything.
he traces slow, maddening patterns up your inner thighs, savoring every twitch, every shiver, the way your breath catches when his knuckles graze too close. his fingers brush the damp lace of your panties, and he curses, soft and reverent, the heat of you undoing him.
âsoaked already,â he purrs, lips grazing your ear, voice thick with awe, a teasing lilt masking the way his hands shake. âsuch a good girl for me.â
he slips beneath the lace, and you choke on a cry, biting your knuckles, head falling back against the seat. ânuh-uh,â he teases, nipping your neck, a playful bite that stings just enough to make you gasp. âno hiding, baby. i want every sound. lemme hear you.â
he tugs your hand away, pinning it against the seat, his other hand working slow, deliberate circles over your clit, featherlight and cruel.
you whimper, high and broken, hips bucking into his touch, chasing the friction. heâs methodical, a teaseâcircling your clit with barely-there pressure, dipping lower to trace your entrance, then back up, dragging out every sensation until youâre writhing, grinding shamelessly against his hand.
âsatoru,â you pant, nails scoring his shoulders through his shirt, leaving crescent marks heâll trace later, proof of you.
âpatience, sweetheart,â he murmurs, lips dragging wet down your throat, teeth grazing the frantic pulse at your neck. âgonna savor you. make you forget anyone else ever touched you.â his voice is a promise, teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his own impatience, and you shudder, thighs trembling under his hands.
he shoves your panties aside, tossing them into the backseatâs shadows, and spreads you open, pressing you back against the seat, the leather sticking to your sweat-slick skin. the angleâs awkward, the space cramped, but he makes it work, one knee braced against the floorboard, shoulders hunching to fit, his breath hot against your core.
âprettiest fuckinâ pussy,â he murmurs, eyes dark, pupils swallowing the blue, staring at you like youâre a banquet and heâs been starving for years.
he kisses up your thigh, slow, messy, lips smearing wet trails, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin, the faint musk of you driving him wild. his hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, holding you still as he edges closer, breath fanning hot over your core, making you squirm. when his tongue drags a long, languid stripe up your folds, you sob, arching off the seat, hands flying to his hair, yanking hard enough to sting.
he moans, the sound eager, vibrating through you, and dives in, ravenous. heâs messy, relentlessâtongue lapping broad, greedy strokes, then sharp, teasing flicks against your clit, nose nudging you with every movement.
his lips close around your clit, sucking lightly, and you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, a vise he welcomes. he pries your legs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and keeps going, tongue tracing every fold, every sensitive inch, like heâs mapping you.
âtaste like fuckinâ heaven,â he mumbles, words slurred, muffled against your core, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance, and he slides a finger inside, curling it slow, deliberate, searching for that spot that makes your breath hitch. you keen, high and desperate, and he adds another finger, stretching you, pumping in time with the sharp flicks of his tongue, the rhythm maddening.
âsatoru,â you wail, overwhelmed, hips bucking, chasing the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. his eyes flick up, meeting yours, and theyâre wildâlids heavy, face flushed, glistening with your slick, utterly lost in you.
heâs trying to hold back, to keep some control, because youâre suguruâs sister, because he shouldnât, but youâre too fucking perfect, grinding against his face, and heâs unraveling, impatient for more.
he shifts, the backseat too small, his shoulder bumping the fogged window, smearing the condensation. one hand braces against the door, keeping him steady, the other working you deeper, fingers curling just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs shake.
his tongue traces patternsâlazy circles, sharp figure-eights, quick flicks that have you gasping, trembling. he pulls back for a moment, just to spit on you, the wet heat mixing with your slick, making everything filthier, then dives back in, lapping it up, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster, the wet sounds lewd and intoxicating.
âso fuckinâ wet,â he coos, voice teasing, lips brushing your clit, but the undercurrent of hunger is undeniable, his patience fraying. âdripping all over me, baby. gonna scream for me soon.â he dives back in, tongue relentless, fingers twisting, and youâre a mess, thighs quivering, chest heaving, the leather creaking under your restless movements.
âplease,â you whimper, voice breaking, hands yanking his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. âfaster, satoru, please.â
âgreedy little thing,â he teases, but he obliges, tongue flicking quicker, fingers pumping deeper, curling sharper. âlove it when you beg. makes me wanna tie you up, keep you like this all night.â his voice is playful, but the ideaâs a spark, and you shudder, the image of you bound and spread for him making you clench around his fingers.
he groans, feeling it, and sucks your clit hard, tongue swirling, fingers relentless. youâre close, he knows itâthe way you tighten around him, the way your hips stutter, the way your cries turn hoarse, desperate. he doubles down, tongue sloppy, lips smacking wetly, fingers driving into you, chasing every gasp, every shudder. âcâmon, pretty girl,â he coos, words muffled, dripping with want. âcum for me. let me taste it. fuckinâ paint me.â
you shatter, a hoarse, sobbing cry tearing from your throat as you come undone, convulsing under him, waves of pleasure crashing through you, your body arching off the seat. he doesnât stop, lips moving, tongue lapping, fingers pumping, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, greedy for every drop.
youâre whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders, but heâs too far gone, chasing the last of your release, his mouth slick and shining.
âsatoru, fuck,â you gasp, voice broken, hands shoving at him, but thereâs no strength, just a plea he ignores. he grins against you, sloppy and drunk, and licks another slow, deliberate stripe, making you jolt, a fresh whimper spilling out.
âone more, baby,â he murmurs, voice thick, almost pleading, lips brushing your clit, teasing and soft. âyouâve got another for me, donât you? know you do.â his fingers slide deeper, curling slow, coaxing, tongue flicking light, playful, drawing you back to the edge with a patience thatâs more about his hunger than your comfort.
youâre a wreck, thighs trembling, breath hitching, but you canât resist him, not when heâs like thisâteasing, hungry, cooing like youâre his to unravel.
he adjusts, cramped knees creaking, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread, hooking your leg over his shoulder to open you wider. his tongue circles your clit, soft and teasing, fingers pumping slow, deep, dragging out every sensation until youâre whining, high and needy, hands tugging his hair again.
âlook at you,â he purrs, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his face a messâlips swollen, cheeks glistening, chin dripping with you. âso fuckinâ perfect, falling apart for me. bet youâd let me do anything, huh?â he nips your inner thigh, a quick, sharp bite, and you gasp, hips jerking.
âsatoru,â you plead, voice fraying, âtoo much.â
âtoo much?â he teases, tongue flicking your clit, light and quick, making you twitch. âthought you wanted me, baby. thought you couldnât wait.â his fingers curl, slow and wicked, and you arch, a fresh cry spilling out. âthatâs it, give me everything. love watching you break.â
he dives back in, tongue tracing lazy patterns, lips sucking soft, then hard, alternating to keep you guessing, keep you trembling. his fingers work deeper, stretching you, curling against that spot that makes your vision blur, the wet sounds filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.
heâs relentless, messy, eating you like heâs been denied for years, like every lick is a claim. his free hand slides up, cupping your breast through your dress, thumb circling your nipple, teasing until itâs hard, until youâre gasping, overwhelmed.
âwanna see you ride my face,â he murmurs, voice slurred, drunk on you, pulling back to catch his breath, his lips slick and shining. âwanna feel you grind, baby. câmon, use me.â he doesnât wait for an answer, just shifts, lying back on the seat, pulling you up, guiding your hips over his face, his hands firm but coaxing.
you hesitate, oversensitive, but heâs insistent, tugging you down, and when his tongue flicks your clit again, youâre gone, grinding against him, chasing the heat.
he groans, eager, hands gripping your ass, guiding your movements, his tongue relentless, flicking, circling, sucking. youâre a vision, dress hiked up, straps falling, hair a wild mess, and heâs lost, watching you use him, watching you fall apart again.
âthatâs it, baby,â he coos, voice muffled, vibrating through you. âfuck my face, câmon, give it to me.â his words are filthy, teasing, but the hungerâs raw, impatient, and youâre too far gone to care, hips rolling, chasing the edge again.
he sucks hard, fingers digging into your hips, and you shatter a second time, weaker but sharper, a cry ripping from you as you convulse, thighs shaking, his tongue still moving, still greedy.
he laps you through it, slow, deliberate, not stopping until youâre limp, gasping, hands falling loose in his hair. his lips are swollen, face glistening, eyes hazy, utterly wrecked. he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft, almost worshipful, before pulling back, panting, staring at you like youâve rewritten his world.
âfuck, sweetheart,â he breathes, voice raw, teasing but frayed with want, his hands still roaming your thighs, like he canât let go. âyouâre gonna be the death of me.â
âwant you,â you whisper, dragging satoru up from where heâs still panting between your thighs, lips slick and swollen, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as you crash into him.
the kiss is filthy, all teeth and hunger, a clash of desperation and need. your hands claw at his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt, pulling him so close itâs like youâre trying to carve yourself into him.
he moans, a low, wrecked sound, hands frantic as he helps you tear his shirt off. the fabric snags, rips at the seam, and you both laughâbreathless, wild, the sound swallowed by the thick air of the backseat.
you pause, hands splaying over his chest, fingers tracing the lean muscle under flushed skin, the faint freckles scattered across his collarbone like stars he never noticed. heâs beautiful, carved but human, chest heaving under your touch, eyes dark with a want that makes your breath catch.
âfuck, youâre staring,â he teases, voice rough but laced with a shy edge, a flush creeping up his neck thatâs got nothing to do with the heat.
âcanât help it,â you murmur, tracing the sharp line of his abs, feeling the shudder that ripples through him. âyouâre too damn pretty, toru.â
he curses, soft and reverent, a quiet âshitâ thatâs more prayer than profanity, and shoves his jeans down, kicking them into the backseatâs shadows with a clumsy thud.
his cock springs freeâthick, flushed, the tip glistening with pre-cum, and you whimper, thighs clenching, a fresh wave of heat pooling low. heâs big, bigger than youâd imagined in your wildest, most reckless dreams, and the sight of him sends a thrill through you, sharp and electric.
he hesitates, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, the air between you steaming with sweat and want. âbaby, i donât have a condom,â he says, voice tight, the words dragged out like theyâre killing him, his hands trembling on your hips.
âdonât care,â you whisper, desperate, hands sliding to his hips, pulling him closer until his cock brushes your thigh, hot and heavy. âwant you. all of you. please, satoru.â
he curses again, louder, a broken âfuckâ as he drags his cock through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit and making you gasp, hips jerking.
âlast chance, sweetheart,â he coos, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide the blueâs a thin ring, a man teetering on the edge of control. âyou sure?â
âplease,â you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. âneed you inside me. now.â
he groans, a sound thatâs all need, and pushes in slow, careful, watching your face with a focus that makes your heart stutter. the stretch is intense, a delicious burn that has you clutching his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, leaving marks heâll trace later with a grin. he buries his face in your shoulder, moaning, the sound low and frayed, like heâs coming apart.
âfuck, youâre tight,â he whimpers, voice shaking, a teasing lilt undercut by raw hunger. âsqueezinâ me so good, pretty girl.â
he moves slow, rocking into you, letting you adjust to the fullness, each shallow thrust stealing your breath. it stings, but itâs perfectâthe way he fills you, the way heâs careful but desperate, holding back just enough to keep from breaking you. âmore,â you beg, rolling your hips, greedy, chasing the friction, the pressure. âharder, satoru, please.â
âgreedy little thing,â he teases, a chuckle thatâs all heat, hands gripping your hips so tight youâll bruise, a possessive edge to his touch as he pulls back, then fucks into you deeper, harder, the truck creaking with the force. you gasp, head falling back, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails heâll wear like a trophy.
âsatoru,â you sob, overwhelmed by the fullness, the way he hits every spot, splitting you open in the best way. the backseatâs too small, his knees bumping the door, your elbow grazing the fogged window, but itâs raw, filthyâthe cramped space forcing you closer, bodies tangled, slick with sweat.
the airâs thick, heavy with the scent of sex, salt, and the faint coconut of your skin, windows fogged so tight youâre a secret hidden from the world.
âfeels like fuckinâ heaven,â he pants, finding a rhythm, deep and steady, his cock dragging against your walls with every thrust, the wet sounds obscene, filling the cab.
the distant crash of waves below weaves through your gasps, his groans, the leather creaking under you. his hands roam, possessive, one sliding up to cup your breast through your dress, thumb teasing your nipple until itâs hard, making you whimper.
âlook at you, baby,â he coos, voice teasing but frayed with impatience, âtaking me so well.â
âlet me ride you,â you gasp, pushing at his chest, desperate to feel him deeper, to take control, to make him unravel. your voice is a plea, high and needy, and his eyes flash, something feral sparking in them.
âfuck yes,â he murmurs, wild and breathless, a grin splitting his face. âcome take it, gorgeous.â he flips you in one fluid motion, maneuvering in the tight space with a grace thatâs almost unfair, pulling you on top as he settles back against the seat, the leather sticking to his sweat-slick back. his hands tug at your dress, impatient, a low growl in his throat. âoff. now. wanna see every inch of you.â
you nod, frantic, yanking the sundress over your head, the fabric catching in your hair before you toss it aside. your breasts spill free, no braâbecause of course, you fucking minxâand satoru moans, loud and broken, hands flying to cup them, thumbs brushing your nipples, sending jolts through you.
âfuck, youâre perfect,â he murmurs, squeezing gently, rolling the sensitive peaks until you arch, grinding against him, a whine slipping from your lips. he leans up, sucking one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and you cry out, hips bucking instinctively.
âsatoru,â you whimper, hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard, and he groans, switching to the other breast, lavishing it with wet, messy attention, his lips leaving a trail of heat. his hands roamâone squeezing your ass, urging you to move, the other pinching your nipple, making you shudder, your core clenching around nothing.
âride me, baby,â he pants, pulling back, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark and hazy, pupils swallowing the blue. âtake whatâs yours. lemme see you fall apart.â
you sink down on him, trembling, the stretch deeper at this angle, a sharp, perfect ache that has you whimpering, pausing to adjust, your breath hitching. he fills you completely, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, and you grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, grounding yourself.
âthatâs it, pretty girl,â he coos, hands steadying your hips, guiding you gently, his voice teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his impatience. âfuck, you feel so good. so fuckinâ perfect.â
you move, hips rolling, clumsy at first, finding a rhythm that sends sparks up your spine. the leather sticks to your thighs, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the windows fogged so tight youâre a world unto yourselves. his hands help, guiding your hips, but his eyes are glued to where youâre joined, watching his cock disappear into you, slick and glistening, a low groan spilling from his lips.
âlook at you,â he breathes, voice thick with awe, a teasing edge fraying with need. âso fuckinâ gorgeous, taking me like that.â
every roll of your hips is electric, your thighs quivering, the effort making your muscles burn, but itâs worth it for the way he looks at youâlike youâre a goddess, like heâs worshiping you with every thrust.
he meets you halfway, thrusting up, matching your pace, the truck rocking with the force, creaking and swaying like itâs barely holding together. his hands slide to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs teasing your nipples until youâre moaning, loud and shameless, lost in the heat of him.
âmine,â he murmurs, pulling you down for a rough kiss, teeth catching your lip, biting just enough to make you gasp. âfuck, youâre mine, baby. always have been.â
âyours,â you sob, collapsing against his chest, hips still grinding, chasing the pressure building inside you, a coil winding tighter with every move. his hands are everywhereâgripping your ass, cupping your breasts, sliding to your clit, rubbing messy, desperate circles that have you shaking, so close you can taste it.
he shifts, adjusting the angle, one hand braced against the door to keep his balance, the other guiding your hips faster, harder.
âcâmon, sweetheart,â he pants, voice wrecked, eyes locked on yours, a teasing grin fading into raw hunger. âgimme another. wanna feel you cum on my cock.â
his thrusts turn brutal, deep, hitting that spot over and over, and youâre gone, shattering around him, walls clenching tight, dragging a low, desperate moan from his throat as he feels you pulse, hot and wet. but heâs not done. youâre still trembling, riding out the aftershocks, when he grows impatient, his cock throbbing, the need to cum clawing at him.
âfuck, baby, youâre too slow,â he teases, but his voice is strained, fraying with lust, a man on the edge. his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, and he lifts you, bouncing you on his lap with a strength that makes you gasp, the truck shaking with every movement.
âsatoru,â you whimper, hands clutching his shoulders, nails scoring his skin as he sets a relentless pace, thrusting up into you, each slam of your hips against his sending shocks through you. the angleâs deeper, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every bounce, and youâre helpless, a ragdoll in his hands, your breasts bouncing, your moans spilling out, loud and broken.
âthatâs it, baby,â he coos, but itâs dark, impatient, his eyes wild as he watches you, watches himself disappear into you, slick and messy. âfuck, you feel so good. gonnaâshit, gonna cum if you keep squeezing me like that.â his hands tighten, bouncing you faster, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.
âplease,â you beg, voice fracturing, overwhelmed by the intensity, the way heâs taking you apart again. âwant it, satoru. want you.â
âfuck, say that again,â he groans, thrusting up harder, his voice teetering on desperate, the teasing gone, replaced by raw need. âtell me you want me.â
âwant you,â you gasp, clinging to him, your lips brushing his jaw, his neck, as he bounces you, the friction driving you to the edge again. âwant you so bad, toru. always have.â
heâs unraveling, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, his breath hitching as he chases his release. âfuck, baby, youâre too much,â he pants, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard, guiding you down onto him one last time. âgonnaâfuck, i canâtââ
he pulls out just in time, groaning loud and broken, spilling across your thighs, hot and thick, painting your skin as he slumps against you, panting into the crook of your neck, both of you trembling, spent.
for a long moment, itâs just the oceanâs roar below, the frantic thud of your hearts, the sticky heat wrapping you tight, the air heavy with the scent of sex and salt. he grabs his discarded shirt, cleaning you up with slow, careful swipes, his touch soft now, almost reverent, his fingers lingering on your skin.
âyou okay, pretty girl?â he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, his lips warm, lingering, like heâs memorizing you.
âperfect,â you sigh, nuzzling into him, your body loose, sated, still buzzing with aftershocks, the leather creaking under you as you shift closer.
he helps you tug your dress back on, hands trailing soft, teasing paths over your shoulders, your collarbone, stealing kisses between every adjustment, his lips brushing your skin like he canât bear to stop.
youâre curled together in the sticky heat, limbs tangled, the backseat too small but perfect for thisâpressed close, hearts still racing, the fogged windows shielding you from the world. he checks his phone, and thereâs one message from suguru:
you suck at hiding it. donât get her pregnant, dumbass.
satoru groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck, a laugh bubbling up despite the mortification. âbusted,â he mutters, half-amused, half-dreading the inevitable lecture.
âworth it,â you giggle, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging lightly, your lips brushing his temple, soft and warm, a promise in the touch.
tangled together under the heavy night, the world slipping out of focusâitâs just you and him, caught up in something quiet and reckless, something that feels too big to name.
a/n : ew i cant believe i had to mention sukuna but dw he got hit by a ten wheeler truck while the ending was happening. i scrapped the sorta aftermath of this which is one week later because it included risky beach sex.. lmk if y'all would want to see it ^_^
synopsis : satoru gojoâs life is a meticulously curated empire of protein shakes, gym selfies, and the unwavering adoration of six million followers. heâs got it all down to a science, a perfect balance of macros and influence thatâs starting to feel just a little empty. but when a late-night scroll leads him to your quiet corner of the internet, everything changes. itâs not about your faceâheâs never seen it. itâs about your hands, steady and dusted with flour, and your voice, a warm, patient hum that makes him forget all about his post-workout cardio. suddenly, the man who prides himself on control finds himself completely obsessed with a baker who offers something sweeter and far more dangerous than any cheat meal: a little bit of peace.
or: he could break the internet with a single photo, but heâs about to risk it all for a girl who accidentally liked his post one time.
wc àŁȘâ 39k ÖŽÖ¶ÖžâŸ. tags -> f!reader, plot with porn, influencer au, modern setting, fluff, humor, banter, slow burn, food as a love language, mutual pining, eventual smut, sexual tension, making out, food play, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, praise kink, marking, satoru goes feral, unsafe sex, rough sex, size kink, it wonât fit trope, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, marriage proposal, wedding fluff, happy ending
athy says, hi my lovies, i'm looking at my follower count and i genuinely can't believe we've hit 9k before this little blog of mine is even six months old. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. this fic has been simmering away in my drafts for what feels like an eternity, and i wanted to dedicate it to all of you as a thank you. it's super soft, a little cheesy, and hopefully the perfect thing to curl up with. i hope you all enjoy it!! âĄâ (â ÓŠâ ïœâ ÓŠâ ïœĄâ )
satoru gojo has never needed hashtags to break the internet.
he knows this the same way he knows his post-workout selfies could fund a small countryâs economy, the same way he knows that the gym mirror loves him more than his own mother ever did.
so when he drops his phone against his sweat-dampened chest and angles it just rightâshadows cutting across the landscape of muscle heâs carved with religious devotion, that mess of hair catching the fluorescent light like spun moonlight, eyes the color of winter storms narrowed in that signature smirkâhe doesnât bother with captions longer than âcardio day.â
six million followers donât need context. they need salvation, and apparently, heâs their god.
the likes pour in before heâs even toweled off. comments that would make his grandmother clutch her pearls, fire emojis that could melt antarctica, marriage proposals in seven languages. satoru scrolls through them with the bored satisfaction of someone whoâs never had to wonder if heâs attractive, clocking the trending status of his latest flex, watching the numbers climb.
after a few minutes of basking in the chaos he just unleashedâthousands of girls twisting in their sheets, thirsting themselves half to deathâhe flicks over to reels. itâs a casual, almost lazy motion, like a king turning away from the adoration of his court once heâs had his fill.
his reels are the usual rotation: endless loops of protein shake hacks, questionable âscience-backedâ mobility drills, and gym bros flexing in worse lighting than his bathroom mirror. sometimes a cooking video sneaks inâgrilled chicken recipes that look like punishment meals, pre-workout snacks no sane person would enjoy, the occasional steak sizzling on cast iron just enough to hold his attention. mindless fuel, background noise for someone who already knows he looks better than half the influencers trying to sell him their macros.
but then, the algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, does that thing where it thinks it knows him better than he knows himself, and suddenly his screen fills with something entirely different. no thirst, no desperation, no familiar symphony of validation.
just hands.
soft, capable hands dusted with flour, moving with the kind of precision that makes his chest do something weird and unfamiliar. the voice accompanying them flows like honey over warm bread, explaining the mysteries of chocolate tempering with the patience of someone who actually gives a damn about their craft.
âtemperature control is everything,â youâre saying, and satoru finds himself leaning closer to his phone screen like an idiot. your hands work magic he doesnât understandâfolding, smoothing, creating something beautiful from nothing. thereâs flour scattered across your black apron like stars, and he realizes heâs been holding his breath. âtoo hot and youâll seize the chocolate. too cold and it wonât temper properly. you want that perfect balance.â
perfect balance. right. satoru gojo, who can bench twice his body weight and has never met a macronutrient he couldnât calculate in his sleep, suddenly feels like he doesnât understand balance at all.
heâs three videos deep before his brain catches up to his thumbs. your usernameâwhy.en_bakesâsits at the top of each video like a riddle he wants to solve. faceless content creator, obviously skilled, voice that could talk him through a panic attack or into one, depending on the circumstances.
his trainer would have an aneurysm if he knew satoru was mentally calculating the caloric content of buttercream roses at eleven pm.
his trainer doesnât have to know.
meanwhile, youâre having your own crisis three hundred miles away, curled up in bed with your phone balanced precariously on your chest. youâve been mindlessly scrolling through instagram, the kind of late-night brain rot that makes you question your life choices and wonder why youâre not asleep like a normal person.
the dm notification pops up from @squatoruâand thereâs that little blue checkmark that makes your stomach drop because verified accounts usually mean one of two things: actual celebrities or influencers hunting for free stuff.
squatoru: hey, your hands are so steady, iâm pretty sure you could perform surgery. on my heart, maybe? kidding. mostly. anyway, the real question: do you take custom orders, or am i doomed to just drool over your perfect pastries through ig reels tutorials forever? my cardio needs a reward ;)
you frown, tapping on his profile with the kind of skepticism reserved for men who slide into dms and politicians. probably another influencer looking for free pastries in exchange for exposure. youâve seen this song and dance before, and your content is specifically designed to avoid thisâjust your hands, your voice, and your pastries. no face, no personal details, no invitation for this kind of attention.
except his profile loads, and the image that fills your screen is so utterly, aggressively stunning that your breath hitches. your eyes go wide, wider than any pastry plate youâve ever presented, and you feel a ridiculous, old-fashioned flush creep up your neck. like a victorian gentleman accidentally stumbling upon an exposed ankle, but instead of an ankle, itâs an eight-pack, a smirk, and eyes that could unravel your very soul.
you swallow, hard, your mind temporarily short-circuiting at the sheer, unapologetic perfection. the phone, balanced precariously on your chest, finally loses its grip as your hands instinctively clench in shock, and it falls. with a sickening thud, it smacks directly into your face, the impact rattling your teeth and, far worse, triggering an accidental double-tap right on his latest thirst trap. specifically, right on his absurdly defined abs.
because @squatoru isnât just any influencer.
heâs all sharp angles and casual arrogance, the kind of beautiful that makes you question whether humans are supposed to look like that or if someoneâs been editing reality behind your back. his hair defies every law of physics and good sense, standing up in ways that should look ridiculous but instead look like heâs been personally blessed by some very attractive gods. and his eyesâtheyâre not just blue, theyâre the kind of blue that makes you forget other colors exist, like someone liquefied lightning and poured it into his irises just to see what would happen.
the worst part? he knows exactly what he looks like.
every photo is a carefully constructed masterpiece of casual perfection. gym selfies that belong in museums, mirror shots that probably crash servers, candid photos that are about as candid as a hollywood red carpet. heâs the kind of beautiful that makes normal people feel like potatoes, and heâs just casually sliding into your dms like itâs tuesday.
the little heart icon fills with red, mocking you. you immediately know youâve made a mistake of astronomical proportions, a digital crime scene of embarrassment. you donât even look at this kind of content. your algorithm is carefully curated chaos of baking tutorials, cat videos, and the occasional pottery reel.
you wouldnât know a thirst trap if it personally introduced itself and asked for your number. but apparently, it just did, and you just liked it.
your phone buzzes almost instantly.
squatoru: oh, saw that đ figured you wouldnât be able to resist. itâs okay, my contentâs usually pretty captivating. consider yourself caught admiring the view.
you scramble upright, nearly launching your phone across the room in your panic. your heart is doing something between a tango and a cardiac episode, and youâre pretty sure youâre about to die of embarrassment in your own bed, which seems like a particularly pathetic way to go. you wince, rubbing your nose where the phone left a red mark.
why.en_bakes: it was an accident. my phone slipped. literally. it just smacked me.
the response comes back quicker than youâd like, quicker than gives you time to construct proper emotional barriers or remember how to breathe like a normal person.
squatoru: suuuure it did. đ a very convenient slip. but hey, thanks for the unintentional validation. speaking of irresistible things... iâve actually been genuinely obsessed with your videos. that chocolate work? absolutely insane. like, iâm genuinely curious about trying your stuff in person. my cheat day budget just went up.
heâs been watching your videos. this man, human equivalent of a renaissance sculpture, is obsessed with your chocolate work? you, who usually only gets comments from sweet grandmas and fellow bakers, are suddenly being eyed by the thirst trap god himself. you stare at the message until the words blur together, trying to process this information like a computer thatâs been asked to run software from the future.
why.en_bakes: well, the cafe info is on my profile if youâre actually serious. weâre open from 8-6 tuesday to saturday. no freebies.
because youâre not about to make this easy for him. youâve built a whole business on not making things easy, on the radical concept that good pastries require effort and patience and maybe a little suffering. if this man wants to waltz into your world with his perfect face and his ridiculous hair, he can follow the same rules as everyone else.
squatoru: oh, trust me, cupcake. iâm serious about good desserts. and good conversation. and maybe a few other things. consider me booked. see you soon.
cupcake.
he called you cupcake, and something in your stomach does a little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with the leftover anxiety from accidentally liking his photo and everything to do with the way that familiar, sweet word, usually piped with buttercream and sold by the dozen, suddenly tasted personal, a secret, delicious indulgence meant just for you.
satoru, meanwhile, is having his own moment of amused contemplation in his ridiculously expensive apartment, a smirk playing on his lips as he stares at his phone. because hereâs the thing thatâs currently piquing his interest in a way almost nothing else does: you donât know who he is.
not in the way everyone else does, anyway. youâre not sliding into his dms with marriage proposals or asking him to promote your skincare routine. youâre not breathless with excitement or falling over yourself to impress him. you claimed you liked his photo by accidentâa blatant, adorable fib, if your mortified response was anything to go by. you immediately tried to take it back like it was a mistake, but satoru knew better. people didnât accidentally double-tap his abs. they just got shy when they were caught.
when was the last time someone feigned indifference to his attention?
he canât remember, and that bothers him more than it should. heâs so used to being wanted, expected, demanded, that your casual dismissal, even if it was just an act of shyness, feels like a puzzle he needs to solve. youâre talented and professional and seemingly unimpressed by the fact that he exists, and something about that makes him want to try harder than heâs tried at anything that didnât involve weights or protein shakes.
plus, thereâs your voice. that soft, warm tone that guided him through chocolate tempering like you were sharing secrets, like you actually cared whether he understood the difference between seeding and tabling methods.
that night, he replayed your videos more times than heâd admit to anyone, and each time he notices something newâthe careful way you handle delicate pastry, the little satisfied hum when something turns out perfectly, the genuine enthusiasm when you explain why certain techniques matter.
which is how satoru gojo, influencer extraordinaire and professional beautiful person, finds himself googling the address of a bakery at midnight like some kind of carb-obsessed stalker.
your cafe isnât far from his gym. isnât that convenient.
he screenshots the address and adds it to his calendar with the kind of focus usually reserved for competition prep, already planning his route and calculating what time heâll need to leave to avoid the morning rush but still catch you during business hours.
because apparently, satoru gojo has stumbled upon a new obsessionâsomeone who makes croissants for a living and couldnât care less about his follower count, pretending she didn't just like his gym selfie.
his trainer is definitely going to have that aneurysm.
the bell above the door chimed, small and unassuming, almost absurdly inadequate for the entrance that followed. satoru filled the doorway like gravity had personally rearranged itself around him, a quality white tee draping effortlessly over shoulders that looked like theyâd been carved by someone with a personal vendetta against moderation, hinting at the landscape of muscle beneath. well-cut dark cargo pants, practical yet stylish, hung casually on powerful legs that could probably crush watermelons, and his hairâthat impossible mess of silver-white strandsâcaught the morning light like it was showing off.
he walked in with the kind of confidence that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. calculated but effortless, the way predators moved when they werenât particularly hungry but enjoyed the hunt anyway.
you recognized him instantly, and the mortifying memory of that accidental double-tap crashed through your mind like a wrecking ball made of pure embarrassment. heat threatened to crawl up your neck, but you shoved it down with the kind of ruthless efficiency that came from years of dealing with difficult customers and even more difficult ovens.
âwelcome to flour & sugar,â you said, voice carefully steady as you finished wiping down the espresso machine. your movements were precise, controlled, the kind of calm that came from having your hands busy while your brain short-circuited. he caught the swift dart of your eyes, the way they met his for a fraction of a second before skittering away, and a slow, knowing amusement bloomed in his chest. oh, you were definitely lying. âwhat can i get for you today?â
but satoru wasnât listening to your carefully rehearsed greeting. he was too busy having what could only be described as a religious experience with your display case.
âjesus christ,â he breathed, and those storm-glass eyes went wide as they tracked across the pastries like he was cataloging treasures. his hands pressed against the cool glass, long fingers splaying as he leaned in closer. âis thatâare those pain au chocolat actually laminated properly or are you just trying to make me cry?â
âshowing off, obviously,â you replied, corners of your mouth threatening to betray you with something dangerously close to a smile. your fingers found the edge of your flour-dusted black apron, smoothing it down in a gesture that was becoming embarrassingly predictable. âwe just brush regular croissants with chocolate syrup and hope no one notices.â
that earned you a bark of laughter, bright and genuine and so unexpected it made something flutter in your chest like a bird trying to escape. his whole face transformed when he laughedâthe careful perfection cracking open to reveal something warmer underneath.
âoh, youâre trouble,â he said, grinning as he straightened up from the display case. ran one hand through that gravity-defying hair, messing it up in a way that somehow made it look better. the motion caused the soft fabric of the white tee to subtly shift and stretch over his chest and shoulder, a brief, undeniable testament to the power beneath, and he noticed you noticed. his grin widened almost imperceptibly. yeah, you definitely hadnât liked his photo by âaccidentâ. âi can tell already. so whatâs your best âiâm definitely going to regret this later but itâll be worth every minuteâ option today?â
âdangerous recommendations,â he mused, those impossible eyes still cataloging every curve and swirl of your handiwork. his gaze lingered on the fruit tarts, their pastry cream bases topped with berries arranged like tiny works of art, then moved to the cinnamon rolls that spiraled with mathematical precision, their surfaces glazed to perfection.
he was quiet for a moment, just looking, and something in his expression shifted. softer somehow, like he was seeing more than just pastries behind the glass.
âwhat about you?â he asked finally, those winter-storm eyes finding yours. âwhat would you eat if calories didnât exist and your trainer wasnât going to lecture you about macros tomorrow?â
the question caught you completely off guard. most customers just wanted their order taken, not actual conversation, not genuine curiosity about your preferences. your hands stilled on the apron, suddenly aware of how he was looking at youâreally looking, like your answer mattered.
âoh, definitely the chocolate tart,â you said, and a sudden, unexpected spark lit up in your eyes. you leaned forward just a fraction, your voice gaining a soft, enthusiastic edge. âitâs not just chocolate, you know? we use a blend of valrhona guanaja for that deep, almost bitter cocoa base, but then thereâs a hint of madagascar vanilla bean in the custard, just enough to bring out the sweetness without making it cloying. and the crustâitâs a sable breton, a really buttery, shortbread-like texture that just crumbles perfectly. itâs about the balance, the way the intensity of the chocolate plays with the richness of the butter and the delicate snap of the shell. itâs⊠everything.â
you finished with a quiet, almost breathless sigh, a small flush on your cheeks from the sheer passion of your explanation. you hadnât even realized you were practically lecturing him until you saw the look on his face.
something flickered across his face then, a slow dawning of satisfaction mixed with a captivating curiosity. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, were softened, fixed entirely on you. he hadnât understood half the technical terms, but heâd understood the passion, the genuine love that radiated from you when you talked about your craft. that, he realized, was even more intoxicating than the thought of the tart itself.
âsold,â he declared, his voice a low, pleased rumble. âone chocolate tart for me. andââ he paused, head tilting as he studied the menu board behind you. âmatcha latte. extra sweet, if you donât mind. gotta balance out all that virtue somehow.â
the way he said it, low and curious, made your pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. âmr. gojoââ
âjust satoru,â he interrupted, and that easy smile turned softer somehow, more genuine. leaned against the counter on his forearms, bringing himself closer to your eye level. the sleeve of his white tee shifted, briefly revealing the impressive curve of his powerful biceps, practically begging for your gaze, and you felt that familiar, involuntary tightening in your throat again. he was far too aware of the space between you, of the way the air thrummed with unspoken things. âiâd prefer it if you called me satoru. âmr. gojoâ makes me sound like my father, and trust me, thatâs not the vibe weâre going for here.â
heat crept up your neck despite every attempt at professional composure. he was close enough that you could smell his cologneâsomething clean and expensive that probably cost more than your monthly ingredient budgetâmixed with the faintest hint of lingering workout endorphins.
âsatoru, then,â you managed, fingers finding the register keys with muscle memory while your brain tried to process the way he smiled when you said his name. âfind a seat anywhere youâd like. iâll call you when itâs ready.â
he pushed back from the counter with fluid grace, all loose-limbed confidence and predatory satisfaction. chose the corner table by the windowâof course he didâprime real estate for people-watching and and, more importantly, you-watching. settled into the chair like he owned not just the seat but the entire building, phone out but screen dark, attention fixed entirely on your workspace.
you tried to ignore the weight of his stare as you moved through your routine, but it was like trying to ignore sunlight streaming through windows. persistent, warm, impossible to escape. steamed milk for his matcha latte, the bright green powder swirling into pale foam like liquid jade, sweetened just enough to match his request for extra sugar.
âorder for satoru,â you called, and watched him unfold from the chair with that fluid grace that made ordinary movements look choreographed.
âthat was fast,â he said, accepting the small plate and cup. his fingers brushed yours for just a momentâwarm, callused from whatever weights he threw around when he wasnât terrorizing bakeries. âefficient.â
âi try not to keep people waiting.â the words came out steadier than you felt, professional smile firmly in place even as your skin tingled where heâd touched it.
âand here i was hoping youâd take your time,â he replied, that insufferable smirk back in full force. tilted his head just enough to catch your eye, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that shouldâve looked accidental but absolutely wasnât. âguess iâll just have to savor this extra slowly to make up for it.â
back at his table, satoru lifted the fork like he was about to perform delicate surgery. cut into the tart with surgical precision, watched the ganache yield to reveal the perfect custard beneath, dark chocolate giving way to pale cream in a contrast that made his mouth water before heâd even tasted it.
the first bite rewired something fundamental in his brain.
it wasnât just the flavorâthough that was devastating enough, rich and balanced and absolutely perfect. it was the memory that came with it, sudden and overwhelming. his grandmotherâs kitchen on sunday mornings, flour handprints on her faded apron, the smell of butter and vanilla thick in the air like incense in a church dedicated to sugar and love.
heâd been a chubby kid back then, all round cheeks and soft edges before growth spurts and gym obsessions carved him into something else entirely. back when sweetness meant safety, when dessert wasnât the enemy but the reward for scraped knees and hard days and just existing in a world that sometimes felt too big and too scary.
this tart tasted like coming home to a place heâd forgotten existed.
he tried to eat it slowly, really tried. wanted to analyze the flavor profile, identify the techniques, make it last. but his body had other plans entirely. each bite melted on his tongue like a prayer answered, and before he knew it the plate was empty and he was staring at the evidence of his complete lack of self-control.
worth every single burpee heâd have to do tomorrow. worth twice that many.
he pulled out his phone, angled it to catch the crumb-scattered plate in afternoon light. typed out âfound heavenâ with thumbs that were steadier than they had any right to be, tagged the location, posted it to his story without a second thought.
let his trainer try to explain that one.
when he looked up, you were watching him from behind the counter, expression carefully neutral but eyes curious. caught in the act of caring whether heâd enjoyed it, whether your work had lived up to whatever expectations heâd built in his head.
âverdict?â you called across the space between you, voice carrying just the tiniest hint of genuine interest beneath the professional politeness.
âdevastating,â he called back, not bothering to hide his grin or the way he gestured to the empty plate like it was evidence in a criminal trial. âabsolutely devastating. iâm going to have to come back tomorrow just to make sure it wasnât a fluke.â
âtomorrowâs monday. weâre closed.â the correction came automatically, but there was something softer in your voice now, the professional mask slipping just enough to let real personality peek through.
âthen tuesday,â he said without missing a beat, standing up with that fluid grace and reaching for his wallet. âand probably wednesday. thursdayâs looking pretty likely too.â
you ducked your head, but not before he caught the small smile you were trying to hide. watched you wipe your hands on that flour-dusted apron in the nervous gesture he was already learning to catalog alongside all your other tells.
