autism tests are so funny. I'm extremely literal most of the time, but people don't tell me that generally, so I'm inclined to answer disagree. because I'm taking the statement too literally
wc: 17k || art creds: @/winterrbluess @/su2kuna || 18+
frat!sukuna x shy!nerd!reader
A/N lowk this fic is much more toned down compared to what i usually post but fuck it we ball it's cute
summary ! sukuna doesn't give a shit about chemistry, that is until the big red 8% on his last test threatens to get him kicked out of his frat. desperate, he turns to the only person who can save him: you, the adorable, shy girl who aces every quiz. you agree to help, but only if he helps you get the attention of your hallway crush, his best friend, toji. what starts as a deal between you slowly turns into a spiral of love and jealousy. (18+, fluff, slight toji x reader (?), no angst for once omg go me)
the big red number stares back at him from the top of the paper like a brand burned into his pride. 8%.
sukuna exhales through his nose, the sound rough, annoyed. the paper crumples in his hand before he tosses it onto the desk. he leans back in his chair, the metal legs creaking under his weight as his jaw works.
normally, he wouldn’t give a damn about a grade. it’s not like chemistry was ever something he cared about. but this time, it’s different. one more fail and he’s out. the frat has rules, grades too low and you’re done. and he knows exactly what’ll happen if that happens.
tojis smug laugh. satoru’s endless teasing. the guys calling him “brain-dead” for weeks. no more parties. no more sorority hoes. no more lazy afternoons drinking on the porch with his friends.
he runs a hand down his face, dragging his fingers over the faint scar under his eye and the sharp tatted lines on his cut face. he can’t let that happen.
at the front of the room, their professor is rambling about averages and assessment weightings, something about the next major project. sukuna tunes back in when he hears the words “sixty percent” and “partner work.” that catches his attention.
the next gruelling assessment is a two-month long research investigation worth sixty percent of their final grade.
he was on the verge of strangling himself to death or jumping out of the top story window when he realised.
that’s it.
that’s his way out. he just needs a smart partner who can carry his hopeless ass.
sukuna’s eyes sweep across the room, scanning for anyone who looks like they know what the hell they’re doing. most of the people he usually talks to in class are as useless as he is, too busy flirting or sleeping through lectures.
but then his gaze catches on someone sitting right up the front.
you.
the quiet girl with the tidy notes and the neat handwriting, the one who always answers when the professor asks a question no one else dares to.
you’re sitting there now, head slightly tilted as you jot something down, your pen gliding across the page with that easy confidence of someone who actually understands this shit.
you’ve always sat alone, tucked near the window. you never talk during lectures unless you have to, and even then your voice is small, hesitant. you wear oversized sweaters, keep your hair pinned up, and avoid eye contact with anyone who looks remotely like they belong to his world.
still, he’s noticed you before. everyone has. it’s hard not to. you’re the kind of girl that seems untouchable, not because you’re trying to be, but because you’re so far removed from everything he knows. soft, focused, real sweet.
and right now, you look like salvation.
he pushes up from his seat, ignoring the curious glances from a few classmates as he moves down the aisle. his tall frame blocks the light for a second when he stops beside your desk. you glance up, startled, your pen pausing mid-sentence.
"yo, my names sukuna. and you?"
"uh, hi? it's y/n." he smirks at your shy response, but continues.
“you’re like, a chem genius, right?” his tone is low, rough with disinterest, though his eyes linger on you a little too long.
you blink up at him, hesitant. “oh, um… i guess? why?”
“i need a partner, like, real bad,” he says, dropping the failed exam onto your desk with a dull slap. the red ink almost glows. “i'm gonna be honest, i completely fucked myself with this last exam. i can’t afford to fail again.”
you stare at the paper, then at him. up close, he’s intimidating. messy pink hair, dark eyes sharp and unreadable, tattoos trailing up his arms, his face, and peeking out from under his shirt collar.
he looks nothing like someone who’d ever ask for help, especially from you, and the fact that he’s doing it now makes your mind reel.
“i—look, don't take this the wrong way, but... theres a lot of people in this class,” you manage softly. “why pick me?”
he shrugs, leaning one hand on the desk beside your notes. “because you actually know what you’re doing. and i’m not looking to get stuck with some idiot who’ll drag me down, i'm already so fucking cooked."
you hesitate, glancing away. you’ve never really talked to him before. actually, you’ve barely even noticed him beyond the times you’ve seen him walking across campus with toji. that’s usually when your stomach does that stupid fluttering thing. watching toji laugh, his arm slung lazily around sukuna’s shoulders, both of them looking like they own the place.
it’s strange seeing one of them standing here now, asking you for help.
you fidget with your pen. “that's fine, sure. but… if we’re partners, wed have to split the workload.”
"yeah,” he says. “i can pull my weight, don't stress it, sweetheart. mostly just need someone to keep me from bombing it.”
it’s almost funny. he’s trying to sound casual, but something about the way he’s watching you feels uncharacteristically careful. like he’s actually waiting for your answer rather than being the overbearing dick he usually is.
maybe it’s because you’re cute. or maybe it’s because he knows you hold his fate in your small, nervous hands.
you chew your lip for a moment, then nod. “yeah, okay. i’ll help you out.”
his mouth tilts in a grin that’s half smug, half genuine relief. “good. 'preciate it, babe.”
you look down instantly, pretending to organize your papers so he doesn’t see the way your face warms. you weren't used to such casual name calling.
he drags a chair over from the next row and drops into it beside you, leaning back like he’s been sitting there all semester.
the professor’s voice fades into the background again as you stare straight ahead, trying to focus on anything but the fact that sukuna ryomen, the most notorious guy in beta tau, is now your project partner.
a few minutes pass in silence. the lecture drags on, your notes filling another page. but your mind’s racing the whole time. sukuna, meanwhile, can’t stop sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.
he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. and he definitely hadn’t expected to find himself curious about you. you’re so… different. not the kind of girl who shows up to parties. not someone who flirts back when he smirks at her. just quiet and sweet, head buried in your work, the type that shouldn’t even be in his orbit.
and yet here you are.
when the professor dismisses the class, people start packing up. you hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to him.
“hey… sukuna?”
he hums, eyes flicking toward you lazily. “yeah?”
you look nervous, the words almost tripping over themselves before they leave your mouth. cute. “i’ll help you pass. but… can you help me out with something too?”
his brow arches. “hmm. depends what it is.”
you take a quiet breath. “it’s about your friend. uh— toji.”
that gets his attention. his posture stiffens a little. “what about him?”
you look down at your notebook, like it’s safer than looking at him. “i just… i think he’s really attractive. and he looks nice. i know it’s kind of stupid but i was wondering if maybe... you could help me get him to notice me.”
for a second, sukuna just stares at you.
out of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t it.
you, the shy little thing sitting up front, blushing and tripping over her own words, want toji fushiguro. one of the biggest assholes on campus. his best friend, sure, but a guy who barely remembers girls’ names after he sleeps with them.
he leans back slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “you’re serious?”
you nod, eyes still fixed on your notebook.
he studies you for a long moment. you’re fidgeting again, twisting your pen between your fingers, your voice so soft he almost misses it. “you don’t have to if it’s weird, i just thought… you two are close, so maybe…”
sukuna exhales through his nose. part of him wants to tell you it’s a bad idea. that toji doesn’t deserve someone like you. that you’d get hurt trying to chase a guy like that.
but he doesn’t.
instead, he tilts his head and says, “yeah, fine. i’ll help you out.”
your head snaps up, eyes wide. “huh— really?”
“yeah. but only because you’re saving my ass with this project,” he says, smirking a little. “guess we’ll call it even.”
you smile—small, bright, genuine—and something tightens in his chest. you're so cute.
“thank you,” you say quietly.
he grins again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “don’t mention it, honey.”
and as you pack up your notes, he watches you go, already trying to ignore the strange feeling crawling up the back of his neck.
he tells himself it’s just a deal. a trade. nothing more.
but as you disappear out the door, he can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gotten himself into more trouble than he realizes.
~
music blasts through the frat, heavy bass shaking the walls, bodies moving in rhythm across the living room floor. someone’s yelling over the noise, someone else is laughing too loud.
the air smells like bad beer, smoke, and sweat, the classic friday night cocktail that means beta tau is alive and wild again.
sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, red solo cup in hand, watching a game of beer pong play out in front of him. the noise is deafening, but it’s a familiar kind of chaos. toji’s across the table, grin sharp as he sinks another ping-pong ball into the last cup.
“hell yeah,” toji shouts, hands raised. “that’s another win for me, baby!”
someone hands him another drink, and he downs it in one go, slamming the cup down as the room cheers. toji fushiguro lives for this kind of night—beer, bets, and easy company. sukuna’s used to it, the routine almost comforting.
he joins the next round, barely losing after a stupid bounce, then lets himself collapse onto the sagging couch beside toji. the music’s pounding through the walls, but the corner they’re in feels quieter, almost like the noise fades around them.
toji stretches out, arm slung over the back of the couch, shirt sticking to his skin. “you’re slipping, man,” he says, smirking at sukuna. “used to be able to hold your own in beer pong.”
“fuck up,” sukuna mutters, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. “that last shot was rigged.”
“rigged?” toji laughs, deep and unrestrained. “you’re just rusty.”
sukuna grunts, tossing his empty cup onto the coffee table. his head’s buzzing—not from the alcohol, just from thoughts he can’t quite shake.
the image of you, the way you looked earlier in class, keeps floating up uninvited. you sitting at the front of the room, your careful handwriting, the little way you’d fidget with your pen when you were nervous.
he doesn’t even realize he’s been quiet until toji elbows him. “yo, what’s got you zoning out?”
sukuna runs his tongue over his teeth, deciding. screw it. “you ever heard of someone named y/n?”
toji raises a brow, blinking like he didn’t catch that over the noise. “who?”
“y/n,” sukuna repeats.
toji shakes his head, lips quirking. “nah. that some new chick you’re banging?”
sukuna sputters, choking on air. “what? no. i’m not—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. great. smooth start.
toji’s smirk widens. “come on, man. don’t get shy on me. you’re stuttering like some freshman.”
“shut up,” sukuna mutters, glaring at him. “it’s not like that.”
“then what’s it like?”
he hesitates, watching the light flicker off the beer bottles on the table. there’s no way to explain it without sounding weird. he’s not even sure why he’s bringing you up at all, except that he made a promise, and now he’s gotta start somewhere.
“she’s just… in my chem class,” he finally says. “smart as hell. the kind that actually knows what she’s doing, y’know?”
toji snorts. “so, a nerd.”
“yeah,” sukuna says, ignoring the way toji says it like it’s an insult. “but, like… cute. shy, quiet, nice, i guess.”
toji’s grin widens. “bro. you’re seriously telling me about a crush right now? what the hell happened to you?”
“it’s not a crush,” sukuna says quickly, though his voice comes out sharper than he means. “she’s just—” he stops, running a hand through his hair. “she’s helping me with chem, okay? and i told her i’d help her with something too.”
“what, she want free alcs?” toji laughs.
“no.” sukuna exhales through his nose. “she wants you.”
that earns him a pause. toji tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide if he misheard. “me?”
“yeah.”
“as in… she wants to, what, date me?”
“basically.”
toji’s silent for a moment, then he breaks into a bark of laughter so loud it turns a few heads. “you’re kidding, right? some shy nerdy girl wants me?” he grins, tapping his chest. “guess she’s got good taste.”
sukuna grits his teeth. “don’t be an ass about it.”
“what? i’m not being an ass,” toji says, still smirking. “just saying, that’s not really my type, man. i like girls who can actually keep up, y’know?”
“yeah, i know,” sukuna mutters. “that’s kinda the problem.”
“problem?”
sukuna leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “look, she’s… she’s sweet. like, actually sweet. the kind of girl that probably still says ‘sorry’ even when someone bumps into her first. you’d break her in half.”
toji shrugs, unbothered. “then maybe she shouldn’t be into me.”
“she doesn’t even know you,” sukuna says, frustration creeping into his tone. “she just saw you around. thinks you’re… i don’t know. hot and nice.”
“ha,” toji barks out a laugh, finishing his drink. “then she’s definitely got the wrong idea.”
sukuna sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. this was going nowhere.
he tries again, his tone careful. “i just figured maybe you could give her a chance. she’s not like the other girls you mess with. she’s…” he hesitates, searching for the right word. “different. the kind you’d actually like if you gave her five minutes.”
toji side-eyes him, clearly amused. “you trying to sell me a girlfriend or something? what’s in it for you?”
sukuna’s jaw tightens. “nothing. i told her i’d help her out, that’s all.”
toji grins, eyes glinting. “you sure about that? you sound kinda like you wanna keep her for yourself.”
sukuna’s silent for a beat, his pulse ticking faster than it should. “i don’t.”
“right. and i’m the pope.” toji laughs, leaning back. “are you high? tellin’ me about how cute and shy she is… just fuck her and move on, bro. no need for all this emotional shit.”
sukuna drags a hand down his face, groaning. “i wish i was fucking high. jesus, you’re impossible.”
the music gets louder again, another chant rising from the kitchen as someone calls for shots. toji stands, stretching, grinning down at him. “come on, man. stop thinking so hard. let’s go get wasted.”
sukuna waves him off. “nah, i’m good. go ahead.”
toji shrugs and disappears into the crowd. sukuna sinks further into the couch, head tipping back, letting the noise drown out the frustration burning in his chest.
this was going to be a nightmare.
.
the next morning, the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall feel like punishment. the air smells like stale coffee and paper, and the chatter around the room grates on his nerves. sukuna slouches into his seat, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion clinging to him.
you’re already there, of course. neat stack of papers beside your laptop, pen in hand, posture perfect. you glance up as he approaches, offering a small smile.
“morning,” you say softly.
“hey,” he mutters, sliding into the seat next to you.
the teacher doesn’t waste time, telling everyone to start working on their projects. pairs scatter across the room, some staying behind, others leaving for the library. you glance at sukuna, uncertain.
“should we…?”
“yeah, library,” he says before you can finish. “less noise.”
you nod quickly, tucking your notes under your arm as you follow him out.
the walk’s quiet. you keep close but not too close, fingers gripping the strap of your bag. sukuna glances at you once or twice as you walk, the sunlight catching the edge of your hair. there’s something weirdly calming about you, like your presence forces the chaos in his head to settle for a bit.
when you reach the campus library, you pick a small table near the back, away from the groups of whispering students. the morning light filters through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air. it’s quiet enough that every turn of a page feels loud.
you sit across from him, pulling your laptop from your bag. “um, before we start, maybe we should exchange contact info?”
he nods, pulling out his phone. “yeah. what's ya' number?”
you rattle it off, and he types it in. his phone pings a second later when you text him, and he adds your contact with a lazy swipe. then you both exchange social media.
you open your instagram to show him, but he’s already found it. your account’s small—cozy, soft colors, pictures of coffee cups, notes, and the occasional selfie that looks like you were trying not to take one.
then you look at his. thousands of followers, stories from parties, shirtless gym photos, snapshots of him and toji grinning like idiots with red cups in hand.
you blink, then smile politely. “ours are… really different.”
he huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. just a little.”
he doesn’t tell you that he finds it kind of adorable, how small and peaceful your corner of the internet looks compared to his chaos.
you both settle in to start discussing the project, papers spread between you. you talk about ideas, your voice growing steadier as you get into the topic. you explain concepts easily, your hands moving as you describe how you could structure the research, how to divide the work.
he listens. or tries to. mostly, he’s just watching the way you light up when you talk about something you love.
after a while, you pause, glancing at him with a small, hopeful look. “did you… talk to toji?”
he freezes for a fraction of a second, mind flashing back to last night—the laughter, the teasing, the absolute disaster of that conversation.
“yeah,” he says after a moment, forcing a smile. “i did.”
your eyes widen, curious. “what’d he say?”
he hesitates. you’re looking at him so earnestly, waiting for an answer, and he can’t bring himself to tell you that toji laughed it off, that he’d said something crude about just sleeping with you and moving on.
so he lies.
“he seemed interested,” sukuna says smoothly. “asked who you were. said you sounded cute.”
you go still for a moment, then your cheeks flush, and you duck your head. “really?”
“yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “told him you were smart, nice. he said that’s rare.”
your shy smile makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t understand.
“that’s… really nice of you, sukuna,” you say softly. “thanks.”
he shrugs, forcing a grin. “told you i’d help.”
but as you turn back to your notes, still smiling faintly to yourself, he can’t look away. he doesn’t know what’s worse—the way lying to you actually hurts his heart, or the way part of him’s starting to wish that toji never finds out who you are.
because the thought of you smiling like that at anyone else makes his stomach twist.
~
the frat house is quieter than usual when sukuna pushes the door open.
no bass pounding through the walls, no laughter echoing down the hallway, no beer pong table clattering in the kitchen. just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant muffled sound of someone’s tv from another room.
it’s strange. unsettling, almost. he’s gotten used to the constant noise, the never-ending buzz of people that filled the house from dusk till dawn.
he kicks off his shoes at the door, shoulders rolling back as he heads for the stairs. his head still feels heavy from the long day, the faint scent of your shampoo stuck in his memory.
it’s weird—he’s been around a thousand girls, maybe more. girls who practically threw themselves at him, who laughed too loud at his jokes and leaned in too close.
but somehow, you—sitting across from him with that shy smile and your soft voice explaining inter molecular relationship—manage to stick in his head longer than any of them ever have.
his room’s dark when he steps inside, save for the light bleeding in from the street through the blinds. he tosses his keys onto the desk and falls back onto his bed, exhaling. the ceiling stares back blankly.
he doesn’t even mean to grab his phone, but his hand moves before he can think. he unlocks it, thumb hovering over instagram.
just checking something, he tells himself.
his fingers type your username into the search bar without hesitation.
your profile opens instantly.
the same cozy layout he remembered. a few new story highlights. your bio—something simple, maybe a quote or a flower emoji. his thumb scrolls down slowly, eyes following the grid of neatly arranged photos. you, a few landscapes, coffee cups, snippets of sunlight through your window, a cat that might not even be yours.
he stops when he sees a picture from about a month ago.
you’re holding a tiny puppy in your arms, your face caught mid-laugh, like someone had said something funny right before snapping the picture. the puppy’s paw rests against your chest, nose tucked near your chin. in your other hand, you’re holding a paper cup of coffee, a little swirl of foam peeking through the lid.
he stares at it for longer than he should.
it’s just a photo, nothing special, but something about it hits him hard . the little details—the way your fingers curl gently under the puppy’s paw, the sunlight catching on the curve of your cheek, the way your smile looks completely unposed.
he catches himself wondering stupid things.
was that your dog? probably not. maybe a friend’s. or some random one you met at a cafe.
was the coffee yours? it looks like something you’d order, something simple. maybe vanilla, maybe something with caramel.
where was that taken? some small corner cafe? a weekend morning somewhere quiet?
he doesn’t know. and that bothers him more than it should.
his thumb hovers over the photo for a second before he double-taps it. the little red heart fills in on the corner of the screen.
great. now you’re going to see that he liked a post from a month ago. real smooth.
he tosses his phone onto the bed beside him, covering his face with his hands.
