c.

anime reads n thingz - twenties

[saatorus]

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)

warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.

“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.

Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”

Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience. 

Ryomen Sukuna.

The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.

And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.

You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.

You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—

Freshman Year

It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered.  You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.

And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:

“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”

Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself. 

You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.

But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.

You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—

“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”

A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji. 

“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”

Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—

Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back.  You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.

And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.

“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”

Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”

“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”

“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”

That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”

He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”

Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts. 

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval. 

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?” 

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

–

You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.

“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”

And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.

No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”

Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.

…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”

“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”

“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”

Your mouth falls open.

Did he just—

“I— You—”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.

“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses. 

“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”

“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?” 

Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”

“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”

“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”

“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”

“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”

You want him to get hit by a bus. 

Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”

“Because this is a group project—”

“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.

“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”

“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”

“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”

He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”

“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”

“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”

“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?” 

You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.

“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.

“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”

You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”

Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”

“What?”

“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”

You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”

Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”

Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.

“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.” 

You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.

–

You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”

Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”

Your eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”

You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—

Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”

You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”

“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”

—

It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”

The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”

His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?” 

Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”

Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.

“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”

You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.

“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.

–

The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—

The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—

His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.”  You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge.  And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–

Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist.  Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.

–

By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.

Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.

Sukuna barely acknowledges you. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.

And then—

Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”

Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.

Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”

You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide. 

“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”

“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.

He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”

You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”

“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.

You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”

Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare. 

“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”

“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”

You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”

“Shhh!”

You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”

“Yes, you—”

“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent.  And then—

“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.

Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.

Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him. 

"The hell? Why?"

"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.

The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.

"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"

And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.

"I do this every day because of you!"

The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.

Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning. 

(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.

But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

–

The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”

"Shut up."

For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

"You formatted this wrong," he says.  Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius."  You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"

"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”

“Ugly.”

“Sexy.”

"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen." 

It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.

Then—

"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”

You flip him off.

He grins.

–

The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.

“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.

“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”

He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”

You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?” 

Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.

“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”

You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—

Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”

“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.

Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”

Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”

No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”

You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:

“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.

–

It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.

You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

[8:37 PM] Yuna:

pls tell me ur free next friday night frat party at Theta house i need a plus one u owe meee

You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry. 

“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”

“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.

“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”

He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.” 

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.

“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.

“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.

You glance up. “Huh?”

“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”

He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”

Still, you hear your voice soften slightly. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”

“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you.  You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.

–

“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.

The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.

“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.

“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.

You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”

“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.

“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”

“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”

You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.

The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window. 

Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.

You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.

Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”

He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.

“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.

“You look nice, though.”

You freeze mid-step.

“…What?”

His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.” 

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”

Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I try.”

You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”

“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”

You blink. “Distracting?”

He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

“Once,” you insist.

He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.

“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.

“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable.  You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.

“Shit—”

You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”

You snort. “You walked into me.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow. 

“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”

“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.

“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”

“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”

“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.

“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”

You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”

You blink. “Yeah, why?”

“You know him?”

“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”

“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”

You groan. “Yuna—”

“Just fuck him.”

“What is wrong with you?”

She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.

sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx

You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.

“You good?”

You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”

He grins lazily. “Still here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.” 

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”

“Yeah, me. Shocking.”

“You know where I live?”

“You told me. Last week. After lab.”

You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”

“Ew.”

He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.

You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”

“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”

“Freak.” 

He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.

“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”

“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house. 

You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”

“Other side,” he says, without slowing.

“What do you mean other side?”

“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”

“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”

“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.

“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re such a dick!”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.

He scoops you up like it’s nothing.

Bridal style.

Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.

“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—

His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—

God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”

“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there. 

“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.

“Hey—what are you—”

He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”

“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.

“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.

“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”

“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”

“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—

Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.” 

You scoff. “So romantic.”

A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.

“You’re welcome.” 

And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.

“Get home safe, dumbass.”

You turn over your shoulder.

“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.

–

It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—

There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”

“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.

"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—

You exchange numbers.

It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:

You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse?? Sukuna: not to me 😏

And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.

You: where u at bruh wtf im already here

There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?

Sukuna: gym

You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.

It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.

You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long You: YOU CANT SEE ME Sukuna: can feel it tho You: ew Sukuna: ur welcome

You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.

“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”

He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.

“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?

You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.

“What?” you say, defensive.

“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort.  And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.

“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”

His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.” 

A beat.

“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.

And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”

And one day you realize—

You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.

–

The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned. 

Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.

You cross the street.

He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."

"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."

You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."

"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."

You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name.  The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.

You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”

You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.

“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.” 

You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”

“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this. 

When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.

The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.”  Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”

You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—

“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”

You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.

“Freak.”

He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.

–

The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.

“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him. 

“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”

Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”

“It’s…marginally cleaner.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”

“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”

“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”

–

But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.

“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.

“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”

“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”

“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”

You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”

“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”

You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”

You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort.  But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”

“Because I’m not disgusting?”

“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.

“Dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.”

The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.

“Stop stealing my candy.”

“You ate my gummy worms last week.”

“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”

“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”

“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.

You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.

“You're staring.”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”

He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”

It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.

And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”

You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.

He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”

That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.

“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. 

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.

“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.

His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth. 

“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”

Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.

“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.

And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.

“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever. 

His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”

He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.

“I came here to study!”

“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.” 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.” 

He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.

“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”

“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.

And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.

It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”

“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.

Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky.  “That was–That was not studying.”

Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”

And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.

–

You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”

“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”

“Then it’s mine now too.” 

He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”

“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“No.” He squints. “Why not?”

“That’s intimate.”

He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.

“SUKUNA—”

“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”

“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.

You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.

“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.

“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”

“You should get bent.”

“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”

You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”

“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”

“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”

“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.

–

The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.

“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”

“I was faking it.”

He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”

“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.

Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.

“Oh shit.”

You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”

“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”

“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.

“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.”  Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”

“It is now.” 

You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”

“I swear to God—”

Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”

“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”

Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.

Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.

“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”

“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”

–

It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.

And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!” 

You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.

Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.

The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.

“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”

His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”

“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”

“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”

“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”

“You were laughing with her!”

“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”

“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”

He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.

“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”

“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.

“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.

–

Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.

“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”

“I make sexy typos.”

“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.” 

He glances up. “What?”

“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.

“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”

He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.

“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”

You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”

“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.” 

You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.

–

it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.

“Behave.”

“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”

Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”

“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”

“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”

“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.” 

You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur. 

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”

He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”

You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”

“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.

a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!

also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3

tags: @tracysdemise @perqbeth @fushiguroooozzz @bowlware @yuunice @xxstormyprincessxx @bnbaochauuu @beabamboo @erintaro @altgojo @sugurulefttesticle @minascasket @rinofcike @captainquake42 @pinkpookiebear @hellowoolf @clp-84 @yit-tk @nessca153 @domainofmarie @crunchyholo @emochosoluvr @sukubusss @being-blue-is-better @nikilig @syubseokie

[amourarchive]

weekends with fratboy sukuna and his nephew yuji

likes, reblogs, comments, requests are encouraged!!

you wake up slowly.

not because of sunlight, or alarms, or even noise — but because of warmth. that steady, heavy kind that feels like it tethers you to the world instead of letting you float away.

you’re draped across sukuna like it’s your job. leg thrown over his waist, cheek pressed to his chest, his arm settled across your back like it’s instinct — like holding you is muscle memory, not choice.

he’s not fully awake either. you can tell by the way his breathing catches a little when you shift, like his body’s first reaction is where are you going? then the faintest drag of his palm over your spine, slow circles, half-asleep and thoughtless.

his tattoos are warm under your cheek. you can feel each rise and fall of his chest, each lazy heartbeat like he’s so peacefully alive underneath you it’s unfair. no frat king should look this soft at 8am on a saturday. and definitely not the one who swears he “doesn’t do attachment.”

he smells like soap and heat and a little like your shampoo because he always ends up stealing your pillow for a few minutes before bed, pretending it just fell that way.

you sigh in your sleep — one of those tiny relaxed ones you never notice — and it pulls him deeper. his fingers twitch on your hip, then settle again, tracing circles you never asked for but always melt under.

it’s stupid, how right this feels. his bare chest, your oversized shirt hanging off your shoulder because he tugged it down sometime in the night like he needed skin contact just to breathe. his leg hooked loosely over yours. his jaw against your hair. every line of him curved protectively around you like the world ends at the edge of his mattress.

if anyone walked in right now, they’d think you were his girlfriend.

funny, because the frat thinks that anyway.

you’re just… not. officially. technically.

anyway. you’re about to drift again — that is until.

SLAM.

the bedroom door cracks open like it was kicked by someone who’s never knocked in his life.

which is true, because it’s gojo.

“RISE AND SHINE LOVEBIRDS—”

sukuna’s eyes snap open. you tense. his arm tightens around you, protective and pissed in the same motion.

gojo freezes mid-dramatic pose. grins. wiggles eyebrows. “oooooh. morning cuddles? how domestic.”

sukuna groans. low, gravelly, annoyed. “get. out.”

gojo gasps like someone stole his purse. “is that how we greet our guests? i’m hurt. offended. emotionally bruised—”

“satoru.”

you bury your face in sukuna’s chest to hide your laugh. his hand slides instinctively to cradle the back of your head like you’re something precious, and you feel him catch himself at the softness of the gesture, jaw clenching like he wants to be unaffected but he’s so very not.

“fine,” gojo sighs dramatically, “but your nephew’s downstairs by the way.”

silence.

you can feel sukuna’s confusion. his brain is still half-booting and yet something is wrong because he sits up a little, careful not to jostle you.

“my what.”

his voice is deadly calm — the tone he reserves for when choso breaks a kitchen appliance or toji steals his pre-workout.

gojo beams. “yuji. tiny. pink hair. too pure for this household. remember?”

sukuna blinks. you blink.

then it hits him.

fuck my fucking chungus life

“shit.”

it's funny watching one of the strongest, cockiest guys you know face his greatest weakness.. forgotten family obligations.

you sit up slowly, tugging his shirt sleeve over your hand like a blanket.

“you forgot you were babysitting?”

he rubs a hand down his face. “i thought that was next weekend.”

gojo laughs. “nope. your brother’s here. kid’s in the living room. looks like a baby gym bro ready for his first protein shake and debut in the frat.”

sukuna doesn’t answer. he just swings his legs off the bed, hair messy, tattoos sharp against morning light, pajama pants hanging low on his hips — and he looks like someone who would never admit he’s nervous but definitely is.

his hand lingers at your back for a second like he’s checking you’re following.

you do. because you always do.

downstairs, yuji stands in the middle of the living room clutching a half-dragged white tiger plushie like it’s his lifeline. his tiny shoes are too clean for this house. his shirt has big red dog.. clifford on it. he has a pacifier, wide pink eyes, and the kind of hopeful smile that could fix the economy.

he sees sukuna, lights up like a sunrise, and waddles forward — then immediately trips, rights himself, and continues like a determined baby soldier on a mission.

sukuna freezes.

you watch him freeze.

it’s… adorable, actually.

this terrifying tattooed frat god has no idea how to hold his arms. he looks like someone handed him a live grenade covered in glitter.

yuji just presses his tiny hand to sukuna’s leg and beams.

“kuna,” he mumbles around his pacifier.

sukuna’s face cracks so fast it’s comical. like his heart forgot it’s supposed to be buried under six layers of death and gym playlists.

“…hey,” he says, and it’s so gentle you almost fall down the stairs. he picks yuji up awkwardly — like the kid is glass, or worse, precious — and yuji immediately snuggles into his chest like it’s home.

that’s when jin finishes handing off the diaper bag and waves like this is normal. “thanks again bro — we owe you big time. bye y/n! love the outfit by the way.”

you look down at the oversized grey shirt and massive sweatpants — both his — and suddenly feel matched with yuji's tiny grey outfit and tumbly toddler stance.

jin leaves. the door shuts. silence.

yuji swats at gojo’s hand as gojo tries to tickle him. gojo gasps like he’s been betrayed by his own disciple.

nanami sips his coffee in the kitchen like this is all beneath him.

you come down the stairs, hair messy, sleeves covering your hands, and yuji sees you — immediately reaching for you with grabby toddler hands like yes. mine now.

sukuna actually stares.

because yuji melts against you instantly, curling fingers in your shirt, pacifier bobbing as he sighs like he found his chosen parent.

“traitor,” sukuna mutters.

you smile. “he has taste.”

gojo throws a pillow. nanami catches it without looking. you don't question it.

yuji pats your cheek. you pat his back. sukuna watches like he’s witnessing something dangerous and soft and permanently altering.

and that’s how it starts.

with morning warmth, sleepy cuddles ripped away too soon, and a tiny kid choosing you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and sukuna — tattooed, cocky, doesn’t-do-feelings sukuna — looking at you both like oh. oh no. i’m screwed.

the house is too loud for how early it is.

someone’s blender is going. toji is yelling about “who the hell put creatine in the dog bowl again?”* (there is no dog). geto is arguing with choso about why his herbal tea smells like it should be illegal (it probably is). nanami is reading the newspaper like he’s forty-nine and not a frat boy in finance.

you carry yuji against your hip, his tiny hand clutching your shirt like you might disappear if he lets go. he keeps looking around with those big pink eyes, curious and brave but also doing that toddler thing where he keeps checking your face to make sure everything’s okay.

you whisper, “big house today, huh?”

he nods very seriously like he understands the sociology of frathouse ecosystems. sukuna follows behind

not in a creepy way — in that way people do when they don’t want to look like they’re hovering but are definitely hovering. like he’s pretending he needs water but actually he just wants to stay close.

his hair’s still messy, tattoos catching lazy sunlight, pajama pants hanging low. he looks tired and unfairly good and a little overwhelmed by the existence of one small child.

gojo sees you and gasps dramatically.

“oh my god look — it’s mom and baby.”

sukuna throws a protein bar at him. misses completely.

gojo catches it anyway and winks. “jealous?”

“i will tape you to the ceiling,” sukuna mutters.

yuji pats your cheek. you bounce him gently. he squeaks a happy noise like you’re his personal sunshine.

you find cereal, fruit, a tiny cup left by jin. you put banana slices in front of yuji and he gasps like he’s been gifted gold.

“nana!” he announces to the room like this is a press conference.

everyone claps. you didn’t expect to wanting to either cry or laugh this early in the day but here we are.

sukuna watches you cut more fruit like you invented nutrition. his face is unreadable at first — then softens into something dangerous and warm. he leans against the counter, chest bare, mug in hand. his voice is low and rough from sleep.

“you always like kids?”

you shrug. “just this one so far.”

yuji claps like he agrees. you boop his nose. he giggles. sukuna looks away like watching that might kill him.

later, yuji ends up at the table with coloring pages someone magically produced (nanami, because he plans ahead and is secretly soft but will die before admitting it).

gojo sits on one side with a purple crayon. toji sits on the other, holding a blue one like it’s a weapon. yuji scribbles enthusiastically and both frat men visibly try to impress a two-year-old.

“look yuji,” gojo says proudly, holding up a horrifying lopsided cat. “kitty!”

toji scoffs, slides over his picture — shockingly good and detailed. “real kitty.”

yuji pauses, studies both like a tiny judge on a cooking show, then colors directly over both drawings with bright yellow.

gojo gasps. “his artistic vision!”

toji nods solemnly. “he sees the world beyond us.”

sukuna is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching this chaos like he can’t believe these are his friends but also loves them in spite of it. he catches your eye. his expression says if you laugh at them, i’ll laugh too but you can never tell them that.

you do laugh.

he does too — quietly — like he only knows how when you’re around.

the grocery store trip is its own adventure.

yuji sits in the cart, tiger plush propped next to him like it’s riding shotgun. he kicks his little shoes happily every time you push the cart. sukuna walks beside you, hand occasionally brushing yours when you turn a corner. neither of you comment but both of you feel every accidental touch like it means something it shouldn’t.

some older woman passing by smiles at you three.

“beautiful family.”

you choke. sukuna freezes like he’s been sniped in the feelings. yuji squeals and throws a box of animal crackers into the cart like yes we ARE.

you try to laugh it off. sukuna clears his throat. his ears are pink.

no one corrects the woman.

the day is soft and long and comfortable in that way you don’t want to look at too closely yet. you feed yuji lunch. you wipe his cheeks. sukuna watches like he’s memorising every second and trying not to look like he is.

the sun sets slow, orange through the kitchen window. dinner smells like spices and warmth and someone burned something in another room but nanami fixed it, probably.

yuji sits curled into you on the big couch later, pacifier gently bobbing as he cuddles his tiger and your sleeve.

movie night.

everyone’s piled around — blankets, popcorn bowls, pillows, the whole frat pretending they’re not emotionally invested in a disney film.

yuji watches with big serious eyes, occasionally pointing at animals like they’re life-changing.

at one point, he softly taps your cheek, then pats your arm, then lifts his arms up with that tiny toddler insistence.

he wants up.

you don’t hesitate. you scoop him onto your lap, his arms wrapping around your neck, his cheek squishing into your shoulder like you’re the safest thing he knows.

sukuna, who’s next to you, notices instantly.

he goes quiet. too quiet. like his chest is too full.

a musical scene plays — soft, lilting, familiar. background chorus, warm strings, nostalgia in every note.

yuji wiggles. “pop pop?”

you grin. “okay. but you’re coming with.”

he nods like that was always the plan.

you move to the kitchen, him perched on your hip, tiny hand holding your shirt, tiger dangling from your other side. you sway without thinking — that natural bounce people use when holding babies — and yuji hums happily against you.

you grab popcorn, toss some kernels, the hum from the screen drifting into the kitchen as the song plays fuller.

you start singing quietly — not performing, not thinking — just soft humming, words slipping out like second nature. gentle. warm. nostalgia in your voice too somehow.

yuji relaxes against you like you're music incarnate.

you sway him. side to side. slow.

he giggles — that small breathy kind toddlers do when they're perfectly content.

what you don't see:

sukuna in the doorway.

he doesn't announce himself. he doesn't smirk or tease or swagger. he just stands there, shadows and warm kitchen light striping across his chest, arms loose at his sides like he forgot he had to pretend he didn't care.

gojo spots him, nudges him hard, waggles brows.

sukuna ignores him.

he watches you instead.

watches the way you sway like you're built for holding softness. watches the way yuji melts into you like he belongs there. his jaw tightens — not in anger, in something scarier. something hopeful.

something that feels like stay here.

he doesn’t say it yet. not out loud.

but it’s in the way his shoulders drop. in the way his eyes soften. in the way his heartbeat is too loud in his own chest.

he thinks, suddenly, terrifyingly clearly:

if this is what it feels like with you, i don’t want it to end.

the house finally starts to quiet down.

toji’s is gone (or pretending to be gone), choso and geto disappeared into some black hole of illegal stuff, gojo is half-asleep on the couch scrolling through something irrelevant, and nanami is watching the clock like a human sundial, muttering about how frat life is “an exercise in futility.”

yuji is still buzzing with tiny bursts of energy, holding his tiger like it’s a shield. you’ve got him perched on your hip, one arm under his legs, the other hand smoothing his messy hair, humming a quiet tune from the movie playing on the living room TV. the screen bathes the room in muted light, popcorn at your feet, a half-eaten bowl forgotten on the couch.

sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, eyes trained on you. he’s quiet tonight, shirtless, tattoos catching shadows from the overhead lights, sleeves of ink moving with the slight turn of his torso. his jaw is tight. his chest rises and falls like he’s breathing through something bigger than air.

you glance over your shoulder without thinking, catching him staring, and he ducks slightly, pretending to check a pot on the stove he isn’t even touching.

“you two look like you belong in a stock photo,” gojo whispers from the couch, wiggling his brows. yuji notices, his little hands tugging at your sleeve to hold on tighter.

you laugh quietly, patting yuji’s back. “stock photo, huh? more like a disaster waiting to happen.”

yuji giggles. you sway him gently, humming the soft melody of the scene, and he nestles into you. his tiny head rests against your collarbone, eyes half-closed in sleepy contentment. you hum louder, letting the music carry you both in the dim kitchen light.

sukuna doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just watches.

and slowly, quietly, he steps closer.

before you notice, he’s behind you, one arm sliding around your waist, the other resting lightly on your hip. his chest presses against your back, his head falling into the crook of your neck. he smells like soap, warm skin, and the faint scent of your shared hoodie.

“stay for the weekend,” he murmurs, so low you almost don’t catch it. it’s not a request, not a command — just… an admission, soft and trembling at the edges.

you freeze for a heartbeat, feeling the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself against you like he can’t let go. you sway a little more with yuji in your arms, humming softly, and he relaxes, nuzzling further, breathing matching your rhythm.

yuji squeaks happily, clutching your shirt with both hands. he watches the two of you, unaware of the layers of unspoken words and dangerous longing, just happy to be carried and sung to.

later, the two of you manage to get yuji into pajamas — white snoopy onesie with the words in red writing baby snoopy, red streak around his neck like a collar. he clutches his tiger like it’s his lifeline. you settle him onto the couch with nanami, who is reading a book but smiling softly at the scene, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

“they do it all the time,” nanami murmurs, more to yuji than anyone else. “they think no one notices, but they’re like an old couple.”

yuji tilts his head at the words, hugging his tiger closer, and points toward you and sukuna in the kitchen.

you’re standing there, music still playing softly from the movie. sukuna’s hand rests lightly on your hip, other hand tucked around your waist as you sway gently to the rhythm, alone in the kitchen, the world shrunk to a bubble of quiet warmth.

he watches your profile, the curve of your neck, the way your eyes close against your own hum. he swallows hard.

he doesn’t want this weekend to end. not with you. not ever.

after a while, you carry yuji to the lounge room set up to settle him into sleep, humming the same tune. he yawns, clinging to your chest, tiny arms around your neck, little tiger in one hand.

“goodnight, baby,” you whisper, kissing his forehead.

he refuses to sleep alone after the noises from toji’s room earlier — vague, muffled, frustratingly human noises that make even a toddler suspicious — so sukuna ends up on the floor next to the lounge, cross-legged, eyes half-closed, arm resting against your leg while you cradle yuji.

the three of you fall asleep in an improbable pile of warmth: toddler on your chest, you hugging him and leaning into sukuna’s side, sukuna resting against the couch cushions but alert to every tiny movement, protective in the quietest way possible.

when jin comes to pick yuji up the next morning, the little boy is still asleep, face nuzzled against your shoulder, tiger tucked under his arm. sukuna stands a few steps away, arms crossed, silently watching, stubbornly tired but impossibly alive in the soft domestic chaos.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t have to.

the look he gives you as you hand yuji back, tiny fingers brushing yours, says everything:

stay. stay for more than a weekend...

[gyarujo]

❛ 𝗡𝗢 𝗧𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗟𝗘𝗙𝗧 𝗧𝗢 𝗖𝗥𝗬 呪術廻戦

synopsis. the frat president is so much sweeter than you expected

contents. sfw! fluff + a smidge of angst. frat!jo x fem! reader. college au. satoru is sickeningly sweet. a little ooc maybe. cw. mentions of drinking + cheating ⇢ reader is freshly broken up with an unnamed ex. art creds: shesofyee on x ˖ ࣪ . ࿐

frat parties have never been your thing. you hate the sticky-sweet smell of cheap alcohol that clings to the air, to your clothes, to your skin. you hate the way the music makes your ears ring. you hate the way you have to shout to be heard. you only came to this party because your now-ex-boyfriend had asked you to, promising it would be different this time. it wasn’t.

the fight was a blur of muffled words in the middle of the sea of people dancing and laughing, completely oblivious to the world crashing down around you.

he didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed when you’d confronted him about his infidelity, he’d muttered something about it ‘not being a big deal’ and claimed you were overreacting — a casual dismissal of the time and effort you’d poured into him.

the cruelty of it all sent you stumbling through indifferent bodies until you found sanctuary in the quiet of the upstairs bathroom.

you’ve been crying for ten minutes straight. your makeup is a smudged, runny mess, and your face feels puffy and raw. you’re huddled on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn to your chest, head buried in your hands, when the doorknob rattles violently.

“go away,” you mumble to the door, the words muffled by your palms as you press your knuckles to your swollen eyes.

“c’mon dude, i gotta piss!” a voice slurs as the doorknob continues to shake, “you’ve been in there for-fucking-ever.”

“chill, there’s another one downstairs,” another voice cuts in, this one you recognize. it’s the frat president satoru gojo. you’ve seen him around campus, you’ve heard all the rumors. he’s exactly the kind of guy you avoid.

his words are followed by a disgruntled sigh and the sound of retreating footsteps.

you think you’re alone. you try to take a deep breath, a shuddering inhale that does little to calm the beating of your heart. you need to compose yourself enough to leave this disgusting bathroom and figure out how you’re getting back to your dorm. your ex is definitely not your ride anymore. your phone is dead, so no uber. and the thought of walking the mile and a half back to your dorm alone, in the dark, is terrifying.

your head snaps up as the lock clicks and the door swings open.

satoru is standing there, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders. he’s not wearing the obnoxious sunglasses you usually see perched on his nose, and his ridiculously blue eyes, the color of summer skies , are full of concern that seems so out of place on him.

“shit, sorry,” he says, his voice much softer than it was a second ago. “the lock on this door is whack. if you twist it enough it clicks open. i just wanted to uhh. . . you okay?”

you just stare at him, tears still trickling down your face. “i’m fine,” you lie

he doesn’t buy it for a second. he steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, effectively blocking out the worst of the noise from the party below. he leans against the counter, giving you space.

“that was your boyfriend, right?” he asks, nodding vaguely toward the door. “. . . the guy you were yelling at earlier.”

“ex-boyfriend,” you correct, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, the skin coming away wet and smudged with black.

“ahh shit," he says sympathetically. “that sucks.”

“yeah,” you sigh, another sob wracking your body, “it really, really sucks.”

“don’t waste your tears on him,” he frowns, brows furrowing. “he’s not worth a single one, ‘kay?”

you look down at your hands, twisting a loose thread on your jeans until it threatens to snap. the small, repetitive motion is the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart again. “i don’t know what to do,” you admit, the words tumbling out in a rush, “we came together and my phone’s dead and i just. . . i can’t be here anymore.”

he’s silent for a moment and you brace yourself for the ‘sounds like a you problem’, the kind of dismissal you’d expect from someone like him. instead, he shifts, pushing off the counter to stand before you.

“fair enough,” he says. “first, we’re getting you out of this gross bathroom. then we’re getting you home.”

your head snaps up. “but—”

“no cuts, no buts, no coconuts,” he cuts in, and despite everything, a watery snicker escapes you. “i’ve got you. i’m not letting you walk home alone this late. i’ve been drinking, so i can’t drive, but i can walk with you. it’s not a problem.”

satoru gojo — the guy who’s rumored to have a different girl in his bed every weekend — is the last person you’d expect to show you even a hint of kindness. you’re not even sure if he knows your name.

“are you serious?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper

“dead serious,” he holds out a hand. for a beat, you just stare at his long fingers and neatly trimmed nails, then up at his face. he waits patiently until you finally place your hand in his.

he pulls you to your feet effortlessly. you sway a little, unsteady from the crying and the stuffy air of the bathroom, and his other hand comes up to steady you, hovering just above your elbow before dropping away,

a fresh wave of embarrassment washes over you as you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror over the sink. it’s worse than you thought. your face is blotchy and swollen, your eyes are rimmed red, and your mascara has created smudgy, black circles under your eyes that make you look like a raccoon. you groan, turning away from your reflection and pressing your face into your hands.

“i look awful,” you murmur into your palms, the words muffled. “i can’t have anyone see me like this.”

“‘s nothing a little damage control can’t fix,” satoru says, turning toward the sink and grabbing a few squares of toilet paper from the roll. he runs them under the faucet until they’re a damp clump. “it’s not the fancy skincare stuff you girls usually use,” he admits, holding up the damp wad of paper, “but it should work.”

he turns back to you, the wad of toilet paper balanced between his fingers. he takes a step closer, and you instinctively stiffen, your body tensing.

he moves slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you want to. you don’t. his fingers gently cup your jaw to hold your head still. his touch is feather-light, his thumb rests softly on the curve of your cheekbone and it’s oddly comforting. your eyes flutter shut as he gently dabs at the mascara smudges under your eyes. he manages to wipe away the worst of the mess without being too rough

“there,” he hums softly, dropping the damp paper into the trash and letting his hand fall away. you immediately miss the warmth of it. “better?”

you open your eyes and risk a glance in the mirror. you still look like you’ve been crying, but you no longer look like a character from a tim burton movie.

“yeah,” you sigh, your voice barely audible. “better.”

“good,” a small, genuine smile finally graces his lips

“why are you being so nice to me?” you turn away from the mirror to look at him directly.

“i don’t like seeing pretty girls cry,”

the words hang in the air between you, “oh,” you murmur, because you can’t think of anything tangible to say.

he clears his throat, his easygoing smile sliding back into place. “c’mon, let’s get you out of here.” he holds out his hand again, and this time you don’t hesitate.

satoru keeps a firm hold on your hand as he leads you out of the bathroom and back into the party. he uses his broad shoulders to part the crowd, people seem to naturally move aside for him. you keep your head down, focusing on the scuffed linoleum floor

just as you’re nearing the hallway that leads to the front door, a figure detaches itself from a group lounging on a nearby couch and blocks your path. it’s suguru geto, satoru’s other half, the vice president to his president. equally as infamous around campus.

“there you are, satoru,” suguru says, his eyes flicking from satoru to you, and then down to your intertwined hands. “toji and sukuna are talking mad shit again. come play beer pong with us.”

satoru doesn't even break stride, he keeps pulling you gently along. “maybe when i get back.”

“get back from where exactly?” suguru raises a brow, he glances at you again, a look of genuine confusion crossing his features as he tries to place you, and comes up empty.

satoru finally stops, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh. he tilts his head in your direction. “walking her home.”

the shift in suguru’s expression is immediate. his lips part slightly, his eyes widening as the pieces fall into place. he opens his mouth to say something teasing that would make your face burn with embarrassment. but before he can get a single word out, satoru is already shaking his head. ‘don't.’

suguru’s mouth snaps shut. he narrows his amber eyes, looking between your tear-streaked face, your clasped hands, and the uncharacteristically serious look on his best friend’s face. a knowing grin spreads across his lips.

“right, right,” he laughs, stepping aside and gesturing toward the door with a sweep of his arm. “you two have fun.”

as satoru pulls you past him, you catch suguru muttering under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear over the loud music “about damn time, you idiot.”

you don’t understand the full weight of his words

you don’t know that satoru has pointed you out to suguru countless times before, wayyy back during orientation week when you were all freshmen trying to figure out where your classes were.

you don’t know that he calls you ‘the pretty girl with the sketchbook’ . you have no idea that for the past two years, satoru gojo has been nursing an unrequited crush on you — the girl who always seems to be in her own world, a world he desperately wants to be a part of.

all you know is that the campus player is currently leading you out into the cool night air, his hand warm and steady in yours. and for some reason, it feels right

you catch a glimpse of your ex laughing with his friends by the beer pong table, completely oblivious. he doesn’t even notice satoru pulling you through the doorway. it stings, but it’s duller now

cars are lined up haphazardly along the street outside the frat house. people are sitting on the hoods, vaping, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of their geek bars. a few call out to satoru as you pass, but he barely acknowledges them. one of his ex-flings is glaring at you from the porch, whispering to her friends as she stares at your interlocked hands.

“which way?” he asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. he seems to realize he’s still holding your hand and lets go of it suddenly, shoving his hands in his pockets. you rub your arm nervously

you point to the left side of the street. “that way. it’s like, a twenty-minute walk on a good day.”

“cool,” he says, falling into step beside you. you walk in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the distant thump of the party fading behind you and the scuff of your shoes on the pavement. his eyes are fixed on you while yours are locked on the cracks in the sidewalk,

“so, what did he do?” he pipes up, then immediately seems to regret it. “actually nevermind i probably shouldn’t be asking that right now—”

“he’s been cheating on me,” you sigh, “he gave me his phone so i could text my roommate and i had a gut feeling so i went through it and—” your breath hitches

“oh fuck don’t cry again,” satoru frowns

“sorry it’s just . . . ”

“don’t apologize either,” he says, “none of this is your fault.”

“we were together for eight months,” you sigh, the admission feeling heavy in the cool night air. “i thought. . . i don’t know. i thought everything was good. i thought he loved me.”

“he’s an idiot,” satoru says, so matter-of-factly that it makes you believe him. “anyone who would cheat on you is either blind or just plain fucking stupid.”

“you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“nah i’m saying it ‘cause i mean it,” he shakes his head.

you don’t know what to say to that, so you just smile at him with your watery eyes and he swears he feels his knees buckle. even with puffy eyes and a quivering lip you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

he musters up a smile and looks away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. you keep walking. the cool early spring air caresses your cheeks, carrying the smell of petrichor from a recent rain shower. you don’t notice him staring at you, or the way his gaze softens as he watches the streetlights cast your face in a fluorescent hue

you frown down at your phone. it’s completely dead and he wishes he’d offered to charge it for you in his room at the frat house so he could’ve spent more time with you. he wants to spend more time with you. he knows he may never get the opportunity again.

he’s grinning like the cheshire cat when your stomach lets out a loud growl and you look positively mortified.

“you hungry?” he asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious.

“a little,” you nod meekly, your stomach rumbling again in agreement. the crying and the vodka have made you feel hollow.

“me too,” he says. “there’s a konbini a couple minutes away, we can grab something to eat if you want.”

you end up stopping at the konbini. the store is a stark contrast to the cool darkness of the streets. you wander the aisles, your eyes landing on a shelf of instant ramen cups. nothing sounds better than a salty, savory meal

“ramen?” you ask, holding one up, “i get this brand a lot”

“you’ve got good taste” he says, grabbing one for himself. “i like this brand too”

you end up with a cup of spicy ramen, a strawberry milk, and a box of cookies n cream pocky. he grabs a bottle of water and pays for everything before you can even pull out your card, waving away your protests. he uses the hot water dispenser by the door to prepare your ramen, handing it to you with a pair of chopsticks, his fingers brush against yours.

you eat sitting on the curb outside the store, the steam warming your face. it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

“i feel bad for dragging you away from the party,” you say between slurps. “i’m sure your girlfriend is wondering where you are.”

“nah, i don’t have one,” he shakes his head, taking a sip of his water. “not really my thing.” he regrets the words the second they fall from his lips.

“not your thing?” you raise a brow. “you’re notorious for having girlfriends.”

his eyes crinkle as he laughs, a genuine, bright sound. “i’ve never had one.”

you don’t seem convinced.

“i’ve had girl friends,” he says, “i don’t really do labels.”

stop. fucking. talking. he groans internally.

“someone’s got commitment issues.” you hum

for most people? yeah. the thought of a relationship with the girls he fools around with makes him break out in hives. but you? he would commit to you in a heartbeat. he’d do everything under the sun and then some if you asked him to.

a cold breeze picks up, rustling the plastic bag from the konbini, and you shiver.

“cold?” he asks, already shrugging out of his jacket before you can answer.

“no, i’m fine,” you lie, your teeth chattering slightly, betraying you.

he drapes his jacket—a black and crimson varsity jacket with the frat’s letters stitched on the chest—over your shoulders. it’s heavy and warm, and it smells like him, a clean, sharp mix of cologne and something sweet, like vanilla

“i don’t need it,” you protest, even as you snuggle deeper into it

“you do,” he says, his voice soft. “it’s cold out.”

you accept defeat, finishing your ramen with his crossing jacket around you.

the rest of the walk passes in comfortable silence. you don’t feel the need to fill it with small talk, and he doesn’t seem to either. it’s just the sound of your footsteps on the pavement and the hum of the city. his jacket is a heavy around your shoulders and you find yourself unconsciously pulling it tighter.

before you know it, you’re turning the corner onto your street. your dorm building is a few paces down, tired-looking brick walls and a flickering porch light that casts long, dancing shadows on the sidewalk.

“i didn’t know you lived in the dorms,” he says, looking up at the building. he shoves his hands in his pockets, his thin t-shirt clinging to his frame in the cool air.

“mm my family lives a couple hours away, it’s convenient,” you mumble, suddenly feeling shy.

you trudge up the concrete steps together, the silence stretching between you. you fish around in your pocket for your keys, your fingers fumbling with the cold metal. you finally manage to get the key in the lock and push the heavy door open.

“well,” you start, shrugging out of his jacket. “thanks. for everything. really.” you hold it out to him. “i appreciate you walking me home. and paying for my ramen and stuff”

he looks at the jacket in your outstretched hand, then back at you. he doesn’t take it.

“keep it,” he says. what he doesn’t say is that it looks better on you than it ever will on him, the way the crimson fabric brings out your eyes, the way you seem to swim in it, small and delicate.

“what? no, i can’t. it’s your crossing jacket.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “isn’t this like, a huge deal for you frat boys?”

“yeah well. . .” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “i need a reason to see you again,” he says, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

you blink at him, completely taken aback. “oh. . right”

“yeah,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “get some sleep.” he gives you one last smile before turning and walking away. you watch him until he turns the corner, his silhouette disappearing into the night.

you stand there for a long moment, the cool air raising goosebumps on your arms, before you finally turn and head inside. you shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a second, letting out a long, slow breath.

you shrug the jacket off your shoulders, intending to just drop it on a chair, but as you do, something slips from the inner pocket and flutters to the floor. it’s a small, crumpled piece of paper.

you bend down to pick it up, it’s the receipt from the konbini. you’re about to crumple it up and toss it towards the trash can, but you see the faint blue lines of ink on the back. in messy, scrawling handwriting is a phone number. and underneath it, a short message:

keep the jacket!!! text me if you wanna hang out some time - satoru :p

you stare at the note, a soft smile spreading across your face, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. satoru gojo is so , so much sweeter than you expected.

© GYARUJO 2026. please do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites. do not feed to ai

[sukunahs]

sweet tooth masterlist | ryomen sukuna

wish I could see that it feels much better when I'm with you

pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (university au)

summary: sukuna has a notorious reputation on campus of being terrifying, but it's hard to be too scared of the guy when he shows up to your family’s failing bakery every day to buy strawberry shortbread.

when your life feels like its falling apart you discover just how sweet he can be.

content: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, university au, FLUFF, angst, humor, slow burn, idiots in love, miscommunication, parental illness/death, grief, money issues, stress and overwork, harassment, introverted reader, both reader and sukuna are kinda insecure in their own way, reader's life is falling apart but sukuna is there to make things better

episode 1: going through it

episode 2: under your spell

episode 3: anyone out there?

episode 4: expectations are too high

episode 5: crush

episode 6: I just don't know right now

episode 7: late nights

episode 8: so come a little closer

episode 9: beating like a hammer

episode 10: stop the world I wanna get off (with you)

episode 11: I'll stand here all night long

episode 12: sugar mice

episode 13: wonderful life

episode 14: how I’ve longed for you

episode 15: tell me that you love me

episode 16: let me always be with you

episode 17: wound up with a purpose

[splurtz]

EXTRA, EXTRA, ℛ𝓔𝓐𝓓 ALL ABOUT IT !

. . . 𝑇𝓞ℛ𝓤'𝓢 IN HIS FEELINGS AND HE CAN'T GET OUT OF IT :(

SUM. rumor has it that in an attempt to sleep with you, satoru gojo thought it would be a good idea to work at the same campus cafe as you! does he need the money? no! does he need your attention? well yeah.

CONTENT. MDNI. explicit sexual content. slow burn. kinda enemies to lover. oral sex. riding. unprotected sex. creampie. slight dom/sub undertones. lots of teasing. dirty talk. semi-public making out. mild angst from miscommunication. eventual fluff.

A/N. satoru art by uruyuuu ... malcolm todd is goated

you meet satoru gojo on a tuesday morning when the cafe is packed worse than usual. the line stretches all the way past the entrance, your apron is covered in dried milk splatters, and your patience is basically gone.

then in he walks.

satoru gojo is the kind of guy who makes the world bend a little just by existing. cocky without apology, charming in that infuriating way that has people falling over themselves, the type who never hears no because he doesn’t give them the chance to say it. and well he’s rich, he’s brilliant, he’s everything and he knows it, which is exactly why you hated him from the second you met him.

“one of everything sweet you got back there,” he says. “extra whip, extra shots, and throw in a smile for me while you’re at it, yeah? name’s toru by the way.”

you stare at him for half a second. he can’t be serious.

“do you even know how bad that’ll taste?” you mutter, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice. you start slamming cups and pumps because arguing with customers is a quick way to get written up, but god, this one makes it tempting.

the smirk on satoru’s face gets wider, those ridiculous sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a flash of those too-blue eyes.

“aw, c’mon princess. live a little. i like my coffee like i like my company—sweet, messy, and a little overwhelming.”

you nearly drop the cup. the audacity rolls off him in waves and when you finally slide the drink across the counter (extra everything just like he asked), he takes one dramatic sip and makes a face.

“too sweet,” he declares as he sets the cup down. “way too sweet. you tryna put me in a sugar coma or what?”

your eye twitches, “you literally asked for one of everything sweet. that’s what you got. if you wanted plain black coffee maybe you should’ve just said that.”

he leans in closer, elbows on the counter, completely ignoring the growing line behind him. “feisty. i like that, it’s almost cute.”

“cute?” you echo. “buddy, i’m two seconds away from spitting in your next drink if you don’t move.”

satoru throws his head back and laughs, you also notice a few girls in line giggle along with him. he then pulls out his card, taps it against the reader, and winks.

fucking asshole.

“that should be it, princess. and hey—i’ll be back tomorrow! maybe you’ll get my order right next time.”

you watch him saunter out, white hair catching the light, and you mutter under your breath the entire time you’re making the next customer’s latte.

you think that’s the end of it. that he’s just another entitled campus pretty boy who’ll forget your face by the time he hits his next lecture.

but satoru gojo doesn’t forget things that interest him.

and apparently, you just became interesting.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“hey, new hire starts today. show him the ropes when he gets here. he’s a fast learner, supposedly.”

you nod... you’ve been working at this campus cafe for almost eight months now. started right after your financial aid package came up short and you needed something flexible that wouldn’t kill your gpa. the pay is decent, the tips are better on busy days, and it beats retail. plus the free coffee reallyyy helps.

pops, your manager, has been running this place longer than most of the students have been alive on campus. he’s kind of aloof that borders on comedy, always saying the bare minimum while somehow making it sound like the most profound shit you’ve ever heard. you get along with him in that weird way where you trade sarcasm and he never takes anything too seriously.

“great,” you say, already dreading it. “i’m babysitting today basically”

pops snorts, “this one applied with a resume that looked like it belonged in a fortune 500. probably won’t last, but at least he’ll look pretty while he burns the milk.”

“so you hired him because he’s pretty?”

“i hired him because we’re short staffed and he said he could start today. pretty is just a bonus. try not to scare him off on day one, yeah? i don’t feel like doing interviews again.”

the bell above the door chimes. “oh look, there he is. right on time.”

you turn around and your stomach drops straight through the floor.

no. fucking. way.

satoru steps inside wearing the exact same black apron as you have, name tag already clipped to his chest slightly crooked.

he spots you instantly.

“morning, princess,” he says, voice carrying across the quiet space. “ready to teach me how to make that sugar coma special?”

you just stare at him, mouth half open.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter.

satoru walks behind the counter, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt like he’s done this a hundred times. he stops a little too close, that familiar cocky energy filling up the small space.

“what? you told me to try plain black coffee next time. figured the best way to get it right is to learn how to make it myself. plus the tips here looked decent when i was scoping the place out yesterday.”

“play nice, both of you. i don’t want to hear any screaming before ten.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. “this is a joke, right? he’s the new hire?”

“looks that way,” pops says, shrugging. “show him the basics. registers, milk steaming, the usual. don’t let him break anything expensive.”

satoru leans against the counter looking way too amused. “don’t worry, i’m a fast learner. you’ll barely have to babysit. we're gonna be real good friends."

˚⟡˖ ࣪

supervising satoru on his first day turns out to be exactly as annoying as you expected, except somehow worse.

he picks up the register faster than anyone you’ve ever trained. customers love him. older ladies compliment his “lovely smile,” frat guys clap him on the shoulder, and half the girls on campus suddenly decide they need an extra shot in their latte. every time someone tells him his coffee is perfect he makes sure you hear it, tossing the praise your way.

“did you catch that? she said it was the best cappuccino she’s had all semester. guess i’m a natural.”

“she was flirting with you, not rating your foam.”

“eh, same thing.”

he’s extra with everything too, especially the latte art. while you’re trying to keep the line moving he spends an extra ten seconds swirling hearts and little flowers into every cappuccino, sometimes even attempting tiny cats or stars. half the time they come out lopsided but he’s proud of himself.

one girl actually took a photo and posted it right there at the counter. again, satoru made sure you saw it.

“see? people appreciate the details. you should try it sometime instead of just dumping plain foam on top.”

“we’re not an art studio, gojo.”

he just laughs unbothered and keeps going. every time you correct him on something he listens for about five seconds then does it his own way anyway, but he never actually messes up. it’s infuriating how quickly he fits in.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

by the end of the first week you’re convinced satoru gojo was put on this earth specifically to test every last nerve you have left.

he shows up every single shift you’re on. the worst part is he’s actually good at the job. terrifyingly good even. 

you catch him quiet one afternoon working the espresso machine.

there’s something weirdly attractive about how easy he is when he’s focused like this. when he’s not the loud, cocky version that grates on your nerves. the quieter side. the way his shoulders relax, the small smile that sits on his lips when no one’s watching, the brightness that seems to live under his skin even when he’s not talking.

he’s stupidly pretty like that, when he's just simply existing.

it's like the whole world softens around him without him even trying. it pisses you off how much you notice it.