âsame time tuesday, then,â you said, like you were discussing the weather instead of planning his return to the scene of his carbohydrate crime.
âwouldnât miss it, cupcake,â he replied, dropping a twenty on the counter for a twelve-dollar order and heading for the door before you could argue about the change.
he walked out into afternoon sunshine already calculating how many extra miles heâd need to run to justify coming back in two days.
spoiler alert: he was coming back regardless, and you both knew it.
the cafe, which once felt like a carefully controlled universe of flour and sugar, now had a new gravitational pull. satoru gojo had become a regular. not just a customer, but a fixture, like the espresso machine or the perpetually overflowing tips jar.
except this fixture came with perfectly tousled hair and a smile that could probably power half the city.
tuesday morning, 10:47 am. the bell chimed and there he was, silver hair catching the morning light like heâd been personally blessed by some very aesthetic gods. todayâs ensemble: a loose knit sweater that somehow managed to look both cozy and criminally expensive, draped across shoulders that belonged in a renaissance sculpture exhibit.
he approached the counter with that easy confidence, long fingers already drumming against the glass as those winter-storm eyes conducted some kind of pastry reconnaissance mission.
âjust making sure the integrity of your laminated dough hasnât... suffered since yesterday, cupcake,â he said, leaning against the counter like heâd been doing it his whole life. the casual way he invaded your space should have been annoying. instead, it made something flutter stupidly in your chest.
you barely suppressed an eye roll, busying yourself with restocking napkins because your hands needed something to do that wasnât embarrassing. âmy laminated dough is doing just fine, satoru.â
âis it though?â he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in a way that was definitely not accidental, studying a pain au chocolat like it held state secrets. âbecause that one right there looks criminally perfect. almost offensive, really. i might have to do something about it.â
the way he said it, all mock seriousness with those ridiculous blue eyes sparkling with mischief, made your lips twitch despite your best efforts. âsuch a hardship for you.â
âdevastating,â he agreed, pressing a hand to his chest like he was physically wounded. then that grin broke through, the one that made him look less like a fitness god and more like a kid whoâd found the cookie jar. âiâll take two. and one of those.â he pointed to a lemon meringue tart, its peak of toasted meringue golden and proud. âfor balance.â
you reached for the pastries, trying to ignore how he watched your every movement like he was memorizing the choreography. âbalance?â
âvery important nutritional concept. sweet, then tart, then back to sweet. itâs basically science.â
âthatâs not how nutrition works.â
âsays who? my trainer?â he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture fluid and careless. âhe thinks protein powder counts as a food group. clearly not a reliable source.â
âconsistency test?â you repeated, watching him pull out that expensive wallet like he was performing surgery.
âscientific method, cupcake. very important.â he peeled off crisp hundreds with the casual air of someone whoâd never met a price tag he couldnât ignore. the bills looked fresh from the bank, and you briefly wondered if he requested new ones specifically for pastry purchases. âcanât make proper recommendations without thorough research.â
your fingers found the edge of your apron, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles. ârecommendations to who?â
âmy trainer, obviously. gotta give him fair warning about whatâs destroying his careful work.â that laugh again, bright and completely unrepentant, the sound warming something deep in your chest. âspeaking of which, whatâs the caloric damage on these beauties?â
âyou donât want to know.â
âtry me.â he leaned forward slightly, chin tilting in challenge, and you caught yourself staring at the way his collar bone disappeared beneath the cotton of his shirt.
his eyes actually fluttered closed for a second, and the small sound he made was borderline indecent. you busied yourself with the register before your brain could process the implications.
âworth every burpee,â he declared, and the conviction in his voice made something warm unfurl in your stomach. this wasnât just politeness or customer service charm. he meant it.
thursday he showed up in a perfectly fitted black tee that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your professionalism took a brief vacation. the fabric clung to every angle and curve like it had been painted on, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending to organize the already-organized pastry display.
he ordered what could only be described as half your case. two kouign-amann, a slice of blood orange tart, three of your dark chocolate cookies, and a danish that had been sitting there looking particularly photogenic.
âresearch again?â you asked, voice carefully light while your eyes decidedly did not linger on the way his shirt stretched when he reached for his wallet.
âtraining day,â he said, and there was that subtle flex again, the movement so casual it might have been accidental if not for the way his lips quirked slightly. he knew exactly what he was doing. âneed the fuel.â
you handed him his order, fingers brushing his for just a moment. warm, slightly callused from whatever torture routine he put himself through daily. âfor what, exactly?â
âdeadlifts. squats. the usual punishment for having a sweet tooth the size of tokyo.â he examined the danish like he was conducting a forensic investigation, head tilted just so. âmy trainer keeps threatening to fire me, but jokeâs on himâiâd just find someone who appreciates the finer things in life.â
the mental image of satoru gojo interviewing personal trainers based on their pastry tolerance made you duck your head to hide a smile. âhow much extra cardio are we talking here?â
âfor this haul? probably an extra hour. maybe two.â he bit into the danish with the kind of focus usually reserved for important life decisions, and you watched his expression melt into something approaching reverence. âbut look at this thing. the way youâve layered that fruit, how the glaze catches the light... thatâs art, cupcake. you canât put a price on art.â
heat crept up your neck at the genuine appreciation in his voice. âapparently you can. itâs twelve dollars.â
âcheap for a masterpiece.â
the compliment hit different when it came wrapped in that soft tone, without any of his usual performative charm. just honest appreciation, and it made your chest feel tight in ways you didnât want to examine.
by friday, youâd started doing something incredibly stupid. anticipating his visits with the kind of precision usually reserved for oven timers and proofing schedules. you knew his patterns nowâtart first, then creamy, then something with crunch. complex flavors that demanded attention, just like everything else about him.
so when he walked in wearing a cream-colored sweater that made his hair look like spun moonlight, youâd already committed the crime of setting aside a perfect almond croissant and a slice of your new cardamom pear tart. just sitting there on a small plate behind the counter, waiting like evidence of your growing soft spot.
he stopped short when he saw them, and something shifted in his expression. softer somehow, like youâd surprised him in the best possible way. âyou read my mind, cupcake.â
âjust good service,â you mumbled, but your hands betrayed you, finding your apron and smoothing the flour-dusted fabric with nervous fingers.
âis it though?â he leaned forward, elbows finding the counter, bringing himself into your space in a way that made your pulse skip. up close, you could see the faint freckle near his left temple, the way his ridiculously long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. âbecause this feels suspiciously like youâve been paying attention to my very sophisticated palate.â
the teasing lilt in his voice made your stomach do something acrobatic. âyour very expensive palate, you mean.â
âthat too.â those eyes were studying you now with the same intensity he usually reserved for pastries, curious and warm and entirely too perceptive. âso what made you choose these? professional instinct or...â
âor what?â
âor maybe youâre starting to like having me around.â
the question hung between you like sugar dust in afternoon light, sweet and impossible to ignore. your cheeks felt warm, but you kept your voice steady through sheer stubborn will. âyouâre a good customer.â
âjust good?â he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in that way that made your fingers itch to brush it back.
âyou tip well.â
âah.â he straightened up with fluid grace, grinning like heâd just solved a particularly entertaining puzzle. âso it is about the money.â
the lie sat bitter on your tongue, but youâd rather eat raw flour than admit the truth. that you looked forward to his visits. that youâd started timing your baking schedule around his usual arrival. that the ridiculous tips were just an excuse to let yourself enjoy his company without feeling guilty about it.
âeverythingâs about money, satoru.â
âeverything?â that voice dropped lower, softer, and you felt it in places that had absolutely nothing to do with business. âwhat about the art? the passion? the pure, unadulterated joy of creation?â
your breath caught slightly at the way he said âpassion,â like the word meant something more than flour and butter and sugar. ârent doesnât pay itself with passion.â
âfair point.â he took a bite of the almond croissant, and you watched his entire face transform. the careful composure melted away, replaced by something raw and genuine and absolutely devastating. âjesus. okay, this is... this is stupid good.â
pride bloomed warm in your chest, the kind that came from watching someone truly appreciate your work. âjust stupid good?â
âlife-changing. earth-shattering. the kind of good that makes me question every life choice that led to me discovering it this late.â he took another bite, slower this time, actually savoring it like it deserved. watching him eat something youâd made with such obvious pleasure did dangerous things to your equilibrium. âwhere did you learn to do this?â
the question caught you off guard. not his usual surface-level compliments, but genuine curiosity about you, about your story. you found yourself answering before you could think better of it.
âa french pastry chef who made gordon ramsay look like a teddy bear. learned more in six months with him than i did in two years of school.â the memory still made you wince slightly, even wrapped in gratitude for everything it had taught you.
satoruâs eyebrows rose, and something shifted in his expression. less playful, more attentive. âsounds intense.â
âhe once made me remake the same batch of croissants seventeen times because the lamination wasnât perfect.â the words came easier now, maybe because he was listening with such focused attention. âi cried in the walk-in cooler.â
âand the eighteenth time?â
âeighteenth time was perfect.â you surprised yourself with how much warmth crept into your voice. âfinally understood what he meant about respecting the process. about not cutting corners just because you think you know better.â
âand now?â
ânow i can make them in my sleep.â you gestured toward the display case where your croissants sat in golden, flaky perfection, evidence of countless hours and stubborn determination. âmuscle memory and spite, mostly.â
that drew a laugh from him, rich and genuine. âdeadly combination.â
he was looking at you differently now, those impossible eyes softer somehow. like he was seeing past the professional politeness to something more real. it should have been unsettling. instead, it made you want to keep talking, keep sharing pieces of yourself you usually kept locked away.
âso this chocolate work you doâthe tempering, the ganacheâthat all came from drill sergeant pastry chef too?â
you found yourself actually wanting to explain it, to share the thing you loved most about your craft. âsome of it. but chocolate is... different. more temperamental. you canât bully it into submission like dough. you have to coax it, understand what it needs.â
he leaned closer, genuinely interested, and you caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness from the pastries. clean and expensive and entirely too distracting. âwhat does it need?â
âpatience. the right temperature. respect for the process.â you pulled out your phone almost without thinking, scrolling to a video youâd posted last week. âsee this? the way the chocolate looks when itâs properly tempered versus when itâs not?â
he moved around the counterâwhen had you said he could do that?âto look at your screen. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. âshow me the difference.â
your fingers were definitely not steady as you pointed to the glossy, perfectly smooth chocolate in the video. âthis one. snappy, shiny, stable. versus this.â another clip, chocolate that looked dull and streaky. âseized because someone got impatient and tried to rush the cooling process.â
âsomeone like me, you mean.â
the self-awareness in his voice made you look up, and suddenly you were much too close to those winter-storm eyes. âsomeone exactly like you.â
âouch.â but he was smiling, that soft genuine smile that made your pulse forget its rhythm. âso youâre saying i need to learn patience.â
âiâm saying chocolate will teach you patience whether you want to learn or not.â
âand if i wanted to learn? hypothetically speaking.â
the question settled between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away. your heart did something complicated against your ribs. âhypothetically?â
âcompletely hypothetical. just curious about the... educational process.â
you studied his face, looking for the usual playful smirk, but found something more sincere instead. something that made your chest feel tight and warm and terrified. âitâs not easy. takes time. messy. lots of failures before you get it right.â
âiâm not afraid of messy.â his voice was softer now, and you realized you were still standing much too close, could see the faint gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.
âno,â you said quietly, taking in his perfectly styled hair, his carefully chosen outfit, the way he carried himself like problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved. âi donât think you are.â
he stayed longer that day, nursing his matcha latte and working through the cardamom pear tart with the kind of focus usually reserved for meditation or very important life decisions. every so often heâd look up and catch you watching him, and instead of that cocky smirk youâd grown dangerously fond of, heâd give you something softer. more real.
when he finally left, he paused at the door, hand on the frame, looking back like he wanted to say something else.
âsame time monday?â
âweâre closed mondays.â
âtuesday, then.â that smile again, the one that made your knees forget their primary function.
your phone buzzed, not with an explosion, but with another steady pulse in what had become a low, constant hum of new activity over the past few days. each time heâd posted and tagged you, a new wave of curious followers would wash over your small pageâa few hundred more likes, a dozen more comments asking who you were. this post felt different, though. more potent.
it felt less like a ripple and more like the tide starting to turn. you stared at your phone screen, watching the new notifications roll in, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach. you realized you were in trouble. the kind of trouble that was only partly about the looming threat of viral fame, and everything to do with the way your heart had started keeping time to the rhythm of a certain someoneâs visits.
the cafe visits had become routine, but so had something else entirely. late-night video binges. satoru, tucked into the ridiculously expensive italian leather couch in his penthouse, would scroll through your youtube channel like it was late-night cable, airpods in, the city lights a distant hum.
your voice, a warm honey heâd once only associated with chocolate tempering, now filled his ears, a constant, comforting presence. it was oddly intimate, an exclusive soundtrack to his solitary evenings. heâd watch you explain the subtle art of a perfectly proofed brioche, the meticulous fold of a puff pastry. and as he watched, as your gentle explanations filled the quiet of his apartment, he started associating sweetness with more than just taste.
it was in the warmth of your voice, the patient way you corrected a common baking mistake in a tutorial, the quiet dedication in your hands as they measured flour. sweetness became patience. sweetness became quiet strength. sweetness became you.
it started innocently enough, a playful jab after a particularly indulgent visit.
squatoru: seriously, that pain au chocolat today? should come with a warning label. my trainer cried.
why.en-bakes: glad to be of service đ
but then, the messages started appearing at odd hours. 1 am, 2 am. sometimes a simple, nonsensical emoji. sometimes a flurry of half-baked ideas.
squatoru: what about a churro croissant? is that legal? asking for a friend. (the friend is my sweet tooth).
youâd wake up to the ping, groggy and annoyed, but then youâd read his absurd suggestions, and a small smile would tug at your lips. sometimes, inexplicably, they were good ideas. too good.
your fingers would hover over your phone, considering the absurdity, then find themselves scrolling through your pantry. a few days later, a churro croissant would appear as tomorrowâs special, flaky and cinnamon-sugared, a tangible reply to his late-night musings.
heâd walk in the next day, a triumphant grin on his face. âi knew it,â heâd say, leaning against the counter, eyes sparkling. âyouâre secretly taking commissions from my dreams, arenât you, cupcake?â
youâd just shrug, a faint flush on your cheeks. âjust a good baker with good ideas, satoru.â
he began to wonder if this was what inspiration felt like, this constant buzz in his brain, these unexpected surges of creativity that always, always, revolved around you and your world. it was foreign, intoxicating.
the teasing messages started to shift, to soften. the playful jabs giving way to something more sincere, more vulnerable.
squatoru: that apple crumble changed my life, no joke. thought i peaked, then tasted that. turns out i can still be surprised.
a message like that would arrive late at night, catching you off guard. youâd be scrolling through a supplier catalog, exhausted, and then his words would bloom on the screen, a quiet warmth spreading through your chest.
squatoru: didnât know honey could taste like that. your honey cake. itâs something else.
youâd stare at your phone screen, a strange mixture of fluster and genuine pleasure unfurling inside you. these weren't compliments about his abs or his follower countâthey were about your work, your taste, your ability to create something beautiful. when you thought no one was looking, usually tucked under your covers or in the quiet pre-dawn hours of the cafe, youâd screenshot them. little digital keepsakes of his quiet adoration.
squatoru: you made winter feel kind today. the lemon tart. tasted like sunshine.
you didn't know what to do with messages like that. they weren't flirting, not exactly. they were⊠observations. gentle, heartfelt observations that chipped away at your professional armor, one sweet, unassuming word at a time.
back in the gleaming, sterile environment of his gym, satoruâs performance was, to put it mildly, suffering. his focus, once laser-sharp, now drifted like dandelion fluff on the wind.
he dropped weights mid-set, the heavy clatter echoing through the gym, startling the other lifters. heâd be thinking about the impossibly smooth texture of your lemon curd, the delicate balance of your custard. the way it melted on the tongue. the exact shade of the toasted meringue.
his trainer, a no-nonsense man named masaru who believed in pain and protein above all else, crossed his arms, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple. âsatoru. youâve dropped that sixty-kilo bell three times this week. you sleeping enough?â
satoru grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, his mind still halfway back in your cafe. âyeah, fine. just⊠distracted.â
âdistracted by what? another brand deal?â masaru eyed him skeptically. âyouâre hitting your protein, right? macros are still on point?â
âyeah, yeah. all fine.â satoru lied, easily, smoothly. he hadnât logged his macros properly in days. he hadnât done his usual post-workout cardio in favor of replaying your new almond croissant tutorial. he wasnât fine. not in the way masaru meant.
he was falling. falling faster and harder than any deadlift heâd ever attempted. and the landing, he suspected, was going to be deliciously, terrifyingly sweet.
by the next morning, tuesday, there was a line winding around the block of flour & sugarâa serpent of eager customers stretching down the street, smartphones out, food bloggers scribbling furiously into notebooks, and a worrying number of local influencers trying (and failing) to recreate satoruâs âfound heavenâ aesthetic shots outside your unassuming facade.
you opened the doors at seven, expecting your usual tuesday hum. instead, you were hit with a tidal wave. your tiny cafe, usually a haven of quiet contemplation for pastry lovers, became a buzzing hive of anticipation.
by 9 am, the display case was utterly, tragically barren. empty shelves stared back at you, pristine and devoid of life. you were sold out, completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unprecedented influx of customers, all asking for âwhatever satoru gojo ordered.â
youâd spent the last hour politely explaining that satoru gojo had a different order every day and, no, you couldnât just whip up a fresh batch of everything right now. the exhaustion was real, but so was the faint, bewildered pride.
when he showed up at his usual, leisurely time, strolling in at 10:47 like he owned the sunshine outside, he stopped short. the bell above the door gave its usual chime, but for once, satoruâs fluid confidence faltered. his storm-glass eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, widened, then slowly swept across the utterly desolate display case.
the devastation on his face was almost comicalâlike someone had just told him christmas was cancelled, forever, and replaced it with a mandatory kale cleanse. his impossible silver hair seemed to droop slightly, mirroring the sudden collapse of his shoulders.
you, wiping down the already spotless counter, saw his expression crumble, the playful mischief in his eyes replaced by a profound, almost childlike grief. a genuine wave of apology washed over you.
âiâm so sorry,â you started, stepping closer to the counter, your voice softer than intended. his gaze flickered to you, briefly losing focus on the tragedy before him. âwe⊠we sold out early today. there were just⊠a lot of new customers.â you gestured vaguely towards the lingering stragglers outside, still hopeful.
he ignored them. his eyes were fixed on the barren shelves, staring at the empty spaces where his beloved pain au chocolat and lemon meringue tarts usually sat in gleaming rows, like they had personally betrayed him. his perfect posture, usually so effortlessly arrogant, sagged just a fraction. âall of it?â
you nodded, a small, sympathetic frown creasing your brow. âall of it. the pain au chocolat, the kouign-amann, even the cinnamon rolls. everything.â you watched him process this profound tragedy, the quick flicker of shock, then disbelief, then a truly dramatic despair. a strange, soft tug pulled at your chest. it was ridiculous, of course, but also⊠kind of sweet.
you couldnât help it. his absolute, unadulterated heartbreak over a lack of pastries was surprisingly endearing. âbut⊠i could make you something?â you offered, the words tumbling out before you could fully censor them. âfresh? if you donât mind waiting.â
his head snapped up, those storm-glass eyes widening again, now alight with a sudden, improbable hope. it was like youâd just offered him the moon, gift-wrapped and topped with ganache. âyouâd do that?â
âwell,â you said, trying to ignore how his entire face lit up, a blinding sunrise of relief and joy. you felt a blush creeping up your neck. âcanât have you wasting away to nothing, satoru. i imagine your trainer would send me a very strongly worded email.â you added, a small, wry smile touching your lips.
what you didnât say: that youâd already set aside ingredients for his usual favoritesâan almond croissant, a chocolate tart, a couple of those irresistible dark chocolate cookiesâbefore the morning rush hit, carefully hidden in the back like a secret stash, just in case. just in case he showed up, heartbroken, and needed a little private magic.
he seemed to take this as a cue, a permission granted. a wide, relieved grin spread across his face, lighting up the entire cafe. âyouâre a lifesaver, cupcake. a literal, delicious lifesaver.â he pushed off the counter, moving with renewed purpose towards his usual corner table, settling in with the patience of a cat waiting for milk. âanything you make will be perfect. take your time. iâm in no rush.â
you ducked your head, a smile finally escaping, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. the cafe was empty of customers, but suddenly, it felt very, very full.
you disappeared into the back, the familiar rhythm of your kitchen a welcome balm after the morningâs chaos. pulling out the pre-portioned ingredients, you began to work, your hands moving with skilled precision. you rolled the pastry for his almond croissant, its buttery layers promising flaky perfection, then assembled a miniature chocolate tart, ensuring the ganache was extra smooth, the sable crust extra crisp. the aroma of warm butter and dark chocolate began to waft through the now quiet cafe, a comforting, familiar scent that promised indulgence.
satoru, at his table, watched the kitchen door, an expectant, almost puppy-like eagerness in his posture. when you finally emerged, a small plate held carefully in your hands, he practically vibrated with anticipation.
âalmond croissant and a chocolate tart, fresh out of the oven,â you announced, placing the plate gently before him. the croissant gleamed, its toasted almonds a fragrant crown, and the chocolate tart was a miniature masterpiece, its surface still faintly warm. âand a fresh matcha latte, extra sweet, just like you like it.â
he stared at the plate, then up at you, his impossible eyes wide with genuine awe. âyou⊠you made this? just for me?â
you felt a blush spread across your cheeks. âitâs part of the job, satoru. making people happy with pastries.â
âyouâre doing a very good job,â he said, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat longer than strictly necessary. he reached for the croissant first, breaking off a piece with careful precision. the warm, buttery scent filled the air around him. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, appreciative hum escaping him as he chewed slowly, savoring every flaky, almond-laced bite.
this wasn't just a pastry. this was a personalized act of kindness from the one person who seemed utterly immune to his usual charms. and it tasted like pure, unadulterated happiness.
he devoured the croissant, then moved to the chocolate tart, taking a huge, satisfying bite. the warmth of the chocolate, the sweetness of the ganache, the unexpected crunch of the crustâit was pure bliss. he ate it with the focus of a man whoâd been starving for days, yet somehow also with a deliberate slowness, trying to make the moment last.
when he finished, the plates were impeccably clean, as if licked. he pulled out his wallet again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. âiâm going to need the damage report, cupcake. and i have a feeling this kind of bespoke service warrants⊠extra compensation.â he placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter, pushing them towards you. âfor the trouble. and for the extra miles iâll have to run tomorrow.â
you stared at the money, then at him, a genuine smile finally breaking through. âsatoru, this is ridiculous. itâs twelve dollars. the ingredients were already here.â
ânonsense. that was a private showing of artisanal genius. worth every penny. consider it a down payment for future emergencies.â he grinned, then stood, stretching with a languid grace that drew your eyes to the way his t-shirt draped over his chest. âso. tuesday, then? same time?â
you watched him, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the oven. âtuesday. weâll try to save some for you.â
âno need,â he said, a playful wink accompanying his words as he headed for the door. âi have a feeling youâll make something special just for me.â
and as the bell chimed, marking his departure, you couldnât help but smile, already thinking about what new creation you could conjure up for his next visit. he was right. you probably would.
the cafe had always run on rhythm. espresso machine hissing, ceramic clatter, quiet conversation hum. but lately, that rhythm had acquired a distinct satoru-shaped beat that threw off your entire carefully orchestrated world.
heâd been coming in daily now, not just tuesday through saturday, but every moment the doors were open. his excuses were increasingly transparent, delivered with charming smirks that you almost boughtâwould have bought, if you werenât becoming dangerously familiar with the way his mouth curved when he was particularly pleased with himself.
âneeded caffeine,â heâd declare one morning, striding through the bellâs familiar jingle with the kind of confidence that made gravity seem negotiable. never mind that his penthouse probably housed equipment worth more than your monthly rent. heâd stretch deliberately, quality fabric pulling across shoulders that belonged in renaissance sculptures, while storm-glass eyes swept the display case like he was conducting some kind of sacred inventory.
then came the most audacious: âthought i smelled something burning.â
perfectly straight face, not even a twitch in those ridiculous cheekbones. dramatic air-sniffing that somehow made him look like a very expensive bloodhound. youâd given him your flattest look, the one usually reserved for customers who asked if your croissants were âreallyâ made fresh daily.
there was, of course, no burning anything. just your patience, slowly crumbling like overbaked cookies.
today was thursday. he walked in wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt that committed actual crimes against your ability to concentrate and cargo pants that somehow looked effortlessly expensive on legs that went on for geological ages. ordered his usualâchocolate tart, almond croissant, extra-sweet matcha latte that matched his ridiculous sweet toothâbut bypassed his customary corner table.
instead, he chose a small two-person spot against the wall. direct, unobstructed view of your main workspace. the audacity was breathtaking, really.
you felt his attention immediately, warm weight settling between your shoulder blades like a cat claiming ownership. moved to the prep station where vanilla cupcakes waited for rosettes, your hands usually surgeon-steady despite the early morning rush. but under his unwavering focus, fingers felt clumsy, disconnected from your brain. delicate buttercream swirls wobbled slightly, and you bit back the urge to humâyour usual working soundtrack felt too intimate with him watching.
annoyance mixed with growing heat that had nothing to do with the ovens. furious blush threatened to betray every professional instinct youâd cultivated.
during a lull, you glanced up, and immediately regretted it. his table sat maybe six feet away but felt impossibly close, like heâd somehow bent space around himself. no pretense todayâphone abandoned beside his matcha, screen dark as those winter-storm eyes. just watching. chin propped on palm, elbow on table, head tilted with languid grace that suggested he had all the time in the world to study your every movement.
his expression was soft, unguarded. usual playful glint replaced by something direct, seeing. it made your chest tighten strangely, breath catching like youâd forgotten how to process oxygen properly. awareness jolted through you like touching a live wire.
âyouâre staring,â you called across the space, voice steadier than your pulse deserved. the words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against the way he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in his very curated world.
he smiled slowly, easy stretch reaching those impossible eyes. blue depths softened, losing glacial edge for warmth that made something flutter stupidly behind your ribs. lifted his matcha with deliberate grace, sipped without breaking eye contact. the movement was calculated casualness, performative in its confidence.
âjust appreciating the artistry, cupcake.â his voice carried new weight today, rougher around the edges. more honest than his usual smooth control, like heâd forgotten to put on his public persona along with that perfectly fitted shirt.
âthe artistry of cupcakes?â you countered, fingers tightening around the piping bag until plastic creaked in protest. forced attention back to swirling white frosting, but your mind kept circling back to how his gaze felt like warm spotlight, illuminating corners of yourself you usually kept professionally dim.
he chuckled, low and private, the sound meant for your ears alone despite the public space. head tilted again, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked messy but instead made him look like some expensive magazineâs idea of casual perfection. storm-glass eyes held yours, reflective depth replacing sharp teasing.
âthe artistry of you making them.â the words fell between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away.
this compliment rewired something fundamental in your chest. bypassed professional pride entirely, sailed straight past the fluster youâd been fighting, and landed somewhere dangerous. settled like comfortable weight against your ribs, warm and persistent. wasnât about pastries anymore, or technical skill. about you.
the quiet passion, focused dedication you poured into everything you made. like heâd reached past counter, past flour-dusted apron, past practiced customer service smile, and seen something essential you rarely let anyone witness.
heat crept up your neck in a slow burn, spread across cheeks like spilled cinnamon. you ducked your head, suddenly exposed in ways that made your skin feel too tight. terrifying and exhilarating simultaneously, like standing at the edge of something vast and unnamed.
foolish joy blossomed behind your ribs anyway. he really sees it. sees you.
âwell, thank you, satoru,â you managed, voice softer than intended, betraying the carefully constructed composure you wore like armor. squeezed the piping bag, and a perfect rosette bloomedâslightly lopsided but charming in its imperfection. âit takes a lot of practice. years, actually.â
your fingers trembled slightly as you set the cupcake aside, reached for another. started humming under your breath without thinking, a soft melody that always accompanied your work. caught yourself, stopped abruptly.
he made a thoughtful sound, those long fingers drumming against ceramic in a rhythm that somehow matched the song youâd been humming. like heâd been listening, filing away even your unconscious habits. âyears, huh? thatâs...â he paused, rolling the word around like he was tasting it. âdedication.â
something almost wistful colored his tone, like he was trying to imagine that kind of sustained commitment to anything that wasnât maintaining his ridiculous physical perfection. his thumb traced the rim of his cup, absent gesture that drew your attention to hands that were probably softer than yours despite all his gym time.
âsome people think itâs obsessive,â you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty. smoothed your apron with nervous fingers, flour transferring to already-dusty fabric. youâd heard it beforeâfriends who didnât understand the 4am starts, the burned fingers, the endless pursuit of perfect crumb structure.
âobsessive?â he repeated, eyebrows rising toward that impossible hairline. familiar smirk tugged at lips that were unfairly well-defined, but gentler somehow. less performative. âcoming from someone whoâs memorized your operating schedule and has been conducting what could generously be called âpastry surveillanceâ for months?â
the self-awareness in his voice, paired with that slight flush across sharp cheekbones, made something warm bubble up in your chest. despite yourself, you snorted. actual snorted. like an undignified, very unprofessional sound that would have mortified you with any other customer.
his grin widened into something brilliant, transforming his entire face. less magazine-perfect, more genuinely beautiful. the kind of smile that made you forget he was probably genetically engineered for maximum visual impact.
âexcessive?â he pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, the gesture making his shirt pull across torso that defied reasonable proportions. leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, all long lines and casual power. âi prefer âthorough research methodology.ââ
âis that what weâre calling it?â the question came out teasing despite your best efforts, fingers moving in familiar patterns as buttercream spiraled into perfect peaks.
âabsolutely. very scientific.â he took another sip of matcha, eyes sparkling with mischief that made him look younger, less untouchable. âcanât make proper assessments without comprehensive data collection.â
you paused in your piping, tilted your head in challenge. âand what exactly are you assessing?â
something shifted in his expression then, playful mask slipping slightly. âeverything,â he said simply, voice dropping to something more intimate. âthe way you move when you think no oneâs watching. how you hum when youâre concentrating. the fact that you always check the oven timer twice, even though you could probably bake blindfolded by now.â
the observation sent warmth spiraling through your chest. he had been watching, really watching. not just appreciating the view but memorizing details, cataloging habits you thought were invisible.
âspeaking of which,â he continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows finding the table. closer now, close enough that you could see the way his lashes cast shadows on those ridiculous cheekbones. âhow does one even begin to learn something like this? hypothetically speaking.â
the question caught you off guard, made you pause with piping bag hovering over another cupcake. something in his tone had shiftedâless flirtatious banter, more genuine curiosity. like he was actually interested in your answer rather than just enjoying the conversation.
âhypothetically?â you echoed carefully, studying his face for signs of his usual performative charm. found something more sincere instead, vulnerability creeping around the edges of his confidence.
âcompletely hypothetical,â he assured, but that flush across his cheekbones deepened slightly. fingers stilled against his cup, waiting for your response with the kind of focus he usually reserved for gym routines or camera angles.
you considered this, set down the piping bag to give him your full attention. âwell, hypothetically... most people start with basics. measuring, following recipes exactly. learning to fail gracefully.â
âfail gracefully?â curiosity brightened those storm-glass eyes, head tilting like he was genuinely trying to understand a foreign concept.
âburned cookies, collapsed cakes, chocolate that seizes because you got impatient.â you shrugged, began humming again as you arranged finished cupcakes on a tiered stand. the melody helped organize your thoughts, made the explanation flow easier. âitâs part of the process. you mess up, figure out why, try again.â
he was quiet for a moment, processing this with the kind of intense focus that probably made his personal trainer weep with joy. thumb traced patterns against ceramic, unconscious gesture that somehow made him seem more human.
âsounds like it requires patience.â something rueful colored his voice, like he was recognizing his own shortcomings.
âtons of it. and thick skin. and the ability to get up at ungodly hours because bread waits for no one.â you glanced up, caught something almost vulnerable in his expression. like he was actually considering this impossible scenario, measuring himself against requirements heâd never had to meet.
âungodly hours,â he repeated thoughtfully, hair falling across his forehead as he leaned closer. âlike how ungodly are we talking?â
âfour am, sometimes earlier during busy seasons.â you watched him wince dramatically, all sharp angles and exaggerated horror. the reaction was so genuine it made you laugh, soft sound that seemed to catch his attention like a hook. âdifferent kind of brutal than your workout schedule.â
âdefinitely different,â he agreed, then found yourself adding, voice softer, âbut worth it. when everything comes together perfectly, when you create something that makes people happy...â you trailed off, humming resuming as you lost yourself in the thought. âthereâs nothing quite like it.â
the way you said it, gentle and genuine and completely unguarded, made something shift in his expression. that performative confidence melted away entirely, replaced by raw curiosity and something that looked dangerously like longing.
âyou really love it,â he observed quietly. not a question, more like a realization. like he was seeing youâreally seeing youâfor the first time.
âyeah,â you admitted, suddenly shy under his intense focus. smoothed your apron again, nervous gesture that left more flour streaks across the fabric. âi really do.â
silence stretched between you, but it wasnât uncomfortable. charged instead, humming with possibilities and the weight of his attention. you could feel something shifting in the space between counter and table, subtle but significant. like tectonic plates moving, rearranging the landscape of whatever this was becoming.
and maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him too. past the perfect exterior and calculated charm, to something more genuine underneath. something worth the risk of letting your guard down.
âwell,â he said finally, voice softer than usual, that vulnerability still threading through his tone. straightened in his chair but somehow seemed less distant. âhypothetically speaking, that sounds like something worth learning about.â
you met his gaze, heart doing complicated acrobatics against your ribs. started humming again, melody filling the space between words. âhypothetically.â
âof course.â that slow smile returned, different now. less performative, more real. like sunlight breaking through carefully constructed clouds. âpurely theoretical interest.â
ânaturally,â you agreed, trying to ignore how your pulse had shifted into overtime.
but as you watched him settle back in his chair, something had definitely changed. the air between you felt thicker, more charged with possibility. and for the first time since this whole thing started, you werenât entirely sure who was in control of this particular game anymore.
not that you minded being a little lost, especially when the alternative was finding your way back to the safety of professional distance. some risks were worth taking, even if they came wrapped in designer clothing and impossible blue eyes.
two months in, satoru gojoâs meticulously structured life had quietly reorganized itself around flour & sugarâs operating hours. his calendar, once a rigid grid of training blocks and sponsorship meetings, now had soft, flexible pockets of time carved out for âresearch.â
his trainer, masaru, had progressed from exasperated sighs to leaving passive-aggressive notes about âdietary consistencyâ taped to his gym locker. one simply read: âcarbs are not your friend, satoru.â satoru had crumpled it up with a grin.
his friends had progressed from gentle ribbing about his "carb phase" to outright intervention attempts.
âdude, you know there are other bakeries in the city, right?â his roommate had asked last tuesday, watching satoru check the time for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. âones that donât require you to rearrange your entire geopolitical schedule?â
satoru had just shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. âthe lightingâs better at this one.â
but they didnât understand. couldnât understand. because somewhere between that first accidental like and now, somewhere in the quiet hum of your cafe and the warm scent of your pastries, this had stopped being about the pastries entirely.
wednesday morning found him arriving at his usual timeâ10:47 am, after the morning rush but before lunch prep fully consumed your attention.
heâd timed it perfectly over weeks of careful observation, memorizing the rhythm of your day like scripture. the bell announced his entrance with a familiar chime, and he felt that stupid, predictable flutter in his chest when you looked up from behind the counter, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.
you were piping something delicate onto petit fours, tiny, jewel-like cakes arranged in neat rows. your movements were precise, economical, each squeeze of the pastry bag adding perfect, miniature rosettes of buttercream. but it was the soft humming that got himâa barely audible, contented melody that seemed to flow from some deep, quiet place inside you. heâd started cataloging these details without meaning to.
âmorning, cupcake,â he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble as he settled into his usual spot by the window. the endearment had become natural, automatic, though he wasnât sure when that had happened. it just⊠fit.
âmorning, satoru.â your voice carried a warmth that made something dangerous and hopeful bloom in his chest. you finished the petit four with a final, delicate flourish, set down the piping bag, and he watched you wipe your hands on your flour-dusted black apronâthe same gesture heâd seen hundreds of times now, but it still made him want to memorize the movement. âthe usual?â
the usual. like he was a regular fixture, a predictable part of your day, which he supposed he was. chocolate tart, almond croissant, matcha latte with extra sweetness because youâd noticed his ridiculous sweet tooth weeks ago and started accommodating it without him ever having to ask.
âyou know me so well,â he said, and the words held more weight than heâd intended.
something flickered across your faceâpleasure, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction at being seen as perceptive. you moved through the preparation with a practiced efficiency, but he caught the way you selected his chocolate tart from the back row, where youâd obviously set aside the most perfectly formed one. he noticed how you added just a touch more syrup to his matcha without measuring, your muscle memory perfectly calibrated to his preferences.
these small kindnesses shouldn't have meant so much. but they did. they felt like secrets, quiet acknowledgements of this strange, unspoken thing growing between you.
âhere we go,â you said, setting his order down with a quiet care. your fingers brushed his as you handed over the matcha, a contact so brief it was barely there, but so electric it sent a jolt straight up his arm. âperfect timing, tooâthat tart just came out of the case.â
âperfect timing,â he agreed, his voice a little rough, though he was talking about more than pastries. every visit felt like perfect timing now, like the universe had conspired to place him in this specific seat at this specific moment, watching you create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.
he settled in, but the cafe felt different today. quieter. the lull between rushes seemed to stretch longer, leaving just the two of you in the warm, sweet-scented space. he ate slowly, deliberately, making the experience last. heâd finish a bite of the rich, decadent tart, then take a sip of the sweet, earthy matcha, his eyes constantly drifting back to you as you worked.
you were arranging the petit fours now, a focused intensity in your movements. you felt his gaze on you, a familiar, warm weight. but it wasn't just observation anymoreâit felt like a presence, a quiet companionship that filled the empty spaces in the cafe.