“what the fuck am i doing,” he mutters.
he’s never been that guy. the one who scrolls through a girl’s profile like he’s studying for an exam. the one who cares enough to wonder what her favorite coffee order is, or if she likes dogs or cats more. he doesn’t ask those questions. he doesn’t want to ask those questions.
but he can’t stop himself.
he scrolls again, back up to your most recent post—another candid shot, you’re wearing one of those oversized sweaters you always seem to wear to class, sleeves pulled over your wrists.
you look peaceful. and sweet. and so painfully far from the world he lives in.
his throat tightens unexpectedly, he looks deeper, really looks at you.
you’re really fucking pretty.
he’d always known that. he’d noticed, sure—he’s not blind. the first day you’d agreed to work with him, he’d thought you were cute. adorable, even. but now, staring at your pictures, seeing the small glimpses of your life beyond those chemistry notes and shy smiles, he realizes it’s more than that.
you’re beautiful.
and that realization sits heavy in his chest, thick and uncomfortable.
because he knows exactly where this is supposed to go.
he still owes you. he still promised you something.
toji.
the thought of his friend’s name makes him exhale hard through his nose.
he can already picture it—if he brings you up again, toji will laugh the same way he always does. say something crude. maybe shrug and agree to meet you, just for the hell of it. and maybe you’d smile that soft, nervous smile at him, and maybe you’d fall for him harder than you already have.
and that image—that thought—makes sukuna’s jaw clench.
he shakes his head, forcing the phone screen off.
“get a grip,” he mutters, rolling onto his side.
but it’s no use. even as he closes his eyes, the image of you laughing with that puppy burns into the back of his mind.
~
two weeks pass withf lectures and late-night text exchanges about project deadlines.
you’ve met up three times since that first day at the library. each time, sukuna’s noticed small things—how you seem to relax around him more, how you’ve started teasing him lightly when he messes up an equation, how your laugh sounds quiet but genuine when he actually manages to make you smile.
and now, on the fourth meeting, he finds himself heading to the library again, trying to ignore the way his stomach feels weirdly tight.
you’re already there when he walks in.
same table. same corner near the back.
but this time, something’s different.
you’re standing by your seat, waving slightly when you see him. and in your hands, you’re holding two cups of coffee.
“hey,” you say, your voice bright and clear in a way that makes him pause.
he blinks, momentarily thrown off by how cheerful you sound. “hey,” he replies, trying to sound as casual as usual.
you hold out one of the cups toward him. “i, um, got this for you. black coffee, right?”
for a second, he just stares.
it’s stupid. it’s a coffee cup. but his mind stutters anyway.
“yeah,” he says, voice quieter than he means it to be. “yeah, that’s right.”
“i wasn’t sure how you take it,” you admit with a small laugh. “you seem like the kind of person who drinks it straight. no sugar, no milk.”
he huffs out a small laugh, taking the cup from you. “you got that right.”
“lucky guess.”
you sit down, cheeks faintly pink. he watches you for a second longer than necessary before clearing his throat and dropping into the chair across from you.
“thanks,” he says finally, lifting the cup slightly. “for the coffee.”
you smile, soft and genuine. “you’ve been helping me a lot with this, so i thought it was the least i could do.”
he wants to tell you that you’ve got it backwards—that you’re the one keeping him afloat, not the other way around—but he bites his tongue.
instead, he takes a sip, the bitter taste grounding him.
“you didn’t have to, y'know.”
“i wanted to,” you say, eyes flicking down to your notes.
and for a brief second, he feels his pulse skip.
you wanted to.
he tries to shake the feeling, pulling out his own notes. “alright, so. what’s the plan for today?”
you talk about the experiment data, what needs to be written up, the references you still have to gather. he listens, but part of him’s distracted.
it’s the way you’re talking now—louder, lighter. you’re not tripping over your words anymore. you’re not afraid to meet his eyes. the shy girl who could barely look at him two weeks ago is now smiling at him between sentences.
and fuck if that doesn’t make something twist in his chest.
as the minutes pass, the project talk starts to blur into something else. he’s the one who changes the subject first.
“so,” he says, leaning back slightly. “what’s with you and coffee? every time i see you, you’ve got one.”
you look up from your laptop, blinking. “i just like it, i guess. i go to this little place near campus almost every morning before class.”
“the one with the green sign?”
“yeah, that one.”
“figured.”
you laugh quietly. “you go there too?”
“sometimes,” he says. “after workouts. they’ve got good espresso.”
you tilt your head. “you work out every morning?”
“almost,” he says, smirking faintly. “gotta keep my sexy frat guy aura in tact.”
“oh, right,” you tease, eyes glinting a little. “wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”
he blinks, caught off guard. “fans?”
“your instagram,” you say, trying not to laugh. “you’ve got, like, a thousand girls following you. i saw.”
he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “don’t remind me.”
“why?”
“because half of them don’t even go to this school,” he says, grinning a little. “they just… show up.”
you laugh, the sound soft but real, and he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.
after that, the conversation drifts. you talk about random things—your classes, your favorite kind of music, the dog from your photo (“that’s my friend’s puppy,” you explain. “he’s named mochi.”).
sukuna finds himself asking questions, more than he’s ever asked anyone before. not just because he wants to fill the silence, but because he genuinely wants to know.
you tell him about your hobbies, your part-time job at the campus bookstore, how you’re saving up for a trip after graduation.
he listens. really listens.
and for every small thing you share, he feels himself drawn in deeper.
when the session finally ends, the clock showing that two hours have slipped by without either of you noticing, you start packing up your things.
“same time next week?” you ask, glancing up.
“yeah,” he says. “same spot.”
you smile again, that soft, shy one that makes his chest ache.
and as you wave goodbye and walk out of the library, sukuna stays seated for a moment, staring at the empty chair across from him.
he should be thinking about the project. about grades. about keeping his promise to you.
but all he can think about is how the smell of coffee still lingers faintly on his fingers—and how, somehow, that’s become his favorite part of the day.
~
the frat house always feels heavy on monday mornings. air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, half-empty red cups scattered on tables like small grave markers from the weekend before. sukuna drags himself through the hallway, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower.
toji’s already waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. he looks up when sukuna walks in, flashing that familiar cocky grin.
“yo, you down to hit the gym?”
sukuna doesn’t even hesitate. “for sure.”
mondays are brutal, but skipping a session isn’t an option. not when you’ve got someone like toji keeping score. they finish off their drinks, grab their bags, and head out.
the campus is still quiet. early morning sun stretches across the pavement, birds chirping somewhere above. their sneakers hit the concrete in sync.
“bro, did you see the game last night?” toji asks, tossing a smirk his way.
“yeah,” sukuna mutters. “you owe me twenty.”
toji groans. “bullshit. that last call was garbage.”
“still counts.”
they go back and forth for a while—typical talk. girls, workouts, who pulled who at the last party. toji’s loud, animated, the kind of guy who fills silence with his own voice. sukuna listens, laughs when he should, but half his mind’s somewhere else.
they’re cutting across the main quad when he spots you.
you’re walking toward one of the lecture halls, tote bag slung over your shoulder, hair catching the light in a way that makes his breath hitch.
you’re wearing something simple—a cute shirt and nice jeans, your hands wrapped around a coffee cup—but somehow it makes you stand out more than anyone else on the path.
you don’t see him, too focused on your phone, but his chest tightens anyway.
for a second, it’s like the rest of the campus fades away.
then he remembers who’s walking beside him.
toji’s still talking about some girl he hooked up with over the weekend, words fading into the background as sukuna’s jaw tightens. he forces his eyes away, tells himself to stop being weird. this is stupid. you’re just his lab partner.
except he’s not supposed to be thinking about how good you look in the morning light. he’s supposed to be thinking about the deal.
the one with toji.
his throat feels dry as he forces himself to speak.
“hey,” he says suddenly. “you remember that girl i was talking about the other night?”
toji glances over, raising a brow. “the chem one?”
“yeah. that’s her.”
he nods toward you before he can second-guess it.
toji slows immediately, his attention shifting in your direction. you’re still walking across the path, the sunlight brushing over your face as you look up for a moment, squinting.
sukuna watches as toji literally stops in his tracks.
“no way,” toji says, eyes widening. “that’s her?”
“yeah,” sukuna mutters.
“holy shit.” toji’s grin spreads, sharp and impressed. “you didn’t tell me she was that cute.”
sukuna doesn’t respond. he just keeps walking, pretending to be unfazed, but every word toji says feels like it’s digging deeper under his skin.
“seriously, bro,” toji continues, still staring after you even as you disappear into the building. “you made her sound like some dorky little nerd. i was picturing ugly glasses, messy bun, the whole thing. but she’s—damn. she’s adorable.”
sukuna’s stomach twists. he forces a smirk, because that’s what’s expected. “yeah, she’s not bad.”
“not bad?” toji laughs, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me, man?”
“nah,” sukuna says quickly. “just didn’t think you’d be into that type.”
“what type?”
“the smart, quiet type,” he says, voice flat. “thought you liked girls who could ‘keep up,’ remember?”
toji scoffs. “yeah, well, she’s too cute to pass up. shit, you should let me tag along next time you’re studying with her. see what she’s like up close.”
sukuna forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “yeah, sure. whatever.”
inside, he’s cringing so hard he feels sick.
they head into the gym, the sound of clanging weights filling the space. he tries to focus—on the burn in his muscles, the rhythm of his breathing—but his thoughts won’t shut up. toji’s words keep echoing. she’s adorable. she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me?
this was what he was supposed to do. this was the plan. introduce you to toji, let things fall into place, make good on his end of the deal.
so why does it feel so wrong?
~
the next study session comes faster than he expects.
the day’s overcast, the library quiet except for the soft hush of the air conditioning. you’re already there when he walks in, sitting in your usual spot by the window, books neatly stacked, pen tapping absently against your notebook.
you look up when you hear his voice.
“hey,” he says, slipping through the aisles toward you.
your face brightens instantly, that small, warm smile tugging at your lips.
“hi,” you say, already starting to greet him—
then your voice falters.
because right behind him, towering and broad-shouldered, is toji.
your words die halfway out of your throat, eyes going wide. he’s impossible to ignore—dark hair, sharp grin, that easy confidence that radiates from him like static.
sukuna can see the exact moment you freeze. your fingers grip your pen a little too tightly, your posture going stiff.
“this is toji,” sukuna says, trying to sound casual. “he wanted to tag along today.”
“hey,” toji says smoothly, pulling up a chair without asking. “nice to meet you, y/n.”
you nod, cheeks pink. “h-hi.”
it’s awkward from the start. painfully so.
sukuna tries to start things off, opening his notebook and asking about the data you collected last week, but toji’s already jumping in with his own questions—none of them relevant.
“so,” toji leans forward, elbows on the table. “you’re really good at this chem stuff, huh? always been a little nerd?”
you laugh nervously, eyes flicking between the two of them. “i… guess so?”
“yeah, i could never,” he says, shaking his head. “i barely passed last year. too many parties, you know how it is.”
you nod politely, but the look on your face says it all—you have no idea what to say.
sukuna clenches his jaw.
toji keeps going, oblivious. he talks about the last frat party, about the time he benched two hundred in front of half the football team, about some girl who texted him last night. you just sit there, smiling faintly, giving small nods and quiet hums of agreement.
it’s brutal.
every word toji says feels like a slow car crash sukuna can’t stop. he knows he should’ve expected this—this was always how toji was—but now that it’s happening in front of you, he can’t stand it.
you’re sitting there, trying so hard to be polite, cheeks flushed, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve. and for the first time, sukuna hates how loud the other guy is. hates how he’s filling the space that’s always felt quiet and easy with you.
after what feels like forever, toji’s phone buzzes. he glances down, reads the message, and stands up.
“gotta head out,” he says, smirking. “good luck with your project, sweetheart. maybe i’ll swing by next time, yeah?”
before you can respond, he gives you a wink.
you freeze again, murmuring something that barely sounds like a goodbye.
he leaves, whistling under his breath, completely unaware of how painfully awkward that was.
the second he’s out of sight, sukuna exhales hard and runs a hand through his hair.
“fuck,” he mutters. “sorry about that.”
your eyes widen a little. “oh, um, it’s fine.”
“no, seriously,” he says, glancing at you. “i should’ve told you i was bringing him.”
you hesitate, then smile, shy but real. “it’s okay. i was just… nervous, i guess.”
he tilts his head. “why?”
you look down at your notes. “he’s just… kind of intense. i didn’t expect that.”
“yeah,” he says quietly. “he’s like that.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward, though. it’s calm. steady.
you’re visibly more relaxed now, shoulders no longer so tight, your voice softer when you start talking again. sukuna listens, his chest loosening with every word.
you don’t mention toji again.
and he doesn’t either.
for the rest of the session, it’s just the two of you again—back to the easy rhythm he didn’t realize he’d missed until it was gone. you explain a reaction mechanism, he teases you about your handwriting, you roll your eyes and laugh.
when it’s time to leave, you pack up your things slowly, almost like you don’t want the moment to end.
“see you next week?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says, smiling faintly. “next week.”
you give a small wave, and as you walk out, sukuna watches you disappear between the shelves, that same quiet warmth settling in his chest.
he should feel relieved—he did what he was supposed to. he introduced you to toji. he followed through.
but instead, he just feels like he’s made a mistake.
because the whole walk back to the frat, the only thing running through his head isn’t how toji couldn’t shut up or how awkward the whole thing was.
it’s how your voice had softened when you told him it was fine. how your eyes met his, even for a second, and he felt that stupid little spark again.
he doesn’t know what to call it. doesn’t want to.
but deep down, he knows one thing for sure.
the next time you two meet, he’s showing up alone, keeping you to himself.
~
music pounds through sukuna's chest, pulsing out of the open doors of the sorority like a heartbeat on overdrive. laughter spills down the steps, mixed with the sharp scent of alcohol and perfume and that sticky-sweet haze that always clings to these kinds of parties.
banners hang crooked above the door, fairy lights tangled like spiderwebs. the sorority girls really went all out.
it’s a mixer. one of those invite-only things, where every girl in greek row tries to get noticed by the “right” house. and sukuna’s frat—their house—was always the right one. full of grade A hotties like sukuna and toji and successful athletes like gojo and geto.
he spots toji near the entrance, already in his element. white t-shirt, chain glinting at his throat, grin carved sharp enough to cut through the noise. every few seconds, someone calls his name. girls from different sororities, guys from the rugby team, even one of the organizers waving him over.
toji was built for this. sukuna knew it. hell, everyone did.
“about time, man,” toji says when sukuna steps up beside him. “thought you’d bailed.”
“nah,” sukuna mutters. “just took my time.”
“yeah, well, tonight’s supposed to be wild. let’s make the most of it.”
they shoulder their way through the crowd, music pounding overhead, the smell of beer and sweat and too much perfume thick in the air. sticking together like usual.
a few girls call out sukuna’s name as they pass, and he just flashes that lazy grin he’s perfected—the one that says he’s not interested, but he might be later.
it’s all automatic now. the smirk, the eye contact, the way his shoulders roll when he laughs. it’s all muscle memory.
but tonight, something feels off.
maybe it’s the way every laugh sounds fake. maybe it’s the way the lights flash too bright, painting everyone in the same plastic color.
maybe it’s because all he can think about is you.
they end up in the kitchen, where the music’s still loud but not deafening. beer pong’s already set up on the long dining table, cups half-filled, ping-pong balls scattered across the sticky surface.
toji grabs a ball and grins. “let’s go. loser does a shot.”
sukuna smirks, rolling up his sleeves. “you’re on.”
they start playing, drawing a small crowd of girls who cheer and giggle at every throw. toji’s competitive as always, talking shit between shots, while sukuna plays quiet and steady. the rhythm feels familiar—the weight of the ball, the sound of it hitting the cup, the way everyone leans in to watch.
after two rounds, they’re tied. toji wins one, sukuna the other. the girls watching don’t seem to care who’s winning—they’re too focused on the way the two of them look, the easy confidence that comes with knowing the room revolves around them.
and then they descend.
a blonde slides up beside toji, pressing herself against his arm. another girl, brunette this time, drapes herself over sukuna, laughter dripping from her lips like honey.
“you guys are, like, scary good at this,” she says, voice high and flirty.
“practice,” sukuna says automatically. his smirk looks real enough. it always does.
her nails trace the edge of his sleeve, and she leans closer. “bet you’re real good at other things too.”
normally, this is the part where he’d lean in, let the moment pull him under. he knows how this goes—shots, dancing, slipping upstairs when the music gets too loud. normally he'd do anything for a quick fuck.
but tonight, it doesn’t land.
he looks down at her, at the perfect makeup and glitter around her eyes, and all he can think is how different she is from you.
how you’d never lean on someone like this. how you’d never grab at someone you just met. how when you talked, you actually meant what you said.
his jaw tightens.
toji’s already got two girls around him, laughing loudly, drink in one hand, the other at someone’s waist. he looks like he’s having the time of his life. and for the first time, sukuna feels nothing but exhaustion watching it.
the brunette keeps talking—something about the psych department, something about a pool party next weekend—but her words fade into static.
god, he can’t stop thinking about you.
he pictures your small smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. the way your voice lifts just slightly when you talk about something you love. the way your eyes meet his only for a second before darting away again.
then he thinks about how you’d react if you saw this.
if you saw toji right now—grinning, drunk, hands everywhere.
you’d look crushed. maybe not outwardly, but he knows you’d feel it. he can see that tiny flicker of hurt in his head, your lips pressing together, pretending not to care.
and for some reason, that thought hits him like a punch.
you’d be heartbroken over a guy like toji. and he hates that. hates it enough that his fake smirk starts to slip.
because toji’s the one you wanted. and toji’s right there, laughing with some random girl like you never even existed.
it makes his stomach twist.
the brunette leans in closer, her perfume cloying and too strong. she presses her lips against his neck, and something cold floods through him instead of the usual heat.
he stiffens.
she pulls back, confused, maybe even offended, but he just steps away, shaking his head.
“you good?” she asks, pouting a little.
“yeah,” he mutters. “just—need a smoke.”
he grabs a beer from the counter and makes his way outside.
the air’s cooler out here, cleaner. it hits his lungs in a way that almost feels like relief. he digs into his pocket, finds his pack, and lights up. the first drag burns his throat, grounding him a little. he thinks back to the time you'd seen a flash of the packet in his pocket, the look of concern plastering your cute face.