“you know,” he starts, “for someone who claims to hate me, you spend a lot of time staring.”

“excuse me. i’m not staring at you—im looking at the espresso machine.”

satoru steps closer to you. he’s tall, unfairly so, and he knows how to use it, looming enough to make the space between you feel smaller than it should.

“admit it, princess. you’re impressed.”

“sure, most trust fund babies last two days max.”

he laughs, “you think i’m doing this for the money? please. i could buy this whole campus if i wanted.”

did this asshole just flex on you?

“then why are you here, gojo?” you finally look up at him, arms crossed tight over your chest. “you don’t need the tips. you don’t need the experience. so what’s the angle?”

suddenly he reaches out, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“maybe i like coffee,” he murmurs. “or maybe i simply just like seeing you. either way… i’m not going anywhere.”

your heart beats faster, traitor that it is. you slap his hand away, ignoring the way your skin tingles where he touched you.

“touch me again and i’ll steam your fingers instead of the milk.”

“violent,” he says. “i like that about you too.”

before you can fire back, the bell over the door rings again and a group of students shuffle in, saving you from whatever stupid thing was about to come out of your mouth. you turn away from him fast, busying yourself with the register.

by closing time the cafe is empty except for the two of you. pops already left an hour ago, so now it’s just you wiping down the last tables while satoru sweeps the floor.

you’re stacking chairs when he appears beside you without warning, grabbing the one next to yours and flipping it onto the table. his shoulder bumps yours on purpose this time.

“so,” he starts, casual as ever, “what are you doing after this?”

“going home, i’m pretty tired… uh you?”

“boring, you're boring," he yawns, "lemme walk you back to your dorm to be safe.”

“i’ve walked myself home for eight months, gojo. i think i’ll survive without a bodyguard.”

“yeah, but now you don’t have to.” he continues, “c’mon, princess. one walk. i’ll even try to keep the pet names to a minimum.”

you study him for a long moment.

“fine,” you say finally giving in, “annoy me again and i’m pushing you into the nearest bush.”

“deal.” he holds up both hands in mock surrender. “but just so you know… i’m really good at dodging bushes.”

you roll your eyes at that, he never runs out of bullets. the two of you finish closing up in comfortable quiet. he locks the front door while you kill the lights, and when you step out into the cool evening air together, the campus paths are mostly empty, strung with soft golden lamplight.

satoru falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets. for once he’s not filling the silence with cocky one-liners. he stays at your side, occasionally glancing over like he’s making sure you’re still okay with this.

“you know,” he says after a few minutes, “i wasn’t lying earlier about liking seeing you.”

“seeing me glaring at you?”

“exactly.” he bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “it’s cute. you get this little crease between your brows when you’re annoyed. makes me want to annoy you more just to see it.”

“you’re weird, gojo.”

“and i’m also walking you home like a gentleman.”

you snort, preventing yourself from smiling. you would never hear the end of it if he sees it.

the walk to your dorm isn’t long. when you finally reach the front steps he stops, rocking back on his heels with his hands still in his pockets.

“working tomorrow, right?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“night, princess,” he says as he backs away. “sweet dreams. try not to dream of me!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you overslept like an idiot.

your alarm didn’t go off, or maybe it did and you smacked it into oblivion in your half asleep state. either way you’re rushing across campus because you completely missed the lecture you usually go to. now the only option left is this later section if you want any chance of catching up.

you slide into the back row just as the professor starts droning on about macroeconomic theory. you’re busy trying to catch your breath and fish out a pen when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

“well well well,” that familiar voice drawls, low enough not to draw the whole room’s attention. “didn’t know you were stalking me now, princess. following me to my lectures?”

you turn your head slowly and there’s satoru.

of fucking course he’s here too.

“you wish,” you hiss under your breath. “i overslept, this is the only section that still had seats. don’t flatter yourself, gojo.”

he leans in a little closer, “sure, sure. keep telling yourself that. but here you are, sitting right next to me when there’s like twenty empty spots further down the row. coincidence? i think not.”

“there weren’t twenty empty spots when i sat down, genius. and move your arm, you’re taking up half the desk.”

“admit it. you saw my pretty head of hair from across the room and couldn’t resist. it’s okay, happens to the best of them.”

“you’re delusional,” you mutter. “i sat here first.”

“well i was already in this section.”

the professor’s voice fades into background noise while satoru keeps up his quiet commentary, whispering dumb observations about the slides or how the guy in the front row is clearly asleep with his eyes open. it’s annoying. it’s also kind of funny, in a way that makes the lecture drag less.

by the time class ends you’re packing up faster than usual, hoping to slip out before he can say anything else, but of course he matches your pace, rushing beside you as you both head down the steps.

“shift starts in thirty, right?” he asks.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your bag strap. “you don’t start yours till later. go do better things, please.”

“nah, i’ll come with. what if you fall asleep on the way? need to keep you in check..”

“one, that’s not gonna happen. two, i didn’t fall asleep,” you protest, “i overslept. big difference.”

“same difference when it leads to you accidentally stalking me.”

“gojo.”

“princess.”

you guys keep walking, the silence only lasts a few seconds before he breaks it again.

“so what’s your major anyway?” he asks. “gotta be something serious.”

“business with a minor in econ. figured it was the safest bet for actually getting a job after graduation. plus the classes overlap enough that i can knock out credits without killing myself.”

he hums, nodding slowly. “it suits you.”

“what about you?”

“finance, technically. heavy on the econ side too—market theory, behavioral stuff, all that. my family’s been pushing it since i could walk. boring as hell most days but the numbers click for me.”

“huh,” you say after a beat. “explains why you’re weirdly good at the register. and the latte art, actually. ever think about taking art too? you could probably minor in it without even trying.”

satoru raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised you noticed.

“...art? me?”

he continues, “i doodle sometimes when i’m bored in lectures, it’s nothing serious. but yeah… the latte stuff is kinda fun.”

“just saying you’re good at it. might be worth adding to the schedule if finance ever gets too soul sucking.”

“most people just call it extra.” 

“it is extra,” you clarify quickly. “but it’s not bad extra. customers eat it up and you don’t suck at it. if you like that kind of thing, maybe you should.”

“maybe i will. only if you sign up with me though. can’t have you missing out on watching me be naturally talented.”

you say shoving his arm lightly. “in your dreams, gojo.”

“oh it’s definitely in my dreams,” he shoots back. “speaking of dreams, did you see me in your dreams last night? did i look good? hope i didn’t flutter your heart too much.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

it’s terrifying how easy it is to fall for satoru gojo’s charm.

you’ve been telling yourself for weeks that it’s just the proximity talking, that anyone would start to soften after seeing the same face everyday. but it’s been a month now since he first showed up and the annoyance you felt on day one is slowly fading away.

it’s disarming in a way that feels unfair, like he figured out exactly where your walls are thinnest and decided to camp there.

the thing about satoru is he never pushes too hard, even when he’s being impossible. sure, he’ll tease you about your order of plain black coffee (because he thinks you’re boring) but then he’ll remember how you take it on the days when you're stressed and slide it across the counter before you even ask. a month of this and you’ve caught yourself noticing the way his little habits. he’s a show off and obnoxiously aware of it, but he’s also the guy who stays late to help you mop even when his shift ended an hour ago, who quotes your professor’s driest slides back to you in a deadpan voice that makes you laugh despite yourself.

“morning, princess,” he greets, handing you a cup of coffee.

you smile as you take the cup, “morning, toru.”

his eyes widen just a little at the name, then the grin returns, brighter than ever.

“careful,” he teases. “keep calling me that and i might start thinking you actually like me.”

you blink. “what’d i do?”

“you just called me toru,” he says.

you freeze. “no i didn’t.”

“yes you did.”

“no. i didn’t.”

“yes you did. you said ‘morning, toru.’ clear as day. i heard it with my own two ears.”

“prove it or it never happened.”

“i heard it. that’s my proof.”

“you hear what you want to hear, gojo. it’s what they call selective listening.”

satoru straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. a dramatic pout settles on his face. bottom lip jutting out with his brows furrowed, those pretty eyes narrowing at you.

“selective listening? really?” he huffs, the pout deepening. “i’m standing right here, princess. you said it. you finally said it and now you’re taking it back? that’s cold. that’s actually cruel.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

“i didn’t say anything,” you reply, “you’re imagining things again. maybe you need less sugar in your system.”

he lets out a dramatic sigh and slumps against the counter. “you’re so mean to me. i make you coffee all the time, i stay late to help you close, i walk you home like a gentleman, and this is how you repay me? denying my existence? denying toru?”

the way he says his own nickname in that whiny tone is ridiculous. “say it again,” he demands, though the demand comes out more like a sulky request. “just once. call me toru again and i’ll drop it. i swear.”

“no.”

“please?”

“absolutely not.”

satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face before peeking at you through his fingers. “you’re killing me. slowly and painfully. i finally get a win… a tiny, beautiful win and you snatch it away like that.” he snaps his fingers for emphasis. “heartless… you’re heartless, princess.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “you’re such a baby when you don’t get your way.”

“i’m not a baby,” he mutters, “i’m a grown man who just got emotionally devastated by a terrible girl who won’t even admit she likes saying my name.”

you roll your eyes and finally turn back to face him, crossing your arms to match his stance. “fine, satoru. happy now?”

his pout vanishes instantly. “heh i’ll take it.”

all morning the teasing doesn’t stop. every time your eyes meet across the counter he mouths “toru” with exaggerated lips, making you glare at him. you don’t fight him with it though, that’ll be more tiring.

later that afternoon, you remember the big econ test is coming up in a few days.

“hey… have you studied for the test yet?” you ask knowing he has the same class, “the one for macro? i’ve been so buried here i barely looked at the slides.”

satoru glances over at you, one brow raised. “yeah, kinda. skimmed the chapters last night while i was pretending to pay attention in that boring finance seminar.”

you hesitate for a second before pushing forward. “did you happen to take notes for the lecture i missed last week? the one on monetary policy? my notes from the earlier section are trash and i can’t make sense of half the graphs.”

he thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “nah, i don’t usually take notes. everything sticks up here anyway,” he taps his temple with two fingers. “but my bag’s in the back room. go check if you want—there might be some loose papers or something i scribbled on. i’m not promising anything though.”

you nod going right away. satoru’s bag is tossed carelessly on the small table near the lockers. you unzip it carefully, feeling a little weird going through his stuff even if he said it was okay. there are a couple of notebooks, some loose receipts, and a few crumpled pages from lectures.

you flip through them quickly but nothing looks like the notes you need. then your fingers brush against a smaller sketchbook tucked near the bottom. you pull it out without thinking, flipping it open to the first page. it’s an unfinished drawing—pencil lines forming the rough outline of a face. no eyes yet, no mouth, just the shape of cheekbones and the suggestion of hair falling across a forehead. it’s surprisingly delicate, the strokes careful. you can’t tell who it’s supposed to be; the features are still missing.

it’s probably just some random doodle from class, and shove the sketchbook back where you found it. no notes on monetary policy so nothing useful.

you come back out, “couldn’t find anything. your bag’s a mess by the way.”

satoru shrugs, not looking the least bit surprised. “told you i don’t usually bother. you know—” he turns toward you fully, a mischievous glint lighting up his face, “i could teach you instead. i remember most of it. we could go over the graphs and everything.”

you raise an eyebrow, suspicious. “really? you’d do that?”

“yeah, of course,” satoru says without hesitation, “i’ve got the graphs memorized anyway, also will you hate me less after?”

you narrow your eyes at him, “for the record, i don’t hate you. i just think you’re annoying.”

“same thing,” he pouts, already reaching for a clean cup to start scribbling formulas on the side with a sharpie. “consider me your personal tutor, princess.”

and just like that, satoru found another way to get closer to you.

after closing, the two of you end up at a corner table with textbooks and laptops spread out on the table. the cafe lights are dimmed low, only the warm glow of the hanging bulbs left on, and it feels strangely intimate with just the two of you.

“see this curve?” satoru says, tapping the screen of his laptop with his pen. “that’s the liquidity preference curve. when it shifts like this—” he drags his finger across the trackpad, “—interest rates drop even if money supply stays the same. ya following?”

you lean in closer as you nod slowly, even though the words are starting to blur together.

“mmm kinda… keep going.”

for the next hour he walks you through every graph, every theory, every formula that’s been kicking your ass for weeks. he’s good at it. you like that he explains things in ways that actually stick with you.

satoru has always been scary smart. even as a kid, his past teachers would vouch to that. finishing exams in ten minutes, correcting them on accident, winning academic awards he didn’t even try for. now it’s the same. he barely listens in lectures, he literally doodles instead of taking notes, he zones out half the time, and still somehow walks out with good scores. 

when you get a question right he gives you this little proud smirk that you find cute. what’s more is that he doesn’t gloat when you slump back in your chair after a while, letting out a frustrated sigh and staring at the messy notes in front of you.

“god, i wish i could remember stuff as fast as you do,” you admit quietly, “it takes me forever to get things to stick. i have to reread the same slide ten times and still feel like i’m gonna blank during the test.”

“here’s a tip,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “stop trying to memorize it all at once. the brain hates that. instead, explain it out loud like you’re teaching someone who knows nothing. even if it’s just to me or the wall. it forces you to actually understand it instead of just cramming the words.”

he continues, “works way better than staring at slides until your eyes cross. trust me, princess. i’ve tested every lazy method there is.”

you look at him, a tiny smile pulling at your lips despite how tired you feel.

“you’re surprisingly good at this teaching thing.”

“only because it’s you. now c’mon, pick a graph and teach it back to me.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you come straight to the cafe after the test, the bell above the door chiming as you push it open with your shoulder. you weren’t even scheduled today, but you wanted to tell him how it went.

“....hey? you’re not on today, right? did i mess up the schedule?"

you slide onto one of the stools at the counter giggling, “test went better than i thought. like actually good.”

his eyes light up instantly at that.

“yeah? see that? knew how fucking smart you were.”

you nod, the excitement bubbling out before you can stop it. “yeah, the way you explained everything made it click in my head during the test. i actually remembered instead of blanking like usual.”

satoru lets out a low whistle, smile widening until it takes over his whole face. “that’s my girl. told you explaining it out loud works. see?”

“genuinely thank you.” 

“stay right there. we’re doing something to celebrate.”

you end up staying until closing. when the last customer leaves and your manager waves goodbye on his way out, satoru flips the sign to closed and turns to you with a nod.

“reward time since you aced that test, i helped a little, so we’re getting ice cream.”

“that’s your big celebration?”

“c’mon, there’s that place two blocks off campus that stays open late. they have that ridiculous pistachio with the chunks of chocolate. you’re gonna love it.”

when you reach the little ice cream shop, you find a small table by the window and settle in after ordering, the sweet cold already melting on your tongue. satoru watches you take the first bite with way too much interest, chin resting on his hand.

“good, right?”

you nod, licking a bit of pistachio off the spoon.

“mhm sooo good.”

he laughs softly at first, but then his eyes drop to your mouth as you lick another slow stripe along the spoon to catch the melting edge.

his throat bobs once, “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear.

you glance up, spoon still halfway to your lips. “what?”

satoru suddenly reaches out with his thumb, wiping a tiny smear of melted ice cream from the corner of your mouth.

“you can’t just do that,” he says, “licking the spoon like that, it’s unfair.”

“unfair how?” you oblivious ask. 

“because now all i can think about is how that mouth would feel on something else.” he says it so quietly, so casually too. now heat floods your face. you set the spoon down, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and him. 

“sorry,” he murmurs, though the small smirk tugging at his lips says he isn’t sorry at all. “too much?”

you shake your head slowly, biting your lip to keep it from smiling too obviously. the warmth in your cheeks refuses to fade.

“.…i don’t mind?”

satoru’s eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across his face. “you don’t?” he echoes, leaning forward a little more, elbows on the table. “don’t do that, i’m already trying really hard to behave.”

“you never behave.”

“hey, i’ve been on my best behavior for weeks,” he protests as his hand finds yours on the table, “just waiting for you to admit i’m not so bad.”

you squeeze his fingers lightly, eyes meeting his. “you’re not.... most days.”

“most days? that’s the best i’m getting?”

“take it or leave it, gojo.”

he laughs under his breath then his free hand comes up, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. “i’ll take it for now.”

satoru leans in slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.

just like that his mouth meets yours, and the kiss starts soft but the second your lips part he doesn’t hesitate. his tongue slips in first, sliding against yours. he tastes like chocolate and pistachio, sweet and overwhelming in the best way. you kiss him back just as eagerly, fingers tightening around his hand on the table while your other hand finds the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric to pull him closer.

satoru makes a low sound in the back of his throat, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, one hand still cradling your face.

suddenly the worker behind the counter clears his throat loudly, “sorry folks, we’re closing up. you two might wanna take that somewhere else.”

you pull back quickly feeling embarrassed while satoru pulls back just enough to laugh, not even a little embarrassed. “man sorry about that,” he says, “can’t help it. i’m irresistible and she’s a bit greedy tonight.”

you hit his arm playfully, face burning as you stand up fast. “toru!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next few days were different in the best kind of way.

well nothing much changes inside the cafe itself. everything is mostly the same. but satoru? he has zero shame now, and you’ve clearly unlocked something dangerous in him.

his clinginess is a whole new beast.

you’re at the register ringing up an iced caramel latte when he appears right behind you, chest brushing your back as he reaches for a stack of lids he absolutely does not need. his chin drops onto your shoulder like it belongs there.

“missed you during that eight a.m. lecture, princess. thought about skipping just to come bother you earlier.”

you elbow him lightly, “we have the same shift, toru. you saw me forty minutes ago.”

“forty minutes too long,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck before he pulls away. the customer gives you a knowing little smile and you feel your face heat up as you hand over the drink.

he does it constantly now.

during the slow hours he’ll tug you into the back room under the excuse of “checking inventory” and then spend the whole time crowding and kissing you.

“we’re gonna get caught,” you whisper.

“let them catch us,” he says against your mouth. “i’ll just tell pops i was giving you mouth-to-mouth.”

you laugh and shove him harder. “you idiot, he would never believe that.”

he only laughs louder and pulls you back in for one more kiss before the bell over the front door saves you.

the worst part (or maybe the best) is how he switched half his schedule just to match yours. you found out when he casually mentioned it during one afternoon, like it was no big deal.

“my advisor was pissed,” he told you, “said something about ‘not rearranging your entire academic plan for a girlfriend.’ i told her my barista girlfriend was non-negotiable.”

you stared at him. “you changed your schedule?”

“mmhm. dropped the early monday seminar and swapped it for the afternoon one. added a useless elective just so i could keep these exact shifts with you.” he shrugged, completely unbothered. “worth it. now i get to stare at you all day.”

you wanted to scold him for being ridiculous, but the way he said it made something warm bloom in your chest. so instead you just flicked his forehead and called him an idiot again. he caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your palm.

how freaking adorable.

sometimes he’ll slide a stool over so you can sit for a few minutes while he handles few customers alone, shooting you little winks every time you look up from your phone.

it’s how he takes care of you.

and you like when he takes care of you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

satoru gojo has always been pretty experienced with girls.

he’s never had to chase too hard. regular hook ups, quick flings during freshman year, girls who wanted the thrill of the rich pretty boy who never seemed to take anything seriously. he knew how to kiss, how to touch, how to make them feel wanted for a night without promising more than that. it was easy, fun, but never deep enough to stick.

none of them ever made his chest feel this tight. none of them made him nervous the way you do.

“is this okay?” he asks as his thumb brushes just under the edge of your bra, waiting, always checking even when his body is clearly aching to keep going.

“yeah…. it’s okay, toru.”

that’s all he needs.

he starts kissing you then trails his mouth down—his hands push your shirt higher, bunching it up under your arms. when he finally tugs your bra down, cool air hits your skin for half a second before his mouth is there.

satoru groans softly against you, the sound vibrating through your chest as he takes one nipple into his mouth. he’s gentle at first, lips closing around the peak. his tongue swirling before he sucks. a little harder, a little hungrier. 

your back arches without thinking, a quiet whimper slipping out. one of your hands finds his hair, fingers tightening in the soft white strands as he switches to the other side, giving it the same attention.

“fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbles against your skin, voice muffled.

“mhmm.… it’s so good baby.”

“yeah?”

he presses open-mouthed kisses across the swell of your breast. his free hand cups the other one, thumb brushing over the wet nipple he just left behind, pinching lightly.

he’s thorough with it. every little sound you make seems to spur him on.

“still okay?” he questions, “tell me if you want me to stop, princess. i’ll stop.”

you shake your head, tugging him back down by his hair.

“don’t stop,” you breathe.

satoru’s smile is slow and a little dazed before he leans in again, mouth finding your breast like he never wants to leave. he’s still careful, still checking in with every new touch, but the clingy, greedy part of him is winning tonight.

he’s making sure you feel exactly how much he’s been holding back.

clothes come off slowly after that, piece by piece, until there’s nothing between you. satoru lies back against the pillows, his hands resting on your hips as you straddle him. he’s hard under you.

you take the lead.

your palms press flat against his chest for balance as you shift your weight, lining yourself up. 

“fuck—” he breathes when you start to sink down, the head of his cock pressing inside you. his head tips back, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “you’re doing so damn good, baby.”

you go slow at first, letting yourself adjust to the stretch. the fullness is overwhelming in the best way, once you’re seated fully, you pause for a few seconds.

then you start to move.

you roll your hips experimentally, finding a rhythm that makes pleasure spark up inside you. satoru’s hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. he contains himself so he doesn’t take over. he wants to let you set the pace, let you ride him exactly how you want.

“that’s it, use me, baby. however you need.”

the words send a shiver through you. you brace your hands on his chest and start moving faster, lifting up and sinking back down. satoru’s eyes stay locked on your face, then drift lower to watch where you’re joined, the way your body takes him in again and again.

his grip tightens on your hips when you start grinding down instead of bouncing, circling your hips so his cock rubs against that sensitive spot inside you.

“a–am i doing good, toru?”

“god, yes,” he pants. “so pretty riding me like this.”

you feel a rush of confidence at his words. you plant your feet on the bed, hands still braced on his chest, and start riding him faster. your hips snap down harder and quicker as satoru’s head presses back into the pillow, a low, broken moan slipping out of him.

“you’re insane f–for this,” he groans, he sounds wrecked.

“shh you’re so big toru.” you whine too, “feel so soo good.”

you don’t slow down, continuing to ride him hard, bouncing on his cock like crazy. 

you feel the thick head of his cock kissing that spongy spot inside you, satoru’s fingers dig harder into the soft flesh of your hips anchoring himself while you use him. his abs tense and ripple beneath your palms every time you slam down.

“fuck baby, slow down or i’m gonna—” his words cut off into a guttural moan when you purposely clench around him. “oh you evil woman.”

you giggle in response letting out a high, needy whimper after. 

“im sorry,” you gasp, voice breathy.. “can feel you everywhere.”

satoru’s eyes roll back for a second. he looks a mess. his white hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his mouth falls open on another moan.

“shit h-hahh princess, your pussy’s—ah so greedy tonight.”

you’re breathless, thighs burning, but the ache only adds to the pleasure. you brace one hand on his chest and reach back with the other, cupping his balls gently, rolling them in your palm while you keep bouncing.

oh you are so killing him.

“toru you’re twitching so much inside me,” you tease. “feels so good when you throb like that…”

he lets out a string of curses in response while your breasts bounce with every movement, nipples still shiny from his earlier attention, and satoru can’t stop staring, mesmerized and completely undone.

“i’m—i’m so close,” you say, “toru—come with me please!”

“yeah fuck, yeah— i’m right there with you, princess,” he replies, voice breaking on the last word. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast circles that match your crazy pace. “come on my cock, baby. mess with it…shit!”

the pleasure pushes you over the edge first, milking his cock as your orgasm hits you. satoru follows right after you, his back arches off the bed as he comes hard, thick spurts of heat flooding deep inside you. 

finally, you collapse forward onto his chest as both of you gasp for air. satoru’s arms wrap around you instantly, holding you tight against him. he presses open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.

“holy fuck… you just destroyed me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and awed. “never felt anything like that. you’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” 

you smile against his damp chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his racing heart.

“i think i like being in charge.”

“yeah? then next time you can tie me down if you want. just give me five minutes first. i think my soul left my body for a second there.”

you laugh softly, letting your eyes drift shut while his warmth surrounds you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“wait, since when has gojo been a barista?” you hear one girl say, laughing like it’s the funniest thing ever. “him out of all people? no fucking way.”

you’re drying your hands when voices filter in from the stalls behind you. two girls chatting loud enough that you can’t ignore it even if you wanted to.

the other one snorts, “i know, right? i heard from his friends that he only applied there to sleep with one of the workers.”

your stomach twists a little, but you tell yourself it’s nothing.

campus gossip is always exaggerated.

“he’s probably quitting soon anyway,” the first girl continues, “what’s a trust fund baby doing slinging lattes?”

“like play charming until he gets what he wants then bounce?”

their laughter echoes off the tiles as they leave and you're left staring at your reflection again. you rethink everything in the span of thirty seconds—was it all calculated? did he really just do everything to sleep with you? 

you show up to your shift pissy as hell, you hear satoru humming while he wipes down the espresso machine. he looks up waving at you, and normally that makes your chest warm. today it makes you want to throw a cup at his head.

“there you are,” he says, “you look cute when you’re all serious like this—did you run here or something?”

you brush past him without a word, grabbing the rag from the sink and attacking the already clean counter. satoru’s grin falters a little bit, blue eyes narrowing already picking up your mood.

“whoa, okay. bad day?” he asks, reaching out to touch you and you flinch away.

“don’t,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the counter, scrubbing harder. “just not in the mood, gojo.”

he straightens up, his cocky energy disappearing.

“gojo?” he echoes, “what happened to satoru? you’ve been calling me that for days. did i do something? because if i did, tell me so i can fix it. i’m not above begging, princess. i’ll get on my knees right here.”

“nothing happened,” you lie, because admitting you overheard some random girls in the bathroom is affecting you feels stupid. “i’m just tired, you wouldn’t get it.”

satoru doesn’t buy it. he steps closer anyway, “try me,” he says softly, all the usual bravado dialed down. “i’m good at a lot of things, but i’m especially good at listening to you. baby, please talk to me. did someone say something? because if they did—”

“i said it’s nothing, gojo.” your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you see the way his shoulders tense just a little.

he nods, stepping back with his hands raised in that mock surrender. “alright, message received. whatever this is… we’ll figure it out later.”

well that didn’t happen.

the whole day you did your best ignoring him.

before he could even ask what you guys were doing after shift you made a cheap excuse to pops about how you felt sick (it was an obvious lie) and needed to leave early. pops just shrugged and told you to go rest. satoru watched you grab your bag, mouth opening to say something, but you were already out the door before he could get a word in.

later that night satoru is sprawled on suguru’s couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other gesturing wildly as he rants.

“everything was going so well, man. like actually well,” he groans, voice muffled behind his arm. “she's even initiating stuff, now she’s calling me gojo again? dude, fuck gojo. i hate that.”

suguru sits across from him, legs crossed, very used to satoru’s dramatic rants. he’s just not used to it being about a girl.

“so what happened?”

“i don’t know!” satoru sits up suddenly. “she flinched when i tried to touch her. flinched. like i’m some random creep.”

he drags both hands down his face, groaning louder.

“she even left early. made up some bullshit excuse to dip before i could even ask what we were doing after. she’s been staying at my dorm for days, suguru. my bed still smells like her shampoo. i had snacks stocked for her. and now she’s shutting down? i don’t get it.”

“you sure you didn’t do something stupid?”

“i swear i didn’t.” satoru flops back down dramatically. “i’m losing my mind. she went from soft and clingy back to hating me in like twelve hours. what the fuck did i miss? i really like her. like…. a lot. more than i thought i could.”

suguru hums, “if it’s not you, then maybe somebody else?”

“if someone said something to her i’m going to lose it,” he mutters. “i finally got her to let me in and now she’s pulling away again. i don’t know how to fix something when she won’t even tell me what’s broken.”

“look, relationships aren’t always smooth. problems come up, it’s normal. the difference is whether you actually talk about it or let it fester.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

your morning has been irritating as hell.

you woke up cranky, then you spilled coffee on your shirt while rushing, you had to change, and still barely made it to your first lecture on time. every little thing felt like it was piling up—the crowded hallways, the professor droning on about stuff you already knew, and the constant replay of yesterday, everything was just irritating.

so by the time of your second morning class, you’re already exhausted and on edge.

you pull out your notebook when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

satoru slips into the seat beside you without a word.

he's not even in this class.

he looks exhausted, there are faint dark circles shadowing the usual brightness of his gaze, his white hair is messier than normal like he rolled straight out of bed and didn’t bother fixing it. he probably didn’t sleep much, if at all.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he pulls a small sticky note pad from his bag, scribbles something quickly with a pen, and slides it over to you under the desk.

are you still mad? :(

you glance at the note, then at him. his eyes are already on you, waiting.

you write back, keeping your handwriting small.

no i was never mad

he reads it, eyebrows pulling together. he scribbles again, passing it back.

but you were. look at your mad face right now.

you feel the irritation flare again, but you keep your face neutral and write:

you shouldn’t even be here. im. not. mad.

he huffs softly as another note slides your way.

see. you clearly are. can we please talk after?

you stare at the words for a second longer. part of you wants to stay stubborn. the other part hates how tired he looks.

later.

satoru reads it and nods before tucking the sticky notes away.

the rest of the lecture goes, but satoru stays right there beside you the whole time.

midway through, he opens his notebook and starts sketching again. first he shows you a proper drawing of you. it's the same unfinished face you had seen weeks ago when you dug through his bag looking for notes. now it’s finished. your eyes are there and your mouth curved in a smile.

you admire how pretty he sees you. then he flips the page without warning.

the next sketch is completely different—you again, but this time with a exaggerated angry face. brows furrowed deep, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, tiny cartoon steam lines rising from your head. it’s ridiculous and accurate at the same time. he bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud, shoulders shaking quietly as he watches your reaction.

you glare at the page and he quickly flips the notebook shut before the professor notices.

when class finally ends, the two of you walk across campus until you reach a quiet stretch of grass near the edge of the field, far enough from the main paths. you drop down onto the grass first. satoru follows, sitting close but not too close, giving you space.

he reaches over and plucks a small white wildflower growing near his knee. he twirls it once between his fingers before holding it out to you, a tired smile on his face.

you look at the flower, then at him. it’s stupidly cute.

you flick it away with two fingers and the flower flutters to the grass between you.

satoru watches it fall before finally talking.

“okay,” he says quietly, “talk to me. what’s going on? you’ve been shutting me out since yesterday and i’m losing my mind here.”

you pull at a blade of grass, twisting it between your fingers.

“when are you quitting?”

satoru blinks, caught off guard. “quitting what? the cafe?”

you nod, still not looking at him.

he lets out a short, confused laugh. “is that why you’re mad? you want me to quit? because if that’s it, i can—”

“no—” you cut him off fast, finally turning to face him. “did you only start working there because you wanted to sleep with me?”

the question hangs between you. satoru’s expression changes. hurt flickers across his face before he schools it.

“that’s what this is about?” he asks, “you think this whole thing was just some long game to get in your pants?”

you don’t answer right away, the gossip from the bathroom echoes in your head again.

“is that really what you think of me?”

you swallow. “i heard some girls talking in the bathroom yesterday,” you admit, voice low. “they were laughing about how you only took the job to sleep with one of the baristas. that you’d charm your way in, get what you wanted, and then quit once it happened. it sounded… exactly like something people would say about you.”

“fuck,” he mutters. “fucking gossips.”

“look, i’m not gonna pretend i haven’t had that reputation. people assume the worst. and yeah—back in freshman year i wasn’t exactly turning down easy attention. but that’s not what this is. not with you.”

“when i walked into that cafe the first time, i was just fucking around. i saw you looking annoyed and thought it’d be fun to push your buttons. but then you pushed back and i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.”

“so i came back. then i applied for the job because i wanted an excuse to see you more. not to sleep with you and bounce—to actually be around you. i stayed because every shift with you made the day better. even when you were glaring at me. especially when you were glaring at me.”

you glance away, toward the empty field. “you could’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”

“and risk you telling me to fuck off on day one? no thanks. working there let me prove i wasn’t just fucking around. also you know that's not me.”

he pauses, then adds, “and yeah, i wanted you. i still do. i want all of it.”

satoru leans forward a little, elbows on his knees.

“i switched my entire schedule around for you. i told you how my advisor thinks i’ve lost it. i turned down better internships because they’d mess with our shifts. if all i wanted was sex, i wouldn’t still be here begging you to talk to me.”

“so no, i’m not quitting,” he says quietly. “not unless you tell me to. and even then i’d probably just sit outside the cafe and wait for you like a loser. but i’m not here because it’s convenient or because i’m trying to win some game. i’m here because i like you. a lot. more than i thought i could like anyone.”

he reaches out slowly, “i’m not gonna push if you need space. but tell me what you need from me right now. yell at me, ignore me, whatever. just don’t shut me out and leave me guessing.”

you stare at his open hand for a long moment. the irritation is still there, tangled up with the embarrassment of letting petty gossip get to you.

finally you sigh, shoulders dropping.

“i hated thinking it was all fake,” you mutter. “that the second you got what you wanted, you’d disappear and i’d be the idiot who fell for it.”

“not fake,” he says immediately. “none of it.”

you hesitate, then reach out and flick his open palm lightly with your fingers, enough to make him smile.

“you’re still annoying,” you tell him.

“yeah?” his grin comes back. “good.... means we’re getting somewhere.”

“you look like shit, by the way.”

“didn’t sleep much,” he admits, shrugging. “kept replaying yesterday trying to figure out what i messed up.”

“sorry for being so gullible.” you says knowing how that’s all on you.

“as long as you stop calling me gojo when you’re mad. hurts more than it should.”

you roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway.

the two of you stay on the field a little longer, the conversation flowing—back to classes, to stupid customer stories from the cafe, to nothing important at all.

when you finally stand up to head back toward campus, he falls into step next to you like always.

“so,” he says after a minute, voice casual again, “still mad?”

you glance sideways at him.

“not as much.”

“progress,” he declares, grinning. “i’ll take it.”

“hey,” he murmurs.

you turn to face him, he’s pouting extra hard....

“can i please kiss you now?” he pleads, “please. please. please”

instead of answering with words, you step forward, slide your free hand up to the front of his shirt, and tug him down the rest of the way.

satoru meets you halfway.

his hand comes up to cup the side of your face as his lips move against yours. he kisses you gentler than usual and you kiss him back just as softly, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

when you finally pull apart, foreheads still touching, satoru lets out a shaky little breath against your mouth.

“thank you,” he whispers, the words barely there. his thumb brushes your cheek once more. “fuck, i missed that.”

you smile against his lips.

“don’t make me flick another flower at you.”

he presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead before straightening up.

“next rumor, i’m spreading how badly i’m in love with you and how you equally feel the same and can never live without me.”

© splurtz 2026 — all rights reserved.

[iheartyuyu]

5 times sukuna was heavily yearning + 1 time you finally noticed.

oblivious, lonely reader who’s used to doing things alone x downbad!sukuna. jealous!sukuna. gn!reader. reader wears glasses. uncle!sukuna. sukuna calls reader angel. he’s so down bad bro. ooc sukuna as usual. mentions of nsfw contents.

— ☆ —

1. movie nights.

you had a specific, detailed, high maintenance routine for watching movies. you had slowly perfected the process— a mental to do list popping up every time a new movie dropped that you needed to watch.

first, you needed to be in your designated ‘movie night pajamas’, the most comfortable you owned. your favorite blanket had to be there, along with your favorite pillow for support. you liked watching in your home more than cinemas, because you disliked the idea of not being able to pause the movie for whatever reason. who decided to make bathroom breaks that short, anyways?

for snacks, chips poured into your favorite bowl, your favorite niche flavor. a chocolate bar sat beside it just incase the movie got intense enough for you to crave it. your favorite drink was set beside them in a thermal cup, allowing you to drink it as slow as possible without it melting too quickly.

your phone had to be on dnd, blocking out every notification. the room had to be cold, and you avoided any distractions because pausing the movie on piracy websites meant three minutes of closing ads to turn it back on.

tonight, everything was perfect.

you were perfectly wrapped in your blanket, eyes wide as it watched the screen perfectly, chips tasting perfect, drink perfected, everything absolutely perfect—

bzzz.

you immediately groaned. who could possibly be showing up? you hadn’t ordered food. no one was invited over. it was late. what could possibly be urgent enough to prompt someone to ruin your little routine?

you paused the movie (which took three minutes of pressing ‘x’ on ads urging you to ‘text hot, single ladies in your area’, and ‘ai bots who can make you cum in three minutes!’), pushed the blanket off, and pulled the door open with a soft pout you didn’t even register, just to pause when you saw sukuna standing there, eyebrows furrowed, frowning.

you and sukuna weren’t that close, really. you were in the same friend group, but you always felt nervous around him. he was intimidating, scary, too cool for you. he always stared at you blankly, and you decided he was judging you for… everything. you were awkward, nervous, a little odd.

so, him showing up to your home at midnight was a little… nerve-wracking. his red eyes slowly scanned your comfortable, worn out pajamas, messy hair, tiny pout that faded as your eyes widened, before he blinked blankly. “sorry for showing up unannounced.”

he didn’t sound apologetic. at all. his tone was monotonous, almost unamused.

“can i come in?”

you slowly blinked, before realizing how dumb you must look. you grimaced internally, stepping aside, letting him in. immediately, his eyes landed on your little set up, and he arched an eyebrow. “movie night, huh? watching part two of your little movie series?”

“how did you know?” you mumbled, genuinely confused. much to your surprise, his lips twitched up in something that looked like admiration, amused, and it was the closest you ever got to see him smile.

holy fuck, he was so gorgeous it felt unfair. now that you were actually focusing on the man towering over you, dressed in a black shirt and gray sweatpants, tanned skin peaking from under his clothes, muscles on view—

“it’s your favorite series, and it just dropped. i can recognize the sketchy ass website because you hate netflix. you have your little movie night routine, pajamas, chips, and drink.” he murmured casually, nonchalantly, as if it was normal that the guy you thought disliked you knew this much about you. “i listen, you know.”

your jaw was slack, eyes wide. he only snorted, arching an eyebrow. “don’t tell me fucking gojo was right and you really think i hate you.”

you paused. “well…”

“are you serious?” sukuna scoffed. “you’re my fucking favorite in the group, dumbass.”

“what?” you mumbled back, more confused. “you always glare at me. you never talk to me. i was starting to think you didn’t even know my last name.”

he stared at you, almost as if you were insane, then sighed. “you really are oblivious, huh?”

“hey—“

he shook his head, still looking mildly amused. “here’s the notes suguru said he would drop by to give you and forgot. i know you like studying early.”

“oh. you didn’t have to—“

“i wanted to.” he immediately stated, face serious. “‘ll leave you to it, can’t have someone ruining your perfect night. goodnight.”

with that, he was out, leaving you even more flabbergasted.

what. the. fuck.

2. hangouts.

you were still getting used to the idea that sukuna told you that not only did he not hate you, but that you were his favorite in the group. to you, the idea was unbelievable. flabbergasting. maybe even a little more scarier than being hated by him for some reason, but you managed pretty well.

at least you were more comfortable hanging out with your group now.

however, you had a tiny little habit. you hated the coffee at the place your friends loved, so often, you just walked away to the place next to it to buy your own coffee. it provided you a break, making the little pit of your stomach that grows when having to be around people, even your best friends, for too long reset, and you just get a chance to catch your breath.

today wasn’t different. in the middle of the hangout, you grabbed your wallet and slipped out, enjoying the tiny walk in fresh air before you stepped into your favorite cafe.

the familiar barista immediately lit up at the sight of you, boredom fading from his face. he was your age, friendly with a cute grin that grew whenever you two chatted— something that made you feel at ease when ordering.

“my favorite customer,” he immediately greeted, grinning. the bell at the door chimed, and you both didn’t pay any mind to it. “i wonder what you will order this time.”

you snorted. you both knew you ordered the exact same thing every single time. “yeah, i wonder too.”

he chuckled, eyes flickering to the screen. you could feel a figure stopping behind you. “well, you know your total.”

you hummed, about to pay, when the familiar scent of sukuna’s signature perfume finally registered in your mind as he moved to step beside you, eyes narrowed, jaw slowly twitching. “make it two.”

you slowly glanced up. the barista looked up in surprise, before he nodded calmly. “of course.”

before you could register it, sukuna’s card was pressing against the machine, paying for you both. your jaw went slack for the second time this week, flabbergasted once more, but sukuna was already pulling you out of line so that the people behind you could pay.

and, more unfazed that he should be by his own actions, he casually held out the receipt. “here. you take the code and collect points on their app, right?”

“…how the fuck do you even know that?” you mumbled, utterly confused. “why are you here? how did you find me— did you even know what you ordered—“

“easy there, angel.” he murmured, calm. “you always carry the receipt and i see you type something from it on your phone often. ‘m here because the coffee in the other shop is ass. you always come here, so i figured i would try my coffee with you. i know what i ordered because i know your order.”

you openly gaped at him. he only reached over, grabbing both drinks, arching an eyebrow. “are you gonna gape at me forever or drink this sweet shit?”

“…did you just call me angel?”

his amusement immediately faded, ears turning red as he shoved your drink your way, looking away. “absolutely not. hallucinations. let’s go.”

that was what he chooses to deny? not that he knew your movie night in details? that he knew your exact drink? that he knew you secretly collected points from your favorite coffee shop?

you let out a tiny chuckle, amused, following behind him. that somehow managed to make his ears even more red, a scowl pulling on his pretty lips.

fuck. he was gorgeous, and adorable.

how horrible for you.

3. aquarium.

you laid face-down on shoko’s bed, face showed between the pillows, eyes shut in pure horror. “‘m so screwed.”

she sighed for the nth time from where she sat on the ground, studying. “you quite literally could not be more not screwed.”

“i have a crush on him, shoko. i never have crushes. and now i have one, on fucking sukuna. the guy once punched a guy for breathing ‘his’ air. he fucking hates people. i am so utterly fucked. he will kill me.”

she glanced up, as if she knew something you didn’t. “he won’t kill you. kiss you? maybe.”

“stop being delusional.” you mumbled, voice muffled as you buried your face into the sand further. “‘m so fucked.”

she sighed. “you’re delusional too if you don’t realize what’s happening. anyways, isn’t it the twenty seventh? your monthly aquarium night?”

you jumped up, gasping. “it is! fuck!” you quickly grabbed your phone to check the time, before opening the aquarium’s instagram page just in case there were any updates.

and, unfortunately, right there on their instagram story, posted twelve hours ago, was a simple statement.

‘couples only day!’

“oh, fuck my fucking life.” you mumbled, eyes on the story, shoulders drooping. “shoko, be my aquarium date.”

“couples only, huh? if only these weren’t the conditions,” she mused, almost flirty, before tilting her head.

“yes.”

“ask sukuna to go with you.”

you blinked once, twice, before pulling up your phone, nodding, serious. “good idea. ‘m asking gojo or geto.”

“that is quite literally not what i said.”

“you’re a genius.”

you sent off a quick text to geto and gojo, jumping off her bed to head to your own apartment to get ready. after dressing up all cute for the sake of your loved marine animals, you glanced down at your phone, where a vague text from gojo said he couldn’t, followed by maybe three million crying emojis (which was maybe because he had begged before to accompany you said no. aquariums were a single, you-only trip), and geto sent back a simple ‘he’s almost there’, and a thumbs up.

what kind of reply was that? you frowned, sending five questions marks, about to ask who the fuck ‘he’ was, when your doorbell rings.

you pulled the door open, and freeze when your eyes landed on the one and only sukuna. he glanced at you, eyes blank, and nodded once. “let’s go.”

“…where?”

he raised an eyebrow. “the aquarium. date night. let’s go.”

“…are you sure?” you immediately mumbled, voice uncharacteristically low. “‘m, uh, kind of enthusiastic about this. nerdy. geeky. um, annoying.”

his lips twitched up into an endeared smile that he immediately pushed back. “i know what ‘m getting into. let’s go.”

you grabbed your jacket, eyebrows furrowing. “suguru could have just said he couldn’t come. i’m sorry he sent you instead.”

“oh, he could come.” sukuna stated blankly, stepping into the elevator behind you. you glanced up at him, confused, and he stared back blankly, as if waiting for you to collect dots you didn’t even see. he only sighed after a few minutes, shaking his head. “this is both cute and infuriating. so, which stupid creature is your favorite?”

you expected a night with sukuna to be awkward. tense. uncomfortable. a night where you had to hold back so you don’t become labeled as talkative, or annoying, or too much.

you didn’t expect for him to be a good listener. nodding at whatever you said, asking questions at first to keep you talking until you were comfortable rambling. you didn’t expect him to hold your things so you could comfortably get closer to the glass, or stay longer at your favorite animals, or ask you about ones that seemed interesting, his eyes soft and lips twitching upwards just the slightest. you didn’t expect him to disappear at one point and come back with a few limited-edition items from the small gift shop either, dumping them in your arms wordlessly as you two were walking out.