âthose look almost too pretty to eat,â he called over, his voice a low, appreciative murmur.
you glanced up, a small, genuine smile touching your lips. âalmost,â you agreed. âthatâs the goal. make people hesitate for at least a full second before they destroy your hard work.â
he chuckled, a rich sound that made your chest feel warm. âa full second? thatâs ambitious. for me, itâs more like half a second of quiet reverence, followed by total annihilation.â he gestured to his now-empty plate as evidence.
the conversation fell into a comfortable silence. he finished his latte, but he didn't move. he didnât pull out his phone, didnât start gathering his things. he just sat there, watching you, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. the hesitation was palpable, a quiet reluctance to break the spell of the morning. you felt your own heart beating a little faster. he was waiting. waiting for what, you weren't sure. maybe for you to tell him to leave.
but you didnât want him to.
your hands stilled on the counter. you took a breath, a small, shaky thing. this was new territory, a step beyond the safety of your professional boundaries. âso,â you started, your voice a little softer than you intended. âi was, uh, working on something new this morning.â
his head tilted, a spark of genuine curiosity lighting up his storm-glass eyes. he leaned forward slightly, all his attention focused on you. âoh yeah? a new instrument of torture for my trainer?â
the familiar banter was a lifeline, and you grabbed it. âsomething like that,â you said, a real smile breaking through. you ducked into the kitchen for a moment, the hum in your throat picking up a nervous, excited tempo. when you returned, you were holding a small, pristine white plate. on it sat a single, perfect creation.
it was a small, dome-shaped mousse cake, glazed with a mirror finish so pale blue it was almost white, the exact shade of his eyes on a clear winter day. delicate, crystalline sugar work spun around its base like fractured ice, and on top, a single, perfect white chocolate feather rested, reminiscent of his impossible hair, dusted with the finest silver powder. it looked like him. it looked like a feeling you were terrified to name.
you placed it on the counter between you, a silent, trembling offering.
satoru stared at it, his usual playful smirk gone, replaced by an expression of genuine, stunned awe. his eyes, so often a similar shade of impossible blue, widened as he took in the delicate details. the color. the single white feather. the resemblance was subtle, artful, but undeniably there. he knew, instantly, whatâor rather, whoâhe was looking at. âcupcake,â he breathed, the word soft, reverent, barely a whisper. âwhat is this?â
âiâm not sure what to call it yet,â you admitted, your fingers finding the familiar comfort of your apron, twisting the fabric. âitâs a white chocolate and blueberry mousse. with a yuzu curd center. i was trying to capture a feeling, more than just a flavor.â your eyes were fixed on the cake, unable to meet his.
he looked from the cake to you, his gaze intense, searching, his heart hammering against his ribs. he understood. oh, he understood completely. âwhat feeling?â
you felt a blush heat your cheeks, a slow, deep burn. you risked a glance up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your breath catch. âi donât know⊠quiet. calm.â you gestured vaguely at the peaceful cafe around you, a weak attempt at deflection. âlike⊠the feeling you get when you finally perfect something. that moment of peace.â your lie was thin as spun sugar.
he was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between your locked gazes. then, his eyes met yours, and there was a raw honesty in them youâd never seen before. âcan iâŠ?â
âi was hoping you would,â you said, your voice barely a whisper. âi need an honest opinion. from a professional researcher.â
that earned you a slow, breathtaking smile. it wasn't his usual cocky grinâit was softer, more genuine, and it reached all the way to his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. âmy services are at your disposal.â
he moved from his table to the counter, taking the seat opposite you. the shift was significant. he was no longer a customer in your spaceâhe was a guest, an invited participant. he picked up the small fork youâd provided, his long, callused fingers surprisingly delicate.
he took the first bite with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. you watched, holding your breath, as his expression shifted. his eyes widened slightly, then fluttered closed for a brief, blissful moment. a soft, involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
he chewed slowly, thoughtfully. you saw the surprise as the bright, tart yuzu hit his palate, cutting through the creamy sweetness of the white chocolate and the subtle fruitiness of the blueberry.
when he opened his eyes, they were dark, intense. âcupcake,â he said again, his voice rough with emotion. âthatâs⊠thatâs not a pastry. thatâs a poem.â he looked from the half-eaten cake back to you, a question in his eyes. a silent asking. is this for me?
pride, warm and overwhelming, bloomed in your chest. âso⊠itâs okay?â you asked, your voice trembling slightly.
he laughed, a real, incredulous sound. âokay? itâs⊠perfect.â he took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. âit tastes exactly like you said. like a quiet morning. like⊠peace.â he looked at you then, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make your knees feel weak. âlike finding something you didn't even know you were looking for.â
âi try,â you whispered, your heart doing a wild, joyful dance against your ribs.
he finished the entire cake in a reverent silence. when he was done, he set the fork down gently, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. âthe only problem,â he said, looking at the empty plate, âis that itâs over.â
his gaze lifted to yours, and in that moment, in the quiet of the empty cafe, with the ghost of a perfect pastry between you, you both knew he wasn't just talking about the cake anymore.
he was in trouble. deep, irreversible trouble.
and as you looked back at him, a soft, shy smile touching your lips, you realized with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty⊠so were you.
thursday passed like a held breath.
you found yourself checking the clock obsessivelyâ10:30, 10:45, 10:47. each minute that ticked by without the familiar chime of the entrance bell felt heavier than the last. by 11 am, youâd reorganized the display case twice. by noon, youâd deep-cleaned the espresso machine that was already spotless. by 2 pm, you were fighting the urge to text him, though you didnât even have his number.
the rational part of your mind supplied perfectly reasonable explanations. content creation. gym sessions. life. but the irrational partâthe part that had spent last night dreaming about storm-glass eyes and the way heâd said âperfectâ like a prayerâwhispered crueler possibilities.
maybe heâd finally realized how far heâd drifted from his carefully curated routine. maybe masaru had staged a successful intervention. maybe yesterdayâs cake had been too much, too obvious, too vulnerable.
maybe heâd finally gotten tired of your little bakery.
the lunch rush came and went in a blur of mechanical smiles and automated responses. customers complimented your strawberry danish, your matcha cookies, your perfectly crafted lattes, but their praise felt muted, like hearing music through water. you caught yourself glancing toward his usual tableâtable three by the windowâevery few minutes, each time hoping to see white hair catching the afternoon light.
instead, you saw empty chairs and the golden dust motes dancing in the space he usually occupied.
masako, your part-time helper, noticed your distraction during the afternoon lull. âyou seem off today,â she said, wiping down the counter with characteristic directness. at sixty-two, she had no patience for subtlety. âwaiting for someone?â
âno,â you lied, your voice a little too bright. âjust tired.â
she hummed, unconvinced, but left you to your melancholy. you spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting a new recipe for honey lavender madeleines, throwing yourself into the familiar comfort of precise measurements and careful timing. baking had always been your meditation, your way of quieting the noise in your head. but today, even the methodical ritual couldnât quite drown out the disappointed whisper in your chest.
by 6 pm, youâd accepted the truth. he wasnât coming.
you began your closing routine with a heavy heart, moving through the familiar motions on autopilot. wiping down tables, washing the last of the display cases, counting the till. the evening light slanted golden through your windows, painting everything in warm honey tones that should have felt cozy but instead felt lonely.
you were just reaching for the door lock, keys jingling softly against your wrist, when you heard itâthe soft tap of knuckles against glass.
your heart performed some impossible acrobatics as you turned, and there he was. satoru gojo, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the fading daylight, one hand raised in a small wave, the other clutching something behind his back. his usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression held a tentative quality that made your chest ache with sudden, overwhelming relief. even anxious, he was devastatingâthe way his white hair caught the golden hour light like spun silk, how his broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorframe despite the uncertain set to them.
you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling slightly as you let him in. âsatoru,â you breathed, his name carrying more emotion than youâd intended, your fingers still wrapped around the cool metal of your keys. âi thoughtââ
âi know,â he said quickly, stepping inside and bringing with him the familiar scent of clean soap and something indefinably him. his free hand found the back of his neck, rubbing in a gesture youâd never seen before, vulnerability written in the uncertain tilt of his mouth. âiâm sorry. i had⊠things to take care of.â a pause, where he seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep. âi was going to come this morning, but then i realized i needed to do this properly.â
âdo what properly?â you asked, your pulse hammering against your throat. the question came out softer than intended, curiosity and hope threading through your voice as you unconsciously stepped closer.
instead of answering, he brought his hidden hand forward, revealing a small bouquet that made your breath snag. white camellias, maybe a dozen of them, their petals perfect and pristine as fresh snow. in japan, you knew their meaning: youâre adorable. my destiny. in love with you. the message was clear, vulnerable, impossibly sweet.
satoruâs cheeks flushed the faintest pink as he watched your expression shift, the color spreading across his sculpted features like watercolor on paper. âi spent three hours at five different flower shops,â he admitted, his voice carrying that rare uncertainty that made him seem younger, more human. âthe florist at the last one had to explain the meanings because apparently iâm hopeless at this.â his storm-glass eyes met yours, earnest and a little scared, the usual playful glint replaced by something raw and real. âbut these⊠these felt right. they reminded me of yesterday. of that cake. of the way you looked at me when i said it was perfect.â
you took the bouquet with reverent hands, your fingertips brushing his in the transferâa contact so brief it barely registered but electric enough to send warmth spiraling up your arms. the delicate petals felt like silk against your skin as you brought them closer, breathing in their subtle fragrance. âsatoru,â you whispered, and the name came out like a sigh, like gratitude made sound. âtheyâre beautiful.â
relief flooded his features like sunlight breaking through clouds, and a hint of his usual confidence crept back into the curve of his mouth. those impossibly long lashes fluttered as he blinked, and when he smiledâreally smiled, not the practiced grin from his instagram postsâit transformed his entire face. âi was hoping youâd say that. because i have a question to ask you, and i figured flowers might help my case.â
you looked up at him expectantly, your heart doing that familiar flutter-dance, clutching the camellias like an anchor.
âwould youâŠâ he started, then stopped, that hand finding his hair again, fingers raking through the white strands and leaving them slightly mussed. youâd never seen him this flustered, and it was endearing beyond words, the way his carefully maintained composure cracked to reveal something beautifully nervous underneath. âgod, why is this harder than my first brand partnership pitch?â he muttered to himself, making you laugh despite your nerves.
the sound seemed to center him. âsatoru,â you said gently, setting the flowers carefully on the counter, your movements deliberate and soft. âjust ask.â
he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his fitted black sweater, shoulders squaring as he found his resolve. âwould you like to have dinner with me? tonight? thereâs this placeâŠâ his voice gained momentum, words tumbling out like he was afraid heâd lose his nerve. âitâs small, nothing fancy, but they make the best karaage in shibuya, and their ramen isâŠâ he trailed off, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile that made your stomach flip. âiâm selling this terribly. what iâm trying to say is, itâs my favorite place. where i go when i need to feel grounded. and i want to share it with you.â
the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was offering you a piece of his private world, made your chest feel too small for your heart. you pressed your palms against the counter for stability, the cool surface grounding you as you processed the magnitude of what he was asking. âiâd love to,â you said simply, and watched his entire body relax with relief, tension melting from his shoulders like snow in spring.
âyeah?â he asked, that devastating smile breaking across his face like sunrise, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made you want to memorize every detail.
âyeah,â you confirmed, grinning back at him, your own smile feeling bright enough to power the whole cafe. âjust let me grab my things.â
you found a small ceramic vase in your supply closet and arranged the camellias carefully, their white petals catching the last of the evening light. they looked perfect on your counter, a promise of something beautiful beginning. after gathering your cardigan and bag, locking up the cafe with hands that trembled only slightly, you turned to find satoru watching you with soft eyes, his gaze following your movements like he was cataloguing them for later.
âready?â he asked, offering you his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, the gesture somehow both casual and reverent.
âready,â you replied, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow and trying not to think about how perfectly you fit against his side, how solid and warm he felt beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.
the walk to his favorite restaurant took fifteen minutes through the bustling streets of shibuya. he guided you away from the main tourist areas, down narrow side streets where locals hurried past small family-owned shops and the air smelled like yakitori and car exhaust and the particular energy of tokyo at dinnertime. his free hand occasionally gestured as he talked, painting pictures in the air, and you found yourself watching the elegant line of his wrists, the way his long fingers moved with unconscious grace.
ânervous?â he asked as you walked, and you realized youâd been quieter than usual, too busy cataloguing the way his presence beside you made the familiar streets feel brand new.
âa little,â you admitted, your fingers tightening slightly on his arm. âgood nervous, though.â
âme too,â he confessed, and the honesty in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. up close, you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible unless you were really looking. âi havenât done this in a while. the whole⊠proper date thing.â
âwhat do you usually do?â you asked, then immediately regretted the question, your cheeks warming. âsorry, thatâs none of my business.â
âno, itâs okay,â he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your arm where your hand rested, the touch absent and soothing. âhonestly? usually nothing this meaningful. protein bars in my apartment while editing content isnât exactly romantic dinner material.â his laugh carried a note of self-deprecation that made you want to argue with him about his worth.
you laughed, the sound bright in the evening air, and felt him relax beside you. âwell, youâre setting the bar pretty low for yourself.â
âexactly,â he grinned, and there was that practiced charm again, but softer somehow, more genuine. âsmart strategy. exceed expectations by actually trying.â
the restaurant he led you to was tucked between a small bookshop and a traditional tea house, so narrow you almost missed it. the wooden sign above the door was weathered and simple: âmomiji.â no english, no tourist-friendly decorations, just the kind of place locals protected fiercely from guidebook discovery.
inside was warm and cramped in the best possible way. maybe ten tables total, most occupied by older couples and small groups of friends talking quietly over steaming bowls. the air was rich with the smell of soy and garlic and chicken fat, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively, the sound making satoruâs mouth quirk with amusement.
âgojo-kun!â called out an elderly woman from behind the counter, her face lighting up with genuine affection that transformed her weathered features into something beautiful.
âevening, chiyo-san,â satoru replied, bowing slightly, and you watched his whole demeanor shift into something warmer, more relaxed. the careful influencer polish melted away, replaced by genuine fondness. âi brought someone special tonight.â
the womanâs eyes immediately shifted to you, taking in your simple cream-colored dress with the tiny floral print and the way satoruâs hand had found the small of your back as he guided you inside, his palm warm even through the fabric. her smile grew knowing, delighted, the expression of someone whoâd been waiting for this moment. âah, i see. the usual table?â
âplease,â he said, and she led you to a small booth in the back corner, quieter and more intimate than the rest of the dining room.
as you settled across from each other, the worn wooden bench soft beneath you, you realized how different this felt from your morning encounters at the cafe. there, youâd had the safety of routine, the professional distance of counter service. here, with nothing between you but a small wooden table scarred with years of use and the soft glow of paper lanterns, the connection felt immediate, electric.
âso,â you said, glancing around the cozy space, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress, âhow did you find this place?â
his expression grew thoughtful, a little nostalgic, and he leaned back against the booth. even relaxed, there was something elegant about the way he occupied space, long limbs arranged with unconscious grace. âmy first year trying to make it as a competitive swimmer, i was broke. like, eating convenience store onigiri for every meal broke.â his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit youâd never noticed before. âbut iâd just started posting gym content onlineâmostly because i was bored and thought my workout routines were decent enough to share. turns out people really liked watching me lift heavy things.â his grin turned almost smug, and you could see a hint of that cocky influencer confidence bleeding through. âwent from the chubby kid getting laughed at in middle school to having people leave fire emojis on everything i posted. not gonna lie, the ego boost was incredible.â
you nearly choked on your own spit. âyou were chubby?â the question came out before you could stop it, eyes widening as you tried to reconcile this information with the man sitting across from youâall sharp angles and lean muscle and the kind of physique that probably broke instagram servers on a regular basis.
his laugh was rich, genuinely amused by your shock. âhard to believe, right? but yeah, i was this round little kid who lived on baa-chanâs pastries and had absolutely zero athletic ability. got picked on pretty relentlessly for it too.â his expression grew more serious for a moment. âkids can be brutal about that stuff.â
âi canât even imagine,â you said, still staring at him like heâd just revealed he used to be a completely different person. âyouâre soâŠâ you gestured vaguely at all of him, âyou know.â
âdevastatingly handsome?â he supplied with a grin that was pure mischief.
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. âi was going to say fit, but your ego doesnât need any more help.â
âmy ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much,â he said, taking another bite with obvious satisfaction. âsix million followers canât be wrong.â
âsix million?â you nearly choked on your tea, your eyes widening in genuine shock. youâd known he was popularâthe blue checkmark, the sudden influx of customers at your cafeâbut that number was astronomical. you hadn't even looked when youâd first clicked on his profile, too stunned by the⊠scenery.
a flicker of confusion crossed his features, quickly replaced by a slow, amused smirk. he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, those storm-glass eyes sparkling with pure mischief. âwait a minute,â he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. âyouâre telling me you stalked my entire profile, âaccidentallyâ liked my abs, and you didnât even clock the follower count?â his eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. âcupcake, were you that mesmerized?â
heat flooded your cheeks, a furious, mortifying blush. âit was an accident!â you insisted, your voice a little too high. âmy phone slipped! literally! it fell on my face!â
he just laughed, a rich, delighted sound that made chiyo-san glance over with a fond smile. âsure it did. a very convenient, gravity-induced slip right onto the like button of my most recent thirst trap.â he leaned back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. âitâs okay to admit it. my content is very⊠engaging.â
âit was an accident,â you repeated through gritted teeth, though the corner of your mouth was twitching with a smile you were desperately trying to suppress. âi barely even noticed.â
âyou noticed enough to get flustered when i walked into your cafe the next day,â he countered, his grin widening. âdonât worry, your secretâs safe with me.â he winked, a quick, devastatingly charming gesture.
you sighed in dramatic, feigned defeat, shaking your head in amused disbelief. here he was, this successful influencer with millions of people thirsting over his content, sitting in a tiny restaurant getting excited about karaage and still finding the time to relentlessly tease you about a two-month-old instagram mishap.
he gestured around the small restaurant with obvious affection, his smile softening, the teasing glint in his eyes receding as he switched back to the more serious topic. âanyway⊠that first real brand deal came through when i had a lot fewer followers than i do now. i wandered around for hours after i got the email, just buzzing, until i smelled chiyo-sanâs karaage and⊠followed my nose. she fed me for about half what anywhere else would have charged, and when i tried to tip her, she refused. said young athletes needed to save their money for important things.â
âlike what?â you asked, charmed by the story, by the way his whole face animated as he spoke.
âprotein powder, apparently,â he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. âsheâs been trying to fatten me up ever since. every time i come in, she adds extra portions and pretends not to notice.â his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. âfunny thing is, she reminds me of my grandmother. same stubborn kindness, same inability to let people leave hungry.â
something in his voice made you lean forward slightly, sensing a story. âyour grandmother?â
âbaa-chan,â he said, and the childhood nickname made him look younger somehow, vulnerability flickering across his features like candlelight. âshe lived with us when i was little. made the most incredible pastriesâmont blanc, cream puffs, these little butter cookies shaped like flowers.â his fingers moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. âi was⊠well, letâs just say i was a chubby kid with zero self-control around her baking.â
the admission came with a self-conscious laugh, and you watched him duck his head slightly, white hair falling across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush it back. âi probably ate my weight in cream puffs every week. my parents were horrifiedâkept talking about discipline and proper nutritionâbut baa-chan would just smile and make me another batch.â
âwhat happened?â you asked softly, sensing the weight beneath his words.
âshe died when i was twelve,â he said simply, but you caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the old grief still tender. âthatâs actually when i got serious about swimming. needed something to prove, you know? the chubby kid who got picked on suddenly had abs and could out-swim anyone.â his laugh held a note of old satisfaction. âworked pretty well too, until my shoulder decided otherwise at nineteen.â he shrugged, and there was something almost casual about it, like heâd made peace with that disappointment long ago. âfunny thing thoughâturns out all that discipline translated perfectly to social media. and honestly? after years of being called names, having people thirst over my workout videos was⊠pretty addictive.â
the parallel wasnât lost on youâhim finding your bakery, the way heâd gravitated toward your humming, your pastries, your quiet care. your throat felt tight with understanding. âshe sounds wonderful,â you managed, your voice softer than intended.
âshe would have loved you,â he said, and the certainty in his voice made warmth bloom in your chest. âwould have probably tried to steal all your recipes and then pretend sheâd invented them herself.â
a soft, watery laugh escaped you at the image, a sound thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name. you reached across the small table, your fingers gently covering his where they rested on the wood. his own smile softened in response, and he turned his hand over to tangle his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. âi think i would have liked her too,â you said, your voice a little shaky. âeven with the threat of culinary espionage.â
as if summoned by your shared laughter, chiyo-san appeared at your table with a pot of jasmine tea and a knowing smile, her approach breaking the tender moment. âthe usual for you, gojo-kun?â
âthe usual sounds perfect,â he confirmed, then turned to you with a slightly sheepish expression, running his hand through his hair in that nervous gesture. âi hope you donât mind me ordering for both of us. she knows what i like, and trust me, you want what iâm having.â
âi trust you,â you said, and something in his eyes flickered with pleasure at the words, his whole posture straightening slightly.
chiyo-san bustled away, and you found yourselves alone again in the warm bubble of the corner booth. the awkwardness youâd expected on a first date was nowhere to be foundâinstead, conversation flowed as easily as it did in your cafe, maybe easier without the professional barriers.
âso,â he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, âtell me something i donât know about you.â
you considered this, idly tracing patterns on the wooden table with your finger, the surface smooth from years of use. âi didnât always want to run a bakery,â you admitted, glancing up to find his attention completely focused on you, those storm-glass eyes intent and curious. âi went to university for literature. thought iâd be a translator, maybe work in publishing.â
âwhat changed your mind?â his question came with that particular quality of attention he gave youâlike you were the only person in the world worth listening to.
âmy grandmother,â you said, and your smile carried the warmth of a thousand memories. âshe taught me to bake when i was little. not recipes from books, but the kind of knowledge that lives in your hands. how to tell when dough is ready by feel, how to adjust for humidity, all those little secrets that make the difference between good and extraordinary.â
you paused as chiyo-san returned with plates of foodâgolden karaage chicken that smelled like heaven, perfectly chewy ramen with rich, cloudy broth, gyoza with crispy bottoms and tender tops, and several small dishes you didnât recognize but immediately wanted to try. the portions were generous enough to feed a small army.
âthis looks incredible,â you breathed, the savory aroma making your mouth water.
âchiyo-sanâs love language is overfeeding people,â satoru explained, already reaching for his chopsticks with the practiced ease of someone whoâd done this countless times. âbut finish your story. about your grandmother.â
you took a tentative bite of the karaage and nearly made an embarrassing sound of pleasure at the perfect balance of crispy exterior and juicy interior, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. âoh my god, this is amazing.â
âright?â his smile was proud, like heâd made it himself, and you caught the way he watched you taste everything, cataloguing your reactions with obvious satisfaction. âbest in the city. now keep talking.â
âwell,â you continued between bites, your chopsticks moving with less grace than his but no less enthusiasm, âwhen she got sick, i took leave from my job to take care of her. we spent months baking together, and she made me promise to keep her recipes alive. not just the techniques, but the feeling behind them. the idea that food can be comfort, celebration, love made tangible.â
your voice grew softer, more vulnerable, and you found yourself looking down at your bowl. âshe died two weeks before i was supposed to start my masterâs program. instead of going back to school for my master's, i realized what i really wanted. i used my savings for culinary school instead, and then opened flour & sugar. some days i think sheâd be proud. other days i wonder if i gave up too easily on my original dreams.â
satoruâs chopsticks stilled in his bowl, and when you looked up, his expression was gentle, understanding written in the soft set of his features. âyou didnât give up,â he said quietly, and there was conviction in his voice that made your chest tight. âyou just found a different way to tell stories. every pastry you make, every customer you welcomeâthatâs narrative too. connection. meaning.â
the simple validation made your throat tight with emotion, and you had to blink back the sudden threat of tears. âyou think so?â
âi know so,â he said firmly, leaning forward slightly, his intensity focused entirely on you. âbecause iâve been living that story for two months now. every morning at 10:47, getting to be part of whatever magic you create in that little space.â
you felt heat bloom in your cheeks, partly from his words and partly from a sudden realization that had been nagging at you all evening. âsatoru,â you started hesitantly, your fingers tightening around your chopsticks, âcan i ask you something?â
âanything,â he said, then caught your serious tone and set down his chopsticks entirely, giving you his complete attention.
âyour routine,â you said carefully, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, âyour content schedule, your training⊠am i messing that up for you? because if masaru is angry, or if coming to the cafe is interfering with your workoutsâŠâ
he was quiet for a long moment, considering his response, and you watched emotions flicker across his faceâsurprise, thoughtfulness, something that might have been relief. when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, honest.
âyes,â he said simply, and your heart sank until he continued, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. âyouâve completely destroyed my routine. i used to plan content three weeks in advance. i had optimal posting times calculated to the minute. i scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments for maximum engagement.â
âsatoruââ you started, distress clear in your voice.
âlet me finish,â he said gently, and there was something in his expression that made you settle back, though worry still thrummed beneath your skin. âyouâve ruined all of that. and itâs the best thing thatâs ever happened to me.â
you stared at him, confusion clear in your expression, your head tilting slightly in that way you had when you were trying to puzzle something out.
âfor three years, since swimming didnât work out, iâve been pretty happy with what i built,â he continued, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and you found yourself watching the elegant movement of his fingers. âgood content, solid following, enough brand deals to live comfortably. got to turn all that training discipline into something that actually pays the bills.â his smile was easy, confident. âand honestly? i was enjoying it. liked the routine, liked the control, liked seeing the numbers go up.â
he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested beside your ramen bowl, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm. âbut then i found your cafe, and suddenly i had something to look forward to that wasnât about hitting my macros or optimal posting times. something that was just⊠nice. simple good. like that first bite of your chocolate tart, or the way you hum when youâre concentrating, or how you remember exactly how i like my matcha without me having to ask.â
his thumb traced across your knuckles, the touch feather-light but grounding, and you found yourself holding your breath. âmasaru thinks iâve gotten distracted, and heâs probably right. but honestly? iâm not complaining. lifeâs been pretty good to me, but thisâŠâ he gestured vaguely between you both, âthis is something different. something better.â
the weight of his confession settled between you like a shared secret, and around you, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and clinking chopsticks, but you felt suspended in this moment, in the warm golden light and the earnestness in his eyes.
âso no,â he said, his voice dropping to something warm, genuine, meant only for you, âyouâre not messing anything up. if anything, youâre making everything more interesting.â
you felt warmth bloom in your chestârelief, happiness, something sweet and uncomplicated swelling until you could barely contain your smile. âthatâs either the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said to me,â you managed, your voice slightly wobbly as you turned your hand palm-up beneath his, fingers intertwining, âor youâre really good at making excuses for carb addiction.â
he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and delighted and completely unguarded, and the momentary emotional intensity dissolved into warmth, comfort, the easy joy of sharing a meal with someone who understood the shape of your heart.
âprobably both,â he admitted, grinning as he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that made your entire body feel warm. âmasaru keeps leaving increasingly desperate notes in my gym locker. yesterdayâs just said âvegetables exist, satoru.ââ
âheâs not wrong,â you said, gesturing at the mountain of fried chicken between you with your free hand, though you made no move to let go of his. âthis is not exactly influencer food.â
âwhich is why,â he said, reaching for another piece of karaage with his chopsticks, absolutely no shame in his expression, âweâre going to enjoy every single bite, and tomorrow iâll do an extra workout. balance.â
you spent the next hour working through chiyo-sanâs generous spread, talking about everything and nothing. he told you about growing up in a family that expected perfection, about the pressure of competition, about the crushing disappointment when his swimming career ended with a shoulder injury at nineteen. you shared stories about the early days of the cafe, the learning curve of small business ownership, the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.
the conversation flowed like youâd known each other for years instead of months, punctuated by his groans of appreciation for the food and your laughter at his increasingly dramatic descriptions of masaruâs passive-aggressive campaign to restore his âmacro discipline.â
âheâs started leaving printed meal plans in my gym bag,â satoru confessed, twirling ramen noodles around his chopsticks with practiced ease, his expression one of amused exasperation. âlike a nutrition-focused fairy, but more judgmental and with better organizational skills.â
âmaybe you should introduce him to my neighbor,â you suggested, dabbing at a drop of broth on your chin with your napkin. âshe leaves notes about proper composting technique on everyoneâs door. they could bond over their shared love of unsolicited improvement projects.â
âgod, can you imagine?â he grinned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. âtheyâd have the most organized, health-conscious children in tokyo.â
by the time chiyo-san brought you perfectly ripe persimmons and more jasmine tea, the restaurant had begun to empty out. youâd somehow made it through most of the foodâa feat that seemed impossible when the plates first arrivedâand you felt full in the best possible way, warm and content and slightly drowsy from good food and better company.
âi should probably get you home,â satoru said eventually, though his tone suggested heâd rather do anything else, his thumb still tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. âitâs getting late, and you have to open tomorrow.â
âunfortunately,â you agreed, though you made no move to gather your things, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.
he signaled chiyo-san for the check, waving off your attempts to pay with a firm shake of his head that left no room for argument. âthis was my idea,â he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that probably served him well in business negotiations. âbesides, you make me breakfast five days a week. itâs the least i can do.â
âthatâs different,â you protested, your cheeks warming. âthatâs business.â
âis it?â he asked, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse skip, the question loaded with weeks of careful circling around each other. âbecause it hasnât felt like business for a while now.â
heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands, still tangled with his. âno,â you admitted quietly, the word barely above a whisper. âit hasnât.â
he settled the bill with chiyo-san, who sent you off with a paper bag of extra gyoza âfor tomorrowâs lunchâ and promises that you were welcome back anytime, her knowing smile making it clear she approved of satoruâs choice. the night air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside, a pleasant contrast to the warm restaurant, and you pulled your cardigan closer around your shoulders.
âwhich direction?â satoru asked, offering his arm again, the gesture now familiar and comforting.
you pointed toward the quieter residential area a few blocks away, and he fell into step beside you, matching his longer stride to yours with the easy consideration that seemed to come naturally to him. the streets were less crowded now, mostly couples heading home from dinners and workers catching late trains.
âthank you,â you said as you walked, your hand warm in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. âfor tonight. for the flowers. for⊠all of it.â
âthank you,â he replied, and there was something wondering in his voice, like he couldnât quite believe his luck, âfor saying yes. and for making that cake yesterday. i know it was for me.â
you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, your steps faltering slightly. âwas it that obvious?â
âthe white chocolate feather was a dead giveaway,â he teased gently, his voice warm with affection, but then his expression grew more serious. âbut even without that, i would have known. you put yourself into everything you create. itâs one of the things iâŠâ he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.
âone of the things you what?â you prompted, though your heart was already beating faster, hope and fear warring in your chest.
just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed sharply, shattering the quiet between you. he flinched, annoyance flashing across his face as he pulled it out. you caught masaruâs name before he silenced the call with a jab and shoved the phone back, sighing.
the fragile thread of his confession snapped. he looked away, jaw tight, then met your gaze againâthis time not raw, but steadier, warmer, as though heâd chosen a safer honesty.
he stopped walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a street lamp, the light casting golden highlights in his impossible hair. his hands found yours, warm and slightly callused and infinitely gentle, and the touch grounded you even as it sent your pulse racing. â
i had a really good time tonight,â he said quietly, his storm-glass eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. âlike, really good. better than good.â
the words hung in the air between you, warm and honest and making your heart do that familiar flutter-dance in your chest. you felt your breath catch, your entire world narrowing to this moment, this quiet confession, the way he was looking at you like you were something wonderful and unexpected.
âme too,â you whispered, your voice full of wonder and possibility.
he looked like he wanted to kiss you then. you could see it in the way his eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, the slight parting of his own. you wanted him to. you wanted it more than youâd wanted anything in a long time. but the moment stretched, suspended and fragile, and neither of you moved. the spell broke when a car passed, its headlights momentarily blinding you both, and the chance was gone.
he cleared his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks, and let go of one of your hands. âwe should⊠get you home.â
the rest of the walk passed in a charged, comfortable silence. the unspoken moment from the streetlamp hung between you, electric and full of promise.
âthis is me,â you said as you reached the small apartment building where you lived above a quiet bookshop, the familiar sight made new by his presence beside you. the white camellias waiting in your cafe felt like they were calling to you, a promise of sweet tomorrows.
he stopped at the entrance, his hands finding the pockets of his cargo pants. âwell⊠goodnight, cupcake.â there was a touch of awkwardness in his posture, a reluctance to leave that was both sweet and agonizing.
âgoodnight, satoru.â
he lingered for a beat longer, his storm-glass eyes holding yours. you knew if you didnât do something now, the night would end on this note of sweet, unresolved tension. and that simply wouldnât do.
before you could lose your nerve, you reached up, your fingers finding the soft collar of his sweater. he looked down at you, surprise widening his eyes. with a soft tug, you pulled his head down towards you. even then, with his six-foot-plus frame bent, you still had to rise up on your tiptoes, stretching to reach him.
it wasnât his lips you found. it was his cheek. you pressed a soft, quick, deliberate kiss to the spot just beside his mouth, your own lips lingering for just a fraction of a second against his skin. it was warm, smooth, and felt impossibly intimate.
âbye,â you whispered against his cheek, then you pulled back, let go of his sweater, and practically fledâturning and rushing up the steps to your buildingâs entrance without a backward glance, your cheeks absolutely on fire.
satoru stood frozen on the sidewalk for a full minute after your door clicked shut, stunned into immobility. slowly, his fingers came up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. a slow, genuine, devastatingly happy smile spread across his face, unguarded and brilliant under the streetlight.
inside, you leaned your back against the cool wood of your apartment door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought a trembling hand up to your own lips, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your chest. a mix of pure terror and giddy exhilaration coursed through you. what did you just do?
a moment later, your phone buzzed in your bag with a familiar notification sound. you fumbled for it, your hands still shaking, and saw the instagram icon on your screen. it was him. a new message.
squatoru: you missed đ but thank you. see you tomorrow, cupcake.
you stared at the screen, a wide, foolish grin spreading across your face. the teasing emoji, the playful admonishment through the same app where this all started, the sweet promise of âtomorrowââit was perfect. it was everything.
your heart did complicated acrobatics as you typed back a simple, breathless reply. tomorrow, you decided as you got ready for bed, still smiling at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you were going to make him something even better than that cake. something that tasted like jasmine tea and stolen kisses and the beginning of something beautiful.
after all, you had a story to tell. and now you had someone who wanted to read every chapter, someone who understood that the best stories werenât the ones you planned, but the ones that found you when you were busy making other, smaller plans. and you couldn't wait to see what happened in the next chapter.
the weeks following your first date settled into a new, delicious rhythm. satoruâs visits were no longer just a feature of your morningsâthey were the anchor around which the day pivoted. his excuses grew bolder, more ridiculous, delivered with a playful glint in his eyes that dared you to call his bluff. âmy coffee machine is staging a protest,â heâd declared one monday, looking deeply offended. âit refuses to respect my caffeine requirements.â another time, heâd claimed he was performing a âlong-term atmospheric studyâ of the cafe.
the tentative space between you had warmed, filled with inside jokes murmured over the counter and a steady stream of late-night texts that ranged from his profound thoughts on protein-to-carb ratios to blurry photos of his cat sleeping on his face. yet, for all the new intimacy, an invisible line remained, drawn somewhere between a shared laugh and the memory of a soft, hesitant kiss on a quiet street corner. the air between you hummed with a constant, unspoken question.
which brought you to this thursday.
the afternoon had bled into soft golden-hour evening, the last loyal customers drifting out into cooling air, leaving behind lingering coffee scent and quiet refrigerator hum.
you were twenty minutes from closing, moving through your end-of-day routine with practiced, meditative rhythm. wiping down the gleaming stainless steel counters, the sharp sanitizer scent cutting through the dayâs symphony of sugar and butter. humming a soft, unidentifiable tune that filled the empty space like invisible thread weaving through silence.
he was just watching you. watching you move through your closing routine with the kind of quiet, unwavering attention usually reserved for things you never want to forget. his focus was a tangible weight between your shoulder blades.
âyou know,â he says suddenly, his voice a low, unexpected rumble that cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you from your rhythmic wiping. those long fingers drummed a restless, silent rhythm against the closed laptopâa nervous tell youâd never seen from satoru gojo before. the man who moved through the world like he owned it was nervous. the realization sent a warm, unfamiliar jolt through you.
you paused, cloth in hand, leaning a hip against the counter. the setting sun slanted through the large front window, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them to spun gold. âwhatâs that? wondering if iâm ever going to kick you out so i can finally go home?â
he smiled, a slow, easy stretch that didnât quite reach his storm-glass eyes. there was something different there today, a depth you hadnât seen before. âsomething like that,â he admitted, his voice softer. he closed the laptop with a quiet click, the sound definitive, final. âhow long does it actually take to learn? to do what you do?â
this wasnât his casual, playful curiosity from before. not banter about his âresearch methodology.â this was deeper. vulnerable. it made your breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with flour dust.
âeverything.â the word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. he stood, unfolding from his chair with fluid grace that was at odds with the tension in his shoulders. all that easy, performative confidence had been stripped away, replaced by something raw and honest. âi want to understand it all. the whole process. from scratch.â
you turned to look at him properly, taking in the way he watched you with those impossible eyes, the slight tension in his jaw like he was bracing for rejection. âfrom scratch?â you echoed, a faint disbelieving hum in your throat. âsatoru, thatâs... that would take a while. itâs not just following recipes. itâs feel. touch. intuition you build over years.â
âi know,â he said, his gaze unwavering. he took a step closer, then another, until he was leaning against the counter opposite you, the broad stainless steel expanse the only separation. the space felt charged, intimate. âiâve been watching you. itâs different. the way you work. thereâs patience to it. respect for the ingredients.â his voice dropped lower, more intimate. âi want to understand what it feels like to create something like you do. not just consume it.â
the confession, earnest and stripped of his usual charm, rewired something fundamental in your chest. he wasnât just talking about baking. he was talking about meaning, purposeâthings you never would have associated with the man who posted thirst traps for a living.
âthat would take months, maybe longer,â you said, your voice barely a whisper.
âiâve got time,â he said immediately, the words a quiet, fervent promise. he pushed off the counter, moving around it until he was standing in your workspace, in your world. he was close enough that you could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne, the subtle matcha sweetness on his breath. âwe could start tonight. if you want. something simple.â
your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in your chest. you realized what he was really asking for. not just lessons. not just a hobby. your time, your space, a piece of your world. he was asking for you.
âitâs almost closing time, satoru,â you managed, the words a weak protest against the overwhelming tide of his sincerity.
âi know.â another step closer. his storm-glass eyes were dark, intense, searching yours. âperfect timing, actually. no interruptions.â
âunless youâre too tired,â he started, his voice suddenly losing its confident edge, âor you have plans, or this is a stupid idea, orââ
âno!â the word came out too enthusiastic, cutting him off. you felt a mortifying blush creep up your neck. you cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. âi mean, yes. we could do that. tonight.â
the smile that spread across his face was different from any youâd seen before. not his usual cocky smirk, nor the playful teasing grin. this one was softer, more genuine, tinged with profound relief and something that looked dangerously like joy. it transformed his entire face, made him look younger, more vulnerable. utterly beautiful.
âyeah?â he breathed, the single word full of hopeful, boyish charm that completely undid you.
âyeah,â you confirmed, a real, unguarded smile finally breaking through your professional facade. âbut youâre on dish duty.â
you flipped the sign to âclosedâ, the soft lock click echoing in the silence. you dimmed the front lights, leaving just the warm, focused glow of the kitchen workspace, creating an intimate golden bubble just for the two of you.
âonly if you donât understand the science,â you said, gathering your hair with practiced efficiency, tying it back. you felt his eyes on the nape of your neck, a warm focused heat. you started humming under your breath, a soft melody that always accompanied your more delicate work. âitâs all about incorporating air properly, then not letting it collapse. itâs very... temperamental.â
the word hung suspended in the chocolate-scented air, heavy with obvious double meaning. his storm-glass eyes darkened slightly, a slow knowing smile touching his lips.