"you smoke cigarettes? y'know that pretty bad for you, sukuna..."
he sighs and takes another drag, he knew you were right, hell, he even cut down after that little statement.
inside, the party’s still raging. someone shouts, laughter echoing off the walls. he hears toji’s voice above the rest, loud and easy and so damn sure of himself.
sukuna exhales a long stream of smoke and stares out at the street.
why’s he even thinking about you like this?
you're just a girl. just a project partner. you needed his help, he needed yours. that’s all it was supposed to be.
but then he remembers how you'd smiled when he showed up on time for once, how you’d brought him that stupid cup of coffee just because you thought he’d like it. how careful you’d been, shy but trying.
and now he’s here, surrounded by everything he used to want, feeling nothing but restless.
he thinks about the library tomorrow morning.
you’d be there early. you always are. waiting at the same table, your notebook open, your pen tapping as you concentrate. you’d look up when he walks in, offer that small, quiet smile like you’re genuinely happy to see him.
the thought of showing up hungover makes his stomach knot.
he can’t let you see him like that. not reeking of beer, not bleary-eyed and half-dead from a night he didn’t even enjoy.
he flicks the ash off his cigarette, curses under his breath.
“what the fuck am i doing?”
he looks back toward the house. the windows are glowing with golden light, silhouettes moving inside. laughter spills out again, shrill and wild.
that used to feel like home.
now it just feels loud.
he takes another drag, the ember lighting up in the dark.
this isn’t him. at least, it’s not the version of him you’ve seen. the one who actually listens, who tries, who stays sober enough to remember what you said about catalysts and reactions. the one you’ve somehow turned him into without even knowing.
he huffs out a quiet laugh, bitter and low.
you’d probably never believe it if someone told you sukuna ryomen left a mixer early because of a girl.
but here he is.
he stubs out the cigarette, tosses the butt into the gutter, and pulls his jacket tighter around him.
he steps back inside just long enough to find toji at the beer pong table, a girl perched on his lap now, and rolls his eyes.
“yo,” toji calls over. “where the hell’d you go?”
“m' heading out,” sukuna says. “got shit to do tomorrow.”
toji raises a brow. “it’s friday, man.”
“yeah. i know.”
“whatever,” toji laughs. “your loss.”
sukuna just shrugs, already turning toward the door.
the music fades behind him as he walks out again. the night air hits him, cool against his skin. campus is mostly empty now, streetlights flickering.
he lights another cigarette as he walks, the smoke curling up into the cold.
his mind won’t stop racing.
he thinks about you again, about how small you look sitting behind your laptop, about the way you focus so hard you don’t notice him staring sometimes. about how quiet the world feels when it’s just the two of you in that corner of the library.
you’d laugh if you saw him now. the guy everyone calls a monster, walking home early from a party just because he wants to look sober in front of some shy chemistry nerd.
but it’s not just that anymore.
he doesn’t want to look sober. he wants to look good for you.
he wants you to think he’s better than this. better than what everyone thinks he's like.
he blows out smoke and watches it fade into the dark.
when he gets back to the frat, the house is nearly empty—most of the guys are still at the mixer. it’s quiet for once. he climbs the stairs, every step heavy, and stops at his door.
he stares at the handle for a second before going in.
the room smells like cologne and laundry detergent. his desk’s still a mess, papers and dumbbells scattered everywhere. he drops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
he should sleep. he should forget tonight.
but all he can see is you.
your smile. your voice. your eyes when they meet his and flick away just a second too fast.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
he ashes the cigarette in the tray, lets his head fall back, and closes his eyes.
the thought of you lingers like smoke in his lungs. intoxicating, slow, impossible to shake.
and for the first time in a long time, the idea of tomorrow doesn’t feel like just another day. it feels like something he’s waiting for.
~
the sun crawls through the blinds too early for a saturday.
pale light drags itself across the room, landing on the mess of clothes and empty bottles scattered over the frat floor. everyone’s still passed out.
bodies everywhere. some sprawled across couches, others snoring in corners, heads tipped back with half-empty beer cans slipping from their hands.
but not sukuna.
he’s awake.
he’s the only one who doesn’t feel like he got hit by a truck. no pounding head, no sour stomach. just the faint trace of smoke on his tongue and the quiet buzz in his chest that’s been there since last night.
he sits up, rakes a hand through his hair, and exhales. the air smells like sweat and cheap vodka. he looks around at the disaster that was his frat house—sticky floors, someone’s shoe on the counter, a guy in nothing but boxers drooling into the carpet—and shakes his head.
he’s not sticking around for the aftermath.
there’s something about this morning, something clean, light, strange. he grabs his hoodie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and checks his phone. too early for most people. not too early for you.
he smiles a little at that.
when he walks into the hallway, a few guys groan from the couch.
“yo,” one of them croaks. “where the hell are you going? it’s like… eight?”
“got plans,” sukuna says, slipping on his sneakers.
“plans?” another mumbles, half-asleep. “with who?”
“no one,” sukuna says quickly. “don’t worry about it.”
he’s already halfway out the door before they can start asking more questions. the last thing he needs is toji—or anyone, really—catching wind of this and deciding to tag along like last time.
the air outside hits him cold and fresh. campus is quiet, only the occasional sound of birds or a bike rolling past. everything’s washed in soft gold light, the kind that makes the world look cleaner than it really is.
he starts walking.
there’s a bounce in his step that he tries to ignore. it feels stupid to feel this way. giddy. like he’s got something worth looking forward to. he tells himself it’s just because he didn’t drink last night. he’s clear-headed. alert. that’s all.
but he knows it’s a lie.
the café comes into view just down the block. it’s the one you always go to—the one with the green sign. he remembers the first time he saw you there, hunched over your laptop with a coffee that had already gone cold, scribbling in your notebook like the world might end if you looked up.
the memory makes his chest feel weird.
he pushes open the door, the little bell chiming. the barista greets him with a sleepy smile. he glances over the glass case, scanning the pastries. croissants, muffins, a few danishes. then he spots the one he remembers you ordering once—flaky and soft, sugar dusted over the top.
“one of those,” he says, pointing.
the barista wraps it up neatly in paper. sukuna hands over the cash, then hesitates when she asks if he wants a drink.
he almost says yes. almost orders a sweet coffee for you.
but then he remembers.
you’ll already have one right now, you always do.
“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “js' the pastry.”
he walks out with the small paper bag in hand, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
he feels ridiculous. it’s a fucking pastry. but somehow it feels like more than that. like he’s carrying a confession.
when the library comes into view, he spots you right away.
you’re there, in your usual spot. that back table near the window, the one you’ve claimed without ever really saying so. your coffee’s beside your laptop, steam curling up faintly. you’re biting your lip, eyes narrowed in concentration as you read through something.
and god, you’re cute.
it slaps him all over again.
the way your hair falls forward, the soft sweater you’re wearing, the tiny crease between your brows. you’re not trying to be anything. you’re just there, focused, quiet, real.
he stands there for a second, just watching.
then he remembers himself and walks over.
“g'morning,” he says.
you look up, startled, then your whole face softens when you see him. “oh—hi! you’re early.”
“yeah,” he says, dropping his bag into the chair across from you. “didn't wanna sleep in today.”
you laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “fair.”
he pulls the paper bag from his hoodie pocket and slides it across the table.
he holds it out to you. “for you. figured you might want breakfast.”
you blink, startled. “wait, really?”
“yeah. it’s from that cafe you like.”
your mouth falls open slightly, and your cheeks go pink in that way he’s starting to adore. “you... remembered that?”
“guess so.”
you take the bag from him carefully, like it’s something fragile. when you peek inside and see what it is, your expression softens even more.
“oh my god,” you whisper, smiling so hard your eyes crinkle at the corners. “this is my favorite one.”
he watches, almost helpless, as you keep talking, thanking him over and over. your voice stumbles with embarrassment, your fingers fidget with the bag, and the more flustered you get, the more something warm spreads through his chest.
“you didn’t have to—really, that’s so sweet of you.”
“it’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is rougher than he means it to be. “just figured you might be hungry.”
you look down, still smiling. “thank you.”
and it hits him, how long it’s been since a girl said that to him and meant it.
you break the silence first, switching to the assignment, pulling up your notes and explaining something about the next section. he nods along, but he’s not really listening. he’s watching the way you push your hair behind your ear, the way your brows furrow when you focus.
he forces himself to pay attention. still, the moment feels easy.
you talk for a while about the project, comparing notes, trading small jokes. he feels himself relax into the rhythm of it, like it’s become a routine.
and then, without warning, you bring up toji.
you clear your throat first, eyes flicking down to your notes. “so, um... toji.”
he stills, one brow lifting, you were finally gonna talk about him since that awful run in last time. “hmm?”
“he’s… very…” you trail off, searching for the word. “loud.”
he snorts. “that’s one way to put it.”
“and, um, big. like—physically. and personality-wise. very… confident.”
he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah. sorry about that. he’s… a lot. again, i didn’t mean to unleash him on you like that.” he was apologising again, so out of character for him but he couldn't help it. not with you.
“no, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “he’s just… different than i expected.”
“different how?”
you hesitate, chewing your lip. “i guess i thought he’d be more like you.”
the words hang between you for a second. his pulse stutters.
“like me, huh?” he says, teasing, leaning back in his chair, spread wide as he looks you up and down. “what’s that supposed to mean, hm?”
you go red instantly, trying to drag your eyes away from his man spread legs. “i just meant—you’re, um, thoughtful. more focused. not overbearing, you're nice...”
he grins. "nice, huh?"
you hide your mouth behind your hand and look off to the side. "nicer than toji, yeah."
he laughs, "that's not a very high bar to clear."
you giggled in response, letting him continue.
“so you like my type better?”
“that’s not what i said,” you mumble, covering your face with your hand again.
“didn’t have to.”
you peek at him through your fingers, and he has to bite back a laugh. your cheeks are so pink it hurts to look at you.
“you’re bullying me,” you say, your voice small.
“maybe.”
you shake your head, still smiling, and reach for your coffee. he watches the way you hold it, the delicate tilt of your wrist, the little sigh you make after a sip.
then, quieter, he asks, “so… you still interested in him? toji, i mean.”
you freeze.
“i—uh.” your voice falters. “i guess so? i... i don’t know.”
“you don’t sound sure.”
“he’s just—not what i thought he’d be. i thought he’d be a little calmer.”
“he’s not really the type to surprise you in a good way,” sukuna says.
you smile faintly, eyes on your cup. “yeah. maybe not.”
the way you say it, soft, thoughtful, uncertain, it makes his chest ache.
you’re too sweet for this. too genuine. you deserve someone who actually listens, who doesn’t treat you like background noise. and for some reason, he hates that the person you’re hung up on is his best friend.
he sighs, rubbing his jaw.
you look up, curious. “what’s wrong?”
“nothing,” he says, forcing a smile. “just tired.”
you nod, and the two of you fall back into quiet work. it’s peaceful again, the only sounds the soft click of your keyboard and the scratching of his pen. time blurs.
when you finally close your laptop, stretching your arms, he realizes two hours have passed.
“we got a lot done,” you say, smiling.
“yeah,” he says, though he can’t remember a thing you just studied.
you start packing your things, tucking the empty pastry bag into your bag. before you can leave, you hesitate. then, shyly, you step closer and wrap one arm around him in a little side hug.
“thank you,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “for breakfast. and for helping me.”
for a second, he forgets how to breathe.
you smell like coffee and sugar and something faintly floral. your hand rests briefly against his side, and he swears every nerve in his body lights up.
then you pull away, smiling up at him, oblivious to the chaos you’ve just caused.
“see you tomorrow?”
“yeah!” he says quickly, way too excited. “d-definitely.”
you wave and head out, the door swinging shut behind you.
he stands there for a full minute, still staring at the spot you’d been standing, until he realizes his hands are clenched and his pulse is hammering.
he grabs his bag, mutters something under his breath, and heads outside.
the moment he’s in the open air again, he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
the breeze does nothing to cool the heat crawling under his skin.
he walks fast, head down, eyes on the pavement.
every step feels heavy with restraint.
because all he can think about is how soft you felt, how small your hand was against him, how much he wanted to pull you in, bury his face in your neck, keep you there for hours.
he curses under his breath, tugging his hoodie lower, hoping it hides the problem growing in his jeans.
“get it together,” he mutters.
he tries to think about anything else—the assignment, the game tomorrow, the half-finished paper on his desk—but his mind keeps circling back to you. your laugh. your blush. your hug.
by the time he reaches the frat, his heartbeat’s finally starting to slow, but the feeling stays. that dizzy mix of guilt and want.
he steps inside quietly, the house still a mess of half-dead hangovers, and slips upstairs to his room.
the first thing he does is sit on his bed, elbows on his knees, and let out a long, shaky exhale.
he’s in trouble.
he knows it.
because he can’t stop smiling.
~
the gym in the frat house isn’t much. it’s a dim room tucked behind the kitchen, with cracked mirrors and rusted weights, the air always heavy with the stale scent of sweat and cheap deodorant.
the guys call it a “home gym,” but it’s really just a collection of mismatched dumbbells, an old bench press, and a speaker that always buzzes when the bass hits too hard. its nothing like the fancy campus one him and toji visit, still, it works for sukuna.
he’s halfway through a set, sweat sliding down the back of his neck, when his thoughts start slipping away from the burn in his muscles and land right where they always seem to go lately.
he tries to ignore it, focusing on the motion, the rhythm, the push and pull of the bar in his hands.
but the harder he tries not to think about you, the more vivid you become. your voice, soft but steady, your shy little smiles whenever he cracks a joke, the way you always tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to blush.
it’s infuriating, how easily you creep into his head.
he exhales sharply, finishing the set with a grunt, letting the bar clang down harder than he means to. it rattles against the frame, echoing in the small room.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sitting up and grabbing the towel draped over his shoulders.
he wipes his face, breathing hard, his reflection in the mirror smudged with fingerprints and dust. he looks exhausted, not just from the workout but from everything sitting in his head.
you and toji.
you and that stupid, innocent crush you’d confessed to him like it was nothing.
he leans forward, elbows on his knees, towel hanging loosely around his neck. he can’t keep fucking around pretending like this is going to work anymore.
he can’t sit through another study session with you knowing that toji knows you're into him.
toji doesn’t even remember half the girls he flirts with, so why should he get to occupy that sweet spot in your brain.
that thought alone makes his blood boil.
you’re too good for that. too damn good.
he picks up the dumbbell again, trying to lift through the frustration, but his mind keeps racing. toji’s face flashes in his mind—the obnoxiousness, his interest in you only after finding out what you looked like.
the memory makes his jaw clench.
toji doesn’t deserve to know you exist, let alone be someone you lose sleep over.
his grip tightens around the handle. he lifts again, but it feels pointless now, his muscles burning for a different reason entirely.
finally, he slams the weight down and stands up, chest heaving.
he’s done.
done thinking he can stomach this, done keeping that deal, done lying to himself.
without even thinking about it, he walks out of the gym, towel still slung over his shoulder. his feet move on instinct, carrying him through the hall, up the grand stairs, straight to toji’s room.
the door’s half-shut, light spilling from the gap, and he doesn’t bother knocking. he pushes it open, the wood hitting the wall with a dull thud.
toji’s sprawled across his bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone. there’s a protein shake on the desk, a game controller tangled in the sheets. he looks up lazily when sukuna appears.
“yo,” he says, grinning. “you look pissed. what, satoru stealing your shirts n' shit again?”
sukuna doesn’t answer. he stands there for half a second, jaw tight, and then the words just fall out before he can stop them.
“y/n has a boyfriend,” he blurts. “so you can forget the whole crush on you thing.”
toji blinks, confused. “uhm?”
“what,” sukuna says, crossing his arms. “shes got a guy.”
toji sits up slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “who’s y/n again?”
the silence that follows is deafening.
sukuna stares at him, the vein in his temple twitching.
“are you actually deadass right now?”
toji shrugs. “bro, i talk to a lot of girls, you gotta be more specific.”
that’s it.
sukuna drags a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds halfway between a growl and a groan. he doesn’t even bother explaining. it’s not worth it.
“don't worry, man,” he snaps, spinning on his heel.
he slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
by the time he gets back to his room, his chest is tight, the frustration boiling over into something heavier. he paces once, twice, then finally drops onto his bed, letting his head fall back against the wall.
“who’s y/n again?”
the words echo in his mind like a bad joke.
he can’t believe it. he can’t believe he ever thought this was a good idea, trying to set you up with that idiot.
it’s not even about the deal anymore. it’s about you.
because now he knows what it feels like to be around you, to hear you laugh, to see the way your eyes light up when he remembers the smallest things. he knows what it feels like to walk beside you through campus at night, the air cool and soft, your voice quiet but steady.
he likes you.
really, really likes you.
and it’s not just because you’re pretty, though god, you are. it’s because you’re kind. because you make him feel human again, in a way that nothing else ever does. because you talk to him like he’s worth something more than the reputation that follows him.
he doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s there now, and it’s not going away.
.
the weeks that follow move in a blur. the two of you keep meeting for study sessions, but they’ve shifted. so subtly that neither of you seems to notice.
you’re more relaxed now. you smile more, laugh easier. you’ve started showing up with little things for him too. chocolates, protein bars, a can of cold brew. every time, he teases you about it, but inside, he’s having a spaz out.
and every time he brings you something in return, you light up like he’s handed you the world.
you’ve started talking about more than the project. now, it’s everything. random things. favorite youtuber, weird scandals, "uhm, no way you think d4vd is innocent, they had matching tattoos!", childhood fuck ups, "yeah, i used to be one of those devious lick kids in middle school, me and gojo stole an entire sink".
sometimes, you talk so much you forget the assignment altogether, and he never stops you.
he lives for these moments.
sometimes, when you’re sitting side by side at the library, your knees brush under the table. it’s barely a touch, accidental every time, but it makes his pulse stutter.
you’ve started giving him hugs too, real ones. not just quick, polite ones, actual, full-bodied hugs that make him want to forget how to breathe. all he wants to do is bundle you up and take you back home, lock you away where no one could possibly taint that beautiful smile.
he pretends to be chill and nonchalant, but inside, he’s crashing out so hard.
one afternoon, it’s raining outside, and you show up in a damp tank top, hair slightly damp. he nearly forgets how to speak. you hand him a hot chocolate and giggle when he stares at it like he’s never seen one before.