“thank you for being my fake date for the night, kuna.” you mumbled as he was dropping you off, sleepy, eyes soft and voice slurred. he paused at your words, lips twitching into a frown before he eyed how sleepy you were and only sighed.

“of course, angel.” he muttered, reaching over and nonchalantly pressing a kiss to your forehead before he turned around, walking away. “…sleep well, goodnight.”

gaping at him seeming like a new routine, except this time, your sleepy eyes were set on his back as he left, almost getting distracted by his muscles showing through the fabric. oh, you were so, utterly fucked.

4. the beach.

you sat quietly on the sand, wrapped tightly in a towel, eyes ahead as you watched gojo, geto and shoko shoving each other in the water. choso was on a towel beside you, deeply asleep and snoring. toji was playing around with megumi and nobara and yuji, who was yapping about how his uncle dropped him off and disappeared. everyone was enjoying themselves.

you were freezing.

you had gotten there earlier, having known they would all show up too late. you liked swimming alone with no eyes on you, so with too much sunscreen, you stayed in the water under the sun in what you knew was the perfect time for you. by the time everyone else arrived, you were already drying in the shade.

oh, how you wished you had a dry towel—

a dry towel dropped into your lap before the thought even finished. you froze, glancing up at the sky, before immediately closing your eyes again and wishing for a million dollars just in case.

“don’t stare at the fucking sun.”

ah. your genie.

you peaked through your lashes at sukuna, who glared at you, a hand going to shade your eyes from the sun. he was dry, holding a small bag which you assumed was for his wallet and phone and car keys and towel, the sun kissing every spot on his perfect body, as if purposely teasing you.

fuck. how could someone be so pretty?

he sighed, pulling a cap out of the bag. he pushed it on top of your damp hair, shading your face, and slumped beside you. “switch towels. mine is dry.”

“hi.” you mumbled dumbly, blinking a few times to snap yourself from the daze seeing his beautiful red eyes in the sun put you through. his lips twitched, face softening, and he only pulled the cap down further. you finally remembered how to think. “don’t you need your towel dry?”

“‘m not going into the water this late.” he stated. his eyes flickered to choso asleep, and he rolled his eyes, standing back up. you watched shamelessly as he effortlessly pulled the heavy umbrella so it was covering the sun kissed stoner, sighing, voice lower. “that dumbass.”

“i spray him with sunscreen every two hours. flipped him once.” you mused, taking the chance of sukuna being distracted to switch towels, sighing in relief once the warm, dry, soft towel wrapped around you. “thank you, kuna.”

“don’t mention it.” he grunted, then frowned once he registered your words, “you rub sunscreen on him?”

“oh, no, it’s a spray.” you hummed, pulling it out. “isn’t it cool?”

he glanced at the spray bottle, shoulders slowly relaxing. “mhm. it is. can you spray me?”

you nodded, moving to stand up, immediately stumbling in the towel. firm fingers immediately steadied you, and you deeply hoped he couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off you from being flustered as he slowly let go.

you slowly sprayed him, the sunscreen leaving a shiny coat that made him look even more beautiful. after making sure every part of him was covered, you slowly sat back down. “try to rub it to make sure it’s even.”

he hummed, eyes shut, slowly spreading it out, spreading it out on his tan skin.

what a fucking sight, really. he was so, unbelievably gorgeous. you were so fucked.

“…you went early, huh?”

“…yeah.” you mumbled, eyes still on him, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.

“tell me next time. ‘ll go with you.” he sighed. “these idiots always come when it’s already too cold.”

you nodded slowly as he finally finished, slumping next to you on the little beach mat gojo had gotten, so close that his thigh was pretty to your covered figure. he frowned. “your lips are pale. still cold?”

you grimaced. “‘ll be okay. thank you for the towel—“

he sighed, an arm wrapping around your shoulder before he was pulling you towards him. you missed the way his body relaxed, lips twitching into a repressed grin, the face of a man finally achieving one of his long lost goals.

holy fuck. you were pressed to his side, his body oozing warmth. he smelled great, and you could feel his muscles every time he shifted. as you stared ahead, trying to pretend like you weren’t malfunctioning, your eyes landed on shoko, gojo and geto staring back at you guys from the water, jaws slack.

well. at least it wasn’t you this time.

5. studying.

as much as it seemed otherwise, studying with gojo actually helped you. you both kept each other in check— you stopped him whenever he started yapping, and he distracted you whenever you were spiraling. you both were a team when studying— having been one since the first semester, when you both met.

during breaks, however, was when you really liked studying with gojo. you both sat with thirteen expensive pastries in front of you, gojo’s treat, and he grinned excitedly. “oh, this will be so good. you go first.”

“you don’t have to tell me twice.” you mumbled, picking one up. you immediately moaned in delight, holding the rest to gojo, who reached over and took the rest from between your fingers. “fuck. this is so good.”

gojo let out an even louder moan. you both ignored the disgusted glares from the people around you, happily chewing. “oh, these are fucking godsent. thank you for being my taste buddy.”

“thank you,” you mumbled, grabbing another one. “you’re the one spoiling me with these. you’re, like, my dream man right now.”

gojo let out a loud laugh, before pausing, shivering in horror at whatever he imagined. “do not let sukuna hear you saying that. he’ll have my head.”

“why would he have your head for that?” you mumbled, mouthful, and distracted by the heavenly taste of these. you weren’t even a fan of pasteries, but these were on another level. you tried another, and immediately groaned. “fuck. try this one.”

you immediately extended your hand out to gojo. he, as usual, ate half of it off your fingers instead, and dramatically melted in his seat. “ten out of ten. perfect. stunning. i will marry whoever made these.” he swallowed, and quickly ate the rest off your fingers to. “and he will because he’s, like, in love with you.”

“you flipping liar.” you mumbled, unamused with the obvious fake news. “he doesn’t. he’s just a good friend.”

“he’s not a good friend,” gojo snorted. “he almost shoved my head into the toilet bowl yesterday because he was bored. he likes you.”

you did not believe him the slightest. “uh-huh. wanna try the red one?”

“yes, please.”

later that night, you were curled up in bed— going over everything you had studied earlier to lock the information into your mind. the groupchat was blowing up after choso was caught kissing someone (you already knew the news. choso blurted about his ‘secret’ crush to you before when he was high, and forgot.) and you just shot back a sticker laughing, said you were studying and you needed more caffeine to deal with this, and shut your phone off completely.

you really needed caffeine.

everytime you shut your eyes, all you can see is a cold, cup of your favorite coffee from your favorite shop. the condensation running down, the inviting taste, everything—

fuck. you needed one so bad. you frowned, turning your phone on to glance at the time, and paused when a notification stood out from between the ones on the groupchat.

sukuna: pick u up for coffee in five?

you stared at the message, then slowly glanced down at the sweatpants and oversized hoodie you were in, your hair messy, broken glasses on because you were too lazy to get these specific ones fixed and you lost the other, before sighing. you needed caffeine too bad to worry about how you looked in front of him right now.

you: please :c

a car honked downstairs a few minutes. you quickly grabbed your wallet and your half-dead phone, rushing downstairs, grabbing an oversized jacket on the way so you could tug it on top of your thick hoodie, grimacing at how much of a mess you looked. you slid into the passenger seat, and sukuna only stared at you, eyes slowly taking in your appearance, lips softly pulling up.

“don’t say anything.” you immediately mumbled. his smirk widened, but he didn’t speak, immediately resuming to drive, eyes ahead. “‘m so sleepy.”

“uh-huh. let’s get some caffeine in you.” he murmured, turning more serious. “don’t overwork yourself tonight. did you have dinner?”

you nodded, ignoring how your heart felt like it was twirling in your chest. “i did. ate and drank and slept well.”

he hummed. “good.”

in the coffee shop, he got the same as you, paying despite your complaints. once the drinks were out, he grabbed both, wrapping yours in tissues to keep your fingers from being cold before handing it over, humming.

you were looking over notes in your phone, too tired to register his actions. you only quietly took the cup, immediately sipping, shoulders slowly rolling down, tense muscles relaxing. “thank you, kuna.”

he clicked his tongue. “don’t mention it.”

in the car, you focused on sipping the coffee, and he cleared his throat. “gojo said you two were on a study date this morning. pastries and shit. said you called him your dream man.”

you snorted. sukuna glanced over, utterly unamused, almost pouting. “i love gojo.”

his lips immediately formed a scowl. “you love him?”

“not like that,” you snorted. “he’s just… he was the first person who was nice to me in university, you know. the first person who made sure i never felt like a burden. he means a lot to me, platonically.”

he was silent for a while, then nodded, pulling up in front of your building. “good. you deserve to never feel like a burden. you… mean a lot to me.”

was he trying to kill you? you immediately shuffled out, heart beating like it was trying to escape your chest, cheeks burning. “you mean a lot to me too, kuna. um, goodnight. thank you for picking me up.”

“don’t mention it, angel.”

+1.

against your will, you were dragged to a party.

you would have been enthusiastic, really, if finals hadn’t just ended— leaving you too sleep deprived that you couldn’t even walk straight. gojo had came over to force you out and picked your outfit out for you, keeping in mind your pleads for it to be something warm, and you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, asleep soundly, vaguely aware of his whining about you needing to be awake as he drove you there.

you could only remember little snippets between your tiny naps, really.

gojo having his arm around you as he dragged you in.

you slumping down beside choso, immediately falling asleep on his shoulder.

sukuna crouching down in front of you, concerned, eyes worried.

sukuna covering you with a blanket.

sukuna sitting beside you, pulling your head into his shoulder instead.

geto replacing choso. you shifting, head falling into his shoulder because he was warmer.

sukuna immediately pulling you back towards him, an arm falling around your waist to keep you close, bickering with geto.

after that, you drifted into deep sleep— the kind that only came after a week straight of pulling all nighters. and, when you woke up again, you were wrapped in a blanket, on the roof, on a tiny couch with your head on sukuna’s lap and a cigarette between his lips.

the second he registered you awake, he pushed the cigarette into the ashtray, eyes soft, fingers on your shoulders to help you sit up. “you okay, angel?”

“mhm. sleepy.” you mumbled, blinking slowly, still half asleep. you yawned, rubbing your eyes. “thank you for watching over me, kuna. you’re, like, my angel.”

“…don’t mention it.” he whispered— although, it sounded more like a pained whimper. “i… yeah. don’t mention it.”

it was silent for a few minutes. you both stared up at the sky, lost in thought, before sukuna cleared his throat.

“…the stars are pretty.”

“mhm.”

he paused, before speaking again. his voice was low, soft, but it was laced with quiet frustration that you could tell wasn’t pointed at you. “we’re, uh, done with the semester.”

“…mhm.”

he clicked his tongue, and sat up, like he’s restarting. “…we’re good friends.”

“we are.” you mumbled, still dazed from your delicious, needed nap. he let out a small groan, face buried into his palm.

“fuck.”

“…kuna?” you murmured, voice soft, sleepy. his eyes finally flickered up, frustrated and almost disappointed in himself, and you only gave him a small, sleepy smile. “i like you too.”

and finally, it was his turn for his jaw to go slack, eyes widening, before he turned to you quickly. “you’re not fucking with me, right? you like me?”

you nodded, sleepy, but focused. “i like you.”

he didn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees in front of you, eyes soft and almost pathetic. “say that again. please.”

“i like you, kuna.” you repeated, quieter, softer, more serious.

he let his head drop, face pressed against the blanket covering your thighs briefly, voice muffled when he spoke. “…you have no idea how many years i have been dying to hear this, angel. fuck.” when he lifted his head back up, his red eyes were almost glossy. “‘m marrying the fuck out of you one day.”

that managed a sleepy laugh out of you. “take me on a date first, at least. we haven’t even kissed yet.”

his eyes lit up at the mere thought— before you watched him visibly holding himself back, trying to appear more relaxed, probably to not scare you off, despite his reddening ears at the idea. “right. dates. i will date you so fucking good, i promise, you will never think of anyone but me again. not even that stupid barista who clearly wants you so bad. only me.” he nodded, serious, scowling, before his eyes softened again. “best dates of your life. where do you want to go? dinner? coffee? aquarium? your little movie night routine at my place? do you want me to make it a surprise? i will be the best boyfriend— wait, fuck, not that yet—“

you reached over, softly pressing your lips to his,

he froze, eyes probably wide, then immediately melted the second your fingers gently cupped his face to pull him closer, letting out a soft, little sound into the kiss that had his face flushing further.

once you pulled away, your eyes met his dazed ones, and he slowly sucked in a deep breath. “….fuck.”

“dinner sounds good.” you whispered back, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, and he shut his eyes, as if it took visible effort not to groan. “next week?”

“you think ‘ll make it to next week?” he let out a sharp laugh. “you have me fucking kneeling for you, angel. tomorrow. 8. please.”

“okay.” you murmured, voice soft. “now, come back up, i will want to continue napping on you.”

“…anything you fucking want, forever.”

[to00fu]

the taste of you and me will never leave my lips again

[barbieandkento]

love as a second language

₍^. .^₎⟆ synopsis: the quiet, unspoken and sincere ways ryomen sukuna shows his love for you. and the one time he actually says it.

tags: college!AU, emotionally repressed bf!sukuna, 4 times he didn't and the 1 time he did trope, tooth rotting fluff, mild angst, light descriptions of: injury, creepy guy hitting on r, allusions to bad family relationship for r

word count: 5.2k

april 3rd, outside the library - he waits for you (and gives you his jacket)

it's a crisp spring day when the cold suddenly creeps up on sukuna’s spine, the rustling of leaves blowing up the cuffs of his jeans. it’s instinctive how he lets out a long sigh, watching his cigarette smoke in the air curl and fade away into the ink blank sky. the rumbling of his motorbike annoys him, so he switches off the engine, his scowl ever so present as he stares at his phone for the nth time.

6:48pm.

you'd said you'd be done with your exam by 6.

tapping his foot on the floor, he inhales deeply, attempting to calm his quickening heartbeat. it's probably nothing, he assures himself, but he doesn't like that he doesn't know what's causing you to be running over time. he wants to bed in bed with you already, watching you rub off your sunscreen in the mirror and pretending to be annoyed at the way you curl into his shoulder in nothing but his shirt, left eye peeking at him through sleepy lashes-

the front door slides open, the sound of boots hitting the floor as you walk out of the building. You’re unharmed, but clearly exhausted, with one sleeve of your cardigan nearly dragging on the floor. your tired eyes blink blankly at the concrete floor, before widening at the sight of sukuna standing there, still and observing.

you’re cold just from having exited the building. you can’t imagine how much colder sukuna must be.

"i told you to go home if i was more than 30 minutes late." you say softly, regathering the books in your hands.

wordlessly and with a scowl, he just walks over to take the heavy textbooks off your hands and shove them into the back of his motorcycle. even if his expression hasn't changed, his left hand curls around your wrist gently and he pulls you right against him, letting his scarlet eyes trail up and down your face in greater detail. after some time, he finally speaks.

"you look like shit."

"thanks, kuna." you snort, shaking your head sideways. he just raises his eyebrow at you, hand still on your wrist.

"what happened?"

"the computer shut down with about an hour left to go on the exam. the exam proctor had to troubleshoot the software on the spot and they had to give me an extra hour to finish the rest of it." you involuntarily shiver again as another cold wind blows through the now empty parking lot. "you should've gone home without me." you pout, aware that he’s been waiting outside for nearly an hour.

he gives you an unimpressed look.

"and leave your driver licence-less ass stranded on campus?" his tone is flat, but his eyes soften in a way that you can only describe as affection.

"my hero." you joke, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

he quiets, his left arm sneaking up to pull you against him even closer, as you revel in his body heat. you swear your boyfriend is the equivalent to a human furnace, always warm and soft to the touch. the thin cardigan around your shoulder is doing nothing from stopping the night air from creeping in, and sukuna immediately notices the way your skin rises in goosebumps before he immediately shrugs off his leather jacket.

"you sure?" you ask carefully, considering your boyfriend is only wearing a white tank top underneath. swinging his leg over his motorcycle, he just nods and pats the seat behind him.

"i'll live." he pauses, irises flicking down to enjoy the sight of you in his jacket. "don't forget to put on your helmet."

it's your turn to roll your eyes playfully, strapping on the helmet to your head before sitting down behind him. your arms squeeze around his torso as his motorcycle engine revs into life, the loud popping noise echoing through the empty streets. the city blurs into yellow lights and grey roads, and his hand never leaves yours when he helps you get off the motorcycle.

"is it alright if i shower first?"

he just shrugs, carefully gathering up your textbooks in his free arm and setting them down on the kitchen counter. whilst you scrub off the mess of the day you've had in the bathroom, he washes the dishes, unloads your bag neatly on the table, and fishes out a fresh change of clothes for you to sleep into.

he's already on his side of the bed when you peek your head from the bathroom door, hair wet and towel draped around your body.

"no shower for you tonight?"

"what, do i stink?"

you giggle, enjoying the grumpy look on his face.

"no, just wondering."

"just get into bed." is what he says, huffing like an upset child, choosing to purposefully leave out the part where he quickly wants to be able to cuddle with you in bed. it feels like centuries as you change into your night clothes, brush your teeth, dry your hair, and climb into the space next to him.

it takes all his willpower to not jump you right and there, tackling you underneath the covers to make the process go faster.

you flick off the final lamp in the room, bathing the space in darkness as you feel around in the dark for sukuna's muscular body. you yelp when he suddenly pulls you straight up against him, a satisfied hum escaping his throat when his lips meet your shoulder.

"you're my favorite person in the world, you know that?" you mumble sleepily when you feel his legs entangling with yours, exhaustion rolling in.

"tch. you're insane."

"mmmm but you love me for it."

he doesn't answer, but squeezes you tighter, nose burrowing into the crook of your shoulder. he holds you like that silently in the dark, two warm bodies molding into each other, as sleep overtakes the room.

june 28th, a beach holiday - he listens to you

it's hot.

the summer sun hits the shoreline perfectly, glittering waves over navy blue waters, the smell of sunscreen and sweat permeates the air. 

you're a tasteful beach photocard brought to life: lounging on a sunchair next to shoko, sunglasses hanging low off the bridge of your nose, skin peeking through the dips and curves of your swimsuit as you talk animatedly about something that shoko seems equally interested in.

"earth to ryomen sukuna." gojo smirks, snapping his fingers next to sukuna's ears like he's a dog. sukuna blinks, before tearing his gaze away from you towards the volleyball net. "if we have to stop every few seconds for you to drool over your girlfriend, we'll never get through the first match."

"wasn't doing anything." sukuna grunts out, picking up the volleyball from the sand and wiping it clean.

"yes you were." is geto's equally dry reply from the other side of the net, and sukuna responds by throwing the ball high into the air and spiking it to the other side, narrowly missing toji.

"hey, take it out on geto, not me." toji drawls, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

"whatever. just hurry up with the next throw." sukuna scowls, before it immediately softens at the sound of your laughter a few feet away.

the game is fast paced and intense, just the way sukuna likes it. then gojo strikes the ball at an odd angle, causing it to fly towards the beach.

"i got it!" you announce, jogging towards the shoreline to retrieve the ball. sukuna watches with a low grin until another man steps into the frame, his shadow falling over your bent figure as you stand up with the ball in your hands.

from where sukuna is standing, he can only make out the back of the stranger's body - brunette hair, tall but clearly shorter than sukuna, cocky by the way his spine straightens when you look up at him confused.

the good natured chatter of his friends fade into the background as sukuna's senses zero in on you, and with the slightest pursing of your lips and rehearsed nod of your head, he knows to intervene.

"i mean, hey, what are the chances we're both from the same university?" the stranger flirts, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes, as if jujutsu tech isn't the most popular university in the entire city and this beach isn't the most popular spot for university students to flock to during the summer holidays.

you spot a blur of pink hair before a muscular build is creating a physical wall between the stranger and yourself, sukuna's distinct cologne of mint and sandalwood filling your senses. it feels like a safety blanket is being wrapped around your shoulders in an instant, as sukuna simply glares at the man before turning around to face you, his larger hands crowding yours on top of the ball.

"thanks for catching the ball, babe." his voice is soft, and low, in a way that makes your heart flutter.

"it's no problem."

"hey, we were in the middle of a conversation, jackass." the stranger spits out, causing sukuna's jaw to clench in annoyance.

"then i'm interrupting you from bothering my girlfriend, jackass." sukuna spits out with the same amount of venom, if not more, scarlet eyes fading ink black in anger.

despite being shorter in stature, the man doesn't seem to back down, only puffing out his chest and stepping closer.

"you let your girlfriend dress like that to the beach and not expect her to get hit on?"

something shifts in the air at the comment, and you can tell by the way sukuna's fingers start twitching, his throat bobbing in dark anticipation, that he's attempting to control his anger before it bursts. sukuna can teach this man a lesson - in many, painful ways.

but he chooses to look back at you first.

and when you shake your head sideways, discouraging him-

his shoulders drop the tension.

he steps forward, but only to grab the man's wrist harshly and twist it in an angle enough to hurt but not fully damage.

"listen closely, asshole, because i'll only say this once. now usually, i would beat the shit out of arrogant sexist assholes like you with great pleasure. but my girlfriend here wants me to do this civilly, so you get to live another day. congrats. but let me be fucking crystal clear-" he twists the man's arm a bit more, making the stranger cry out in pain, before leaning in closer. "you try that shit again on my girl, or any other girl on this beach, then you won't be answering to just me."

sukuna flicks his head towards his friends - where geto, gojo and toji all stare down at the man with a quiet, murderous gaze - before shoving the man backwards with a smirk.

the brunette nearly trips on his feet with how fast he runs away, and sukuna scoffs at the sight before turning around to look at you.

"are you alright?"

all the anger and tension on his sculpted face dissipates into worry, previously fierce gaze melting in concern. you just smile up at him, sweet and light, before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

"yeah. thanks kuna. for defending me. and for listening to me."

the tips of his ears flush pink, and when gojo yells about it from across the beach, he looks at you panicked.

"i'm not blushing. it's just hot." he insists, talking down more to the sand than to you.

you just smile sweeter, patting his head.

"alright kuna. i believe you." you totally don’t believe him, and he can tell by the amused smile on your face.

"i'm serious." he looks up at you, unimpressed.

you giggle, shoving the volleyball into his chest and pushing him towards his teammates.

"alright... go and play, okay? i'll be with shoko. love you."

he nods, softly, checking that you're alright one more time before hesitantly running after gojo.

october 16th, the university hospital - he cries over you

it's supposed to be a happy day for sukuna.

he did better on his mid-terms than he thought he would. he managed to score the final touchdown in the last football game, securing a place in the finals for his team. the road was emptier than usual when he rode his motorcycle onto campus for the day, and he'd manage to get the last two almond crossaints at the bakery you adore along the way.

he feels light on his feet. like he's walking on air, and the crisp autumn air allows him to fully breathe.

then a single phone call cracks his world in half.

"hello, is this ryomen sukuna i'm speaking to?"

"yes, that's me."

his brain only processes fragments of the conversation - your name. fainting. a flight of stairs. emergency room.

the elevator ride up to the surgery room operating on you is the longest thirty seconds of his life, and he narrowly misses the rows of tired nurses and anxious patients crowding the hallways. the hospital door bursts open with how quickly he slams it open, causing the doctor jotting down notes next to your bed to jump up in shock. the nurse to your left sends him a sorry smile – “are you her emergency co-“

“ryomen sukuna. yeah. we uh-“ he can’t help but let his eyes drift away from the conversation and towards you. you’re sleeping. you have a slight gash on your head, faded blood turning into caramel brown, your lips puffier than usual from where it’s split. your left leg is slightly elevated, a white cast wrapped tightly around your ankle. you’re not in your usual clothes, no hoodie that you stole from him months ago or the keyring you’re obsessed with dangling from your comically big laptop bag.

no, instead, you’re in an ugly white and blue hospital garb and… so silent.

it’s heartbreaking and overwhelming all at once. 

he doesn’t even realize he never finished his sentence, or that he’s just been standing there, staring at your injured and tired body wordlessly. the nurse and the doctor exchange a look, and the doctor’s eyes crinkle in kindness.

“she’s just sleeping. thankfully, no major injuries. her facial injuries are surface level and she has no broken bones, just a twisted ankle that should heal within a few weeks with minimal pressure being placed on her left ankle.” the doctor explains carefully, smiling easily at sukuna’s unreadable expression. his face is flat, but the uncertainty in his eyes and flexing of his fists make it clear that he’s terrified.

“she uh, she fainted?” his throat feels dry, paper dry, as he licks his lips to ease the anxiety. he moves carefully towards you, hands reflexively coming up to feel your pulse. it’s there, light and consistent, but he hates how hollow your face looks under the hospital lights and that you’re not awake to tease him for being worried.

“dehydration and lack of sleep, we think. has she been sleeping and resting properly?” the doctor asks, looking up from her notes. sukuna’s breath catches in his throat. he’d been so focused on his mid-terms and on his upcoming football game, weighed by the position of team leader and prospect of making finals for the first time in five years for the university, that he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should’ve. looking back, he could see it now. the endless nights where he’d go to bed before you, with you softly reassuring him that you’d just be “another 30 minutes.” the piles of plastic cups of iced coffee and protein bar wrappers littering the trash. how you’d fall asleep during movie date nights and wake up all embarrassed.

god, he was such a shit boyfriend.

the wave of realization hits him like a tidal wave, heart icy cold, tears stinging the edges of his eyes. he clenches his jaw so hard it physically hurts, as he forces himself to tear his eyes away from your sleeping figure and answer the doctor.

“i… i suppose she hasn’t been sleeping as much as she used to.”

the doctor nods, flipping over a page and signalling the nurse to exit the room.

“assuming she passes her cognitive and physicals once she wakes up, we should be able to discharge her. please make sure she rests properly, lots of fluids, at least 7 hours of sleep every day, and no heavy physical activity. in general, she should try and avoid walking on her left ankle for about a week. do you have any questions?”

all he can think about is how fucking stupid he is for missing all the signs. how full of himself he must’ve been, a careless boyfriend, to not have noticed that you were crashing and burning in the background. he feels, no, knows – that if the roles were reserved, that you would’ve noticed in a flash and been at his beck and call…

“yes ma’am. understood.” is all he can get out, chest hollow yet bursting with guilt simultaneously.

the middle aged woman nods firmly, but kindly, at sukuna before exiting the room. as the room descends back into silence, sukuna sinks into the empty chair next to you, his hands coming up to clasp your still ones.

“i’m… such a shithead, princess. fuck.”

the first tear catches him by surprise, the edges of his irises stinging as the room momentarily blurs. he feels something wet sliding down his dry cheeks, liquid curling at the bottom of his lips as he chokes on a repressed sob, trying to hold it together in case you wake up. your hands feel cold against his warm ones, as he desperately kneads circles into your skin, trying to calm himself down.

you're alive.

you're breathing.

you're safe.

though, god, it doesn't feel like it at all.

staring at your wordless body in the dark, it feels like a hot knife is slicing through his heart, the weight of judgment heavy on his shoulders.

it's 10:23pm when he hears the sound of groaning and fabric shifting.

his eyes fly open in a millisecond, spine straightening as he grips the hospital bed railings in surprise. your groggy eyes blink up at the pristine white ceilings before falling onto sukuna's face, tired but eyes alive with relief, as he's standing up and right by your side in a second.

"you're awake." he breathes out, like the first proper breath he's been able to exhale for the past 10 or so hours.

"w-what happened?" you groan, trying to sit upright - only for it to leave a stinging pain down your spine. seeing your face twist in pain, sukuna is quick to place a sturdy hand on your back and carefully pull you upwards, making sure to rearrange the pillows behind you to accommodate the new angle.

"you fainted. dehydration and lack of sleep. y-" he bites down his previous feelings of fear, despair and guilt, physically pulling his lips down to maintain a straight line. "you can't scare me like this."

when your eyes adjust to the dim yellow lighting of the room, you can see how wildly unkempt his pink hair looks (probably from running his hands through it so often). his rings are twisted in all the wrong angles, his skin looks more dull than usual, and his voice carries a load of anxiety that's hard to overlook.

"i'm sorry, kuna." you tap the space next to you on the bed, inviting him to sit down. as soon as he does, you burrow your face into the crook of his shoulder, allowing him to give you a full body hug. he smells like home and comfort, his body heat warming you up in an instant.

"you… can't ever faint on me again.” a pause. “ever." his chest reverberates with each word, as you peek through your lashes and stare up at his chiselled jaw. "you got it?"

his smirk doesn't quite reach his eyes, and you pretend to not notice the dried tear stains on his jeans when he lands a shaky kiss on your forehead.

"got it."

december 23rd, college campus - he cancels all his plans for you

snow blankets the campus in pure white, the snow squishing underneath the soles of your shoes as you and sukuna make the trek across campus, hand in hand. the joyful expression on your face fades when you see yet another student being greeted by their parents in a parked car, cheerful chatter and warm hugs being exchanged in time for christmas.

sukuna notices how your body visibly stiffens in response, and squeezes his intertwined fingers with yours a little bit harder.

"you alright?" he mumbles, sparing you a sideways glance.

you seem troubled, caught between what to say and what to keep to yourself.

"pretty okay, yeah. i just-" you shrug your shoulders and smile, but it doesn't meet the usual glimmer in your eyes. "i just think i'm gonna miss you so much when you go back home in a few days for christmas."

it's a hard time for you, he knows. he remembers bits and pieces of your family history, but he never pushes, never judges. he's seen enough. felt the weight of your gaze when you see a mom excitedly hug her daughter, seen how your shoulders tense when the topic of going back home for christmas or new years comes up, witnessed how quickly you change the conversation when it veers too personally into the subject of family.

last christmas, you'd spent it with a close friend. 

last christmas, he didn't know you.

more importantly, last christmas, he wasn't in love with you.

it's silent for a few moments as he trails behind you in the snow, the excitable chatter of strangers fading into the background as you pull up to your apartment. sukuna's brows furrow, deep in thought, and he pushes forward the door to let you in first before speaking.

"i'm not going home for christmas."

you blink up at him, confused.

"you what?"

"i'm not leaving."

you laugh, shaking your head.

"come on, kuna. you can't not go see your brother and parents."

he doesn't budge, eyes unblinking in that silent manner of 'try me'. you sigh.

"is this cause of what i said about missing you? look, babe, that's really sweet of you to worry but it won't be the first christmas i spend alone. and it won't be the last."

the door clicks behind you and you take off your scarf, hanging it on the doorstep. your fingers work deftly to take off your coat, sukuna's eyes trail your body as the fabric is smoothened out. the cashmere getting caught in the zipper as you struggle, and he wordlessly grabs your coat and pulls it off in one go.

"they'll survive without me."

unspoken in his answer is all the conflicting emotions in his head - i’ll worry about you too much. i’ll miss you more. i won’t be able to do anything without thinking about you, anyways.

"and i can survive without you, too." you bite back, before the regret rolls in. 

you just hate the thought of being coddled, of someone taking pity on you over the holidays - it's too familiar, too practiced. sukuna's expression doesn't change but the slightest twitch of his jaw gives his true feelings away, and it feels like a stab in your stomach.

"i'm sorry. i'm really, really sorry for snapping at you kuna." you whisper, hugging him instantly. "i-i just meant..." you look up at him, desperate. "i don't want you to ditch your family for me."

he looks down at you and thinks of his family back home. but all the memories are in black and white, dark and dull in response to the imagination of you sitting in this apartment. alone. twinkling lights outside whilst you turn over yet another boring channel on the tv. barren trees. no music. drowning out the sounds of neighbors celebrating next door.

he'd rather die than let that happen.

"i'm not ditching them. just... delaying it. besides-" he smirks, squeezing your waist in comfort. "think they're fucking tired of seeing my face every few months."

you open your mouth to retort, but he doesn't let you.

"they'll get over it. they know... how much you mean to me."

your eyebrows raise in surprise, guilt dissipating into playful curiosity.

"oh, you told them about me?"

it's his turn to shift in discomfort, avoiding your gaze whilst not moving away from your warm embrace.

"we've been together for almost a year now. obviously i've talked about you."

"oohhhhh you love me soooo muchhhh-" you sing song, poking him in the chest. the tips of his ears turn red, and he ruffles your hair whilst still avoiding your gaze.

"do you ever shut up."

"mmm if you're gonna be stuck with me over christmas, you better get used to me talking."

"tell me about it."

"hey!" you pretend to be offended, but your heart is just bursting with affection for how quickly he's offered to spend the holidays with you. the same boy who squeezes your hand in the snow and helps you take off your cashmere coat when it gets stuck.

"we should get some christmas cookie batter to bake, hm?" you mutter, gesturing to the door again. he sits down on the couch and pulls you into his lap, closing his eyes in comfort as you laugh.

"don't make me regret staying here, brat."

march 3rd, the bath tub - he tells you he loves you

sukuna's always thought the confession would come in a dramatic manner.

valentine's day with a bouquet big enough to fill the living room. the emergency room of a hospital after someone gets hurt. new year's eve party on the rooftop with fireworks bursting up ahead in the night sky.

not a normal tuesday like today, where nothing's gone right.

it rains and he has no umbrella. his coach yells at him for fumbling in practice. his brain is fuzzy from the lack of sleep the day before. he mixes up his projects when presenting in class. he forgets the lunch you packed for him at home and has to settle for the cafeteria's sad excuse of a sandwich.

by the time he's dragging his tired body back to your shared house, it's 9pm.

he's exhausted, starving, and aggrieved beyond all measure. and it's as if everyone else can tell that he's in a sour mood, the dark clouds hanging over his head repelling anyone from trying to talk sense to him.

as he inserts the key into the door, he's surprised to see the lights on and the sound of someone humming whilst moving around in the kitchen.

you're standing over the kitchen stove, long hoodie and pyjama shorts, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you chop an onion. it smells like tomatoes and butter, there's a clean smelling candle being burnt in the middle of the room, and a quiet jazz song being played out loud from your phone.

his bag touches the floor carefully, and your eyes lift from the hot stove to his.

"kuna!!!"

you almost smear his jacket with the wooden spoon of tomato sauce in your hands, but he can't care less when your warm hands find his skin and you burrow his face into his skin. the stress and exhaustion from the day melts away at how blindly, how brightly you're smiling up at him, your vanilla and jasmine scent washing over him.

"i made your favorite. tomato sausage pasta. well, making it." you gesture to the messy kitchen. "after dinner, i was thinking we could watch a movie or take a bath?"

"a bath... sounds nice."

"good. you need it."

"watch it."

"sh... go change." you order, practically kicking him out. but it just makes him chuckle, retreating to the bedroom to change out of his daily clothes. the soft linen against his skin is almost as relaxing as the sight of you walking around the kitchen, content and lively.

"do you want to grate the cheese?"

"sure."

he swears you have a sixth sense for when he has a bad day. you don't over ask about his day, or push when he gives you a short answer, and you’re more than happy to fill the empty silences with anecdotes about your day. you playfully slap him when he tries to steal a bite from the pan, and easily slide him the dishes without him having to ask for it.

it's as if you know him inside and out.

"i'll wash the dishes." he offers immediately.

"then i'll draw the bath." you offer.

he sighs, knowing that you've had a long day as well.

"stop being difficult, i know you're tired too."

"you're worth being tired for."

that sentence spins around in his mind as he washes up, and it won't leave his head when he sinks into the hot water with you half an hour later. you scoot back so that your back touches his skin, your fingers lazily poking around the bath bomb fizzing in the water.

when he cranes his neck, he can see your wet hair framing your face, the hot steam leaving droplets of condensation down your neck. he wants to lean forward and kiss it, but he stops himself, instead choosing to wrap you in his arms.

"today fucking sucked." he admits, the sound of running water nearly masking his whisper.

"i figured." is all you say, gentle and accepting.

"you're the best part of today."

"thanks, kuna."

he says it without thinking, because it's so natural. like breathing air, like cooking with you at 9pm, like pulling you in for a hug in a bath tub.

"i love you."

you freeze in his hold, looking up at him in wonder. 

you've known that he loves you, of course. he's shown you that every day, in little gestures and implicit messages, in how he never lets you walk by the side of the road facing the cars, or how his hands have a habit of finding yours in a crowded room.

but his admission - the three words spoken into the open air - make you choke on your words.

"i don't say it enough, but... i really love you." he adds, nervously fidgeting as he blinks down at you, waiting for your response. pure panic and nerves start to settle in at your silence. had he done something wrong? ruined the moment? should he have waited for sometime grander-

his spiral is interrupted by your glossy lips on his. you taste like cherry and cinnamon sugar.

"oh, kuna... i love you so much. you know that, right? so much that i can't express it." you mumble, all dazed and in awe. he wishes he could take a photo of how you look to him at that moment.

"okay, now you're doing too much." he teases.

"leave it to you to ruin a sweet moment." you pout, good naturedly.

"i'll make it up to you." he teases back, resting his chin on your bare shoulders. "with many more moments after this."

"... can you say it again?" you look up at him, hopeful and loving. it's warm and safe. in here, and everywhere.

"i love you."

and it’s all you could ask for.

a/n: ahhh my first time writing for sukuna! i've been really into the 4 times X, 1 time Y trope so wanted to give this a go. my comfort zone is 100% writing nanami so branching out feels really scary but i worked hard on this and i'm so glad this is out in the world!!! hopefully you guys liked it too haha bc it's quite difficult from what i'm used to.

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

[heich0e]

student!reader getting a PhD in religious studies, specifically studying demonology, who accidentally summons demon!sukuna while researching—unfortunately, you don't think you actually summoned anything, and end up dating him for about a year before you figure it out.

[tteokdoroki]

🛞 LIKE, LOVE, WANT & NEED  ✩  katsuki bakugou .ᐟ

🏁 pit stop ! 𖦹 throughout the years your relationship with katsuki has blossomed into something precious. you've gone from liking him from afar to being everything he's ever loved, wanted and needed. (7K)

🏁 safety car ! ⋆  not safe for work ⋆ smut ⋆ eighteen plus only. pro hero au, canon compliant, friends to lovers, established relationships, mentions of alcohol and getting drunk, katsuki driving w one hand yum, failed break up, injury, hurt-comfort, angst, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, clothed sex, dry humping, breeding kink, cum play, the heels stay on during sex btw. pro hero bakugou, pro hero & fem reader.

🏁  team radio ! ⋆ woo hooo !! since mha has come to an end ( i feel so freaking sick dawg ) i thought it would be cute to write about bakugou's first relationship through the years. ily kacchan !!! hope u guys like! click for more. 

── © tteokdoroki ╱ 2025.

“you like me?” 

your back hits the wall before the words can really register in your mind. the force isn’t hard, a gesture clearly not meant to harm you — somewhat panicked as it comes. even still, a gasp of surprise slips from between your lips at the feeling of the concrete against your spine and your eyes dart around in search of the source.

“god, bakugou!” you breathe as though the air in your lungs has been stolen and brace a hand against your chest in hopes of slowing the heartbeat that races there. 

you’d been on the way to the supply closet as per the request of aizawa — something about needing more textbooks to study for final exams. you had no idea that someone would follow, no idea that katsuki would corner you on the way there.

“katsuki, you’ve always called me katsuki,” he sneers in an attempt to correct you — it’s said without malice, but the edge of his voice softens and lowers at the sight of your uneasy expression. the one that twitches on the curves and slopes of your features. “s-sorry, it’s just… i gotta ask. is it true? what round cheeks ‘n raccoon eyes said?” bakugou turns quiet then and something charges the static air. since he’s got his palm against and just above your shoulder, he’s close enough for you to catch every detail of his face. the curve of his plush lips into a frown caused by doubt and the manner in which his ruby armoured gaze hits the floor like it’s suddenly more interesting than you. 

“that you…that you like me?” 

you’ve never known bakugou to be so… quiet. careful with his words as though he’s had to plot them out before he speaks. his loudness is what drew your eyes to him that first day you became classmates, and it’s what kept your eyes on him for the three years that followed.

his presence in your life was so unmistakably big, with every phrase and gesture and movement — katsuki had been there. he was a constant even when his heart stopped beating before your very eyes.

so yes, of course it was true. of course you had feelings for him. 

in that small clock tick of realisation, something stings at your heart, you can tell that even he doesn’t believe it — as though the thought of you liking him is too hard to believe. your uniform constrains your breathing. tie tight around your neck and blouse buttoned all the way up — trapping the calcium cage of your chest behind crisp cotton. before you know it, you’re nodding… eyes still wide to match that of a deer in headlights.

“y-yes.” whatever confidence you have left, even if just a mere shred, you gather it up between your fingers that bunch up the hem of your greenish school skirt and then set the truth free. “i’m surprised you didn’t notice before, i wanted to get closer to you back in the first year. even if you were a little mean.” 

there’s no point in lying, katsuki had caught your confession from someone and with mina involved — it obviously spread like a pathogenic germ throughout class 1-A until inevitably reaching him. you don’t miss the way the blonde winces, flinching away from the blunt point in your words. disappointment yanks his eyebrows to the centre of his forehead and you watch, frightened, as katsuki  tries to pull away from you. arm retreating to his side stiffly.

this school taught you to move without thinking, however, and you quickly grab at his wrist. the pads of your fingers sink into the sleeve of his grey blazer. 

you swallow, thick, and speak slowly. “although… that has changed, you’ve changed. i know that you’ve always cared, you’re gentler now and when it counts. i.. saw it then and i see it now.” the words tumble out before you can stop them, blistering hot on your tongue from the honesty. your body temperature spikes, heated with embarrassment but you don’t stop — not when your heart lies open on the table for katsuki to hold inspect. “i do like you but… i never planned to tell you how i felt because i didn’t and still don’t want to get in the way.”

“but why?” the blonde asks. 

“because we’re graduating soon? because we lived through a war and you died and even afterwards, when everything was over it never felt like the right time.” you confess, flustered and almost a little defensive — the grip on your skirt tightens to the point where the fabric creases. 

it’s been three years since you first noticed katsuki bakugou, three years since you realised how much your heart desired him and now, you’re eighteen and a handful of weeks away from achieving what might be your greatest dream without him.. 

silence sweeps beneath every word left unsaid, the only sound coming from classes down the hall where students chatter about their aspirations or plans for graduation. yet here you are, stuck in a moment of ‘will they won’t they’ with katsuki bakugou himself. “what if… what if i felt the same? would you have told me then. if you knew that i liked you too?” he asks, a tinge of hope burning at the fraying edges of his question. 

“yes? i think so…” you nod meekly as your breathing grows shallow and nervous. 

“i like you.” bakugou takes a step forward, an invisible force pushing you further into the wall. where you cling onto his wrist, the blonde uses that same grip to intertwine your hands. his cheeks flare a red to rival sincere eyes, his palms sweaty to the touch like he might set of sparks from how fucking scared he is. 

you don’t move, you don’t break away, you just let him speak as if he’s the last man on earth with something to say. “i like you a lot and you’d never get in my way. i don’t want graduation to be the last time i see you or the last chance i get to tell you this.” he says earnestly, eager to make you see the feelings he too has tried to hide. “you’re not…just some extra i’m going to forget after school ends. you’re someone i… someone i care about and someone i want to be with… ‘cause that’s how these things work, right?” 

bakugou looks down at your intertwined hands, noting the way you don’t pull away even if you could. you’re not scared of what he can do or what he’s done. you accept it.

“i guess ‘m just tryna ask you out,” he adds shyly and rubs the back his neck with his free hand as his blush spreads down to it. “if you’ll have me.”

you don’t let a beat of silence pass without throwing your arms around his neck — overcome with affection and adrenaline.

“you’re so stupid katsuki bakugou.” tucking your face into his warm neck, you attempt to hide the excitement that curls around your shyness. “my answer is yes, i’ll go out with you. i waited three years for you to notice. of course i’ll have you.” 

for a moment, katsuki hesitates. his arms stay hovering above your back and your waist, he even stops breathing for a moment… but then he realises this is exactly what he wanted. he couldn’t let you go without knowing if it was true, if you liked him the way he had secretly grown to like you. 

“i promise i’ll be good to you.” he swears like an oath when you finally break apart — bashfully holding out his pinky. 

“i’ll take good care of you too, katsuki,” you link it with your own, grin so wide that it spreads to katsuki like it's contagious. “so… does that make us boyfriend and girlfriend now?” 

he mumbles so shyly you almost forget its great explosion murder god that you’re talking to. “we’re whatever you wanna be. as long as you’re by my side.”

“oh, then, i’m so telling the rest of class 1-A that you’re my boyfriend!”

“hah? why would you do that? it’s none of their damn business!” he groans, but it’s playful and there’s a smile. you know that he secretly doesn’t mind because his weary little heart sings, no longer in pain  — happy to be yours at last.

the two of you return to the classroom and much to the excitement of your classmates — you’re hand in hand with blissful smiles that only last a little while.

only because it’s not long before aizawa starts yelling about the missing text books neither of you thought to bring back. 

“you love me?” 

the question comes out as half a rasp and half a giggle. katsuki’s tired eyes flit over to the figure strapped securely into the passenger seat of his car — he’s up way too late and past his bed time, after a gruelling week of patrols and press conferences, all he’d looked forward to was a day off and a quiet house where his girlfriend would be out partying with her girlfriends. 

but someone calls the blonde, frantic, a little past three am. he answers with his usual gruff voice. a sleep ‘the fuck do you want’ murmured on the edge of cursing the caller out because even lord knows that dynamight needs his beauty sleep… but then he hears you — whimpering on the end of the line about how your shoes hurt and how cold it is and then someone else’s voice comes into play. he’s sure it’s round-face at this point.