âfirst, we make the base,â you explained, your voice slightly breathy as you turned to face him. you showed him how to melt dark chocolate with butter in a double boiler, the rich intoxicating scent starting to fill the air. âlow and slow. you canât rush it, or everything seizes up. gets bitter.â
he stood beside you, closer than necessary, watching intently as you stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, the chocolate melting into a glossy dark pool. when you handed the spoon over, his fingers brushed yours, a brief electric touch that sent a jolt up your arm.
âlike this?â his voice was a low murmur as he mimicked your gentle circular motions. his focus was absolute, his usual playful energy replaced by quiet, earnest concentration that made something warm bloom in your chest.
âperfect. keep that rhythm.â when he started stirring just a little too fast, a little too aggressively, he moved behind you to adjust the motion. his broad chest pressed against your back as he covered your hand with his much larger one, and you went completely still. the solid wall of muscle behind you made thinking suddenly impossible. you could feel every shift of his torso, the way his breathing had gotten slightly unsteady, the heat radiating through his thin t-shirt. âfeel how itâs getting smoother? the proteins are relaxing. you have to be gentle,â you managed, voice breathless and unsteady.
âsorry, cupcake,â he murmured against the top of your head, voice soft and slightly shaky. âiâm... not usually this nervous about stirring things.â there was wonder in his tone, like he couldnât quite believe he was here, doing this with you.
his voice was a low, rough growl when he answered. âkind of hard to focus with you pressed against me like this, cupcake.â
but the real intimacy, the real danger, came with the egg whites. you separated them with practiced grace, the yolks and whites parting cleanly. when you handed him the large copper bowl and the whisk, he looked genuinely intimidated, like youâd just handed him a live grenade.
âthis is the make-or-break moment,â you told him, your voice soft but firm. you showed him the copper bowl, the clear viscous whites shimmering within. âthe whites need to be perfectânot under-whisked, not over-whisked. just right. perfect stiff peaks.â
he started whisking, and it was all wrong. too aggressive, too fast, his powerful shoulders putting way too much force into it. the whites started foaming unevenly, large sloppy bubbles forming instead of the fine consistent foam you needed.
âno, no,â you said, looking up at his technique with barely contained laughter. âgentle at first, then build up. like this. itâs not about strengthâitâs about rhythm.â
he stepped behind you with obvious reluctance, like he wasnât quite sure this was a good idea either. âshow me,â he said, voice slightly strained. his much larger hands covered yours on the whisk handle, his chest pressed against your back as he leaned over your shoulder to watch the bowl. the solid wall of muscle behind you made your pulse stutter, and you could tell from his uneven breathing that he was just as affected. âthis is... harder than it looks,â he murmured, clearly talking about more than whisking.
âslow circles first,â you managed, acutely aware of how he was bracketing you, the clean scent of his cologne mixing with lingering chocolate. you started the motion, and he followed your rhythm with careful precision, his hands slightly unsteady over yours. you felt him lean down, his breath warm against your ear, and you had to bite back a nervous giggle at how ridiculous this all was. âfeel the resistance change? now we can go faster.â
âthis is torture,â he said softly, but there was fondness in his voice, like he was amazed by his own predicament. when you sped up the whisking motion, his body moved with yours, and he let out a soft, almost helpless sound that made you want to turn around and kiss the dazed expression you knew was on his face.
âtheyâre getting stiff,â he said, his voice rough, strained.
âperfect stiff peaks,â you agreed, your own voice shaky, though you were definitely talking about more than egg whites now. the air was thick with unspoken things, with the scent of chocolate and the clean masculine smell of him. ânow comes the tricky part.â
âbut first,â you said, reaching for the small container of flour from a nearby shelf, âlet me just...â you dipped your fingers into the white powder, then without warning, dabbed it across his cheek, leaving a pale streak across his sharp cheekbone.
he went completely still, his storm-glass eyes widening in surprise. âdid you justââ
âoops,â you said innocently, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. âoccupational hazard. flour gets everywhere in real kitchens.â
a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. âis that so?â he reached for the flour container, dipped his own fingers. before you could react, heâd brushed powder across your nose, a gentle touch that made your breath catch. âseems like youâre right. very hazardous.â
what followed was gentle chaos. a playful flour fight that had you both laughing breathlessly, white powder dusting your hair and clothes and every surface within reach. he was careful not to be too aggressive, but his competitive streak showed when he managed to get a handful down the back of your apron.
âsatoru!â you squeaked, arching away from the cold powder, which only pressed you closer against his chest. he was grinning down at you, flour in his silver hair making him look younger, more carefree than youâd ever seen him.
âwhat? you started it, cupcake.â his voice was warm with laughter, his hands settling on your waist to steady you. âjust evening the playing field.â
âweâre supposed to be baking,â you protested weakly, but you were smiling too hard to sound stern. you hummed a soft laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
âtechnique development,â you repeated skeptically.
âabsolutely. building trust between chef and... sous chef.â his fingers tightened slightly on your waist. âcanât make good food without trust, right?â
something in his voice made you look up at him properly. you were both flour-streaked and disheveled, hair messed and clothes dusty, but his expression was soft, genuine. like he was asking about more than just cooking.
âright,â you agreed quietly. âtrust is... essential.â
the moment stretched between you, charged with possibility, until the timer on your phone chimed a reminder about the chocolate base.
âfolding is an art,â you told him after youâd both brushed off the worst of the flour, your voice a low murmur as you spooned a third of the whipped egg whites into the chocolate base. you started humming again, a soft tune that helped organize your movements. âtoo rough, and youâll knock out all the air we just built up. too gentle, and it wonât incorporate properly.â
you demonstrated the motionâa gentle lift up from the bottom, a turn of the spoon, a clean cut down through the mixture. it was graceful, practiced, almost hypnotic. a quiet ballet of the hands.
âyour turn,â you said, handing him the spoon, your eyes locking with his over the bowl. his were dark, almost black, pupils blown wide.
his first attempts were clumsy, awkward. he was trying to stir, not fold, and you could see the frustration building in the tense set of his shoulders.
âhere,â you murmured, gesturing for him to step behind you again. âitâs easier if you can see the motion properly.â this time when he moved to stand behind you, his positioning was more natural but no less distractingâhis height allowing him to look over your shoulder easily, though he seemed to be having trouble concentrating on anything but the way you fit against his chest.
you demonstrated the folding motion with him watching intently, his breath tickling your ear. âlift... turn... cut down,â you guided softly, trying to ignore how his hands trembled slightly when they covered yours. âitâs all about the wrist action. gentle but firm.â
the double entendre hung in the air, and you felt him go completely still behind you, then let out a quiet, slightly hysterical laugh. âyouâre killing me here, cupcake,â he said, voice strained but fond. âiâm trying to be a gentleman.â
âlike that?â he asked when you guided him through the motion, voice breathless and wondering, like he couldnât quite believe he was here doing this with you.
âexactly like that,â you whispered back, your own voice soft with affection and barely contained laughter at how completely gone you both were. âyouâre a natural.â
the confession, so simple and true, settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to take back. you didnât step away this time. you couldnât. instead, your hands tightened over his on the spoon, a silent mutual acknowledgment that this had stopped being about baking.
âsatoru,â you whispered, his name a soft questioning sound against his skin.
he turned in your arms, the movement slow, deliberate, until you were pressed between his warm solid chest and the cool unyielding edge of the counter. the spoon was forgotten, clattering onto the prep surface as his hands, large and warm and sure, found your waist.
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel cherished and utterly safe.
âin a minute,â he murmured back, his hands spanning your waist, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin under your ribs, sending shivers through you. âi like you messy, cupcake. flour suits you.â
his mouth trailed down your throat, a hot open-mouthed path that made you arch into him, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. he groaned softly at the contact, the sound a deep guttural vibration against your collarbone that made your entire body hum with want.
âtheyâll collapse if we wait too long,â you tried again, halfheartedly, your fingers tangling in the soft silver strands of his hair.
âthen weâll make new ones,â he said against your skin, his voice a low possessive growl. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it stole the air from your lungs. âbut iâve been thinking about this for weeks, cupcake. thinking about you. about what it would feel like to have you in my arms, in my kitchen.â
he groaned, burying his face in your neck for one tortured beat before pulling back. the panic in your eyes softened his frustration into something fonder, and a wicked smile tugged at his lips.
the shift back to the task was electric. the air was thick with what almost happened, and what was definitely going to happen later. with trembling legs, you slid off the counter, your body buzzing with unspent energy.
âand now we wait,â you said, stepping back from the oven and immediately missing the warmth of him behind you.
âtwelve minutes,â he repeated, voice rough around the edges. he ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it more disheveled than usual. âwhat do we do for twelve minutes?â
âwell, that explains a lot,â he said, that crooked smile making your pulse skip. âiâm the human embodiment of anxiety right now.â
the twelve minutes crawled by with painful slowness. you cleaned up together, hyperaware of every accidental brush of fingers, every time he had to reach around you for something. the domesticity of it was strange and intoxicatingâhim washing dishes while you wiped surfaces, both stealing glances at each other and the oven door.
when the timer finally shrieked, you both jumped like guilty teenagers.
you opened the oven door with trembling hands, and a cloud of warm, chocolate-scented air enveloped you. your heart did a little flip. theyâd risen, yes, but unevenlyâsome tall and proud, others slightly lopsided, one that had clearly gotten too much mixture and was threatening to spill over its ramekin in a delicious, molten wave. they were messy. they were imperfect. they were theirs.
âoh,â satoru said softly from beside you, and you could hear the genuine disappointment creeping into his voice as he took in the imperfect results. his broad shoulders slumped just a fraction, a quiet admission of his high expectations meeting a messy reality.
you turned to face him, a gentle, reassuring smile on your lips as you caught the slight downturn of his mouth. it was an expression youâd never seen on him beforeânot arrogance, not charm, but a boyish, sulky pout that was ridiculously endearing.
âhey,â you said softly, nudging his arm with your shoulder. âitâs your first time making one of the most notoriously difficult pastries in the world. and,â you added, your voice dropping to a warmer, more intimate tone, âtheyâre made with love. thatâs what really matters, right?â
he looked down at you with those storm-glass eyes, something soft and vulnerable flickering there. âbut yours are always perfect,â he retorted, his voice a low, almost mournful grumble. âeverything you make is always perfect and made with love. itâs not fair.â
heat crept up your neck at the raw sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at you like youâd hung the moon and personally arranged the stars. the compliment, born from his own momentary failure, felt more potent than any of his previous praise. âsatoruâŠâ
the first bite was molten chocolate heaven, rich and airy despite the uneven appearance. you made a soft, involuntary sound of appreciation, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second. when you opened them, he was watching you, a hopeful, almost anxious look on his face.
âgood?â he asked, taking his own first, tentative spoonful.
instead of answering with words, you scooped up another bite from the messy, overflowing ramekinâhis ramekin. you held it out to him, surprising yourself with the easy intimacy of the gesture. âyou tell me.â
his eyes went wide for a moment before a slow, devastating smile spread across his face. he leaned forward, his lips closing around the spoon you offered in a way that made your pulse stutter. the soft, pleased sound he made, his own eyes fluttering closed in bliss, sent a wave of heat spiraling through your chest.
âincredible,â he breathed, his gaze locking with yours, dark and full of a wonder that had nothing to do with the chocolate. then, a mischievous glint returned. he scooped up some of his own. âyour turn.â
you leaned forward to accept the bite he offered, hyperaware of how his gaze tracked the movement of your lips around the spoon. the chocolate was perfectârich and warm and somehow tasting even better when he was the one feeding it to you.
âthis is ridiculous,â you murmured, but you were smiling, caught up in the sweetness of the moment.
âridiculously perfect,â he agreed, then leaned closer, eyes dark with intent. âyouâve got chocolate...â
instead of telling you where, he kissed you, slow and sweet and tasting of molten chocolate and something like joy. when he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips barely brushing yours, you were both breathing unsteadily.
âfound it,â he murmured against your mouth, then kissed you again, deeper this time.
the spoons clattered forgotten to the counter as his hands found your waist, lifting you easily onto the prep surface. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as his mouth moved against yours with increasing hunger.
âsatoru,â you gasped between kisses, your hands fisting in his t-shirt.
âbeen thinking about this,â he confessed against your throat, his voice rough with want. âbeen thinking about you. for weeks.â
his mouth trailed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you gasp and laugh at the same time. âbeen thinking about this,â he confessed against your throat, voice full of wonder like he couldnât quite believe it was happening. âbeen thinking about you. driving myself crazy for weeks.â
your fingers tangled in his silver hair, and he practically melted into the touch, letting out a soft, almost reverent sigh. âyouâre ridiculous,â you murmured fondly, then squeaked when he found that particularly sensitive spot again. âand apparently very good at distracting people from baking.â
âiâm a man of many talents,â he said against your skin, then pulled back to look at you with that boyish grin that made your heart do stupid things. âthough i have to say, this is my new favorite.â
what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel small and cherished and utterly safe.
he groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender. his hands, large and sure, span your waist before sliding down, gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes your breath catch. with an effortless display of power, he lifts you, settling you back onto the cool, flour-dusted prep counter without breaking the kiss. you are surrounded by him, pinned between his hard body and the solid surface, the intoxicating scent of himâclean soap, expensive cologne, and a faint, sweet hint of matchaâfilling your senses.
he breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it makes you dizzy. his breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily. he rests his forehead against yours for a moment, a quiet beat in the rising storm, as if to center himself.
âbeen wanting to do that,â he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl, âsince the first time i saw you wipe flour on your apron.â his thumbs trace slow, hypnotic circles on your hips. âweeks, cupcake. iâve been going out of my mind.â
the raw honesty in his voice, stripped of all its usual playful charm, makes your heart hammer against your ribs. you can only nod, your fingers still tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt.
he straightens up slightly, his gaze dropping to the simple, practical dress you wear for work. a slow, wicked smirk begins to curve his lips. âthis has got to go,â he decides, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. he reaches for the small zipper at the back of your neck, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. âcanât properly appreciate the artistry with all this⊠fabric in the way.â
a wave of shyness washes over you, and your hands instinctively move to cover his. âsatoru, waitâŠâ
he pauses, his large, warm hand gently covering yours. he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his storm-glass eyes holding yours, suddenly tender. âhey,â he whispers. âitâs just me. just us. i want to see you. all of you.â the sincerity in his voice, the quiet plea in his eyes, melts your resistance. you slowly, hesitantly, release his hand.
with a triumphant but gentle smile, he unzips your dress, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. he peels the fabric from your shoulders with a reverence that makes you feel cherished, not exposed. he lets the dress pool around your waist, revealing the simple cotton bra and bloomers you wear for comfort during long hours on your feet. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, his fingers deft and sure, letting it fall away.
his breath hitches. âfuck, youâre beautiful,â he breathes, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost worshipful intensity. his eyes, so often a playful, teasing blue, are now dark with a raw, unadulterated awe. he reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breast, as if memorizing your shape. âso perfect.â
he breaks away for a moment, and you hear the soft hiss of a canister. he returns with the whipped cream youâd left out from the cupcake prep, a playful, predatory glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a frantic flip.
âwhat are you doing?â you whisper, your voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat.
âyou make perfect things all day,â he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble, as he steps back between your legs. âso sweet. so delicious.â his hand slides up your thigh, his touch warm and sure. âitâs only fair i get to make you my pastry for once.â he shakes the can, the sound a playful rattle. âfor research, of course.â
you watch, a mixture of terror and fascination, as he aims the nozzle. âsatoru, thatâs going to be⊠cold,â you manage, a faint note of protest in your voice.
âiâll warm you up,â he promises, his eyes dark with intent.
he doesn't start where you expect. he sprays a small, perfect dollop of whipped cream on your inner thigh, right above your knee. the cold shock makes you gasp, your legs instinctively trying to close. he just chuckles, a low, pleased sound, and holds them gently in place. he leans down, his silver hair brushing against your leg like spun silk, and licks the cream away in one slow, deliberate swipe. his eyes flutter closed as he savors the taste. his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded. âdelicious.â
he moves up, a slow, methodical artist at work. he sprays a delicate swirl on your hip, another on the sensitive skin of your stomach, just above your navel, each cold touch followed by the hot, wet warmth of his mouth. heâs decorating you, his movements precise and artful. his final touches are the most deliberate: two perfect, delicate rosettes piped directly onto your nipples. the intense cold makes them pebble instantly, and you cry out, a sharp, surprised sound.
âlook at that,â he breathes, admiring his handiwork, his voice thick with a possessive pride. âmy perfect little cupcake. so pretty.â he leans in and devours his creation, his tongue tracing the swirl on one nipple before he takes the entire hardened peak into his mouth, licking and sucking the sweet cream away until youâre writhing on the counter, your fingers fisting in his hair. he gives the other nipple the same reverent, all-consuming attention, his praise a constant, filthy murmur against your skin. âso sweet⊠knew you would be⊠perfect for meâŠâ
his attention then moves lower, his mouth trailing a hot, wet path down your stomach, licking away every last trace of cream. his hands find the waistband of your bloomers, then the delicate lace of your panties beneath. he doesn't remove them. instead, he hooks his fingers in the elastic, pulling the fabric taut, creating a perfect frame for the sight of you. youâre already dripping for him, the thin lace dark and damp with your arousal. he groans, a low, satisfied sound against your skin. âlook at how wet you are, pretty girl. already melting for me.â
he doesn't push the fabric aside. he presses his mouth right against the damp lace, the slightly rough texture an immediate, shocking friction against your sensitive flesh. his tongue darts out, tracing the outline of your folds through the material, mapping you. the friction is maddening, a delicious, textured pleasure that makes you cry out, your hips lifting instinctively from the counter. he laps at you, teases you, soaking the lace until it clings to you like a second skin.
âso sweet,â he pants against you. âi can taste you right through your panties. fuck, thatâs so hot.â his praise is relentless, a filthy, hypnotic mantra. âthatâs it, let it go for me⊠soak yourself for me⊠iâm going to taste every dropâŠâ
then, the teasing stops. he positions his mouth directly over the heart of you, and with a low groan, he pushes the tip of his tongue firmly against the lace, right over your entrance. he doesn't just lick, he fucks. he presses his tongue into you, a firm, insistent pressure that mimics the head of a cock, working his way into your channel through the thin barrier of fabric. the sensation is overwhelming, a dull, deep friction that sends shockwaves straight to your core.
he moves with a steady, relentless rhythm, his entire focus narrowed on this single, filthy actâfucking you through your own panties. you can feel the lace stretching, rubbing, a maddeningly indirect stimulation that is somehow more intense than direct contact. he works you like this for long, torturous moments, his breath hot and ragged, until your mind goes blank with overwhelming pleasure.
with a choked sob, you come, your body convulsing on the counter, your inner muscles clenching with a helpless, shattering release.
he stays there, lapping up the fresh wave of your release through the lace, until the last of your shudders subside. then, and only then, does he pull back, a triumphant, proprietary smirk on his lips. he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your soaked panties and bloomers, pulling them down your legs with a slow, deliberate motion, tossing them aside.
âoh, pretty girl,â he says, his voice a low, teasing drawl as he looks at the damp, glistening evidence of your pleasure on the counter beneath you. âyou made a mess.â he tuts playfully, shaking his head. âwe canât have that. health hazard, you know. very unprofessional.â
before you can respond, a mortified blush heating your cheeks, heâs leaning in, his tongue darting out to clean you up, licking the sticky wetness from the cool stainless steel. his thoroughness is both humiliating and unbelievably arousing.
when heâs finished, he looks up at you, his eyes dark and hungry. âall clean,â he purrs. âbut i think i missed a spot.â
he reaches for the whipped cream canister again. your eyes widen. âsatoru, noâŠâ you breathe, a weak, helpless laugh escaping you.
âsatoru, yes,â he corrects, his grin wicked.
this time, he sprays a single, perfect, generous dollop right onto your swollen, hyper-sensitive clit. the cold shock makes you gasp, your hips lifting off the counter, a sound that is half protest, half plea.
he watches the cream start to melt against your heat, a slow, decadent drip. ânow, for the final, most important detail,â he whispers, his voice thick with anticipation.
this time, there is no barrier, just his mouth and tongue and teeth, a relentless, worshipful assault. he licks away the cream with slow, languid strokes, savoring the taste of it mixed with your own unique sweetness. his tongue is an instrument of pure pleasure, tracing circles, flicking, dipping inside you.
his praise starts again, a low, constant murmur against your most sensitive flesh as he works. âfuck, you taste so good⊠my favorite flavor⊠so responsive for me, pretty girl⊠thatâs it, let me hear you⊠scream for me this timeâŠâ
he finds your rhythm, his tongue a merciless, perfect piston against your clit. the pleasure is sharper this time, more intense, building with a speed that terrifies and excites you.
you feel the pressure coiling low in your belly, a tight, frantic knot. he senses it, his ministrations becoming more insistent, his fingers gripping your thighs to hold you still. he is determined to wring another orgasm from you, to leave you completely, utterly wrecked.
you come apart for him again, the climax even more intense than the first, a shattering, vocal scream that echoes in the quiet kitchen as he swallows every last drop with a deep, possessive groan.
he pulled back, mouth slick with your taste, a triumphant smirk curving his lips. you were a beautiful, dazed mess on his counter, boneless beneath his gaze.
then, unexpectedly, tenderness welled in him. he kissed you againâsofter this time, slow and languid, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. his hands slid from your thighs to brush your hair back, careful, hesitant. he was trying to be good.
but you were wrecked. your body still trembling from back-to-back orgasms, raw with sensitivity, high on his filthy praiseâand now achingly empty. his gentleness only stoked the hunger. you craved the strength he leashed, the overwhelming power you knew he held. you needed more.
âsatoru,â you whisper, your voice shaky but threaded with a raw, undeniable determination. your hands, which had been limply resting in your lap, come up to fist in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. his gentle caresses arenât enough. âdonât⊠donât be so gentle.â
his hands still in your hair. he pulls back slightly, his storm-glass eyes searching yours, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily clearing the haze of lust. he sees the pleading in your gaze, the desperate want, and something darker, more primal, begins to stir in their depths. the carefully constructed dam of his control begins to crack.
âyou sure, pretty girl?â his voice is a low, dangerous growl, a stark contrast to his previous soft praises. the air crackles with a new, sharper tension. âiâve been trying really hard to be good for you. but if you ask me not to beâŠâ
you just shake your head, a single. your legs, which had been lying limp, tighten around his waist, hooking your ankles behind him, trapping him. âi donât want you to be good,â you breathe, the confession a spark in the charged air, an open invitation to the freak you know is lurking just beneath the surface. âi want you.â
thatâs it. thatâs the only permission he needs. his control shatters into a million pieces. the last vestiges of softness in his expression vanish, replaced by a raw, possessive hunger that makes a shiver of fear and excitement race down your spine. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and the grip on your thighs becomes bruising, possessive.
âthen you better hold on tight,â he growls, his voice a guttural promise of whatâs to come.
before you can respond, heâs lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing, your legs locked tight around his waist. his stride is long, purposeful, carrying you out of the warm kitchen into the dark back office. the door slams shut behind him, the echo sealing you off from the world. he drops you onto the worn couch, the springs groaning under the impact.
he looms in the dim light, a towering silhouette of unrestrained wantâa predator finally given leave to hunt. his fingers fumble at his cargo pants, grace traded for frantic urgency, the rasp of his zipper loud in the silence.
then heâs free. your breath stutters, eyes widening as the faint glow catches on himâthick, heavy, impossibly long. heâs big. so big. a sharp, sweet edge of fear slices through the haze of your arousal.
âso pretty for me,â he pants, his eyes dark and wild as he moves over you. âall wrecked and wanting it.â he pins your wrists to the couch cushions above your head with one large, strong hand, his grip firm but not painful, a gesture of absolute domination. with his other hand, he parts your slick folds, his thumb stroking your clit in a way that makes you gasp.
he guides himself to your entrance. youâre soaked, still leaking from your last orgasms, but even so, the thick, blunt head of his cock just nudges against you, a solid, unyielding pressure. itâs too much. it wonât fit.
âsatoru,â you gasp, your eyes wide, a real note of panic in your voice as you feel the impossible pressure. your hips instinctively try to shift away. âi donât⊠i donât think i can.â
âshhh,â he soothes, his voice a low, ragged rumble, though his eyes are blazing with intensity. he doesn't pull back. instead, he leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear. âyes, you can, pretty girl. you were made for this.â a possessive growl underlines his words. âand iâm going to make it fit.â
he demonstrates a restraint that is almost terrifying. he doesn't push. instead, he begins a slow, torturous tease. he rocks his hips, fucking you with just the very tip, the wide, smooth head of his cock stretching you, parting your slick folds, making you impossibly wetter.
he moves in and out of just that first inch, a maddening, relentless rhythm that feels like both heaven and hell. his control is absolute, his powerful body held perfectly in check.
âthatâs itâŠâ he groans, his own control fraying, sweat beading on his temples. âfeel how much i want you? just the tip, and youâre already so tight⊠so good⊠gripping meâŠâ every word is a praise, a promise. he watches your face, watches your eyes screw shut as you bite your lip, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being slowly, deliberately claimed.
youâre whining now, desperate and needy as your hips buck instinctively, trying to take more of him. the initial fear has been replaced by an all-consuming need to be filled by him, completely and utterly.
âeager for me, huh?â he chuckles, a dark, pleased sound. his hips stutter, a sign of his own fracturing control. âgood. thatâs so good, pretty girl. now, take me. all of me.â
he shifts his angle slightly, and then, with a slow, deliberate, powerful push, he begins to fill you. itâs a gradual invasion, an inch-by-inch claiming of your body. itâs an overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness, a delicious, burning stretch that makes you cry out, your back arching off the couch.
he keeps going, slowly, steadily, until heâs buried to the hilt, and you feel a profound, soul-deep stretch as he bottoms out against your cervix. he fills you completely, impossibly.
he stays there for a long moment, buried to the hilt inside you, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming size of him. he pants above you, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes closed as he just savors the feeling of being completely, perfectly sheathed inside you.
âfuck,â he breathes, the word a reverent sigh. âperfect fit.â
he shifts his hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate grind that draws a whimper from your throat, and a satisfied smirk touches his lips. he opens his eyes, their storm-blue depths dark and intense.
when he finally begins to move, itâs with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. he pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of him retreating making you whine in protest, your hips lifting off the couch to chase him. he chuckles, a low, dark sound. âuh-uh, pretty girl,â he murmurs, his free hand coming down to press your hip firmly into the couch cushions, pinning you in place. âiâm in charge now. youâll take what i give you.â
he thrusts back in, slowly, every inch a rediscovery, a fresh wave of overwhelming fullness. he establishes a deep, hypnotic rhythmâa slow, complete withdrawal followed by an even slower, deeper return. with every inward stroke, he presses deep, his powerful hips rolling, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in a way that makes you see stars.
âfeel that?â he groans, his voice a low, rough rasp by your ear. âthatâs all for you. all of it.â
you can only nod, your own breath coming in ragged gasps, your mind starting to short-circuit. the dual stimulation is too much, your senses overloaded. youâre trapped, pinned by his hand on your hip and his other hand holding your wrists, completely at the mercy of his slow, deliberate torture.
âuse your words, pretty girl,â he demands, his rhythm faltering for just a second. âi need to hear it. tell me how it feels.â
âitâs⊠so much,â you gasp, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. âsatoru, pleaseâŠâ
âplease what?â he presses, his hips resuming that slow, torturous grind. he knows exactly what heâs doing, drawing out the pleasure, pushing you closer and closer to the edge only to pull you back. âtell me what you want.â
âi want⊠more,â you sob, the admission torn from you. âfaster.â
a dark, possessive grin spreads across his face. ânot yet,â he breathes, leaning down to kiss you, a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of salt and want. ânot until youâre begging for it.â
he continues his slow, deep, punishing rhythm for what feels like an eternity. he talks to you the entire time, a constant stream of filthy praise and possessive commands that unravels you completely. âso good⊠gripping me so tight⊠look at you, taking all of me without even a single complaint⊠you were made for this, made for meâŠâ
heâs right. you were. the initial overwhelming stretch has melted into a deep, profound ache of pleasure. your body, which you thought couldn't possibly take him, has molded around him, welcoming him.
finally, just as you feel like youâre about to shatter from the tension, he changes the rhythm. his thrusts become shorter, faster, focused on that one spot deep inside you that he seems to have memorized. your own hips start to buck against his hand, a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm.
âthere it is,â he pants, his own control starting to fray. âthatâs what i wanted to see.â
his head dips down. as a particularly deep, powerful thrust makes you cry out his name in a sob of pure pleasure, his mouth finds the soft flesh of your shoulder, just above the collarbone. he bites down. itâs not enough to break the skin, but itâs a sharp, possessive pressure that leaves a clear, red mark. a brand. he licks over it immediately, the rough swipe of his tongue soothing the sting.
âgotta leave a little reminder for you,â he rasps, his voice a possessive growl against your skin, his thrusts becoming frantic now, slamming into you. âso you donât forget who you belong to. so everyone knows.â
the mark, his possessive words, the overwhelming fullness, the shift to a desperate, frantic pace⊠it all sends you spiraling. your mind goes white with sensation, and you come with a choked scream, your body convulsing around his thick cock, your inner muscles clenching and milking him with a helpless, frantic rhythm.
your orgasm only makes him harder, his own release held back by a thread of sheer, iron will. the feeling of your inner muscles convulsing around him, milking him, sends a shudder through his powerful frame. he groans, a low, guttural sound of a man right on the edge. but heâs not done with you yet. not even close.
he pulls out of you with a wet, obscene slap that makes you whine in protest at the sudden emptiness. but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. before you can even process the lingering tremors of your climax, heâs pulling you up from the couch, onto your feet.
âturn around,â he commands, his voice a low, rough growl, thick with unshed lust. youâre pliant in his hands, dazed and completely his to command. you obey without question, letting him guide you the few steps to the small, cluttered wooden desk. he positions you, turning you so you can plant your hands on the edge of it, your ass pushed out for him, a perfect, vulnerable offering.
he presses his hard, sweat-slick body against your back, caging you in, the heat of him a stark contrast to the cool wood beneath your palms. âlook at you,â he rasps, his voice a low growl right by your ear as he admires the sight of you, bent over and waiting for him. âso good. so obedient for me.â
one powerful arm snakes around your front, his forearm pressing with deliberate, firm pressure against your throat. it doesnât hurt, not yet, but itâs a clear, undeniable act of control. your breath hitches, a jolt of pure, primal fear mixing with a sharp spike of arousal.
his hold tilts your head back into the crook of his shoulder, exposing the long, pale line of your neck to him. his mouth is right there, at your ear, at your throat, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. his other hand grips your hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, holding you steady, claiming you. you are completely, utterly his to manhandle.
he thrusts into you from behind in a single, powerful motion. the angle is impossibly deep, hitting a spot that bypasses thought and sends a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to your brain. a scream tears from your throat, but as it does, the pressure on your windpipe increases. not enough to truly choke you, but enough to cut the sound off, turning your scream into a pathetic, breathy whimper.
the world begins to swim at the edges, your head light and floaty from the lack of air. itâs terrifying. itâs perfect. the combination of overwhelming fullness and oxygen deprivation sends you spiraling, your mind going blessedly blank.
his thrusts are deep, powerful, slamming into you with a relentless, animalistic rhythm. with the pressure on your throat, every frantic gasp for air, every choked moan, is a sound of pure, helpless submission that seems to drive him wilder.
his mouth finds the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and as he fucks you, he latches on, sucking hard. you feel the sting, the pull, and you know, with a dizzying thrill, that heâs leaving a dark, undeniable hickey. another mark. a claim for all to see.
heâs not pulling out. this is the final, undeniable act of possession. âiâm going to come inside you, pretty girl,â he groans into your ear, his hips slamming into you, each word a percussive beat against your senses. âiâm going to fill you up⊠make you mine.â
the combination of his filthy, possessive words, the choking pressure making your head spin, the new, stinging mark on your neck, and the overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness is what sends you over the edge one last time.
your fourth, and most intense, orgasm hits like a lightning strike, a complete system overload. your mind whites out, your body convulsing violently around him, and the helpless, breathy sounds spilling from your lips are his undoing.
with a final, desperate groan thatâs more roar than word, he thrusts deep one last time and floods you with his release, the hot, thick seed a shocking, intimate brand deep inside you, coating your womb, claiming you from the inside out.
he collapses against you, his entire weight a comforting, solid presence. his arm immediately loosens from your throat, allowing you to drag in a ragged, desperate lungful of air. your vision clears, the world snapping back into sharp focus. his breathing is harsh, ragged against your ear, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your back. for a long moment, you just stand there, tangled together, held up only by the desk and his strength, the aftermath of the storm washing over you in slow, trembling waves.
he doesn't let you go. after a minute, when his breathing has started to even out, he shifts. his movements are gentle now, a stark, beautiful contrast to the ferocity of moments before. he pulls you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle in a secure, protective embrace. he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then another to the dark, angry-looking mark on your neck. his lips are soft, almost apologetic, yet deeply possessive.
âcome on,â he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. he helps you gather your discarded clothesâthe dress, the bra, the pantiesânot with any sense of shame, but with a quiet, domestic tenderness. he guides you back to the couch, sitting you down gently before finding a clean dish towel from a nearby hook and wetting it with a bottle of water from your desk. he kneels before you and carefully, tenderly, cleans you up. every soft swipe of the cloth is an act of worship, an apology, a promise.
when youâre clean, he helps you dress again, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he zips up your dress, his fingers brushing against your skin. he pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest, his arms a safe haven. youâre exhausted, boneless, and completely content.
and in the beautiful, comfortable wreckage heâd so lovingly made of you, you felt safer and more cherished than ever before. you were, unequivocally, his.
consciousness crept in slowly, warm and hazy and completely disorienting. your bed felt softer than usual, sunlight streaming through curtains that you definitely remembered closing last night. you were wearing your favorite sleep shirtâthe oversized one with tiny croissants printed all over itâand had absolutely no memory of changing into it.
you sat up slowly, running hands through thoroughly disheveled hair, trying to piece together the gap in your memory. the last clear thing you remembered was being wrapped around satoru on your office couch, both of you breathless and covered in flour, the cafe dark except for the warm glow from the kitchen.
your phone sat on the nightstand, and when you grabbed it to check the time, your heart nearly stopped.
9:47 am.
wait, that couldnât be right. you shot up from bed like youâd been electrocuted, panic flooding your system. if it was 9:47 in the morning, that meantâ âshit, shit, shit!â the cafe should have opened an hour and forty-seven minutes ago. customers would have been lined up. your regulars, your weekend rush. theyâd be confused, probably annoyed. your perfect attendance record, your reputation, everythingâ
thatâs when you smelled it. coffee. real coffee, not the instant stuff you kept in your apartment for emergencies. and was that⊠bacon?
you stumbled toward your bedroom door, still half-panicked and completely confused. the soft sounds of someone moving around your kitchen, the quiet sizzle of something in a pan, andâwas that humming? a low, familiar melody that made your chest flutter with recognition.
padding barefoot down the hallway, you stopped short in your kitchen doorway.
satoru stood at your stove, wearing his jeans from last night and nothing else except one of your aprons tied around his narrow waist. the soft pink fabric with tiny cupcakes printed on it looked absolutely ridiculous stretched across his broad shoulders, the ties barely meeting around his back. his silver hair was still sleep-mussed, sticking up in several directions, and he was humming while orchestrating what looked like a feast designed to feed a small army.
the counter was covered with an impressive spread that belonged in a five-star brunch restaurant. thick, fluffy japanese pancakes stacked impossibly high, their surfaces golden and perfect. fresh strawberries and blueberries arranged in artful clusters, some cut into delicate fan shapes. crispy strips of bacon laid out in precise rows alongside what appeared to be perfectly seasoned breakfast potatoes, golden and herb-crusted. scrambled eggs that looked like silk, probably made with cream and patience.
a small bowl of homemade whipped cream sat next to another containing what could only be maple butter. and was that hollandaise sauce? actual hollandaise sauce, made from scratch in your tiny kitchen, keeping warm in a makeshift double boiler.
âmorning, beautiful,â he said without turning around, shoulders shifting as he adjusted the heat under a pan. his voice carried that particular roughness that came from a night of use, and the sound sent warmth spiraling through your chest as memories crashed back in vivid detail. âhope you donât mind me raiding your kitchen. and your spice cabinet. and possibly your entire pantry.â
you stared at the spread, then at him, brain still trying to catch up to this alternate reality where satoru gojo had transformed your modest kitchen into a professional-grade brunch operation. âthatâs my apron,â you managed, voice scratchy with sleep and something else entirely. your fingers unconsciously smoothed down your croissant-printed pajama shirt, suddenly very aware of how rumpled you probably looked.
he glanced down at the pink fabric with its cheerful cupcake pattern, then back at you with that boyish grin that made your knees forget their structural integrity. those impossible blue eyes held warmth and mischief and something deeper that made your pulse stutter. âlooks better on you, obviously, but i didnât want to get hollandaise on myself.â he gestured toward the elaborate spread with his spatula, movements confident and practiced, like heâd been cooking in your kitchen for years instead of hours. âthought you might be hungry after⊠well, after everything.â
the way he said âeverythingâ with that slight pause, that knowing look, sent heat creeping up your neck. memories flickered behind your eyelidsâhis hands, his mouth, the way heâd whispered your name like a prayer.
heat crept up your neck at the implication, memories flickering like film strips behind your eyelids. âsatoru, what time is it? the cafeâi need to open, people are probably waiting outside wondering whereââ
ârelax, cupcake.â he turned fully now, and you caught sight of the feast heâd created on your small dining table. those long fingers gestured toward your phone on the counter, his expression gentle but firm. âitâs friday morning, yes. but look at yourself.â
you glanced down at your croissant pajamas, then caught sight of yourself in the microwaveâs reflection. disheveled didnât begin to cover it. you looked like youâd been thoroughlyâwell, exactly like someone whoâd spent the night being completely and utterly ruined in the best possible way.
âwhenâs the last time you took a real day off?â he continued, leaning against the counter with those muscled arms crossed, the ridiculous apron making him look both domestic and absolutely edible. âand i mean a real day off, not just sunday afternoons when you meal prep for the week.â
âi donât needââ
âyou fell asleep mid-sentence last night,â he interrupted, storm-glass eyes serious now. âcompletely dead to the world. thatâs not normal tired, sweetheart. thatâs your body shutting down because youâve been running on fumes for months.â
the endearment made something flutter in your chest, but you fought against the warmth. âpeople depend on their morning coffee. their pastries. i canât justââ
âthe world will survive one day without your croissants.â he pushed off the counter, moving toward you with that predatory grace that made your pulse skip. âbut will you survive if you keep pushing yourself like this?â
you opened your mouth to argue, but he continued, voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. âi carried you home last night. you weighed nothing, and you were so exhausted you didnât even stir when i changed your clothes or when the car hit every pothole between the cafe and here.â his hands found your shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collarbone through the soft cotton. âwhenâs the last time someone took care of you?â
the question settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to brush away. you stared up at him, taking in the genuine concern in those impossible eyes, the way his hair stuck up in seventeen different directions, the careful way he was touching you like you might break.