“it’s not that weird,” you say, smiling. “i thought you might want something warm and sweet for this type of weather.”
he looks at you for a long moment trying not to stare at your see through chest, then takes the cup. “thanks,” he murmurs, and it sounds like something heavier than gratitude.
you shrug, shy but pleased, then sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
when the session ends that day, he walks you home like he always does. it’s become a quiet habit between you. no one suggested it, but neither of you questions it either. you live just off campus, in a small apartment with ivy creeping up the walls, and every time you reach your door, you both hesitate.
he wants to ask if he can come inside, just once.
you always look like you might invite him, too.
but neither of you ever says it.
instead, you smile, soft and warm, and tell him goodnight. he always watches until you disappear inside, until the light flicks on and frank ocean starts softly pouring from the window.
and every time, he walks back to the frat with that same ache in his chest, the one that’s half longing and half fear.
he knows he’s in wayyy too deep.
but he can't stop.
you’ve started coming out of your shell in little bursts. you tease him now, gently. you call him out when he’s being lazy, roll your eyes when he tries to act too chill. and he eats it the fuck up. every second of it.
you’re different with him now. freer. you trust him.
and that makes everything both better and worse.
because every time you look at him with that open, honest expression, he has to remind himself of the lie he built this on—the deal, the fake promise to get you closer to toji.
it barely comes up anymore. sometimes you mention toji in passing, usually as a joke, and you both laugh it off. it’s like neither of you really care about it anymore.
and maybe that’s the truth. maybe it stopped mattering the moment you started looking at him like that.
one evening, when the sun’s setting, you’re sitting across from him at the library, talking about nothing in particular. you’re smiling, head tilted, your voice soft. and he catches himself staring, not hearing a single word.
you stop mid-sentence, blinking. “what?”
he shakes his head quickly. “nothing.”
“you’re staring,” you say, cheeks pink.
“you’re imagining things, honey."
you laugh, hiding your face in your hands.
he smiles too, but there’s something behind it—something he doesn’t let you see.
because in that moment, it hits him all over again, stronger than before.
he’s seriously can't do this shit any longer.
he doesn’t want to help you get to toji anymore.
he doesn’t want to stand by while you talk about someone else, even in passing.
he wants you. all of you.
the quiet smiles, the shy blushes, the little quirks he’s learned by heart.
he wants to be the one who gets to see every part of you—every version of that soft, sweet girl who’s been slowly unraveling in front of him.
and he knows, deep down, that if he ever let himself say it out loud, he’d never be able to take it back.
so he keeps it buried, just for now, as he walks you home again that night. the streetlights stretch long shadows across the pavement, and your arm brushes his once, twice, and each time, he swears of he doesn't concentrate he'll trip over his jordans.
when you reach your door, you turn to him with that same bright smile, the one that always knocks the air from his lungs.
“thanks again,” you say softly.
he nods. “anytime.”
you linger for a second, like you want to say something more, then wave goodnight and disappear inside.
he stands there for a long moment, staring at the door, listening to the faint hum of music from your apartment.
then, finally, he exhales, a small, helpless laugh slipping out.
he’s ruined. completely.
and for once in his life, he doesn’t even mind.
~
the classroom is thick with the sound of quiet chatter, chairs scraping against tile, pens clicking as people jot down reminders before leaving. the fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting everything in a washed-out glow that makes it feel like time’s been stretched too thin. the chemistry teacher’s voice cuts through it all, cheerful but distant.
“alright, everyone—just a quick reminder that your paired assignment is due at the end of this week. make sure you’ve got everything finalized. i’ll be checking submissions on friday.”
the words hang in the air like a quiet ending bell.
you look up from your notes at the same time sukuna does, and for a moment, your eyes meet across the shared lab table. he’s already watching you, elbows resting on the counter, twirling his pen between his fingers.
he gives you this crooked half-smile—something between fond and nervous—and you return it, though yours falters just a little at the edges.
it hits both of you at once. this thing between you, this rhythm you’ve fallen into, the study sessions, the walks home, the quiet coffees before class? it’s been built around this assignment. and when the assignment ends, what happens then?
he taps his pen against his notebook, looking away first. “guess we’re almost done, huh?”
you try to sound light. “yeah… crazy how fast it went.”
but it doesn’t feel fast. it feels full. it feels like a lifetime compressed into a few short weeks, every minute threaded with something unspoken.
he hums in agreement, glancing at you again. “we should probably go over everything one more time. make sure it’s perfect.”
you nod, pretending to check the notes in front of you. “mhm, library after class?”
“yeah,” he says. “one last session.”
one last. the words make your stomach twist.
.
sukuna drops his bag on the chair across from you, stretching his arms as he sits down. his hair’s a little messy from the wind, and he smells faintly of the sexy cologne he always wears, something clean and manly that clings to his skin.
you open your laptop, trying to focus on the document in front of you. it’s almost done—just small edits, formatting, double-checking citations—but the words keep blurring. you can feel his presence across the table, solid and steady, and it’s impossible to think about chemistry when he’s right there.
he’s quieter than usual too. his knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm, and every now and then you catch him glancing up, like he’s about to say something but decides against it.
the silence stretches between you, thick and loaded. you can’t stand it anymore.
“so…” you start, voice softer than you mean it to be.
he looks up instantly, like he’s been waiting for you to speak. “yeah?”
you open your mouth, close it again, glance at your hands. “never mind. it’s nothing.”
he frowns slightly. “come on. what is it?”
you shake your head, forcing a small smile. “seriously, it’s nothing. just focus.”
he watches you for a second longer, then sighs and leans back, crossing his arms. “fine. but you’re acting weird.”
you let out a soft laugh that sounds too nervous. “i could say the same about you.”
that gets a real smile out of him, crooked and teasing, but it fades quickly.
you both go quiet again, typing half-heartedly, neither of you really working. the tension builds, unspoken and unbearable.
you can feel the words sitting on your tongue, begging to be let out. you want to tell him everything. how the crush on toji fizzled out weeks ago, how stupid it feels now, how you can’t stop thinking about him instead. how every time he looks at you, your whole chest feels like it’s about to give out.
you glance up. he’s staring at his screen, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. and somehow, you can tell he’s holding something back too.
finally, you both move at the same time.
“i have to tell you something,” you say, right as he says, “there’s something i should tell you.”
you both stop, eyes locking.
you laugh softly. “you first.”
he shakes his head. “nuh uh, you first.”
“no way,” you say, smiling now despite the nerves. “you looked like you were about to explode. go ahead.”
“ladies first,” he shoots back, that teasing lilt returning to his voice, though his eyes are still serious.
you roll your eyes, but your heart’s hammering. “fine,” you breathe.
he leans forward, forearms on the table, watching you carefully.
you swallow, your fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve. “okay. so, um… this is kind of embarrassing, but—”
you stop, take a breath, try again. “it's about toji.”
his expression flickers for a second, something unreadable crossing his face. “yeah,” he says slowly. “what about him?”
you toy with a pen to keep your hands busy. “i don’t really… feel that way anymore. about him.”
his brow lifts just slightly, his voice careful. “ts' that so?”
you nod, cheeks warm. “yeah. i mean, it was kind of silly, wasn’t it? i barely knew him. i think i just liked the idea of him. and then when you brought him to that one session, i realised he’s… kinda clapped, nothing like what i imagined.”
he lets out a small sound, something close to a laugh, but it’s quiet, almost nervous. “yeah, that sounds like him.”
you smile faintly, tracing a finger along the edge of your notebook. “the truth is, i think i was just projecting. when we started hanging out, i didn’t know you that well, and i guess i thought maybe toji was like you. you know? confident, funny, easy to talk to.” you pause, your gaze flicking up to his. “but he’s not you. not even remotely close.”
his breath catches slightly, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak.
“i don’t know,” you go on, voice softer now, almost trembling. “i kept thinking i wanted someone like toji, but… the whole time, i was really just wishing he’d be more like you, sukuna.”
you meet his eyes fully now, and the world seems to narrow around you both. “and then i realised maybe i don’t want someone like you. maybe i just, you know, want you.”
the silence that follows feels endless.
he’s staring at you, completely still. you can see the realization hit him. the tension in his shoulders easing, his expression softening in disbelief and relief all at once.
you bite your lip, instantly flustered. “that sounded so stupid, didn’t it?”
he shakes his head quickly. “no. no, not at all.”
he leans back in his chair, letting out a long, shaky exhale. it’s the biggest breath of relief you’ve ever seen someone take. he runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, a sound that’s half disbelieving, half overwhelmed.
“holy shit,” he murmurs, still smiling. “you have no idea how good it is to hear that.”
you blink. “uhm, what?”
he laughs again, softer this time, his hand still pressed to the back of his neck. “that’s what i was gonna tell you. i’ve been losing my fucking mind these past few weeks because i’ve been trying so hard not to say it.”
you stare at him, your heart pounding. “say what?”
he meets your gaze again, eyes warm and honest. “that i like you. like, really like you. i’ve had this massive crush on you for a while now, and it’s been killing me trying to act normal.”
you can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, part disbelief, part giddy joy. “you’re deadass?”
he nods. “one hundred percent.”
“but… the deal,” you say quietly. “you were supposed to help me with toji.”
“yeah, about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “i kinda… just didn’t.”
you tilt your head. “uhhm, what?”
he laughs again, nervously this time. “i told him you had a boyfriend.”
your eyes widen. “you did?"
he winces. “yeah. i told him that weeks ago. i just... i couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t keep pretending i was helping you get with him when all i wanted was to keep you all to myself.”
you blink once, twice, then cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “you told him i had a boyfriend?”
“yep.” he grins now, a little cocky, a little embarrassed. “guess that’s me sabotaging the deal.”
you drop your hand, still smiling. “that’s so stupid.”
“i know.”
“but…” you pause, your smile turning softer. “it’s kind of sweet.”
he leans forward again, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you’re not mad?”
“mad?” you repeat, shaking your head. “no. that’s… exactly what i wanted, actually.”
he blinks. “really?”
you nod, heart in your throat. “yeah. i didn’t want you helping me with toji. not anymore. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”
he stares at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “so what now?”
you smile. “i don’t know. maybe we just… stop pretending.”
he exhales, leaning back with a grin that could light up the whole room. “i can do that.”
for a moment, neither of you says anything. you just sit there, the quiet hum of the library around you, the sun slipping lower through the windows, painting his skin in gold.
finally, he breaks the silence, voice low. “for the record, i was terrified you were about to tell me you had a new man for real.”
you laugh softly. “no chance.”
“good,” he says, and the way he looks at you—soft, sure, a little possessive—makes your pulse race.
you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re both leaning across the table, closer than you’ve ever been. the distance between you shrinks until you can feel his breath on your lips, his hand brushing lightly against yours.
neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.
the moment stretches, slow and sweet, full of everything you’ve both been holding back.
~
the second you get back to your apartment, your face ignites with the kind of fire only a really nice fireplace could match, the ones in those fancy houses you see on the block.
the guy you'd been crushing on for a total of four weeks now had just told you he felt the same. and ever more, he'd been so obsessed he'd told your ex-crush you'd had a boyfriend in hopes of bagging you himself.
for a girl not used to being in the spotlight, having such a loud, well known frat guy like ryomen sukuna become vulnerable, just for you? it was like the world came crashing and burning down at your feet. he made your stomach swim with love and passion, a feeling you'd only ever gotten from receiving higher grades than everyone else, a feeling so much better than finding a new delicious pastry you couldn't help but order again.
ryomen sukuna was it. he was the kinda guy you'd been dreaming of ever since you'd started college. he was the perfect man, and he was as into you as you were him.
you settled into your living room with an adorably large smile painted on your lips, the sensation of fulfilment taking over your ever thought as you dreamt of what was to happen next.
~
the week after the submission crawls by. you think about both sukuna and the possible grade you'll both get every day. every time you pass the lab, every time you open your laptop, every time you catch sight of sukuna across the courtyard, leaning against the wall with his friends.
you can tell he’s thinking about it too. the way he catches your eye during class and offers a small, crooked smile says everything. neither of you can really stop wondering what the final mark will be, as well as what life has in store for the both of you.
friday finally rolls around, the classroom feels weird. students trickle in with tired faces and restless energy, everyone buzzing quietly with the same anticipation. the teacher walks in, holding a stack of papers in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.
she sets everything down at the front desk, claps her hands together, and gives a small, approving smile.
“alright, everyone,” she says, her tone almost teasing. “i’ve marked your projects. you’ll get the official grades through the online portal, but since i know you’re all impatient—” her gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on you and sukuna, “—i’ll let you know this much: some of you really impressed me.”
a ripple of chatter runs through the class. sukuna shoots you a look from across the room, eyebrows raised. you smile nervously and shrug.
after class, the two of you linger by the doorway, waiting for the crowd to clear out. you’re clutching your phone, refreshing the student portal again and again even though the grades still aren’t visible. sukuna leans close, peering at your screen.
“nothing yet?” he asks.
“no,” you sigh. “probably another hour.”
he tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “want to check it together later? at that little cafe with the green sign?”
you blink. “awe, my favourite. sure!”
“of course,” he says, smirking lightly. “how good am i remembering your favourite things n' shit.”
you laugh, cheeks warming. “what a man. how about we meet there at five?”
“five it is.” he gives a small wave as he heads down the hall. “see you then, partner.”
the cafe smells like roasted coffee beans and sugar, the air humming with quiet conversation and the clinking of ceramic cups. it’s early evening, and the place is wrapped in that warm, lazy glow that makes everything feel softer. the green sign outside flickers faintly through the window, the letters worn from years of weather and sunlight.
you spot him immediately—sitting near the counter, wearing a black hoodie and tapping his thumb against his phone screen. his hair’s pulled back, a few loose strands falling into his eyes. he looks up the moment the door chimes, and that grin spreads across his face like it’s second nature.
“hey,” he says as you approach.
“hey,” you echo, sliding into the seat across from him.
he gestures toward the counter. “i already ordered for us. black coffee for me, that thing you like for you, and—” he grins, “—a pastry, because apparently you can’t sit in this place without one.”
you laugh softly, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters. “you know me too well, we needa' hang out less.”
“noo,” he says, leaning back. “i'm just an observer.”
the drinks come quickly, steam curling from the cups. you take yours with both hands, staring at the little swirl of foam, trying to calm your nerves. sukuna pulls out his phone again, refreshes the student portal, and freezes.
his eyes widen. “holy shit,” he mutters.
you look up sharply. “what?”
he turns the screen toward you. there it is—your names side by side, and next to them, the number that makes your breath catch.
98%.
you stare at it for a second, then look at him, and the two of you just burst out laughing.
“oh my-” you say, grinning from ear to ear. “ninety-eight?”
he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “holy shit- holy shit can’t believe it,” he says, half-laughing, half-sighing in disbelief. “i actually passed. i can stay in the frat. holy shit.”
you laugh again, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “i told you you’d do fine!”
he stands up suddenly, still laughing, and before you can react he pulls you into his arms. it’s a full, tight hug—so warm, so big. his chest rumbles with laughter, and you can feel how much this means to him, how much the stress and pressure have finally melted away.
“thank you,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low, almost breathless. “thank you so much for helping me. i would’ve completely fucking tanked without you.”
you laugh against his shoulder, feeling your own face heat up. “you’re welcome,” you mumble, your words muffled by his hoodie. “you did so good, really.”
when he finally lets go, you can still feel the warmth lingering where he’d held you. he looks just as flustered, rubbing the back of his neck as he sits back down.
“sorry,” he says, half-smiling. “got a little carried away.”
“it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “it was… nice.”
his grin widens at that.
you both take a moment to calm down, sipping your drinks in the cozy corner. the sound of the coffee machine hums faintly in the background, and sunlight filters through the leaves outside, dappled across the table. it feels like the whole world’s slowed down just for the two of you.
“so,” he says eventually, voice softer now, “ninety-eight percent. that's so peak."
“yeah, we did that,” you reply, smiling. “you’ll probably get a compliment from the teacher next class.”
“you too,” he says. “you carried me, you're actually so clutch.”
“you helped too,” you insist. “you actually tried, sukuna. that’s what mattered.”
he chuckles, shaking his head. “yeah, but even if i hadn’t passed…” he pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “i don’t think i’d be too upset.”
you tilt your head, smiling faintly. “no?”
“nah.” he leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “because i got to spend all that time with you. and honestly? that made it worth it.”
your chest tightens, a flutter rising under your ribs. you look down quickly, pretending to focus on your coffee. “you’re just saying that.”
“i’m not,” he says firmly. “you made studying actually fun. no one’s ever done that shit before.”
you look up again, and his expression is so genuine, so open, that you forget how to breathe for a second.
“well,” you say softly, “i liked spending time with you too.”
your cups sit forgotten on the table, the croissant half-eaten, and all you can hear is the chatter of other uni kids and the soft clatter of dishes.
you stare into his eyes, and there’s a question there—unspoken but clear.
he smiles, almost shyly, a rare thing for him. “so… what now?”
you shrug lightly, but your smile mirrors his. “i don’t know. i guess we don’t have to stop hanging out just because the project’s done.”
his grin grows wider, and you can see the faintest pink dusting his ears. “good,” he says. “because i was kinda hoping you’d say that.”
he hesitates for a moment, then sits up a little straighter, as if gathering courage.
“actually,” he says, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his cup, “there’s something i wanted to ask.”
you tilt your head. “hmm? and what’s that?”
he exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “i know this is probably cheesy as hell, but… i’d really like to take you out. like, properly. dinner, movie, whatever you want. an actual date.”
the words sink in, soft and certain. you blink, surprised but instantly smiling, your cheeks growing hot.
“you mean… like, a date date?” you ask, teasing just a little.
he laughs under his breath. “yeah. a date date.”
you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “i’d love that.”
his expression softens into something that almost makes your heart ache. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
for a moment, you just sit there, both grinning like idiots. it feels unreal, like something out of a quiet, sunlit dream.
he leans back in his chair, relief washing over him in waves. “good,” he says. “i was worried you’d say no.”
you shake your head, still smiling. “never.”
the light outside shifts slowly, spilling gold through the window, painting his skin in soft warmth. he looks at you like he’s memorizing the moment—the coffee, the laughter, the way you keep tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
and as he sits across from you, grinning like he can’t quite believe his luck, you know that whatever comes next, it’s going to be something worth waiting for.
~
months slide by, slow but certain. what once was a study partnership built on awkward exchanges and quiet glances has become something sooo much more. somewhere between library stops, coffee stops, and tight hugs, it shifted. you shifted. sukuna shifted. the line between school and romance blurred until it disappeared completely.
now, you’re his. officially, undeniably, completely his. and he’s yours.
the first time sukuna brings you to the frat house as his girlfriend, it feels like stepping into a completely different world. the place is loud, music spilling from bluetooth speakers, guys shouting from the kitchen about who’s out of beer, the smell of cheap cologne and pizza hanging in the air.
you pause in the doorway, clutching sukuna’s hand like it’s an anchor. he glances down at you with that little smirk that never fails to make your heart stutter.