‘she’s had too many shots and started crying about how much she misses you. she refuses to come home with one of us, so can you pick her up?’

now, katsuki’s never moved so fast — because even though he enjoys his down time, there’s nothing he loves more than being alone… with you. in fatigued haze he throws on a hoodie along with red-riot crocks he’d rather be caught dead in and races over to the scene. he doesn’t need to ask what club you’re at, you’d inswiping you from the arms of old classmates with a thankful look before helping you onto the porsche he’s had since first going pro.

a car you’d helped him to pick out, squealing over it at the dealership and purring something involving him in the backseat whilst he paid it off.

the fond memories take up space in the car as bakugou drives you both back home, one hand on the wheel with a sweet sleepy smile slotting perfectly on his lips — your feet stretched over the console to rest in his lap ( your heels lost somewhere under the front seat ) as you drunkenly profess your love for him beneath glittering street lights.

“i do, love you s’much!” comes your giggly hiccup, all sickly sweet and bubble-gum like. Katsuki feels his heart stop in chest because even the way you sound, drunk and airy, he knows that he’s missed you. can’t stand the silence when you’re away for too long. you fill the space and quiet when the doubts in his head get too loud — he loves you here, loves you when your mind is a little too far away. you’re everything to him. “you’re jus’ sooooo hot ‘n picked me up from th’stinky club! so sexy! like my prince!” 

with his free hand, katsuki rubs gentle circles into the joint at your ankle — the car ticks as he indicates to love into the next lane. he drives smoothly, easily, with only one hand. “just a hot guy, huh? not your boyfriend? not anyone special?”

he jokes because he knows you won’t remember in the morning when your head kills.

“uh-no! my boyfriend’s name is kat-su-ki!” frowning and huffing tipsily in your place, hair a little out of place and skin hot to the touch — you babble on without realising. more for the memory book, more stories to tell when you finally come to. “ohmygooooood don’ tell katsuki i think you’re pretty. he’ll get superduper jealous ‘n pouty. soooo cute when he’s like that but he loves me so much! he gives me apple juice instead of orange when i’m hungover. my little kacchan.”

even when you’re not all here, away with the fairies and high on life from a beautiful night with your friends — he knows your heart will come back to him. you think of katsuki even when he isn’t there, miss him when he’s by your side or just at the other end of the room. right now, you remember how he cares for you like you’ve always secretly cherished the thought. it’s been years now and you still make him blush, even like this.

“i don’t think your boyfriend’s little, sweetheart.” katsuki quips, a little shy, spotting your drive way up ahead. perhaps he’ll keep this moment to himself, a reminder of how much you love him even when you’re not entirely yourself. 

from the passenger’s side, you glance over at the blonde through your lashes in a way that makes his stomach twist — voice low and hot, familiar. “how would you know? you lookin’ in my boyfriend’s pants?” 

bakugou parks the car in the garage after pulling up to it — turning in his seat to face you. using a knuckle he nudges the chub of your cheek, sticky with whatever you’d been chugging down with your friends. he makes a note to help you cleanse your face once you get in. “i know, sweets, because i am your boyfriend. c’mere.” he casually reaches over the console to press a lingering kiss to your forehead as if to remind you of the fact — and when he pulls back, the realisation settling into your features is obvious, pupils dilating until they’re able to form hearts. “there you are, gorgeous.”

“kacchan!” you coo cutely, keening into him. “missed you sooo much. my baby.”

after unbuckling your seatbelt, the strong pro hero hauls you from the car into his arms like a princess — your heels now hanging from his fingers like they belong there. every step is still careful, as though not to jostle you while you squeal and squirm happily — your laughter echoing throughout the halls of your shared home. decorated in your memories from high school until now. 

“that’s right, your baby. let’s get you to bed, hm?”

with the kind of gentleness only lovers know, bakugou takes you through your nightly routine — accepting drunk kisses as he cleanses your face free of makeup and changes you into comfy clothes with his scent embedded into every thread. by the time he’s carried you to bed from the bathroom — your consciousness has started to fade, and your fingers curl tightly into his chest like you’re afraid to be without him. 

“love you, kats.” you sigh into the earliest sighs of sleep — nuzzling into his arms tight around you.

bakugou’s smile, the one that he directs down at you, is soft and laced with all the words he can’t say — not until you’re more yourself in the morning. instead, he tucks you into bed and slips right in beside you, whispering into the shell of your ear. 

“i love you most, don’t you ever forget.”

“you want to break up with me?” 

one promise that the two of you made to one another, all those years ago, was to never yell at each other. never go to sleep mad at one another. no matter how shitty things may get, how much darkness your jobs may bring — you’d talk it out, stay calm, keep your voices even where you can. 

fix it before everything breaks.

but right now, you can tell that katsuki is trying his hardest not to lose it. his voice wavers, cracks in the way it does when his emotions threaten to get the best of him. you see it in his body, the ticks and habits you know so well — his shoulders are tense, fists clenched, eyes wide and worried. bakugou is trying so hard to keep it all together and not scream like his heart wants him to.

you’re on opposite sides of the room, you behind the couch that you picked out together for your first shitty apartment. him by the door, his keys with the all might keychain still dangling from the keyhole in the door. it’s on purpose, the distance between you, because you know that if bakugou comes any closer you’ll shatter to pieces only he’s skilled enough to put back together.

“i just think it’s for the best right now, i can’t keep getting in your way—” you start to explain, but anything you have to say gets lost underneath the lump in your throat and the way he raises his voice. 

not to yell, but to try to understand.

“that’s not a fuckin’ reason and you know, you know that’s bullshit,” katsuki tries not to snap, he really does — it’s not in anger, but as a result of the frustration building up within his veins. bubbling hot and bright. he knows shit has been tough recently, the press churning out negative stories on your quirk, making you seem weak in comparison to katsuki now that you work together.  “you wanna break up fine. end it with me. tell me you hate me, scream, fuckin’ cry. but don’t you dare let it because of someone else.”

there’s been a pressure on your shoulders lately that he can’t seem to lift no matter how much he tries or chips away at it. a quiet elephant in the room that the two of you ignore while stripping hero suits and washing away dust or concrete caked to your wounds. there’s been moments at night, where you silently cry out for help — words of faith or encouragement. something to let you know that you’re a good hero. words that fail katsuki when he needs them most.

so he tries right now, his damned hardest. tries to tell you that without you he’s nothing. 

“i can’t lose you for any reason other than me. that’s the only way i can let you go,” he says, adamant and tired all that once — taking a sledgehammer in hand, attempting to break down your walls. “let it be that you fell out of love with me, not because you’re listening to a damn word those extras say.”

bakugou throws out mid argument, desperate. because that’s how he’s always been — needing you to get by, wanting you to survive. things have been rough lately, maybe he doesn’t protect you from the media like he should. he’s grown to have thick skin, but he hasn’t extended it to you where he should have been. katsuki made a promise to protect you, be good to you — could he have broken that? 

“i could never fall out of love with you, kats, it’s not that easy.” your eyes flit anywhere but the explosive hero’s face — ignoring the pain you’ve inflicted upon it. they land on your suitcase by the door, full of things he’d brought to you at the hospital. the latest visit being from a quirk-related accident.

the headlines scream at you from inside your head: hero or villain? dynamight’s partner dragging him down? civilians injured, dynamight’s dangerous partner to blame? 

it sets the dream you had, to be a hero by his side, on fire — burning into smoke, going up in flames before your very eyes.

“then tell me why. make me understand,” katsuki sighs, not exasperated with you but with the world. “‘cause i can’t lose you, i won’t make it.” 

“i’m scared,” you say and your voice shakes just like your body does. weakened with exhaustion and tears whilst showing the first signs of collapse. he’s across the room to catch you before you fall, sinking to his knees on the rug mitsuki gifted you back then — with you, cushioned in his arms. “i’m scared my quirk won’t let me keep up, that with every mission, you’ll see how useless it is. how it’ll stop you from being number one—” 

“stop that.”

“i can’t, katsuki. this is… this is what’s making me feel the way i feel,” that’s when you yell, tears falling so fast that you don’t even realise you’re crying. everything hurts, to breathe or to sit here in his arms when other people deserve the same level of comfort. “i’m so scared of losing you, of dying before i get to see my future with you. i can’t protect you when i’m like this and i constantly get in the way.”

air in your lungs becomes scarce between each hiccup and you ball up your fists to push him away. except bakugou has always been forceful when it comes to loving you, he’s hard to move and hard to dismiss. you’re stuck with him no matter what you say. “you’ve always wanted to be the very best and i don’t want to put that in danger when i fall behind like everyone thinks i would,” you can’t help but cry, tears hot and wet as they seep through your boyfriend’s clothes. “i-i don’t want to make you hate me.” 

“you don’t get to decide how i feel about you,” he responds, soft like a coo to bring you back down from the ledge you’re crawling to. “you don’t get to decide when i’m done lovin’ you. that’s not fair.” katsuki sees it now, someone he wants to help as much as he loves them. ever since you got back from the hospital you’ve been keeping all of this in, he’ll let you know it’s safe to get it all out. reassure you of your worth and rightful place in his life. “why would i throw away the one person who cares about me when i’m not my best? when have i ever given a fuck about what others think except for you?”

“katsuki—”

“i love you. it’ll only be you. i don’t give a fuck about what anyone else says. you’re always going to be my hero, the only one able to catch up to me.” your lover interrupts you, one arm around your waist to catch you if you fall, the other cupping your cheeks to brush away the tears you shed.

that makes you laugh all watery, gasping at the ugly blob of snot katsuki wipes away from your nose with a rough padded thumb. “aside from deku.” 

“that nerd can go fuck himself and find himself a new rival,” bakugou pulls you closer and rocks backwards to sit on the floor properly — effectively dragging you into his lap. the cadence in his voice dips low, rough as though he’s been trying to hold back tears mixed with the fear of losing you. “i only want you. you’re not allowed to leave me. you promised…” blonde hair tickles the space between your neck and your shoulder from where lord dynamight tucks himself into it for safety. 

“don’t be mean, my baby,” katsuki only relaxes when he’s sure you’re not going to leave. your fingers rake through the roots of his hair, scratching at his scalp because it calms you both down. you settle, you accept his love with open arms and let it fill you with life once more. “we could both be a little more like izuku… but i can’t bring myself to leave. i promised you.”

he kisses your pulse as it’s racing slows to a steady rhythm. “damn right you did, brat. don’t ever try to break up with me for shit again.” 

katsuki doesn’t cry or scream or shout when you argue, but instead he pleads because living without you is like holding your breath and never letting go. 

“you need me?” 

bakugou asks when he feels your hand on his sleeve, perfectly manicured fingertips smoothing over the cufflinks in his shirt. there’s a look in your eye that carries a distinct heat, one that radiates from your body and spreads like wildfire to his. 

it doesn’t take the hero long to notice what it is that you’re after. glancing up at him through hooded lashes, your foot dragging up his leg from underneath the table — it’s enough to set the warning bells off in his head and pull his attention away from hawks’ speech at the front of the hall. katsuki’s never cared much about the events that the hero commission throws at the end of every year. even if he’s up for an award at tonight’s show. 

the two of you carefully slip away and shed your PR perfected skin, darting to a conference room down the hall. one with a lock to keep your sinful acts hidden from unsuspecting heroes and sidekicks and other prestigious guests here tonight. giggles and chuckles filter through the empty room as katsuki yanks off his sexy suit and tie, as you unclip your jewellery and fight with the zipper of your glittering ruby red gala gown. he doesn’t let you kick off your expensive red-bottom heels, however. 

when your lips meet for the first time that evening ( that wasn’t for a camera ) it’s electric — sending a spark of lightning crackling across your brain and right down to your spine. your boyfriend tastes like red wine and victory — perhaps that’s what’s got you so riled up tonight, you know he’s going to win the award for best hero this year. you know what it’ll do to the blonde’s ego and what he’ll do to you as a result. are you wrong for giving him an early prize? each kiss grows sloppier than the last, lazily urgent like he’s not getting enough of you. pouring every ounce of white hot desire past the seam of your lips as his tongue slides into your mouth — running over your teeth, clashing with your own sticky pink muscle.

mouths slot against one another like they’re married, spit is swapped salacious and dangerous hands wander further up the flimsy hem of your dress before it inevitably comes off as a whole. his grip trails up the meat of your thighs and the soft curve of your hips and waist like he’s memorising it for the billionth time — remembering what it’s like to hold you like this. 

each touch leaves you in shambles the further they reach, especially when his thumbs swipe over your hardened nipples, over the swell of your breasts once they’re free from your sweetheart neckline. you writhe and cry and he takes it from you — swallowing down whistle tone wines as pearly white teeth sink into your lower lip. 

when he’s done ravaging your mouth he moves to your neck to place calculated smooches across its expanse. “keep it quiet, baby, we can’t get caught.” you almost hate the hypotonic timbre note of katsuki’s voice vibrating through your skin because it makes you embarrassingly wet. a wave of juices soaking through thin red fabric you know will be pocketed by the end of the night. 

feather light kisses take a turn when sharp teeth come onto the scene — leaving hues of plum purple against your flesh where they’ll be most noticeable without makeup to cover it. you don’t even fight bakugou as he leaves marks, mewling out loud despite the oxygen that escapes your brain, distracted by the hand that pushes your slick thighs apart for his entertainment. 

your breath hitches when you stumble into the edge of the table — both of you are more desperate and hungry now. katsuki hums against the race of your pulse just beneath your ear, pressing his fingertips against your arousal soaked panties to find your pulsating clit on instinct. that’s how the pro hero works you up to it, works himself up to it, his leaky cockhead straining against suit pants to the point where you’re fearful you’ll both cum before there’s any time to have fun. 

now, katsuki has you naked on your back against the cool surface of the wooden table — smirking slow and sexy as goosebumps rise across your bare flesh like chicken skin. his now equally naked dick lies wet and heavy against your lower tummy. oozing viscous precum that smears over his scarred abs and your belly button whilst he leans over you, chest to chest. 

“be my good girl, tell me where you need it.” katsuki croaks, growing desperate, acting like he’s been starved. he’s shameless with how he erotically bumps and grinds the length of his hardness against your swollen, clothed mound. he fits perfectly between your folds — just like he always has and he’ll never get enough of you, even after all these years. he’s wrecked from a little dry humping, ruined from the idea of taking you here just metres away from his peers and practically collapses on top of you.

“shit’s so fucking pretty…” he laments.

bakugou’s forehead falls to yours, slightly doused in sweat as he pouts condescendingly — leaning close to let his tongue dance messily with your own once more.  you gasp into each other’s open mouths with slackened jaws, sharing avid moans that are high enough to raise the roof and your chests rise and fall rapidly in sync like you’ve just undergone hero training. 

it’s only when you both pause for air that you’re able to speak and answer the blonde in a way that pleases him. 

“inside.” you breath low, stomach twisting and abdomen contracting. “need your cum inside, katsuki.” you’re so pretty like this, underneath him, pretty bambi eyes wide and waiting. there’s always been something about you that leaves katsuki’s pulse a mess and swipes every breath from his lungs. he knew it back then when his heart first decided to become yours and he knows it now, years later — you’d be the death of him and he wouldn’t even mind.

“fuck, that’s my girl. always so needy for it, hah?” bakugou whines, so gone but yet so yours. his cock throbs hotly against your cotton clad slit as blood rushes through it angrily — spiralling through the pretty veins wrapped around his shaft. panties are torn in two, their silken ruby threads thrown somewhere into the room to make way for you. for your soft hand snakes its way between your bodies to guide him towards your fluttering entrance, which clenches around nothing. a droplet of milky white pearling at your hole and dribbling down between your ass cheeks. 

you nod whilst the blonde draws his hips back to gather what you drool, using it as lube for his dick. you’re connected to him by milky strings from your sopping cunt and a little bit of him mixed in too — his expression turns dopey at the warm, wet feeling, nosing your cheek romantically before katsuki makes an effort to push into you. fill you up in the way that you need. 

immediately, your heat envelopes his bulbous tip like a welcome home. spreading over every inch in a raunchy manner, viscous travel tides of your nectar track down along the length of him the further your boyfriend pushes into you until he shines with everything you offer. dripping onto the table below. then he shifts your position, using all that pro hero strength to nudge your n knees into your shoulders — legs folded over the wideness of his own as your heels click against his muscled back.

you feel a spasm in your legs, pinned hotly against your body now that he’s able to drop his weight against you fully. he spans across every inch of you, fills all of your senses and sends a tingle through all four of your limbs. the heaviness makes you dizzy, causing you to buck up as if you’re aiming to take more of him too quickly. katsuki’s lips move soft, sloppy against your cheeks but his movements start urgent and intentional. 

one moment you’re grinding leisurely against each other, the next — the power behind his thrusts winds up before they turn animalistic. almost primal. even yet, every buck of his hips is intentional — ensuring that his tip strikes the most sensitive spot deep inside your sensitive walls. his hands slam against the table just beyond your head to steady himself, sparking from the sweat that gathers against them. 

“kats,” you whimper out, though it sounds like more of a strangled sound of pleasure bubbling up in your throat. your boyfriend turns his head, licking a bead of sweat that trails down from your forehead to your jaw and hums softly. you tilt your own head to meet his line of sight, catching a glimpse of the black of his pupils that eclipses whilst it eclipses the tender carmine in his eyes. “katsuki.”

“i know, sweetheart. know just what you fuckin’ need,” he doesn’t lie, his raspy voice just honest and raw in a way that makes your heart skip, succumbing to the love that flickers like a flame between the two of you. “my girl, you take it so fuckin’ well, no matter where we are.” the praise punctuates the clap of damp skin against skin and makes you gush. slick and crude sounds echoing throughout the empty room, coasting over the moans he rips from between your lungs. “damn, baby. listen to how that pussy cries for me.” 

you melt at his words, reduced to a shaky puddle on the table. a mess of hiccuped pleas and whines for mercy. or for more — you can’t even tell. every touch, every deep-hitting plunge into the syrupy walls of your core is centred around your pleasure and pushing you over the edge. katsuki barely finds the strength to pull from your selfish and darling hole but knows in his mind that he just wants you to feel good. give you exactly what you need to pacify the flames flickering inside of you. 

beneath you, the table rocks and squeaks a little louder than you do — possibly giving you away to any stragglers from the show but you’re too caught up in the moment to care. your boyfriend hisses as the stem of your heel digs deliciously into his back, the type of pain that tells him to keep it up. it motivates him to take rein over your helpless body, driving his dick deeper until you’re only able to babble his name like a prayer underneath each shallow breath. 

your hands take purchase in the plushness of his chest — the slither of golden and scarred skin that peeks between his halfheartedly unbuttoned shirt. “f-fuck, kats. you’re so deep. m-making me feel so good, baby,” you squeal pathetically, falling victim to the intensity in which katsuki loves up on you. so you throw your hips upwards in an attempt to match the hero’s ravishing pace — bowing into his heavy body like he’s a magnetic force pulling into him. “my god, katsuki!” 

the tune of your bodies continue to fall into sync, your squelching cunt grips onto every pulsing vein on the blonde’s girth as it pushes and pulls at your gummy walls that gush fresh hot waves of wetness. his tip nudges your g-spot over and over again, focusing only on that little spot that makes you crumble underneath him like a sandcastle by the tide.

something in your mind switches off and for a moment, it turns blank. an orgasm that had been building at the core of your pelvis caused by your lover boy sneaks up on you entirely too quickly — hunts you down like a thief in the night ready to strike you down when you least expect it. except, bakugou knows your body perhaps a little better than you know yourself. he senses your high on the horizon like he’s got some kind of quirk that does it, the way your stomach tightens against his abs and your sweet moans turn into a wobbly dulcet sound.

the way your sloppy mound drips a constant stream of your essence down his length until it’s practically drowning bakugou’s balls as they slap against you — heavy and full of the cum that you so desperately need. he fucks you further along the edge like his life depends on it, pounding you while the legs of the table threaten to give out. he ravages you because he’s loved you his entire adult life and then some, you’re the only thing ( coming before his work ) worth pushing his body beyond physical limits for.

“so fuckin’ in love with you, with this pussy. ‘m the fuckin’ luckiest man alive, creamin’ on it like you own it,” katsuki groans through gritted teeth, breaking up each of his words with lunges of his hips that force you up the table — you’re prompted to grab at his ass to steady himself and keep him close. “and i just know you need to cum, so how about you give it to me? nice and messy like you always do.” the blonde’s voice stays tight, clinging to each ridge on the inside of his throat whilst he pounds your pussy to the high heavens. 

he has you howling at the moon, hole locking and unlocking around the sinful curve of his dick and squeezing fat droplets precum from him — smearing opaque white against your rippling walls. he falters for only a second. your freehand reaches upwards, yanking bakugou down by a fistful of blonde hair to bring him down for a sloppy kiss. colourful curse words are licked into your molten hot mouth whilst you drool against his tongue, and dribble from your mound. in the mess of it all, he pinches at your swollen clit to drag you along.

“‘m cumming kats, f-fuck. please…please cum with me.” shock waves of serotonin and dopamine and other happy hormones shoot through you — from your sex fuzzied brain to the very tips of your toes as they curl within your heels. getting closer and closer, you kick your feet as your legs tremble where they’re slung over katsuki’s shoulders. the feeling lulls a filthy whine from your boyfriend, panted and ragged. 

his lashes tickle your face, broken praises and prompts coasting warmly along your cheek as the blonde switches between circling his hips to throwing his hips into at a dangerous, insistent pace. “go ahead, sweetness. ‘m right here with you,” he purrs and squeezes your swollen nub, laughing airily once your stare turns vacant. “there it is, shit. atta girl.”  he rocks into you fluidly like a boat on waves, grinning all sexy like when you finally hit your high.

“oh my god! katsuki!” you cry one final time, pawing at whatever part of him you can reach to tie yourself back to sanity. you needed this, for him to break you in and unwind all the knots in your system and he was the right person to give it to you.

even though there’s a gala outside or an award with your boyfriend’s name carved into its golden plaque — he would drop anything and everything just to make you see those heavenly stars, have them dot your blurring vision.

bakugou pulls back, leaning on his palms to watch you shatter beneath him. get a glimpse of his dick slipping in and out of your creamy hole — moaning at the sight of your sexes joining in unison. the dam holding you together can no longer withstand the force of your orgasm washing over you — clear streams trickling from your ruined mound. the force of it nearly pushes his girth from your snug warmth because you just cum so hard intensely. lovingly, your boyfriend swoops down to swallow the hearty scream that rips through your chest. whether it’s just to taste you or to hide your act from anyone outside — the simple lip lock is enough to send him up to cloud nine too.

“o-oh! fuuuck, sweetheart. makin’ me cum so fucking hard.” aftershocks make you dizzy as white flashes beyond your vision and katsuki basks in the feverish twitch of your cunt — blistering hot ropes of his seed quickly flood your womb, sticking to the pleasure points of your ribbed walls. it’s potent and milky, swirling with what gushes from you freely as it smears across your swollen folds. he keeps you plugged full, cum seeping into the deepest parts of you whilst katsuki gives you exactly what you need and not a drop is wasted on anything else. 

he collapses on top of you once more, but doesn’t pull out nor does he let you go. one last chaste kiss dots your forehead and katsuki eases your legs down from his shoulder so that your ankles can lock around his unfairly slender waist — heels sitting just above his taut ass. 

a second passes, breathing slows and even gentler smooches are exchanged. “i love you so much,” you sitter once you’ve calmed, a bright smile glazing your face. there’s this glow about you, one that you get when you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life — it shows that you’ve been loved just as thoroughly that you need in a way that only katsuki bakugou can pull off. “you’re so good to me.” 

“i promised i would be, didn’t i?” bakugou hums as he looks down at your glistening body — covered with every ounce of him. he carefully takes your hand in his and presses a kiss against your knuckles — another promise sealed into your salty skin. like a lover should, he pulls out gently and helps you redress before fixing himself up. the hero hardly bothers to wipe the seed that leaks out of you, eager to leave his claim whilst he zips you back into your dress.

his tender words are  a callback to that week before graduation, when you were both teenagers and you’d just confessed to one another. the memory makes you smile bright and genuine — because your boyfriend has kept his word through every phase. through liking you, loving you, wanting you and needing you. 

you’re sure he’s counting his lucky starts to have you, and in a way, you’re counting them because of him too.

“yeah,” you answer katsuki, quiet and oh so in love. “you really did.”

end.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © TTEOKDOROKI 2020-26. all fanfics & layouts belong to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.

[lemxnns]

THE TROUBLE WITH WANTING YOU

based off of this request! ( @kusluv )

── synopsis .✦ You and Toji Fushiguro start as nothing more than a reckless agreement - friends with benefits: no feelings, no attachment, no complications. At least, that’s the rule he insists on. But every late-night visit, every half-asleep morning touch, and every quiet moment he doesn’t pull away only drags you deeper into something he refuses to name. Toji hides behind arrogance and silence, convinced he’s too damaged for anything real, while you try to accept the scraps of tenderness he gives you, even as they hurt.

When your feelings finally spill over, Toji panics, convinced love is a luxury a man like him doesn’t deserve. He leaves you shattered - but the distance tears him apart, too. Forced to face what life without you looks like, Toji crashes back into your world determined to fix what he broke, even if he barely knows how. Now, the two of you must navigate the fragile, unfamiliar territory between addiction and affection, trying to build something real from the wreckage of what you used to be.

── contains .✦ toxic relationship, LOTS of angst, hurt/comfort, dubcon, VERY unhealthy, toji is bad at feelings (he secretly loves reader he's just very scared), desperate!reader, toji uses reader a bit, mutual pining, p in v, praise kink, soft sex, morning sex, rough sex, oral (f!recieving), breath play, multiple orgasms, creampie, aftercare, happy ending

── word count .✦ 12.2k!

From the twelfth-floor balcony, the sunset feels less like a view and more like an event slowly unfolding just for you. The city below is still humming - cars threading between buildings, people moving like small, determined silhouettes - but up here, everything softens.

The sun lowers itself toward the horizon with unhurried grace, slipping behind a row of high-rises that cut a jagged pattern into the sky. A few clouds drift lazily across the expanse, thin enough for the light to bleed through them, staining their edges in a warm blush.

You heard the knock before you fully expected it: two sharp taps, no hesitation. Toji never lingered in hallways like normal people. When he came to your place, he came like a man who had already decided the outcome.

You opened the door, and he stepped in immediately.

Toji didn’t wait for invitations, and he didn’t say hello. He simply brushed past you, the scent of cold air and steel clinging to him. His shoulders were tense, his hair slightly damp like he’d run a hand through it on the walk here.

He didn’t ask why you called. He just stood there in your living room, arms crossed, eyes lowered - not because he was shy, but because he was already calculating the exit.

Your throat tightened.

“Thanks for coming.” You offered softly.

Toji grunted, nothing more. He tossed his jacket on the couch and leaned against the wall, the muscles in his jaw moving as if he were chewing on thoughts he had no intention of sharing.

You twisted your fingers together - a stupid habit you couldn’t break.

Toji’s eyes flicked to your hands. A small, barely audible scoff came from his throat. “Spit it out.”

He said it like you were wasting his time, and it made you doubt yourself just a little bit more.

You swallowed, hard. “I just… wanted to talk.”

His head tipped back against the wall. Another grunt: this one lower, almost annoyed. “Figures.”

That stung oddly, and it was a lot more than it should have.

You forced yourself to take a few steps toward him, even though your legs felt unsteady. “Toji. What… what are we doing?”

His eyes slid open at that. A sharp exhale through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.” You whispered. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re asking the kind of shit I don’t deal with.” He muttered, uncrossing his arms only to shove his hands into his pockets. He didn’t dare look at you. He looked at the floor, the window, the ceiling - anywhere but your face. “So quit it.”

Your heart sank. You tried to find something in his expression - a crack, a softness, anything - but he kept that same indifferent glare, like you were being unreasonable.

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?” You asked.

“Because there’s nothing to talk about.” His voice sharpened. “We hang out. That’s it.”

“That’s not what it feels like,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyes snapped to you then: sharp in warning. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make this into something it’s not.”

Your chest tightened strangely. “I’m not.”

“You are.” He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, looming over you with the kind of presence that made the room shrink. “You think because I show up when you call, it means something.”

You flinched at how blunt he was. Toji noticed, and his eyes flickered, barely, but he didn’t soften.

“It doesn’t.” He stated.

A small crack formed in your chest - slow and aching. “Then why do you come?”

He shrugged, jaw clenching. “Convenience.”

The word hit you like a slap.

Toji’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t apologise, nor did he take it back. He just waited for your reaction, face unreadable except for the slight downturn of his mouth, like he hated the conversation more than he hated himself.

You forced your voice to stay steady. “Is that really all I am to you?”

His tongue pressed against his cheek. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Don’t make me say it.”

The hurt spread instantly. “Toji—”

He cut you off with a low, irritated sound. “I don’t do ‘feelings’. I don’t do… whatever you’re trying to pull here.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You leaned in.” He snapped.

Your breath caught. “I—”

He stepped even closer, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, close enough that you could see the tension humming under his skin.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t.” He growled. “You tried to kiss me.”

Your cheeks heated with embarrassment, humiliation prickling along your skin. “I just… I thought…”

“Yeah. That’s your problem.”

The words were a knife: cold, precise, too deep.

You looked down, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes. You hated how easily he could hurt you, and how much this had mattered to you. After all, everything had been going so well: frequent visits, lazy evenings with Toji, watching some stupid movie on the couch that you don’t even remember. For a bit, he almost seemed domesticated.

“Toji…” You whispered, “I wasn’t trying to trap you into anything.”

He scoffed, looking away again. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Something inside you wilted - soft and small and stupidly hopeful before now, but crushed easily beneath his heel.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, annoyed. “Look. You want honesty? Fine.”

You lifted your head, heart pounding painfully.

“I come here because you’re easy.” The words were clipped, cruel in their simplicity. “You don’t nag. You don’t expect shit. You’re quiet. You’re… simple.”

You felt your heart split cleanly down the middle.

He saw it - your breath trembling, your shoulders tensing - and for a second his expression faltered. But Toji shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, as if burying the guilt with them.

“I’m not good for… anything else,” he muttered, voice lower but no kinder. “You kiss me, it turns into something messy. And I’m not doing that.”

You stared at him, vision blurring for a second. “So what do you want from me?”

“A simple arrangement.”

He shrugged again, but it looked forced now, too stiff. “Friends with benefits. No dates, no kissing, ‘nd no expectations.”

Your throat felt tight. “And if I can’t do that?”

Finally, his deep, verdant eyes met yours, and the look he gave you wasn’t cruel. It was worse; final.

“Then I walk.” He insisted quietly.

Your chest caved a little. “Just like that?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Just like that.” Because he’d already convinced himself you deserved better than him, that leaving was easier than being wanted, and he didn’t believe he was allowed anything real.

You let out a shaky breath, the silence stretching between you until you felt like you might drown in it. And then - against every sensible part of you - you nodded.

“Fine,” you whispered. “Friends with benefits.”

Toji didn’t exhale, but something in his shoulders loosened. He nodded once, curt, like a transaction concluded.

“Good.”

But he didn’t move away.

He stood there for another heartbeat — two, three — staring at you with an expression you couldn’t name. Something restrained. Something aching. Something he’d never let reach his mouth.

Then he stepped back, distancing himself.

“Keep it simple,” he repeated. “Or I’m gone.”

Your voice cracked. “Okay.”

Toji grunted, acknowledgment, nothing more, and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to look at the heartbreak he caused.

But you saw the flicker in his eyes before he hid it. He wanted you, he just didn’t think he was allowed to.

From there, the arrangement began quietly.

At first, you were the one who reached out: hesitantly and awkwardly, unsure if you were “allowed” to after how brutally he’d shut you down that first night. But Toji always came. Always. It didn’t matter if it was late, if you sounded unsure, if your voice cracked when you asked.

He’d show up like a storm at your door, eyes hooded, shoulders tense, gaze flicking over you in a way that made your breath catch. And you’d let him in. You always did.

Those early nights felt like sharing a secret.

He touched you like he was afraid of hurting you, even if his words never matched the gentleness in his hands. He never kissed you - he’d turn his face away if your lips got too close - but sometimes his forehead would brush yours during the comedown, breath shaky, body heavy against you. Those tiny moments felt like warmth sneaking past his defenses.

You tried not to read into it, but you failed.

A week passed, then two. You started asking more boldly - not with your voice, but with your actions. You’d text him late, you’d linger close, you’d open the door before he even knocked.

And he’d come, always. He’d push past you, his presence filling the room. Sometimes he’d grunt a “hey.”, sometimes he didn’t bother with even that. But he came.

It made you feel wanted. Not cherished, not chosen. Just… wanted enough, and it was pathetic how deeply that mattered.

Then things began to shift. Slowly and quietly - so quietly you almost didn’t notice at first.

You stopped asking.

Not because you didn’t want him. God, you wanted him more than ever. But every time you reached for your phone, your fingers froze over the screen. That night he’d called you “convenient” kept replaying in your mind.

You didn’t want to be a burden and you didn’t want him to think you were catching feelings, even though feelings were the only thing you had left.

So you waited, and you waited, and he stopped coming as often.

Days stretched longer now, while nights felt emptier. You’d stare at your ceiling, the room too quiet without him in it. You hated how your body remembered him: how easily he pinned you to your bed, his weight, and how he took.

Then, one night, long after you’d convinced yourself you’d never hear from him again -

“You home?”

Just two words; no punctuation, no explanation.

Your hands shook, and you answered too quickly. 

“Yeah.”

He arrived fifteen minutes later with no greeting and no hesitation. Stepping inside, he let the door shut behind him, letting you smell the sweat that came off of him, as if he’d just come off of a job. When you looked closer, you noticed his knuckles were scraped, and his jaw was tight. 

He didn’t wait for you to ask.

He didn’t need to.

He moved toward you, eyes dark, expression unreadable, and you let him. You let him take what he wanted because part of you was terrified he’d disappear again if you didn’t.

The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 AM as Toji rolled off you, his sweat-slicked body heaving with a satisfied grunt. He'd just fucked you hard against the mattress, his thick cock pounding into your pussy until you came twice, clenching around him like a vice. 

But now, as you reached for him, hoping for a moment of closeness, he sat up abruptly, grabbing his pants from the floor. 

“Don't get all clingy now.” He muttered, voice rough and edged with irritation. "This is just stress relief, nothing more. I'm not your boyfriend, so quit acting like it." 

His words stung sharper than the fading ache between your legs, leaving you curled under the sheets while he dressed and headed for the door without a backward glance, the slam echoing like a finality.

You pretended you didn’t notice he wasn’t being gentle anymore, or that he avoided looking at you afterward, and that he left faster than he used to.

Over the next month, the pattern settled into something colder.

You never initiated again, yet he always did.

Sometimes he’d show up at midnight, sometimes at three in the morning, sometimes not for five days, and sometimes for two nights in a row. The inconsistency dug into your ribs like a splinter you couldn’t pull out, and you couldn’t help but point it out, followed by a small suggestion.

The argument had started over nothing - your casual mention of meeting his friends - but Toji's temper flared, his green eyes narrowing as he backed you into the bedroom wall. 

“You think you can push for more? I'm not committing to shit.” He snarled, yanking your top over your head and palming your breasts roughly, pinching your nipples until you gasped. He dropped to his knees then, burying his face between your legs, tongue lashing your pussy with aggressive strokes that made your knees buckle.

“This is all you're good for.” He growled against your folds, sucking your clit hard enough to border on pain. 

When he stood and bent you over the bed, fucking you deep and fast, his hand fisted in your hair, it felt like punishment, his cum flooding you as he pulled out with a scoff, leaving you spent and sore on the sheets.

Toji seemed to prefer it this way: you silent, him in control, the arrangement strictly physical. He barely spoke when he arrived now: a grunt, a nod, or maybe your name, said rough and low when he needed you.

Afterward, he’d sit at the edge of your bed or couch, elbows on his knees, breathing hard. He wouldn’t look at you- not even accidentally. He’d run a hand through his hair, sigh like everything weighed too much, then stand.

And leave. Always.

Your door would close behind him with a soft click that felt louder than any slam.

Once, after he left at dawn, you sat on the floor for a long time, staring at your hands. You couldn’t tell when you stopped being a person in this arrangement. You weren’t the girl he teased anymore, weren’t the one he smirked at. You weren’t the one he accidentally brushed his forehead against in soft, unguarded moments.

Now you were a place he visited; a convenience.

You hated that it still wasn’t enough to make you stop, because every time your phone buzzed with his name, your pulse jumped like you’d been waiting your whole life for it.

Every time you opened the door, Toji would glance at you - quick, unreadable - and for half a second you thought maybe something in him cracked. Maybe he missed the closeness, too. Maybe he felt guilty.

But then he’d look away, and the moment would vanish.

The shift became undeniable the night he showed up already irritated.

Toji barged into your place after a grueling job, reeking of sweat and frustration, not even bothering with a hello before he grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you to the bedroom.

You asked, quietly, “Rough day?”

“Shut up and spread your legs.” He commanded, ignoring your protest about being tired, shoving you onto the bed and yanking your leggings down. 

His fingers plunged into your pussy without warning, rough and demanding, curling until you were wet against your will, then he replaced them with his thick cock, slamming in deep with a groan. 

He fucked you like you were just a hole to vent into, hips pistoning relentlessly, one hand muffling your cries while he muttered: “This is what you signed up for, baby. Takin’ it so good, too.”

You came clenching around him despite the ache, but he pulled out to spill on your stomach, wiping himself on your thigh before collapsing beside you, snoring as if your discomfort didn't exist.

And when he left only ten minutes later, not even glancing back, something inside you finally cracked.

This wasn’t mutual anymore. It wasn’t even fair. It wasn’t soft or careful or warm. It was lopsided, uneven, and toxic.

But God help you - you still wanted him.

A few weeks of building up the courage passed, and you ask him to come over.

You don’t text anything elaborate - just “are you free tonight?” - and you expect the usual three-hour delay, the blunt “busy”, or radio silence, but he shows up. 

Thirty-seven minutes later, he’s leaning against your doorframe like he always does, shoulders filling the space, hoodie half unzipped, a bored flick of his eyes telling you he doesn’t plan to stay long.

You step aside, let him in, and the familiar weight drops straight into your chest. Because he walks in the same way he always has: like your place is a pit stop, like you’re a convenience he’ll take advantage of while it lasts.

He doesn’t say anything beyond a low grunt: acknowledgment, impatience, whatever. You can’t tell anymore. The silence stretches, thick enough to make your throat tight. You try for a smile, weak, hopeful.

“Toji.”

He looks up from the counter where he set his keys. “Hm?”

And that’s all he gives you: a sound; a little rumble that could mean anything and nothing.

You swallow, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You thought you could do this, told yourself all day you wouldn’t fold. But the second he’s here - big, warm, familiar - you feel everything inside you start to shake loose.

He steps closer because he thinks he knows what you want. It’s routine by now. He reaches for your waist, casual, claiming, ready to pull you in for the usual night you’ve trained him to expect.

The second his hand touches you, you crack.

Your breath stutters, and before you can stop yourself, you rise on your toes and press your mouth to his. Not the usual hungry kiss he’s used to, this one trembles; breaks; falls apart the moment it begins.

He stills,and you feel the confusion ripple through him, a small tension in his shoulders, but he doesn’t pull away. Not yet. His hands hover at your hips, not gripping like they usually do, just resting, uncertain.

And then you make the mistake of letting the tear slip.

He jerks back, eyes narrowing - not angry, but startled, almost alarmed. “What—hey. What’s wrong?” His tone is rough, but his brows draw together, the closest thing he has to worry.

You can’t answer. Another tear tracks down, and another.

“Toji,” you choke out. “Please.”

He stiffens. “Did someone hurt you?” His jaw tightens. “You call me here for that?”

“No.” You shake your head, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but the tears don’t stop. Humiliation burns through you. “No, it’s not—no one hurt me, I just… I can’t—”

Your voice breaks completely. When you look up at him, his expression shutters instantly. He recognizes that look. He knows exactly where this is going. And fear - real fear - flickers behind his eyes.

Not for you, but rather for himself.

“Toji?” You whisper, voice trembling, “I want more.”

His nostrils flare. “More?”

“I—” You try to steady your breath. It comes out in gasps. “I want more than this. I want more than… than waiting around for you to remember I exist. More than you only showing up when it’s easy for you, than pretending I’m not—”

You bite down hard, like it’ll stop the words, but they spill anyway.

“Look, I’m in love with you.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. His jaw ticks, a vein jumps in his temple, and he steps back like your confession physically pushed him.

You swear you see something flicker in his eyes - panic, guilt, longing - before he slams the door on it.

“…No,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “Don’t—don’t say shit like that.”

Your heart collapses.

“Toji—”

“You know what this is.” His voice sharpens, turns cold, sharp-edged. “You knew from the start.”

“I know,” you whisper, “and I tried, I really did, but I can’t help it—”

“You’re not in love with me.” It’s cruel and unnecessary, and he knows it, but Toji Fushiguro has never been good at gentle.

“You’re just attached.” He continues, voice flat. “Happens. You’ll get over it.”

Your breath shatters in your chest. “You don’t mean that.” You whisper.

He scoffs: a low, bitter sound. “Yeah, I do.”

You’re crying harder now, shoulders shaking, hands trembling. You try to reach for him, desperate, pathetic - anything to make him stay long enough to understand. “I’m not asking you to love me back. I just—I needed you to know. I can’t keep pretending.”

His gaze drops to your hand reaching toward him. He looks at it like it’s something dangerous - something that could ruin him.

He steps away, and mutters lowly: “No.” 

With another deep breath, he manages to look into your red eyes. The pain speaks volumes, and he quickly tears his gaze away from yours. “You shouldn’t’ve told me.”

“Toji—please—”

“Stop.” The word cracks out of him, sharp enough to make you flinch. His expression twists like he’s irritated, but you know irritation isn’t what’s really there. He’s scared; cornered, and he chooses the only thing he’s ever known how to do.

Grabbing his keys, he doesn’t look at you again.

“This isn’t what I signed up for.” He says tightly. “I’m not—” He cuts himself off like the admission tastes wrong. “I’m not doing this.”

Then he’s at the door, and you choke on a sob. “Don’t go.”

For a moment, his hand stills on the handle. Then he exhales, low and bitter, and walks out without a single glance back. The door closes, and you crumble.

The first day, Toji tells himself he’s right.

He wakes up the morning after he walked out of your place and feels… fine. Maybe a little tired, a little wired, but it’s nothing he can’t shake off.

He goes about his day the way he always does: training, jobs, eating whatever he finds in the fridge. He doesn’t think about you.

Not really.

Only once, when he tosses something into the sink and catches himself imagining what you’d say about the mess. And again when he checks his phone out of habit, expecting a message you don’t send.

He grunts to himself and tosses the phone on the counter.

It’s good; better this way. Eventually, you’d learn to get over it.

Atleast, that’s what he tells himself.

By day two, he’s annoyed.

He keeps telling himself he didn’t do anything wrong. You were the one who crossed the line, the one who ruined something simple and clean.

He didn’t ask for this emotional bullshit.

He’s scowling at his own ceiling at two in the morning, arms behind his head, replaying the moment you said I love you with your face all soft and ruined. Like you expected him to—

He stops the thought, jaw clenching.

You cornered him. What was he supposed to do? Lie? Pretend like he could give you something he didn’t have?

He turns over, grumbling to himself. To him, this is your fault, and he tells himself that again and again, but it doesn’t stick.

Day three is quieter. Too quiet.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he notices your absence. The stillness where your messages used to be. The way his evenings stretch empty without the possibility of you calling, asking if he’s busy, laughing when he lies and when he tells you he isn’t.

He goes to the gym and puts in twice the work he usually does, pushing until his muscles burn. It doesn’t help, and his chest still feels too tight.

When he finally stops, breath heaving, he realizes something that annoys him more than anything else:

He misses you, but he still tells himself you overreacted, and that this is on you.

Day four hits him like a brick.

He doesn’t mean to think of you. He doesn’t want to. But he sees someone walking down the street with your hairstyle, and something ugly twists in his stomach. Sharply and immediately.

He slows and stares, but it’s not you. Of course it’s not. However, it leaves him restless for the rest of the night, pacing his kitchen, opening the fridge and closing it again, unable to sit still.

He pulls out his phone, almost texting you. His thumb hovers over your name for a long, long minute, then he locks the screen and throws himself on the couch with a grunt.

He won’t be the one to cave. After all, he didn’t do anything wrong. Although, that doesn’t feel true anymore.

On day five, the guilt starts.

Toji doesn’t recognize it at first. He just feels irritated; off. Something stuck under his skin that he can’t get rid of.

But eventually he stops, stands still in the middle of his living room, and realizes his chest aches. 

Because every time he blinks, he sees you crying. Every time he tries to focus on something else, his mind drags him back to the moment he told you you’re not in love with me.

He can hear how cruel he sounded. How dismissive and scared he had been. He scrubs a hand down his face, muttering curses under his breath. He didn’t have to say it like that, nor did he have to look at you like you were a problem he needed to get rid of.

He didn’t have to leave, but he did. It’s become something he always does.

His stomach drops unpleasantly, and he tries not to think about why that bothers him so much.