âi already put a sign on the door,â he admitted quietly. âprofessional-looking thing. âtemporarily closed for equipment maintenance, reopening tomorrow with fresh selections.â even laminated it.â
âyouâŠâ you blinked at him, torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to affection. âyou laminated a sign?â
âseemed like something youâd appreciate.â that boyish grin made its appearance, but it was softer now, less performative. âbesides, gives us the whole day to figure this out.â
âfigure what out?â
âthis.â he gestured between you with one hand, the other still resting on your shoulder. âus. whatever this is becoming.â
his own cheeks pinked slightly, and he ran a hand through his already-messy hair, the gesture making those silver strands stick up even more ridiculously. the movement drew attention to the lean muscles of his arm, the way his bicep flexed under unmarked skin. he was beautiful in the morning light, all sharp angles and soft edges, looking nothing like the polished influencer and everything like the man whoâd whispered praise against your skin in the dark.
âright, about that. you were completely dead to the world, so iâŠâ he paused, shoulders shifting as he turned to face you fully, and the careful way he moved suggested he was reading your reaction, making sure you were okay with this conversation. âi may have carried you.â the admission came out like he was confessing to a crime, storm-glass eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort.
you were quiet for a long moment, processing this while your fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of your pajama shirt. the image of satoru gojo, internet famous fitness influencer, carrying your unconscious form through the streets while digging through your purse for house keys should have been embarrassing. instead, it felt like being cherished. âcalled a car, had to dig through your bag for your keysâsorry about that, by the way. total invasion of privacy but you were unconscious and i couldnât exactly leave you on the couch all night.â
âand the clothes?â you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper as you gestured to your croissant pajamas. your cheeks felt warm, not from embarrassment but from something softer, more vulnerable.
his flush deepened, spreading down his neck to disappear beneath the ridiculous cupcake apron, and he focused very intently on arranging the berries in perfect little clusters. his long fingers moved with surprising delicacy, the same hands that had mapped every inch of your skin now handling strawberries like they were made of glass. âyou were⊠well, you couldnât sleep in your work clothes. they were all flour-dusted andâŠâ he cleared his throat, voice dropping to something rough and honest. âi was very respectful about it. found your pajamas in the top drawer, got you changed as quickly as possible.â
the careful way he said it, like he was worried youâd be upset, made something warm unfurl in your chest. after everything that had happened between youâthe way heâd touched you, tasted you, made you completely hisâthe tenderness of him taking care of you when you were completely vulnerable felt more intimate than anything else. your heart did something complicated against your ribs, affection and gratitude tangling together.
âthank you,â you said softly, the words carrying more weight than they should. âfor taking care of me.â
his shoulders relaxed slightly, and that devastating smile returned. âanytime, cupcake. literally anytime.â he moved back toward the stove, checking on something in a pan. ânow come on, let me feed you properly. all this cooking and no one to appreciate it is making me feel like a very attractive housewife with an absentee spouse.â
despite everything, you snorted. âdid you just compare yourself to a housewife?â
âa very attractive housewife,â he corrected solemnly. âthe apron really brings out my eyes.â
you perched on one of your barstools, finally allowing yourself to really take in the spread heâd created. it was magnificentârestaurant-quality food that had obviously taken hours to prepare. âsatoru, this is⊠how long have you been awake?â
âsince about six.â he shrugged like it was nothing, plating the eggs with practiced precision. âiâm used to early mornings. besides, i wanted everything to be perfect when you woke up.â
something warm and dangerous bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said it, like making you elaborate breakfasts was just another tuesday for him.
he set a plate in front of you that could have fed three people. the pancakes were impossibly fluffy, stacked four high and dusted with powdered sugar. the eggs looked like silk, probably made with cream and the kind of patience you rarely had time for. the breakfast potatoes were golden and herb-crusted, the bacon perfectly crispy, and everything was arranged with an artistry that rivaled your own pastry displays.
âthis isâŠâ you took a bite of the pancakes, and flavor exploded across your tongue. light, airy, with just the right amount of sweetness and a hint of vanilla that made your eyes flutter closed. âholy shit, satoru. this is incredible.â
he beamed like youâd just told him heâd won the lottery, settling across from you with his own overfilled plate. âreally? basic, but edible,â he said with obvious false modesty, but you could see the genuine pride in his eyes.
âbasic?â you laughed, taking another bite, then another, suddenly ravenous in a way that had nothing to do with skipping dinner and everything to do with working up quite an appetite. âsatoru, this is restaurant-quality. where did you learn to cook like this?â
you ate with the same focused intensity heâd seen you bring to your baking, that complete attention to flavor and texture that made him fall for you in the first place. watching you devour his cooking with such obvious pleasure made something warm and possessive bloom in his chest. he found himself memorizing the way you closed your eyes when you tasted the hollandaise, the soft sound you made when you tried the potatoes, the fact that you cleaned your plate completely before even pausing to breathe.
âyears of meal prep,â he said, trying to keep his voice steady while watching you lick hollandaise off your fork with the same precision you used for piping buttercream. âwhen youâre trying to build muscle without destroying your body, you learn to make healthy food that doesnât taste like punishment.â he gestured with his own fork, grinning. âthough iâll admit, i may have gotten a little carried away trying to impress you.â
âmission accomplished,â you said around another bite, then paused to really look at the spread. âseriously, satoru, this is restaurant-quality. why arenât you doing this professionally?â
his cheeks pinked slightly, that boyish flush that made him look younger, more vulnerable. âbecause watching people enjoy things i make feelsâŠâ he paused, searching for words. âit feels like this. like watching you eat my food with the same appreciation i have for your pastries. makes me understand why you do what you do.â
you finished the last bite and sat back with a satisfied sigh, feeling more full and content than you had in months. the plate was completely cleanâyouâd devoured every single thing heâd made with the same focused intensity you brought to your own work.
âthat was incredible. i mean it,â you said, then caught his expression. he was watching you with something like wonder, like he couldnât quite believe you were real.
âactually,â he said suddenly, setting down his fork and running a hand through his silver hair. âcan we⊠can we talk about something?â
your stomach dropped slightly. here it cameâthe regret, the awkwardness, the âthis was fun but we should probably pretend it didnât happenâ conversation. you set down your coffee cup carefully, trying to keep your expression neutral. âokay.â
he pushed back from the table abruptly, starting to pace behind the kitchen island like a caged animal. his movements were agitated, nervous energy radiating from every line of his body. âiâve been thinking,â he said, voice strained. âand i realized i did everything completely backwards last night.â
you blinked at him, confusion replacing dread. âbackwards?â
âi should have told you how i feel first.â he stopped pacing long enough to gesture vaguely toward your bedroom, cheeks going properly pink now. âbefore we⊠god, your neighbors probably hate me. i didnât even tell you i love you first and i justâŠâ his voice cracked slightly. âi mean, i really went at it, didnât i?â
the confession crashed over you like warm honey, sweet and overwhelming. your heart stuttered against your ribs. âyou love me?â
he stopped pacing entirely, those impossible eyes meeting yours with devastating sincerity. his hands were shaking slightly as he ran them through his hair again, making it stick up in seventeen different directions. âare you kidding? iâve been completely gone for you since that first chocolate tart. i rearranged my entire life around your operating hours. masaru thinks iâve lost my mind.â
âyou love me,â you repeated, softer this time, like you were testing how the words tasted on your tongue.
âembarrassingly much,â he admitted, voice rough with vulnerability. he resumed his pacing, gesticulating wildly now. âwhich is why i feel terrible that i didnât say it before i⊠before weâŠâ he trailed off, looking genuinely distressed. âiâm not usually the type to put the cart before the horse, you know? but you make me forget how to think straight.â
something about his genuine distress, the way he was beating himself up over the order of operations, struck you as absolutely ridiculous. a giggle escaped before you could stop it. then another. soon you were laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes, shoulders shaking with the force of it.
âwhatâs funny?â he asked, stopping mid-pace to stare at you, looking wounded and confused.
âsatoru,â you managed between giggles, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. âyouâve been courting me for months. bringing me ridiculously large tips. asking me to teach you to bake. memorizing my coffee preferences. learning my schedule by heart.â you stood up, still laughing softly. âif thatâs not love, i donât know what is.â
his expression shifted from wounded to hopeful, like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. âso⊠youâre not upset that i did it backwards?â
âthe only thing iâm upset about,â you said, moving around the island toward him, âis that you beat me to saying it first.â
his face transformed into that brilliant smile youâd grown to love, the one that made him look younger and completely unguarded. âso what does this make us then? officially?â
âwell,â you said, reaching up to smooth down his ridiculous bedhead, fingers tangling in the soft silver strands. âyouâve basically moved into my cafe. you know my coffee preferences better than i do. and you just made me breakfast while wearing an apron thatâs two sizes too small.â
he glanced down at the ridiculous cupcake-printed fabric stretched across his broad chest, then back at you with that boyish grin. âvery domesticated of me.â
âextremely domesticated,â you agreed, hands still buried in his hair. âpractically husband material.â
the word hung in the air between you, and you both froze slightly. too much, too fast, too honest for a morning after conversation.
âtoo fast?â you asked quickly, suddenly uncertain.
âdefinitely too fast,â he agreed, then that devastating smile returned full force. âbut i like the sound of it anyway.â
you stretched up on your toes to kiss him, tasting coffee and maple syrup and morning possibilities on his lips. when you pulled back, both of you were breathing a little unsteadily.
âso⊠boyfriend then? for now?â you whispered against his mouth.
âboyfriend whoâs completely obsessed with his girlfriend,â he confirmed, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. âand plans to continue being your most devoted customer.â
âwhat about your trainer? your social media following? the whole influencer thing?â
âmasaru can learn to live with disappointment. some things are more important than macros.â he pulled back just enough to look at you seriously, those storm-glass eyes soft with affection. âlike making sure the woman i love gets proper breakfast when sheâs too tired to make it herself.â
warmth bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said âthe woman i love,â like it was the most natural thing in the world. âsatoru gojo, are you offering to be my personal breakfast chef?â
âiâm offering to be whatever you need me to be,â he said simply, honestly, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your waist through the thin cotton of your pajama shirt. âstarting with the guy who makes you eggs and tells you he loves you every morning.â
your heart did something complicated and wonderful behind your ribs. âi love you too,â you whispered, the words feeling both new and inevitable. âeven if you did steal my apron.â
âour apron,â he corrected with a grin, then lifted you off your feet and spun you around your tiny kitchen, both of you laughing like teenagers whoâd discovered something wonderful and secret. your hands fisted in the ridiculous cupcake fabric as he spun you, the world blurring except for his face, his smile, the way he was looking at you like you were everything heâd ever wanted.
when he finally set you back down, he kept his arms around you, both of you still giggling and breathless. âweâre domestic now, remember?â he said, pressing his forehead against yours.
and standing there in your sunny kitchen, wearing croissant pajamas while satoru gojo held you close in your stolen apron, you thought maybe the best relationships really did come from a little bit of chaos, a lot of patience, and the perfect amount of sweetness.
seven months of official dating had settled into something sweeter than any confection youâd ever crafted. what started as satoruâs carefully timed visits to flour & sugar had evolved into something that had the internet completely obsessed and your little bakery busier than youâd ever dreamed possible.
it had started innocently enoughâhis social media transformation had been gradual, so subtle that his followers might have missed it if they werenât paying attention. but the comments sections told a different story.
âbro where are the gym thirst trapsâ
âwho is she and what did she do with our protein daddyâ
âNOT HIM POSTING COUPLE RECIPESâ
âthe way this man went from ârate my deadliftâ to ârate our sourdough starterâ is sending meâ
his instagram had become a love letter written in pixels and captions, a soft-focus documentary of domestic bliss that had somehow captured the internetâs collective heart. gone were the carefully staged shots of his abs and dramatic gym poses. instead, his feed had filled with your handsâpiping delicate rosettes onto cupcakes, kneading dough with flour up to your elbows, writing recipe modifications in your careful script on index cards. blurry morning photos of you both tangled in the sheets above the bakery, sharing a croissant and coffee, your hair catching the golden morning light and his eyes soft with sleep and adoration.
âshe said the croissants needed to be tested for quality control. who am i to argue with an expert? #worthit #carbsarelifeâ
the gym content that remained had evolved too. videos of him teaching you proper deadlift form while you corrected his piping technique, both of you collapsing into giggles when he inevitably got buttercream on the barbell. couple workouts that ended with you both on yoga mats, breathless and laughing, sharing post-workout protein smoothies that youâd somehow made taste like birthday cake.
his captions had gotten impossibly sappier, much to his trainerâs horror and his followersâ secret delight.
âstrongest thing about me is how hard i fell for herâ under a photo of you both covered in flour after an epic food fight that had started as a serious recipe test and devolved into full-scale warfare.
âshe lifts my spirits, i lift heavy things. perfect partnership #relationshipgoals #sheputsupwithmeâ
âplot twist: the real gains were the pastries we made along the wayâ posted with a picture of a particularly elaborate croquembouche youâd attempted together, which had collapsed spectacularly but tasted like heaven.
but it was the video that really sent everything viral. heâd filmed you teaching him how to make croissants at 4 am, both of you in matching flour-dusted aprons, your voice gentle and patient as you guided his hands through the delicate lamination process. the video caught the moment when heâd finally gotten the fold right, the way your face had lit up with pride, how heâd spun you around the kitchen in celebration, both of you laughing breathlessly in the pre-dawn quiet.
âmonth 6 of pastry school with the best teacher in the world. still canât believe she hasnât fired me yet #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverythingâ
the video had exploded overnight. suddenly everyone wanted to try the bakery where the internetâs new favorite couple had fallen in love. the hashtag #flourandsugar started trending, with people posting their own attempts at your recipes and sharing photos of their visits to the little bakery that had stolen the internetâs heart.
which was how youâd found yourself six months later, standing in what used to be the cramped storage room behind your original space, now transformed into a sun-drenched new kitchen three times the size of your old one. the success had been overwhelming in the best possible wayâthe new space was a bakerâs dream, with warm butcher block counters instead of cold steel and creamy subway tiles that caught the light. it was professional, yes, but it still felt like your kitchen.
that warmth extended upstairs, where youâd expanded into a proper second floor with big, beautiful windows that flooded the space with light, now filled with mismatched armchairs youâd found at flea markets, their plush velvet cushions in shades of dusty rose and sage green inviting people to linger for hours. youâd added low bookshelves filled with old novels and cookbooks, making it feel more like a cozy, lived-in library than a cafe.
and outside, youâd finally built the outdoor garden patio youâd always dreamed of. it was a hidden city oasis, where climbing jasmine and wisteria wove through rustic wooden trellises, their sweet scent mixing with the aroma of fresh baking. warm, rounded wooden tables were nestled amongst potted lavender and herbs that you used in your recipes, and in the evenings, the entire space was lit by hundreds of soft, twinkling fairy lights, making it feel like a secret garden straight from a storybook. a small, charmingly weathered stage was tucked into a corner, where local musicians played soft acoustic sets on friday nights.
satoru had insisted on being involved in every aspect of the renovation, showing up in a hard hat that was completely unnecessary but made him look adorable, asking the contractors a million questions and somehow charming them into letting him help with the purely decorative elements. heâd painted the entire garden fence himself, claiming it was âfunctional exerciseâ when masaru complained about his training schedule.
and somewhere in the midst of expansion plans and permit applications and the beautiful chaos of success, heâd also become your unofficial apprentice.
every morning, heâd show up before opening hours, hair still messy from sleep and eyes still soft with dreams, pressing coffee into your hands and tying on the custom apron youâd made himâblack with âsous chef (in training)â embroidered in white thread.
he was surprisingly good at it, once you got past his tendency to treat everything like a chemistry experiment that required his complete focus and undivided attention. his hands, so used to precise movements in the gym, had adapted quickly to the delicate work of pastry. he could pipe perfectly uniform rosettes now, roll pasta thin enough to read through, and his bread kneading technique was flawlessâall that upper body strength put to decidedly more domestic use.
the only problem was how clingy he got during work hours, like a cat whoâd decided you were the only warm spot in the house.
âfocus,â youâd murmur when you caught him staring at you instead of watching his custard, which was definitely about to curdle if he didnât pay attention, your own concentration wavering under the weight of his gaze.
âi am focused,â heâd protest, those storm-glass eyes never leaving your face, his head tilting in that way that made his hair fall across his forehead just so. âjust not on the custard.â
he had a habit of finding excuses to be close to youâreaching over you for ingredients he could easily grab from the other side, his chest brushing against your shoulder as he moved with unnecessary slowness, pressing himself against your back to âcheck your techniqueâ when you were demonstrating something heâd watched you do a hundred times, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured questions he already knew the answers to. stealing kisses between timer intervals that left you both breathless and your kitchen staff rolling their eyes so hard they risked permanent damage.
âyou know,â your assistant manager had said one particularly busy morning, watching satoru follow you around like a lovesick puppy with separation anxiety, âmost people donât let their boyfriends work in their restaurants because itâs unprofessional.â
âgood thing heâs not just my boyfriend,â youâd replied, not looking up from the wedding cake sketch you were working on, your cheeks warm with the kind of happiness that made everything else fade to background noise. âheâs my best student too.â
and he was. beneath all the playful clinginess and shameless flirting, heâd thrown himself into learning your craft with the same intensity he brought to everything else. he studied cookbooks like training manuals, practiced piping techniques until his hands cramped, and had somehow memorized the temperature preferences of every regular customer without being asked.
tonight felt different, though. there was an energy humming beneath his skin as he helped you test a new recipeâa delicate honey lavender cake that had been giving you trouble for weeks. the kind of nervous energy that made him move too precisely, like he was afraid his hands might betray him. heâd been unusually quiet, focused with an intensity that went beyond even his usual dedication to perfection. his hands, normally so confident and sure, had trembled slightly as he held the mixing bowl steady while you folded in the final ingredients, his knuckles white with tension.
youâd caught him checking his phone more than usual, running his fingers through his hair in that telltale sign of nerves that made the white strands stick up at odd angles.
the new kitchen was empty except for the two of you, the dinner rush long over and your staff gone home. upstairs, you could hear the soft sounds of the last few customers settling their bills and heading out into the night. soon it would be just the two of you in your expanded little empire, testing recipes and stealing kisses between batches like you had every night for months.
âperfect,â you murmured, running the offset spatula around the bowlâs edge to catch the last bit of batter, satisfaction curling warm in your chest. âfinally got the lavender balance right. not too floral, not tooââ
âmarry me.â
the words fell between you like flour from a torn bag, sudden and everywhere at once. your spatula froze mid-swipe, batter clinging to its edge, and the kitchen went so quiet you could hear the soft hum of the new industrial refrigerators, the distant tick of the timer counting down on the oven, the rapid flutter of your own heartbeat.
you turned slowly, your heart doing something acrobatic and terrifying in your chest, like it was trying to escape through your ribs.
satoru was standing by the three-basin sink, soap bubbles still clinging to his forearms from washing the mixing bowls, his storm-glass eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that made the air catch in your lungs. his usually perfect posture had crumbled slightly, shoulders curved inward like he was bracing for impact. in his damp handsâhands that could deadlift twice his body weight but now shook like autumn leavesâhe held a ring.
it was simple. classic. a single diamond set in white gold, understated and elegant and so perfectly you that your throat closed with emotion. it caught the warm led lighting of your new kitchen and threw tiny rainbows across the stainless steel counter between you, each facet a promise you werenât sure you were brave enough to believe.
âiââ he started, then stopped, running his free hand through his impossible white hair until it stood up in anxious spikes. his adamâs apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck above the collar of his black henley. âi had a whole speech planned. been practicing in the mirror like an idiot for weeks. masaru kept finding me in the gym storage room rehearsing it to the resistance bands. hell, i even practiced on the contractors during the renovation, and they all said it was solid gold. but standing here, watching you perfect something for the hundredth time just because you refuse to settle for anything less than beautiful, i just⊠i canât wait anymore.â
you set the spatula down with trembling fingers, your mouth slightly parted in shock, your eyes never leaving his face. there was something raw there, something that made your chest feel too small to contain your heart. the way he was looking at youâlike you were the answer to a question heâd been asking his whole life without knowing it.
âi know weâve technically only been together seven months,â he continued, words tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid heâd lose his nerve. his free hand gestured wildly, flour still dusting his knuckles. âbut iâve been reorganizing my whole life around you for almost a year now, and it doesnât feel fast. it feels like⊠like iâve been waiting my whole life to find someone who makes me want to be better. who makes me want to learn the difference between brown sugar and turbinado sugar because it matters to them. who makes me want to wake up at 4 am just to watch them create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.â
tears blurred your vision, but you couldnât look away from him. couldnât breathe. couldnât do anything but stand there in your flour-dusted apron with your heart trying to climb out of your throat.
âyou turned me from a guy whose idea of cooking was protein powder and water into someone who knows seventeen different ways to fold dough,â he said, his voice dropping to that soft, rough register that made your knees feel unsteady. âyou made me trade my supplement-covered bathroom counter for skincare products and fancy soaps that smell like vanilla and cardamom. you let me reorganize your spice cabinet by color and didnât even laugh when i alphabetized the sprinkles. you taught me that thereâs a difference between vanilla extract and vanilla paste, and somehow made me care about it enough to argue with the supplier about quality.â
he was rambling now, the speech heâd practiced forgotten in favor of raw honesty, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
âyou make me want to be the kind of man who deserves a woman who puts that much love into everything she touches,â he whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. âand i know iâm not there yet, but i want to spend the rest of my life trying. if youâll let me. if youâll have me, with all my terrible habits and my tendency to leave protein powder rings on your pristine counters and my complete inability to remember which spoon is for tasting and which is for mixing even though youâve told me a thousand timesââ
âyes,â you breathed, the word escaping like a prayer, like something that had been building inside you for months and finally found its way out. your hands flew to your mouth, tears spilling over your cheeks. then louder, clearer, with a certainty that surprised you both: âyes. yes, of course, yes. you beautiful, ridiculous man, yes.â
relief crashed over his features like sunrise after the longest night, his shoulders sagging as the tension finally left his body. suddenly he was moving, crossing the spacious new kitchen in three quick strides, his long legs eating up the distance between you. he scooped you up, lifting you clean off the ground and spinning you around despite the flour that would definitely transfer to his black henley.
you laughedâbright, joyous, disbelievingâthe sound echoing off the stainless steel surfaces as he set you down gently, his hands framing your face like you were something precious and fragile.
he took your left hand with reverent care, his fingers steady now, and the ring slipped onto your finger like it had been waiting there all along, a perfect fit that made your heart stutter. you stared down at it through tears, this small, shining promise that caught the light and threw it back in brilliant fragments.
âit was my grandmotherâs,â he said softly, his thumb tracing over your knuckles, his voice thick with emotion. âshe would have loved you. probably would have spent hours teaching you her secret recipes and conspiring against my diet with homemade cookies and guilt trips about being too skinny.â
you looked up at him, this beautiful, impossible man whoâd learned to love the quiet corners of your world, and felt something click into place deep in your chest, like the final piece of a puzzle you hadnât known you were solving. âshe raised someone pretty wonderful,â you whispered, your voice watery with happiness.
he cupped your face in his flour-dusted hands and kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like promises and the lingering sweetness of cake batter. when you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the moment.
âso,â he said, that familiar playful edge creeping back into his voice, though it was rougher now, weighted with emotion. âthink we should celebrate with cake?â
you laughed, the sound bubbling up from some deep, happy place inside you, your hands fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt. âthe honey lavender isnât ready yet.â
âthen i guess,â he said, pressing another kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there, âweâll just have to make do with each other.â
and in the warm, sweet-scented sanctuary of your expanded kitchen, with an engagement ring catching the light and his arms around you, you thought youâd never tasted anything sweeter.
the next few weeks passed in a blur of congratulations and wedding planning that somehow felt like the most natural thing in the world, like every decision was just another recipe to perfect together. your expanded bakery had become an even bigger destination after satoru posted a photo of your engagement ring next to a perfectly plated slice of the honey lavender cake, captioned simply: âshe said yes. tastes even sweeter than it looks. #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything #futurewifeâ
the internet had collectively lost its mind with joy, his comments section turning into a virtual celebration that lasted for days.
but the real magic happened in the quiet moments between the public celebrations. like the evening youâd spent sprawled on the living room floor of the apartment above the bakeryâyour apartment, officially both of yours now, his name on the lease and his terrible reality tv preferences integrated into your netflix algorithmâsurrounded by wedding magazines and cake flavor combinations scribbled on index cards.
âokay,â you said, shuffling through your notes with the same methodical precision you brought to everything, your engagement ring catching the lamplight as you moved. âweâve narrowed it down to seven flavors. one for each month weâve been together.â
âour love story in cake form,â he agreed, lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands, looking at you like youâd personally hung every star in the sky. his eyes were soft and dreamy, the way they got when he was completely, utterly content. âvery us.â
âso the bottom layer,â you continued, consulting your carefully organized list, your brow furrowed in that adorable way it did when you were concentrating, âvanilla bean with salted caramel. for that first day you came in and i thought you were just another pretty face with a sweet tooth.â
âjust another pretty face?â he gasped in mock offense, rolling onto his back and pressing his hand to his chest like youâd wounded him mortally. his hair fanned out against the hardwood floor like a halo, and you had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it. âiâll have you know this pretty face was already planning our future together after that first smile.â
âmmm,â you hummed, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly as warmth bloomed in your chest, âthe second layer is dark chocolate with raspberry. rich and a little tart, like how i felt when i realized you were actually going to be a problem for my carefully ordered life.â
âa problem?â he sat up, scooting closer until he could nuzzle into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. âi prefer âbest thing that ever happened to you.ââ
âthatâs layer seven,â you said softly, your voice going tender in a way that made his heart do somersaults. âhoney lavender. sweet and unexpected and perfect.â
he went quiet then, understanding the weight of what you were saying, his arms tightening around you. âand the layers in between?â
âlemon with strawberry buttercream for the first time you made me laugh until my sides hurtâthat morning you tried to help me make croissants and somehow got butter in your hair.â you were smiling now, lost in the memory, your fingers absently playing with the hem of his shirt. âcoffee cake with brown butter frosting for all those early mornings you started showing up before we opened, just to spend time with me. vanilla rose for the day you told me you loved me. andâŠâ you blushed, consulting your notes, âbrown butter cake with cinnamon cream cheese frosting for the first time you stayed the night and i woke up to you making breakfast. the most chaotic breakfast, but the gesture was perfect.â
âhey,â he protested, pulling back to look at you with wounded dignity, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout, âthat french toast was a masterpiece.â
âbaby,â you said, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone, âyou used hamburger buns because i was out of regular bread.â
âinnovation,â he said solemnly, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. âthatâs what separates the great chefs from the merely good ones.â
youâd spent that night planning every detail, from the sugar flowers youâd craft by hand to the way youâd display each layer so guests could see the beautiful cross-section of your love story. heâd been unusually quiet as you worked, and youâd found him later at your kitchen table at two in the morning, surrounded by crumpled papers and wearing the ridiculous âkiss the cookâ apron youâd gotten him as a joke, his shoulders curved in defeat.
âbaby?â youâd whispered, padding over in your pajamas and his oversized gym shirt, your heart clenching at the sight of him looking so lost. âwhat are you doing?â
âtrying to write my vows,â heâd said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, his hands buried in his hair. âbut i canât get it right. how do you put into words the moment someone becomes your whole world? how do you explain that you didnât even know you were incomplete until they showed up and made everything make sense? how do you tell someone that they turned you from a man who thought love was a distraction into someone who canât imagine existing without them?â
youâd climbed into his lap then, right there in the kitchen chair, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed soft kisses to his temple. together, youâd found the words. together, the way you did everything now.
the cake tasting had turned into an event in itself. youâd closed the bakery early on a tuesday afternoon, transforming the main floor into a private testing kitchen with the kind of nervous excitement you usually reserved for new recipe launches. your wedding cake, all seven layers of your love story, sat on the counter in individual slices, each layer labeled with a small card explaining its significance in your careful script.
âokay,â youâd said, suddenly nervous as you watched him approach the display, your hands smoothing down your flour-dusted apron for the hundredth time. âremember, these are just samples. the actual wedding cake will be much prettier, and the proportions will be better, andââ
âcupcake,â heâd interrupted gently, taking your flour-dusted hands in his, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles in that soothing way that never failed to calm your racing thoughts. âbreathe. itâs perfect because you made it.â
the way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like perfection was just a natural byproduct of your touch, made your chest tight with emotion.
heâd insisted on tasting each layer separately, giving you detailed feedback like the worldâs most devoted food critic, his expressions shifting from anticipation to bliss with each bite. the vanilla bean and salted caramel had made him close his eyes and hum appreciatively, a sound that sent heat curling through your stomach. the chocolate raspberry had earned a low whistle of approval that made your cheeks flush.
but you were just as gone for him, watching the way his face lit up with each taste, the way heâd pause and consider flavors with the same intensity he brought to everything else, the way his eyes would find yours after each bite like he needed to share the experience with you. when he reached for your hand during the coffee layer, threading your fingers together like he couldnât bear not to be touching you, your heart did something ridiculous and fluttery in your chest.
âthis one,â heâd said after trying the vanilla rose, his voice slightly rough, âtastes like that morning when you told me you loved me back. all sunshine and possibility.â
âyou remember what i was wearing?â youâd asked, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn in by the softness in his expression.
âthat yellow sundress with the little buttons,â heâd said immediately, his free hand coming up to trace the air where the buttons would have been. âyou had flour in your hair and you kept fidgeting with the ties on your apron.â
the fact that he remembered those details, that heâd cataloged them like they mattered, made your breath catch.
but it was the honey lavender that had undone him completely. his whole body had gone still after the first bite, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment youâd worried something was wrong. then his shoulders had started shaking slightly, and youâd realized with a start that he was crying.
âthatâs it,â heâd said finally, his voice thick with emotion, eyes still closed like he was afraid to break the spell. âthatâs the one.â
âwhich one?â youâd whispered, though part of you already knew.
âthe feeling. the one you were trying to capture when you made it for me that first time.â heâd opened his eyes then, and they were bright with unshed tears that made your own eyes prickle in response. âit tastes like the moment i realized i was completely, hopelessly, forever in love with you.â
âsatoru,â youâd breathed, and then you were kissing him, tasting honey and lavender and promises on his lips, both of you crying a little as you held each other in your expanded bakery surrounded by the evidence of how far youâd come.
âmarry me tomorrow,â heâd mumbled against your lips, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress like he was afraid you might disappear.
âwe already have a date picked,â youâd laughed, but your voice was shaky with emotion.
âmarry me right now then,â heâd said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and bright. âi donât care about the dress or the flowers or any of it. i just want to be yours officially.â
the months leading up to the wedding had been a whirlwind of planning and preparation, but also of quiet domestic moments that felt like the real celebration
. mornings spent teaching him increasingly complex techniques, watching his confidence grow as he mastered croissant lamination and sugar work and the precise art of tempering chocolate, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration in a way that made your heart flutter.
afternoons working side by side, his playlist mixing with yours over the bakeryâs sound system, creating the soundtrack to your shared life. evenings curled up on the couch, him reading nutrition labels to you while you sketched cake designs on his chest, both of you laughing at how perfectly your weird little habits complemented each other.
his social media had documented the whole journey, turning your followers into invested participants in your love story. posts about cake testing sessions and venue scouting, videos of him practicing his piping technique with the focused intensity he usually reserved for deadlifts, photos of you both covered in flour and grinning like idiots after successful experiments.
âwedding cake testing day 3: sheâs perfect, the cakes are perfect, life is perfect #blessed #luckiestman #cakefortifiedgroomâ
âmonth 12 of pastry school and she still hasnât kicked me out. pretty sure that means iâm stuck with her forever #keeper #futurewife #sheputsupwitheverythingâ
the night before the wedding, heâd found you in the bakeryâs kitchen at midnight, putting the finishing touches on the seven-layer masterpiece that would serve as the centerpiece of your reception. youâd been working for hours, crafting delicate sugar flowers by hand, each petal formed with the kind of patience and precision that had first caught his attention all those months ago.
âshouldnât you be at your bachelor party?â youâd asked without looking up, your brow furrowed in concentration as you focused on attaching a particularly delicate rose to the top tier.
ânah,â heâd said, settling onto a stool at the work counter, his chin propped on his hands as he watched you work. âmasaru and the guys went to some sports bar. figured they could celebrate my last night of freedom without me. iâd rather spend it watching you create magic.â
âitâs bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,â youâd protested halfheartedly, but you were smiling as you worked, warmth spreading through your chest at his presence.
âpretty sure thatâs just about the dress,â heâd said, his voice soft with adoration as he watched your steady hands. âbesides, iâve been watching you create beautiful things every day for over a year. why would i want to stop now?â
youâd worked in comfortable silence, him occasionally handing you tools or holding delicate pieces steady while you attached them, his presence calming in the way it always was. when youâd finally stepped back to admire the finished cakeâseven layers of love story rising in perfect, elegant tiersâheâd let out a low whistle of appreciation that made your cheeks warm.
âdamn, cupcake. thatâs not a wedding cake. thatâs art.â
âitâs us,â youâd said simply, wiping your hands on your apron, and somehow that had said everything.
standing at the altar the next day in his perfectly tailored tux, satoru felt like his heart might actually burst from his chest. the ceremony was perfectâintimate and personal, held in the garden behind flour & sugar with your closest friends and family gathered under fairy lights and white flowers, the lingering scent of the bakeryâs ovens mixing with the evening air.
the space had been transformed, but it still felt like home. like you. white flowers and trailing greenery wound around the fence heâd painted himself, and small tables scattered throughout the garden held miniature versions of pastries from your menu, little bites of your love story for guests to enjoy.
his hands were shaking again, the same way they had the night heâd proposed, and he had to flex his fingers to keep them steady. his best man kept shooting him concerned looks, and masaru had actually brought smelling salts, tucked discretely in his jacket pocket, after satoru had nearly fainted during the rehearsal.
but none of his nerves mattered when the music startedâan acoustic version of the song heâd learned to play for you, performed by a local musician youâd hired for the gardenâs friday night performances. none of his anxiety mattered when the small crowd rose to their feet, turning toward the bakeryâs back door with expectant smiles.
and then you appeared, and the whole world stopped.
you emerged from the bakery like something from a fairy tale, like every perfect thing heâd ever dreamed of and several heâd never been brave enough to imagine. your dress was ivory silk and lace, simple and elegant and perfectly you, flowing around you like spun sugar as you walked down the short aisle between chairs draped with white fabric and scattered with rose petalsâroses that matched the sugar flowers crowning your wedding cake.
but it was your smile that completely undid himâradiant and bright and aimed directly at him like he was the only person in the world worth looking at. your eyes were sparkling with tears and joy and so much love that he had to blink rapidly to keep from sobbing right there in front of everyone. the way you looked at him, like he was worth waiting for, like he was worth choosing, every single day.
his knees went weak, and his best man steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
when your father placed your hand in his, satoru had to take a shuddering breath because the moment felt too precious, too perfect to be real. your skin was soft and familiar, and he could feel the slight tremor in your fingers that matched his own nervous energy.
âhi,â you whispered, just for him, your voice slightly breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief and adoration.
âhi, beautiful,â he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your knuckles where his grandmotherâs ring caught the golden hour light. âyou ready to be stuck with me forever?â
âiâve been ready since you demolished that first chocolate tart,â you said, your smile widening as you spoke, and he had to bite back a laugh because of course youâd make him smile even now, when his heart was trying to escape through his throat.
the ceremony passed in a blur of tears and laughter and promises that felt too big for words but somehow perfectly right. when the officiant finally said âyou may kiss the bride,â satoru cupped your face like you were made of spun glass and kissed you like it was the first time and the last time and every time in between, pouring seven months of morning coffees and shared recipes and quiet domestic happiness into the moment.
the reception flowed seamlessly from ceremony to celebration, guests moving from the ceremony space to tables scattered throughout the garden and up onto the second floor of the bakery, which had been opened up and decorated with more fairy lights and flowing white fabric. the seven-layer cake stood in the center of it all, a tower of love story and sugar art that had guests stopping to take photos and marvel at the delicate details.
âladies and gentlemen,â the musician announced as the sun set over your little empire, âthe couple would like to cut their cake and share the story behind this incredible creation.â
you and satoru stood before the masterpiece, his hand warm and steady over yours on the knife handle, his chest pressed against your back as he murmured sweet nonsense in your ear that made you giggle. âready?â you asked, looking up at him with eyes bright with happiness, your cheeks flushed with joy and champagne.
âbeen ready my whole life,â he said, his voice rough with emotion, and meant it.
together, you cut into the bottom layer, the vanilla bean and salted caramel that represented that first day, that first moment when his world had tilted on its axis. the cake was perfectâmoist and flavorful and beautiful in cross-section, each layer visible and distinct, a rainbow of your love story made edible.
he lifted the first piece to your lips with hands that finally werenât shaking, watching as you bit into it with a soft hum of approval, your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. a tiny dot of frosting stuck to the corner of your mouth, and without thinking, he leaned in and kissed it away, slow and sweet, tasting sugar and promises and forever on your lips.
âbest cheat day of my life,â he whispered against your temple, his lips curving into a smile against your skin, making you laughâthat bright, joyous sound that had become the soundtrack to his happiness.
you looked up at him, your husband, this beautiful impossible man whoâd learned to love the quiet corners of your world and filled them with light and laughter and more joy than youâd ever thought possible, and felt your heart swell with so much love you thought it might actually burst.
âweâre just getting started,â you said, and kissed him again, sweet enough to rot his teeth, perfect enough to last forever.
as the night wound down and the last guests filtered out into the summer evening, you found yourselves back in the kitchen where it had all started, still in your wedding clothes but with bare feet and sleeves rolled up, sharing leftover cake and feeding each other bites while recounting the best moments of the day.
âi think,â satoru said, sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets, you curled up between his legs with your head on his shoulder, his bow tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, âthis might actually be better than my first chocolate tart.â
you gasped in mock offense, turning to look at him with wide eyes, your hand pressed dramatically to your chest. âbetter than the pastry that started it all? thatâs basically blasphemy.â
ânah,â he said, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your ring finger, right over the simple gold band that now sat beside his grandmotherâs engagement ring. âthe chocolate tart was just the beginning. this is the happily ever after.â
you looked at him, this man whoâd stumbled into your carefully ordered world and turned it into something sweeter, richer, more alive than youâd ever imagined possible, and knew with absolute certainty that this was what love looked like. not the dramatic, movie-perfect romance youâd once imagined, but this: wedding cake and bare feet and quiet promises made in kitchen light, surrounded by the beautiful life youâd built together from flour and sugar and impossible patience.
tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me @ilovebeansyay @ethereal-moonlit @anathemaspeaks @fancypeacepersona @scryarchives @chieeeeeee @snowsilver2000 @k-kkiana
in which suna rintaro shows up to his sister's new apartment, but youâre the only one home to deal with it
featuring: suna rintaro x gn!reader
suna rintaro is your best friend's brother, meaning you've known him for as long as you can remember.
long enough that, if you really tried, you're sure you could count the exact number of 'be more careful's he's ever muttered bandaging your scraped knees in the sunas' backyard.
which also means he might still have that awful video from your first year of high school --- the one of you sobbing through the saddest movie you'd ever seen and clinging onto his sister like life depended on it.
and naturally, it means that in all your years of knowing him, he's always been just out of reach, always just two years superior.
suna rintaro, who stands in front of you now, plucking candy from the bowl you and his sister left out in your new shared kitchen.