“don’t stress it baby,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath grazes your ear. “they’ll love you.”
and they do.
weather or not that's because he threatened to beat them unconscious if they made you feel uncomfortable before you came over is irrelevant.
satoru’s the first to notice you, perched on the couch with a controller in hand. he looks up mid-game, grins wide, and immediately calls out, “holy shit, sukuna actually brought a girl here voluntarily?”
“shut up,” sukuna grumbles, tightening his grip on your hand. “this one’s permanent.”
that earns a chorus of oohs and whistles from the guys nearby. your face burns, but when you glance up at sukuna, he’s smiling—not his usual cocky grin, but something softer. proud.
“hey,” you mumble under your breath, “it smells so bad in here, ryo.”
he chuckles quietly. “you’ll get used to it.”
before you can even respond, toji appears from the kitchen, a beer in hand and a knowing grin on his face. “well, if it isn’t the little chem genius.”
you blink. “you… remember me?”
“of course,” toji laughs, setting his drink down and stretching out a hand. “heard you saved this idiot’s academic career.”
“hey,” sukuna cuts in, rolling his eyes. “i wasn’t that bad.”
“you had an eight percent, bro.”
the whole room bursts into laughter. sukuna just grumbles and flips toji off while you try not to giggle too loudly. it’s strange, seeing them all like this. so loud, so chaotic, so different from the quiet rhythm you’re used to, but somehow, it feels okay. you feel okay.
by the end of the night, you’re sitting between sukuna’s legs on the couch, his arms draped loosely around your waist, your back against his chest. someone puts on an old movie in the background, and the chatter slowly fades into easy quiet. for the first time, the frat doesn’t feel intimidating. it feels warm. welcoming.
satoru catches your eye from across the room, giving a thumbs up before mouthing, she’s a keeper. sukuna just smirks.
later that night, when everyone else has gone to bed and the house has fallen quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards, sukuna presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“told you they’d love you,” he whispers.
“yeah, you were right,” you murmur, smiling softly. “they’re so nice.”
“you’re even nicer,” he says, his voice barely audible. “that’s why they love ya'.”
and you can hear the truth in his tone. you know he means it.
after that, everything starts to fall into blissful routine. you help him study, drilling formulas and reactions into his head late into the night. he’s surprisingly good at it now, his grades climbing steadily—proof that maybe he was capable all along, he just needed someone to push him in the right direction.
and in return, he helps you come out of your shell.
he brings you to tiny cafes you’ve never been to before, teaches you how to play pool (terribly, but he doesn’t care), and pulls you into spontaneous late-night walks through campus when the air is cool and the stars are bright.
sometimes, you end up sitting on the hood of his car, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your fingers tangled with his as he talks about everything and nothing.
he tells you things he’s never told anyone else—about his parents, about the pressure to be someone bigger, stronger, louder. about how he never really cared about anything before he met you.
“you made me start giving a shit,” he says one night, his voice low as he traces lazy circles against your palm. “about school, about the future. about being a better guy.”
you glance up at him, smiling faintly. “you're the bestest guy, kuna.”
he looks at you for a long time, his chest squeezing with the urge to squish you until you pop. then, with a soft exhale, he leans down and kisses you. gentle, slow, like the world could end and he’d still be happy just holding you against his muscular chest.
word gets around campus fast. whispers follow you sometimes. half disbelief, half awe. people don’t really understand how you ended up with him. the shy, quiet girl who sits at the front of every lecture, always polite, always prepared… dating one of the loudest, most notorious frat boys on campus.
but the thing is, neither of you care.
you’ve seen the way people look at you two when you walk hand in hand across campus, his tall frame towering beside yours. you’ve heard the murmurs—'how long do you think it’ll last, she’s too good for him, he’ll get bored'. but then he catches your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and all of it melts away.
"don't listen to those clowns."
because you know him now. the real him.
the boy who wakes up early to get your favorite pastry from the cafe before class. the one who drapes his hoodie over your shoulders when it’s too crisp. the one who never forgets to text you goodnight, even when he’s exhausted.
the one who stopped showing up to most frat partys because, as he put it, “none of it’s fun without you anyway.”
you see it in the way he’s changed. not because you asked him to, but because he wants to.
he doesn’t flirt with girls anymore. he doesn’t even seem to notice when they do. his focus is all on you. your laughter, your voice, your little quirks that no one else ever bothered to notice.
and it’s not just the big things that show it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the road closest to the cars. the way he remembers all your orders without ever asking. the way he’ll pull you closer when you’re out together, even if it’s just to rest his big hand on your hip.
he doesn’t talk about feelings much, not directly. but in every gesture, every glance, it’s there.
you’re his world now, and everyone can see it.
his room at the frat house has changed, too. gone are the stacks of solo cups and random gym gear scattered across the floor. in their place are little pieces of you—a throw blanket you brought one day, a mug you left on his desk, your notebook tucked on the shelf next to his textbooks.
he keeps a photo of the two of you pinned on his bulletin board. it’s a candid, one of those moments you didn’t even know he was taking. a shot of you sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing his hoodie, laughing with a half-eaten cookie in your hand. he swears it’s his favorite picture in the world.
“you look so fucking cute, and happy,” he tells you when you catch him staring at it one night.
“i am happy,” you reply softly.
“better be,” he says. “that’s all i ever want for you, y/n.”
some nights, he stays over at your apartment instead of the frat. he always claims it’s because it’s quieter, easier to focus on studying. but you both know it’s just because he sleeps better when you’re beside him.
you cook together sometimes, though “cook” might be a really shitty out of touch excuse for the disaster you two create. he burns half the things he touches, laughs through every fuck up, and still insists on taste-testing everything like he’s on master chef. you can’t stay mad when he grins at you with flour on his cheek, his dimples showing as he holds up a misshapen cookie.
“hey, we’re improvin',” he says.
“barely,” you reply, giggling.
he just leans down, presses a quick kiss to your nose, and murmurs, “yeah, but you’re still here, so i must be doing somethin' right.”
there are still parties, of course—he’s still in the frat, and sometimes showing up is expected. but it’s much different. when he does go, he stays by your side the whole night, a protective hand on your back or wrapped around your waist.
he barely drinks anymore, claiming he doesn’t need to. when people flirt or make comments, he just laughs them off and pulls you a little closer.
and when it gets late, when the music’s too loud and the air too heavy with alcohol and perfume, he’ll lean down and whisper, “wanna get out of here?”
you always nod. and the two of you slip away, walking through quiet streets until you reach your place, where everything feels calm again.
people still whisper, still wonder how it works. how a shy, soft-spoken girl could tame someone like ryomen sukuna. but you know the truth.
you didn’t tame him, you just saw him. really saw him. beneath the tattoos, the reputation, the arrogance. you saw the boy who just needed someone to care, and he saw the girl who needed someone to make her feel brave.
and together, you found something that feels a lot like forever.
months pass, the seasons shifting from late autumn to the first chill of winter. the air turns crisp, the sky pale and bright. the two of you walk through campus hand in hand, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.
“remember when we first started that project?” you ask one day, laughing softly. “you barely knew what a periodic table was.”
“hey,” he says, pretending to be offended. “i knew what it was. i just didn’t give a shit.”
“hmm, and now you’re pulling straight a’s.”
he grins. “guess i had a real good tutor. she's real sexy, too..”
you bump his shoulder lightly. “awe i bet she'd be real flattered to hear that.”
he stops walking for a moment, looking down at you with that same warm, unguarded look that still makes your stomach flip.
“you know something?” he says quietly.
“hmm?”
“i still think that fuckass project was the best thing that's ever happened to lil' ol' me.”
you smile, reaching up to fix the collar of his jacket. “yeah?”
“hell yeah,” he murmurs, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. “because it led me to you.”
the world fades for a moment, the cold, the noise, the people around you, and it’s just him. just you.
when he kisses you, it’s slow, steady, full of all the fuzzy romantic fire that’s been culminating between you since the day he walked up to your desk with a failed test and a hidden nervous smile.
you remember that moment so clearly now, and you can’t help but think how far you’ve both come. from shy glances and awkward silences to this. a love that feels like home.
and as his hand tightens around yours, you realize something simple, something certain.
you’ve both found exactly where you’re meant to be, with each other.
soft sukuna is my fav icl
anyways tysm for 6k im gonna cry im gonna miss you all on your mouths 🥹💞
nanami kento x reader — enemies to lovers au (MDNI)
SYNOPSIS: upset with each other after a mission ends in a near-death encounter, the tension on the drive back to the city finally erupts in a culmination of old arguments and unexpressed feelings. you push nanami too far, and what starts as another fight spirals quickly into backseat heat, fogged windows, and unexpected confessions.
CONTENT: hate fucking, car sex, rough (but tender) sex, porn with plot, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, reader is snarky and a huge brat, brat tamer nanami, both are sorcerers this is important to the plot, tsundere-ish behaviour from nanami, so much sexual tension it fucking explodes, consent checks, fingering, we fuck first and talk later, hurt/comfort, two emotionally repressed fools, happy ending — wc: 8.5k
A/N: there is some semblance of a deeper plot hidden within all this messy hate fucking stuff but i’ll let you discover it for yourself! i hope you enjoy the read <3
It’s not a secret that you don’t exactly get along with Nanami Kento.
They all say Nanami is a gentleman. He’s the gold-standard of what it takes to be a first-grade sorcerer – razor-sharp judgement paired with flawless execution and the kind of combat experience that makes him near untouchable in the field. He’s the role model for rookie sorcerers, the example every teacher points to.
And he’s handsome, too, in the unfair kind of way that has old ladies on the street stopping to stare, the kind of handsome that gets him free bread at the bakery and phone numbers scribbled on coffee cups with a little heart next to them.
You know him a little better than that though.
Nanami Kento is a gentleman – to everyone else but you. He’s not an asshole in the traditional sense of the word, neither has he ever raised his voice or stooped to insults (you can’t exactly say you’ve adhered to the same principles), but that doesn’t mean you get along.
The feud between you has been simmering for two years at this point – and it runs deeper than the clipped cadence of his voice when he speaks to you, or the ridiculous leopard print tie he favours so much, or even the suffocating pragmatism he wields like a second blade.
No, what truly grates is your differences in philosophy, the way they surface in every battle, every mission. To him, you’re reckless. To you, he’s inflexible. Stuck up. Condescending. If someone asked him directly, he might have a few choice words to describe you in return.
Still, the higher-ups thought they were clever, pairing your technique with his. Perfect synergy, as they called it. Too valuable to waste. The younger sorcerer brimming with potential, paired up with the seasoned veteran to temper her recklessness.
Stuck together, as you preferred to call it.
And the thing was – you’d actually managed to make it work. Somehow, despite your fundamental differences, baring a few squabbles and disagreements here and there, you fought well side by side. You covered each other’s weaknesses, filled in each other’s gaps.
At least, that’s how it used to be.
Until the mission in July happened.
Ever since then, Nanami has never treated you the same.
You hear it in his tone, now sharper than usual, the way he won’t meet your eyes and yet his gaze lingers on your back like he doesn’t quite trust you to execute a simple assignment without tripping on your shoelaces, and in the way you sometimes catch him staring at the jagged scar running down your left arm – one of the injuries you’d sustained from the mission – his lips pursed and brow creased.
On the surface, things carried on as per usual. You were still being paired together to tackle harder missions better left to more experienced sorcerers. Nothing had really changed about your dynamic, either. You still go out of your way to annoy him, and he still remains largely unimpressed by your attempts to push his buttons.
Most importantly, the implicit trust between two partners on the battlefield was still there, unbroken.
But underneath, you knew that the air between you had permanently shifted, charged with a tension you couldn’t quite name. Sharp and lingering, it polluted every interaction, every word too heavy, every sentence too loaded.
Sometimes, you wondered if it was hatred, that maybe after your fuck up in July he’d decided you weren’t worth his respect anymore. That the semblance of friendship you’d been slowly progressing towards no longer meant anything.
Or maybe, that the scar on your arm was such a jarring reminder of your failure that he could no longer bring himself to look at you without remembering how badly you’d messed up.
And after tonight, when you’d come so close to messing up again, it feels even worse.
Nanami hasn’t said a word for the better part of an hour, weary eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of highway ahead. His jaw is set in that way that means he’s stewing – about you, about the mission, about the split-second decision you made that forced him to step in and save your ass.
Oh, and about the fact that you were supposed to be back in Tokyo by the afternoon, and it’s 9pm.
The next day.
Working overtime. He hates that shit. Possibly even a little more than he hates you.
Nanami’s sleep deprived – you both are – but the difference is that whilst you’ve been able to take little naps in the passenger seat, he looks like his restraint is being held together by the last shreds of sheer willpower and caffeine. He’s on third, maybe fourth cup of cheap convenience store coffee, and his hands are clutching the steering wheel so tight his knuckles have gone white.
For the record, you’d sincerely offered to take over the wheel, but he’d insisted on driving, claiming he didn’t trust you on the road, or with his car.
You’re stealing glances at him – his typically crisp dress shirt rumpled, tie lost to the backseat (thank god he took that monstrosity off), fatigue carved deep in the lines of the stone statue that is his face.
He’d graciously let you have the bed last night, when you were stuck in a shitty motel with only one room available, whilst he slept on the floor with a spare pillow and a towel draped over him to act as a makeshift blanket.
So really, you should probably feel a little guilty.
And you do, really, you do. You just can’t sit still in the quiet for any longer.
Your lips twitch, and you reach for the console to turn the volume up a notch.
“Don’t,” Nanami says, without looking.
Your fingers rest on the display, leaving a little fingerprint across the surface of his otherwise pristine touchscreen – because of course the man keeps his car immaculately tidy and maintained like he just drove it out of the Mercedes dealership the day before.
You hover over the volume button, then, whilst meeting his gaze, you slowly drag your fingertip in a tiny crescent. The bass lifts just a breath – some obnoxious song on the radio you’re only going to pretend to like when he tells you to turn it off – and you hear him audibly exhale.
Nanami’s jaw flexes. “Off.”
Bingo.
You feign a pout. “You haven’t even heard the song. It’s my favourite, you know.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, voice flat. “My car is not a club.”
“Disagree,” you say, tapping the dash, where the LED panels extending across the length of it alternates in the colours of the rainbow, pulsing slowly. “You have the lights. You’re just lacking the vibes.”
He ignores the last end of your statement. “I told you not to mess with my settings.”
“Why buy a fancy car if you don’t play with it a little, Grandpa?” You grin at him sideways, knowing full well the nickname makes his eye twitch every time.
Nanami isn’t one for overtly emotional displays, but it’s the little chips in his composure – so tiny you’d have to squint to see it – that makes pushing his buttons so entertaining. He’s normally a lot better at denying you the satisfaction of seeing it happen, but now, when sleep-deprived and running low on patience, those cracks show easier.
“I am not your grandfather,” he mutters.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you hum. “You sure drive like one.”
“I drive safely.” His gaze flicks to you, entirely unimpressed. “If I’m being honest, I preferred when you were asleep. It would spare me your commentary.”
Oh, good. He’s talking again. Talking is good. Anything is better than the silence he’s been submerged in ever since the mission ended.
“Don’t be so mean, Kento,” you sing-song, drawing out the “O” consonant to his name. “I happen to like talking to you.”
That’s a half-truth. You like getting on Nanami’s nerves, mainly because you seem to be able to draw a reaction out of him unlike another other. Not even Gojo comes close, and that’s saying something. He’s just a lot more… reactive when it comes to you, and you’ve always been more than happy to exploit that fact.
And the other half of it? Because any reaction is better than the suffocating quiet that engulfs the car. That, and the sidelong glances of contempt he’s been casting you. You understand Nanami well enough to know that he’s biting his tongue, another sharp lecture waiting on the edge of his teeth.
So why not speed the process up a little?
You reach for the volume button again, dragging it up just a notch. The bass hums louder, grating and insistent, filling the silence he clearer prefers.
“Are you,” he inhales deeply, shooting you a glare, “purposely trying to rile me up?”
Your grin deepens, teeth flashing. “Did you just figure that out?”
That seems to do it.
His head snaps towards you, eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea how close you came to screwing up that mission?”
“But I didn’t!” you groan in exasperation, your own mood souring instantly. “I didn’t, and we got out safely. God, why are you still being such a hardass about it?”
“We only got out because I had your back,” Nanami retorts, his tone sharper than usual. “If I hadn’t pulled you out at the last second you would have died.”
“Oh my god.” You drop your head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling of the car. “The point is that I didn’t die. I didn’t die, and now I’m in your car listening to you lecture me, and it’s starting to make me wish I died instead.”
His grip on the wheel tightens. “Do you hear yourself? That was reckless, and you know it. You got lucky.” He drags out the last word, as if to further emphasise his point.
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “People were saved. That’s all that matters to me.”
“Not if it costs you your life,” his voice comes out low, harsh. “Your life is not an expendable resource you can throw away. We had a plan, and you insisted on veering away from it because you got emotional.”
“It wasn’t emotional,” you grit, dragging a hand down your face in frustration. Maybe death by flinging yourself out of a moving vehicle wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
“It was a sacrifice I was willing to make. And I succeeded. With my life intact,” you scowl. Shouldn’t you be thanking me instead? What, Mr. First-Grade Sorcerer over here thinks that the only right calls are the ones he makes?”
Nanami lets out a long exhale through his nose, slow and deliberate. “That is not what this is about.”
“What else could it be about?” You throw your hands up in frustration. “Don’t act like you don’t gamble with your own life every day. This whole job is a gamble. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”
“The difference is that your life matters,” he snaps, and the crack in his composure comes so suddenly it silences the car for half a beat.
You blink, but recover your snark quickly.
“Matters to who?” you scoff incredulously. “Certainly not to you, given the way you’ve been glaring at me this whole time.”
Nanami opens his mouth, seemingly about to retort, before changing his mind and snapping his mouth shut. His jaw ticks, and you swear his eye twitches, but he says nothing. Absolutely nothing. The car goes quiet, with only the hum of tires on asphalt and the low rush of air through the vents filling the void.
The silence is heavier than before, and it’s somehow worse than the fighting, worse than the stupid back and forth you’ve been doing since the day you met, and although you can’t for the life of you figure out why you’re so determined to get a rise out of him – stoic, stone-faced Nanami Kento that everyone respects and looks up to – you reach for the handle, yanking it hard. Just to see what he’ll do.
“Pull over,” you demand, giving the locked handle another hard tug.
His head whips towards you with a glare so sharp it borders on panic. It’s not because you want to get out, or because you want to run, but because you want to start a proper fight and you can’t exactly do it sitting down.
“No.” His tone is entirely flat. “And stop doing that. We’re not splitting up on the side of the motorway at night. If I can tolerate you for twenty seven hours,” he checks his watch, eyes narrowing, “no, twenty eight, then you can tolerate me for another sixty more minutes.”
“So you do care.” You can’t help yourself. Pissing him off really is that fun. “Say it, Kento. Say you’d miss me if I got smeared across the road.”