By day six, he can’t pretend anymore.

It hits late - around midnight - when he’s lying alone in his bed, staring at the dark. The thought slides in quietly, like it’s been waiting for him to stop running long enough to catch up.

You weren’t wrong.

His heartbeat stutters, and he swallows hard.

Because now that he’s not angry, he remembers everything clearly: the way you always looked at him, soft even when he didn’t deserve it. The way you’d tried to kiss him like he mattered, and how you whispered his name.

The way you cried - not because he hurt you physically, not because he scared you, but because he mattered enough to break your heart.

Something cold twists in his gut.

And for the second time all week, he feels fear: not the kind that makes him lash out, but the kind that hollows out his ribs and leaves him breathless.

Because if he admits he likes you, and that he wants you, and he feels more than what he’d let on, then everything changes, and Toji doesn’t know how to handle that. He sits up, dragging both hands through his hair, breathing hard like he’s been punched.

“Shit.” He mutters into the dark. “Shit, fuck.”

He wants you, misses you, and he cares.

Day seven is when it finally hits him: real and sharp.

He’s washing his hands, staring at his reflection without thinking, and suddenly the truth slams into him with no warning, no mercy:

He should’ve stayed and comforted you. He’d liked you deeply, but pushed you away all because he was a little scared of commitment; of not deserving.

His breath catches, gripping the sink edge hard enough it creaks.

He’d wanted you. Matter of fact, he still does. Closing his eyes, his shoulders tense, chest tight with something that feels like regret; like longing; like panic. He left you crying, having told you your feelings weren’t real, and he can still remember telling you that you’d get over him, and that nothing between you mattered.

And now - now he feels like his ribcage is too small to hold everything he refused to feel before.

He mutters a curse that shakes out of him like something breaking. “…fuck.” Although he knows he needs to fix this, he doesn’t know how. He’s never apologized for anything real in his life.

But he knows one thing clearer than anything else: he wants you back.

The realisation doesn’t come gently.

It hits him like a truck - fast and brutal - and the second it lands fully in his chest, Toji is moving. He’s out of bed before he even knows he’s on his feet, heart pounding hard enough to shake through his ribs. 

The apartment is dark, the air cold, but he doesn’t feel any of it. He grabs the first black shirt he sees: inside-out, wrinkled, smelling vaguely like laundry he should’ve done two weeks ago. Doesn’t matter. He drags it over the grey sweatpants he fell asleep in, feet already carrying him across the room.

He shoves them into whatever shoes are closest to the door: one is tied, the other’s laces are dragging; he doesn’t care. His pulse is loud in his ears, drowning out everything but the memory of your voice cracking when you said you loved him, followed by the way you shook when he stepped back, and the sound you made when the door closed between you.

He curses under his breath, slams the door behind him, and heads straight for the truck.

The streets are mostly empty - past midnight, quiet, still - but Toji drives like he’s chasing something he can’t afford to lose. He doesn’t think, he just acts. And for once, acting doesn’t mean running away.

He grits his teeth when he pulls into the parking lot of the 24-hour convenience store, tires screeching louder than necessary. The fluorescent lights inside sting his eyes the second he walks in, but he keeps moving, shoulders tense, jaw locked.

Flowers. You like flowers. You mentioned that once, offhand, like you didn’t expect anyone to remember. And chocolate, but the specific kind you buy when you’re sad. The one he made fun of the first time he saw it, only for you to laugh and shove a piece into his mouth.

He remembers.

He hates that he remembers. What he hates even more is that he didn’t act on it sooner.

The flower section is pathetic: only three sad bouquets wrapped in plastic, but he grabs the one with the colors you once said were pretty. He holds it awkwardly, like it might disintegrate if he grips too hard. The chocolate aisle is worse. There’s too many choices, none of them labeled clearly, and Toji’s patience is thin enough to snap. He crouches low, scanning the lower shelf where you usually grab yours.

There, in a purple wrapper. The exact brand you once shoved into his hand and said, “Just try it, you grump.” He grabs three, just in case.

The cashier raises an eyebrow at the giant man standing there at 2 in the morning, holding flowers like they’re a weapon he doesn’t know how to use, but Toji just grunts, tossing money on the counter without waiting for change.

Back in the truck, he throws everything into the passenger seat and slams the door shut. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. He hesitates for half a breath, just one, fighting the deep instinct to turn back, to pretend this doesn’t matter, to pretend you don’t matter.

But then he sees it again: your face from that night, red-eyed and broken, and his chest twists painfully.

He exhales, low and rough. “Shit… okay. Okay.” And he floors it.

The drive to your apartment is a blur, with streetlights smearing across his windshield, the engine growling under his grip, his heart beating too fast, too loud. Even though he knows he's speeding, he doesn’t care. If a cop pulls him over, he’ll deal with it. He has to get to you first.

He parks crookedly, halfway over the line, grabs the flowers and chocolate, and takes the stairs two at a time. His breath is uneven, not from the climb, but from everything twisting inside him.

In front of him, your door looks the same as always.

Toji stands there for a moment, chest rising and falling hard, his fingers tightening around the flowers until the plastic crackles. He runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to steady himself, but nothing helps. This is the first time he’s ever shown up for someone like this, the first time he’s ever tried to fix something instead of letting it rot.

His throat works. His breathing shakes. He mutters something under his breath - too soft to hear, too pained to repeat.

Then he knocks; hard. Once, twice, then softer, as if he’s afraid of the answer. 

Before he can doubt himself, the lock clicks. Toji freezes.

The door opens just a few inches at first, cautious, like you’re not sure if you should even look at him. Then you see him, standing there at two-something in the morning, hair messy, shirt inside-out, flowers bent from how tightly he’s holding them.

Your breath catches, and you open the door wider.

“Toji?” Your voice is soft, tired, raw around the edges.

He swallows loudly. Something flickers behind his eyes: panic, regret, something warmer he’s not ready to name. He tries to say something immediately, but the words jam up in his throat.

So he thrusts the flowers out first, awkwardly, like he’s offering you a weapon. The bouquet is a little crushed at the top, and the chocolate bars slip against the plastic wrapping. You stare at them, then at him.

He huffs out something like a frustrated exhale. “They’re—just take ’em. Before I drop the damn things.”

You blink, startled, and your hands come up slowly. When you touch the flowers, his fingers brush yours for a split second. He jerks back like it burned, and once more, the silence hangs heavy.

Toji hates it, and breaks first.

“I…” He looks away, jaw tightening. “I shouldn’t’ve… said what I said.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“Toji—”

“No.” He cuts you off sharply, then curses under his breath like he didn’t mean to snap. “Just—lemme talk.”

You nod, clutching the flowers to your chest.

He looks everywhere but at you: the hallway; the floor; the wall next to your head. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling and uncurling like he’s preparing for a fight he doesn’t know how to win.

“I fuckin’—” He stops, drags a hand down his face, and tries again. “I left when I shouldn’t have. You were- you were crying, and I just…” His throat moves with a swallow. “I didn’t handle it right.”

Your eyes prick with tears again, and you fight to blink them away. 

He finally meets your gaze, just for a second; just long enough for you to see the crack in his armor.

“I didn’t wanna hear it,” he begins quietly and too honestly. “Not ’cause I didn’t… care.” The word is stiff in his mouth, like he’s not used to saying it. “But ’cause I—shit, I don’t know how to deal with that. With you. With…” He gestures vaguely toward your chest, like your feelings are a tangible thing he can point at but not name. “All that.”

The breath you’ve been holding spills out shaky, and it rattles him. He shifts, weight moving from one foot to the other, shoulders dropping just an inch. “You weren’t wrong. I was.”

Your grip on the flowers tightens, the plastic crinkling.

“And I…” He stops again, jaw flexing. “I don’t wanna lose you over me bein’ a coward.”

Your lips part.

He looks like he’s fighting himself every step of the way, but he pushes on.

“I like you,” he says, voice low, rough, uneven. “More than I should. More than I let myself think about.” His eyes flick away, then back to you, sharper, almost vulnerable. “And I should’ve said that instead of—what I said.”

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.

Toji’s eyes widen, barely, but enough, and his expression twists, something like guilt tightening his features. He steps forward half a step, stopping himself just before he gets too close.

“Hey- hey, don’t cry. I’m not—” He exhales shakily. “I’m not makin’ you cry again. That’s not—shit.” He rubs the back of his neck, frustrated with himself. “I came here to fix it. Or try to.”

You swipe your cheek, laughing weakly, breath trembling. “I’m just- relieved.”

His shoulders drop. A breath leaves him, rough around the edges. However, he knows it wasn’t enough. He knows he barely scratched the surface of what you deserved, and that he should’ve said more - could’ve said more - if he weren’t so damn scared of saying it wrong.

But when he sees the way your eyes soften, the way your chest loosens, the way you look at him like the ground under you finally stopped shaking, he lets himself hope it’s a start.

“…Can I come in?” He asks quietly.

Your lips tremble into a tiny, heartbroken, hopeful smile. “Yeah.” You beam, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Toji exhales, steps over the threshold, and thinks: Don’t screw this up again.

When he steps inside, it’s like he’s afraid he’ll break the place just by being in it. He stands near the doorway at first, shoulders tense, hands awkwardly empty now that you’ve taken the flowers and chocolate. He looks out of place in a way he never has before: big, uncertain, stripped of that careless confidence he usually wears like armor.

You set the flowers on the counter with trembling hands. You don’t move far, as you don’t trust your legs to carry you.

He notices.

His eyes flick to your hands, then your face. You see the way he swallows, throat working unevenly. He’s scared. Not of you - never of you - but of messing up again; of saying the wrong thing. 

“Hey.” He murmurs, almost too quiet for someone his size. “C’mere.”

It’s not a command. Instead, it’s gentle - gentle in a way you didn’t know he had in him. Your breath stutters, but you walk toward him, featherlight, as if sudden movements might make him bolt. When you stop in front of him, he looks down at you like he’s memorizing something, checking to make sure you’re real.

His hand lifts halfway, hesitates, then settles lightly on your arm. His touch is warm, and it makes you inhale sharply.

“I’m not… good at this,” he says, voice low, rough at the edges. “But I meant what I said. ’Bout not wantin’ to lose you.”

Your chest squeezes so tight it almost hurts.

“Toji…” Your voice breaks. Not with sadness—something else. Something fragile and hopeful.

His fingers curl a little at your arm, like he’s anchoring himself. His breath brushes your forehead. You hadn’t realized he leaned in that close.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And the moment your eyes meet his, everything slows. The tension in his jaw fades, and his shoulders drop just a fraction. His gaze flicks down - once, quick - to your lips.

Your heart stops.

He realizes you caught it, and he mumbles a curse under his breath, soft and frustrated, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he edges closer, like he’s fighting something stronger than pride, stronger than fear.

“Hn.” He hums, half to himself. “I’ve been wantin’ to do this for way too long.”

Your breath leaves your body in a shaky rush.

“Toji—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

His hand slides up from your arm to your jaw: soft, calloused thumb brushing your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll break if he touches too hard. The contact steals the air from your lungs, your fingers curling into his shirt without you meaning to. He notices that, too, and his breath hitches. Something hungry flickers across his face, but he keeps it held back, controlled, careful.

“You okay?” He asks, voice so quiet it almost doesn’t sound like him.

You nod, barely. “Y-yeah. I just… I didn’t think you’d ever—”

“I know.” He sighs, almost apologetic. “I know.”

He leans in agonisingly slowly, and gives you time to pull back, even though he clearly doesn’t want you to. His nose brushes yours, then his forehead touches yours, and his breath ghosts over your lips, warm and unsteady.

You’re practically shaking from how much you truly love him, and because of how long you’ve wanted this to happen. “Toji,” you whisper, voice trembling, “please…”

That breaks what little restraint he has left.

He cups the back of your head with his other hand, pulls you in the last inch, and kisses you. It’s not desperate, and nor is it greedy. This one is soft. Painfully soft. Slow, unsure, almost reverent, like he’s learning you all over again, and he’s afraid to lose you, even now. 

Your breath catches and you melt into him, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt as if you’re terrified he’ll disappear. The relief is overwhelming, so sharp it almost topples you, because this is real. This is him choosing you. This is something he doesn’t give lightly to anyone.

He feels you shake and pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips. He wasn't the cocky, detached man you'd grown used to in your friends-with-benefits arrangement. No, this Toji looked vulnerable, his usual smirk replaced by a furrowed brow and a tightness in his jaw.

You move deeper into the apartment together, but instead of heading toward the bedroom - the place where everything between you always gets muddled - you veer toward the living room.

The couch looks safer. Neutral, with no weight of any old mistakes. Toji makes note of your choice, but follows nonetheless. You sit first, curling onto one end of the couch. Your knees come up instinctively, like you’re trying to take up less space, or bracing for something. 

Toji stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, staring at you like he’s not sure where he’s allowed to be anymore.

“Can I…?” He gestures at the empty space beside you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He sits too carefully, like he’s scared the couch will reject him if he sinks down too fast. His shoulder brushes yours, and you flinch - not away, but in surprise. 

“Tch.” He exhales, gaze sharp and apologetic at the same time. “I ain’t gonna mess this up. Sit still.”

You don’t respond, but you ease your grip on the throw pillow in your lap.

For a minute, you just sit in silence. The TV glows with whatever you forgot to turn off earlier, and his knee bounces once: nerves. His hand hovers near your thigh, but he pulls it back like touching you without permission would be too much.

You feel him trying, and it scares you how badly you also want to lean into him. When you finally risk leaning your shoulder against his, Toji stops breathing for a second, then his gaze drops to your hand resting beside him.

He stares at it like he’s debating something; fighting himself. Eventually, with a low grunt, he reaches over - slowly - and covers it with his own. You stiffen, and his grip loosens immediately. “If you don’t want—”

“No.” You cut in, squeezing his hand once. “It’s okay.”

His shoulders visibly drop, tension easing. One minute passes like this, then two. Toji - being notorious for the fact he can’t sit still when he’s nervous - shifts. Not far, just enough so his thigh presses against yours more fully. Enough that his arm slides behind you on the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder casually, but not at the same time.

You hold your breath, seeing if he’ll pull away. He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in slightly, voice rough. “Come closer.”

Your heart stutters. “I’m not in the mood for—”

“Not for that.” His tone is firm but quiet, almost frustrated in its gentleness. “Just- just come here.”

You hesitate. 

You’re scared: not of him, but of how easily you could fall into him again. But he sits there, patient in a way you’re not used to, so you move closer, slowly, and Toji lets out a slow exhale like it physically hurts him how hesitant you are. Before your nerves can take over again, his hand comes to your waist, guiding you - tentative, asking for permission instead of taking - until you’re straddling one of his thighs, knees framing him.

You blink, startled.

He meets your gaze, jaw tight. “I told you. Not for that.” Pulling you closer, he settles you against his chest. “Just… stay here.”

Your palms rest awkwardly on his shoulders, causing his arms wrap around your waist too slowly, like he’s scared to spook you. His face presses into the side of your neck, breath warm against your skin.

But then, something changes.

His hold tightens, thighs relaxing under you. His forehead drops against your collarbone like he’s exhausted from the week of pretending he didn’t care.

His voice is muffled when it comes. “Missed you. More than I wanted to.”

You swallow hard, fingers threading carefully into his raven hair, and he leans into the touch like he’s starving for it.

“Don’t- don’t think I’m here just to get somethin’ outta you.” He mutters, arms caging your waist. “I just… needed you close. Needed this with you.”

Your breath trembles. You want to believe him, you really do.

“You’re still on thin ice.” You remind him in a whisper.

His arms pull you tighter into his lap, chest pressed to yours, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice rumbling low against you, “I know.”

Toji settles against the back cushions once you’re tucked into his lap, his arms firm around your waist, but not possessive. They’re steady, like he’s anchoring both of you. It’s awkward at first, the kind of closeness you aren’t used to sharing without heat rushing in to complicate things. You sit stiffly, unsure where to rest your hands, your cheek hovering near his shoulder but not quite touching..

His palm drifts up and down your spine in slow, unfamiliar strokes - not sensual, just grounding. You feel him shift beneath you, adjusting, making room for you to lean if you want to. For the first time since he walked in, he isn’t tense. His breathing evens out, low and heavy, the kind that makes his chest rise against your ribs.

A tiny part of you dares to relax.

You uncurl slightly, letting your back settle against his chest. His breath catches - a soft, almost startled sound - and then his chin drops onto your shoulder with a weight that feels more like trust than anything else. His hands slide lower to circle your waist fully, fingers splayed like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.

“Better?” He rumbles against your ear, voice gravelly from exhaustion and something deeper.

“Mhm.” You hum, letting your eyelids droop.

After a few minutes of quiet, you shift, slipping sideways so your shoulder rests against his chest and your legs stretch out along the couch. Toji follows, guiding you gently, letting you find whatever position feels safest. When you sigh, sinking into him fully, he exhales too: a slow, relieved sound, almost like a confession in itself.

Your blanket lays crumpled over the arm of the couch. You reach for it, but your fingers barely graze the edge. Toji huffs, annoyed at your struggle, and catches it with one long reach. He drapes it over both of you without ceremony, tugging it up to your shoulders and tucking the corner behind your back. 

You can’t help but feel absurdly taken care of.

Your eyes fully shut before you mean for them to. The warmth of him behind you, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your cheek, the weight of his arm slung over your waist - it all lulls you under too quickly. You try to stay awake, try not to let yourself trust this too easily, but it’s late and you’re tired and he’s warm in a way you haven’t let yourself feel in so long.

You breathe out, long and slow, causing Toji’s hand to minutely tighten on your hip.

“…You fallin’ asleep?” He mumbles, voice rough with something like fondness he’d never admit to.

You don’t answer; not with words. Rather, your body curls closer, softening entirely against his chest.

Toji stays still for a long moment, as if testing whether you really did drift off. When your breathing evens out, he shifts carefully - sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. The blanket stays wrapped around you as he gathers you up, lifting you with no effort at all.

You mumble something half-conscious, your face pressing into the fabric of his shirt.

He pauses, staring down at you with a look you’re too asleep to see. Something tender. Something worried. Something guilty and grateful all at once.

“Relax,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “I got you.”

He carries you down the hallway, his steps slow and quiet. The bedroom door is nudged open with his foot, and he moves to lower you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, adjusting the blanket so it still wraps around you. 

For a second, he just stands there in the dim light, watching the way you burrow instinctively into the pillow, how your breathing stays calm even when you’re no longer in his arms.

He exhales - a soft, almost shaky sound. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out and smooths a piece of hair away from your face. His fingers linger for half a second before he steps back.

He lifts the blanket, slides in beside you, and the mattress dips under his weight. Before you can even fully register it, his arm snakes around your waist and he pulls you flush against him with a low grunt like he’s been waiting all night to do exactly this.

You make a small, half-awake sound of confusion. “Mnh.. ‘Ji?”

“Hush.” He breathes it against your hair, warm and unbothered, like your question was adorable but unnecessary. His hand slides up your spine, firm and slow. “S’late. Go to sleep.”

You try again, softer this time. “But I—” Another tug, which causes your back to meet his chest. His leg hooks around yours, claiming without even trying.

“Didn’t I say hush?” There’s no bite to it, just tired affection and that quiet, confident gravity he never loses. His thumb strokes the side of your waist - grounding. “M’here. Gonna stay. Go to sleep.”

Your face heats, and you settle - maybe because he asked, maybe because you want to.

Toji exhales, long and relieved, like your body relaxing gives him permission to do the same. He shifts just enough to get comfortable, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck. His breath fans against your skin, warm and steady.

“Good girl.” He praises, voice low and almost sleepy already. “Knew you’d stop fussin’.”

You’re quiet for a moment, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat stutters. “You… really meant it? You’re staying?”

His arm tightens instantly, pulling you closer until your hips fit against his. He sighs into your hair again - a soft, unguarded sound.

“‘Course I meant it.” He rasps. “Could barely think straight all week without you. Like hell I’m leavin’ now.”

Your eyes flutter shut at the reassurance. Something in him loosens at that - you can feel it, the tension melting out of his chest and into the pillow.

He presses a slow kiss to your shoulder. Then another, lazy and absentminded, like he’s already halfway asleep and just wants you warm and close.

“You smell nice.” He admits, roughened by exhaustion. “Missed this.”

You swallow a smile. “We… haven’t really done this before.”

“Yeah?” His nose nudges your neck, his fingers spreading across your stomach, big and steady and sure. “Then we’re makin’ up for lost time.”

Your breath catches. “Toji…”

“Mm?” He’s drowsy, soft around the edges.

“…You’re being really clingy.”

He chuckles: low and rumbling; shameless. “Yeah. Deal with it.” Another kiss, this one near your jaw. “Got you right here. Not lettin’ go.”

You shift back against him, giving him more of your weight, and his whole body reacts — arms tightening, chest warming, breath slowing until it syncs with yours.

His voice drops to a whisper, almost tender. “Sleep. M’not going anywhere.”

You believe him, and with his arms wrapped around you, his heartbeat steady against your back, sleep comes easier than you expect..

Toji doesn’t wake up the next morning as a brand-new man who suddenly knows how to talk about his feelings. Instead, it’s small changes: quiet, clumsy, and unmistakably him. The first of which happens in your kitchen.

He’s leaning against the counter while you make coffee, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. When you hand him his mug, he stares at it for a beat too long.

“…Thanks,” he mutters, almost confused by his own manners.

You blink. “You’re welcome?”

He grunts, looks away, and takes a sip like he needs the mug to hide his face. But the next morning, he takes his coffee and adds a soft, almost reluctant, “’S good.”

And that becomes routine - the way he acknowledges little things you do for him, awkward at first, then steadier. It’s not poetic, nor is it emotional. It’s the easy, simple honesty that makes your pulse flutter.

Then, there’s the talking. Not about feelings - not yet.

When you’re cooking dinner, he mentions his shoulder’s been bugging him. When you’re scrolling on your phone, he mumbles something about a job running later than planned. When you’re sitting together on the couch, he complains about some guy being annoying at the gym.

He never used to offer pieces of his day unless you dragged them out of him, but now he hands them over without being asked, like he’s slowly realizing that letting you in doesn’t mean losing anything.

You notice the physical changes next. He touches you more, and it’s not sexual - not only, at least.

There’s a hand on your lower back when you walk in front of him, a thumb brushing your cheek when you’re tired, and there’s a quiet tug of your hoodie strings when he’s waiting for you to get your shoes on. His knee presses against yours under the dinner table like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Once, when you’re sprawled on the couch together, he rests his hand on your thigh and keeps it there, warm and solid, even when you shift to get comfortable. He doesn’t move it away. If anything, his fingers tighten, like he’s anchoring himself.

Communication, however, comes slowly and painfully. One night, after you space out during a movie, he pauses the screen.

“You mad at me?” He says it like he’s bracing for a punch.

“What? No, I’m just tired.”

Toji grunts, frowning at the blanket instead of you. “Tell me next time.”

You beam at him. “You want me to tell you when I’m tired?”

He scowls. “You know what I mean.”

But he doesn’t look away this time. He’s trying, and you see it.

The bigger changes sneak up on both of you.

He starts leaving things at your place on purpose. Not just a shirt or two - whole stacks of clothing, a second toothbrush, his favorite knife in your kitchen drawer.

He cooks with you. Not well - he still burns something every other day - but he stands behind you, chin on your shoulder, arms caging you in as you stir something in a pan he probably shouldn’t be trusted with.

He kisses you more, too. Not heated and rushed like before, but soft ones. Forehead kisses when he leaves for work, a kiss to your jaw when he passes behind you, and a quiet kiss to your temple when you’re curled into him in bed.

You don’t have to initiate anymore. Sometimes, he just pulls you in like it’s second nature; like it’s where you belong.

Eventually, Toji learns to say real things: small truths that would’ve terrified him before.

One afternoon, you tell him you’ll be visiting a friend and might be home late. He tries to play it casual, but he fails miserably.

“…Text me, okay?” He mutters.

You smile. “Okay.”

“Like—” he scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting away, “—when you get there. And when you leave. And when you’re on your way back.”

You raise a brow. “That’s… a lot of updates.”

“Yeah, well.” He rolls his eyes, but his jaw twitches. “I worry. Just… do it.”

Your heart flips, but you nod. He relaxes, and you see it in the way his shoulders drop.

It becomes a relationship before either of you says the word. He sleeps over more often than not, and you wake up with his arm draped heavy across your waist, his breath warm behind your ear.

He brings you snacks without comment, you buy him a new set of towels for your bathroom. He fixes your broken shelf without being asked, and you wash his hoodie and fold it neatly on your bed. He kisses you when he comes through the door at night like it’s a greeting he’s always used, and neither of you has to say it to know:

You’re his, and he’s yours. You’ve become a real couple in all the ways that actually matter.

Morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting the room in soft golds and pinks. You stirred first, blinking awake to the warmth of Toji’s body spooned behind yours. His arm was still around you, hand splayed possessively over your stomach, his steady breaths tickling your neck.

The events of last night flooded back, and a smile tugged at your lips. He looked so peaceful in sleep, the hard lines of his face softened, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks.

You shifted slightly, and he woke with a low grunt, eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he just stared at you, as if confirming you were real, then pulled you closer, lips brushing your shoulder. 

“Mornin’.” He rasped, voice thick with sleep. His hand slid up under your shirt, palm flat against your bare skin, tracing idle circles. “Sleep okay?”

“Better than okay.” You replied, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes searched yours, still holding a trace of last night’s vulnerability, but now mixed with something warmer, more certain. “You?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Woke up a few times, thinkin’ you’d be gone.” A faint flush colored his neck, and he ducked his head, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. 

“Glad you’re here.” His fingers dipped lower, hooking into your panties’ waistband, tugging gently. “Want you. If... that's alright.”

The request was tentative, so unlike his usual demanding nature, and it melted you. 

“More than alright.” You whispered, leaning in to capture his lips. The kiss started slow, exploratory - lips parting, tongues touching lightly, tasting the remnants of sleep and sincerity. Toji's hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw as he deepened it, a soft hum vibrating in his chest.

He rolled you onto your back gently, settling between your legs, his weight a comforting press. Breaking the kiss, he trailed his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point, teeth grazing without bite. 

“Gonna make you feel good.” He murmured against your skin, voice husky. 

His hands pushed your shirt up, exposing your breasts, and he paused to admire them, eyes darkening with hunger. “Fuck, these... perfect.” The praise sent a shiver through you, warming your core as his large hands cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch. 

He was so much bigger than you - his palms nearly spanning your entire chest - and the size difference made every caress feel amplified, like he could envelop you completely.

Toji's mouth followed his hands, latching onto one nipple and sucking softly, his tongue flicking over the peak. You moaned, threading your fingers through his dark hair, holding him close. “Nnh, Toji…” 

“That’s it, baby.” He praised, switching to the other side. “You sound so pretty f’me. My good girl, yeah?” His words were like velvet, wrapping around you, making you feel cherished and desired in a way your casual hookups never had.

You arched into him, fingers threading through his messy hair, holding him there. He lavished attention on the sensitive bud, alternating licks and gentle tugs with his teeth, while his hand kneaded the other breast, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger. 

“So responsive…” He mumbled, lifting his head to blow a cool breath over the wet skin, making you shiver. “Love how you react to me.”

He kissed his way down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants and sliding them off along with your underwear. You were bare before him now, and he paused, his gaze raking over you with open admiration. 

Toji settled between your legs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider. He was huge everywhere, and the sight of him there, so close to your core, made your pulse race. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up, until his mouth hovered over your pussy. 

“Gonna make you feel good.” He promised, his breath teasing your folds. "You deserve this. Deserve me taking care of you."

“S-Stop teasing, ‘Ji..” You mumbled, shying away the longer he stared at your cunt. However, he was too distracted by your glistening folds to pay attention.

“Fuck, look at you.” He breathed, his voice husky. “So small and perfect, spread out for me. I could just eat you up.” There was that teasing edge again, but it was soft, affectionate, as he parted your thighs with gentle hands.

Spreading your legs wider, he settled in, inhaling deeply. “Smell so sweet.” He said, voice reverent. His tongue flicked out, tracing your outer lips before parting them to lap at your entrance, tasting the fresh arousal gathering there. You gasped at the sensation.

He hummed in approval, the vibration sending sparks through you, before delving deeper. He licked at your clit with flat, broad strokes, his large hands gripping your hips to hold you steady. 

“Taste so good.” He murmured between laps. "My pretty little pussy, all wet for me. You're amazing, you know that?"

The praise made you clench, pleasure building as he sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue circling it relentlessly. One of his thick fingers pressed at your entrance, sliding in easily with how aroused you were. He was so big that even one finger stretched you, filling you in a way that made you whimper. 

“Haah, Toji..!” You cried out weakly, thighs beginning to tremble from the anticipation.

“That's my girl…” He cooed, pumping it slowly. “Takin’ my finger so well. Imagine how good you'll feel around my cock.”

He added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot inside you, and you cried out, your hips lifting. Toji's free hand pressed down on your lower belly, pinning you in place with his size and strength. 

“Easy, baby.” he teased softly, the endearment slipping out naturally. “Gonna take my time.” 

He sealed his lips around your clit, sucking softly at first, then with more pressure, his tongue circling the nub in tight loops. 

Two fingers eased into your pussy, thick and calloused, curling upward to stroke that spongy spot inside. He pumped them slowly, scissoring to open you up, his mouth never leaving your clit—licking, sucking, humming vibrations through you.

“Fuck—wait, ah!—gonna cum!” You warn shakily, The coil in your belly tightened, pleasure crashing over you as your first orgasm hit. You came with a shuddering moan, walls fluttering around his fingers, and Toji didn't stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every wave. 

“Good girl.” He cooed, kissing your thigh as you came down. “So pretty… Feel good?”

“Y-Yeah,” you nodded, breathless, pulling him up for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it only made you want more. Your hands fumbled with his belt, eager to feel him. Toji helped, shoving his pants down to free his cock. 

It sprang out, thick and long, veins prominent along the shaft, the head already leaking pre-cum. He was massive - easily over eight inches, girthy enough that your hand couldn't wrap fully around it - and a fresh wave of arousal flooded you.

“Look at that.” Toji said with a teasing grin, stroking himself once. “Think you can take all of me, sweetheart? You’re so tiny compared to me.” His tone was light, playful, but his eyes were full of love as he positioned himself between your legs again.

“I want it.” You admitted, reaching for him. 

He guided the tip to your entrance, rubbing it through your slick folds, teasing you with the stretch before pushing in slowly. The burn was exquisite, his thickness parting you inch by inch, filling you so completely that you felt every ridge and vein. 

“Oh god, Toji!” You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shh, I’ve—fuck, sweetheart. Gotta loosen up—got you.” He soothed, pausing to let you adjust, his forehead resting against yours. “You're doing so fucking good, taking me like this.” He reassured you through gritted teeth, his control evident in the way he held still, letting you acclimate to his size. 

When you nodded, he sank deeper, bottoming out with a groan. “Shit, you're tight. Feel that? All mine.”

He started moving then, slow thrusts that had you moaning with each slide. His hips rolled gently, the head of his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, and he kissed you softly, swallowing your whimpers. "You feel incredible," he murmured. "My sweet girl, clenching around me so nicely. Gonna make you come again."

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscled expanse, urging him on. Toji's arms caged you in, one hand sliding under your back to lift you slightly, changing the angle so he hit that spot inside with pinpoint accuracy.

“T-Tojiii… You’re so—Oh, oh!” You mewled, eyes rolling into the back of your head when his tip kissed your cervix deliciously.

“Right there, huh?” He asked, thrusting deeper, the head of his cock nudging that spot on every inward stroke. You whimpered, nodding frantically, and he grinned faintly, the expression tender. “Yeah, knew it. Gonna—hnn!—gonna make you come like this. On my cock, just from me fillin' you up.”

His movements grew a touch firmer, hips snapping with controlled power, the bed creaking rhythmically beneath you. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping down to mingle with yours, and he kissed you again: messy, open-mouthed, swallowing your moans. 

“So good for me, sweetheart.” He praised between thrusts, voice rough with need. The size of him amplified everything - the stretch bordering on too much, yet perfect, your pussy clenching around him involuntarily.

He shifted his weight, hooking one of your legs over his elbow, opening you wider. The new position allowed him to plunge even deeper, his cock reaching places that made stars burst behind your eyelids. 

“Fuck, yes.” He groaned, pace quickening just enough to chase the building tension. “C-Clench like that. Milk my dick.” His free hand found your clit, thumb circling it in firm, steady strokes, syncing with his thrusts. 

“Come for me, baby. Let go—mnh, so tight—I want to feel you milking my cock." His words tipped you over, your second orgasm ripping through you, stronger than the first. 

You cried out, walls spasming around him, and Toji groaned, his rhythm faltering but not stopping. He fucked you through it, drawing it out until you were trembling.

“That's it.” He grinned lazily, kissing your temple. “So good for me, aren’t you?” 

He pulled out slowly, and you whined at the loss, but he flipped you gently onto your stomach, lifting your hips. “One more position, yeah? Want to see this pretty ass while I fill you up.”

He entered you from behind, the new angle letting him go even deeper, his cock stretching you anew. His hands gripped your hips - not bruising, just firm - pulling you back onto him as he thrust steadily. 

“A-Ah! Shooo full…” You whined. The size of him felt even more pronounced like this, his pelvis slapping against your ass with each push. 

“Fuck, you take me so well.” He rasped. "Tiny little thing, ain’tcha, pretty?"

You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, the pleasure building again impossibly fast. Toji leaned over you, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple lightly. 

Slowly, his rhythm steadied, powerful but controlled, his cock pistoning in and out with increasing force, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing softly. He straightened up for better leverage, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep your chest low, ass high, deepening the angle so his dick dragged along your walls relentlessly.

“Come on, baby.” He teased softly, barely audible over the wet sounds and slaps of skin against skin. “Give me one more. I know you can—shit, you’re so wet.”

You whimpered at the overstimulation, but the ache was delicious, blending with renewed arousal as he teased you back to the edge. Toji's hand slid from your hip to between your legs, fingers petting your slick folds around where he was joined to you, gathering the mix of your release before circling your clit lightly. 

“Not stoppin' yet.” He promised, voice husky with need, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your spine.

Once his hand found your clit again, and began rubbing firm circles, it was too much. Your third orgasm crashed over you, vision blurring as you sobbed his name, body shaking. 

Sweat slicked your bodies, the room filling with pants and moans. Toji's breaths grew ragged, his control fraying. 

“Gonna come, pretty.” He warned, hips stuttering. “Inside you okay? Wanna fill this pretty pussy.” 

“Uh-huh… Wan’ it, ‘Ji!” You cried, speech slurred from the combination of overstimulation, as well as being drunk on his cock.

With a guttural moan, he buried himself deep, cock pulsing as ropes of cum shot out, coating your insides. He held you there, grinding to push it deeper, a soft sob escaping him - not from pain, but overwhelming emotion. 

“Fuck... love this. Love you.” The last words slipped out, quiet but profound, as he collapsed over you, careful not to crush.

He collapsed gently beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms so you were draped over his chest. His cock slipped out with a wet sound, his release trickling down your thigh, but he didn't care. Instead, he tightened his hold on you, even if you were boiling hot. 

“You okay?” He inquired softly, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. His voice was tender, full of concern.

“More than okay.” You murmured, nuzzling into his neck. He smelled like sex and safety, and you felt utterly content.

Toji kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips - a chaste, loving peck. “Let me clean you up.” He insisted, standing with you in his arms like you weighed nothing. 

In the bathroom, he ran a warm cloth under the faucet, gently wiping between your legs, careful around your sensitive skin. 

“There we go.” He murmured. “All taken care of.”

Back in the bedroom, he settled you on the bed with more blankets, fetching water from the kitchen and a snack - some fruit he’d spotted earlier. 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs against your skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You whisper it into his chest, and his arm tightens reflexively.

He shifts again, lying fully on his side, wrapping himself around you from behind this time. His chest fits to your back, his palm spreads over your stomach, thumb stroking gently. Your legs tangle together naturally.

“Lemme hold you.” He mumbles into your neck. “Need it.”

You relax completely, and he does too - you feel it in the slow drop of his shoulders, the long breath he releases against your skin. Then, he presses a gentle kiss to your nape.

“You tell me if anything hurts later.” He adds, voice quiet. “Don’t try to be tough.”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re one to talk.”

He huffs a laugh: a warm, sleepy puff against your shoulder.

“Yeah, well,” he rolls his eyes, pulling the blanket higher around both of you, “I can be tough later. Right now I’m busy takin’ care of my girl.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, and you can feel the moment he realises what he said.

His body goes still, causing your heart to stutter. He’s silent; waiting. Eventually, he sighs low and defeated.

“Shit.” His forehead drops lightly against your shoulder. “You always gotta make things complicated, huh?”

“You said it.” You remind him softly.

He grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like yeah, because it’s true, but he doesn’t say it loud enough for you to claim.

After a moment, he moves again - not to pull away, but to pull you back against him more fully. His arm locks around your waist, solid and possessive, like if he holds you tight enough, he won’t have to explain himself.

“Just… let it be what it is,” he mutters finally, quieter than before. “We’re good right now. Don’t ruin it.”

It’s the closest thing to a plea he’s ever given you.

You rest your hand on his forearm, thumb brushing over a scar he never talks about. “I’m not trying to ruin anything,” you whisper.

He swallows, voice dropping even lower. “Then don’t ask me for… definitions. Labels. Whatever.”

You think he’s shutting down again, but then he adds, barely audible: “I’m here. Ain’t I? That’s gotta say enough about what I want.” And your breath catches.

You settle against him again, relaxing slowly, giving him room to breathe. Toji’s grip tightens once more, like he’s relieved you’re not pulling away.

His chin finds your shoulder, nose brushing your neck, and this time, when he exhales, it’s softer; easier.

a/n: with how much work i put into this i expect greatness. im sorry i got a little carried awat, but this was VERY fun to write

please dont expect this standard of work from me for all of my requests. this was meant to be 5k words but nearly tripled...

most importantly, thank you to my best friend, @bedsheeteater , who motivated and helped me put together this fic whenever i struggled. i love you bro 🩷

dividers by @/enchanthings!

[lostfracturess]

'TIS THE SEASON FOR UNRESOLVED FEELINGS — SATORU GOJO

pairing — satoru gojo x suguru’s little sister!reader

summary — eight years ago, satoru gojo almost kissed you on the bleachers, then apologized and left without looking back. you’ve spent every year since convincing yourself you’re over it—until you spot him across the mall in a santa costume that’s two sizes too small, beard slipping, surrounded by screaming toddlers—and you do what any rational adult would do. you hide. unfortunately, the universe has other plans. like locking you both inside a bookstore until morning.

... a story about growing up, growing apart, and finding your way back to each other.

word count — 18.9 k

genre/tags — modern AU, childhood friends to lovers, brother’s best friend, mutual pining, slow burn, second chance romance, he kept the bracelet (you kept the trauma), forced proximity, blue spring feelings, hurt/comfort, she kisses him first

warnings — 16+ ONLY. themes of abandonment and loneliness, past bullying, sports injury/career loss, angst, and a man who failed chemistry twice but never stopped loving you

author's note — i’m back, friends !! ahhh i’m so happy to share something with you again (kinda nervous about it too, ehmm). this story is written in first person, so i hope you’ll still be able to enjoy it, even if it’s a little unusual but i think it turned out kinda sweet :')) & this is my love letter to second chances and the complicated emotions of growing up <3

masterlist + read on ao3 + support my writing

“Hiding out here too?”

I turned at the sound of his voice. He climbed the bleachers with two plastic cups in his hands, white hair catching the last traces of sunset. Satoru Gojo. My brother’s best friend. My almost, my maybe, my never-quite.

“I thought you’d be busy with your fan club,” I said as I took the cup he offered. He dropped down next to me, long legs stretched over the row in front of us, close enough that our shoulders almost touched but didn’t.

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.”

A lie. People orbit him the way moons orbit planets—helpless. And I was one of them, one moon in a crowded sky. But in twelve days that would change. He’d be gone, accepted early to some university three prefectures away, the kind that sends its offers on thick cream paper. Our town would shrink to the size of a matchbox in his rearview mirror, and I would stay behind and count the days until the matchbox burned.

I raised the cup and took a sip. It was overly sweet.

Fireflies drifted above the wide soccer field, blinking like tiny stars in the growing dark. Behind us the graduation party spilled noise across the open air, laughter that sounded too loud, too hopeful, too unsure, the nostalgia of people already turning this place into a story, happy to escape and secretly wishing the time back.

I didn’t want to hide out here. I thought I’ve overcome my cowardness years ago but looks like I didn’t. I slipped away from the party when the celebration began to weight heavy on my heart, when each congratulation directed at them felt like a small funeral for the version of me that believed nothing would ever change.

Sixteen is a stupid age. Old enough to know people leave, young enough to believe you might be the exception.

And I didn’t want to be so sad that day. I really tried. It was Satoru and Suguru’s graduation party, after all. A happy day. The last great hurrah before they left. But I couldn’t shake the thought that I would stay here, finish school alone, rooted to this small town like someone had pinned me down with no chance to catch up.

I probably should have stayed with my friends, let their chatter about summer trips and movie stars wash over me and pretend I care about the same things. I could have passed for normal. Instead I followed the same worn path, trailing after my brother and his best friend because that had always been what I do.

Saturday mornings in our school gyms with my textbooks open while they ran drills, or late-night convenience store trips where they bought me ice cream and ruffled my hair. Birthdays, holidays, ordinary afternoons that somehow turned special because the two of them filled every moment with a brightness I never learned to create on my own.

My adolescence shaped itself around them. Suguru’s little sister. Satoru’s friend’s kid sister. I answered to those roles more readily than to my own name some days.

And somewhere between my childhood and this humid summer night, I convinced myself that if I stayed tucked inside the pocket they made for me, it would never stop fitting. I let myself believe the story would hold steady forever.

But it wouldn’t. Everything would change. In two weeks the house would go quiet. And I would still be here, sixteen and small and so unbearably left behind. Still in love with someone who called me kid and probably didn’t know my favorite color.

Two years felt like forever at that age. Seven hundred thirty days. Seven hundred thirty nights of maybe texting, maybe not. Long enough for new cities to leave their marks on his skin, for inside jokes to form in languages I wouldn’t speak, for girls with longer legs and brighter smiles to learn the exact pressure of his hand at the small of their back.

By the time I’d be old enough to board a train without permission, I would be the footnote he mentioned when someone asked about home. Remember Suguru’s little sister? Yeah, she was always around.

I hated that thought.

“Nervous about Osaka?” I asked, mostly to fill the silence before my thoughts ate me alive.

“I guess I should be. New city, more competition, living on my own for the first time…” He drank from his cup. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It will when you’re playing in front of thousands of people.”

“Maybe.” He fell quiet for a moment, then asked, “What about you? Nervous about next year?”

“A little. But also… excited? I want to do well. I need to do well if I want any chance of getting into Tokyo’s chemistry program. My grades have to be perfect.”

“Hey.” He bumped my shoulder gently. “You’ll be fine. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“I’m serious. You dragged me and Suguru through every year of chemistry, even though we’re two years ahead of you. Remember all those Sundays in your kitchen when you explained stoichiometry to us like it’s the easiest thing ever? And I still couldn’t get it.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

“I absolutely was,” he said. “Suguru was only slightly less terrible. But you saved our asses every time. Point is, Tokyo would be idiots if they didn’t take you.”

“You really think so?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I know so. You’re going to get exactly where you want to go.”

I looked down and picked at the rim of my cup, hoping my heartbeat wasn’t as loud as it felt.

“You’re lucky,” he said after a moment.

“Why’s that?”

He smiled, small and fragile, the kind that used to make teachers forgive him for never doing his homework.

“You know what you want,” he said. “You’ve got everything lined up. You’re gonna be some famous chemist or something, probably discover a new element and win a Nobel Prize.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s not. You’re stupidly smart. It’s honestly terrifying.” He leaned back on his elbows, eyes drifting to the first stars poking through the sky. “Meanwhile I’m just following Suguru and hoping I don’t screw everything up.”

“You won’t screw it up.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I know so,” I said, throwing his own words back at him. “You and Suguru are gonna be amazing. You’ll travel the world, play in big and famous arenas, maybe even the Olympics.”

“You really think that?”

“I do. I always have.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out? What if I get there and I’m not good enough? What if I fail and have to come back with nothing… I don’t know. I’m talking nonsense.”

“You won’t fail. You’re too good for that. And you know it.”

He gave another fragile smile. “Must be nice, having everything figured out already.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, I know what I want to study, but everything else is just—” I swirled the last of the punch. The ice had melted into pink water. “A total mess.”

“Like what?”

I stared straight ahead, at the dark line where the field ended and the rest of the world began. 

“Like wondering if the people I care about will still be around when I graduate. If anything will be the same in two years. If I’ll still matter to them when they’re off chasing dreams somewhere far away.”

He was quiet so long I thought he hadn’t heard. I wanted to disappear into the bleachers.

“You’ll always matter,” he said at last.

I wanted to laugh at how small the promise sounded against the size of what I needed. I wanted to cry because it was the most he’d ever given me. I wanted to beg him to say it again, louder so the night could keep it forever. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Will I?” I asked, foolishly.

“Of course. You think I could forget you?”