"hey, y/n," he drawls from the counter as you step inside your home, exhausted from a long day of classes and very much not expecting company.
startled, your first instinct is to whip out your phone:
---
rikaa<3: oh my brother said heâs gonna drop off some stuff from home, i js gave him the apt code
rikaa<3: u prob wonât run into him tho
rikaa<3: nvm ur already there LOL lmk ;p
---
you dislike all three of her messages as you slip off your shoes and shuffle over to the surprise intruder. "rintaro..! it's been awhile, how are you?"
"i'm doing well." he glances up at you briefly before gesturing towards your new apartment. "i see thing 1 and thing 2 are still getting into trouble together."
you roll your eyes, but relent a small smile at the familiar nickname. "if by getting in trouble, you mean your sister and i are living together, then yes. yes, we are."
"figures." the brunette chuckles, making it a point to unlock his phone, but not resume whatever scrolling you assume he's been up to. neither does he attempt to move at all from against your kitchen counter.
instead, he stares.
meeting his gaze, you find yourself scanning the boy, briefly. in the last few years, it had become increasingly clear that rintaro was not your favorite suna --- you were practically inseparable from his sister, still receiving birthday gifts from his mom, and prone to cracking years-old inside jokes with his dad.
but rintaro?
you'd always figured it was unrealistic to keep in touch with any friend's brother, and you had to admit that by your teens, it was simply easier to ignore his presence than confront the way you felt whenever he set foot into rika's room, all long limbs and mischievous eyes. still, it's clear that in the months you hadnât seen him --- too busy adjusting to adulting, school, and a move into your first real apartment, albeit with his sister --- that he's been taking care of himself. for a lack of better words, he looks grown.
guess thatâs what pro sports do to you, you think.
unfortunately, that doesn't change the fact that he absolutely does not own the kitchen counter he's so leisurely propped against right now.
as if reading your thoughts, the brunette smirks. "want one?" he picks up a wrapped candy from the bowl and tosses it to you.
"...these are mine."
raising his palms in surrender, rintaro watches as you return the treat back to the bowl, eyes narrowing in light amusement. "so...how's life been, college student?â
you purse your lips, trying to remember how long it's been since you've seen his face this clearly. "itâs fine, not like it's my first year...i guess i've been a bit busy lately...â then to dissipate the awkwardness of your ramble: âum, how are your parents?â
"theyâre well," he hums, âyouâve probably seen them more than i have these days, with the move and all.â he waves a dismissive hand, as if to physically change the subject. "enough of that. how was korea?"
you pause.
now, you'd be lying if you said you were unlike all other students your age and never checked story views on instagram, but either way, your recent visit to korea --- courtesy of the latest three day weekend --- was, without a doubt, a trip worth posting about. more importantly, and you could never tell rika, but you had most definitely been tracking her older brother in your views.
but with good reason!
at first, you thought nothing of the older suna heart-ing your stories --- just intermittently, and reserved for photos of you hanging out with his sister, or even his mom for the occasional girlsâ night.
but you couldn't deny how your heart skipped a beat the first time rintaro pressed like on one of your cuter selfies. then again for a spontaneous âootd!â and most recently for a particularly nice solo, in korea.
still, you never expected him to actually remember the things you uploaded on social media, let alone bring them up.
you blink, caught somewhere between confusion and embarrassment and something slightly warmer.
"oh yeah, you saw that?"
rintaro shrugs, unbothered, like it's the most normal thing in the world. "hard to miss. you post a lot."
"doesn't mean you have to watch everything." or like it. you suddenly remember a rather specific picture you'd posted: a shot of you against the dark skyline, eyes half lidded and clothes blurring as you spun around in a sort of confidence one could only identify as liquor. you remember how your equally tipsy friend had insisted you put it out for the world to see.
"i don't have to," the brunette replies, finally slipping his phone into his pocket and opting to direct his entire body towards you instead. "guess i'm just a fan."
in a sudden wave of horror, you realize how provocative the story had been.
rintaro had liked it just an hour after you hit post.
"korea was nice," you mumble, heat rising on your face. "fun." yet again, suna rintaro succeeds in making you feel small.
"seemed like it," his gaze lingers on you, a little more focused than before. "you looked happy, y/n."
something in your chest tightens at that. you always knew he was attentive, but when was the last time this attention was directed towards you?
silence falls again, and this time it stretches.
you hate that your heart is beating faster than it should. this is just rintaro. rika's annoying older brother. the same guy who used to snicker when you lost a video game, who dragged his feet walking you and his sister to the convenience store, who'd barge into the latter's room during sleepovers just to steal your snacks.
rintaro --- who always made sure to offer a rematch, who, no matter how begrudgingly, never forgot to pull out his own wallet for your late night indulgences. who had once told you you had 'good taste' in between bites of your favorite candy.
the one who left oddly casual likes on your instagram stories to this day, reminding you that he was there. that he always has been there.
and it's like he reads your mind again. "you still cry at movies?" he asks, face now directed towards the communal tv in your living room.
you scoff. "excuse me? that was like one time."
"mmm," his lips twitch. "pretty sure i recorded you one time. i've seen you do it, like, five."
you step closer without thinking, narrowing your eyes. "you keeping count?"
he doesn't step back, flashing a smile. "someone has to."
it hits you then. how much taller he feels when youâre just a few inches away, how his presence fills the space in your home. broader shoulders. slower movements. the same calm, observant gaze, but heavier somehow. a little less boyish, and significantly more sincere. you're hit with the vague scent of cologne, and you can't help but wonder when he traded in mrs. suna's choice of detergent --- a soft, familiar scent that still clung onto rika's clothes --- for something this intoxicating.
rintaro's not a kid anymore.
but neither are you.
"you've changed," you murmer.
he tilts his head. "yeah?"
you nod, increasingly aware of the tremble in your voice, your hands, and the way he's looking at you like he's trying to figure you out too. "a little."
he hums. "you too."
you laugh, trying to shake off the tension. "hopefully for the better."
"probably," his voice dips, quieter now.
your breath hitches.
"so i'm guessing you do still cry at movies?" he asks, but it comes out softer than you expect.
you groan, not missing the way his mouth twitches at the sound. "and i'm guessing if you're mentioning this again...you still have that video, don't you?"
"maaaybe." he drags a slow finger across his cheek in mock tears.
"rintaro---"
"relax." a faint smile. "i'm not showing anyone."
"you better not."
"i wouldn't." he pauses, then adds, "i always thought it was kinda cute." he looks at you, and there's something you can't decipher in his eyes, like he's testing the waters, ready to retreat at any moment.
"...that's one way to say i was a crybaby."
"and still are?"
you open to your mouth to argue, but stop.
"depends," you admit.
"on?"
"the situation."
rintaro studies you for a moment, like he's weighing something. then quietly, "what about now?"
your heart skips a beat. "what about now?"
at last, he pushes himself from against the counter, arms folding loosely as he lowers his face to level with yours. "you look like you might."
you let out a small breath, half-laugh, half-something else. "i'm not going to cry in my own kitchen, rintaro."
"good," his gaze softens lightly. "would've been embarrassing."
"oh, shut up. i'm not a kid anymore."
"i know."
a beat passes before he turns to reach into the candy bowl, then hesitates back towards you.
"...can i have one?"
you blink. "you've already had, like, ten."
"yeah, but those were stolen."
"and this is different how?"
he holds your gaze, that same undecipherable weirdness settling into his expression once again. "this time, i'm asking you."
it shouldn't feel like more than it is. but it does.
you swallow, then reach into the bowl yourself, picking out a piece and holding it out to him.
"here."
his fingers brush against yours --- neither pulls away. you watch as rintaro glances down at your hand, then back up at you, his face still dangerously close. "thanks," he breathes.
he takes the candy just to put it in his pocket.
caught in the moment, you inhale a shaky breath, delirious on what you'll say next.
"so are you gonna kiss me?"
and for the first time in your life, you watch rintaro's resolve crumble.
his lips are softer than you expected. more hesitant. more careful. just slightly more restrained than the one time youâd allowed yourself to imagine kissing him at 16 --- right after heâd hugged you âgoodbyeâ at graduation and mere hours before you vowed to eradicate this silly little crush in his absence, once and for all.
up until just half an hour ago, you wouldâve sworn you succeeded.
in the present, rintaroâs hands cup your cheeks, warm, and calloused just enough to make your breath catch.
your own arms slide around his neck, tugging him closer, and he exhales sharply in response. up close, you catch the faint flush on his cheeks, and you pull him in just a little more --- enough to feel him unravel all over again.
when his mouth finally lets go of yours, you find yourself staring up at a pair of blown pupils, completely breathless.
"y/n, i--"
beep! beep! beep! beep!
his eyes widen.
beeeep!
"i'm homee!" your best friend calls from the door, saving you just enough time to scramble off of her brother and pat down your clothes. head spinning, you listen to the sound of rika's footsteps --- "oh." --- and then the silence which follows in their stop. "what are you still doing here?"
"just about to leave," rintaro sighs from next to you. "uh, the groceries and mom's food are all in the fridge."
you watch as he rolls his shoulders back, once, then twice, before slipping his hands into his pockets, and finally, start towards the exit.
holding open the door, rintaro makes one last scan of your house. "nice place," he says, and you make a mental note of the slight pant in his voice as he eyes you one final time across the counter. "think i'll drop by more often."
"just don't steal our candy!" you call back.
the smile he returns is utterly fond.
click!
"what a weirdo," rika mutters, too busy scoping the new contents of your fridge to notice your goodbye. she pokes her head out just a moment later, tossing you a fresh yakult in a gesture that feels oddly familiar. "he didn't cause you any trouble, did he?"
you shake your head, heart beating still a little too fast.
"no, he didn't."
you wonder when exactly suna rintaro stopped being just your best friend's brother.
in which you attempt to keep your cool in front of your classmate - crush - project partner. you think you succeed. osamu? not so much.
college!au
featuring: miya osamu x gn!reader - a peek into the deep, dark, mysterious storm that is the miyas + suna, flufffff, kuroo + kenma + akaashi cameo (sorry bokuto..)
a/n: trying to motivate myself by writing something short and lighthearted! this was pretty fun to work on:)
you really weren't supposed to end up here.
when you first signed up for 8 a.m. econ, the plan was simple: sit in the back of lecture with your daily iced americano, cruise through the course via tetsuro's notes, and, preferably, do not develop a massive crush on the devastatingly beautiful guy who sits next to you on day one.
unfortunately for you, tetsuro is a terrible best friend who drops the class only two weeks later, and by then, youâre sure youâre already smitten.
"alright, i expect everyone here is more than capable of finding their own partner for this project. it's as simple as asking the person beside you right now --- let's get on with it!" your professor announces just a few weeks after that.
and by what you consider fate, but is actually just your very strategic daily seat selection, you end up paired with none other than miya osamu.
which is why you're currently cross-legged on his apartment floor, surrounded by papers, half-highlighted paragraphs, and a nearly tragic number of empty snack wrappers.
"okay," you say, tapping your pen against a page. "if we shift the demand curve here, then---â
osamu leans closer, squinting. "nah, that'd mess up the elasticity. try flipping it the other way."
you stare at the graph. then at him. then back at the graph.
"...oh."
"yeah."
"..oh, that makes way more sense."
he shrugs, but a small, pleased smile tugs at his mouth. "told ya."
your heart does something deeply unhelpful, and you attempt to calm yourself by glancing at your phone, only to be met with 53 new notifications bleeding the screen.
---
^ 44 unread messages ^
tetsurhoe: y/n. when you see this, it is your DUTY to update us
kenma (neutral evil): oh hell no why am i nervous
kenma (neutral evil): y/n don't fumble
keiji (lawful evil): i have an idea
keiji (lawful evil): y/n how about we focus on the assignment
tetsurhoe: dude this is actually a godsent chance, they've sat together every single day this entire term
tetsurhoe: AND THEY TALK
keiji (lawful evil): wow
keiji (lawful evil): so they're classmates
tetsurhoe: ok shut up Y/N'S TYPING
y/n: why do you guys hate me
---
so much for help.
before you can spiral any further, the front door bursts open.
a tall blond with the exact same face as osamu (but louder, somehow) appears in front of you. atsumu, the twin brother, you recognize immediately. osamu had mentioned him the first time you'd worked up the nerve to turn to him during a class discussion --- "so yeah, you can just call me osamu. no formalities necessary." --- but even if he hadn't, you're sure tetsuro, full-time gossip and instigation practitioner, would've filled you in anyway, considering heâd already made it his personal mission to acquaint you with every scrap of publicly available information on the poor guy.
you straighten, batting your lashes to disguise any trace of questionable prior knowledge, and prepare to make an excellent first impression on your very hypothetical, definitely-not-confirmed future brother-in-law.
"hi, y/n~â
wait.
behind him, a brunette with tired eyes and the general energy of someone who hasn't slept in some time throws you a lazy wave. suna rintaro, his other, "sorta weird" friend. "hey, y/n."
what?
"ah," osamu cuts in quickly, scratching the back of his neck. "y/n, these are my roommates. as you can see, that's my twin, atsumu. and there's rin, er...suna rintaro. i might've told them you were comin' over."
"might've?" the blond snorts. "he's been--"
"shut it," osamu cuts immediately.
you narrow your eyes, but before you can interrogate any further, atsumu takes it upon himself to saunter over.
"itâs nice to finally meet ya,â he grins, a little too smug, as he scans the general area around the two of you and promptly pulls out his phone. âyou poor kids look like youâve been working too hard --- allow me to get you some fuel!â
from the side of your eye, you see osamu glower at the blond before shifting back towards you.
"this okay?" he mouths, eyebrows furrowed apologetically.
you just nod.
meanwhile, atsumu is already tapping away. "okay, caffeine for two! sunarin and i already had a little something so," he winks at you before turning back to his screen. "for samu, a hot latte..." he types, "...and for y/n, an iced americano, right?"
you freeze.
"...how'd you know that?"
and silence.
one by one, three heads turn to osamu.
he's smiling.
not a normal smile.
"one moment please," the twin says calmly, already standing up and grabbing his brother by the collar.
"hey--WAIT---"
the two disappear into the nearest room. a rather unpleasant ensemble of noises follow.
"I THOUGHT YOU---"
"ITâS OBVIOUS---"
âYOU'RE BEIN---"
a loud thud.
you stare at the closed door, clutching your pen. "...should i call someone?"
"nah," the only other remaining person says, crouching down next to you silently. "they do this like, everyday."
you glance at him. "suna, right?"
"yeah," he yawns. "sorry about them."
another crash reverberates from inside.
"is he okay?"
"which one?"
"...good point."
suna rests his chin on his hand, eyeing you with mild curiosity. "so," he says, "what've you and my lovely roommate been up to?"
"oh, uh---just this project," you say quickly. "we're still working on pretty basic microecon stuff. you know, like supply and demand shifts and whatnot."
"mhm..." he nods slowly. "he cleaned the whole apartment before you came."
you pause.
"what?"
"and restocked on snacks." suna gestures vaguely to the wrappers around you. "which is wild, because he's usually the first to hog them all."
you squint in contemplation. "sounds like a coincidence."
"he also changed his shirt three times."
your heart starts to hammer again. you wonder if suna can hear.
"okay...maybe less of a coincidence."
"and he told atsumu not to be weird."
you glance at the door as a muffled "I'M ALWAYS NORMAL, YOU'RE TH---" echoes through.
"well, that clearly worked."
suna just hums in response. "point is," he says, standing up with a sigh, "you don't usually do all this for just a group partner."
your face is burning now. "i mean, i don't--we're only---"
"y/n," suna looks at you, expression impressively blank as he places a very solemn hand on your shoulder. "your friend kuroo tetsuro isn't the only one who does his research."
the door swings open.
osamu steps out, perfectly composed, as if he didn't just commit what you're pretty sure is a minor act of violence.
atsumu stumbles out behind him, hair slightly messier, pointing accusingly. "yer an actual menace---"
"kitchen," osamu says flatly.
atsumu grumbles but leaves, dragging his dignity with him. suna pats your shoulder, then follows.
osamu turns back to you, expression softening. ây/n, listen. i am so sorry 'bout that. i really am."
you try to act normal. you really do.
"yeah, no, it's fine," you say, absolutely not fine. "wow, your roommates are very...intriguing?"
he huffs a small laugh, striding the room and sitting back down next to you. "that's one way to put it."
the two of you turn to the pile of papers lying unceremoniously on his floor.
"so," you start, almost too casually, "you, uh...change outfits for all your group partners?"
he stills.
"...nah," osamu says. "just one."
"oh," you say, brilliantly.
your heart continues a determined attempt to launch itself out of your chest.
from the kitchen, atsumu yells, "AND THE FREAK EVEN KNOWS WHAT YOU DRINK EVERYDA---"
a loud smack cuts him off.
osamu groans. "please. please just ignore him."
"okay, done. ignoring."
silence again.
"as much as i hate to admit it, my brother's right," osamu finally sighs, then laughs defeatedly. he scratches his cheek, almost sheepish, but his gaze stays steadily on you. "so since we're already here...give your poor classmate a chance and grab coffee with me sometime?" he asks, his smile coming easy --- soft, a little crooked.
and doing absolutely nothing to help your reddening face.
osamu exhales lightly, like he's debating how much to admit, then just goes for it. "and uh...yeah, i know this probably makes me sound like a creep," he adds with a small chuckle. "but it's hard not to notice things, you know? you show up to econ with the same americano every day, youâre...really smart, and," he pauses, a faint blush touching his ears. "you're kinda hard to ignore."
his hand drifts through his hair, a nervous habit heâs picked up over the years. "so yeah...i might've mentioned you to my brother. and rin,â he admits, glancing away for half a second before meeting your eyes again. âand when you asked me to be your partner for this thing," osamu smiles, the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "i dunno, it just felt like really good timing --- god, y/n, i swore to them it was fate.â
surely your heartâs slipped clean out of you by now, probably somewhere on miya osamu's living room floor along with the rest of your papers, stationary, mind, body, and soul.
"yeah," you finally manage, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "i like you too, osamu."
and from the kitchen, a faint, victorious whisper:
"called it."
another smack.
peace returns.
mostly.
BONUS!
---
^72 unread messages^
tetsurhoe: y/nnn
tetsurhoe: y/nnnnnn
tetsurhoe: i have your location. i can see you moving
y/n: guys
tetsurhoe: YES
y/n: ok so he just walked me back to my car and
tetsurhoe: AAND
kenma (neutral evil): isn't that the bare minimum
y/n: that man is going to be the father of my children
one thing I enjoy about Furudate is he lets us know who his pretty boys are (Oikawa and Atsumu) and proceeds to have them make the dumbest and ugliest expressions known to man
"behind this beautiful face is an absolute gremlin"
the first time you accidentally say i love you to atsumu, itâs a complete accident.
heâd taken you out on countless dates, bought you flowers just because, texted you whenever heâd have a free moment, atsumu miya was truly becoming part of your routine, and you were thrilled with it.
the words tease your tongue every now and again, wandering and eager to slip, tingling with yearn to tell the setter how you really feel, how in love with him you truly are.
but could you really be the one to tell him? open up this door of potential rejection and isolation, heartbreak that resets the cycle again with no mercy.
could you really deal with the small talk again? the struggle to make plans, the abhorrent drone of neglect and disregard for your feelings time and time again? would it be worth it to tell atsumu miya that you love him, only for him to tell you he doesn't reciprocate?
the thought exhausts you, turns your brain into a mush of anguish until you see atsumu once again for another date. a wander around town, under the beautiful lights of the city that shine like stars in atsumu's honeyed eyes.
it makes you feel so safe. so secure.
so loved.
as he walks you to your home, hand resting gently on the small of your back as he follows you, he listens to you yap about everything on your mind, whatever plagues your mind and sticks with you as something trivial turned important to share with him.
you try to ignore the heartbreak as you two finally stop in front of your door.
"this is me," you chuckle.
"it is," he returns. his smile dazzles under the light outside your door. he looks ethereal, like he was designed with perfection in mind, and he's yours.
he's all yours.
"have a great night, yeah?" he adds, hands pooling in his pockets.
"i will," you giggle
âbye,â he smiles.
"have a good night, love you,â you say, kissing the corner of his mouth, opening your door and walking in before closing it behind you.
then. you freeze.
your hand comes up to cover your mouth, eyes blown wide and embarrassment coursing through you. tears sting the back of your eyes, you hadnât meant to say that, it slipped out without you even knowing about it, like you had said it a million times before like it was part of your routine.
but⊠had you meant to say it? it felt natural, it felt right, even if the timing wasnât exactly perfect. you love atsumu. youâve fallen head over heels, youâve been so enamored with him ever since the day you met him.
thereâs a knock on your door that interrupts your thoughts. you screw your eyes shut, not wanting to face the other side.
but you do. you have to.
you slowly open the door to reveal atsumu miya, his cheeks bright red and eyes curved in complete confusion, but thereâs delight in his gaze. âyou love me?â he whispers.
you go silent. you swallow thickly.
you nod.
âyes.â
atsumu doesnât waste a second before grabbing you by the cheeks and pulling you in for a kiss, deep and desperate and excited, heâs so excited. your hands grab his biceps as you return the kiss, letting him take everything that he needs from you, every assurance and every promise that you love him, you love him so much, you worship the ground he walks on and the mere existence of him puts you at ease.
"i love you, too."
the words are babbled against your lips in a desperate act of gratuity, and as you melt into him, you wonder what exactly stopped you from telling him this weeks ago.
âą synopsis: when college athlete and emotionally repressed frat boy miya atsumu moves into your apartment senior year, your only goal is to make him as comfortable as possible. what ensues is an unlikely friendship â and feelings neither of you expected.
âą what to expect: athlete x literature girly, atsumu's healing arc, hurt/comfort, lots of fluff, friends-to-lovers, roommates-to-lovers, slow burn, language, suggestive/mature themes, any 18+ nsfw content will be tagged!
âą how to read: you can read each installment as a one-shot, but there's an ongoing story that unfolds if you read it chronologically!
âą listen while you read: stuck, dime, it isn't perfect but it might be
âą status: complete! đ
1. first impressions
âą all you wanted was a roommate who enjoyed watching the bachelor just as much as you did. so when a disgruntled frat boy becomes your subtenant for the year, you decide to work with what you've got.
2. writer's block
âą your menstrual period just so happens to arrive the week of your first big writing deadline. meanwhile, atsumu discovers new sides to you.
3. you deserved better
âą you always considered atsumu to be a fairly guarded person â that is, until you hear him crying in the bathroom after a particularly abysmal day.
4. limited edition
âą when atsumu spills coffee all over your new book, he goes to the ends of the earth to make sure you never notice.
5. gnarly
âą atsumu catches you dancing in your bedroom to a certain viral song.
6. first date
âą you go on a date with a guy in your major. meanwhile, atsumu finds himself increasingly upset about it.
7. bar crawl
âą atsumu misses the annual fraternity bar crawl, so you spontaneously decide to plan one for him.
8. she makes ya better
âą atsumu apologizes to his brother for a years-old argument â only to get ambushed about his feelings for you.
9. give 'em hell
âą you get to know osamu and suna more at atsumu's first game of the season. meanwhile, atsumu subjects you to a very public display of affection.
10. i missed you
âą atsumu's out of town for an away game. you're stuck at home, finishing your degree. somewhere in the silence, your feelings for him finally rise to the surface.
11. heels showcase
âą you invite atsumu and the boys to your spring dance showcase to raise money for a good cause â and maybe make atsumu forget how to breathe. meanwhile, atsumu works up the courage to ask you out.
12. night market
âą atsumu takes you on a date to the university night market. everything is perfect â until you run into the last two people he ever wanted you to meet.
13. private study room (nsfw)
âą atsumu drops off dinner for you at the campus library, where he helps demonstrate a steamy scene for your creative writing thesis. for research purposes, of course.
14. job rejection
âą when you get rejected from your dream job, you do everything in your power not to tell atsumu right away. too bad he can read you like an open book.
15. bleach
âą the miya twins help you dye your hair â and nearly kill each other in the process.
16. home to you
âą atsumu recalls the night he got his heart broken â and the summer he moved into your apartment. he never meant to fall in love with you, but then again, you made it far too easy.
17. first fights
âą when you and atsumu get into your first fight, you find yourself at the restaurant of the one who knows him best.
18. make ups (nsfw)
âą after you and atsumu get into your first fight, he ends up confessing his love for you. (and maybe even a little more than that.)
19. plus ones
âą from thesis readings to athletics banquets, you and atsumu make quite the impression at each otherâs senior year events.
20. day one
âą graduation day comes with a lot of firsts for atsumu â including introducing a girl to his mom. luckily for him, youâre easy to love.
synopsis: shoto has always been there for you. but, one night, feelings you hadn't fully acknowledged begin to surface.
pairing: timeskip!todoroki shoto x f!reader
youâve always known shoto todoroki as the steady one. the dependable one. the kind of person who, no matter what, always showed up when it mattered.
growing up together, you saw sides of him that few others didâthe quiet, calm persona that masked a deep well of emotion.
it was in those small moments that you realized how much he had always been there for you.
when you were eight, you had fallen off your bike in the park. it wasnât a serious injury, just a scraped knee, but at the time, it felt like the end of the world.
shoto had been the first to run to your side, offering his jacket as a makeshift bandage and telling you not to cry.
his face had been so serious as he wiped away your tears, like your pain mattered more than anything else in the world. it was a small gesture, but you still remembered it as if it had happened yesterday.
then there was the time in middle school when you had lost your first competitionâsomething that really stung. youâd worked hard for it, but at the last moment, youâd fumbled.
youâd locked yourself in your room, trying to forget about it, but shoto had appeared at your window, holding out a chocolate bar with the same quiet, determined look he always wore.
"itâs okay," he had said, slipping it through the crack in the window.
and now, here you are, older, both of you changed in ways that neither of you can fully comprehend, but still that same unspoken understanding lingers.
even as you grow into adulthood, shotoâs steadiness never wavers. he is there during the hard moments, offering a wordless presence that keeps you grounded.
but itâs not just thatâthere is something else, something more complex, hiding beneath the surface.
the night is quiet as you step into the bar, your friends scattered across the room.
youâre not really in the mood for a wild night, but something about the low hum of the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of glassesâit makes you feel like you can take a breath.
just for a moment, you can forget about the heavy weight of the feelings that have been building up inside of you.
and then there is shoto.
as reliable as ever, he sits at the bar, back to you, but you know itâs him before you even see his face. you canât help but smile a little to yourself as you walk up beside him.
âdidnât expect to find you here,â you say casually, taking a seat next to him.
shoto turns toward you. âcouldnât let you drink alone, could I?â he says, giving you a small smile.
the night passes in a haze of comfortable conversation, laughter, and fleeting glances that you arenât sure how to interpret.
there is a subtle shift between you two, a tension that simmers beneath the surface but never fully breaks.
as the hours slip by, you begin to feel the weight of the evening catch up with you.
the last drink makes your head spin a little more than you expect, and now that the chatter has quieted and the bar starts to empty, you find yourself feeling surprisingly tired.
the last thing you want is to face the lingering uncertainty in the air, especially with shoto still by your side.
when you step out into the cool night air, you realize just how much your legs ache from standing and walking all night.
the buzzing energy you felt earlier fades, leaving a sense of heaviness in its wake. you donât want to admit it to yourself, but the reality is simple: youâre exhausted.
shoto seems to sense the shift in your energy immediately.
he doesnât even ask if youâre okay; he just steps forward, closing the distance between you. his strong hand rests gently on your back, guiding you toward the car.
âwant me to drive you home?â he asks, his voice low, smooth.
you nod absently, leaning against him as you make your way toward the car. the night feels colder now, the warmth of the bar already fading behind you.
shoto, as always, is your steady anchor, but tonight, his presence is more than comfortingâitâs almost overwhelming.
you are hyper-aware of how close he is, how his scent lingers in the air, how his steps are slightly more deliberate, as if heâs paying more attention to you than usual.
the ride back is quiet, the hum of the car engine filling the space between you both.
the headlights cut through the dark streets, but even as you stare out of the window, your mind keeps wandering back to him.
to the way his hands occasionally brush against yours and the way his gaze seems to linger a little longer than necessary.
by the time you reach your apartment, the exhaustion that has been creeping up on you is undeniable.
you arenât sure if itâs the late hour or something else, but your body aches for rest, and your mind feels foggy.
shoto doesnât hesitate. without a word, he moves behind you, his hands slipping under your arms to support you as you sway, a wave of fatigue hitting you all at once.
âhey, are you okay?â he asks, his voice quiet but concerned.
you manage a weak smile, your eyes heavy as you nod.
âjust tired,â you whisper, already leaning into his side. you donât even have the energy to protest as he gently scoops you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly.
âletâs get you inside,â he murmurs, as he carries you through the door.
his grip on you is steady, strong, and it sends a strange warmth flooding through you despite the chilly night air.
his body is solid, his muscles taut and firm beneath his clothingâkudos to his hero work.
youâve noticed before how his physique has grown more defined as you both have grown older, but tonight, it seems impossible to ignore.
you barely register the movement as he steps inside. his arms tighten around you, his hold never faltering as he carefully carries you through the apartment.
your head rests against his chest, and you can hear the rhythm of his heartbeat. each step he takes seems calculated, deliberate, as though heâs fully aware of how vulnerable this moment makes you feel.
shotoâs hands linger on your shoulders after he sets you down on the bed, his touch gentle but firm.
his usual calm demeanor is there, but there is something different, and you feel it in every second that passes. his gaze doesnât leave yours, not once.
you stare up at him, the question lingering on your lips. it has been building inside of you all nightâthe way heâs looked at you, the way heâs been more...present than usual.
the touches, the lingering stares, the moments where it feels like your proximity is just a little too charged, a little too intimate. you canât ignore it anymore.
âwhat are we?â the words slip out before you can stop them, a breathy whisper that feels too light for the weight they carry.
shoto freezes.
the moment stretches between you both, a raw, almost painful silence. he stands still for what feels like an eternity, his hand slowly dropping from your shoulder.
his eyes lock onto yours.
you expect him to pull away, to play it off, to brush it aside like he usually does when things get too real. but instead, his gaze softens, his lips parting slightly as if heâs about to say something monumental.
he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you, his body nearly radiating heat. âwhat do you want us to be?â he asks quietly.
the question hits you like a wave, and for a moment, you canât think.
what do you want?
youâve spent so much time pretending things are fine, that you donât feel anything more for him than just the easy comfort of friendship.
but now, with his face so close, his breath brushing over your skin, and his eyesâit feels impossible to keep pretending.
shoto isnât moving away; heâs waiting, holding his breath, as if letting you decide, but his eyes say it all.
the vulnerability is there now, in the way he looks at you, the slight tremor in his voice when he speaks next.
âbecause I want to be the one you look at like Iâm not just your friend,â he murmurs, each word heavy.
he takes another step closer, his hand gently resting on your knee, a comforting yet possessive touch. âI want to be the one whoâs there when you need someone to talk to,
the one who makes you laugh even when you donât want to. I want to be the one you kiss without hesitation.â
the words send a shiver through you. you can hear the sincerity in his voice, see it in the way his gaze softens, his shoulders tense with the effort of holding himself back.
shotoâs hand moves, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face, and your breath hitches at the contact.
he stays like that for a long moment, watching you carefully, his expression shifting from quiet hope to something more resigned, more understanding.
the silence stretches, and you canât find your words. the rush of emotions swirls in your mind, but your voice refuses to cooperate.
you are overwhelmedâoverwhelmed by his closeness, by his words, by the realization that you feel the same way, and have for a long time, but canât bring yourself to admit it.
his thumb strokes the back of your hand, and it feels like an anchor in the storm of your thoughts.
âtell me in the morning,â he whispers, his voice barely audible but full of finality. âyouâre not in the right state to answer me now. I canât ask you to decide when youâre like this.â
his words are gentle, but there is an unmistakable firmness to them. as if, in the quiet of the night, heâs setting a boundaryânot for himself, but for you.
he wants you to be sure, wants you to speak when youâre truly ready. and yet, his voice holds that edge of longing, that unspoken desire that makes it impossible to ignore.
âIâm not going anywhere,â he adds, his voice softening. âIâm right here, and Iâll be here when youâre ready to talk. just...take your time.â
he steps back slowly, giving you space, but not enough to pull away completely. there is nothing hurried about him, nothing impatient.
heâs willing to wait.
you try to speak, try to give him some answerâanythingâbut the words catch in your throat, too tangled in the haze of the alcohol and the intensity of the moment.
he smiles softly, like he knows exactly whatâs going on inside your head, and then, with a final look, he turns to leave.
âgoodnight, y/n,â he says, his voice low, but warm. âIâll be here tomorrow.â
and with that, he disappears into the hallway, leaving you alone in the silence, with nothing but the weight of his confession and the burning in your chest to keep you company.
Miya Osamu came into your life like a flurry of snow, amidst the real frost. Beautiful and steady. Impossible to miss.
content/warnings â fem!reader, timeskip (some high school flashbacks), onigiri miya, friends to lovers, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, reader experiences loneliness + inner conflict (unspecified), love confessions
notes â osamuu TT the feels when a character study makes you more attached to the character⊠i had so much fun writing this! c: written as a gift for @misttiique for @sodaneko's lovely secret santa fic exchange! i hope you enjoy and happy holidays!! <3
Snow was always your favorite part of winter, and witnessing it in Tokyo is a rather peculiar sight. Beautiful, but peculiar.
It doesnât happen often, with only a sparse layer sprinkling the asphalt; powdered sugar that is to be melted away by the next morningâs winter sun. Fleetingâa rare glimpse that reminds you of the snowfalls back in Hyogo, back home.
Such rareness that it catches you off guard, looking around the city with twinkling curiosity. The first snowfall of the season. You hold a hand out, a flutter of ice landing in the center of your palm. It soaks into your skin like sugar finally meeting water, leaving a cooling dampness.
Perhaps you were the only one who didnât bother checking the weather report today; it was always your bad habit. Within seconds, umbrellas rise, and it makes you feel smaller than you shouldâmakes you huddle in on yourself, seeking a warmth that couldnât be given even with a million layers on.
Throngs of people skirt around your still frame, wordlessly, as if you are but another speck of ice to avoid.Â
Snow catches onto the crown of your head, and with it, a sense of deja vu as a shadow crosses over from behind. A tall shadow. A familiar presenceâone that makes you long for comfort and the taste of rice.
And like all those years agoâwhen you were standing outside the gates of Inarizaki High, hours after school had endedâyou turn around. Itâs the same scene: a held breath, a skip of a heartbeat, a rising hope as you look up and meet gray eyes.
The entirety of him swarms you, his cologne filling your senses. Savory, warm, welcoming. Thereâs a certain pull that tugs you to him, one that makes you instinctively step closer. Closer than necessary underneath the umbrella he holds that shrouds you both.
He always did protect you without meaning to be a shield, always found you in times you needed it the most.Â
You want to berate the butterflies erupting in your stomach when he smilesâa lazy, almost-there grin, a side of his lip that curls up. Funny, how the sight can hold you together but pull you apart at the same time, unraveling emotions you try to bury deep in your heart.
But then comes his voice, with a certain calmness to it, a certain directness to it. A low chime that makes you remember why.
Snow was always your favorite part of winterâ
âYou didnât bring an umbrella or somethinâ? Or do ya just like standinâ in the snow?â
âand it was all because of Miya Osamu.Â
You remember it vividly, the day you saw snow on a humid summer day.
A year had passed after you graduated from university, a year since you decided to stay in the big bustling city of Tokyo. Perhaps it was to find yourself, or maybe it was your stubbornness, but the taste of new beginnings never felt so stale.
It was hard; Tokyo made it harder. That day, the summer heat clung to your skin, heavy and thick, suffocating you in its embrace.
Insufferably hot, stifling. Your tongue craved for something cold, something refreshing. It made you raise your gaze, the hush of the crowd growing like emerging from a pool of water. You squinted at the beaming sun, the voices of tourists and locals flooding your ears. More tourists, less locals.
Shop after shop passed you, steps faltering when you near a grand opening sign.
That was when you saw it. It was to your left; you remember that clearly. A small little sign with an onigiri graphic plastered on it. A simple one: white, circular, fluffy.
Like snow. Besides the strip of seaweed down the middle.
A split-second memory flashed in your mind then. One from back in Hyogo, of small gloved hands forming snowballs, only to be hurled a second later; bittersweet laughter ringing in the air. It caused the corners of your lips to tick up just slightly, eyes darting to the window of the quaint shop.
Onigiri Miya, you read on the glass, in fresh calligraphy characters. The shop was new. You would know since you passed by this street every day, and if the grand opening sign was any indicator.
MiyaâŠ
At the time, you eyed the character a little closer, with a slow tilt of your head. And it was in that precise moment someone shuffled behind the glass, behind the character. Your vision blurred, then focused, then met oddly familiar gray ones, widened to match your own.Â
Your heart stuttered, more than youâd like to admit, realization mingling with shock hitting you. Still in shock as the familiar man behind the glass curtly raised his hand, beckoning you to come in, almost as if he was expecting you all this time.
You wondered if he noticed how you hesitated. To this day, youâre still not really sure why you did.
As you walked through the clear glass doors of Onigiri Miya, it came like a snowstorm. A flurry of nostalgic memories: crossing the gates of Inarizaki High, volleyballs slamming onto gym floors, shoved bento boxes.Â
In particular: clinging onto the back of a burgundy track jacket, looking up in fascination at freshly dyed gray hair, the natural shade of his undercut peeking below.
The rush of the shopâs air conditioning felt nice. Refreshing, as the summer heat rolled off of you in waves. A small smile lifted across your face when you pointed to the characters plastered on the glass, now backwards from where youâre standing.
âOnigiri⊠Miya?â you read without looking, without breaking eye contact.
There was a stretch of silence as your finger trailed from the window to the man in front of you.
âMiya Osamu?â
At the name drop, heâOsamu smiled, one that lingered more with his eyes than his mouth. His initial impassiveness starkly resembled his demeanor back in high school, only more mature now. More grown, with the weight of a couple of years settling nicely on his features.
âThat would be me,â he says frankly, in a voice that was slightly deeper than his younger self, still tinged with a straightforward tone that was just so him.
An older him, you reminded yourself. Because now, the burgundy track jacket was replaced with a black shirt, with his own restaurant logo on it. And his hair was no longer dyed gray, the natural color that used to peek under now overtaking his entire head.
Frustrating, how the only thing that didnât change was how handsome he was.
âFinally branched out here into Tokyo,â he followed up, still holding your gaze with wet stone eyes. âDidnât expect to see ya this soon though.â
This soon?
âYou knew I was in Tokyo?â you blurted out.
Osamu only blinked.
âWhy wouldnât I know that?â
Then you blinked, taken aback.
Seconds passed until he sighed, rounding the tables. Your neck craned as he drew closer, standing in front of you.
Heâs taller now, too.
Osamu perched one hand on his hip, the other swiftly coming up to your face. You reel back when he pokes your forehead.
Itâs immediate: your grunt of disapproval, the glare thrown his way, the lazy grin appearing on his face. A scene like old times, of two teenagers who bickered on the empty grounds of their high school, hours after everyone had left.
You pouted at him, feigning annoyance to hide your oncoming nostalgia. âGuess Iâll be seeing you around then?â
Osamu frowns. âLook at what Tokyo did to ya. Yer accentâs slippinâ.â
âWell, I havenât been home in a whileââ
He cuts you off. âYeah. I know.â His frown didnât let up, and his eyes searched yours, unnervingly so. You looked away before it unsettled you further.