Nanami’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, although his knuckles return to white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel again.
“You’d even cry,” you push. “You’d probably request bereavement leave and take the full week off. Nanami Kento, mourning the brat who drove him insane–”
He breathes in through his nose, chest rising sharply with every measured inhale. You wonder if he’s in the middle of doing one of those breathing exercises they advise you to do to manage anxiety – or in his case, to manage you.
In any case, he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he signals, and without so much as sparing you another glance, contemptuous or otherwise, he veers into the next exit, guiding the car down a ramp and into an industrial strip of shuttered shopfronts.
He pulls into a deserted parking lot in front of a closed bakery and parks, pointedly ignoring your incredulous questions of what the hell are you doing. The engine ticks as it cools, rain threading down the windshield in tired streams and blurring the warm glow of the streetlamps above.
Only then does he turn to you.
The look on his face, somehow made harsher by the dim streetlamps outside is worse than angry.
It is concentrated. Darkened and unyielding, like the electric pulse of the sky before a storm breaks.
“Get out,” he says.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“You wanted me to pull over,” his brow lifts just so, the tiniest flicker of a challenge in his otherwise flat expression. “So, get out.”
You set your jaw. “If you’re seriously thinking about making me walk home in the middle of nowhere–”
He undoes his seatbelt with a sharp click of the button, and you almost jolt at the way it snaps back into the retractor. “I am not asking you to walk. I am asking you to get out of the car.”
Everything inside you thrums.
You shouldn’t move. You should lock your arms and snark until he eventually deflates.
Instead, your fingers reach for the handle, opening the door and stepping out into the drizzle of rain and wet concrete. You wanted an argument, but it feels like this has spiralled headfirst into something else entirely.
You round the hood, fingers curled into tight fists to hide how your hands tremble. How they’ve been trembling ever since the mission ended. He swiftly meets you at the passenger side, door closing behind him with a loud thud that makes something in you brace for impact and roar to life all at once.
Rain stipples his hair, under eyes shadowed with hours and stress he probably blames on you. He looks even taller out here, broad and solid, his eyes hard and unyielding, collar undone.
You hate that you still find him unbearably, breathtakingly handsome.
With a breath held immensely tight in your chest, you watch as Nanami opens the back door. The back seat is immaculate, as is the rest of his car – quilted chestnut leather that still smells faintly new, without any indication of creases or crumbs to suggest anyone had ever sat there before.
“Now get in,” he orders.
Your throat goes dry.
“What are you doing?” you ask stupidly, even though you think the heat behind is eyes is an answer in itself.
Nanami steps in closer, and you swear you feel the warmth radiating off him, even through the drizzle of rain. You swear it would burn if you dared to reach for him.
“Polite conversation clearly doesn’t work with you. I’m trying another way.” His voice is a low note, like thunder murmuring in the distance. “So get in the car.”
You tilt your chin in another act of defiance. “And if I don’t?”
You expect him to bite back at you, to return tit for tat, but he lowers his gaze, eyes softening unexpectedly.
“Then,” he murmurs, taking a half-step backwards, “you get back into the front seat, and we go home like this never happened.”
Your pulse is an uneven flutter at the base of your throat. Of course he offers you the choice. Of course he gives you an out. Even now, when the air around you wears thin with tension that threatens to snap, of course he is kind.
And you should take it.
You should stalk back to the passenger seat, shut the door with force and raise the volume loud enough just to spite him. You should ignore how the only decoration in his car is an incredibly out-of-place Pompompurin keychain dangling from the rearview mirror – something you absentmindedly picked out during a gift exchange event. You should pretend you’ve never once questioned why he hasn’t taken it down, especially if it’s as unsightly as he claims.
You should ignore how you seem to be the only person he lets sit in this immaculate shrine of leather upholstery and polish. It’s almost as untouched as a showroom piece, and yet he continues to let you eat your lunch in his car when you’re starving and rushing from assignment to assignment. He never says yes, but he never says no either. He just readjusts his glasses with a sigh and attacks the seat with a mini vacuum when you get out.
You should do all of that, then meet him at 9am sharp tomorrow for that briefing with the higher-ups. Poke fun at his perpetual frown and that hideous tie – because what the hell, honestly – and pretend your scars don’t itch under the heavy weight of his gaze.
You really, really should.
Instead, your spine liquifies, and you move before you can think better of it, slipping into the backseat, the leather sinking under your weight. He follows after you, and if it was quiet in the car before, it is positively oppressive now, the unbearably small space between you closing further as he leans down, knees bracketing your thighs.
The distinctive smell of his cologne still clings to him, softened now by the rain and a long day on the road, but it’s still enough to make your pulse trip as his gaze drags over your face, tender and hot all at once, almost like a caress across the surface of your skin.
“Tell me to stop,” Nanami says, and you don’t understand why, for all the restraint he seems to embody, all that iron discipline that defines him – he seems to be begging you, of all people, to hold him back.
It’s too bad you’ve always been a little reckless.
“I won’t.”
His jaw flexes. “You can.”
“I know.”
That’s the last thing you say before you reach out, a hand grabbing at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer until the space between your faces all but evaporates. He’s still leaning over you, the breadth of his shoulders caging you in, and you long to find out if he’s just as hard as you imagine – if perhaps the restraint pulling itself taut on every line of his body is fighting back something far more primal underneath.
Your hips shift – just the barest brush against his – and the low growl from the base of his throat tells you enough.
“You want me,” you taunt, chin jutting out like it’s a dare, because maybe you really are stupid and reckless, and maybe poking the bear helps hide the shakiness to your voice, or the hammering of your heart against your ribs. “Maybe you hate that you want me, but you want m–”
Nanami cuts you off. “I want you,” he replies evenly, “to shut up.”
You grin, wide, all teeth. You’ve always loved watching a storm brew. “Then shut me up.”
And he does exactly that.
He curses once under his breath, soft but not at all sweet, and then his lips crash down upon yours, silencing every single thought with a kiss that is all heat and fervour.
Your hands are mean, or maybe just plain greedy, threading through his damp hair, tugging at the strands, before trailing down the width of his shoulders and down his back with a hunger you don’t bother to conceal.
Meanwhile, Nanami’s hands wander lower, gathering up your skirt in impatient fists and flipping the fabric up around your thighs. The sudden rush of cool air makes you shudder, and you hope to god he can’t see how you’ve already soaked through the fabric of your cotton panties.
“You wear this fucking thing–” he rasps, pulling back to let his eyes drag across your body, from your spread thighs to the sharp rise and fall of your chest, “–and wonder why you’re driving me crazy.”
You bite down on another grin, somehow managing a retort despite the dizzy rush of blood in your ears and the furious knocking of your heart against its cage.
“Thought it was my mouth that drives you crazy.”
“Oh, believe me,” he scoffs, breath ghosting your neck. “That too.”
And then, as to prove his point, he leans down to kiss you again, harder this time.
There was a conversation to be had, a fight waiting to be fought, but somehow – when his lips press against yours and his hand trails down your thigh – the only battle you want is the one waged by teeth scraping against teeth, in the slick slide of tongues and in gasps withheld and coaxed out of the other.
You shove at his shirt in between messy kisses, fumbling with the buttons in the dark until you lose patience and practically rip it open with force. It leaves his chest bare, and you can’t stop the satisfied curl of your lips when you run a palm down his body and over his abs, the barest touch pulling a low groan from his chest.
It’s easy to get lost in the moment, in the frenzied fight for dominance you’re sure to eventually lose, but you freeze completely when Nanami’s hands curl at the bottom of your shirt, his intent clear in the way hazel eyes narrow, fixed and focused on your exposed skin.
“D-don’t–” your fingers rush to clamp around his wrist, the slight, frantic tremble in your voice more obvious than you’d hoped.
It’s fairly dark in the car, but even then you can’t bear the thought of him seeing it.
The scars – god, it’s always about the scars – one running down your left arm, crooked and ugly, and the other on your upper chest, evidence of a blade that tore through skin like it was paper, the tissue raised and raw even after all of Shoko’s best efforts.
I can’t do much about the cosmetics, she’d told you with an apologetic wince. Still, you’re very lucky to be alive.
I don’t feel very lucky, you’d wanted to say, your legs hanging off her examination table as you shrugged your shirt back on. I know I should. But I don’t.
Not when he can’t seem to ever look at me the same.
You can’t tell if your wide-eyed gaze has indeed betrayed you, or if Nanami simply decides not to cross a boundary you don’t want crossed, but his movements halt, fingers slowly unfurling from the edge of your shirt.
“Alright,” he murmurs.
He’s chooses to be merciful, although you know deep down he’s always been this way and it just kills you to admit that, because he simply doesn’t press. Instead, he moves on like nothing happened, pulling your top the full length down, then slipping away from where his hand once hovered and down to your parted thighs.
“You’re soaked,” he breathes, in half-awe and half-surprise, when he feels the way slick already coats your inner thighs sticky.
“S-shut up,” you bite back weakly, nails digging into his shoulder when his fingers test the wet heat of your core through the thin fabric of your panties. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?”
“Impatient,” Nanami chides with a click of his tongue, but he gives you more anyway, pushing aside the thin cotton barrier and dragging a thumb through your slick, rubbing over your clit as he goes, the pressure enough to make your hips buck up desperately.
You bite down hard on your bottom lip, wanting to deny him the satisfaction of hearing the whimper threatening to fall from the tip of your tongue.
“Talk,” he orders, a hand closing on your hips to hold you in place. “You never stop. Go on.”
“I hate you,” you say, too quickly, because you need ground under your feet. “You’re a condescending– ah– oh– fuck– ”
Your protest dissolves into a strangled gasp – more air than sound – when he presses two thick fingers into you without warning, the stretch burning and maddening all at once. Hands fly up to grip his shoulders, every push of air from your throat leaving more broken than the last.
You cry out as he works you open, merciless and unrelenting, darkened eyes watching the way your body trembles and twitches under his control. He is precise, measured even in the way he unravels you, every curl of his fingers and brush against your sensitive clit a deliberate act to unmake you.
“What do you want?” Nanami rasps, fingers picking up their pace.
The car is too small, too hot, the wet drag of his fingers and your fractured moans echoing in the cramped space.
“You,” you say, shameless, gone. You’ll lose the battle if it means winning the war. “I want you.”
“Say it again,” he demands. “Tell me you want this.”
“You,” you’re pawing at him, hungry with want, eyes raking down the length of his bare chest and wishing he would just go ahead and ruin you. The sincerity of your confession – just how deep it truly goes – is lost on you. “W-want you–”
That’s all it takes for the remnants of his composure to crack like sugared glass, pulling his hand from you to fumble at his belt before yanking it off and pushing his pants down just far enough to tug himself free.
Your gaze flickers down at the low rasp of fabric, the clink of metal hitting against the door, eyes widening despite yourself.
He’s fucking hung. Well-endowed. Blessed by the gods, clearly, or whatever you call the kind of cock even the average male porn star can’t compete with. Your mouth goes a little dry at the sight of it.
“That won’t– won’t fit,” you say breathlessly, eyes transfixed on the way he fists his cock, once, twice, hand sliding tight over his swollen tip.
“We’ll make it fit,” he grunts.
His free hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider for him. Your hips don’t mean to cant up to chase his touch, but your body betrays you anyway, the movement needy and shameless.
Nanami drags the head of his cock against your slick folds and another shaky whimper is torn from your throat when it nudges against your entrance, rubbing up against your wet heat.
“Kento–” You gasp when he presses in just enough to have you stretching around his tip, thighs tensing around him at the weight of it, hands curling into fists.
You’re forced to hold his gaze in this position, eyes locked on each other even as yours roll back and his threaten to flutter shut just the same. But he keeps them open – stubborn and determined to the last – fixated on the way your face contorts in a convoluted mix of pain and pleasure as he inches deeper.
“Is this what you wanted?” Nanami rasps, a hand on your hip pinning you down to the leather as your body fights against the intrusion. “Why you keep running your mouth? God,” the laugh he lets out is more dark than it is humorous. “You drive me crazy.”
“You already– hah– said that–”
Another inch deeper.
Another groan falls from your bitten lips, increasingly more shattered as your body gradually yields to the stretch. Your nails dig into this shoulders, fingers curling into hardened muscle, the sheer desperation almost overwhelming.
“You’ll get yourself killed one day,” he grits through clenched teeth.
“Let it go, already, old man,” you snap back, too breathless to carry any heat, “It’s none of your business how I die–”
“Is that so?” He seems to grow incensed at that statement, because he pushes all the way to the hilt, hips snapping against you with a decisive thrust. “Even if I’m the one who has to bury your dead body?”
The force of it makes you choke on a moan, back arching against the seat, hands bracing at your sides for purchase. You swear to god Nanami must truly hate you or he wouldn’t be fucking you this good, this ruthlessly, like every thrust is intent to break you into something less frustrating for him to handle.
And then he leans down, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. His face is half-obscured by the darkness, but even then you can see there’s nothing darker, nothing quite as agitated compared to the look in his eyes.
“If there’s even anything left of you next time.”
He spits it out bitterly, eyes narrowing into slits, the next harsh thrust after that almost serving to further punctuate his statement.
Your lips part, but Nanami doesn't give you the chance to retort – and he knows you well enough to know you always have something to throw back – because he picks up his pace, the rhythm he sets enough to shake the car.
But more than frustration, and more than anger itself, there’s something else buried deep in the way he splits you apart. Something confusing, something desperate behind every devasting thrust.
His hands on your hip stay almost tender, never bruising, and when you guide his hand towards your breasts, above your clothes, he doesn’t knead your flesh with any force behind it. Where you’d expected sharpness, his touch stays controlled, gentle, even – as though soothing.
Nanami must know, because of course he does.
He must know about the scarred length of skin that still feels raw to the touch, and if he keeps looking at you like this you’re certain he’ll know about the nightmares that keep you up on some nights – where you don’t manage to outrun the sharp slice of blade that almost took your life.
He knows everything about you, because he’s worked closely by your side for two straight years, through successes you barely celebrated and losses too deep to speak of, and he’s always right, even when he’s calling you impulsive and reckless.
Even when he’s holding you back by the collar, saving your skin, or giving another sharp lecture with his eyes narrowed and arms crossed – he knows.
And you think that’s what you hate more than anything.
It isn’t the tie (though god, that one is pushing it pretty close), it isn’t the clipped tone, and it isn’t the petty disagreements on mission strategies or what he deems to be sloppy work on your reports.
No, what you truly hate is the way your mistake in July seems to have cost his respect for you, his trust, and as much as you hated to admit it, you cared more about the broken bond – if anything had existed in the first place – than you cared about the irreversible scars on your chest and arm.
Deep down, what you hated was yourself, for losing something irretrievable.
You silence those thoughts with a desperate reach for him, dragging him down into a kiss that is equal parts messy and all-consuming. Every thrust jolts you against the leather seat, your skin sticky with sweat, nothing but the frantic collision of your bodies echoing in the cramped space.
You’re greedy for him. You can allow it, just once. And he gives you greed right back, matched and measured, and then not measured at all.
Nanami is methodical even when he’s unravelling; never fully lost to pleasure itself. He brings you to the edge of release first, only letting himself go when you’re already breaking apart under him, trembling and shaking as your orgasm washes over you in waves.
His thrusts finally turn sloppy, losing their rhythm as they morph into urgency, letting himself chase the high he’s been resisting all this while. His forehead presses close to yours, exchanging heated, open-mouthed kisses, as his hips stutter.
“Fuck–” he curses, driving into you once, then twice more with a fracturing pace, before spilling into you with a low groan, chest heaving from the exertion.
He stays like that for a moment, a hand braced against the fogged windows to shield you from his weight, the both of you panting heavily from the high. Then, with a sharp but shaky exhale, one hand leaves your hip, reaching up to turn on the overhead light.
The warm amber glow floods the space, and for a moment you squint, shielding your eyes from the brightness above.
“Ow,” you bemoan loudly, “did you have to turn that on right away?”
You hear him rustling in the centre console – because of course that man keeps wet tissues and perhaps even a damn first aid kit in there – but then the movement stops, and his reply doesn’t come.
“Hello? The light,” you whine, eyes still squeezed shut.
Still no reply.
It’s only when you slowly pull your hand away from your face that you see what he’s fixated on.
And of course, it’s the scar.
It always fucking is.
Your shirt had gotten shoved up in the chaos, riding high above your stomach and bunching around your sternum. The scar is raised and silvery under the glow of light, one ugly, crooked line that slices across the middle of your chest and extending towards your right breast.
You freeze.
Panic – or maybe even shame – curls hot in your gut.
Shoko had said it wasn’t that noticeable, which really, was a blatant lie. You knew it was one of those rare times she was sparing you the sympathy you needed to hear in the moment.
Instinct tells you to pull the fabric down yourself, but you go rigid instead, afraid of what expression you might read on his face when you dare to look closely.
You’re bracing yourself for whatever he might say, or do, next, but he does what you least expect, leaning down, his mouth crashing hot upon yours all over again.
It starts off with equal fervour as the first kiss you shared, but this one is not messy, not a clash of wills and a battle for control like it was previously.
It is distinctively different this time.
Devastatingly tender, gentle in the way his mouth moves softly against yours, woven with something you’re sure is going unsaid at the moment, a hand moving to cup your breasts.
Your breath hitches when Nanami strokes the raised welt of scar tissue, applying no pressure at all, fingertips tracing across the flesh and then moving to pull down your bra so your nipples harden instantly under the cool air.
“Kento–” you jolt when his hand slips further down, back to your parted thighs and your throbbing heat, still messy with his cum. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing circles and sending a sharp rush of pleasure that makes your entire body twitch.
“I already– I already–”
“Again,” Nanami rasps. “Cum again. Without hiding from me.”
It’s easy – almost too easy – for him to bring you towards the edge of yet another high.
He’s already got you worked open from his cock, and he only needs to curl his fingers gently, against that sweet spot that makes the pleasure wind tighter and tighter in your stomach, his hands moving against the mess he left inside you.
Nanami doesn’t let up, not even when your fingers wrap around his wrist, trying to stop the relentless stimulation and the release that quickly threatens to overtake your senses.
“Good girl,” he coaxes. “Just let go.”
You cum on his fingers with a sharp whimper, body tensing and shaking until you’re certain you have nothing left to give.
The tears that were pricking your waterline finally overflow when your eyes screw shut, hot streaks trailing down the sides of your face. He reaches for your cheeks, a thumb about to wipe the trickle of tears away when you grab his hand firmly.
“Don’t be soft,” you warn bitterly, voice still raw. “Don’t.”
Nanami doesn’t reply you immediately, but he retracts his hand slowly, an unreadable expression flickering across his face as he studies you. Then, very carefully, like he’s being cautious not to trespass on any more of your space, he pulls your top back down, straightening the fabric.