“Even when you’re in Osaka? When you’re playing for one of the best teams in the country, with scouts probably circling you after every game?” I should have stopped there. “Or girls?”

“Is that what you think my life is gonna look like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what you’ll do. I just know you’ll be too busy living your amazing new life to think about home.”

“You’re not just home,” he said. “You’re—”

“I’m what?” I hated it. I didn’t take it back.

“You’re important to me. You’ve always been.”

I could barely contain my little heart from exploding.

“Satoru,” I said, and it sounded like please and don’t and stay all at the same time.

His hand moved first. His fingertips brushed the back of mine where it rested on the warm metal. It was barely a touch. It should have been nothing. It felt like everything. I was so foolishly in love.

“I know I shouldn’t—”

His knuckles grazed my cheek. And for a heartbeat—one impossibly long, impossibly hopeful moment—I thought he might close the distance. I thought he might actually—

But something in him snapped shut. His hand fell. His gaze dropped to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He stood and moved fast, long legs taking the bleacher steps two at a time. I have to go, he said and didn’t even look back as he took my stupid childhood dreams with him.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the punch to go warm, for the music to loop twice, for the hollow in my chest to stretch into something too big for my small body to hold.

Eventually I walked home alone. I locked myself in my room, pressed my face into the pillow, and cried until my ribs hurt. When Mom knocked, I told her I was emotional about graduation. She believed me because mothers want to.

Two weeks later he left for Osaka without saying goodbye. Suguru hugged me in the driveway, ruffled my hair the way he always had, and promised he’d call every week. Satoru stood by the car with sunglasses on even though the sky was overcast, and lifted one hand in a wave that never became anything more.

The car pulled away. I watched until the taillights vanished, then went inside and closed the door on the rest of my childhood.

That was eight years ago.

Eight years of no contact. Eight years of pretending I was over it, that I was mature and unbothered, that time had made me sensible. Until now. Because there he was.

Across the mall.

In full view.

Dressed in a Santa costume that was both too tight and too short, with a fake beard hanging slightly askew. A glittery vinyl banner screamed SANTA’S VILLAGE! above his head, and a line of toddlers and parents stretched toward the plastic throne where he sat, all six-foot-three of him.

Startled, I stood behind the register of the bookstore where I worked over the holidays, arms full of orders and trying not to drop all of them as my brain forgot how to function.

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve pretended I was needed in the cookbook section, or called in sick, or quit on the spot, or fled the country—literally anything except stand there and stare. But, of course, I stared. Because of course I would.

And eventually Satoru Gojo—my brother’s best friend, my could-have-been, my nearly-was, the unfinished story I left back in high school—looked up, and his eyes caught mine.

Satoru blinked.

I blinked.

And in the middle of a crowded mall, surrounded by Mariah Carey promising she didn’t want a lot for Christmas, angry toddlers, and a mall cop eating his fifth donut of the day and not in the slightest doing his job… Satoru Gojo, the wound I never recovered from, whispered—

“…oh shit.”

Merry Christmas to me.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

We stared at each other.

Not long—maybe three seconds, maybe an eternity—hard to tell when lungs suddenly forgot how to work and the world stretched so thin it felt like one wrong breath might tear straight through it.

His eyes, that winter-sky blue right before the first snow decides to fall, held mine across the cheap tinsel and screaming toddlers. Eight years should have dulled them, turned them ordinary. But they hadn’t. If anything, time had sharpened them, made them brighter, more unmistakably his.

“Excuse me?” a woman said beside him. She nudged a small child forward—a little girl with pink cheeks and wide eyes staring up at the giant red figure in front of her.

Satoru blinked.

I blinked.

And the moment shattered like ice.

The little girl took one look at him—this weary Santa with the slipping beard and faint panic rising in his eyes—and immediately burst into tears.

“Ho… ho…?” Satoru tried, but it came out more like a question. 

The child wailed louder.

My own heart wasn’t doing much better. It beat too fast, too hard, too uneven, like it wasn’t sure whether to sprint or stop entirely. Because Satoru Gojo was here. Here. After eight years of nothing but secondhand mentions from Suguru, a few blurry appearances in my brother’s stories, and a whole lot of distance.

He was here. In this mall. In my town.

It wasn’t even his job. It was Suguru’s stupid annual winter side hustle—the one he uses up for his gaming habit instead of buying needed textbooks. But he was nowhere in sight. Why hadn’t he mentioned anything?

A strange pressure built behind my ribs.

None of it made sense. Satoru lived somewhere far away now. He had med-school lectures to attend, clinical rotations to do, an entire life that had nothing to do with our nowhere town or me. He had no reason to be here. He shouldn’t be here. And he absolutely had no right to make me feel like I’d been hit by a train I’d spent years convincing myself had already left the station with one single glance. And yet—

He came back.

“Hey.”

I startled so violently the top three books slid off the stack and hit the carpet with a dull thud. Maki stood right beside me, one eyebrow arched like she’d caught me—which, I guess, she did.

“…Who.” She followed the line of my stare. “—are you staring at?”

“I—uh—no one.”

Maki’s gaze flicked back to the disaster across the mall. A too tall and too broad Santa with white hair poking out from under the hat, velvet pants that stopped far too high on his legs, and a fake beard held in place by a rubber band stretched thin enough to snap from a single sigh.

She looked at him.

She looked at me.

She looked at him again.

Her face didn’t move, but somehow she managed to deliver several very loud thoughts at once, including:

You absolute clown.

You’re lying to my face.

What the hell is that man wearing?

“Right,” she said. “So you’re just… admiring mall Santa.”

“I wasn’t—he’s—”

“Tall? Weirdly attractive for someone who looks like he got kicked out of the North Pole? Doing a bad job?”

I stared at her, betrayed.

She shrugged. “I’m not blind.”

Across the mall, Santa-Satoru was squatting awkwardly, his beard slipping lower by the second. He whispered something to the sniffling girl; whatever it was worked, because her wail turned into a hiccup, and then a shy smile. For one heartbeat he looked up again, scanning, searching. And landed on me.

Maki followed the trajectory of his eyes. 

“Oh,” she said. “Now I get it.”

“I—he’s not—it’s not—”

“You know him,” she said, deadpan. “You know mall Santa.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“Then give me a better title.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not when Satoru Gojo—my almost, my what-if, my forever something—stood twenty meter away in a stupid Santa costume, staring at me like he’d just seen something he thought had died years ago suddenly open its eyes again. And I had no idea what any of it meant.

Maki didn’t drop it. Of course she didn’t.

“So you gonna explain why hot mall Santa is staring at you like he wants you as his gift under the christmas tree?”

“He’s not—he wasn’t—Maki, stop.”

“Nope. Because you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you’re panicking like you’re some teenager.”

I winced. She was, as usual, correct. Maki waited. I stayed silent. She lifted an eyebrow. I gave up.

“Fine. He’s my brother’s best friend.”

Maki blinked. Once. “That’s it?”

“No.”

“I figured.”

Before I could elaborate—or panic further—I grabbed her sleeve and pulled her sideways, past the game section and manga, straight into the self-help aisle, because—let’s be real, no one’s ever there. Maki stared at me, waiting for me to talk between a sea of motivational quotes, cheerful covers, and titles like Finding Your Inner Light, Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, and You’re Not Crazy You’re Just Healing!

I wanted to die.

“So he’s kinda, like—” I rubbed my face; tried again. “I mean, he is—was—is, I guess, still is but also no, was and—”

Maki tapped a book titled Stop Walking on Eggshells and gestured at me.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said.

“Yes. I very much enjoy watching you malfunction. Now tell me why mall Santa is making you lose your mind.”

“He used to be around all the time. When we were kids. Like every single day.”

“So childhood friend crush. Classic. Continue.”

“It wasn’t—I mean—” My fingers found a book at random to have something to hold. It was titled How Not to Fall for the Wrong Guy. I shoved it back. “He went to Osaka with my brother to play basketball and I’ve never seen him again since.”

“That happens,” Maki said, not unkindly.

“Yeah, but there was… something. Right before he left. Something that almost happened. And then didn’t.”

“Ah. Now were’re getting to the interesting part.”

“There’s nothing interesting because nothing happened. Or maybe it did, I don’t know. And I know it’s stupid. I’ve spent years trying to get over it. Over him. And now he’s here? In a Santa costume? In my mall? I mean—what is happening? What am I supposed to do with that?”

Maki made a thoughtful face, then pointed at a pink paperback beside my elbow titled Managing Panic Before It Manages You.

“You might need that.”

“Not helpful.”

She crossed her arms and leaned a shoulder against the Mindfulness and Meditation shelf. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“No! God, no. I’m too busy for feelings. I have deadlines, rent, a succulent that’s on the verge of death. You know how it is.” I reached for the nearest row of books and began rearranging them, pulling one forward, nudging another back, straightening a row that didn’t actually need straightening. “It’s just—A lot happened. After he left.”

“Like what?”

“Satoru got injured.” My fingers found the corner of some pastel book about radical forgiveness and pulled at it until the edge curled. “About four years ago. It was bad. He had to quit basketball.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Suguru didn’t give me details—or better said, I didn’t ask really. But it was serious and Satoru wasn’t the same after. After his injury he moved to another city and started studying sports medicine.” I slid a book half an inch to the left, paused, then slid it right back again. “Suguru said he got quieter. More closed off. I never asked. I didn’t think it was my place. I still don’t think it is.”

“So you two haven’t talked since before the injury,” she said.

“Not once.”

“And now he’s standing in the middle of this mall in a Santa costume, looking at you like you’re his long lost girlfriend.”

I traced the raised letters on a book cover. After his injury, everything between us—between the three of us, really—changed in ways none of us ever named. Suguru and Satoru grew a little distant, their calls got shorter, the laughter between them sounded different. Satoru transferred to another university, and Suguru quit too. Said he didn’t want it anymore if they couldn’t have it together. And now, standing here with him somewhere in this building, too close and too far at the same time, I realized I wasn’t even sure I knew who Satoru Gojo was anymore.

“It’s strange,” I said. “Seeing him again. After so long.”

My fingers closed around a bright green paperback titled Overcome Anything in 30 Days! I pulled it forward, pushed it back, shifted the angle, aligned the spine with the others, then pulled it out again because the spacing felt wrong.

Maki watched with the look of someone witnessing a car crash and unable to tear her eyes away, while somewhere past the shelves, the mall’s Christmas playlist kept looping.

“You’ve rearranged that book six times,” she said.

“It’s crooked.”

“It’s not crooked.”

“It feels crooked.”

I adjusted it again. Now it actually was crooked, leaning forward like it was trying to escape the shelf, which I couldn’t blame it for. If I were trapped between self-help books on a Thursday afternoon, I’d try to flee too. I frowned, tried to fix it, made it worse, and finally gave up with a long exhale and shoved it back into place.

Maki raised an eyebrow. “Feel better?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

A sudden burst of noise pulled me back to reality—voices, footsteps, the unmistakable ding of the front register. Customers had already begun to line up, a small crowd gathering at the cashier as if Maki and I had been hiding in this aisle far longer than I’d meant to. 

Before either of us could move, our manager appeared at the end of the row with that flat expression of someone who had been searching for quite a while and absolutely expected to find us doing nothing productive.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I tried to keep myself as busy as possible in the last hours of my shift, which wasn’t exactly hard. Holiday shoppers swarmed the aisles like we were giving things away for free. I answered their questions on autopilot.

“Do you have anything for a twelve-year-old who likes dragons?”

“Fantasy section, back left corner.”

“What about cookbooks?”

“Front table, next to the registers.”

I didn’t halt for a second—scanned barcodes, tied twine around brown paper, shoved purchases into gift bags. I even covered for Maki, so she could sneak away for a quick nap in the staff room. Anything to keep my brain occupied and keep my eyes from drifting toward the open hall, where Satoru was probably still traumatizing small children in that absurd costume.

But every time the line thinned and I had four seconds to breathe, my gaze betrayed me. It sought him out, the same way it had during those long, sunburnt summers, when watching him felt easier than looking anywhere else.

And there he was.

Satoru. 

Santa-Satoru.

Still somehow looking like himself even under all that red velvet and cheap polyester fur. Now and then I caught the flash of white hair when he tugged the beard down to breathe, or the striped socks he definitely hadn’t owned at eighteen when the pants rode up. And the way he leaned down when a kid climbed into his lap—careful, gentle—was the same way he used to lean over my homework when I was twelve and pretending I didn’t know the answer just to keep him close.

I watched, transfixed. And every time, something in my chest tightened, like it recognized him before the rest of me could decide whether it wanted to. He was still him. And I was still watching.

He was older, of course—eight years will do that. But it was more than time. His face had lost the last traces of boyhood softness; his jaw was sharper, the faint roundness in his cheeks long gone. He’d always been tall, but now his shoulders looked broader, his arms stronger. 

I hated that I couldn’t look away from the man he’d grown into. I thought I’d never get to see this version of him. 

After he left, I treated his Instagram like a minefield—one wrong tap and I’d blow off a limb. It was this dramatic. But the nights got longer, and discipline thinned. Eventually I’d find myself awake in the middle of the night, thumb hovering, then giving in.

Action shots from games. Group photos after practice with his arm slung around people I didn’t recognize. Stories from away trips—hotel rooms, bus rides, teammates laughing. 

And the comments. God, the comments.

Girls—dozens of them—flooding every post with heart emojis and comments that got worse the more you scrolled. marry me. ruin my life. hello beautiful boy. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I didn’t care, that I was above this kind of teenage stuff. But I did care. And then came the night I fell down the fan-edit rabbit hole.

One accidental tap and there he was in slow motion—sweat catching stadium lights, fingers in damp white hair, laughing like the world had never said no to him with captions like why is he so perfect and imagine being the girl he smiles at like this. I wanted to throw my phone against the wall.

I knew I was stupid to feel jealous. An almost-something on a summer bleacher didn’t buy me a single inch of him or give me a say in his new life, the people he met, or the girl he leaned into after wins. I was the girl he almost kissed, then apologised to, then left without a glance back. Nothing more. I cared anyway.

And it had hurt. If I let myself be honest—which I tried very hard not to—it had hurt like hell watching him build a whole bright life without me. Watching him smile in photos with people who got to orbit him the way I once had, while I stayed here, still in high school, still the kid sister who didn’t matter enough to visit.

After the injury I stopped looking altogether. Suguru called one night and told me Satoru had gone down during a game. Something about his knee, about surgery and physical therapy and an unclear recovery, possibly even career end. 

I opened Instagram that same night, but I couldn’t look. Couldn’t handle seeing dreams I’d watched form since childhood splinter. Couldn’t handle seeing him hurt, even through a screen. Later I learned he’d deleted his account.

And now he was here, not in a screen but breathing and wearing a supid red costume and all. A memory that had learned how to walk again.

None of it helped. I needed answers. Or at least one answer. So during a moment of quiet—no crying children, no stressed shoppers, no requests for “that book with the blue cover that everyone talks about on TikTok”—I ducked behind the counter and pulled out my phone.

you: why is satoru here

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

suguru: you saw him??

suguru: he lost a bet

suguru: had to take over my shift

you: you couldn’t have warned me???

suguru: sorry i was busy

suguru: besides you’ve been avoiding him for years

suguru: figured you two should talk

you: we have nothing to talk about

suguru: sure

suguru: that’s why you always flee the room when i mention him, right?

you: i hate you

suguru: love you too little sister

suguru: be nice to him okay? he’s going through it rn

My fingers paused above the keyboard. Going through it? Was it about his injury? I started to type, but another message landed before I could finish.

suguru: gotta run

suguru: don’t kill each other

I stared at the screen. A bet. He was here because he lost a bet. Not because he missed the town, not because Suguru asked him to come home for the holidays, not because some part of him wondered what I looked like at twenty-four. 

Just bad luck and worse timing.

It should have been a relief. A door slamming shut on every stupid hope I’d refused to admit I was still carrying. But it landed like a punch. I shoved my phone back into my pocket and swallowed the heavy feeling it left behind.

“Customer at the register,” Maki called, and I went back to work.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

By evening the holiday chaos finally thinned, and we were supposed to be closing soon, but I moved slower than necessary. I closed the register a little too late, counted the till twice, pretended the receipt paper needed replacing. Anything to keep me here a bit longer. 

I wasn’t walking out those doors yet. Not after hearing Satoru’s voice drift across the hall earlier, telling some security guard he’d be “out of here soon.” I would wait him out.

“I’ll close,” I told Maki as she shrugged into her coat. “I’ve got inventory to finish anyway.”

She gave me a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing and found it deeply pathetic, but not pathetic enough to call me out on it. 

“Don’t stay too late,” she said. “Empty malls are creepy as hell.”

“Lock up when you’re done!” Our manager was already halfway out the door. “And actually finish the inventory this time!”

I waited until I couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore, until the overhead lights dimmed and the holiday music finally, goddamn finally, shut off. Mariah Carey might not want a lot for Christmas, but I sure as hell didn’t want to hear that song anymore for my Christmas.

I exhaled and opened the ordering tablet. One hour, I decided. Sixty safe minutes. By then the red suit would be folded in some staff room and he’d be gone—out the doors, into the cold, back to whatever life he lived now.

It felt like a solid plan. Reasonable. Adult, even. Which should have been my first clue it wouldn’t work.

I made it fifty-three minutes. 

Footsteps echoed down the empty mall. Could’ve been security; they did rounds at this hour. But something in the rhythm pulled at me in a way I felt in my chest before I recognized anything in my head.

“You still here?”

I turned. And there he was.

He still wore the stupid red velvet jacket and pants, but the hat and beard were gone, exposing pale skin and the soft freckles across his nose and cheeks. Somehow that made it worse—made him look less like mall Santa and more like himself. 

Like the boy on the bleachers. 

Like the boy who almost kissed me.

Like the boy who ran.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you left.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, hands disappearing into red pockets. “Didn’t feel right to leave without saying a real hello.”

“We don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“This awkward reunion thing. It’s late. You can just go. It’s fine.”

“What if I wanted to see you?”

I hated the way my pulse stumbled at the sound of his voice, how my whole body still tensed like we were back on that bleacher, suspended in an almost that never happened. I hated that after I’d buried him so deep I swore the dirt was packed, one stupid question cracked the grave open again. And that I wanted him to stay almost as much as I wanted him to leave.

“Satoru—”

“It’s been years,” he said. “And you’re still avoiding me.”

“I’ve been avoiding you?”

“Yeah. You have.”

“You left,” I said. “You and Suguru packed your bags and went off to Osaka, and I haven’t seen you once. Not once in eight years.”

“You could’ve called—”

“So could you! Don’t stand there and act like I’m the one who disappeared. You never called either, Satoru. You were the one too busy living your perfect little dream life while I was still here. Alone.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? From what I saw, you were the university athlete, the basketball star. Had all the parties, the attention, all the girls tripping over themselves in your comments and—”

Heat rose straight up my cheeks. Did I just admit to stalking his social media?—Yes, but I pushed forward anyway, because halting now felt like stepping off a cliff.

“You were busy,” I said. “I get it. You didn’t have time for your best friend’s little sister anymore.”

“That’s not—You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me! Tell me why you left that night on the bleachers. Tell me why eight years went by and you never—” I couldn’t push the last words out. “You never came back.”

“I was in Osaka. I had practice, games, classes—”

“Suguru came home. Every break. You couldn’t manage it once?”

“It’s complicated—”

“It’s really not.” My fingers tightened around the tablet I was still holding. “You wanted to pretend that night never happened. Okay, fine. You did. But don’t stand here acting like I’m the one who—”

“I was trying to give us both space!”

“I didn’t want space! I wanted my friend back.” Something in his face went still, like I’d struck a nerve. “You were my friend, Satoru. Before anything else, before everything else, you were my friend. And then you just… left.”

“You were Suguru’s little sister,” he said. “You still are.”

“So that night was what? Something you wanted until you remembered whose sister I was?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to.” My chest felt too small for all of this. “You ran away fast enough.”

“You were sixteen—”

“I was sixteen and in love with you! God, Satoru, was that not painfully obvious? You could’ve said something—anything. ‘Sorry, I’m not interested,’ or ‘Don’t fall for your brother’s best friend,’ or literally any sentence other than just stand up and run.”

“I was sixteen,” I went on, quieter now but no less fierce. “Sixteen and stupid and desperate for you. Any stupid excuse would’ve worked. My frontal lobe wasn’t even fully developed yet, you know—I would’ve swallowed whatever explanation you handed me without a second thought. And you could’ve spared me years of wondering what I did wrong. Of wondering what we almost were. Of wondering why I wasn’t enough.”

“And now I’m twenty-four. I’m doing a PhD. I’m supposed to be an adult. I’m supposed to be past this. But I still—I still wonder if you were my one true love and I just… missed my only chance.”

The bookstore went suddenly, violently quiet, the way a room falls silent after a glass shatters. I didn’t understand why everything I’d been holding back was suddenly spilling out, but by the time I noticed, I was already speaking again.

“I didn’t deserve this,” I said. “I didn’t deserve years of worrying. Of not knowing. I didn’t deserve to feel like that.”

Satoru stood three meters away, looking as though I had punched him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s actually the worst thing you could have said. Congratulations.”

I moved past him, my shoulder brushing his. I grabbed my coat from behind the counter with hands that trembled.

“Wait—”

“Don’t.” I didn’t look back. I couldn’t watch the plea form and die on his mouth once more. “Just don’t, Satoru. Go home. Go anywhere that’s not here.”

I reached the glass door of the bookstore and pushed. Nothing. I pushed harder. Still nothing. “What—” I rattled the handle, panic rising. I moved to the next door. Locked. I tried the emergency exit. Also locked.

“No, no, no—” 

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. It was 9:02 p.m—the mall had closed two minutes ago. Security must’ve already done their final round and closed the building, and left.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What’s wrong?” Satoru came up beside me. He tried the handle himself. It didn’t budge.

“We’re locked in.” I stared past my own reflection in the glass into the darkened mall—shuttered storefronts, shadowed corridors, not a single soul left. “Security closed the building already.”

“Can you call someone?”

I pulled out my phone again—2% battery—and then the screen went black. I blinked, tapped the side button. Nothing. “No, no, no—don’t you dare.” I pressed the power button harder like that would magically fix it. “Come on—” A faint battery icon flickered once, then—darkness. 

I let my head thunk against the glass.

“I’ve got mine,” Satoru said, pulling his hand from his pocket and reaching for his phone—except his fingers closed around empty air. He searched the other pocket, then the inside of his coat, then the Santa jacket. His face went still.

“I…” he began.

I looked at him.

He winced.

“…think my phone is still at the Santa booth.”

I wanted to die. Again.

“They won’t be back till 6 a.m.,” I said. “That’s when the cleaning crew comes.”

Nine hours. Nine hours locked in with the person I’d spent years trying not to think about.

“There has to be another exit,” Satoru said. “Emergency exits, loading docks—something.”

“All alarmed,” I said. “We open one, the cops show up.”

“So let the cops show up.”

“And explain why we’re here after hours? My boss will fire me on the spot.” I slid down until I was sitting against the cold glass of the door, burying my face in my hands. “This cannot be happening.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

High school gymnasiums always smell like teenage sweat and floor wax, packed so tightly with people one can barely breathe. I can still remember it so vividly, feel the humidity on my skin, damp and heavy, and suddenly, I’m fifteen again, lungs burning on that early spring day of the regional semifinals.

We were up against Saitama West, with their star player who’d already been scouted by university coaches. Everyone said our team didn’t stand a chance.

I showed up two hours before the game and saved myself a seat in the front row. My friends told me I was insane to sit there alone for that long, staring at an empty court, but I didn’t care. This mattered, because it mattered to them—to him.

Slowly, the silence was replaced by a low hum, then a roar. Parents, students, and teachers—people who usually couldn’t be bothered to attend a sports event—flooded the bleachers, while the opposing team’s section was a sea of their colors, three times the size of ours, their chants already deafening during warm-up.

I sat there with my knees pulled tight to my chest, wearing Suguru’s old practice jersey. It was comically large, the hem hanging past my knees like a dress and it still smelt faintly of teenage boy that never truly washes out of polyester no matter how often you clean it. I had stolen Mom’s liquid eyeliner to draw their numbers on my cheeks. On my left cheek, a 7 for Suguru and on my right cheek, a 10 for Satoru.

I clung to the edge of the bleacher, the metal cold against my palms, my stomach twisted into a tight knot. I was terrified they would lose. But beneath that fear was a selfish ache—a hope that maybe, if they won, Satoru would look up into the stands and finally see me, really see me, not as Suguru’s little sister, but as the girl wearing his number on her cheek. 

It was a stupid, I know. But when you are young, you believe everything you read on Wattpad or see in Disney movies. You believe that magic happens if you just wish hard enough. And for once, just once, I wanted to be the Disney princess.

And for a heartbeat, I was.

Satoru found me first. Even across the crowded gymnasium, with hundreds of people between us, his blue eyes locked onto mine. He grinned—that wide, cocky, impossibly boyish grin I had always been helpless against—and pointed a finger at his chest, then at the number 10 painted on my cheek. I was so happy.

Suguru noticed a second later, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. I stuck my tongue out. 

And then the game began. Suddenly everything moved at once, my eyes barely catching up. When Saitama West scored first, my stomach dropped through the floor. It looked too easy for them. But then Suguru took the ball. He slipped past a defender, drove toward the basket, and flicked a pass back over his shoulder. Satoru was already there, catching it in stride for a layup.

“Let’s go!” I screamed, leaping to my feet with the rest of the student section. “Go! Go! Go!”

By halftime, we were down by eight. My friends went out to get nachos and soda while I stayed glued to the edge of the bleachers, alone in the crowd, watching the third quarter go downhill fast.

Saitama West’s star player was a nightmare—faster, meaner, moving like he already belonged on a pro court. He was unstoppable, sinking shot after shot as if it were nothing, silencing our side of the gym with every clean swish. With four minutes left, we were down by twelve. Someone behind me already declared that it’s over. I refused to stop believing.

I had watched them run drills around our block until their shirts clung with sweat to their skin and their laughter turned to groans. I had sat on the porch steps and watched them practice until darkness swallowed the driveway, until Suguru had to drag Satoru inside by his hood because Satoru refused to go home until he hit ten throws in a row.

They didn’t quit when it was dark. They didn’t quit when they were tired. They wouldn’t quit now.

In the fourth quarter, something changed. Suguru turned into a wall, holding the opposing star player to zero points, while Satoru caught fire. He sank three straight shots, each one seeming to hang in the air for eternity before slicing through the net and surging the entire gym to its feet.

With thirty seconds left, the score was tied. My voice was gone by then, nothing more than an awkward rasp, but I was still screaming—or trying to. It didn’t matter. Everyone was standing, the floorboards rattling under our feet, the noise so loud that I couldn’t even hear the referee’s whistle anymore.

Suguru brought the ball up. Ten seconds. The defense collapsed around him—three bodies closing in, arms up, trapping him near the arc. Nine seconds. He drove right, and then I saw it—the tiny opening. It was the backdoor cut, the exact same tactic they’d rehearsed under the flickering streetlamps of our driveway a thousand times, right up until the neighbors complained about the noise.

Eight seconds. Satoru caught the pass. He took one dribble and went up. Seven seconds. The ball left his fingertips. It hit the iron. It rolled around the rim once, twice. Six seconds.

It fell through.

Sound crashed over me like a tidal wave—screams, the thunder of stomping feet and the roar of the student section flooding the court before the teachers even had time to stop them. Suguru and Satoru were swept up in the riptide, vanishing into a sea of people.

I hung back at the edge of the celebration, heart pounding so hard against my ribs I thought it might bruise the bone. I watched them rise from the crowd, breathless and sweating, but they looked impossibly bright and alive.

And then, through the surge of bodies and noise, Satoru’s eyes found mine. He lifted his hand and traced the arc of his layup in the air, then pointed a finger directly at the 10 painted on my cheek and mouthed the words, silent but unmistakable:

Saw that?

A heartbeat.

For you.

A smile broke over his face like sunlight.

I went home that night and wrote it down in my diary, pressing the ballpoint pen so hard into the page that it carved the words into the next page.

He didn’t look at the cheerleaders. He didn’t look at the scouts. He looked at me, I wrote and underlined the word me three times. It was my Disney moment.

I stared at the ink drying on the page, convinced that this was the start of my happily ever after. I didn’t know yet that the thing about blue springs and youth is that they burn out, and that being the princess usually just means you have the furthest to fall.

Afterwards, when the chaos died down and people started to filter out, I’d waited by the locker rooms like always. Mom was running late—stuck at work, as usual—so I had time to kill and nowhere else to be.

The gym was nearly empty now, just the janitor starting to sweep up confetti and a few students taking photos near the exit. 

I wandered back onto the court and stared up at the scoreboard, which still showed the final score in red LEDs. A forgotten basketball lay on the edge of the court. I picked it up, dribbled once, twice, and took a shot. It clanged off the rim and bounced away.

“You’re doing it all wrong.”

I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my feet.

Satoru was standing at the edge of the court. He had showered, white hair damp and darkened, falling messily over his forehead. Suguru was probably still in there, using up all the hot water—just like home.

“I wasn’t—I was just messing around.”

“Here, let me show you.” He dropped his gym bag, picked up the basketball and walked over. “You’re holding the ball wrong. Fingers spread—like this.” He demonstrated the grip, and then passed it to me. “And your stance—feet shoulder-width apart.”

I adjusted my feet, feeling foolish.

“Better,” he said, stepping closer, too close. “Now, when you shoot, it’s all in the wrist. You have to follow through.”

He moved behind me, a sudden warmth at my back. I stopped breathing. His hands slid along my arms, then guided my arms upward and corrected the angle of my elbows. His hand wrapped around my forearm to steady it, and I froze entirely.

I had always known Satoru was tall, that he was strong. I’d watched him grow into his height like a weed, watched his shoulders broaden year by year. But knowing it and feeling it were two different things.

His fingers circled my wrist with room to spare, where mine would have barely met. My heart was doing something stupid and frantic in my chest, a hummingbird battering against its cage, the way only teenage hearts do when they suddenly realize how much bigger a boy’s hand is than hers.

“Don’t throw it. Guide it,” he said, his breath brushing my hair. I prayed he wouldn’t notice the goosebumps rising along my arms. 

I took a breath and pushed the ball. It rose in a high arc, mostly guided by his strength. It spun once, a perfect rotation, and dropped clean through the net. Swish.

“Oh my god!” I hopped in place. “I made it!”

“See? Natural talent.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You did all the work.”

“Nah.” A grin pulled at his lips. “That was all you.” He grabbed the rebound and tossed it back to me. “Try again. On your own this time.”

I squared my feet. I tried to remember the angle he’d pulled my elbows into and shot.

Clang.

“Not bad,” he encouraged. “Again.”

I shot again. This time the ball hit the rim before bouncing off.

“See? You’re getting it.”

Satoru caught the rebound with one hand and spun it on the tip of his index finger, the ball blurring into a perfect orange sphere. It was effortless, showy, and unfairly cool.

“You ever think about joining the team?” he asked, watching the rotation.

“The girls’ team?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, letting the ball drop into his palm. “Why not?”

“Because…” I had never really considered it. Basketball was their world—Suguru’s and Satoru’s. I was only the spectator, the one who held the towels. I didn't belong inside the lines. “I don’t know. I’m not good enough.”

“You could be. With practice.” He nudged the ball back into my hands. “Plus,” he added, looking down at me, “then you’d be around more. You know, at practices and stuff. Not just games.”

I looked up at him, searching his face, risking everything on a single question.

“You want me around more?”

“Yeah,” he said “I mean, you’re our good luck charm, right? Gotta keep you close.”

Our. Not my. It hurt.

In one syllable, he had tied himself back to Suguru, reminding me of the unshakeable bond they formed. To him, I wasn’t a girl he wanted. I was the mascot. I was the little sister of the duo.

“Right.” I tucked a stray strand behind my ear and pretended my little heart didn’t hurt. “I’ll think about it.” 

I would never join. And if I ever did, it would’ve been only because he suggested it. But by the time tryouts came around, I’d always talk myself out of it—tell myself it was stupid, forcing my way into their world just to be near him. Wanting something that much makes you terrified to reach for it. 

But right then, standing alone with him in that quiet gym, I felt brave enough for one last act of stupidity.

“I, um… I made you something. For winning.”

I pulled the bracelet I’d made for him out of my jeans pocket. It was simple—woven thread in blue and white, the team colors. I’ve spent three lunch periods hiding in the library, watching YouTube tutorials on my phone, starting over twice, because it had to be right. It had to be perfect.

Satoru took it and he held it up to the light. “You made this?” He turned the woven band over in his large hands like it was something impossibly precious instead of cheap embroidery thread.

“It’s dumb, I know. But I thought… I don’t know. For luck. Or whatever.”

“It’s not dumb.”

He’d slipped it onto his wrist immediately and tugged it in place. “It’s perfect.”

I’d tried not to melt on the spot. “Don’t tell Suguru, okay?” I added quickly. “He’ll be weird about it.”

He smiled. “Then it’s out secret.”

Our secret.

After all the ours that meant him and Suguru, here was one that was just mine and his.

I looked up at him from where I was still sitting on the cold floor, leaning against the glass door that refused to open. And from this angle, I saw it.

He was still wearing it.

Blue and white thread. It was frayed and faded now, the vibrant colors of our high school team washed out by years of sun and water and life. It sat tighter on his wrist than it had back then, almost too small for the man he had grown into. But he had kept it.

Had worn it enough for it to fade, enough for it to fray, enough for it to become a part of him.

“You’re still wearing it,” I said.

His hand moved to his wrist, thumb brushing over the worn threads.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

His gaze stayed on the bracelet, on the knots I had tied a lifetime ago. 

“We should find somewhere to sit,” he said. “Nine hours is a long time to spend on the floor.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The staff room was barely a room at all. A narrow table, a couple of chairs that didn’t match, a mini-fridge that hummed too loud and lockers that didn’t quite close.

I switched on the electric kettle. It was old and took forever to boil, but I needed something to do with my hands. While it hissed, I dug through my locker and pulled out the emergency snacks I kept for long shifts. A few pieces of leftover Halloween candy and a box of cereal bars that were probably close to expired but still edible—or so I hoped.

“Here.” I tossed one to Satoru.

Satoru caught it with one hand—a reflex that hadn’t dulled with time, it seemed—and turned it over. “Cranberry?”

“It’s all I have.”

He tore the wrapper open with his teeth and took a bite. I reached into the cabinet for two mugs—one chipped, one with the bookstore’s fading logo—and grabbed two tea bags from the staff box, and hoped they weren’t close to expired too.

I leaned against the counter, watching the first thin wisps of steam rise from the kettle, and tried my best not to look at him. But then the cheap chair creaked behind me and I glanced over my shoulder anyway because apparently I’m weak.

He looked too big for the space, legs stretched out under the tiny table. I didn’t know what to make of him anymore.

There was a time when I knew him without trying. He spent half his life in our house, raiding our fridge and coming and going like he lived there. He knew which drawer held the good biscuits, which floorboard squeaked, which window stuck in summer. And I knew the way he stretched out his words when he was tired, the way he’d drop onto our couch and be asleep in ten seconds, the way he hovered in the kitchen when he didn’t want to go home yet.

Back then, he filled every room he walked into. He talked fast and laughed loud, pulling me and Suguru into his orbit whether we wanted to be there or not. Stillness didn’t suit him. It never had. He was the boy who almost kissed me once, then left before I could decide what it meant. Perhaps I should have anticipated that. He’d never stayed still a day in his life.

And now there was this person I hardly knew. His hair was cut short at the neck, and there was a stillness to him I had never seen before. He looked like someone who had decided exactly how much of himself the world was allowed to see and locked the rest away. Someone I recognized, but no longer understood. 

I watched him chew the cranberry bar, jaw sharper than I remembered. A man where my memory still tried to put a boy.

“Your manager takes photos?”

I followed his gaze to the corkboard above the table. A scatter of Polaroids pinned up with pushpins. There was Maki making a face behind a rude customer’s back. Nobara and I laughing over a spilled box of inventory. A group photo from Halloween where we were all dressed up as different book characters.

“Yeah,” I said. “She looks strict, but she really cares.”

“Which one is she?”

“The blonde in the back. Yuki.” I pointed to a candid shot of her laughing. “She started it when she opened the store. Said everyone who would work here should leave a piece of themselves behind.”

Satoru still chewed the cereal bar while his gaze moved across the corkboard until he stopped on one specific square near the center.

It was from my birthday last month. I wore a silly paper party hat that had already half slid off my head, while the rest of the staff crowded around me. Everyone had their hands lifted in heart signs, laughing and shouting at the same time at some poor customer we’d asked to take the picture, but held the camera wrong so the whole picture came out crooked.

My fourth birthday without so much as a text from him.

“You look happy here,” he said.

“I am happy.”

He was still looking at the wall. At the evidence of a life he hadn’t been part of.

“I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Why would you,” I said. “We don’t exactly talk.” 

Right then, the kettle clicked off.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I clicked on the floor lamp near the two overstuffed green velvet armchairs in the reading corner; its yellow light barely reached the edges of the shelves that framed the nook. I grabbed two blankets from the storage closet and tossed one over his chair. It smelled like something that had been stored too long in the closet, but warmth was warmth.

Sliding into my own chair, I pulled my knees up and tucked the wool around my legs. The chairs were angled toward each other—close enough to talk without raising our voices, far enough that our legs wouldn’t accidentally touch. 

It would be absurdly easy to pretend this was normal, to imagine it was just a random Thursday night and we were simply two people who knew each other—rather than two people who hadn’t spoken in years and were now trapped together in a city mall until morning.

Silence filled the store. After a while, Satoru shifted. I felt his eyes on me before I met them.

“Suguru told me you’re pursuing your PhD.”

He was watching me with something careful in his expression, like he was stepping onto ice and testing how much it would hold.

“I’m just starting out,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“What are you researching?”

“It’s technical.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I sighed. “I’m part of a group studying photophysics. Basically, how molecules behave under extreme light conditions. We’re trying to figure out how to make energy transfer more efficient, how to stop things from losing power as heat. It’s complicated and half the time the data makes no sense, but when something finally behaves the way it’s supposed to…” I trailed off, realizing my hands were moving, emphasizing the words. I pulled the blanket tighter. “It’s pretty cool. That’s all.”

“Tell me more,” he said.

“It’s boring, really. Dry math and a hell lot of experiments. You’d regret asking.”

“I won’t.”

He said it without a beat of hesitation. I eyed him, waiting for the smirk, the punchline where he’d admit he was just asking to be polite but to be honest he doesn’t really care. It didn’t come. He sat there in the dim lamplight, turned towards me, and waited.

“Fine,” I said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Promise.”

I shifted the blanket higher over my knees. “We study behavior under pressure. Specifically, how molecules react when you hit them with really intense light, lke stronger than sunlight intense. We use lasers to push them into highly unstable states, and then track what they do in the few nanoseconds before they calm down.”

“Calm down?”

“Return to their original state,” I said. “Their lowest energy level. Where they’re stable again.”

“So you’re stressing them out and watch what happens?”

“Pretty much, yeah. We push electrons to higher energy levels, and when they drop back down, they release energy—sometimes as light, sometimes as heat. The goal is to make that release cleaner and more efficient. If we understand the pathways, we might be able to design better solar cells, more efficient catalysts, that kind of thing.”

“Huh.” He leaned back in the chair. “Sounds pretty cool.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be interested.”

“I’m not pretending.”

I shot him a look. I almost believed him. But I’d been made fun of enough times to know when someone was lying.

“Shouldn’t you know all this anyway?” I said. “Don’t med students have to take chemistry?”

“Yeah. We do.”

“And?”

“I failed it.” He touched the back of his neck. “Twice.”

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Passed on the third attempt.” A thin smile. “Barely. I think my professor felt sorry for me by then.”

“Satoru, you—” I stared at him, genuinely shocked. “You—the person I tutored in chemistry throughout his entire school life—failed chemistry in university? Twice?”

“In my defense, organic chemistry in med is completely different to what they teach you in school.”

“Oh my god. All those hours. All those diagrams I drew. The flashcards I made you—”

“Those were great—”

“You memorized the entire periodic table!”

“I forgot it immediately after finals,” he admitted. “Like, the next day. Gone.”

I wanted to throw my blanket at him. “How are you even still in med school?”

“Anatomy makes sense to me. Physiology too. But chemistry is just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Invisible things doing invisible things.”

“That’s what I explained! For months!”

“I know.” He had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m really sorry about that, by the way. You put in a lot of effort for nothing.”

I slumped back in my chair. “You’re telling me you almost failed out of med school because of chemistry?”

“I didn’t almost fail out.”

“Third attempt, Satoru.”

He sighed, defeated. “Fine. I almost dropped out of med because of chemistry.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“All those hours.”

“I know.”

“The flashcards had little drawings on them.”

“They were very cute drawings,” he said. “Didn’t help me pass, but still cute.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Always have been.”

After that, we fell into a quiet that wasn’t awkward so much as familiar—the kind of easy silence shared by people who have too much history to feel compelled to fill every gap with noise. I leaned back a little farther in my chair and listened to the faint hum of the refrigerator in the break room that carried through the empty aisles.

“You look different when you talk about it,” he said. “Chemistry, I mean.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Lighter, maybe. Like you’ve found your place.”

Satoru shifted again, sinking a bit deeper into his armchair, his long legs stretched out into the pool of lamplight.

“Can you show me sometime?” he asked.

“Show you?”

“The lab. Your work. If that’s allowed. If you want.”

I blinked, surprised. And suddenly the reading corner felt smaller, warmer, as if the night had pulled our chairs inches closer together without us moving.

“If I had known how important chemistry would become in my life,” he mused, looking up at the ceiling, “I’d have paid more attention to your lectures.”

“I didn’t lecture you.”

“You did. And you were brutal about it. You were two grades below me and still smarter in every way.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s not,” he insisted. “You’d look at my homework, make that tiny annoyed face—the one where your nose scrunches up just a little—and I’d feel… weirdly ashamed of myself.”

“Because I scolded you?”

“Because you scolded me,” he confirmed immediately. “You’d correct one equation, pointing out where I missed a valence electron or whatever, and I’d think—Wow, I’m an idiot.” He went quiet for a moment. “You made me nervous.”

“I made you nervous?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You always did.”

I stared at him, the words still hanging between us like smoke I couldn’t wave away. Anger hit me so suddenly I didn’t have time to brace for it—hot and ugly, like a match struck too close to skin.

I made him nervous.

What was the point of that confession now? What did it count for, eight years too late, spoken in a locked mall at midnight like some kind of punchline to a joke I’d stopped finding funny?

He’d been nervous. He’d felt something. And he’d left anyway. Not because he didn’t feel the same. Not because it wouldn’t work. But because I was Suguru’s little sister. A label he slapped over every other part of me until I disappeared beneath it.

And I realized, I was never a person to him in those moments—only a rule. A bright line drawn in the carpet of someone else’s house. Crossing it would have been messy, inconvenient, a conversation with his best friend he apparently couldn’t stomach. So he chose the cleaner story: honor, loyalty, restraint. He kept his hands spotless while I learned to breathe around the ache of what almost happened.

It hurt. Because if he’d felt it too—if he’d been nervous, if I’d mattered—then why hadn’t I been worth the risk? Why hadn’t I been worth a single conversation, a single attempt, a single goddamn phone call in eight years? What good was his nervousness if he never let it matter? 

I would have followed him anywhere if he’d only asked. If he’d only gave me some small proof that I mattered more than the principle of not betraying Suguru.

I would have forgiven the missed birthdays. I would have forgiven the months of radio silence. I would have wiped my eyes and picked up the phone if he had called, even on the nights I swore I hated him, even when I was crying into my pillow over the sheer unfairness of loving him. I would have forgiven him for breaking my heart if he had just shown up to hold the pieces.

One call. One stupid, cowardly call and I would have run to him, arms wide, dignity in shreds, because back then love felt bigger than pride and I was young enough to believe forgiveness could fix a person. I was that stupid. I was that in love.

But he didn’t. He waited. He waited until the wanting had turned into resentment, until the girl who would have waited forever grew up into a woman who knew better.

I turned my face before he could read any of it.

“Suguru talks about you a lot,” he went on, ignoring my silence. “He’s proud of you. Says you work too much.” A small pause. “He worries, you know. But he also thinks you’re incredible. He always has.” Another pause, quieter. “I do too.”

I closed my eyes.

It would have been easier if he’d said nothing. If he’d stayed on his side of the chasm, playing the role of the distant family friend. But instead, he reached across it, offering me something warm, something earnest—something I didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“You don’t know me,” I said.

“You’re still you. I know you.”

“No. You don’t.” I pushed myself out of the armchair, the wool blanket pooling at my feet. “You have no idea.”

“Then tell me.”

“You don’t get to ask that. You don’t get to walk in here after eight years and talk like you understand who I am now.”

“Then help me understand! Tell me what’s wrong. Don’t you have everything you wanted? The PhD, the future, all of it. You’re doing exactly what you always said you would. Isn’t this the life you dreamed about?”

“Fuck you,” I spat, spinning around to face him. “You don’t know anything.”

He flinched, but the anger was already rising in him too. 

“Maybe I don’t,” he said. “Maybe I don’t understand you anymore. Because what else could you possibly want? You already have everything you ever wanted.”

“You left! You promised me I’d always matter, and then you left and never looked back. And I was alone again. I was the nerd of the school again—the pathetic girl who’d been left behind.” I took a shaking breath. “I needed you. And you left. And you made it look so easy—having girlfriends in every other city and never once picked up the phone.”