Osamu hummed at your silence before stepping back. âStop by. Donât just see me around.â
You hoped he wouldnât notice the slight dip in your eyebrows, how your lip wavered for a second at his words.
Itâs been a year since you graduated from university, a year of being swallowed by the big bustling city of Tokyo, looming loneliness and all. You remember it vividly because on that day, an odd warmth in the form of snow thawed your insides.Â
On that humid summer day, the snowstorm that was Miya Osamu blew back in.
A new beginning that tasted a little less stale, and a lot more like rice and vinegar.Â
Two weeks later, you found yourself at Onigiri Miya again.
Osamuâs voice sounded from the kitchen, muffled. âTokyoâs been treating ya alright?â
You hummed, crossing your legs from where you sat on a barstool. It faced the kitchen directly, the lower half of his body seen from underneath the noren. âItâs been alright. Just taking it day by day.â
âYa donât seem to like it,â he deadpanned.
Indifferent, you shrugged your shoulders. âItâs got a certain charm to it. Easy to get lost here, though. Iâd imagine itâs like that with most major cities.â
âHm. Really?â
Osamu emerged from the split of the noren, his head pushing aside the fabric. You raised your eyebrows in surprise as he placed a plate in front of you, before straightening his back. A pop of a bone cracked in the air, and he shot you an annoyed look when you chuckled.
Ignoring it, your eyes darted back down, biting back a smile.
Two onigiris. One umeboshi. One tuna.
Mumbling a soft thanks, you scooted forward in your seat. And with shy but excited hands, you grabbed one, lighting up when the familiar taste filled your mouth. A ratio of ingredients that he mastered throughout the years, and you were the first guinea pig.Â
It wasnât much different from back then. Slight adjustments, if anything.Â
With the rice grains carried memories, of Osamu appearing outside of your classroom, right before lunch started. Of him steering you away from the cafeteria, only to shove a bento box in your hands. Of him being pulled away by his twin, flashing you a look of irritation before pointing at his phone.
Iâll text you later, his eyes always seemed to say. And he would, in fact, text later. He always did.
The acidity of the vinegar carried memories as well. Pungent, sour, flashbacks of teenage high schoolers messing with you. Half of the time, you ignored them. The other half, a certain Miya was there. You wouldnât go as far as to say he intentionally protected you. But he always showed up, a six-foot shield that walked you to and from classes.
You didnât know when it started. The day after you two met, he walked beside you once. Then twice. Then all the time. His presence made your heart beat a little faster, but it was never that type of relationshipâit couldnât be.
Osamu just showed up one day and never left. Not until you fled to Tokyo.
Embarrassment crept up as the sudden urge to cry welled inside you. A sting in your nose, an odd burning of homesickness, and the gravity of all those lost years came forth.
You pushed it down hard, going for another bite instead.
âYer taste never changed, yâknow. Same old stuff ya used to eat back in the day.â
You mumbled through a full mouth. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
Osamu braced his hands against the counter, leaning forward, eye level to you. Your eyes remained on your hands holding the onigiri.
âTaste good?â he asked. Curtly, but with a softened edge.
The sound settled deep behind your ribs, tuggingâwarming. By now, he for sure had to know you were avoiding his gaze, but he didnât say anything.
Osamu waited. Calm, collected, patient. Back then, people wouldâve described him differently. Perhaps laidback, blunt, or even irritable.
But you knew him like this, and it crushed you in more ways than one that this hasnât changed either.
After swallowing your bite, you murmured. âYeah.â
Your throat felt tight, almost dry, and you knew it wasnât from the rice. Despite that, your hands grabbed the other onigiri, pausing before it was lifted to your mouthâ
âTastes good.â
From then on, Onigiri Miya became a part of your weekly routine, a pit stop after work. You told yourself it was because the onigiris were goodâtastier than other shops. Raging reviews of its grand opening and the long lines of customers would say so as well.Â
The man behind the counter had nothing to do with it. Most definitely not.
Though you had to give it to him. All those times he absentmindedly talked about new recipes, or when he looked at you during practice and mouthed Iâm hungry, it meant something. It led to something.
Itâs clear to anyone: Osamuâs changed, youâve changed. But somehow, he still felt like home. A grounding force in this too-big city. A friend; nothing more, nothing less.
He probably felt the same as well, longing for remnants of Hyogo. Perhaps this was an unspoken agreement to him, a connection to hold onto until he settled into his life here.
A poke to your forehead brought you out of your thoughts.Â
âStill with me? You been spacinâ out for the past twenty minutes.âÂ
You pouted, rubbing the spot he nudged, still feeling the lingering press of his finger. âWhy do you keep doing that? It hurts.â
Osamu raised his eyebrows. âOh. Does it? Sorry.â
Grumbling, you finished the onigiri, wiping your fingers on a napkin he passed you. Your skin brushed against his for a split second, and you tried to ignore the tingling sensation blooming from the contact.
âYou never said sorry back then,â you pointed out. Not as a jab, but as a fact.
He was quick to respond. âYeah, well, thatâs when we were kids.â
You didnât say anything, letting the soft hum of the shop take over.
Customers milled about, chatting over rice balls and the latest gossip. It was white noise to you at this point, as you perched on your undesignated designated barstool, watching Osamu wipe down counters.
âHey.â
At your voice, his monotonous movements paused. âHey.â
âRemember back then, when Atsumu dropped the carton of milk on my head, from the second floor?â
Osamu pursed his lips, a wince on his face. He looked down again, continuing his motions, the worn rag swiping rice grains onto the floor. âYeah, I do. That idiot always fucked around too much.â
You chuckled. âHe did. But you were worried for me back then, werenât you? You kept looking over to me when Kita was lecturing him. Even gave me your jacket.â
He scoffed, a ghost of a smile on his face. âYou were drenched. Like a soggy cat.â
âAlso bruised,â you mumbled. âIt was a full carton.â
Osamu glanced up, gray eyes almost shining. âWhyâre ya bringinâ that up now? Trip down memory lane?â
An answer didnât come out right away. For a moment, even you were surprised at the memory resurfacing, confused that it was voiced out loud. Shocked when honesty left your lips in the next second, spoken and unable to be taken back.
Then again, he always managed to draw it out of youâhonesty, straightforwardness.
âItâs nice having a friend here in Tokyo. Itâs like I have a piece of home with me.â
You clamped your mouth shut as the last syllable rolled off your tongue, busying yourself by wiping down your area. The napkin was crumpled into your palm, picking up two grains of rice before sweeping at nothing. Still, you continued your unnecessary swiping.
At his silence, your cheeks warmed, eyes unable to meet his scorching gaze.
Youâre expecting a jab, a scoff. Or maybe heâd dismiss the comment, say something generic, and move on. You didnât know what would be worse.
After what felt like hours, Osamu finally spoke, above your bated breath.
âIâm glad to hear that,â he says. Curt, low, and astonishingly soft. âYâknow, I was worried for a sec, not seeinâ ya all these years. Yer a shit texter.â
Another stretch of silence settles in, barely noticed underneath the rattling of your heart. You couldnât decipher the atmosphere. Was it awkwardness? Fondness? Tension? It left you confused: biting your lip, fidgeting with your fingers.
Then comes,
âTokyo ainât too bad with you around.â
Osamuâs back was turned then, focusing on wiping down another counter. Good thing, for he wouldâve seen how your mouth dropped into an O, paired with the absolute shock on your face.
Heat rose in your body, a joyous crawl that wormed its way up to your head. And when it was on the cusp of bursting, you laughed out loud. A genuine, relieving laugh that lightened loads off of your limbs, off your heart.
You saw him look over his shoulder, surprise etched onto his face before he turned away again. But you caught the small grin at the edge of his cheeks, and it made your smile all the wider.
âLook at us, being friends again,â you said through giggles.
It was a joke laced with truth. A joke because the whole situation seemed too serious for what it was. Truth, because you knew about the burned bridges behind you, and in the back of your mind, you were scared.
Osamuâs right. You were a shit texter. All for a new beginning that wasnât as kind and easy-going as you thought itâd be. A little too naive and wishfully hopeful when you left Hyogo behind.
âYer an idiot. When did we ever stop beinâ friends?â
You looked at him with a bitter smile.
With the rag forgotten behind him, Osamu walked up to you, leaned over the counter, and proceeded to poke you square in the forehead. His eyes were steady on yours as you glared at him, a complaint on the tip of your tongueâ
âMaybe you werenât thinkinâ of us in the city, but we were thinkinâ of you. Still do.â
He sighed, clearly exasperated, busying himself with the register.
Sudden guilt pooled in your stomach. You wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came out.
While speechless, he grumbled. Perhaps he didnât mean for you to catch it, but it rang clear in your ears, made your heart stutter a beat too fast.
Because in a directness that reminded you of old days, in an openly gentleness that youâre learning in the new ones, he murmurs:
âI know I never stopped.â
The gray skies of December hover above as you cross the empty school grounds. Youâre exhausted, and the last one to leave your club as usual. Shoving your hands deep into your coat pockets, you pick up your pace as you see Inarizaki Highâs gates from a distance.
Itâs cold, bitingly so, your breath dissipating into the air as puffs of fog.
With the season always comes this sense of lonelinessâgloomy, stagnant. Dreariness weighed on you, each step heavier as the end of the year drew near. Though you anticipate this feeling would extend beyond that, it somehow always does.
Perhaps a change of scenery would be nice. A new city after graduation. A new direction.
You pass the threshold from where steel meets concrete, brick pillars on each side of you. And a quick glance to your left is when you see it.
A flutter of snow, with the plaque that says Inarizaki High School as its background.
Your eyes widen, a gasp leaving your lips. Childlike, your hands break free from the warmth theyâve generated in your pockets, palms out and facing the sky.Â
One flutter became two. Two became more. And suddenly, it was all around you, flurries of snow rapidly covering the ground. The first snowfall of the season.
How pretty, you think to yourself.
Pretty, but cold.
Swinging your bookbag forward, you rifle through it, looking for the small collapsible umbrella you keep during these months. You dig through notebooks and pencils, frowning when you donât feel the particular nylon anywhere.Â
You keep digging, peering into the bag. Snow starts collecting on the top of your head, melting coolly into your scalp.Â
A shiver passes through your limbs, frown turning into a scowl when the realization hits: no umbrella, and a very cold walk home.Â
Then suddenly, a shadow crosses from behind, your head whipping up to see an umbrella shrouding you. Your eyebrows wrinkle in confusion, hands slowly slipping out of its ravage in the bookbag.
You turn, eyes trailing the canopy to the metal spikes, then to the pole, until it lands on eyes a gray darker than the skies above you. A face youâve seen in the hallways, and plastered on posters all throughout the school.
You know him, you think.
Second Year Miya Osamu. Twin of Miya Atsumu. Rising stars of Inarizaki Highâs volleyball team.Â
He looks down at you impassively, staring with calm eyes of riverbed wetstones. Steady, solid, a certain hardness to them. You stare back, blinking once before tilting your head to the side.
âMiya-kunâŠ?â
âYa didnât bring an umbrella or somethinâ?â he says, a little clipped. âThe weather report said itâll snow today.â
âI donât check the weather report.â
âI can tell.â
It catches you off guard, the way he speaks. A little too blunt, a little too comfortable to a stranger. You two werenât friends, and he couldnât have possibly known who you were; you only knew him because of the volleyball team. Â
You jolt slightly when he steps closer, unable to help the heat rising to your cheeks when his chest almost brushes against your face. Heart almost leaping out of your own when he calls out your name.
âWhere do you live?â
âWhat?â you hurriedly ask, more confused. âWhy?â
He blinks, before declaring, âIâll walk you home.â
You look at him incredulously. âWhy would you do that?â
âItâs gettinâ dark,â he simply states. Then repeats, âIâll walk ya.â
He actually starts walking, only looking back when he notices you havenât moved, frozen to your spot.
Miya Osamu calls out to you. âCome onâ
It was odd. You stared at him. A boy whom youâve never talked to before, a boy like Miya Osamu, offering to walk you home. It made your heart pound: the way he looked at you unexpectedly warm, the small grin creeping up on his lips.Â
ââor do ya just like standinâ in the snow?â
In a season of loneliness, of gloominess and brittle smiles, he came into your life like a flurry of snow, amidst the real frost. Beautiful and steady. Impossible to miss.
Looking back, youâve never really paid the snow much mind before. But it was probably in that year.
That year, when snow became your favorite part of winter.Â
Osamu was always handsome. You knew this, everyone knew this, especially back in the day. Underclassmenâgirls, boys, everyoneâwould wait outside of his classroom in between breaks, linger near the gym during practices. It was especially prevalent during games, them adorning t-shirts and paper fans with his face plastered on them.
Oh, how they wished they could see him now.Â
Older, matured, seasoned. Not a boy, but a man. It was hard not to linger on the way his torso filled out his shirt now, stretching the fabric more than it could handle. Or the way his muscles rippled underneath his arm sleeves, highlighting rather than hiding. And his hair looked nice natural, a little too nice.
His face was the most unfair part: weighty, angled with years, pretty in a rugged way.
The perfect picture of a heartbreaker, really.
âSo you got plans next weekend?â
âYeah. My coworkers invited me out and I said yes. Itâll be fun, I think.â
Osamu hummed from where he was setting up the Christmas tree. It was small, settled in the corner of his shop, with only lights entwined in the branches. An open box lay next to it, garland spilling from over the edges.
Before you knew it, half a year passed and winter eventually rolled around. It became routine for you to stay after business closed for the night. That day was no different.
Just the two of you alone, with soft Christmas music playing in the background.
âWhat made you finally change your mind? Theyâve been askinâ ya for months.â
You tilted your head, mumbling with your chin perched in your hand, elbow resting on the table. âJust thought that maybe itâll be fun. Trying new things, surrounding myself with new people.â
Remarkably, youâve been in a cheery mood these days. More willing. More content. Happier.
It felt nice.
Osamu barely glances at you, rummaging through ornaments. âThat so?â
âMhm.â
Out of curiosity, your head swiveled to look out the window. At this time, people still milled about, either for a stroll or just leaving work. Lights hung from sparse trees and on nearly every balcony, illuminating the streets with a particular holiday glow.
Fogs left mouths as they talked, its residuals lingering in the air.
âI hope it snows this year.âÂ
âYa always liked the snow, didnât ya?â
You nodded despite not knowing if he saw, still lost in your thoughts.
âDid you know?â you found yourself absentmindedly saying. âThat some people believe if you see the first snowfall with someone you like, itâll lead to a long and lasting relationship.â
Osamu was quiet for a moment, fiddling in his little corner.
Then: âDo you believe in it?â
You paused before shrugging. âMaybe. Maybe not. I just like the snow in general, I guess.â
Just as you turned your head, you feel his body from behind, his chest brushing against your shoulder. You froze as he leaned over, grabbing the empty plate in front of you. And even as he quickly stepped back, remnants of his cologne and the smell of fresh rice still lingered in your senses.
Heat crawled up the back of your neck. Prickling. Rising. Only stopping when he says,
âIâm goinâ back home soon for the holidays. You coming back too?â
Your response was immediate, giving him a courteous, but sad smile. âNo. Not this time.â
Osamu frowns. âWhy? Everyoneâs dyinâ to see ya.â
A phrase that was familiar on your tongue rolled out. âMaybe next year.â
The clink of a plate hitting the sink echoed in the shop. âSo youâll be here alone?â
âSânot anything new. Itâs okay, you donât have to worry about me.â
Osamu looked at you from the counter, not saying anything. Just stared. Long and hard. What you would give to know what was running through his mind at that moment.
It was a bit unnerving, much too tense for your liking.
You looked away, opting to get up from your seat and head towards the unfinished Christmas tree. Peering in the boxes, you chuckled, bending down to rummage through the items.
Lifting an onigiri ornament, you smiled at him. âReally?â
Osamu sighed before smiling, making his way towards you. His hand came up to hold your own, bringing the plastic rice ball close to his face. You ignored the way his touch set fire to your skin, and the hard pound to your heart.
âFelt right to buy it,â he stated, seemingly amused. Then, with more push, âPut it on.â
âMe?â you asked.
Osamu nodded.
Giddy, you turned towards the tree, searchingâcombing for a good spot. When you finally settled the loop into one of the pine needles, you looked back at him with a wide smile.
âGood?â
Osamuâs eyes darted to the ornament, then back to you. A beat too long before saying, âYeah. Pretty.â
Help me decorate the shop, he said to you then, nudging the box toward you. And what was once an atmosphere that bordered on discomfort, turned into the warmth of string lights and soft white garland. Everywhere. Along with more onigiri ornaments (it was a bulk pack), and shy laughter chiming with Christmas bells.
This was good. This was fun, easy.
For you couldnât fully bring yourself to say more. To cross this delicate line of friends that should only embody good times. Not dreary, gloomy ones. This should be good. This should be enough.
Anything more would just feel like a rock tied to his foot, thrown deep into the murky waters of a desolate lake.Â
Osamu left around a week before Christmas, not that you were counting the days.
You hung out with your coworkers, and it was fun. More fun than youâd like to admit. But you couldnât ignore the lingering emptiness in your chest, a sensation that carved out your insides, leaving just the shell behind.
You had thought that maybe this was the start you neededâtrying new things, surrounding yourself with new people. That maybe this would turn the pit in your stomach upside down, filling the ache that had festered.Â
But it was still there. It wasnât loneliness, per se. Not like how you felt before summer. You couldnât quite decipher it.Â
No, not until the days passed by, when suddenly, the hollowness came full force when you walked by Onigiri Miya for the sixth time without going in. And rather than seeing a certain Miya behind the glass, you were greeted with the sight of his other workers.
They noticed your presence, eyes brightening in recognition as they waved at you. You waved back, with a weak smile and a sunken chest.
At this time, you wouldâve been inside. Perhaps sitting at the counter, or looking over Osamuâs shoulder while he was washing rice. You knew you were just getting in the way when you were in the kitchenâhis domain, but he never chased you out. Never.
Maybe you missed him, if only a little bit.
Just as the thought entered your mind, your phone rang in your pocket, buzzing with fervor. You slipped it out of your pocket, back straightening when you read the name.
Osamu
The relief that flooded you was akin to being dumped with a bucket of water. It drenched you in its entirety, shivering at the realization. At the almost-painful, selfish realization that the emptiness youâve been feeling wasnât, in fact, the loneliness you were so familiar with after all.
Because this feeling was so different. Everything was so different. Not unlike that silly little crush you had on him all those years ago.
It soared your heart only to yank it back down. Down to a middleground for birds who wouldnât dare to fly too high.
You did miss Osamu.
Rather, the more conflicting part:
You like Osamu.
âYou didnât bring an umbrella or somethinâ? Or do ya just like standinâ in the snow?â
Only a week has passed since you saw him. One week. Seven days. Just seven days. But the sight of him in front of you, close enough where you can smell his cologne and see the way his jaw tenses the slightest, unravels you.
Your voice comes out as a whisper. A hope if you listen clearly enough.
âI thought you went back home for the holidays. What are you doing here?â
Osamu shrugs, leaning his head forward. You gulp at his face just inches from yours, opening and closing clammy palms.
When did they get so sweaty?
âI wanted to come back.â
âBut why? Wouldnât it be better to be back home?â
Your words come out breathilyâin disbelief. You just canât seem to wrap your head around it.
Osamu is quiet, but not unattentive. Caring. Compassionate. Bright, in his own special way. He captures the hearts of those around him effortlessly and carries them with kindness.
He deserves to be back home, in this season of loneliness. In this season of bright holidays surrounded by warmth, by those who can uplift him in ways that matter.Â
So why is he here?
You donât know how your expression translates to him, nor what prompts him to frown at you, almost exasperated.
âQuit lookinâ at me as if I would rather be anywhere than here. I came because thereâs somethinâ I wanted to do.â
You retort back, voice harsher than you intended. âAnd what could that possibly be?â
Osamu raises his finger, ready to poke your forehead. Your eyes dart to it, unflinching, before he pauses just inches from your skin.Â
You wait for the oncoming nudge as his eyebrows furrow, hand hovering in the space between you two.
Then, he sighs. A long, borderline tired, sigh. One that makes you bite your lip, another accusing question on the tip of your tongueâ
âas he plops his forehead against yours.Â
What was always his finger, is now his head. What was always his arm extending out to you, is now his body, close. Eyes the color of winter skies and wetstones peer at you. Steady, calm, unwavering.
You can feel his breath against your face, the fog tickling your cheeks.
Your heart, beating harshly against your ribcage.
âI wanted to take you out on a date,â he says. Direct as ever, but tender. Soft.
It wrangles your stomach into knots, another rush of heat pulsing up your neck.
Snow falls to the ground, people walk aimlessly, around this small bubble he created under his umbrella. A world of just the two of you.
âHow about it?â he asks you. âRight now?
You purse your lips, forehead burning underneath his weight, nerves firing every which way inside your body.
And you nod.
âOsamu!â
Your yelp can probably be heard from across the entire ice rink, but you didnât have the time to be embarrassed. Rather, you couldnât afford to focus on anything other than not falling and cracking your head open.
Who knew? That ice skating was going to lead you to an early grave.
Osamu laughs from beside you, hands in his pockets as he glides around smoothly. A stark contrast to your flailing body, churning up piles of ice from where your blades refuse to go anywhere but forward.
âSânot funny,â you grumble, hands staggering miserably to try to keep your balance.
âNah.â He grins. âItâs cute.â
And thatâs what nearly sends you to the icy ground again.
Osamu grips your arm that shoots out, attempting to steady you.
But the blades attached to your skates tiltârock side to side. Your arms fly up in the air before your body propels itself forward, straight into Osamuâs chest. He catches you with a grunt, arms tightening around your frame as your cheeks flare.
âSorry,â you mumble, scrambling to get out of his embrace, head tingling. Either from embarrassment or for your cheesy landing, you donât know.
Osamuâs hands trail down your sleeves, and before you can fully pull away, he holds your hands. Tight.Â
And wordlessly, he skates backwards, gently tugging you along.
His hands are warm.
âThere ya go,â he says after a couple of minutes. âYou got it.â
Biting your lip, you nod, unable to meet his gaze, opting to focus on the ice underneath you.
âHey,â he calls out. âLook at me.â
Shyly, your head lifts, and you hope to the stars that he doesnât see the blush obliterating your cheeks. If he does, he doesnât mention it.
âYer body goes in the direction it's lookinâ at. So keep yer eyes on me.â
You nod, again. You keep your eyes on him, reluctantly.Â
You think that if you keep looking at him, youâll like him even more.
Osamu doesnât really give you a choice.
The two of you do laps around the rink. And at some point, you graduated from two hands to one, with him tugging you along behind his back. It seemed more like a loss than a win.
There were many sounds: thunderous laughter, the scraping of blades against ice, vendors hollering about hot chocolate and taiyaki. But it all slipped into one ear and out the other.
At first, you thought you couldnât focus on anything other than not falling and cracking your head open on the ice. Now, there was another issue. One so glaringly prominent and in the form of Miya Osamu.
It is both astonishing and devastating: the way you canât take your eyes off of him. Even when you both came off the rink, and the ground turned from ice back to concrete, you just couldnât.
You couldnât bear to.
You didnât want to.
Osamu finishes the last of his hot chocolate just as you throw your cup in the trash, remnants of sugar still dancing on your tongue. He cranes his neck back as he swallows, and your eyes canât help but follow the motion, the way his Adam's apple bobs.
You like Osamu, and the thought pinches your heart.
The better half of your high school years were spent with him, and the short time heâs been in Tokyo easily bests the past five years youâve been living here. Comfort and belonging always came with him, and you never had to ask for it.
He probably took you on this âdateâ because he knew you would be spending the holidays alone.
He just always gives and gives.
You like him. And itâs absurd. Absolutely ludicrous.Â
How scary it is. To like someone whoâs become a pillar in your life. The line between selfishness and longing has never felt so thin. You couldnât be greedy, not with him. Other factors led you to leave Hyogo, to leave âhomeâ. And something youâve always regretted was leaving him.
He was home, and it took you this long to realize it.
And what are you to do about it?
The drop of a cup landing in the trash makes you swivel your head, eyes meeting his in an instant.
âLetâs go?â he asks.Â
âOkay.â
The streets are lively today, filled with Christmas spirit and reindeer-shaped joy. Maybe it was the holiday season, but Osamu shone. With a presence that outweighs every brightly lit tree, every glitter-covered present. He was the star in his own night sky.
In your sky.
ââwho will it be next, I wonder? Oh look! Another couple, folks! Right under the mistletoe!â
You jolt as cheering erupts from all around you. Claps, shouts, whistles. Confusion overtakes you in an instant, with strangers circling you and Osamu.
Your head moves from side to side, a sea of faces blurring with the noise. Then you whip towards Osamu as if he would have an answer; his face tilts to the sky, and your head follows his line of vision, eyes widening.
Right above the two of you hangs a bundle of leaves, clusters of white berries peeking in between. A red ribbon ties off the stems with a bow, the entire bouquet fastened to an arch.
A mistletoe.
Immediately, a bewildered scoff leaves your lips, because who in the world does this? Ambushing strangers with something as tacky and embarrassing as this? Itâs laughable, you think. A scene that no doubt, Osamu would also find just as silly and ridiculous.
He would. He should.
Then why is he looking at you without saying anything?
Your eyebrows dipped, trying to decipher the puzzle pieces of his expression.
Not expectant, nor in disgust. JustâŠwaiting, patient-like. Looking down at you with both hands in his pockets, unmoving. As if he had asked you a question and was waiting for an answer. As if the random people around you were white noise in his focus.
While you felt nothing short of uncertainty. Alarmed. Panic slowly filling the recesses of your mind.
Why is he just standing there?
Would he kiss you?
You donât allow yourself to question it, breaking away from Osamuâs gaze in nervousness. Chants of âkiss, kiss, kiss!â ring in your ears, and it makes you want to bury yourself six feet under.
That is, until you hear Osamuâs voice break through the crowd.
âPlease stop. Weâre just friends, and this is makinâ us uncomfortable.â
Weâre just friends.
Hollers turn into whispering, and perhaps smiles turn into looks of pity. But youâre less inclined to note the change of expressions, and more concentrated on holding yourself together. Your limbs felt itchy, achingâbegging to run right this second.
How embarrassing.
Someone apologizes, you assume the host of whatever stupid game this is. Though all is lost on you as you feel Osamuâs hand slip into yours, and youâre promptly tugged from where youâre frozen on the sidewalk.Â
Your heart rate climbs with each step you take, the feeling of wanting to jump out of your skin festering wildly. You truly donât know whatâs worse: the mistletoe, his reaction, weâre just friendsâ
or the fact that disappointment stabs you blaringly in the gut.
Itâs dumb. This whole date was nothing short of that damn middleground youâre stuck flying in. Everything is just stupid, stupid, stupidâ
âAre you okay?â
Without noticing, Osamu stops, and the sound of his voice makes you jerk your hand out of his. The cold that bites your skin is immediate, and you donât notice his hand still hovering in the air, frozen-still from where you yanked back.
You look around. Youâre in a park, alone, snow dusting over the playground where kids usually run around.
It reminds you of how childish youâre being.
âY-yeah. Iâm okay. That was just⊠sudden. Yâknow?â
Osamu sighs, but you donât look at what expression heâs donning right now. You canât bring yourself to. Perhaps heâs confused. Or irritated. Maybe a little bit of both.
âSorry,â he says. âYa didnât seem comfortable. Just thought itâd be best to leave.â
âThanks for that. Youâre right. It was kinda weird.â
You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. It only half works.
Still not looking at him, you point in the direction of the street. âWanna head out? Snowâs cominâ down a little hard.â
At the cue, a flutter of snow drifts past your face. You swipe it away.
Osamu doesnât move an inch from his spot, his voice echoing from behind. âYa donât seem alright.â
âIâm perfectly fine.â
âDo you wanna talk about itââ
You cut him off. âThereâs nothinâ to talk about. I just think itâs time to go home.â
Osamu pulls on your arm. You donât budge. âSomethinâs wrong.â
âNothinâs wrongââ
âThen why wonât you look at me?â
A rush of emotions flares in your body, shivers running up your spine when your head whips towards him, tears rimming your waterline.
Osamuâs eyes widen in surprise, mouth clamping shut. You donât even want to know the look on your face right now. All you know is that you feel frustrated. At yourself. At him. At everything.
An odd, heartbreaking devastation, taking on the form of unjustified anger.
âIâm lookinâ at ya right now. So, what? Ready to go home?â
His lips purse at your outburst. He seems perplexed, confused. Maybe a hint of frustration from the way his eyebrows dip inwards.
Great.
âWhatâs gotten into ya?â he asks, clearly exasperated. âI thought today was goinâ well. What happened?â
You huff out a breath. âI donât know. Friends donât usually take each other on dates. Maybe we should stick to that.â
His grip tightens on your arm. Not painful, but firm. Unyielding. For a moment, both of you stare at each other, fire in your eyes. His jaw is tense, as if he were biting back words, and you want to hear them as much as you want to shut them out.
Osamu sighs. âIs this about me sayinâ that weâre just friends?â
âWell, you werenât wrong.â
âYouâre angry,â he states.
âIâm not angry.â
âYes, you are.â
âAm not.â
He clicks his tongue. âI said we were friends because you seemed ready to bolt. Didnât want to scare ya off. Would you have wanted me to confess that I liked you then and there?â
You immediately scoff. âLike lyinâ would be any better.â
âI wouldnât be lyinâ.â
âI donât need your pity. I know you came back just âcause I was here, alone.â
Osamu opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He frowns, breathes out a haggard breath that blows in your face. Then faces the sky, and back down to you with hardened eyes.
You meet him with the same edge.
âAre ya really this dense?â is what comes out. Pointed. Almost agitated.
It stops you in your tracks, hands clenching rigidly, eyebrows wrinkling in disbelief. âWhatâ?â
âI donât pity you. I never did. I like you, and I always have.â
Osamu releases your arms, not before pulling to face you directly. Your body soundlessly complies, following his direction. His eyes are still hardened. But you notice now itâs not with anger or exasperation, but with honesty. A desperation so unlike him that it causes a longing ache to numb your being.
Shock wrecks your system as you try to process his words. It feels unreal. Almost fragile. And you canât seem to wrap your head around the possibility that Miya Osamu would like you. Because in the far back of your mind, you know he deserves more. He deserves better.
He deserves someone like him. Someone who shines.
âNo.â
Osamu flinches, taken aback. âNoâŠ?â
âYou canât like me,â you choke out. âIâm not⊠Iâm not you. Iâm not kind. Or giving. Iâm justââ
He cuts you off. âWhat are you talkinâ about?â
Words unspoken die on the tip of your tongue, and your eyes waver. He tries to search them, tries to decipher them. But you know he canât read minds, nor do you expect him to.
You let out a ragged breath, voice shaky.
And your heart cracks the tiniest bit, spilling in between the edges.Â
âI left Hyogo. I ran away. I thought I would know what to do here, in Tokyo. But Iâm still lost. And you deserve someone whoâs sure of themselves. Someone who can give you the kindness you deserve.â
Osamuâs quiet, taking in your words. And the silence unnerves you, it always does.
You never want him to feel obligatedâ
âYouâre you, and thatâll always be enough for me. I like you for you, not for what you think you should be.â
Your breath hitches. Your lips quiver.
Osamu is always direct with his words. Always straightforward. Always honest. If thereâs one thing you can count on him for, it is always honesty.
It wrecks you, in more ways than one. With him, itâs easy. Too easy. And it terrifies you.
You like him. You like Osamu. You want to trust his words, but the devil on your shoulder just keeps insistingâ
âYou never have to earn anyoneâs love. Especially not mine.â
At the drop, a soft sob unwillingly escapes you, your head falling forward onto his chest. He catches you, because he always does. Brings you flush to his frame, and rubs a soothing palm down your back. Hands that always warm.Â
You clutch his sweater with both palms, pressing your face into him. Finally seekingâtaking his care that youâve tried to deny yourself for so long.Â
It felt too relieving. Too forgiving.
You canât find the words to speak, for youâre scared you wonât ever stop.
Instead, you cling to him, hard. Huggingâmolding yourself to him as close as you possibly can. And you hope with all your heart that he feels it:
I like you, too. I want to be with you. Am I allowed to love you?
You think he does, for his embrace only tightens further. Locked into your frame like two puzzle pieces shaved to fit together.
You feel his voice before he speaks. A gentle rumble through his chest that lulls you.Â
âYâknow, Iâm more selfish than you take me for. Afterall, I came back for one reason and one reason only.â
Your voice comes out small. Almost fearful. A little too hopeful. âAnd whatâs that?â
Osamu pulls back. Not entirely, but just enough so that he can look you straight in the eyes: steady, calm, unwavering. Paired with a voice just the same, he says:
âI came here to make you mine.â
And thatâs when you feel your emotions burst from their delicate bubble. A soundless whisper from a desolate lake, having waited to be popped.
Miya Osamu came into your life like a flurry of snow, amidst the real frost. Beautiful and steady. Impossible to miss.
After your tears met the winter-chilled air, and you crumpled into his embrace, he asked you:
Will you be mine?
And you nodded.
You melted into him like snow in the sun. Like sugar finally meeting water. Helplessly. Desperately.
Flurries of ice fluttered around you both then, a picture-esque sight that looked as enchanting as it felt. His voice cut through the powder to you, a sound you would never get tired of.Â
Did ya check the weather report today?
You muttered back lowly. No. I didnât. You know I donât.
He chuckled, and the vibrations clung to your heart, settling in your bones.Â
Yeah. Obviously.
You questioned him whyâcurious, and he looked at you with a twinkle in his eye.Â
Wanted to see ya like this. And it felt right to come today.Â
What do you mean? Whatâs today?
Osamu paused then. Gazing at you with eyes that enrapture, with a presence that forever comforts. With slow movements and without letting you go, he brought your hand up, kissing your knuckles softly.
And he says fondly:
Itâs the first snowfall of the season.
On the other side of the snowâŠ
Osamu recognized her. He didnât typically memorize names, mostly faces, but he knew hers. Someone he saw fleetingly in the hallways, and occasionally at games. Though, it didnât seem like she had a lot of fun at those.
He remembered her name because he heard a classmate call it out once. Twice. Then three times. All three times, she didnât look up. All three times, someone elseâhim, caught the attention as if he owned the name and not her. As if the name was meant to be heard by his ears instead, and no one else.
The fourth calling was when she finally looked up. He noticed it instantly: glazed eyes that melted once it focused on someone else. Something else, other than the empty spot in front of her. He looked and looked, but could not, for the life of him, figure out what made that spot so damn interesting.Â
Osamu simply liked the sound of it at firstâher name.
Then he kept hearing it. Kept seeing her. They say once you notice something once, you suddenly see it everywhere. He supposes thatâs what happened.
Far away but never out of reach; never had a reason to reach. That is, until it snowed that one day, late into the evening after practice. Atsumu had left him earlier: claimed something dumb about meeting someone, threw him the umbrella, then ran off with red cheeks and the giddiest smile on his face.
She was alone, outside Inarizaki Highâs gates, holding her hands out innocently as snow fell around her. He wondered if she noticed her hair getting damp from the ice. Or how her eyes, despite seeing snow, melted at the sight of it, a certain twinkle he never saw until that day.
Osamu blinked from where he stood, from far down the sidewalk. It was only by chance that he glanced back, but heâs glad he did.
Far away but never out of reach.
And finally, he found his reason.Â
That same reason leads him to today, watching the same girlâyou, reach out for the snow like all those years ago. Umbrella-less, not even a hood to cover your head; typical.Â
Though this time, his heart races as he approaches you. Hands shivering, but not from the cold. Eyes blinking fast, but not from the wind. A deep yearning thatâs been there for who knows how long, lurches at him then. And it really is a wonder how you havenât noticed that simply seeing youâthinking of youâaches his entire being. Makes him clutch his chest for his dear fucking life.
Some people believe if you see the first snowfall with someone you like, itâll lead to a long and lasting relationship.
He didnât need the snow, really. It was a romantic notion, but not necessary.
For this time, heâll make it count. This time, he wonât let you hold your pains bare to the world, alone, with hardly any protection and only wishful thinking. Heâll hold your hands, your palms that reach out to the sky, and let you know what he couldnât say all those years ago.
I like you. I want to be with you. Please, let me love you.
I wish to be your first snowfall, every day, for as long as youâll allow me to.
this is my first time writing for osamu, and also writing dialogue with a kansai accent LOL i hope it flows smoothly!! and near the end, readerâs kansai accent does come out a tiny bit when she was flustered/angry ^^ osamu loverboy agenda!!
Some believe that soulmates are destined partners, someone to nurtureâto love. Others treat them as an unwanted anchor, a reminder that one can never escape fate.Â
So where did that leave you? As someone who avoids their soulmate altogether? As someone who fears their soulmate without having even met them?
A chance saving from the hot-n-cold hero whose name has followed you since birth. Ideas of peace are challenged, past regrets resurface, and you learn that soulmates may tether you in ways more than a mere mark on your skin.
soulmate mark đ„§ 75% of the population is born with their soulmateâs name inscribed on their skin. The inscriptionâs hue changes upon first skin-to-skin contact with your soulmate.Â
content đ„§ fem pronouns/afab reader, soulmate marks, pro-heroes, villains, grief, angst, hurt/comfort, avoidance, fluff, pining, yearning, shoutoâs kinda a flirt (or tries to be), shouto is mildly good at feelings, noodles, flowers, hospitals, books, reader is a bookstore owner, smut (optional to read)
warnings đ„§ blood and injury, canon-typical violence, mentions of death, mentions of suicide (readerâs mother), mentions of mental illness, grief, avoidance, overthinking/spiraling thoughts
ËáŻœ ĘË· â chapters
1 â saving and soba
2 â heroes that live
3 â oasis of comfort
4 â upon a full moon
5 â time never stopped, until you came
6 â omniscience
7 â wherever you are
âąà„⥠smut scene â takes place in ch7, optional to read
ËáŻœ ĘË· â ending author's notes
tag â #fic: marked in your heart
before you read: i'm aware that this shouto may not be the most nonchalant boy that we know and love. but i hope you come to like this version of yearning, desperate shouto as much as i do :) happy reading!
Somewhere between the sticky, humid air that lingers outside and the grocery storeâs bright fluorescent lights, a summer storm crackles to life. And you think that just maybe, you know how a raincloud feels just before the yawn of thunder. â âč
wc: 4.4k
content: fluff, neighbors to lovers, fake dating, getting together, first kiss
a/n: written for @mythblossoms as a part of the summer fic exchange!
Itâs late when you rouse from an unintentional nap on the couch, the last fading golden rays of early evening sunlight now lost to the thick blanket of darkness thatâs since settled over your living room. And yet even despite the hourâa quick tap to your phone screen tells you itâs just after 11âthe dayâs stifling heat still lingers with a vengeance. You sigh softly, eyes sliding accusingly in the direction of your broken air conditioner.Â
As you sit aglow in the bright light that pours from your phone screen, scrolling through a myriad of missed messages and emails, your stomach grumbles an insistent, petulant reminder that you fell asleep before making dinner.Â
Unfortunately, the state of your kitchen reminds you exactly why you fell asleep on the couch in sun-baked defeat in the first placeâyour fridge and pantry both have a meager collection of combined offerings at best. And a nap had seemed far more appealing than sweating half to death on the sidewalk to trek to the grocery store earlier. As you frown while glancing back and forth between a jar of pickles and a half-empty container of hummus, your attention is pulled away by the telltale sound of floorboards creaking above you.