He pulls out wet tissues from the compartment in the centre console and you try not to roll your eyes at how infuriatingly well-prepared he is for any given situation. No further words are exchanged, but he continues to be unbearably soft, gentle hands cleaning up the mess between your legs.
It's only when you both have your clothes back on, fabric hastily tugged back down to cover what shouldn’t have been revealed, that he finally speaks again.
You hear the words leaving him quietly, whispered almost begrudgingly.
“I can’t seem to help it,” he murmurs. “Being soft with you.”
“It’s ugly,” you say, deflecting – partly because you know his mind still lingers on what he just saw, and your shameful reaction to it, and partly because you don’t want to linger further on what his words might mean.
“No, it isn’t.”
“I fucked up.”
“Mistakes happen.”
You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and just decide to say it anyway.
“Then why do you hate me so much for it?”
Nanami visibly deflates at that, the soundless sigh he lets out causing his shoulders to droop, almost in surrender. He looks away from you, out of the window and towards the empty parking lots ahead, to where individual stars from the overhead streetlamps illuminate grey concrete floors.
“I don’t hate you.”
“Liar.” You make a sound that could pass as laughter. “I’m the only person you treat this way. You’re polite to everyone else. You open doors. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t pull them back by the collar,” you opt stare at the dashboard instead of meeting his eyes, but even then, you can’t hide the rawness to your tone. “Why am I different?”
“…I believe I open doors for you.”
You make a frustrated sound. “Is that all you got from my monologue?”
A long pause follows, like he’s measuring out the weight of what he wants to say.
Nanami has the tendency to get quiet like this; every time you demand answers to questions he doesn’t quite want to give, or worse – when what’s about to follow after his momentary silence is something that will hit much harder than what you’re ready for.
For a man that could be so impatient, he sure does take his time to pick his words carefully.
“Do you want to know why I bought a new car?”
“…What?” You blink, uncomprehending. “Why? Because you were getting paid too much? Needed somewhere to spend the big bucks?”
“Because–” his voice raises above yours, eyes screwing shut, jaw tensing as he swallows. “Your blood was all over the seats. My shirt. My fucking hands. I thought you were about to die on the ride back to the school. Fuck,” he curses, voice cracking. “I thought my backseat was going to be where your heart gave out.”
“Kento…”
“Every time I looked at those stains it made me sick. And every time I look at that scar on your arm, I… I think it should have been me instead.”
Every single pushed out of him sounds pained, punctuated with something haunted and heavy, and guilt curls low in your gut at the sight of it.
“So yes. I treat you differently because you make me furious.”
Nanami turns to you, but his eyes are not at all hardened, not a single trace of resentment behind hazel irises.
“Every reckless choice. Every time you joke about your life like it’s a game. Every time you blast your shitty music in my car and mess with my settings.” He rakes a hand through dishevelled hair, looking wearier than ever, the trace of something raw ghosting across his face. “You make me work harder. Longer. Later. You make me have to sleep on the floor and drive for hours at a time–”
“ –I offered to share the bed!” you interject weakly.
“–But I do not hate you.”
The overhead light is off now, so his face is mostly shadow; but his voice doesn’t need light to be clear.
“I hate how the hard floor felt softer than my own bed because I heard you snoring softy from beside me. Alive. I hate how I can’t stand it when you’re not in my sight. When you throw yourself into danger without thinking. Because if I’m not there– if I’m not fast enough–”
Nanami cuts himself off with a shake of his head, hanging low, a mirthless laugh escaping him, broken and tired.
Your throat closes up on you. “Why… why are you telling me this now?”
His next words come soft, uttered like a confession it pains him to make.
“Because the way you’re going makes me think I’m running out of time to say it.”
“Sacrifice is in the nature of our jobs,” you whisper, the same damn lines you recite to yourself every day until the words themselves have hollowed out and lost all meaning. “Surely… surely you know that.”
“I know,” Nanami rasps, desperation and stubbornness wreathed in his voice. “You think I don’t know that? Back in July – in Kusatsu – I know I would have made the same choice you did. You made the right call with the information you had.”
You swallow down the lump in your throat, feeling the hot prick of tears behind your eyes. You’re used to lectures, not pleas, coming out of his mouth.
“Do you– do you really think I made the right call?”
“Yes,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in his reply. “Of course.”
“I thought… I thought you resented me because of what happened,” you will yourself not to cry, even as your vision blurs with tears that push against the precipice, threatening to overflow if you only blinked too heavy. “I thought you looked at me and only saw the mistake. That you hated me for it.”
Silence falls over the car, the steady pitter-patter of rain upon the roof and your combined breathing the only thing to fill the void. It stretches and expands, almost unbearable as you wait for his reply.
“I don’t hate you,” Nanami says finally, slower this time, like he’s holding the weight of too many truths between his teeth. “But I would hate myself if anything ever happened to you. So please,” he looks up and you swear you see the shine of tears in his eyes, though his gaze remains unflinching. “Don’t let it be you. Let me try to keep you safe. Please.”
A thousand things fight desperately for precedence in your mouth – alternating rhythms of I’m sorry and thank you drum in your head, intertwined with other raw, fragile confessions you’ve never dared to voice. Things you’ve never dreamed of having the luxury of ever voicing to him.
But in the end, nothing comes out. The lump in your throat too thick, your chest too tight. You blink, once, twice, and the tears fall – coursing down your cheeks in hot streams. You don’t have to be looking at Nanami to know that, from the deep, shuddering breath he takes, he’s crying too.
“It won’t be me,” you choke out, voice flimsy. “But don’t– don’t let it be you, either.”
“It won’t,” he whispers, even though he can’t promise you that. He reaches out – and you let him, this time – a thumb to your cheek in an attempt to wipe away the wet streaks trailing down your face.
“Okay,” you whisper back anyway, because that’s good enough for you. “Then I won’t let it be me.”
Nothing is ever promised with this job, no two endings ever look the same. But if it’s coming from him – then you’ll let yourself believe it.
Nanami allows himself a laugh, an amused huff of breath through the shimmer of tears collecting in his eyes. “Then you’ll have to actually start listening to me.” He pauses, thumb still lingering on your cheek, like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away from you. “…Just sometimes would be enough for me.”
“I’ll have to consider it,” you hum, and you’re already breaking out in a wobbly smile to mirror his.
He shakes his head, resigned, though there’s a trace of something unmistakably fond on his lips. “I suppose that’s more than you’ve ever done before.”
The world seems to tilt on its axis when you lock eyes again. The rain drumming on outside, the tender length of skin under your clothes, even the empty carpark that seems to be holding the weight of this entire moment – all of that fades to grey when he leans in, his hand on your cheek now moving to cradle your jaw.
Your head tips towards him a mere breath after, pulled towards him by something more inevitable than gravity, something almost as steady as the warmth of his touch or the hymns of his pulse thrumming against your skin.
When your lips press against the other, it happens without a fight this time. You meet as partners, savouring the sweetness of his mouth on yours and how his hand fits the curve of your jaw perfectly – like everything was meant to fall into place exactly how it did tonight.
Nanami’s lips linger on yours, thumb stroking your skin with reverence and longing. He presses one more kiss to your nose – drawing a scrunch from you that is equal parts shy and delighted – and another to your forehead, gentler than anything you have ever known.
No further words are said when his hands fall away, the warmth of his skin still radiating, your hearts still beating in the same tune. Then, as though some unspoken truce has been reached in the simple quiet of the tenebrous night, he starts the engine, the car humming to life once again.
You don’t need words, you think.
You just need the certainty of his presence beside you. You need the careful hand against your lower back when he walks alongside you sometimes. The same one you pretend to resist.
You need the way he sighs when you needle him, not because he’s truly exasperated, but because it’s become your rhythm: your push, his pull, the delicate balance that keeps you tethered together even in the ugliest chaos of your work.
The beam of headlights cut through the rain-soaked darkness, and Tokyo waits for you both, just a half hour drive away. Silence envelops the car like a love letter waiting to be sent out – and what was suffocating now melts down into something softer, blanketing you in the most peace you’ve felt in months.
“I’m hungry,” you complain loudly after a bit, when the blur of the city finally takes shape across the line of the horizon. “I need food.”
Nanami spares you a side glance and you pout a little harder. “I believe we ate only three hours ago.”
“Sex is a full body workout, you know.”
“Convenience store, then.”
A pause. His lips purse, and you watch his throat work before he quietly adds, a little unsteadily, “Or… we could go back to my place. I have the seafood cup noodles you like.”
You will your heart to be still. To not flutter at the very notion of an invitation for something more.
“Sounds like a plan.”
You turn the radio up one notch, then catch his eye, and turn it back down. He doesn’t comment. You think that he too, might be hiding a smile in the dark where you can’t see it.
You watch Nanani silently, and then, on impulse, you reach across the console and rest your hand briefly on his forearm. He glances down at your fingers. He doesn’t move away.
There are no guarantees with the life you both lead, but there are a few things that are for certain.
Next Monday, he’ll still pick you up outside your apartment at 8:30am sharp, ample time before the morning meeting. On your seat will be a teriyaki chicken onigiri and your favourite green tea waiting for you to scarf down, because he says you get more annoying when you’re on an empty stomach.
You’ll still try to push his buttons – even though you refuse to admit that one of the reasons why you do so is because the faint crease of his brow and the pursing of his lips is rather cute. And he’ll still sigh, just like he always does, his composure only ever fracturing in your presence. When he does, though, you’ll notice a trace of fondness which lingers in the slight curve of his mouth and the softness behind his eyes – little betrayals of the heart he no longer tries to hide from you.
You’ll still fall into his bed many more times after tonight, just like how you’ll continue to make him grit his teeth and curse at your recklessness, and how he’ll still cause you to roll your eyes and bite back a sharp reply in response.
The label for what started as backseat heat and fogged windows that morphed into nights at his place doing a lot more than just eating cup noodles doesn’t come until many months later. It doesn’t matter, though – because you already like the way the words “my partner” sound coming from his mouth – more than any other terms of endearment one could ever choose.
The scars won’t ever fade, but Nanami kisses them so much that you start to like the way his lips press against the silvery length of skin. They stop feeling like a reminder of how you faltered, and start feeling like the proof that you’re still here – how you need to keep being here.
For yourself.
For him.
And for everything else that comes after.
For now, you can’t help but smile, a small but satisfied curl of lips.
You did indeed win the war – this one, at least.
And you’ll make damn sure you stay alive long enough to fight the next one by his side.
a/n: this fic was largely motivated by my need to write a realistic enough scenario where i could imagine nanami hate fucking the reader… i totally imagine him being a bit of a hardass about his car so i couldn’t resist putting that in (also the jabs about his tie may or may not contain my true sentiments)
i didn’t mean to make the plot this emotional and honestly it started off as just a horny thing but i simply could not help myself. i hope you enjoyed the read! i want him so fucking bad lol
i’m also here to plug my other enemies to lovers arranged marriage au with nanami — check it out here <3
comments and reblogs appreciated!! i would really love to hear your thoughts + my inbox is open if you wanna yap at me <3 ty for reading (^_^)
your typically vanilla husband accidentally discovers a new kink (18+)
for the record, this had been entirely your idea.
it was always you with the dirtier mind, eyebrows raised suggestively whenever you brought the idea of trying out a new fantasy to the table. and it was always him with a flush to his cheeks, cock tenting in his boxers at the pure filth dripping from your mouth. sex never required any embellishment for nanami, and it never required toys or over-complicated lingerie that only added layers and inefficiency.
it was simple for him. he didn’t need a maid costume, or roleplay, or even your clothes to be halfway off to get rock hard — all these years together, and a single smile from you could still do the trick. but he also firmly abided by the principle of happy wife, happy life — and that meant that he tried his best to indulge you, following along at your directive, no matter how outrageous your suggestions got.
except — well, nanami supposed he was doing a hell of a lot more than just following along tonight. he was straight up thrusting into you in the corner booth of a seedy bar, hands steady on your hips, your dress bunched indecently high. you’d whispered the idea with a teasing lilt, thinking he’d brush it off like he always did — but maybe he had a few glasses too many, because he’d only adjusted his tie and muttered, then go on, get on my lap if you’re so bold.
now, your walls were clenching desperately around him, thighs trembling from the weight of his cock pushing against your walls. a cute liquor flush stained your cheeks, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you tried to ease yourself down the full length of him without moaning too loud.
“you have to relax, baby,” he murmured, breath hot against the shell of your ear. “you’ll draw more attention if you keep tensing like that.” his hands slid up under your dress to steady your hips, thumb lazily stroking your skin like he wasn't splitting you open on his cock in public.
for a man who always insisted he didn’t need games, toys, or theatrics, nanami sure found himself savouring every filthy second of this — the secrecy, the danger, the way your walls fluttered around him every time someone passed too close. but this went far deeper than indulging you, or even his own enjoyment —no, he was discovering something about himself tonight.
and if your typically vanilla husband just uncovered a taste for fucking you in public… you weren’t sure if you’d created a monster or if it had been lying in wait all this time, but you knew you would be the one paying for it later.
nanami x reader ─ arranged marriage, enemies to lovers au
you didn't choose to marry nanami kento. the marriage was arranged, the love absent, and your heart still clung onto another man who was everything your husband wasn’t - wild, untethered, and free. you thought it would be the end of you. instead, it’s where everything begins.
─ love doesn’t happen all at once, but nanami is nothing if not patient.
content: arranged marriage, reader is a sorcerer, enemies to lovers but it's entirely one sided, tw: archaic marriage practices, period-typical sexism, lots of sexual tension, yearning final boss nanami kento, references to reader's past lover, past heartbreak and healing, explicit content, non-explicit mentions of violence and suicidal ideation, past domestic abuse, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, inexperienced reader, link to ao3
word count: 5k
a/n: we’re more than halfway through the story now! i estimate 4 more chapters to go. sorry this took so long i think i got hit by ao3 author’s curse…. it has been a really stressful few days but i’m happy to finally be able to get this chapter up
series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
Days, and then weeks, pass like that. With the both of you making small steps toward something more than leaden silence. The dining room is a convergence point of sorts, and within that space you find yourself wanting to reach more and more towards the friendship Nanami spoke about.
It’s sitting beside him as the water boils. His hands are busy with reports, yours are holding a book. Handing him a packet of tea as you wait for it to steep. Peering over his shoulder at the dinner he’s making, only for him to step aside to let you have a closer look, a soft smile on his face that makes the scowl on yours impossible to maintain.
A tray of food doesn’t go untouched outside your locked door anymore; you sit opposite him as you eat, and later you wash the dishes, standing side by side. Shoulders brushing.
Afternoons now take a different shape when he isn’t busy at work. The kettle’s impatient hiss, the page in your book you keep forgetting to turn, the scrape of his chair when he shifts to make room for you at the table. The silence between you changes in texture – what used to be iron turns to linen – the rugged surfaces softening with every passing day.
It’s just enough to fold into something bearable.
Something comfortable, maybe.
Some days you sit in the quiet, resisting the urge to retreat, and some days, you talk about nothing much at all. The sourness of early strawberries, the sweetness of mejiro birds chirping outside the open window, the bitterness of tea left unattended for a minute or two too long.
Then, there are the almost-laughs. A quiet huff of breath you no longer try to hide, less like a wince and more like a bashful but genuine curl of your lips. He mirrors you, in times like that, his crescent-moon smile and soft, soft eyes.
(You find yourself wanting to know if he’s ever looked at anyone else like that before.)
There are almost-touches, too. When his fingers ghost yours as he hands you a bowl of rice and chopsticks, when your feet come close to bumping under the dining table.
Nanami never asks why you lock your door at night. You never ask why he keeps the hallway light on until he hears you cross to your room. He doesn’t comment on why you emerge some mornings with swollen eyes and pick at your food instead of eating. In return, you don’t comment on the night you’ve caught him alone, exchanging tea for whisky, the amber held low in the glass, his face a sombre eclipse you had to tear your gaze away from.
These are your mutual omissions, the small mercies you allow each other.
As time passes, you realise that the stumbling beginnings of friendship is a complicated choreography of distance and approach. Friendship is him waiting in doorways and only crossing the threshold when you say “come in.” Friendship is you leaving the door open in the first place.
It is him starting to walk you to your room after dinner, floorboards complaining under the weight of both sets of feet, and you feeling oddly safer for it. It is accepting the tenderness you don’t yet know how to hold without having to bite your tongue or curl your hands into fists.
(And it is him trying anyway, without fail.)
Friendship is accepting all of these small mercies, you learn. You learn not to feel too bitter for it, and when you inevitably do, you think of the warmth of his hand in yours and the new vow you made sitting in that café. For a clean slate. You learn to bite your tongue harder instead of lashing out, to stop questioning the kindness you’ve slowly come to know as fact.
Most of all, you learn that, to your great relief – and your immense irritation – you were right about him.
Nanami Kento is a good man.
Mornings now start with the ease of a lighter chest. Afternoons lengthen when he’s around, silence sitting like soft linen on skin, curling like steam from a fresh pot of coffee tea as he sits opposite you, as unassuming as a sakura petal catching on your hair.
The rustle of papers and the scratch of his ink pen becomes routine at night time – no longer a battle-ground or a reluctantly signed peace treaty, just the mundane music of a kitchen that holds the weight of this new, strange friendship.
You also learn Nanami means it when he tells you he’ll be back home by six to have dinner with you.
“There’s no need,” you tell him. “I can eat alone.”
“I’d rather not have that happen,” he says. “…If that’s alright with you.”
It is, but you don’t say so. But you find yourself waiting for Nanami when the evening comes, listening for the soft click of the door, the footsteps down the hallway.
He always arrives home – home, a word no longer strange on your tongue – before six, and it becomes another routine as reliable as the seasons turning.
Tuesdays now take on a different meaning.
Your new Tuesday routine is chopping scallions beside him whilst he washes the rice in the sink. The soft rhythm of steel against the wooden cutting board keeps time with the gentle rush of water as he swirls the short grains between his fingers. Ordinary sounds weaving together into a quiet duet of domesticity you find yourself less and less resistant to with every passing day.
Sometimes, Nanami makes attempts at a joke. They’re always dry, understated things, and really, they shouldn’t be funny at all, but when a giggle slips out from your lips, his head dips just so, the corner of his mouth curling upwards. He never looks smug, only perhaps quietly content.
Always pleased, without ever being proud.
Then, when dinner is ready, he spoons you a bowl of curry with more potatoes and less carrots, just the way you like it, even though you’ve never once told him.
You always have to pretend not to notice whenever he gives you the best piece of grilled salmon, leaving the burnt one for himself. The crisp golden edges flake perfectly under your chopsticks, seasoned perfectly and melting like butter on your tongue. His portion always sits darker, drier, on his plate – only softened by the way he eats it without complaint.