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“Do you know what the worst part was? It wasn’t the bullying. It wasn’t eating lunch alone. It was realizing that you were right.”

“About what?”

“That I wasn’t worth staying for.” My voice barely made it past the knot in my throat. “That I was just Suguru’s little sister. Just some kid with a crush. Nothing more.”

“No—That’s not—”

“Then what was I, Satoru? Because from where I’m standing, I was someone you found it very easy to leave behind.”

He went quiet. So quiet I could hear the distant creak of the building settling into the night.

“I never had a girlfriend,” he said at last.

“What?”

“I said I never had a girlfriend.” His fingers found the bracelet on his wrist and twisted it absently. “You said I was too busy with girlfriends but I wasn’t. I never—I couldn’t.”

“That’s bullshit. I saw the comments—the pictures. All those girls—”

“Commented on my Instagram, yeah. Showed up at games. Asked for my number. But I never… I didn’t want them.” He was still staring at the bracelet, then looked up. “You want to know why?”

“No. I really don’t”

“Because none of them were you.”

I tried to make sense of his words, but I couldn’t.

“Why didn’t you ever call?” I whispered.

“To tell you what? That I couldn’t stop thinking about you? That every game I played, I was looking for your face in the crowd even though I knew you weren’t there? That I—”

“What? That you what?”

“That I’m still in love with you.”

I stood there, mouth half open, trying to stitch his confession into the fabric of everything I knew to be true, with the conviction I’d carried for yers that he’d simply forgotten I existed, but the thread kept slipping. Still in love, still in love, the thought looped endlessly in my head. He couldn’t mean it. People didn’t keep years of silences for love; they kept them for indifference.

And I had proof—the empty inbox, the unanswered texts, the birthdays I stopped mentioning because he never remembered. I had built an entire house of evidence that I was forgettable, and now he wanted to torch it with one sentence?

My pulse hammered, too loud and too fast. If he was telling the truth, then every night I cried myself to sleep had been for nothing. Every time I stalked his Instagram and hated myself for it, every time I called myself pathetic for still caring—wrong. I’d spent years learning to live inside the shape of his absence, carving out space for the ache until it fit me, and now he was saying the absence itself had been a lie?

“Is this all a joke to you?” I choked out, tears spilling over. “You left me thinking for years that there was something wrong with me. That you regretted almost kissing me. That I was just some stupid kid you wanted to forget about.”

I wiped at my face, hating the tears, hating him.

“Do you know what that did to me? Watching you live this whole perfect life in Osaka while I was stuck here wondering what I did wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong—”

“Then why does it feel like I did? Why does it feel like I’ve been punished for years for having feelings I didn’t ask for? Do you know how lost I’ve been? Wondering if I’m enough. Being so fucking unsure and scared about everything. How many nights I stayed up wondering if I was making the right choices, if any of it mattered, if I mattered?”

I couldn't breathe around the tightness in my chest. It felt like drowning on dry land.

“I needed you,” I said—the confession punched its way out and took half my lung with it. “I needed you so much, and you weren’t there. I’ve felt so alone. So fucking alone. And all I wanted—all I needed—was for you to come back and tell me it would be okay. That I would be okay.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry I left,” he said at last. “I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting—without wanting everything.”

I looked at him through tears. 

“You’re such an idiot,” I said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I still remember the bite of the wind that autumn day.

I was twelve. My schoolbag was cutting into my shoulder, and my breath fogged the air in puffy clouds. I stood outside the school gates as the sun sank lower, turning the sky that particular shade of bruised purple and orange that meant evening was coming.

All the other kids had been picked up hours ago. The last bus home had left an hour earlier. Even the teachers’ cars were gone.

I realized then, in that small and shattering way children do, that she had simply forgotten. Again. It wasn’t intentional; it was just that her work was loud and urgent, and I was quiet and easy to overlook. But sometimes being forgotten hurt more than if she had done it on purpose. It confirmed what the girls in the bathroom had said earlier: that I was invisible.

I had tried calling home three times from the payphone down the road. No answer. Suguru wasn’t home either—he was helping Mrs. Harukawa from next door getting her groceries, like he did on Wednesdays. So I sat on the curb, backpack clutched to my chest, trying not to move my head. 

If I moved, the clump of sticky, grape-scented gum stuck to the back of my hair pulled at my scalp. The girls from 6-B had put it there during lunch, laughing as they mashed it in. I hadn’t cried then because I refused to give them the satisfaction. And I wasn’t going to cry now, because I was twelve, and crying was for babies.

But then the streetlights flickered on, buzzing overhead, and for the first time, I understood what it meant to be an afterthought.

“Hey.” I didn’t noice him until he stood in front of me. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

I looked up to see Satoru. He’d found me. 

He must have come from basketball practice, his gym bag hanging from one shoulder. He had just turned fourteen the week before, but to me he looked so much older—confident and sure of himself in a way that seemed almost adult. He had that short, cropped haircut everyone at school suddenly wanted, the kind that made boys look cooler, like they were on the verge of becoming something bigger than they were, while I was still so scared and unsure about everything.

“Waiting for my mom.” I looked back at the pavement, terrified that if I looked up again, the tears I was holding back would spill over. “She’s just running late.”

“How late?”

I shrugged, a tiny movement that made the gum pull at my hair. I flinched.

Satoru didn’t miss it. He crouched down in front of me, bringing his face level with mine. He reached out and gently tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him. Then he turned my head slightly.

“Who did that?”

“Did what?”

“Don’t.” He guided my face back to his. “Who?”

I shook my head, big tears falling onto tiny hands.

“Okay.” He stood and slung his gym bag over his shoulder. “Suguru’s helping your neighbour today, right?”

I managed a little nod, not trusting my voice.

“Come on.” He offered me his hand. It was large and warm, his fingers taped up for practice. “We’re not waiting here.”

“But my mom—”

“I’ll leave a note on the gate. She won’t kill us. And anyway, we’re getting hot chocolate first.”

He took me to that small café near the train station—the warm one that smelled of roasted almonds and vanilla. He sat me down in a booth in the back, then went to the counter. He came back with a cup of crushed ice and two hot chocolates—the fancy kind with real melted chocolate and caramel drizzle that cost twice as much as I had pocket money for the week.

He slid into the booth next to me instead of across and told me to turn around. And then, the most popular boy in middle school sat in this quiet café, painstakingly working hand lotion and ice cubes into my hair to get the gum out of my hair. He was incredibly gentle. He didn’t pull. He didn’t make fun of me.

It had felt weird. And embarrassing. And I’d wanted to cry all over again, because I couldn’t even fix it myself—because I was sitting there like a helpless little kid while he tried to undo something cruel and stupid those girls at school thought was funny.

“Why do they do it?” I asked quietly, watching the caramel drizzle sliding down the inside of my glass.

“Because they’re bored,” he said. “And mean. And probably unhappy.”

“Unhappy with what?”

“With themselves.” He carefully separated another sticky strand. “Happy people don’t go around putting gum in other’s people hair. Only people who feel small try to make other people feel smaller. It makes them feel better about themselves.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that the gum in my hair was proof that I was in some way better than them, that I made them feel bad about themselves, and not only a sign that I was easy to bully.

“Does it get better?” I asked. “When you’re older?”

“Yeah. It does. My mom always says you stop caring about the people who don’t matter, and you find the ones who do.”

“You believe her?”

“I do. Because I’ve found mine. You and Suguru.” His voice softened. “And you’ll find your people too. I promise.”

But I had my people.

It took almost an hour.

Satoru told me about the constellations starting to appear in the darkening sky outside the window while he worked at my hair, about a documentary on black holes he’d watched the other night, about his stupid couch and how Suguru had tripped over his own feet in practice yesterday. He built a wall of words to keep the world out.

When he finally worked the last of it loose, leaving only the faintest sweet smell of bubblegum behind, he set down the comb and turned me around in the booth to face him.

“Listen to me,” he said, suddenly serious. “Those girls? They don’t matter. They don’t get to make you feel small. You’re worth a hundred of them. Got it?”

I nodded, my throat tight.

“And if they do this again—if they do anything—you tell me. Or Suguru. We’ll handle it.”

I wiped at my eyes. “You can’t fight middle school girls, Satoru.”

“Watch me.”

A grin cracked his serious expression. He reached out and ruffled my damp, sticky hair.

“Actually, you’re right. I can’t fight them but I’ll stand behind you and look intimidating. You can fight your own battles. But you don’t have to fight them alone.”

When Suguru finally came home, he found us in the living room—Satoru and me playing Mario Kart on the old Nintendo 64, like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just spent an hour fixing something that wasn’t his problem.

The next morning, Satoru was leaning against the school gates when I arrived and walked me to my classroom. He didn’t say anything to the girls. He didn’t have to. He was tall and looked scary if he wanted to, and that was enough.

On the days Suguru had afternoon activities, Satoru was always there. I found out weeks later that he was skipping the first hour of his basketball practice to walk me home—trading his playing time and enduring his coach’s complaints just to make sure I made it to my front door without looking over my shoulder. 

For years, I lived inside the bubble of his protection. I walked tall because his shadow was long enough to cover me. But gravity is a temporary force, and eventually, orbits deteriorate.

Satoru graduated. He packed his bags for a university in Osaka, taking his brightness and protection with him. And the moment he left, the air around me grew thin again.

The bullying didn’t come back the way it had before. There was no gum in my hair, no shoved lockers. It was smarter now. Quieter. It was the silence when I walked into a room. It was the way conversations stopped dead when I approached. It was the collective decision that I was, once again, invisible. 

Without Satoru and my brother to look intimidating behind me, I became that unsure little girl again, the one who’d never figured out how to stand up for herself and was scared senseless to try.

I stopped going to the cafeteria. I stopped trying to find a seat at the tables where I wasn’t wanted. I retreated to the library. I ate my lunch alone between shelves of dusty encyclopedias and fiction, surrounded by characters who were brave in ways I didn’t know how to be. I wanted to believe that I was like the heroines in the books—misunderstood, waiting for her story to start, for my real Disney moment. But really, I was just waiting for him to come back and save me.

And when that realization finally settled in—that no one was coming, that the cavalry had moved on—I felt a kind of desolation that nearly swallowed me whole. I was so lost. Without them, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was just an outline of a person, defined by who I was related to and who I was waiting for.

I had to claw my way out of that library. I had to fight so hard, so goddamn hard, to invent a version of myself that didn’t need a bodyguard. I had to build a spine out of something other than their approval. I turned to books, to science, to the cold, hard certainty of facts—things that couldn’t leave me, things that didn’t make promises they wouldn’t keep.

I found myself in the vacuum they left behind. But someday you have to decide you cannot hide anymore, cannot keep curling into the space someone else used to fill. Someday you have to stand up, even if your hands are shaking, and declare yourself the leader of your own life. And God, it was a lonely, brutal birth. 

“I found more.”

Satoru crouched beside me, holding out a fresh box of tissues from the break room.

“Thanks.” 

I took one, dabbing at my face even though I was pretty sure I’d run out of tears. I curled up on the floor, back against the rough fabric of the armchair, knees pulled tight to my chest. The adrenaline that had fueled me earlier had drained away, leaving my limbs heavy and my head throbbing with that dull, dehydration headache that always follows a good cry.

Satoru set the tissue packet on the carpet between us and lowered himself to the floor across from me, long legs folding awkwardly as he leaned against the opposite chair. The red velvet pants rode up, exposing his striped socks again.

“You should really get out of that costume. It looks miserable. And I can’t take you seriously when you look like Santa.”

He looked down at the suit—at the fake white trim, and the velvet already pilling in places—as if realizing for the first time that he was still wearing it.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s itchy as hell, anyway.”

He unbuckled the wide black belt and let it fall onto the carpet, then unzipped the jacket. The padded red bulk slid off his shoulders and crumpled behind him. Underneath, he wore a fitted white tank top.

I immediately regretted suggesting it.

He rolled his neck, stretching out his shoulders, and the cotton pulled tight across a frame I no longer recognized. I had spent the last hours grieving the boy I used to know—the lanky teenager who lived in basketball shorts all year round and ate cereal straight from the box. But the person in front of me wasn’t that boy anymore. Not even close.

I looked away.

“Better?” I asked, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near pathetic.

“Much better.” He tossed the Santa jacket over the arm of the chair and leaned back on his hands, veins standing out in sharp lines along his forearms. “Though now I’m wondering if I should put it back on.”

“Why?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

I threw my blanket at him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It was nearly four in the morning when we gave up on sleep entirely.

We’d tried. Both of us retreating to our armchairs with blankets pulled up to our chins, pretending the silence was comfortable, pretending we weren’t aware of every shift and breath the other made. But sleep was not possible. My mind kept circling back to everything we’d said, everything still left unsaid, replaying it on an endless loop until I wanted to scream.

Satoru had been the first to break. Suggested we find something to do, anything. And now, here we were, sprawled on the carpet between the velvet armchairs with a board game spread between us—something with a dice and complicated cards that he’d pulled from the store’s game section, promising he’d pay for it later when the register worked again.

Two more hours. Just two more hours until the cleaning crew arrived and shattered this strange, suspended reality we were trapped in.

The game was simple enough that we didn’t need to think too hard, complicated enough that it keept our heads busy. A welcome distraction. I watched him roll the dice, watched his fingers—those stupidly long fingers—move his piece across the board. 

He was cheating. Probably. I wasn’t paying close enough attention to be sure, but it seemed like the kind of thing he’d do just to get under my skin. It felt painfully domestic. It felt like the rainy Sunday afternoons of our childhood, when we’d play card games too, rewritten in a language I was only just learning to speak.

And as the minute hand ticked closer to dawn, I found myself wishing, selfishly, that the sun wouldn’t rise. I didn’t want the locks to open.

“Don’t take it too hard.” Satoru nudged his winning piece forward with a flick of his finger, already grinning. “I’m just naturally gifted at board games.”

I lost, of course. “You cheated.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove it. I know you did.”

“Sounds like something a loser would say.” 

He was still smiling in that infuriating, boyish way that had always made it impossible to stay mad at him for long. 

He pushed himself up from the carpet and stretched his arms overhead. A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth. He reached down, gripping his knee, his face tightening in pain that wiped the smile clean off his face.

He sank back down, stretched his leg out in front of him, and shoved the Santa polyester up over his knee. I watched him dig his fingers into skin.

“Suguru told me.”

“Suguru talks too much.”

“He said a surgery could fix it. He said the doctors told you that you could play again. If you wanted to.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out, the word rough. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He stared at his knee, thumb tracing the line of the scar, somehow pretty and ugly at the same time. 

“The surgery is expensive,” he said. “And even then, there’s no guarantee it will work. No guarantee I’d ever play at the level I used to.”

“But there’s a chance.”

“There’s a chance.”

It was hard to see him like that—so unsure of himself, unsure of the one thing he’d always loved. This was the boy who used to fall asleep with a basketball in his bed. The boy I once believed would die if he couldn’t run.

“You love it,” I said.

“I still do. But I don’t know if that’s what I want anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned his head back against the armchair, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling.

“Basketball was everything for so long, and I was so sure that this is what I always wanted—what my life’s gonna be like.” His hand slowed on his knee. “And then it was just... gone. One bad landing, and the future I had always imagined myself in disappeared, and I had no idea who I was without it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

“It’s okay.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Turns out losing everything forces you to figure out what you actually want. Not what you’re supposed to want, or your parents or whatever—just what matters to you.”

“And basketball doesn’t matter anymore?”

“I don’t know. I loved it. I really loved it. But I don’t know if I loved it for the right reasons. Or if I was just good at it, so I kept doing it.” His thumb found the bracelet on his wrist, worrying at the frayed blue and white threads. “Sports medicine makes sense. I get to stay close to the game, help other kids the way I wish someone had helped me. And if I never play again maybe that’s okay.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” I said.

“I know. Doesn’t stop everyone from asking, though.” He lowered himself fully onto the carpet, lying flat on his back with one arm folded behind his head, staring up at the dark. “It was bad. After the injury. Everyone kept telling me it would be okay, that I’d come back from it. But I knew the second I hit the floor that it was over.”

“The surgery didn’t go as well as they hoped,” he continued. “Recovery took longer. And every day I wasn’t on the court was another day watching everyone else move forward without me. I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t that guy anymore—the basketball player, the one everyone expected things from.” His voice dropped lower. “I felt like I’d lost everything, and that I failed at the only thing I was ever supposed to be good at.”

I lowered myself onto the carpet beside him and turned onto my side. I watched the rise and fall of his chest and thought about the boy who used to write be a pro basketball player at the top of every Christmas wish list he’d ever made.

How cruel growing up is. It takes the brightest certainties and shatters them, leaving us to sweep up the pieces and pretend we’re fine because that’s what adulthood is about. It’s no fairytale.

One day you’re the boy who will never stop running; the next you’re learning how to walk without pain. One day you’re the girl who knows exactly who she is; the next you’re teaching yourself how to be someone again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

He pushed himself up and rested on one elbow. I could count the pale lashes framing those impossible blue eyes, and in that moment, I wanted him never to look away.

“It’s okay. I was probably terrible company anyway.” 

And I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that I would’ve taken him grumpy and bitter and unfair and broken if that was all he had to give.

“I envied you, you know,” he said. “Back then. A lot more than I want to admit.”

“You… envied me?”

“I did. I asked Suguru about you all the time. And he’d tell me you got into your dream university, that you were top of your class, that you got into your PhD program. You sounded so sure of yourself. And I had—nothing. I didn’t know who I was or what I’m gonna do. And you looked like you were becoming everything you always said you wanted.”

Stupid, I thought. I had everything except him.

“I’m sorry I never called. I was—” his voice thinned, almost broke. “I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That you would hate me.”

He looked away, eyes drifting to the shelves, then to the carpet between us, anywhere but me. Amber light slid across his cheekbones, settling into the faint hollow beneath his eyes that made him look older, more worn than I’d ever seen him.

“I was afraid you’d moved on and find someone other, someone better. Someone who wouldn’t hurt you. Someone who would show up, who would be there for you. Not someone who would disappear because he got scared of what his own feelings meant.”

His hand moved to the bracelet, fingers working the frayed threads again.

“I wanted to visit so many times. I wanted to call. But what would that even be? Me on the phone saying, ‘I’m thinking about you, but I can’t come home because basketball takes up so much of my life’? What kind of relationship would that be?”

I was grateful I was already on the floor, because I was sure my legs would’ve given out at the way he said relationship—like it was something real, something we could have actually had. And it felt so unbearably unfair.

Because I’d spent eight years trying to kill that want. I’d folded it into the smallest, sharpest square possible and shoved it somewhere deep behind my ribs where it couldn’t embarrass me anymore. 

I dated people who were kind and uncomplicated, people who never made my heart behave like it was trying to escape my chest. I told myself what I’d felt for Satoru was only the dramatic intensity of adolescence, the kind of thing everyone goes through and grows out of.

I’d spent years and years terrifying myself out of hoping for anything else—only for it to come back as if nothing had changed at all. And I’m still sixteen and stupid and desperate for him.

He pushed himself upright then, turning away. 

“I wanted something better for you,” he said quietly.

It is strange how time changes people—how it can turn even the most confident person adrift. It hollows people out in places you didn’t know were soft.

“Do you remember the winter ball in tenth grade?”

He didn’t turn around.

“Mom and I spent hours trying to find a dress,” I went on. “We came home with empty hands because I didn’t feel pretty enough for any of them. And you were out in the driveway playing basketball with Suguru. You asked if I’d found anything, and I told you no, and that I might not even go because the only person who asked me was Souta from math, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go with him.” I took a breath. “Do you remember what you said?”

I think he knew, but he wanted me to say it anyway.

“You told me I deserved someone better. You told me I deserved someone who’d treat me right. Someone who’d show up with flowers and tell me I looked beautiful and actually mean it. Someone who wasn’t asking just because he thought I’d be an easy yes.”

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“And then you asked me to go with you instead,” I said. “You picked me up at seven. You wore a suit that Suguru made fun of for weeks, but you didn’t care. You brought me purple dahlias because you remembered they were my favorite. And you danced with me all night.”

I could still feel his hand at the small of my back it if I closed my eyes. Could feel the way he held me like I was something precious, something breakable, even though I’d never felt stronger than I did in his arms. We moved in this uneven little sway to the music because neither of us could dance, and I remember thinking that I didn’t care if the whole world was watching, because he looked at me like I was the only person in that overheated gym.

I remember the exact moment the slow song started—how his grip tightened, how he pulled me closer without asking, and I let him. I pressed my cheek to his shoulder and breathed him in, thinking this is it, this is the moment everything changes. My heart was beating so violently I was terrified he’d feel it through his shirt. I was so sure he’d kiss me before the night ended.

He didn’t. But for those few hours, I was the girl from the movies—the one who gets chosen.

“I was so happy.”

He turned his head slightly. “You were?”

“Of course. Can you imagine my smile when I heard you’d hit Souta in the face with the basketball during practice? Everyone said it was an accident, but I let myself hope it wasn’t.”

“That was kind of stupid.”

“I thought you were so cool.”

“Because I broke someone’s nose with a ball?”

“Because you did it for me. Back then, you always showed up—for everything. When I was scared, when I needed help, when I didn’t even know how to ask for it.” A beat. “You told me I deserved better that night. You told me I deserved everything. You were my everything—my better.”

“And then I left.”

“And then you left,” I said, softer than I meant to.

Something in him seemed to give way then. He lowered himself down on the carpet beside me and turned onto his side, eyes level with mine, and rested his head on the crook of his arm.

We were so close now. Close enough that I could see the faint scar on the bridge of his nose he got from a backboard in sophomore year. Close enough that I could count every faint freckle scattered across his cheekbones. Close enough that I could feel the pulse in his wrist where it lay inches from my fingers, betraying him. Close enough that when he exhaled, I breathed him in.

Almost touching. Always almost. The way everything with us had always been—almost, but not quite. We’d been rehearsing this story since we were kids and stupid enough to believe almost counted as yes.

“I’m sorry I was such a coward back then. Still am,” he said, pushing up on his elbow. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me if I wasn’t him anymore. If I was just… me.”

I wanted to laugh and cry in the same breath.

As if there were a single version of him that I wouldn’t have loved with the same helpless certainty. As if I hadn’t already loved him in every lifetime we never got to live—the boy I grew up with, the one who shielded me, the one who flew, the one who fell, and the familiar stranger beside me now.

I would love him no matter what. I would find him and choose him in every version, in every lifetime, until the stars burned out.

“You’re so stupid,” I said.

I didn’t wait for a response. I reached out to cradle his face in my hands. His skin was warm, and I ran my thumbs over his cheekbones, forcing him to look at me.

“I’ll always want you.”

And then there was no distance left at all. I leaned in and kissed him. And for the first time in a very long time, the ache finally felt like coming home.

He froze for a single stunned heartbeat—a soft, breathless shock against my mouth, like he couldn’t quite believe I’d chosen him after everything. But the hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second, and the shock melted out of him like frost under sudden sun. He exhaled into the kiss.

His hand slid up the back of my neck, his long fingers weaving deep into my hair to cradle my head. He guided me back against the floor, rolling us so gently the carpet barely shifted beneath us. I was on my back before I could catch my breath, the faint light of the lamp spilling across his face as he hovered above me, eyes wide and bright as frost, searching mine for permission he already had. 

And I answered by pulling him down.

Our lips met again, surer now, no hesitation left in either of us. His weight settled over me, careful and close, the heat of him sinking into my chest until I couldn’t tell where my heartbeat ended and his began.

A mechanical click broke through the quiet. Fluorescent lights hummed awake overhead. The entire mall lurched from night to morning in a single breath.

6:00 a.m.

I pulled back slightly. “The security—they’re here—”

“I know,” he murmured against my mouth. 

“We should—”

“Probably.” But he didn’t move. His thumb traced along my jaw, eyes searching mine. “In a second.”

“Satoru—”

And then he kissed me again. Deeper this time, more insistent, like he’d been holding this moment inside him for years, like he was trying to erase every empty second we’d spent apart.

He kissed me like he’d finally come home.

“I’m still mad at you,” I said against his mouth.

“I know.” He kissed me again, softer this time. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

“That’s a big promise.”

“I’m not running this time.”

He pushed himself up, pulling me with him to sit in his lap. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise. I won’t.” His arms wrapped around me, warm and sure and everything I had ever wanted. One hand rested against the small of my back, the other threading through my hair, cradling my head like I was something precious.

Mine, I thought, dizzy with it. Mine, mine, mine. This boy was finally, impossibly mine.

I kissed him harder, my fingers curling into the fabric of his tank top, and felt him smile against my mouth. Distant footsteps echoed through the mall, the real world waiting to interrupt. Neither of us cared.

Maybe Disney got it right sometimes. All those movies I used to roll my eyes at, where the music swells and the lights come up and the princess finally gets kissed the way the entire theater has rooted for all along—maybe they hadn’t been lying after all.

Because this would’ve been the moment the orchestra kicked in, when the violins would start playing and the curtains drew back, and snow began to fall right on cue—the kind of happily-ever-after I stopped believing in when I was sixteen.

And it was happening on a dusty bookstore carpet in a locked mall, with a boy half out of a Santa costume, between shelves of romance novels and self-help books. 

But it didn’t matter. It was better. It was real.

It was the boy who once broke my heart and somehow, against every rule my guarded self had built, put it back together with every soft, careful kiss.

Turns out fairytales don’t always wear ball gowns and crowns. Sometimes they wear a frayed friendship bracelet and a knee that will never fully heal. Sometimes they limp a little, and cry a little, and wander eight years in the dark to find their way back.

But they still come true.

Here, with his mouth warm against mine, with the boy who had once been my entire sky and never really stopped being it, mine finally did.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“You sure this is allowed?” he asked as I swiped my access card at the door.

“It’s Christmas break. No one’s here.” The lock released with a sharp beep. “Besides, you’re the one who wanted to see where I work.”

“I did,” he said, and stepped in behind me.

It was quiet in that particular way a lab gets over the holidays, when everyone finally has a reason big enough to leave without feeling guilty—because apparently weekends don’t qualify. But the faint chemical smell still hung in the air, the one I’d stopped noticing sometime around my third month in the program.

I flicked on the overhead lights, washing the room in cold.  Glassware lay scattered across the black benches exactly where everyone had left it three days ago. Beakers, notebooks, and a tube rack holding three samples I’d meant to run before the break, and a pile of gloves I knew exactly which undergrad left because he’d always promise he’d throw them out “in a minute” and never did.

Satoru paused in the doorway for a beat. His gaze moved over the equipment, the annotated periodic table on the wall (someone had drawn a smiley face on fluorine, which remained a mystery to this day), and the whiteboard full with equations that made no sense or maybe they did if you tilted your head far enough. Then his attention stuck on the laser rig in the left corner, where someone had put a Christmas hat on it for holiday spirit or something.

“It’s bigger than I expected,” he said.

“We share it with two other research groups.” I set my bag on my usual bench near the fume hood. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

I walked him through the space, my voice shifting into that overly animated tone I never hear until I run out of breath and want to die of embarrassment. In the moment, though, I had no brakes. I pointed out the UV-Vis spectrometer where we took absorption spectra, the gas chromatograph that always failed us at the worst possible times, the glovebox where we handled our most sensitive samples.

I kept explaining, words tripping over each other as if they’d been waiting for an audience to hear me speak about molecules and lasers, and he did his best to keep up. He followed me, asking questions that were surprisingly thoughtful for someone who’d failed chemistry twice.

“Wait, so you work in the dark?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Light can ruin the whole thing, so we wrap everything in foil, use amber glassware, or switch to red light when we have to.”

“That’s actually kind of cool.”

“Right?” I felt a grin take over my face. “It feels very mad scientist sometimes.”

When we reached the laser setup, I couldn’t stop myself anymore. It was my project—the thing I had poured myself into for months. I launched into an explanation of the photochemical reactions we studied, how we used ultrafast lasers to excite molecules and track their behavior in billionths of a second. My hands flew everywhere as I tried to explain the invisible world I lived in.

I was halfway through another sentence when it hit me that I’d been gesturing like a maniac for five straight minutes.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m talking too much.”

I turned toward him. He had settled against the bench beside the laser, head resting in his palm. He wasn’t looking at the laser. He was looking at me. In the way people in books look up at constellations—like something had rearranged itself overhead and he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“What?” I asked, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re stupid.”

He pushed off the bench and closed the space between us. His hand rose, thumb brushing along my cheekbone.

“I love this,” he said. “I always did.”

“Love what?”

“That look you get when you talk about chemistry. Like nothing else in the world matters.” His thumb traced the edge of my jaw, slow and almost thoughtful. “It used to drive me crazy in high school. You’d start explaining some reaction and sketch the molecule structure, and I’d just… sit there. Pretending to understand.”

“You weren’t pretending. You were actually terrible at it.”

“I was. Probably because I spent more time watching you than listening. Half the reason I failed it twice in university. I kept waiting for you to walk in and save me again.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well.” His forehead rested against mine, his voice going quiet. “I’ve been stupid about you for a very long time.”

And then he kissed me.

And even after all the kissing we’d done—greedy and endless like we were trying to make up for eight years in a matter of days—it still felt new. Still made my knees weak. I melted into him, hands fisting in the front of his sweater.

“We have to go,” I said, though my fingers refused to let him go. “Christmas dinner. My mom’s expecting us in less than an hour.”

“One second.” His hand slipped to the back of my neck and tilted my head back to deepen the kiss. A sound escaped me, somewhere between a warning and giving up entirely, and he smiled against my lips. His other hand slid down my spine, pressed just above the waistband of my jeans, and the small of my back arched helplessly against him.

“Satoru—” I managed between kisses. “We’re going to be late.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, which did not count as actual language.

“My mom will kill us.”

“Let her.” Another kiss, hungrier, before he trailed down my neck, guiding me back against the bench. “I’m making up for lost time.”

“Suguru will kill us.”

He stopped. Pulled back. Stared at me for one long moment. “Right. Yeah. We should go.” He grabbed his coat. “Now. Immediately.”

“That changes you?”

“He already hates my guts. I’m not testing my luck. He’s studying law—he’ll sue me or worse.” He took my hand, already pulling me toward the door. “And I’d like to stay alive long enough to keep kissing you, if that’s alright.”

Snow fell in thick, puffy flakes, blanketing the city in white. In the car, Satoru’s hand found mine across the center console, his thumb drawing slow circles over my wrist as we drove. By the time we pulled into my childhood driveway, the windows glowed warm against the winter dark. Through the frosted glass, I saw Mom moving around the kitchen, the Christmas tree lights twinkling in the living room. It looked exactly the way it always had. Like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

We barely made it three steps inside before Suguru appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, expression neutral in that terrifying way only older brothers manage to. 

“You’re late,” he said.

“Traffic—” Satoru began.

“Twenty-three minutes late.” Suguru’s eyes narrowed. “To Christmas dinner.”

“We got held up at the lab—”

“The lab.” Suguru's voice was suspiciously calm. He looked at me. I looked at the floor. “Right. The lab.”

He stepped forward and pulled me into a hug so tight I thought I heard a rip crack. Over his shoulder, he shot Satoru a look that could’ve frozen boiling water.

“Hi, Suguru,” I muttered into his sweater.

“Hi, little sister.” He kissed the top of my head and let me go. “Satoru.”

“Hey, man—”

Suguru grabbed him before he could finish, hauling him into what looked like a hug but was definitely some kind of wrestling hold. Satoru made a strangled noise. 

“I hate this,” Suguru said in a perfectly calm voice, his arm locked around Satoru’s neck. “I hate that you’re dating my sister. I’ve hated the idea since you were both stupid teenagers.”

“Can’t—breathe—”

“But,” Suguru continued, loosening his grip by maybe a millimeter, “I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

“You’re getting sentimental already?” Satoru asked, mockingly.

“Don’t test your luck.” He tightened the hold again, then finally released Satoru, who stumbled back, gasping like he’d only narrowly escaped an execution.

Suguru clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. 

“You hurt her, I’ll end you.”

“Understood.”

“I’m a law student now. I know how to hide a body.”

“…Also understood.”

“Good.” Suguru turned toward the kitchen. “Mom! They’re finally here!”

Inside, it was all exactly as I remembered and somehow more—the table nearly collapsing under far too much food, the tree in the corner topped with the same star we’d repaired one too many times, and the table with the same old faded tablecloth with the cranberry stain shaped like a heart we’d used since I was eight.

Suguru was already claiming his usual seat, still shooting Satoru looks like he’d later accidentally, and not at all accidentally, stab him with a fork when he’d reach for the blueberry tart. And Mom bustled around with serving dishes, humming to the Christmas music that played on the radio on the counter.

It was chaotic. It was loud. It was the same kitchen where I’d eaten breakfast every morning and done my homework at the table, right up until the day it held my university acceptance letter. The same living room where I’d learned to walk, where Suguru had taught me card games, where we’d spent countless evenings sprawled on the couch watching movies.

I hadn’t understood, until now, how much of my life had orbited this space. How many moments, big and small, had unfolded here. How the most important parts of growing up had happened within these walls. And somehow, with Satoru’s hand warm in mine, it finally felt complete. 

This, I thought. This is what coming home feels like. And I couldn’t wait for more chaotic Christmases just like this—with him beside me, exactly where we were always meant to end up.

Suguru threw a bread roll at Satoru’s head. Satoru caught it with one hand, grinning like an idiot.

“Your throws got weak, man,” he said, tossing it back. “You lose your arm in law school?”

“Keep talking and the next one’s a plate.” Suguru caught the bread, expression flat. “Besides, you’ve had a rough couple years. Didn’t want to embarrass you.”

Satoru’s smile sharpened. “Oh, we’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this.”

Mom appeared in the doorway with a wooden spoon raised as if she was one second away from throwing it. “It’s Christmas. Sit down. Both of you.”

Satoru looked down at me, his eyes impossibly blue in the candlelight, and smiled.

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly.

I thought about that first moment in the mall—me frozen behind the register, watching him in that ridiculous Santa suit, certain it was the worst possible timing. The cruelest joke. Turns out the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

“Welcome home,” I whispered.

He pulled me closer, his breath warm against my lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m home.” And then he kissed me.

From somewhere behind us, Suguru made an exaggerated gagging noise. Under his breath, he added,

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

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author's note — hope this gave you the same feeling as warm socks and hot chocolate after coming in from the cold !! thank you so much for reading. i’ve had the busiest summer and i can’t tell you how grateful i am for all the lovely messages you sent during my absence. they genuinely kept me motivated. thank you, truly.

i’ve been experimenting a bit with different pov these past months and somehow ended up falling into first person. it makes me feel less like a distant narrator and more like someone living inside it, and i hope it finds its intended audience anyway, even if first person in fanfic isn’t always everyone’s favorite. thank you for giving it a chance.

and i really hope you liked the teenage angst in this one. there’s something almost magical about that time in life when your emotions feel too big for your own body, when you’re convinced things will always stay exactly as they are and then you grow older, look back, and feel a little nostalgic of it all :'))

if you’re waiting for your own second chance, i hope it finds you gently and at exactly the right time. thank you for spending a little of your day with me and merry christmas to those who celebrate ! if you don't, i hope your days treat you kindly <3

ps: i swear the next update is one of my main stories. i haven’t forgotten about them ahhhh

pss: if you want to read another little christmas story from last year, you can find it here. and if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[yenayaps]

silent lovers

pairing: nerd!sukuna x f!reader

synopsis: from walking to school together as kids to sharing an apartment in college, you and sukuna have always been attached at the hip. it used to be fine, it used to feel normal, having him at arms reach was just second-nature. now, as you two have gotten older, it's become unbearable.

cw: MDNI, college au, roommate au, childhood best friends to lovers, readers a little insecure, smut, light angst, oral (f receiving), p in v, there’s so much pinning and yearning in this one, kuna’s lw so funny he already thinks you’re dating in his head LMAO.

notes: 8.8k words!! i never do milestone events, but i just hit one and wanted to write this as a thank to all of you❤️

song rec: bags - clairo

After over a decade, you still don’t understand how you and Sukuna are friends— best friends, at that. Half the time, he’s kind of a grump. He’ll act like he’s bored with you, like he has somewhere better to be. 

And surprisingly, he did. 

But you can count on Sukuna to drag you there with him– whether it be to an underground fight club for robots, built by the geeks that were controlling them, or a mixer held in some science museum, which is actually pretty fun, by the way. Both are. 

This nerd had a fucking life. 

It wasn’t always like this. He used to be an unsociable loser who’d scoff at the thought of going to parties. Now you’re in some beat-up, dimly lit warehouse, watching him holler along with the rest of the crowd, cheering on the robot he placed a bet on. The expensive cologne he randomly decided to switch to, managing to reach your nose, reminding you how much he’s changed.

Next weekend, it’ll be the robot he’s spent months building that’ll be fighting in the ring, and it’ll most likely win because he’s just as smart as he is handsome. 

A genius, even.

You guess he’s just one of those people who really grew into themselves after leaving their hometowns. Flourish, even. He joined clubs, made friends, even dated a couple of girls. 

As much as you loved watching him come out of his shell and become someone who smiled a little more and hated people a little less, a part of you wishes you never gone to the same university together. The admiration you’ve had for him since you were kids has only grown. Some nights it’s so unbearable that you lie awake trying and failing to control that ache you get in your chest from knowing you would always just be a friend to him. 

He’d never even consider you when thinking about what kind of girl he’d want to be with. 

Meanwhile, you’re finding it harder and harder to control your heart rate whenever you really look at him, realizing just how much of a man he’s become within these last couple of years. The braces are gone, his eyes have gotten sharper, his jawline’s stronger, and is now surprisingly covered in tattoos. He even started working out in his freshman year, and after studying the science of bodybuilding and proper nutrition, half the gym started wondering if he had started taking steroids. The other half wondered if they’d be able to fuck him. 

You understand them. He’s huge. Tearing your eyes off of him is hard.

The glasses definitely make him more approachable, but if there’s one thing about him that’s stayed consistent over the years, it’s that smart ass mouth of his. 

He fucking hated the attention he started receiving after getting hotter, and it comes out when he has to tell someone to fuck off so he can finish his damn workout. He doesn’t go there to fuck around and socialize with a bunch of idiots that don’t know how to isolate their own muscle groups. He just goes to get his reps out of the way so he can go back home and continue studying.

The whole time, he’s completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve grown to like it when he’s not home— that you’ve started to prefer his absence. 

Yes, you two share an apartment together. Roommates. It’s fucking torture— watching him take naps on the couch, the small glimpses of him half naked as he walks out of the bathroom after a shower, late nights spent studying together at the dining room table. 

Even now, as you stand in a loud, crowded warehouse with him, it’s torture. All you want to do is look at him, watch all the faces he makes, and the way his muscles flex as he pumps his fist in the air. But no– you had to force yourself to look forward, watching two mid-sized robots pummel each other to death. 

You feel bad for whoever's going to lose, all that time they spent on building the damn thing wasted in just one night.

Sukuna doesn’t take forever to leave once the fight’s done— he’s more of the Irish goodbye type. Had it been the opposite, you would’ve stood around awkwardly, waiting for him since he was the only one you knew here. You’d like to think you wouldn’t have come at all, but he would’ve found a way to drag you here. 

You two practically did everything together— it’s always been like this. 

The ride home is quiet. It’s one of those nights where neither of you remembers to connect your phones to the speakers and play music, all that can be heard is the low thrum of the car's engine and drops of water tapping against the metal. He notices you looking out the window, watching the raindrops fall as you absentmindedly bite on your nails. You never bite on them unless there’s something wrong. 

“You alright?”

“Hm?” The question snaps you out of it, but still, you lie. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

He tries to keep his eyes on the road, but looks back at you a couple of times. That's a bullshit answer. He can read you better than anyone else can.

“You sure? You’re lookin’ a little…” There’s a pause as he does some weird hand gesture toward you. “Off.” 

“Off?” you let out a small laugh, looking at the phone to check the time. “I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s already one in the morning.” 

He all but hums in response as he drops the subject, feeling tired himself and growing impatient at the thought of getting into his bed to sleep. He’d probably be speeding home right now if you weren’t in the car with him. 

The lack of response doesn’t translate well, furthering the belief that he just doesn’t care that much. 

You weren’t fine. Truth be told, you haven’t been fine for a while now. It happened slowly, until one day over the summer, you looked at him and a realization crashed over you, and quite frankly, scared the shit out of you. It wasn’t just admiration or an innocent crush. 

You love him. 

And there was nothing you could do about it. 

—

The longer you go without talking to anyone about your pathetic, unrequited feelings, the more your frustration grows. At times like this, it’d be nice to have a therapist, get down to the bottom of what attracts you to your best friend in the first place, and snip it right at the stem. 

Maybe even douse it with weed killer. 

In a way, you kind of are. The weed killer part, that is, not finding the root cause of what the hell is wrong with you. After much thought, you decided to start distancing yourself from him, and it started with sleeping in.

It seems small, but putting a stop to your morning routine with him seemed effective. No complaining about school and internships over coffee. No talking about your plans for the day, which usually lead to what time you’d be home and what you two were doing for dinner, since you often shared meals as well. 

For a couple of days, it worked. Sukuna chalked it up to you just being more tired than usual from school. While you two shared enough in common, you were nothing like him academically. 

The combination of a short attention span and lack of interest in most subjects always made school harder than it should have been for you. He used to tease you for being dumb, up until the 8th grade when shit got real and your school counselor told you that you’d have to repeat the year if you didn’t get your grades up. 

Sukuna was not going into high school without you, so the obvious solution to that was to do your homework himself. He didn’t have the patience to actually sit down and teach you. He still doesn’t, and still does your homework from time to time when he hears you sniffling over it in your room— yanking papers out of your hands, grumbling about how useless you are and how you need to grow the hell up, as if you were the one forcing him to do it. 

You have no idea how you even got accepted into the same university as him. Sukuna claims not to know either, despite already knowing you’ve always had more to offer than just stats. He’s sure they figured that too when looking through your application— the one you refused to let him help you with. 

He let you have your time to mope around, but it’s Friday, and so he lays three stern knocks on your door. 

You’re still trying to avoid him, so naturally, your heart drops to your fucking ass. 

It takes you a minute to gather yourself, only for your courage to fall short when you let out a measly, “yeah?” 

“Can I come in?” he murmurs, sounding inconvenienced by the fact that he had to ask in the first place. Usually, you just tell him to. 

There’s another pause as you try to think of an excuse as to why you haven’t spoken to him much this week. The excuse never comes to mind, though, as the annoyed sigh he let out cut off your train of thought. 

“…Yeah.” 

The doorknob twists before you even finish the word, and he walks through the door with a scowl on his face, eyes tracing over your body with judgment as you stay in bed under the sheets. 

“I was gonna go to the book fair later tonight if you wanted to go.”

“I think I’m gonna pass on that.” It pained you to say, you’ve actually been looking for it ever since you started seeing the flyers all around campus. “I kind of wanna stay in this weekend.” 

“Alright,” he scratches the back of his head, trying to accept that answer. 

He doesn’t. 

“Wanna watch a movie then?” he asks, pushing up his glasses. “There’s a couple of bags of popcorn left from last time.” 

“No, it’s fine.” Turning him down is a struggle on its own— his stubbornness doesn’t help one bit. “I don’t know, I uhm— I’ve been feeling kinda sick… my stomach’s been bugging me all day.” 

“Alright,” he shrugs, hand wrapping around the doorknob. “Hope you feel better then I guess.” 

The words don’t sound very sincere coming from him, but you’d take that over him continuing to prod. He’s annoyed, doesn’t even bother to look at you anymore as he walks out of your room, missing the half smile you gave. 

Don’t feel bad. 

It’s not like he’s putting himself out there by going alone tonight. Sukuna has to know at least a couple of people who’ll be there— he’d never go somewhere that made him feel uncomfortable. And even if he were to put himself out there, it wouldn’t be as hard as it would be for anyone else. Anxiety isn’t in his vocabulary— the last thing he’d ever care about is how people perceive him. 

Sukuna leaves an hour later. You hear his heavy footsteps walk down the narrow hallway until he’s out the door, and once again you remind yourself that there was nothing to feel bad about it. 

30 minutes later, you hear the front door open, hardly getting a chance to wonder why he’s back so soon, since he walks straight to your door and knocks. 

At least you think it’s him.

“…Kuna?” 

“Who the fuck else would it be, dumbass?” he asks rudely. 

The only reason his words don’t offend you is knowing that you, a young woman, can never be too safe in this day and age. You don’t respond to him with that though, he’ll probably say something even ruder. 

“Come in,” you murmur rather grudgingly.

The doorknob turns, followed by the light shake of a plastic bag as he just barely lifts it to show you. 

“What’s that?” 

“Soup,” he says, setting the bag down on your nightstand and opening it to reveal the said soup along with a bottle of tea. “You never eat when you’re sick— probably why your stomach hurts.” 

“Yes I do.” You pout as you sit up in bed, watching him open the lid and drop a spoon in the tub.

“Don’t argue with me right now,” he responds in a bored tone, handing the soup over. 

The guilt builds up once again after muttering a quick “thanks” to him, stirring the liquid for a moment before giving it a try. He doesn’t say much— just watches you with an expression that’s as unreadable as it always is. 

You try to fill the silence. “Why didn’t you end up going?” 

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it anymore.” 