Your lips quirk upward slightly as you glance at the ceiling, tracking the noise across your living room and over in the direction of the sliding glass door that leads to your small balcony.Â
Thereâs a slight breeze when you step outside, though even the wind feels sluggish under the heat waveâs humid, suffocating grip. You wince slightly as you take in the sight of your collection of potted plants that fill most of the spaceâtheir wilted, thirsty leaves rustle in your direction indignantly.
On the balcony above your own, you hear the sound of a door sliding open. You stand at the railing, looking upward as you call out, âHey.â
A head of dark brown hair comes into view, and your upstairs neighbor peeks over his railing. âHey.â
Something inside of you warms at the sight of Osamu, a type of heat wholly different from what clings to the tired city air.Â
(Itâs a familiar heat that youâve come to associate with his presence, one that has a way of making you shiver right where you stand.)
âYou busy?â you ask him, tone casual.Â
He smiles, handsome and boyish and everything that makes you question the word friend. âDepends on whoâs askinâ.â
âYour favorite neighbor.â
Osamu raises a brow. âI think Doris is probably asleep by nowâŠâ he muses, referring to the perpetually miserable old woman that lives in the unit next to his.
You huff in faux offense. âIn that case, Iâll just walk to the grocery store alone then.â
The humor rapidly dissipates from his expression, replaced by something that looks a lot like concern even with the deep shadows cast across his face. âHa? Wait. Youâre not walkinâ there by yourself this late.â
âSure am,â you tell him cheerfully, giving him a little wave before heading back towards the sliding door. âI need food.â
âYa better not leave without me!â he calls after you, and you hear the door above you slip back open as well.Â
You grin to yourself while you find your wallet and keys and toe on a pair of sneakers. Once you swing open your front door, Osamuâs somehow already leaning against the opposite wall across the hall, arms folded over his chest as he waits for you. If he ran down the stairwell to get to your floor that quickly, the only sign of it is his slightly mussed, dark hair. Itâs hard to pay attention to his face, though, what with the losing battle the sleeves of his white t-shirt are currently locked in with his biceps.
And his eyesâ
Itâs distracting, to say the least.Â
Heâs distracting.Â
He offers you an amused smile. âNice shirt.â
Glancing down, you feel a prickle of heat kiss the back of your neck as youâre suddenly reminded of exactly what you absently tossed on after shucking off your work clothes earlier: one of Osamuâs Onigiri Miya t-shirts. The one that ended up covered in cat hair the time he came over and spent an hour on your living room carpet fawning over said cat, which you were watching for a friend. The one you insisted on washing for him to save him the trouble of the hair mixing in with his own laundry load.
The one youâve completely forgotten to return for the better part of a month now.Â
And now youâre wearing it.
And heâs smiling at you like he thinks itâs funny when you quickly tuck your bottom lip between your teeth for lack of a better response and spin on your heel to lock the door.Â
âMaybe Iâm your newest employee,â you shrug once you begin to make your way toward the elevator.Â
âMm. Looks better on you anyway.â Osamu pushes off of the wall, gently bumping shoulders with you. âBut we still gotta work on your rice balls.â
You bump him right back in return. âThey fell apart once.â
He exhales a soft, dramatic sigh. âStill hurts me to think about what ya did to âem.â
Crossing your arms, you raise a brow. âIâm not baking for you anymore.â
He leans against you heavily when he reaches out to press the plastic down arrow on the wall, the elevator shaft immediately humming to life while it climbs its way to the fifth floor. âThatâs just cruel.â
You catch sight of a flash of blue and yellow on his wrist in the process, and you decidedly pretend not to notice that heâs still wearing the silly little bracelet you made last week while the two of you were sitting on your couch.Â
(Your heart sure notices, rattling against your ribcage.)
The elevator dings, and the doors slip apart. Osamu gestures with his hand for you to step in first.Â
âMaybe Iâll change my mind if youâre good.â
Osamu leans against the metal railing that lines the walls, hands stuffed in his pockets, and he grins. âIâm always good for you.â
Thereâs something about you, Osamu Miya, and elevators.
When you moved into your apartment building just over six months ago, fresh out of a break up and still a little unsteady on your feet with a new job in an unfamiliar city, you werenât expecting this.
You werenât expecting him.
You were holding a precarious stack of boxes when you stepped into this very elevator, the top one tumbling over the edge when you reached for the button for the fifth floor. But despite the way you immediately cringed, waiting for the sound of something breaking, it never came.
Osamu, who had quietly slipped into the carriage behind you on the way up to his own floor, caught the box right before it hit the ground. Old volleyball reflexes, heâd said with a sheepish smile.
But rather than just putting the box back on top of the stack, Osamu asked if you needed a hand.
(A hand, as it turned out, was taking the entire stack from you and carrying it to your door, despite your protests that you could carry the rest. And then making five more trips back and forth to your car with you when he realized you were moving by yourself without any help.)
(And it was oddly easy, getting past the initial struggle of feeling like you were inconveniencing a complete strangerâ)
(âaccepting a type of kindness that asked for nothing in return.)
It was all so easy with him after thatâ
Conversations.Â
Company.Â
Friendship.Â
Everything else you donât quite let yourself acknowledgeâÂ
Everything else that exists somewhere between the long afternoons spent with him crouched down on your living room floor with a screwdriver and a hammer and piles of IKEA boxes (heâd laughed when you tried to pay him for the help). Between onigiri lessons in his kitchen and late nights spent stargazing and drinking tea and talking about life out on your balcony.
Between the flutter in your heart when he smiles at you for no reason at all. The way your phone lights up with a message telling you to go to bed!! when he can hear you up and about into the late hours of the night sometimes (heâs become familiar with your early work schedule). The convenience store bag that you occasionally find hanging from your doorknob when you havenât seen him in a few days, your favorite candy waiting at the bottom. The bad reality shows you watch together some nights (the way he doesnât watch new episodes without you).Â
The way he always seems to find himself downstairs in the buildingâs laundry room with you after that time you texted him to complain about the weird, pushy guy from the second floor who can never seem to take a hint.Â
The way youâve come to crave all of the different ways he says your name, soft and amused and happy and teasing and tired and raspy and imploringâ
A distant rumble of thunder echoes across the sky as you hit the sidewalk in tandem, the undercurrent of static electricity that crackles carrying the promise of a storm in its wake. It feels a lot like the state of your nerves every time Osamuâs arm brushes against yours, the sensation sending a flurry of shockwaves to sink into the more tender parts of your chest.
Youâre usually better at thisâkeeping your feelings at bay. But something about the heat has left you abnormally vulnerable, reflexes not quite quick enough to pull back stray thoughts before they take root.Â
(Because despite it all, you donât know how he feels.)
(And youâd rather keep it all tucked away, a slow, fading carbonation fizzing in your veins, than lose whatever this is that the two of you have.)
The relief that hits you the instant the automatic doors to the grocery store slide open, releasing a burst of cool air, has a pleased, excited sound tumbling from your lips before you can stop yourself. Osamu snorts beside you, veering off to grab a cart, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust to the stark, white fluorescent glow that lights the inside of the building.
Despite the fact that itâs open 24 hours, the store is nearly deserted save for the few employees left milling about. Cheery music from the radio pours over the speakers, and the two of you mosey about down empty aisles, one rogue wheel on the cart squeaking in protest every so often.Â
Osamu seems content to push the cart while you grab a few thingsâthough it does a number on your knees when you whip around after going through an admittedly vigorous elimination process picking the perfect bag of oranges. You find him leaning down on the handle, forearms and all, chin atop his hands. Lips curved upward. Amusement sparkling in his eyes.Â
You have half a mind to toss the bag in the vicinity of the cartâs basket, hope for the best, and scurry off to the safety of another aisle before he makes it worse and says something while heâs looking at you like that, too.Â
(Does he even realize it? Does he know what he does to you?)
âPicky,â he teases when you approach, holding a hand out to grasp the netting that holds the oranges. Osamu puts them in the cart for you, even though you really could have done it yourself, and you have to firmly bite the inside of your cheek at the unintended domesticity of it all.Â
âHave you seen yourself standing in front of the avocado bin?â
He purses his lips thoughtfully. âFair.â
Osamu leads the way to the cereal aisle, remembering that you mentioned you were out of it, and you trail behind him, your tender mind caught on the sharp hook of an insistent thought that refuses to give way now that itâs made itself known.
You canât help but try and think back to when exactly everything the two of you do started to feel like this.
(Youâd be lying to yourself if you said it didnât feel like this from the very start.)
You donât know if youâre just imagining it, your heart caught in the crosshairs of the haze of your own rose-colored lens. If these touches and smiles and every easy little thing between you and him is perhaps nothing significant at all.Â
If the weight of everything left unspoken between the two of you is yours alone to bear, the echoes and whispers of fondness and affection that live in the notches between your ribs. If youâre waiting on the shore and heâs still adrift in the tide.Â
Youâre still lost in thought and reaching for the cereal when Osamuâs hand suddenly comes to rest against your hip, the other one grabbing the exact box he knows you were going for as he hurriedly murmurs in your ear, âDo ya trust me?â
Your brain briefly short circuits as you try to process the feeling of his fingers, wondering if maybe, perhaps, youâre actually still just asleep on your couch. You nod anyway.Â
Osamu exhales a sigh that might be relief and whispers, âI apologize in advance.â
Before you can try to figure out what he means, the cereal box takes flight as he launches it into the cart just as voice calls outâ
âOh my god, Bo. Are you seeinâ what Iâm seeinâ?â
You can hear Osamu take a deep breath beside you as he turns both of you around, pulling you even more closely against him.Â
Youâre met with the sight of what must undoubtedly be Osamuâs twin, Atsumuâwho youâve yet to meet but know plenty about. He runs a hand through his bleached blonde hair, elbowing the tall, silver-haired man standing beside him wearing a matching grin.Â
âSheâs real,â the other man whistles in disbelief.
Atsumu scratches his chin, head tilting to the side as he stares at the two of you for a moment. âSheâs too hot for him,â he concludes.
Their comments leave you wholly confused, but you hardly have time to ponder over them when Osamu mutters under his breath, âYeah ya are,â before he laces his fingers with yours and leans his head against you.
You feel hot everywhere heâs touching despite the frigid temperature of the store, and it takes everything in you to try and make it look natural when you let yourself sink against him in turn. And you think you imagine itâthe quiet sound of him swallowing beside you.Â
For all that Atsumu seems to delight in nagging his brother, in contrast, you would almost think heâs already somehow fond of you as he introduces himself and the man beside him, Bokuto Koutarou. You learn that they play on the same volleyball team.Â
Bokutoâs enthusiasm is infectious, to the point where you forget that none of this is real for a brief moment. You feel an air conditioning vent kick on with a vengeance from somewhere up above, and a chill runs through you. Almost immediately, Osamu reaches up to rub your arm.Â
âYa know, Iâve been begginâ Samu to let us meet ya for months,â Atsumu gripes.
Months?
Bokuto laughs, âHonestly, we were about to start a betting pool about whether you really existed or not.â
âGuess Akaashi woulda rinsed us all,â Atsumu sighs.
âAkaashi never doubted it,â Bokuto nods sagely.Â
âYou guys are so goddamn annoyinââ Osamu groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Atsumu slings an arm around his brotherâs shoulders, turning to look toward where youâre still standing pressed up against his other side. âBlink twice if heâs got ya under duress. I can fight.â
Youâre not exactly sure what compels you to make your next moveâthe long-suffering resignation on Osamuâs face, the teasing challenge on Atsumuâs. The fact that none of this is real, and youâre doing him a favor, so you might as well indulge in the moment and give them a show.Â
Whatever your reasoning is, Osamuâs clearly not expecting it when you lean forward around him to look at his brother, only to turn back to him instead. His eyes widen just a fraction when you cup his face, your lips finding the corner of his mouth.Â
The mint flavor of his gum tickles your lips.
âNah,â you smile. And maybe itâs entirely self-indulgent, the way you reach up and card your fingers through his hair after for good measure while you continue, âI like him. I think Iâll keep him.â
Osamu stares at you long after your hand drops back down to your side.Â
Atsumu sighs good-naturedly. âWell, heâs not allowed to hide ya from us anymore now. You should come to one of our games, Iâll make sure ya get a nice VIP seat.â
Osamu rolls his eyes. âPlease donât shmooze my girlfriend to come watch ya be a jackass on the court.â
Girlfriend.Â
Girlfriend.Â
A snort comes from somewhere in the direction of where Bokutoâs standing, scrolling through his phone.Â
âAh ah, I said seat,â Atsumu balks. âYer ugly mug is sittinâ in the parking lot.â
Osamu mutters something under his breath about looking in a mirror, and the two bicker for a bit before Bokuto joins in to talk about their most recent game. Before the four of you part ways, Bokuto gives you a smile and tells you that you should come with Osamu to the team barbecue-slash-pool party that heâs hosting at his house next weekend.
(Youâre already thinking about how in the world youâd manage to handle an entire fake dating escapade with a sun-kissed Osamu in a short sleeve, linen button down, sunglasses, and swim shorts.)Â
Meanwhile, Atsumu sounds surprisingly sincere when he turns directly to you and says, âYa know. My brother hasnât shut up about ya since the day he met ya. I was about to come over there, find your place, and confess for him.â
Your heartbeat echoes in your ears as Atsumuâs words sink in, and youâre in the middle of trying to reason with yourself that youâre taking his words a little too literally in the context of this moment when he adds, âIâm real glad he found ya though. Donât think Iâve seen Samu this happy in a long while.â
Osamu lightly punches his brother in the shoulder before he turns to leave and mutters, âYa big sap.â
Itâs only once youâre in the clear and heading toward the checkout that Osamu turns to you, scratching the back of his head. âThanks for goinâ along with the wholeâŠgirlfriend thing. Sorry if it was weird.â
Putting your items on the belt, you shrug, not really thinking of the implications of the joke that leaves your mouth a moment later. âCongrats on registering for your free trial, just donât forget to cancel it, or your credit card will be charged accordingly.â
Osamu pulls a reusable shopping bag out of his pocketâbecause of course he remembered to bring one. Itâs dark blue and covered in a pattern of cartoony onigiri. You huff out a quiet laugh as you take it from him and begin packing it. When he replies, heâs far closer to you than youâre expecting, and your fingers fumble while reaching for your credit card.Â
âDo ya accept payment in the form of dinner?â
Folding the receipt and putting it in your pocket, you turn to him, and he takes the shopping bag from you before you can object. The exit doors slide open, and the air outside feels marginally cooler.Â
âDepends, will it be prepared by the Chef Miya Osamu?â
Lightning flashes across the sky, inky blank giving way to an indigo glow that lights up the semiopaque clouds that stretch overhead. A rumble of thunder follows, and raindrops hit your skin.Â
âAnything for you.â He winks before looking up at the sky and adding, âBut we should hurry up if we wanna stay dry.â
Staying dry, as it turns out, isnât an option. The steady, cool droplets that dot the sidewalk quickly turn into an outright downpour before youâre even halfway home.
âMy plants!â you yelp, watching the way the rain begins to slant sideways. Because while they could certainly use some water, youâre doubtful that the more delicate ones will survive the wind.
Once you get inside, Osamu makes a beeline for the balcony, wordlessly handing you pot after pot while you stand just inside of the door as he continues to get pelted with rain. When all of your plants are safely relocated, you scurry off down the hallway, returning wearing a dry t-shirt and tossing Osamu a towel.
Unfortunately, your hand eye coordination, despite the fact that heâs only standing a few feet away from you, leaves something to be desired when you finally get a good look at him. Osamuâs white t-shirt is nearly see through, the damp material clinging to his arms and chest in a way thatâs practically obscene.Â
He swipes the towel up from where it landed pathetically on the floor, and you quickly turn away to busy yourself with the groceriesâitâs the only safe alternative to outright gawking at the way his muscles flex while he dries himself off.Â
âSure wish I had a spare shirt lyinâ around here somewhere,â Osamu muses, chin coming to rest on your shoulder as you make two sandwiches.Â
Rolling your eyes, you turn around and push one of them into his hands before hopping up to sit on the counter and eat your own. Anything to put some distance between yourself and the temptation of the fluffy, messy strands of his towel-dried hair.
You both quietly chew, Osamu leaning against the countertop near your thigh as you slowly swing your legs and let the balls of your feet tap against the lower cabinets. Eventually, he breaks the silence, hands now working their way over the thick skin of an orange as he turns it in his palms. He begins to peel it with a steady, practiced ease, the rind giving way beneath the slow curl of his fingers.
He doesnât look up at you when he talks.
âTsumu wasnât lyin, ya know.â
You inhale sharply, trying to cover it up with a soft snort. âAbout begging you to let him meet your fake girlfriend?
Osamuâs eyes find yours, and thereâs something in his stormy gray irises that reminds you of clouds illuminated by lightning (something that sparks and fizzes on its way down your throat as you swallow the thought).
âMm,â he replies, noncommittal, lips quirking in his usual half smile.Â
He holds out a piece of orange.
Youâre not entirely sure why, but instead of taking it between your fingers, you lean toward him. Just enough for him to get the hint. Osamu exhales through his nose, holding your gazes as he steps forward, fitting himself up against the counter in the space between your thighs.Â
He presses the slice to your lips.
âI was thinkinâ about the bit where he mentioned how happy Iâve been.â
You bite down, mouth watering as the sweet citrus flavor floods your tongue. Your toes curl. Juice slips down your chin, and Osamu catches it with his thumb, carefully wiping it away. The digit ghosts over the curve of your jaw before he lets his hand drop back down at his side.Â
You take your time chewing, if only to give your heart time to settle down in your chest, and Osamu eats a slice, too, before continuing, âBut ya see, heâd definitely wring my neck knowinâ I still havenât actually confessed.â
Itâs a battle in and of itself to try and keep your expression neutral, despite the fireworks show currently going off in the vicinity of your heart. âTo your fake girlfriend?â
He nods. âYa see, I think maybe she thinks that sheâs just my downstairs neighbor.â
âIsnât she?â
âWell, she became my favorite person somewhere along the way, too.â
Heat engulfs your veins, a molten flash flood that leaves you swaying in place, and you try to keep your voice steady when you nonchalantly reply, âYou should tell her.â
âWhat if she doesnât feel the same and slams the door in my face?âÂ
You shrug, waving a hand dismissively. âYour face is too handsome to slam a door on.â
Osamu raises a brow. âWill ya kiss it better if she says no?â
Your chest lurches. Hard. âWhy are you so convinced sheâs going to turn you down?â
âWhat do you think sheâs gonna say?â he asks, gazing at you imploringly.Â
âYouâll never know until you try.â
Osamu leans in closer, close enough for the warmth from his breath to curl against your lips. âI really wanna kiss ya right now.â
âSo why arenât you?â you whisper.
Osamu cups your face in his warm hands, thumbs carefully stroking your cheeks, dragging his gaze from your eyes to your mouth in a way that feels like warm, dripping honey. Thunder rumbles on outside, flashes of lightning pouring in through the windows.
And when Osamuâs lips finally come crashing into yours, itâs an entirely different kind of storm that swells in your chestâ
He tastes like citrus.
âitâs a searing, dizzying wave, one that curls and crests with the shape of his mouth moving against yours, with the feeling of his tongue slipping against the seam of your lips.Â
He tastes like a storm.
Your fingers find their way into his hair, carding through strands that are still partially damp in places, and you part your lips for him. He groans, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of your head as the other slips down to curl against your waist.Â
He tastes new and familiar all at once.
(Like everything you want and all that you need and what youâve been too afraid to ask for even if heâs already had your heart in the palm of his hands this whole timeâ)
Osamu kisses you like heâs wanted this just as badly as you have all along.
And when you finally part for air, he doesnât go far, forehead leaning against yours, thumb running over your bottom lip almost reverently.
âCan I keep you?â he asks softly.
An echo of your earlier words, though the weight in them is far heavier as his lips brush against yours while he speaks.Â
You smile against his mouth and answer him with a kiss of your own.
synopsis; (y/n) pushes atsumu's hair back one day and says it suits him. he has never changed his hair since.
this could potentially be a continuation for this fic
a/n; in my mind this is canon and this is what inspired his post-time skip hairstyle
also this fic is part of the off-season quartetâą series! for more, click here :)
It wasnât that deep.
At least not to (y/n).
It was just a regular night in the apartmentâTV on, a bowl of popcorn half-finished between them, and the comforting weight of doing absolutely nothing together.
Osamu was working late again, some last-minute rush order at the restaurant. Suna had disappeared into the loft hours ago and hadnât been seen since, probably swallowed whole by anime, gaming, or sleep.
Which left just the two of them.
Atsumu was slouched on the floor, back against the couch, legs stretched out like he owned the place. (Y/n) sat behind him, perched with her knees tucked under her chin, nursing a mug of tea and lazily tossing popcorn at his head.
âMissed again,â he said without looking, one hand catching the flying kernel mid-air like he had a sixth sense. He huffed a laugh before plopping the popcorn into his mouth. âHow are ya missinâ at this range?â
(Y/n) frowned, but a smile was forming. âPretty sure your hair's just deflecting it or something. Probably got repelled from the amount of bleach you use."
He clicked his tongue and turned slightly, one knee propped, tossing her a smirk over his shoulder. âUh. Excuse you. My hairâs flawless, thanks. Not my fault ya got bad aim.â
âMy aim is fine,â she said, before promptly pelting another piece at him. It hit him square in the forehead and bounced off with a sad little thud. She grinned. âSee?â
He grumbled, rubbing at the spot with the sleeve of his hoodie. âUgh. Ya got grease on me.â
(Y/n) watched, amused, as he fussed over the tiniest mark on his skinârubbing like sheâd somehow sabotaged his entire skincare routine. Not that she could blame him. He actually looked good lately. Ever since she'd bullied him into trying toner a few weeks back, his complexion had been clearer, brighter. Almost dewy.
An idea sprung to mind.
She reached forward without thinking, brushing her fingers through his bangsâlight, casual, a little absentminded. Her hand swept them gently back, smoothing the front of his hair away from his face, tucking a few strands behind his ear as she looked at him.
âThere,â she murmured, mostly to herself. Then, with a pleasant brightness to her voice, âHuh. That actually looks really good on you.â
Atsumu blinked.
The world did not blink with him. Time very rudely continued.
He swallowed. âHuh?â
âYour hair. Pushed back.â
She tilted her head, smiling in that simple, nonchalant way that meant she didnât realize she was casually sending his heart into overdrive.
âIt suits you. Makes you look⊠mature or something.â
âMature or somethin',â he repeated, still frozen in place like he was having a hard time catching up.
She leaned back onto her palms, shrugging. âDunno. Just a thought. Maybe you should keep it like that.â
And just like that, she went back to drinking her tea, eyes trained on the TV.
Meanwhile, Atsumu was sitting there like heâd just heard the prophecy of his destiny. Like someone had revealed the cheat code to life. The code being: wear your hair the way she likes it.
âRight,â he mumbled, ears faintly pink. âSure. I meanâyeah. I might.â
And the next day?
Hair. Pushed. Back.
No announcement. No explanation. Just a casual new era that he absolutely pretended was his idea.
Osamu noticed. Suna noticed. Suna definitely gave him a knowing look.
But Atsumu didnât say a word.
Didnât feel like he had to.
Because when (y/n) passed him in the hallway that morning and gave his hair a light pat, smiled, and said, âSee? Told you it suits you,â
synopsis; you all go for a late-night snack run then talk about your love life in the car park
this fic is part of the off-season quartetâą series! for more, click here :)
The dorm was a disaster zone of notebooks, half-drunk coffee cups, and an open laptop playing a study playlist that no one was actually listening to. The four of themâ Atsumu, Osamu, Suna, and (y/n)â were camped out in (y/n)'s tiny dorm room, attempting to cram for an upcoming exam.
Osamu, leaning back in his chair, suddenly sighed dramatically. âIâm hungry.â
Suna, barely looking up from his phone, muttered, âShocker.â
âNo, like starvinâ. I need food now.â Osamu groaned, rubbing his stomach. âIf I donât eat in the next ten minutes, I might actually pass out.â
Atsumu, sprawled out on the floor with his notes abandoned beside him, snorted. âYa just ate a whole bag of chips, fatso.â
âYeah, and? That was ages ago.â
(Y/n), perched on her bed with a highlighter in hand, glanced at the clock. âThe store closes in, like, twenty minutes.â
Silence. Thenâ
âGet in the car.â
Suna was already grabbing his keys.
The four of them abandoned their so-called study session, scrambling to throw on hoodies and slip into shoes before tumbling out the door. The night air was cool, crisp, buzzing with that particular kind of spontaneous energy.
They piled into Sunaâs car, Atsumu calling shotgun before (y/n) could even blink. Osamu slid into the back with her, stretching out comfortably while (y/n) was almost squished between him and the door.
Suna adjusted the mirrors, deadpan. âIf I get a ticket for speeding, youâre paying.â
Osamu scoffed. âI literally have no money.â
âLiar,â Atsumu chimed in.
Suna glanced at Osamu in the mirror. âThen Iâll make you do it in community service hours.â
(Y/n) grinned, already feeling lighter than she had all day. âDrive, Rintaro. We have a mission.â
"Yes ma'am."
After that, Suna pulled out of the parking lot, the radio humming low in the background as the streetlights blurred past. The night stretched ahead of them, quiet and endless, filled with nothing but open roads and the kind of laughter that only came with knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be. To anyone else, it was just a snack run. But to them, nights like these were something sacred.
Gazing out the window, (y/n) smiled.
I wonder if the store has strawberry shortcake?
The store was quiet, a few last-minute shoppers weaving through the aisles before closing time. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as the four of them scattered in different directions, each with their own mission.
Osamu took approximately fifteen minutes trying to decide what crisp flavour he wanted, standing in front of the shelf like it was a life-altering decision. Eventually, with a dramatic sigh, he shrugged and tossed all of them into the trolley. âProblem solved.â
Atsumu, trailing behind, wrinkled his nose. âYa gonna eat all that?â
âNot in one night, dumbass.â
âYa sure? âCause Iâd believe it.â
Osamu smirked. âUnlike you, I can actually afford it. Some of us work, yâknow.â
(Y/n) glanced over. âOh yeah, howâs the restaurant job going?â
Osamu shrugged. âNot bad. Pays decent, tips are alright. Plus, I get free food sometimes.â
Atsumu scoffed. âYa mean ya steal food.â
Osamu rolled his eyes. âNo, I just happen to be really good at takinâ home leftovers.â
Meanwhile, Atsumu debated buying an energy drink, picking up a can and inspecting it like it held the answers to his future. âMan, I need somethinâ to keep me awake,â he muttered, turning it in his hands. âBut this stuff ainât good for athletes. Coach would kill me."
Suna, grabbing a bottle of water, deadpanned, âThen donât drink it.â
Atsumu groaned. âBut I need it.â
Suna shrugged. âThen drink it.â
Atsumu scowled. âYer no help.â
Across the store, (y/n) stood in front of the ready-made cake section, practically drooling over the rows of neatly packaged desserts. There was a small strawberry shortcake in a plastic container that looked perfectâ exactly like she had wantedâ light, fluffy, and covered in fresh whipped cream. She reached for it, already imagining how good it would taste, but the second she checked her bank balance on her phone, she sighed and put it back down.
Suna, who had seen the whole thing, grabbed the cake without a word and dropped it into the cart.
(Y/n)âs face lit up instantly. She turned to him, beaming, and flung her arms around him in a quick but tight hug. âRin, youâre the best! Thank you!â
Suna, unbothered, patted her head. âYeah, yeah. You can do the intro for my dissertation.â
(Y/n) pulled back, narrowing her eyes. âThatâs why you did it? Not because you love me?â
Suna pulled a face, considering.
(Y/n) rolled her eyes, affectionately swatting his arm.
Suna smirked, amused. âC'mon it's a fair trade.â
"Whatever, Rin. I'll do halfâ max."
"Deal."
Atsumu, watching from a few feet away, clicked his tongue. âThis is favoritism.â
Osamu snorted. âJealous?â
Atsumu scoffed, crossing his arms. âNo.â
(Y/n) turned to him, holding up the cake. âDid you want a piece, âTsumu?â
Atsumu, suddenly unable to look her in the eye, scratched the back of his head. âI mean⊠I wouldn't say no..."
Beside them, Osamu and Suna exchanged a knowing glance, barely holding back their smirks. Once (y/n) was out of ear-shot, the latter smirked. "She's talking about the cake, right?"
Atsumu shot them a glare.
Can't they just give it a rest?
After finally paying for their haul, the four of them made their way back to the car. Of course, in true Osamu fashion, he had refused to buy a shopping bag, grumbling about how they âwerenât gonna scam him outta another ten yen.â Instead, he opted to carry his absurdly large stack of crisp bags and snacks in his arms, which, unsurprisingly, obscured his entire line of vision.
âDude, you canât even see,â Suna pointed out, unlocking the car with a click.
âI got it,â Osamu shot back, voice slightly strained as he tried to maneuver his way around the parking lot.
(Y/n) snorted, reaching out to steady a teetering bag of chips before it could hit the ground. âYouâre doing great, sweetie.â
Atsumu, already munching on a chocolate bar, gave him a pointed look. âYa look like a human vending machine.â
âLeast I got actual snacks. All you got is a sugar rush and regret.â
Atsumu narrowed his eyes, taking an exaggeratedly loud bite just to prove a point.
Suna shook his head, sliding into the driverâs seat. âHurry up before I leave all of you behind.â
Eventually, after much struggle (and Osamu nearly dropping half of his snacks twice), they managed to pile back into the car.
âAlright,â (y/n) sighed contentedly, cracking open a drink. âSnack time.â
Soon, the scent of junk food filled the space and as the vehicle fell into easy silence, Suna took the opportunity to scroll through his phone and open Spotify. He picked a song, letting it hum low through the speakers.
Next to him, Atsumu took one bite of his sandwich and crumbs exploded onto the seat.
âDude,â Suna groaned. âCan you eat like a normal human?â
âShuddap,â the blonde replied between mouthfuls.
Meanwhile, (y/n) was practically inhaling her strawberry shortcake, discussing how the tartness of the jam complemented the sweetness of the cream. Osamu nodded along, making muffled sounds of agreement through his own snack.
Atsumu gave them a blank look. âNerds.â
(Y/n) just frowned at him.
Osamu flipped him the bird.
Then, Suna leaned back. âYou guys got anything goinâ on in your love lives, or what?"
Osamu shrugged. âTalkinâ stage with a girl in my class. She's cute but I ain't feelin' it."
Atsumu swallowed his food, scoffing obnoxiously. ââ'S'cause ya got no game.â
At this, everyone turned to himâ unblinkingâ one eyebrow raised accusatorily.
Atsumu suddenly felt oddly small.
âYou can talk, Mister One-Shot-Wonder,â (y/n) said accusingly. âLeast your brother can secure himself a second date.â
Osamu folded his arms, looking awfully smug as she defended him.
Meanwhile, his brother pulled a face, indignant.
"Eh!? Where's this come from??" Atsumu asked, visibly insulted. "Also, I choose not to go on second dates."
A scoff. "Yeah, 'cause you sleep with them on the first date then never speak to them again."
There was somewhat of an awkward tension in the air as (y/n) scolded him. The world knew it was because she always hated how Atsumu handled women. Even after all her long-winded lectures about his dating life, he still carried on with his frivolous ways, advice falling upon deaf ears.
Osamu and Suna, however, knew better. Atsumu hadn't liedâ he really did choose not to go on second dates. Not because he couldn't, not because others would lose interest. The simple, and only, reason for his 'one-shot wonders' was, in fact, sitting right in front of him.
Osamu debated easing the tension by making some sort of half-hearted joke, but just as he opened his mouth, his twin cut in.
âListen, I'll go on a second date when I find someone worth my time."
And there it wasâ a perfect opportunity to shift the atmosphere.
"And who would that be?" Osamu probed, a knowing lilt to his otherwise measured voice.
Almost on cue, Atsumu tensed, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
He leaned into his seat, suddenly unable to look anyone in the eye, his face burning as his twin and Suna watched him flounder in real time.
(Y/n), on the other hand, watched him expectantly, not saying a word.
Suna smirked, tilting his head. âWhatâs wrong, âTsumu? Canât think of anyone worth your time?â
Osamu feigned a concerned look. âReal shame. Maybe no oneâs interestin' enough for ya, huh?â
(Y/n) watched them bicker, blissfully unaware of the real reason behind Atsumuâs silence. With a teasing smile, she nudged his arm. âOh, câmon, âTsumu. Thereâs gotta be someone you like.â
Atsumuâs throat went dry. He swallowed hard, willing his voice to work. âI meanâ Iâ"
The words got stuck.
(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, forever waiting.
Osamu and Suna, sensing his absolute distress, exchanged a glanceâ and then pounced.
âAww, ya nervous, âTsumu?â
âWow, he actually canât talk. Thatâs a first.â
Osamu nudged (y/n). âMaybe itâs someone real close to home.â
A frown.
Suna smirked. âYeah, like, really close.â
Atsumuâs brain stalled.
(Y/n) stared at him, her expression shifting from amused to suspicious. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
She frowned, feeling like an outsider in a conversation she wasnât privy to. A fleeting thought crossed her mindâ were they talking about her? No, that couldnât be it. They were probably talking about the girl from their shared seminar, the pretty one who always asked Atsumu for his notes. Yeah, that must be it.
âI need some air,â she muttered, opening the car door.
Suna and Osamu exchanged a lookâ uh oh.
Atsumu shot them a glareâ now look what you've doneâ before quickly slipping out of the car to follow her.
He found her a few steps away, perched on one of the railings where the trolleys were kept, arms crossed as she stared at the deserted parking lot.
âOi,â he called out, a little softer than usual. "S'cold out here. Want my jacket?"
A hum.
Swiftly pulling his hoodie over his head, he draped it over (y/n).
"Thanks."
Silence.
âSo⊠about earlier," Atsumu began, leaning beside her. He took several glances in her direction, only to find her staring straight aheadâ which could mean one of two things:
A. She's pissed off.
B. She's thinking.
Both were a reason for concern.
"They were just messinâ around. When are they not?" The latter part of his sentence was delivered with an unintentional scoff.
Finally, (y/n) glanced at him, almost making his heart leap out of his chest.
âWho is she?â
Atsumu hesitated. âEh?â
âThe girl." Her voice carried hints of hesitation, and Atsumu hadn't missed the way her fingers fiddled with the sleeves of herâ or ratherâhis hoodie. "Do I know her?â
Atsumu exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. âYeah⊠ya do.â
Her stomach twisted slightly. Atsumu always told her everything, but now it felt like he was holding back. Love lives were important. Why wouldnât he just tell her? He usually did.
Atsumu shifted on his feet, gaze flickering toward hers before settling on the pavement. âIâll tell ya when the time is right.â
A double meaning lingered in his words, but (y/n) didnât catch it.
Not yet, at least.
She sighed, rolling her shoulders as if trying to shake off the weight of the conversation. Atsumu watched her closely, then, as if sensing she needed a distraction, his lips curved into a smirk.
âYâknow, if ya wanted to get me alone, sweetheart, ya coulda just asked,â he teased, nudging her side.
(Y/n) scoffed, shoving him lightly. âOh, please. If I wanted to be alone with you, it wouldn't be somethin' as boring as the middle of some dodgy car park."
Atsumu chuckled as (y/n) gestured towards the dark, empty stretch of tarmac around them. âYou sayin' I ainât excitinâ enough for ya?"
She rolled her eyes but couldnât stop the small smile creeping onto her lips. âNot even close.â
Atsumu hummed, stepping closer, his voice dipping into something softer. âThat so? Guess I gotta work harder then.â
His hand came up suddenly, flicking her nose.
(Y/n) made a small noise, scrunching her face as she swatted at him. âHey!"
He laughed a little louder this time, dodging her attempts to shove him away. âHas anyone ever told ya how adorable ya are?"
âUgh, youâre the worst.â She tried to sound annoyed, but the laughter bubbling in her throat betrayed her.
Atsumu grinned. âNah, ya love me.â
Before she could fire back, a loud honk shattered the moment.
They both turned to see Suna sitting smugly behind the wheel, his hand resting lazily on the horn. Osamu, in the passenger seat, rolled down the window.
"Oi, quit flirtinâ, you two. There's a boxed mac and cheese waitin' for me at home,â Osamu called, sounding comically urgent.
(Y/n) groaned, shaking her head at the latter while Atsumu let out an exaggerated sigh. âCanât get a moment of peace âround here.â
Still, neither of them argued as they trudged back to the car, a lingering warmth between them that neither was willing to acknowledge just yet.
As soon as they got in, Suna cranked up the stereo, and (y/n) immediately perked up at the familiar song. Without hesitation, she started singing along, Osamu harmonizing lazily beside her.
Atsumu cleared his throat, eyes ablaze. âSuna, turn this shit up."
Suna wordlessly complied, huffing a laugh through his nose as he watched the trio sing in the rear-view mirror.
And just like that, the tension melted, laughter bubbling up between them as they sped down the empty streets, the city lights stretching endlessly ahead.
â in which an incessant fan girl, a kiss, and a little bit of denial makes oikawa tooru realize he might mildly like you more than like
description. youâve been in love with oikawa tooru for longer than you can remember. having known him for the better part of nearly 11 years, youâve come to accept that youâll never be more than a best friend to him. but with the help of a few irritatingly persistent fangirls and a kiss that was only meant to drive them away, a tale of unrequited love might just prove to be something more.Â
warnings. language
word count. 4.2k
oikawa tooru x f!reader, childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, some angst
parts. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
authorâs note. i started writing this a few weeks ago and it was originally just going to be a one-shot but it got almost up to 10k words so i just decided to split it up HHSKFJ
Oikawa Tooru has perhaps one of the strongest drives when it comes to hard work.Â
His tenacity is a thing of nature, something that awes you time and time again, no matter how many times youâve seen him pick himself up before. It might be one of the reasons you fell in love with him in the first place.Â
But despite how in-tune he is with his senses on a mental standpoint, his Achillesâ heel lies with his inability to pick up on the signs his body gives him when itâs had enough. Well, he can, but he just chooses not to listen.Â
His first encounter with a crack in that heel came in his first-year, where you had to stand on the sidelines and watch as he fell to the ground during a game with a resounded sweep of gasps around the gym. That injury benched him for more than half the season.Â
It was from that point on that you and Iwaizumi decided that if Oikawa wasnât going to take care of his own body, then it would be up to you two to make sure his head is still above water.Â
So it doesnât surprise you when your phone flashes with a text message from Iwaizumi during one of your shifts at the bakery.Â
Aot!Haikyuu | MSBY Black Jackals x Reader (Atsumu Route)
⧠ Summary: (Attack on Titan x Haikyuu) In an effort to unlock the secrets behind Titans, you got injured during one of Tendouâs Scout Regiment experiments. This was nothing new, but even you were surprised at how much those boys cared about you.
âł Warnings: Language and Attack on Titan Canon Violence
âł Tags: Reader x MSBY Black Jackals; Slight Reader x Schweiden Adlers; Takes place before the Fall of Trost;
âł Â Masterlist
Pick your route!
Introduction  | Sakusa Kiyoomi | Hinata Shoyou  | Bokuto Koutarou