It’s another one of those Tuesdays when Nanami’s phone buzzes against the table.
He glances at you apologetically before standing up, pressing the phone to his ear and stepping out into the hallway to take the call.
You don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it gets harder and harder to ignore the increasingly irritated tone of voice emitting from outside the kitchen. His voice is saturated with baseline levels of politeness that quickly sharpen into something more edged.
“No,” you hear Nanami’s voice echoing, and you can’t help but lean forward, ears pricking up. “I know you have her file on record. She has done nothing to deserve this treatment.”
The sharpness of a tone like that makes something within you shiver. On a different Tuesday in the past, it would have perhaps been directed towards you.
“Saito-san.” A weary exhale follows. “I know what you’re saying, but I’m not asking for much here. Just for her to be re-enrolled. Just for the rules to be adhered to and not bent to fit whatever politics that made this suspension convenient.”
There’s a long pause, accompanied by a barely-concealed sigh and the sound of heavy footsteps pacing up and down in a linear path.
“We’ve been through this– twice,” Nanami says, voice suddenly a few degrees colder. “If you need a recommendation, then you have one from me. If you need someone to be held accountable, put my name down. I’ll be there personally to deliver my signature and vouch for her if that’s what’s required.”
More quiet back-and-forths take place, his tone clipped and unyielding. Though his voice eventually drops into one of hushed civility, it’s still enough for you to make out certain words – “reenrollment,”, “bias”, “responsibility” – each one delivered with a force that leaves no room for negotiation.
When Nanami reappears in the doorway again, pinching the bridge of this nose, his hair is noticeably more mussed than before he’d left. You’ve never heard him speaking like that before, much less look this exasperated, body held taut with some sort of invisible strain.
“Sorry,” he drops his hand, head dipping with a sigh. “That was the admissions office. You shouldn’t have had to hear that.”
“You didn’t have to do that for me,” you mutter, picking at the grains of rice in your bowl. “Really. It’s not a big deal.”
“I wanted to,” he says simply. Another exhale follows, more measured this time. “If anything, I should apologise that it’s taking so long. It’s been three weeks, but they’ve been stalling.”
You don’t know whether to be more startled by the heat of his anger or the fact that it was spent entirely for your sake.
Irritation should flare, but it doesn’t. Bitterness should coat your tongue, charged and ready for suspicion to rise. But there’s no violent animal clawing at your chest, no serpent wrapping itself tight against your lungs.
When you mentioned wanting to be a sorcerer, you hadn’t been expecting anything to come out of it at all. You remembered him listening quietly when you explained how your father had pulled you out of school and barred you from attending college.
Sure, his jaw had tightened, and he’d gone awfully silent, but you hadn’t been able to tell what he was thinking at all. In fact, you’d simply thought the matter would slip his mind once you headed home.
“…Thank you.” You set your chopsticks down slowly, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d actually–”
“Of course,” Nanami replies, sitting back down at the dinner table. You pretend not to be affected when he places the last piece of grilled salmon in your bowl, just like how you pretend not to feel the subtle shifts within yourself – how you’ve started softening in response to his kindness instead of tensing, instead of waiting for the invisible trap that never comes.
“I’m only doing what I should be doing,” he says. “There’s no need to thank me.”
He meets your gaze again, and for a moment it feels as if he can see the question still trembling at the edge of your mouth – the one that rises more out of habit now rather than suspicion, the one you’ve started training yourself to bite back down before it ever leaves your lips.
Why?
He seems to hear it anyway, as though he reads it in the way you sink your teeth into your lower lip, in the slight hesitation of your breath.
“You told me what it means to you. That’s all I needed to know.”
His voice is threaded with the same quiet certainty you’ve almost come to feel envious of. Then he pauses, and you see his eyes crinkling softly at the edges with an expression you hope to god is not fondness.
“And besides… we’re friends.”
Your voice feels too thin for what the weight of that word holds for you, though you nod in return, offering him a half-smile that doesn’t feel as forced as it should. But the salmon feels too sticky as it goes down your throat after that, the uneven flutter of your pulse extinguishing the rest of your appetite.
Friends.
Once, an angry voice radiating off empty walls meant walking on eggshells for the rest of the week. Your every breath interpreted as defiance, every footstep too loud, every action a crime waiting to be punished with a heavy hand. And now, across the table from you sits a man who has the capacity for the same anger, and yet has never once turned the sharp end of that blade towards you.
You think about how Nanami really seems to mean it when he’d told you he was on your side. About how he seems to be the only person you’ve ever met that honours his word. He doesn’t take – he gives. Freely, quietly, never once demanding anything in return. And more than anything , he doesn’t dictate.
He’s never tried to bend your anger into something smaller, something more convenient for him to handle. He’s seen you ungraceful, uncertain, chest heaving with sorrow – and he remains steady at your side as though none of that ugliness you’ve displayed makes you any less deserving of his kindness.
There are no conditions with him, no unspoken rules you’re expected to follow to earn his patience. In this house, the air never thickens with invisible traps, and the doors never slam when they shut. Instead, what’s given stays given, unrevoked, unpunished, unfamiliar.
It’s only after dinner, when he’s walking with you back to your room that you finally bring it up again.
You stop by the door leading out to the engawa, the cool evening air spilling in through the narrow gap in the frame. Spring breathes softly into the night, in the faint scent of plum blossoms lingering on the breeze and the quiet hum of crickets pulsing in the distance.
“Nanami?”
He pauses, turning towards you with a patient tilt of his head. “Yes?”
“What do you think… about being a sorcerer?” You hesitate, shifting on your feet, afraid of finding disappointment, or worse, disapproval, on his face. “About me being one?”
His eyebrows raise, then knit together. Surprise flickers, before his expression falls back into something more measured. “Why do you ask?”
“I just… never really asked what you think.”
Nanami tilts his head, consideration passing over his face.
“I do it because I am suited to it,” he says eventually, the statement almost decisive, as plain and simple as fact. “Not because it suits me. Although I have spent a good portion of years trying to convince myself otherwise.”
He slides open the shoji doors and takes a seat at the edge of the engawa, the midnight sky falling over his face in a muted wash of indigo. You follow, hesitating only briefly before lowering yourself onto the wooden step beside him.
“I won’t lie to you,” Nanami continues, his tone dipping lower, more deliberate. “The work is miserable, and the cost is never fair. I used to think you have to be a little crazy to be a sorcerer, and I still do.”
“But,” he says quietly, “I do it because it’s still worth doing. I do it because I have the responsibility to do so. I do it because there’s meaning in it. And for me, that’s enough reason to keep going.”
Your eyebrows pull together. His response settles heavy in your chest, tangled together with some combination of admiration and ache.
“If that’s how you feel, then– then why help me?”
He pulls his gaze away from the sky and lets it settle on you. Lingering. Careful.
“Because you deserve the choice,” he says, like it’s the most self-evident answer in the world, written in the twinkle of the stars or in the stillness of the night air. “It was unfairly taken from you. My own opinions on the matter are irrelevant. You should be allowed to decide for yourself. No one else should have a say. Not your clan, not your father…” His voice softens just a fraction. “And certainly not me.”
There’s no hesitation in his voice, only warm sincerity of a man you’ve come to realise would never lie to you. Gratitude rises sharp in your throat – and maybe in the prick of tears at the corners of your eyes – but you’ve long run out of ways you know how to say thank you.
And besides, you’re certain he already knows. He must. So you opt to let the words remain unspoken for tonight.
You say it quietly instead. Inside your heart, where no one can hear it. It seems safer that way.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Neither of you move to get up, and the silence simply passes like soft linen being folded into something neater, something softer. Not long ago, you wouldn’t have entertained the thought of sitting next to him like this. But the constant ache in your jaw from clenching too hard has subsided. The shadow of a certain boy no longer stalks your sleeping hours.
There’s no tea to act as a buffer, no task to disguise the intimacy of simply being near. And maybe? You don’t really need any of that anymore. Maybe this is enough – just the weight of his steady presence beside you, and the slow-growing trust that the man you were made to marry would never seek to harm you.
“You know,” Nanami’s voice breaks the hush, low and contemplative. The pale crescent moon hangs low and sharp above you, a thin scythe cutting its way through the darkness of the night.
“Last Wednesday was the anniversary of my friend’s death.” He pauses, as if speaking the next words would land a strike too close to his heart. “Haibara Yu. That’s his name.”
You look up instantly, careful to school your expression into something softer, something gentler than the sudden rush of surprise in your chest.
“What was he like?” Your voice dips lower, trying to make room for the gravity of his revelation. “Your friend.”
“…He was bright,” Nanami says after a long moment. “Brighter than anyone else I’ve ever known. He always managed to find the good in everyone and everything. Even in places where no one else would bother to look.”
His voice doesn’t waver. If anything, it goes cold, body stiffening as he speaks. The expression on his face looks almost impassive, but you catch the small betrayals – the way his jaw tenses as he swallows, how he speaks like a man who has no choice but to force himself to accept grief as fact, if only to distract from the ache of incomprehensible loss.
“He would probably have laughed at me, you know. If he saw me now,” he murmurs. A ghost of a smile touches his lips before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “An arranged marriage, of all things.”
You watch him, and it’s in this very moment you realise where you’ve seen this same look on his face before.
Last week, when you caught him sitting in the kitchen alone, his back pressed against the counter, a glass of whiskey in one hand. He’d looked weary, hollowed even. Weighed down by something heavier than fatigue, something you were sure even the longest sleep could not fix.
He hadn’t noticed you then, and you’d pretended not to see.
You hadn’t quite known what to do back then, so you’d turned around and left as quietly as you came, figuring it was better left as another mutual omission. A small mercy you were trying to repay him with.
But now, you wonder if you should have asked. If maybe, you should have chosen to pass the threshold of the kitchen door and piece together the courage needed to pry a little further. To provide solace in the silence, even if the words came out short, the same way he tries to do for you.
So, with a shaky breath you try to conceal, you say it anyway. You say it because you think he deserves someone to shoulder that grief with him, to witness him just like how he’d witnessed you.
“I’m here, you know,” you whisper, trying to keep your voice light. “If you want to talk about it.”
(You say it because he looks like he just needs a friend.)
The silence stretches as far as the night sky could possibly go, and for a moment you wonder if perhaps you should have not said anything at all. But you glance at Nanami, and his lips seem to be pressed together more in consideration than dismissal.
Then, after a long moment where it looks like he’s measuring the cost of keeping it in or letting the words out, he finally exhales and begins. The sound is quiet but heavy, and you see his throat working as he swallows hard.
His voice is clipped and restrained when he speaks, gaze fixed somewhere off in the distance. He seems to recount that last mission in minute, methodical detail, as if he’s walked it so many times in memory that the route is worn down from the heavy footsteps of a man who appears unable to forgive himself.
He tells you he still remembers.
That he can’t forget.
His words are kept short and stiff, and he stacks fact where feelings should go. His recollection of events reads like a mission report, but it’s more than enough for you to read in between the facts and find the truth in the spaces between.
You read that Haibara was his best friend, though maybe he’s afraid to say it, stepping around that term like speaking that grief into existence would force him to confront the weight of what he’s truly lost.
You read of the years afterward where he must have felt all alone. The only two students in their grade. You read that it was this soft heart, hidden under a stone-cold exterior, that drove him away from being a sorcerer. And it was the same soft heart that brought him back to it.
You read that Nanami Kento is nothing if not well-acquainted with loss, with loneliness, with despair, and yet he extends his kindness to you like he’s only known the gentleness of a different world. You read that he extends his kindness precisely because he’s familiar with the sort of grief that draws a permanent line through life: a before, and an after.
Most of all, you read that, just like his technique is imbued within his veins, he seems unable to separate himself from the unrelenting standards he holds himself to.
It’s a struggle to say anything that doesn’t feel cheap, but you make an attempt anyway.
“It wasn’t your fault,” you say quietly. “I hope you know that.”
A beat passes before he turns to you.
“Thank you for saying that.” Nanami smiles. Slow, slight, and sad. “I didn’t share that to make you reconsider. I hope you know that. I just… catch myself thinking about him during this time of the year.”
“I do.”
“That’s good, then,” he murmurs.
“Nanami?”
“Yes?”
You don’t reach out to touch him so much as you find your hand already moving towards him. Your fingers unfurl slowly, body hesitant, hovering for a moment over his shoulder before settling down on it. This is how he reached for you, you think. This is how he consoled you.
When words feel too brittle, when “Thank you” or “I’m sorry” doesn’t cut it, when the only honest language left is the warmth shared gently between two people, no matter how unreluctant the partnership.
Your eyes meet.
Permission passes between you with the smallest shift of air.
You stop thinking so hard. You only think about how he deserves someone to share in the weight of his grief. You only think about how he did the same for you. You think about that night in his room, about the tea, and the café, and the burnt salmon and curry portioned just the way you like it – all the accumulation of quiet mercies he spares you that you cannot bring yourself to resent with the same sting you once carried.
Then, with a certainty you didn’t know you even possessed, you pull him in and wrap your arms around him as tightly as you can. Pressing yourself into him, arms wrapping tight around his chest, closing the distance until nothing else remains.
Nanami goes very, very still.
Your hear his breath hitch, and he stands too stiff, too straight, like a man bracing himself for impact.
Then, very slowly, you feel the tension giving way, leaving his body in increments, until his chest softens against yours and he lets out a long-held breath. His arms come up just as hesitantly as yours had, wrapping around your upper back. Lightly, at first, then with increasing weight as he realises you aren’t planning on letting go.
“What’s this?” he murmurs. His voice is light, soft, maybe a little taken aback.
You don’t respond, but you hug him a little tighter.
If this friendship is carried by the small mercies, the mutual omissions, then you’ve decided there must also be some room for honest weight, for mutual acknowledgements of the pain that exists, for someone else to share in the weight of those little despairs – the ones that accumulate and accumulate until they wear you down eventually.
If friendship is him waiting in doorways and only crossing the threshold when you say “come in”, then maybe friendship is also you deciding to cross that boundary first. Maybe, it is locked doors opening on their own volition, just so you can step out of the dark enough to comfort him like he comforted you.
It is the overwhelming tenderness he offered you, that he continues to offer you, that allows you to give tenderness back in return.
Nanami makes a small sound – a quiet laugh, maybe – and his hands move up to pull your head closer to his chest. You don’t fight it.
“Thank you.”
His voice is a low husk, steady and soft, so you can’t for the life of you figure out why his heart is beating like a drum in his chest.
(You can’t figure out why yours is, too.)
Your mother had always told you to never be the first person who lets go of a hug, so you stand like that, holding onto him, listening to the erratic rhythm of both your hearts, only letting go when his arms drop first.
For a breathless moment after, you both linger too close. His hands around your back fall away with deliberate slowness, as though reluctant, and your own drop away in kind.
It’s only when your eyes meet that you realise just how close your faces are to each other. Just how little separates you from him.
Nothing but a fraction of an inch. A mere breath.
And then–
Your head tips. You don’t mean to, gravity – or something unbeknownst to you – pulls you in, and you follow despite the violent knocking of your heart against its cage. Nanami leans forward, his head dipping just the slightest fraction.
And just like that, all the world comes to a standstill.
His face is so close to yours it instantly pulls you into the autumnal brown of his pupils – an entire beauty of a season contained behind gentle eyes – so close you swear you’ll still feel the warmth radiating off his skin for days afterwards.
The faintest, barest brush of his nose against your cheek has goosebumps prickling your skin, the rush of blood past your ears so loud you can hardly think.
“Is there… anything you want from me?”
His voice comes uneven, strained, and his eyes – they always seem to give him away – they flicker about your face with uncertainty, with hope, with something so raw and unguarded it makes your breath catch, words stalling on the tip of your tongue.
(He looks like a man begging you to take.)
“I–” your throat goes dry, the world stumbling out clumsily. He’s right there. If you leaned forward just a little more, your lips would surely touch.
But haven’t you already taken too much?
Hasn’t this already gone way too far?
“N-no,” you manage at last, releasing a shuddering breath and stumbling backwards into the half-step that shatters the tension.
The air between you rushes again, cold and sudden, nothing at all like the warmth you found in him. For a moment you simply stare at each other, as still as the night itself, unblinking, unbreathing.
You have no idea how much time passes before you finally pull your gaze away from his face and force air back into your lungs, shuddering on the inhale.
Nanami clears his throat, the sound rough in the hush of the long hallway. Too harsh, too sharp for the tenderness of the moment you just had.
“I’ll–” his voice catches, then steadies after he swallows. Once, then twice. “I’ll walk you to your room.”
“I’m sorry–”
He’s quick to cut you off, the words stiffer, more strangled than you expected. A desperation to them you’ve never heard before.
“Don’t apologise. Please.”
The sheer rawness of his voice is what stops you short, the hasty apology dissolving in your throat. You don’t have it in you to say anything else at all, so when Nanami says “come on, it’s late” and gestures toward your door with a look on his face you’re much too afraid to try and interpret, you simply nod and follow.
Your legs move, floorboards singing their old tune again as you trail after him, but your heart feels suspended in that moment, with the tip of his nose ghosting across your flushed cheeks, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
It's only you reach your bedroom and your back hits the softness of the bed that you realise an entirely new question has surfaced tonight.
It isn’t why.
It’s what.
What was that?
What does this mean to him?
What do you mean to him?
And the need to have that question answered throbs with a prodigious longing you hadn’t even known your heart was capable of, pressing more heavily, more incessantly than any why you’ve ever demanded, whispered, or bit back down.
A hunger not for answers of logic or reasoning behind his gestures, but for meaning – if any should be found at all – for the fragile thread tying you to him, for what exists in between gentle eyes and almost-touches.
For what it is, and for what it could possibly become.
a/n: this story was never meant to get so long oh my goodness frankly i have no idea how we got to this point. like… things that i don’t plan for just keep happening. it’s like these guys have a life of their own and i’ve just been appointed the job of jotting it all down LMAO.
i’m going to slow down with posting the last 4 chapters — reason being i’m a little burnt out and i think it would be best to reset a little and give the remaining chapters my all!
writing this chapter was incredibly challenging and i wanted to strangle myself lol but it was important for things to come full circle to her comforting nanami like he did for her. and it was also really important to me to explore nanami’s grief in a little more detail T_T he really needs a hug tbh im glad he has reader
thank you for reading and being here (T^T) I LOVE YOUUUU and please lemme know your thoughts!!!!
they should make a version of socializing that doesn’t make you feel like you’re still the weird 12 year old kid that doesn’t know why she’s not normal like the other kids
charlie kirk did deserve to die. he deserved the way in which he died. he died wearing a shirt that said freedom, and his last word was "violence". he believed that the 2nd amendment required the sacrifice of lives. he loved the weapon that killed him more than the safety of his own young children. i hope it wasn't an instant death. i hope that just for a second he understood what was happening, and i hope he died scared.
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