The truth was, it wouldn’t have been as fun without you. He also figured you’d be suffering in bed for the rest of the night, wondering why your stomach hurt so much, not realizing that half of it was just hunger, so he turned around and went straight to the restaurant you usually order takeout from. 

He keeps his eyes on you for a few more seconds, then exhales. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

“Okay,” you murmur back. “Thanks for the soup.” 

“Yeah,” he hums. “You better finish it.” 

Even through the discomfort you feel in your chest from lying, you manage to smile. “I know.”

You walk out to the living room once you’re done eating, holding the same plastic bag Sukuna had in hand a while ago. It’s filled with an empty take-out container and an empty bottle, along with a couple of other pieces of trash that were slowly cluttering the desk in your room. 

You catch sight of the back of his head, hair all messy from the beanie he put on when leaving in case it started to snow. He could’ve easily driven to campus or the restaurant, but he just doesn’t see the point— both were just a ten to fifteen minute walk away. Even on days when it’s extra cold, he’ll still walk, arguing that he’ll warm up anyway from the walk itself. Something about the human body being more than capable of adapting to extreme weather by doing shit like shivering to produce heat and what not. It was great to know, but you’d prefer not to shiver in the first place.

Sukuna turns his head around before you get the chance to greet him. He had a takeout container full of stir-fry in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other, taking his time to finish chewing his food before saying anything. “Feelin’ any better?”

“Mhm,” you nod, turning the corner into the kitchen to quickly drop the bag into the trash. “Thanks again. The soup was good.”

“Yeah,” Sukuna murmurs back— he’s never been the type to say ‘you’re welcome’ to others. He turns back around to focus on the tv screen, exhaling as he leans back further into the couch to get comfortable. 

“What’re you watching?” you ask. 

“Some crime documentary,” he says, clearly unimpressed by it. “Couldn’t find anything else to watch.” 

“Maybe I can find something,” you offer, walking around the couch to sit beside him. Well, not exactly. With all the space he takes up from his current man spread, you make a spot for yourself at the very end of the beat up, albeit comfy, sofa. 

He hands you the remote with zero protest, and you spend a good 10 minutes trying to find something to watch, only to forget about your task as you find yourself more focused on talking to the man. It starts with you making a comment about one of the movie's titles, then Sukuna responding with something it reminds him of, and eventually snowballs into talking about nothing in particular for the next two hours. 

Neither of you remembers falling asleep, but he finds himself waking up at first at around 1:00 am. There’s a message on the t.v screen asking if he’s still watching, and you’re leaning against him, snoring, cheek squished against his shoulder. 

He smiles a little— it’s nothing new to him. If anything, he’s surprised you didn’t get any drool on him. You did last time. 

And just like last time, he scoops you up into his arms and takes you back to your room. He tries to be gentle when he sets you down on your bed, just so you wouldn’t wake up and ask him what the hell he was doing, but you still stir the moment you’re out of his arms. 

“Kuna.”

Sukuna holds his breath for a moment, waiting for you to say something else. He quickly realizes you were just talking in your sleep, though, which brings him some relief. 

He’s always avoided getting too touchy after you two reached a certain age. Not because he didn’t want to touch you, but out of basic respect. He didn’t need you thinking he was trying to get something out of it. It’s awkward enough when people mistake you for a couple— he’d rather not add to that discomfort, which is why he got the fuck out of your room while he still had a chance. 

—

Sukuna met you when he transferred schools in the 4th grade. 

The teacher sat him right next to you. You two didn’t really talk at first. His first impression of you was that you were shy and spent half the day looking out the window. He didn’t get why you did it when the teacher was obviously peeved by it and constantly singled you out by asking you to repeat what she had just said. It went on throughout the year— after about a month, he found himself wishing you would just pay attention already. He hated feeling sorry for others. 

His second impression of you was that you weren’t as oblivious as he thought you were, and spoke up when you noticed a kid in another class trying to pick on him when they weren’t in the teacher's view. The bully didn’t listen to you, because why would he? He towered over the two of you. 

So he continued to bug Sukuna, who, believe it or not, was the shortest boy in your grade at the time. And for some reason, he took it. That is until the boy tried to yank his glasses off his face, which ended in Sukuna knocking his front tooth out, an action that could’ve gotten him expelled had you not stepped in and lied, claiming that he was chasing after Sukuna and slipped. Nobody else was there to see— there weren’t any cameras around that time. 

Just your words against the boys. 

It wasn’t until the following summer that you two had become friends. 

Sukuna remembers that day— 7:00 pm, the temperature was finally starting to drop. He had about one more hour before the sun went down, so he decided to make the most of what was left of the day by riding his bike around the neighborhood. 

He soon found out that you lived just one street away from him when he saw you sitting under a tree on your front lawn, sketching in a notebook. 

And of course, you didn’t fucking notice him, even as the brakes on his bike screeched when it came to a halt. 

“Hey.” 

He's always had a stern voice— you almost thought you did something wrong as you looked up to see who barked at you. 

“Hey,” you responded back, sounding slightly confused. 

His brows furrowed as he looked over your house. “You live here?”

“Yeah. Do you live nearby?” 

“Yeah.” He pointed right behind him. “On the next street over.” 

“That’s … cool.” You had no idea how to even respond to that. He was glaring at you, and you were so sure that he was just waiting to say something rude. 

He never did. 

“Do you have a bike?” he asked.

“Yeah.” 

“Wanna ride around together?” 

Looking back, he had no idea how he was able to be so straightforward with you. He was a loner through and through, it took a lot for him to even want to be friends with someone. It probably made him more comfortable knowing you were a decent enough person to stick up for him the way you did. 

Before you were able to say yes or no, you heard your mother calling from inside the house, letting you know dinner was ready. 

“Coming!” You got up, putting your notebook under your arm as you started to pick up your colored pencils. For a moment, he thought you forgot that he was there, but then you looked back up. “I’m not allowed to go outside anymore after dinner. Do you wanna ride bikes tomorrow?” 

“Yeah.” A bit of excitement threatened to peak through his voice. “What time?” 

“Uhhh… could you come at 5?” 

“Yeah.” He wasn’t actually sure if he could, but he was determined to make a friend and decided he’d make it happen. 

“Okay, cool!” You turned on your heel, waving at him as you started to walk back inside. “See you tomorrow!” 

After riding around the neighborhood for a couple of hours, he ended up eating dinner with your family that next night, after riding back home and asking his dad, of course. 

There was no separating you from each other after that. 

His favorite thing about you was that you were always open to learning about his interests, rather than shutting him down for not knowing or liking what he liked. He remembers coming over one day with a binder full of Pokémon cards and being able to show you each one despite you not knowing anything about Pokémon prior to that. 

That’s how your friendship went— you’d willingly follow him down whatever rabbit hole he was in, and he did the same for you. He’s aware of how close of a bond he has with you. You two can talk for hours, about anything and everything. You don’t run out of things to talk about, nor do you get tired. 

At least that’s what he thought.

There’s been a shift, and for the life of him, he cannot figure out what’s caused it. The last time you were this quiet was after you went through (another) failed talking stage, but that only lasted a week. It’s been 3 weeks of you turning down his invitations and giving him short answers, slowly retreating back into your bubble that apparently doesn’t have any room for him anymore.

But even then, it’s not something that starts to weigh heavily in his mind until today, when he saw you studying in the library alone. You always let him know whenever you were going there in case he wanted to come along, because that was another thing you two did together— study. From the library, to random coffee shops, to the dining room table where you two could easily stay up until 2:00 AM writing papers and rereading notes for the hundredth time. 

Sukuna would never outwardly admit it, but you were his entire life. He liked it that way.

He thought about going up to you, but decided against it. It was the first time he thought he’d be a bother and decided that he’d rather not feel like one with you— not ever.

Not to sound dramatic, but it was paralyzing in a way. Knowing he should probably give you some space and trying to do so, when literally half of his thoughts are about you. It could be something as simple as finding a new song that he liked, and he’d start to wonder if you’d like it too. So no, realizing that you’ve been distancing yourself from him doesn’t feel very good. 

And he hopes he never has to feel like this again. 

—

Between you and Sukuna, you were honestly more of a loner. While he’s made a handful of friends in the three years of being in college, you’ve only really made one, which was Yuki. Maybe two, if you count Shoko, but she’s always been so withdrawn from everything that you considered her more of an acquaintance.

But even then, Yuki had her own group of friends. You were okay with that and didn’t mind being the friend you catch up with once a month. 

Today is that once a month catch up. Instead of going out somewhere though, you both opted to just make dinner at her place. It gives a sense of coziness that’s needed when it snows for a week straight. 

You thought you could come here to relax, but you find yourself nearly choking on spaghetti when she asks what’s wrong with you and Sukuna. 

You try to act normal about it, but you weren’t fooling anyone, especially with your initial reaction. Stumbling over your words, eyes all wide as if you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. 

“I mean, look at you,” Yuki starts to go in on you. “You haven’t mentioned his name once, and you look depressed as fuck.” 

You frown. “That doesn’t mean it’s because of him, though.”

“Then what is it?” she asks, twirling some spaghetti around with her fork. 

No answer. 

She sighs at how bad you are at trying to hide it. “C’mon, you can tell me. Who knows, I might even be able to give you some advice.” 

You doubt it, but you tell her anyway— about how you’ve been trying to avoid him, thinking about how the distance will make you get over something that was never even a was. 

At first, she laughs at how surprised you look when she says she already knew you were into him. To her, it was pretty obvious with the way you were around him. Granted, she’s only really seen it once, but seeing the way your eyes softened as you looked at him for a little longer than a friend would was all she needed to see.

Sukuna on the other hand? She had no idea. She’s had a couple of classes with him in the past, and he’s always been hard to read. 

Maybe? Is what she told you when you asked if she thought he liked you back, which may look a little harsh to some people, but you asked her for the truth, and the truth was he was hard to read.

“He clearly likes having you around, though, if he’s been able to live with you for almost 3 years with no complaints,” she adds. 

“Well, yeah… we’re friends, and that’s the problem. He’d never see me as more than that.”

“You don’t know that,” she scolds you for being so pessimistic. “Why don’t you just ask him?” 

You’d rather fucking die. “And then what? Make things awkward if he says no and ruin a 10-year friendship? At this point, I don’t even care if he feels the same or not, I just wanna get over it so I can go back to being normal with him.” 

A little self-sabotage-y, but fair enough, Yuki thinks. “Well… if getting over him is the goal here, why don’t you come to a party with me next Friday? I’m sure meeting new people will help out with that.”

“I dunno.” The mumbled words are followed by a sigh. “Parties aren’t really my thing, but I’ll think about it and let you know.”

They really weren’t. You didn’t mind going to the ones Sukuna took you to since everyone, for the most part, knew how to act right and didn’t drink that much, but a frat party? Just thinking about it gives you a headache. 

But who knows, maybe you needed to get knocked off your axis to forget about it. 

—

Sukuna took an astronomy class in his freshman year. He didn’t talk that much, but was still able to build a bond with his professor since he was one of the very few students who actually showed up during office hours. 

Which is why he came home today with not one, but two telescopes sticking out of his backpack. He couldn’t really afford one right now and figured it’d be worth a try asking if his former professor had any he could borrow. 

And since the professor was more than happy to lend him some, Sukuna figured he might as well grab a second one since you watched the last meteor shower with him and pouted whenever he took it back from you. 

The last few times he hoped you’d be home, you weren’t, so hearing some rummaging come from your room wiped away some of the doubt he felt during his walk back from campus. His heart may have even skipped a beat as he gently set his backpack down on the couch. It’s felt like forever since he actually got to sit down and talk to you. 

Yet the moment you opened your door after hearing a knock, something in his chest tightens. You’ve got a full face of make-up on, tits pushed up in the tightest top he’s ever seen you wear, paired with quite possibly the shortest skirt he’s ever seen, period.

“Hey.” You try to smile at him, but he still notices the flicker of guilt on your face as you try to pull your skirt down. “What’s up?” 

“Nothin’, I was just wondering if you were free tonight.” There’s a bit of disappointment in the small laugh he huffs out. “There’s gonna be a meteor shower later.” 

He doesn’t even know why he mentioned it when it’s already clear you’re going to be busy. 

“Fuck— I’m sorry.” You knew how much he liked going to that hill not too far from campus to watch them. “I already made plans with Yuki.”

“It’s alright. I asked at the last minute anyway.” He tries to act like he’s happy for you. “You two going to a party or something?”

“Yeah, some frat party,” you try to sound as uninterested as possible. He’s expressed his hatred for frat parties many times in the past. 

He thought you hated them too, but evidently not enough, given how you’re all dressed up to go to one. 

“Nice,” he responds a little too flatly, lips thinning into a fake smile as he nods and mentally checks out. “I’ll uh– let you go back to getting ready then, I guess.” 

“Yeah.”

You wanted to say more, but the words just got caught in your throat as you watched him turn away from you and walk to his room. 

He never came out in the last hour you were home. You considerate saying bye, but what was the point when you hadn’t said that in weeks? 

As you’re walking out the door, something from the corner of your eye catches your attention. His backpack. You had to do a double-take at first, but your eyes eventually landed on two telescopes, and the mere thought of hurting Sukuna tonight made the guilt you already felt spread through every inch of your body. 

. . .

Coming to the party with Yuki was a mistake. 

You hated crowds, especially the one here. Even with a couple of drinks in you, having to be around people plastered out of their minds annoyed you. Just drunk and sweaty and stumbling into everything. 

You found yourself having to step outside, and even though you didn’t get to escape people completely, at least you had some fresh air. You found a wall to lean against and checked your phone— no notifications. You shouldn’t have even expected to have any. Then you do something pretty annoying, go on instagram to see if Sukuna posted anything on his story. He doesn’t have that many people on there, but he’ll still post from time to time. You were hoping to see something, maybe something about the meteor shower.

Nope.

Fuck. What if he didn’t end up going? The thought makes you feel like the worst friend ever. You probably are the worst friend ever at this point. You practically ditched him to go to a frat party. 

Through the window, you see Yuki making out with some guy, and figure it's time to go since it’s with the one she was planning on spending the night with. You really aren’t in the mood to spark up a conversation with somebody else tonight, either. 

The Uber you called was already on its way when you went to say goodbye to Yuki, and got home 15 minutes later with your tail tucked in between your legs. You had no idea what you were going to say to him. You didn’t want him to think he was your backup plan either. 

The silence of the apartment and seeing one telescope left behind felt worse. 

—

Of course he went alone. 

Sure, he was admittedly bummed, maybe even a little irritated that you chose a fucking frat party, of all things, over him, but that didn’t stop him from getting out of the house for the night. He would’ve borrowed the telescopes for nothing if he stayed. 

He was alone, but the night was nice. Clear skies, thick blankets of snow silencing the air around him and muffling the hoots of an owl that was somewhere in the trees. If only there was a little more snow to shut that thing up, too— it was ruining everything for him. Just as he’s about to turn around and yell at it, in hopes that telling it to shut the fuck up himself might work, the sound gets clearer. 

It sounds like someone's calling his name, which spooks him a bit despite not believing in the paranormal. 

“Kuna?!” 

Oh, great. It was something worse than a ghost, you. 

And you forgot to bring your survival instincts, too. You have to walk through a sketchy path to reach the hill, and not only did you decide to go alone, but you are yelling his name, proving to anybody nearby that you are alone and most likely lost. 

He pinches his nosebridge and lets out a disappointed sigh before just barely yelling back. “I’m over here.”

He hears a rushed ‘okay’ right after and pictures you fast-walking through the snow. For some reason, he thought he’d see you in the same outfit he last saw you in and was glad to see you didn’t show up half naked. You’re wearing the same thing as him right now— boots, snow pants, goose down coat. 

You’re a little shy as you walk up and sit next to him. 

He’s not. “What happened to your little party?” 

“Didn’t like it,” you murmured. 

He laughs under his breath, having already known you wouldn’t. “Good thing you had a backup plan.” 

“You can’t be the backup plan if I never even knew there was going to be a meteor shower when I made plans,” you huff out. 

“Right,” he grumbles, noticing something protruding under your coat. He nods at it. “The hell are you hiding under there?”

“Oh.” You look down and reach under your coat to pull the object out. “The other telescope.” 

“Seriously? You couldn’t even stuff it in a backpack or something?” he complains, snatching it from you to take a look at it. “You could’ve dropped it and I would’ve been fucked.” 

“Good thing I didn’t,” you proudly say, and he rolls his eyes, handing it right back to you. 

But not before looking at you dead in the eye and saying, “Don’t break it,” in an authoritative tone that would've scared the living hell out of most people. 

You, on the other hand, are very used to his grumpy side at this point and don’t think much of it as you take it back from him. You do steal a glance at him, though, unable to tell if he has any leftover resentment from earlier. He can try to act as unbothered as he wants, but his original response was telling. The way the interest in his eyes faded, just waiting to end the conversation once he found out where you were going. 

“I’m sorry about tonight.” 

He lets out a laugh. “For what?” 

“I don’t know…” you mumble, bringing your knees to your chest and hugging them. “Still going even when I knew I probably wasn’t going to like it.” 

“It’s got nothing to do with me, remember? Those plans were already made,” he murmurs back, adjusting his glasses before looking up at the sky. You’re not sure if he’s being sarcastic or not. 

“I know. I still feel bad, though.” 

Sukuna hums at first, not sure how to even take that. He doesn’t like it when people feel sorry for him. Hates it when people treat him like he’s fragile, like what you’re doing right now. Yet, he still can’t find it in himself to respond in the snarky, passive-aggressive way he usually does to people who do that. 

“Don’t be. I’m fine.” 

“Alright,” you say with a sigh, not pushing it any further. 

And while the night was nice, you couldn’t help but think of how it barely fixed what damage had already been done by your own doing. Sukuna was still kind to you and spoke softly for the most part, but you finally felt the distance you’ve been silently asking for. It was as if he stopped caring about including you, only keeping the thoughts he’d usually share to himself as he looked up at the sky and not bothering to direct where you should look. 

For a moment, you wanted to ask him what was wrong, only to quickly stop yourself. You knew what was wrong, and knew you had no right ask when the problem was you. 

—

Avoiding Sukuna wasn’t healthy in any way, shape, or form. It was childish. You felt like nothing but a coward, but it was the only way you knew how to protect yourself at this point— convincing yourself that maybe the feelings you had for him would disappear if you stayed as far away from him as possible. 

They haven’t, they’re just like any other problem in life— they don’t go away just because you ignore them, acting as if they weren’t there. They get worse, they fester, and in your case, you probably think about him now more than ever. How he doesn’t deserve to be dodged like this, how you’re ruining a perfectly good friendship just because you couldn’t keep your feelings in check. 

You want to tell him there’s nothing wrong with him, but you’re afraid that more words will slip out. Like how much you miss him, everything about him. From the late nights talking about anything and everything, all the way down to the annoyed look on his face whenever you say something he finds stupid. That yeah, he can be really rude at times, but even in those moments, there’s still nobody else that you feel more comfortable with. There’s nothing wrong with him. He means everything to you.

You wish you never followed him here. You wish you never signed that lease. You are going to lose him because of it. 

That day was bound to happen— you just didn’t think it’d happen so soon. 

Avoiding him didn’t work. You see him now, talking to some girl in front of the library. He doesn’t seem to be looking to get out of the conversation anytime soon with how relaxed he looks. Comfortable. 

You wish you never followed him here. 

Aside from your degree, it got you absolutely nowhere. You could’ve been smiling just as much as the girl in front of him with somebody else had you not spent the last three years pining over him. 

Hell— the last ten years.

. . .

Two weeks later, Sukuna bursts through your shared apartment and bangs on your door so hard that your heart starts to race. You don’t think you’ve ever actually felt scared to face him until now. 

“I know you’re home, your keys are still on the coffee table,” he roughly says, continuing to pound on the door. “Open the fucking door.” 

You try to look him in the eyes when you finally do, but you couldn’t handle the weight you felt under his gaze. 

He tries to catch his breath as he walks into your room— it’s as if he ran home just so he could talk to you. With one last deep breath, he speaks. “What the hell is your problem?”

“What do you mean—“ 

“This!” He holds his phone up, hands slightly trembling, showing you the text his father sent him regarding your lease, and how you told him you didn’t want to renew it for the next year. “You couldn’t have told me yourself, so you reached out to my dad? You look like you’re trying to escape me or something! What did I even do to you?!” 

“Nothing! I just—“ 

“Like hell it isn’t— you’ve been avoiding me for fucking weeks, and now you don’t even want to live with me anymore. What the fuck did I do to deserve all of that?!” 

Your eyes began to tear up the more he yelled, growing more and more overwhelmed to the point where you just blurted it out. “I can’t stay here anymore— I need to move on with my life.” 

“What do you mean, move on?” His face twists from confusion. “What is there to even move on from, huh?” 

“From you!” 

He defensively throws his arms out, still completely and utterly confused. “You act like we’re in a fucking relationship!”

“I know— that’s the problem!” you finally snap, a small hiccup leaving your body as you try not to cry in front of him. 

You didn't have to explain any further from there. 

It was clear he understood what you meant by that with his reaction. Going radio silent as he sat down on your bed, resting his head in his hands for a moment while he tried to process your pathetic confession. 

“I-“ he cuts himself off and sighs, looking up to see you just awkwardly standing there, sniffling and wiping your eyes. 

He wants nothing more than to hold you right now and wipe the tears away, but has no idea how to tell you that— guess you’re both stupid in that sense. 

“Do you want to be in one?” 

You stop sniffling and look at him like he’s fucking stupid. “What kind of a question is that?”

“I don’t know,” he argues back. “You’re the one crying about not being in one.”

“So you’re going to ask me to be in a relationship with you just to appease me?” Your eyes widen in disbelief. 

“I’m not doing it to appease you— 

You cut him off with a bitter laugh, “Yeah? What is it then?”

“I’m doing it because I love you and I want you to fucking stay.” 

The room grows dead silent, save for the sharp breath you take as you try to come up with a response. 

“What?”

“You seriously want me to repeat that again?” he scoffs, and then spells it out for you quite aggressively. “I love you. You are the most important person in my life, and I want you to stay. Don’t. Leave. Me— is that enough for you, or would you like me to write it down on a piece of paper so you can read along while I say it again?”

You avert your eyes as if you were a child being scolded, picking at your cuticles as you mumble, “I got it.”

A laugh escapes him because you are un-fucking-believable. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” you respond quietly. 

The mattress creaks as he gets up from the bed. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“Mhm.” 

“Good.”

Your cheeks begin to heat up as he starts walking closer, and by the time he’s standing in front of you, you feel like you can hardly breathe. There’s no telling what’s on his mind when you meet his gaze. Though it’s not like you had much time to think. 

Your brain short-circuits when he gently cups your jaw. 

Then shuts down completely when you feel the warmth of his soft lips pressed against yours. 

There’s a satisfied look on his face when he pulls back— it’s not often he leaves you speechless like this. You always have more to say. Now? Nothing. He’s starting to wonder if you’re even breathing. 

“Was that okay?” he asks, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you nearly whisper.

He hums as he leans forward again, kissing you with more certainty than the last. There’s a light smack, then he deepens it, and you’re left holding his arms as you go along with it, following him like you always do. 

It happens fast. 

One minute he’s bending down, grabbing the backs of your knees to pick you up. The next, your back is hitting the sheets, and you’re reminded of just how big he’s become when he’s on above you, caging you in with his arms. 

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks again. 

“Mhm,” you’re the one cupping his face this time, watching his eyes soften. “I want you.”

“I want you too.” 

He gives you one last kiss, then leaves a trail of them down your neck and chest. Suddenly, your shirt’s off, and his hands are sliding down from your waist to your hips— fingers hooking around the waistband of your shorts, making your stomach flutter as he slowly pulls the shorts and your panties down in one go. 

You don’t even realize how wet you are until you’re completely exposed to the air, having Sukuna spread your legs wide open as he gets in between them. 

The grip he has on the back of your thighs tightens. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” 

Now, neither of you are virgins, and the number of people you’ve slept with can be counted on one hand. You knew it wouldn’t be awkward or anything with the moderate amount of experience you had, but you did not expect him to bury his face into your pussy and start eating you out like some starved whore. 

He has you gasping and squeezing your legs together, and he just keeps going— groaning as he laps away at your pussy, flattening his tongue against your hole and licking a fat stripe up to your clit before sucking on it. 

It’s so good that you have no idea whether you want more or if you want to push his head away, and you’re not even sure if pushing him away is even possible with the iron grip he has on your waist. Even when you squeeze your thighs together, he just rubs his face further into your folds, letting his nose work against your clit while he starts to fuck you with his tongue. 

It drives you insane. You’re grabbing at his hair, letting out the neediest moans that have ever come out of you in life. None of the guys you’ve had sex with has ever made you cum. 

Sukuna’s making you cum on his tongue— groaning while licking and lapping at the mess you’ve made while you’re disheveled and gasping for air. 

There’s slick dripping down from his chin, glasses somehow perfectly on as he pops his head up, checking to see if you’re okay. “Wanna keep going?” 

“Fuck—“ you’re still trying to catch your breath as you begin to nod, “Yeah, please, need you inside me.” 

He’s already taking off his shirt, revealing the toned body he’s spent quite an effort working on. Then his jeans… and boxers. 

Your eyes grow wide at the sight. 

His dick’s fucking perfect. Long and thick. Couple of veins running up his length. A big red tip perfect for hitting all the right spots— just thinking about it makes you drool.

“You’re not paying attention, are you?” he asks in amusement. 

“I am,” you say, looking up at him before your eyes start trailing down again. “Can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding under your pants this entire time.” 

“You’re right— I probably should’ve told you about it a while ago,” he says sarcastically, kneeling back on the bed until he’s above you again, hooking his hands under your knees and dragging you closer. 

You squirm a bit as he rubs and taps the head of his cock against your clit. “Will you go slow at first?” 

His face softens as he looks at you. 

“Yeah, of course.” He was already planning on it, but something about being asked really does something to him. Triggering some need to be extra gentle with you. “Let me know if you want me to stop.” 

You nod, and he lines himself up with your entrance, tip already coated in slick. He pushes in and bites back a groan as he watches you stretch around him, taking him inch by inch. Your eyebrows are slightly pinched together when he looks up, and a low laugh escapes him before caging you in and grabbing your jaw with a gentle hand. 

His lips graze over yours as he pushes in some more. “Breathe for me— there we go— almost there, you got this.” The praise makes you squeeze around him  more, and he finds himself struggling to stay controlled. You’re so tight and look so pretty struggling to take him, letting him swallow up your little moans as he starts to slowly rock his hips back and forth. 

With a low grunt, he finally bottoms out and gives you a moment to adjust. “How’s it feel?”

“Good,” you murmur. “Keep going.” 

There’s a sly smile on his face. “You sure?”

“Don’t make me beg for it,” you whine back. 

“I won’t, I won’t,” he lets out an amused sigh, then starts moving again. 

He’s less careful as he starts thrusting into you, pulling his hips back a little more each time, making you feel every inch he’s giving you with the leisurely pace he’s going at. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding on to his shoulders as he fucks you deep and slow.

"Kuna—"

"I know," he hums against your temple, hips rolling into you as if he had all the time in the world. "Shoulda done this sooner— feels so fuckin’ good."

“Yeahh– fuuck– m’sorry,” you moan a little too softly in the shell of his ear, so blissfully unaware of just how crazy it drove him in that moment.

“I’m sorry too.”

He wasn’t apologizing about the past, by the way. He was apologizing for the way he drove his cock into you afterwards, just to hear that sweet little sound again and again and again, until your moans start filling the room. 

Getting you to go dumb on his cock wasn’t very difficult at all. Sukuna knew how to fuck— rolling his hips into you just right, his fat tip bullying into your sweet spot until you’re clawing at his back, which does nothing but turn him on even more.

He grabs one of your legs and hoists it up to his shoulder, allowing himself to fuck into you deeper at a new angle. His grip on your legs tightens as he snaps his hips against you harder, faster, until a wet squelch between you can be heard. 

“Oh my god, right there,” you whine out as you start to feel the pressure in your lower belly start to build. “I’m gonna— fuck!”

“Shit– me too,” he groans out, letting go of your leg to cage you in with both arms. He starts pounding into you desperately, letting out low, drawn out groans in the shell of your ear. After one particularly rough thrust, you're crying and cumming all over his cock, unable to hear whatever he’s rambling about in your ear. You can feel his cock absolutely throbbing against your walls though as he starts chasing his own relief, groaning and cursing to himself as he starts pumping you full of his cum. 

It takes you both a moment to process what the hell just happened. There’s nothing but short breaths as your chests rise and fall. Your stomach threatens to drop when he rolls over and falls on his back beside you, afraid of whatever he has to say next. But then he pulls you in, moving you to rest your head on his shoulder, grabbing the back of your knee to pull your leg over him. 

He closes his eyes and takes a breath, drawing little circles over your waist with his thumb. “Does this mean you’ll finally stop avoiding me?”

“Yeah,” you let out a small but tired laugh— you’ll probably be all over him after this. 

“Good,” he grumbles, shifting as he settles into the bed some more. “Because you’re really never getting rid of me after this, bestie.”

All rights reserved © 2026 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform. Do not feed my works into ai and do not turn them into chat bots.

[lostfracturess]

THE MAN ACROSS THE STREET — SATORU GOJO

pairing — neighbour!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary — when you inherited your grandparents' victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. what you weren't prepared for was satoru gojo—your insufferably perfect neighbour with his perfect smiles and unexpected talent for home repairs. but maybe, just maybe, he's exactly the kind of renovation partner you need. because four seasons might not be enough to fix a century-old house, but it might be just enough time to fall in love—moment by moment, season by season.

word count — 14 k

genre/tags — home renovation AU, neighbours to lovers, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn, domestic fluff, idiots in love, misunderstandings, found family, tension, happy ending, gentle romance, cozy vibes

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, small renovation accident, references to past family deaths (grandparents)

author's note — would you believe this fic has been sitting in my drafts since last year haha. but i finally finished it after months of adding scenes and expanding seasons. i wanted to keep it shorter but well, now it is what it is lol. hope you enjoy <3

masterlist + support my writing + ao3

When you inherited your grandparents' old Victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. The sagging porch, the outdated wiring, the kitchen that hadn't been updated since the 1970s — these were all problems you could tackle with enough time, money, and YouTube tutorials.

What you hadn't counted on was Satoru Gojo.

Your new neighbour lived in the equally grand house across the street, though his was perfectly maintained with its pristine white paint and perfectly tended rose bushes. You'd noticed him the day you moved in, impossible not to really, with that white hair and those eyes in the colour of summer skies that seemed to find you no matter where you were. 

It was frustrating, to say the least. 

You'd first noticed him through your kitchen window one morning, still half asleep and clutching your teacup. He was at his mailbox, and for a disorienting moment, you thought you were still dreaming. No shirt. Sweatpants low on his hips. It was really way too early for someone to look that good. It felt almost unfair, frankly. But then he turned, caught you staring and flashed you a smile that could belong in a stupid toothpaste commercial. 

You'd ducked under the counter so quickly you'd spilled tea all over yourself. It was ridiculous, really—hiding in your own kitchen.

Your first actual meeting came three days later, when you were balanced precariously on a ladder, trying to clear the gutters of last autumn's soggy birch leaves. You were reaching for a stubborn clump when a voice drifted up from below.

"You might want to secure that ladder before it slides." 

You looked down. Satoru stood there, one hand casually steadying the ladder, the other holding a steaming mug. His white hair caught the spring sunlight, shimmering like spun moonlight, and his eyes were the kind of blue that made you grateful you were already holding onto something.

“It’s fine, really” you said, even as the ladder wobbled slightly.

“Famous last words.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “But humor me? I’d hate to call an ambulance before I know my new neighbour’s name.” 

That had set the tone for everything that followed. 

He had an uncanny ability to appear whenever you were struggling—or perhaps he was stalking you. Either way, he had a way of offering help in a way that somehow never felt condescending. It was subtle at first—the way he'd bring over coffee when he saw you starting an early morning project, or how he seemed to have an endless supply of useful tools that were "just gathering dust anyway", as he always said.

He never pushed, never overwhelmed, but he was always there, across the street and you found yourself looking over to his house more often than you'd care to admit.

You told yourself it was just practical. He knew the neighbourhood, understood old houses, and happened to be surprisingly knowledgeable about house renovation. The fact that he had a smile that made your chest tight, or that he looked unfairly good in everything he wore was entirely irrelevant. He's just a neighbour, you told yourself, even as heat rose in your cheeks. A ridiculously attractive neighbour—unfortunately.

But as spring melted into summer, and summer faded into autumn, you started to realize two very inconvenient truths: One, restoring this house was going to take far longer than you'd planned. And two, Satoru Gojo was becoming a much more relevant aspect of this restoration than you'd wished.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It all began with the pipes in spring. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Spring was supposed to be about fresh starts and birdsong or whatever stupid idyllic nonsense romance movies peddled. Your old Victorian home, however, had other ideas. Because on one peaceful Saturday morning, the pipe under your kitchen sink decided it had had enough of gravity and time.

You were making coffee when you heard it—a suspicious gurgle, followed by a crack that could only mean trouble. And suddenly, your cabinet was a fountain. Lovely, really, if it didn’t threaten to turn your kitchen into an indoor pool. You managed to shut off the water and were now flat on your back under the sink, surrounded by tools, muttering curses at the rusted pipe, when a knock sounded.

“Having fun down there?”

You jumped in surprise and, naturally, hit your head on the cabinet. Of course it was him. Of course your ridiculously, unfairly attractive neighbour would appear right when you were sprawled on the kitchen floor, soaked and probably looking like a drowned rat.

“Ha ha,” you called dryly, not bothering to move. “I’ve got this.”

“That’s why there’s water running down your driveway?”

You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. “Don’t you have your own house to maintain?”

“Much less entertaining over there.” A rustle of movement, and then Satoru was crouching beside you. His white hair fell forward as he tilted his head, those stupidly handsome blue eyes assessing the situation. “You’re using the wrong wrench.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” He reached past you, picking up a different wrench. “Pipe wrench, not adjustable. Unless you’re aiming for an indoor pool, in which case, carry on.”

You glared at him, which was significantly less effective from your position on the floor. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"

"On a Saturday morning? Please." He settled onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in to examine the pipe. "Besides, this is a two person job. One to hold the pipe, one to remove the fitting. Unless you've grown extra arms?"

You hadn’t. Hence the problem. You'd spent the last hour trying to manage it alone and had only succeeded in getting thoroughly soaked and increasingly frustrated.

"Fine," you sighed, scooting over to make room. "But if you make one more smart comment—"

"Would I do that?" He gave you an exaggeratedly innocent look that almost made you smile.

Working together, it took only minutes to remove the damaged section of pipe. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms, the sleeves bunching just below his elbows. You tried not to notice how he smelled faintly of sandalwood, or how his presence made your kitchen feel suddenly so much smaller.

"You'll need to replace this whole section," he said, examining the corroded pipe. "The hardware store opens in an hour."

"I know that." You definitely hadn't known that.

"Of course you did." His smile made you want to punch him. "Just like you knew about using the pipe wrench?"

"I will set your house on fire."

He laughed, the sound filling the small space. “No, you won’t. You like having someone around who knows a pipe wrench from an adjustable one.”

A strange warmth spread through you, followed by a healthy dose of suspicion. Was he…flirting? 

No. Impossible. Satoru Gojo didn't flirt. Or better said, he flirted with everyone—the barista at the coffee shop, the elderly woman selling tomatoes at the market, even the hardware store clerk he’d charmed into giving you a discount the other day. It was just his way. 

Still it did make the small space feel a little warmer. And the worst part was, he wasn't entirely wrong. You did appreciate his help. But you'd rather deal with a thousand broken pipes on your own than admit that and witness his self-satisfied grin.

“Don’t you have your own projects?” you asked, pushing yourself up, feigning a nonchalance you absolutely did not feel.

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, looking far too comfortable sprawled on your kitchen floor. “My house is perfect. Which leaves me free to watch you struggle with yours. Better than Netflix.” 

You grabbed a dish towel and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, because of course he did.

"Come on." He stood in one fluid motion that had no right to look that graceful. "I'll drive you to the hardware store. Unless you want water running down your driveway all day?”

You looked between him and your ruined cabinet, weighing your options. Pride demanded you handle this alone. Practicality pointed out that he actually seemed to know what he was doing, and you really did need that pipe fixed today.

"Fine." You sighed. "But I'm buying my own supplies." You blurted it out, remembering how he’d somehow paid the entire bill before you’d even reached for your wallet last time you'd run into him in the hardware store.

"Whatever you say." He was already heading for the door, keys jingling in his hand. "Though you might want to change first. Not that the wet look isn't working for you, but—"

You looked down at your soaked clothes, then back at him. Your white shirt clung to you like a second skin and was practically see through. Heat rushed to your face.

Why was he only mentioning this now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

After the Saturday sink incident, you'd sworn to handle the rest of the plumbing yourself. You weren’t entirely sure why—maybe it was pride, maybe it was the way he’d teased you endlessly about it, or maybe it was the strange flutter in your chest whenever he was near.

Whatever the reason, you’d plotted your renovation schedule around his presumed absences, binged YouTube tutorials until your eyes blurred, and even took your coffee breaks in the backyard, convinced he couldn’t possibly find you there. 

But somehow, Satoru Gojo kept appearing anyway.

"That pipe threading looks wrong," he'd say, appearing beside you like some stupid house ghost. Or, "Those measurements seem off," right when you were about to make a cut. Or worst of all, saying nothing at all. He’d simply stand there with that look until you finally snapped and asked for help.

On one stupid cursed Monday afternoon, the bathroom pipes were your breaking point. You'd been at it for hours, surrounded by copper fittings and pipe dope, when his shadow fell across your work. You really needed to start locking the door.

“Don’t,” you warned without looking up.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loud enough.”

“I was just admiring your work.” His voice held that familiar amusement that made your skin prickle. “Though if you’re planning on running water anytime soon—”

Your wrench clattered to the floor. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”

“Would you believe me if I said everything?”

But the most infuriating part wasn’t just that he was right. It was the way he showed you. His large hands moving gently as he demonstrated the proper technique, his voice low and soft as he explained what you were doing wrong with such patience that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him.

By the time the bathroom was finished, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t need his help. By the time you tackled the upstairs pipes, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t want it.

It became a routine. You’d start a project, he’d appear with some tedious fact about old houses, and together you’d work until the sun dipped below the horizon. He never pushed, never took over, just quietly adjusted your grip on a tool or handed you the right fitting before you even asked.

“You know,” you said one evening, both of you tired and dusted with grime, “for someone with a perfect house, you spend a lot of time in my disaster zone.”

He was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, his voice, when it came, was different—softer, the usual teasing edge gone. “Maybe I like watching something beautiful come back to life.” 

You looked up, a question forming on your lips, but he was already focused on the pipe in his hands again, his expression shadowed in the fading light. 

The last pipe was replaced on a cool evening in late spring. You both stood in the basement and looked at your work.

“Guess you’ll have to find someone else to annoy now,” you said, trying for a light tone, though a strange heaviness settled in your chest.

“Your electrical panel looks pretty old.”

“Satoru—”

“And those windows definitely need reglazing before summer.”

“You don’t have to—”

“And don’t even get me started on that porch roof.”

You stared at him. “You’re not going to let me do any of this alone, are you?”

He smiled. “Now you’re getting it.” 

And standing there in your basement, covered in dust and sweat, you finally admitted what you'd been fighting all spring—maybe you didn't want to do this alone after all. 

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Summer arrived like a slow exhale, bringing humid days and the kind of heat that made everything a sweltering ordeal. 

The porch was your next project so that you could reclaim the space before the season completely slipped away. You envisioned lazy afternoons spent sipping iced tea in the shade, reading a book or simply napping. But looking at the porch now, with its peeling paint, crumbling railings, and warped floorboards, that vision felt miles away.

It had become normal to find Satoru on your porch in the mornings, armed with iced coffee and opinions about latest movies. You'd stopped questioning how he always seemed to know your schedule, or why he willingly sacrificed his free time to help you strip old paint from equally old wood.

“This is bad,” he said one stifling morning, poking a section of railing that crumbled at his touch. “How did it get this neglected?”

You swiped at the sweat trickling down your forehead, probably smearing paint stripper across your cheek. “Ask that my grandparents’ bank. Two years of bureaucratic hell before I could even touch the place.”

“I’m more concerned about what you’re doing there. You’re taking off more wood than paint.” His hands hovered for a moment before gently adjusting your grip. “Like this. Gentle but firm. Let the stripper do the work.”

Months ago, the correction would have annoyed you. Now you just moved your hands and noticed how the work immediately became easier. But the warmth of his breath on your neck and the familiar scent of sandalwood still sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, ignoring the flutter in your stomach. "Not all of us have a natural talent for restoring historic houses."

"No, some of us just inherited beautiful old houses and decided to learn through trial and error." His voice carried that warm amusement that had become familiar. "Mostly error."

You turned to glare at him, but he was already moving on to the next section, the muscles in his arms flexing as he worked. Not that you were staring. You definitely weren't staring. And if you were, it was purely to study his scraping technique.

So the days fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for demolition—tearing out rotten planks and stripping paint before the heat truly settled in. Afternoons were for repairs, matching new wood to old, rebuilding piece by piece as sweat dripped down your backs.

"My grandmother used to bring us lemonade out here when we were kids," you said one afternoon, both of you sprawled in the shade of the half-finished porch, and as you said it, you could almost smell the lemon, tart and sweet. Hear the clinking of the ice in the heavy glasses. "She had this really pretty set of vintage glasses."

Satoru lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes against the sun. “Let me guess—they’re still in the attic somewhere?"

“Along with about a hundred years’ worth of other stuff.” You took a long sip from your water bottle. “I’m almost afraid to look.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, the movement pulling his damp t-shirt tighter across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his abs and the curve of his bicep. A few stray beads of sweat trickled down his temple, catching the sunlight. "We should check it out. After the porch is done."

"We?"

"Unless you're planning to handle whatever horror show is up there alone?" He smiled. “Besides, I’m invested in this house’s resurrection story now.”

"Is that what this is?"

"Isn't it?" He gestured at the porch around you. “Old becoming new. Though hopefully with better plumbing this time.”

You threw a paint chip at him, which he dodged easily. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never.” He stood and offered you a hand. "It's too good a story.”

You took his hand, and for a moment, you simply looked at him. It struck you then how familiar his presence had become—the easy banter, the shared work, the comfortable silences. It felt like you’d known him forever.

“Alright, let’s get back to it,” he said, his hand still holding yours. “This porch isn’t going to rebuild itself. Unless you’re planning on serving me lemonade on a pile of rotted wood?”

“Who says I’m making you lemonade?”

He tugged you closer, just a little, until you were almost toe to toe. You tilted your head, your gaze locked with his, and something playful flashed in those sky blue eyes of his. “Aren’t I entitled to a little refreshment after all this hard work?”

“You have quite the ideas.”

“Hmh. I have another one.” He released your hand. “You should have a party here when it’s finished. Lemonade and those vintage glasses of your grandmother’s.”

“To celebrate what?”

He glanced over his shoulder, something soft in his expression. “That good things are worth the work.”

You looked away first and focused back on your own section of railing. If your cheeks were warm, it was definitely just the summer heat.

The porch took two more weeks to finish. Every board was carefully replaced or restored, every detail attended to with a gentle care that would have made your grandmother proud. You spent the final evening painting together, working in silence as the sun set.

“It’s beautiful.” You stepped back to admire your work. The fresh white paint glowed in the twilight, making the whole house seem to breathe easier.

“It is.” But when you glanced over, Satoru wasn’t looking at the porch. His gaze was on you.

You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in cleaning your paintbrush. "So, about that attic..."

His smile, when you dared to look back, was warm and genuine. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," you echoed, trying to ignore the way your heart quickened at the way he said it—like a promise, like there would always be another project, another reason to spend these long summer days together. 

And it felt… good.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The attic turned out to be exactly the treasure trove you'd hoped but also feared it to be—a cavernous space choked with dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering through grimy windows. Air hung thick and still with the scent of dried wood and dust. Piles of furniture shrouded in white sheets were scattered among stacks of old books with brittle pages and dusty hatboxes tied with faded ribbons.

It was chaotic, let's just say that. 

But it was also so familiar it tugged at the edges of your memory, a feeling of coming home to a place you hadn't seen in years. 

The attic had started as a simple weekend project, mostly to fix the insulation before autumn. But each box you opened was like a time capsule of memories. You'd find yourself lost in old photo albums or mesmerised by your grandmother's book collection, renovation plans long forgotten as you sifted through the memories of their lives—and yours. And what you'd initially considered a "weekend project" had clearly been a wildly optimistic estimate.

You were so absorbed in sorting through another box that you didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until Satoru's head popped through the access panel.

"Your door was unlocked," he said, as that would explain why he always appeared out of nowhere is your house. "I brought lunch."

"Normal people call first," you replied, not looking up from the box in your hands.

"Normal is boring." He pulled himself up without any effort, which was almost offensive considering how you'd stumbled up here earlier. "Besides, you skipped breakfast again. I heard your stomach growling from across the street."

"That's not even possible." But the gnawing in your stomach told a different story. You were hungry, but you hadn't even noticed between the years and years of memories coming back to life.

"And yet." He settled beside you, closer than strictly necessary in the cramped space, and peered into the box. "What's caught your attention this time?"

You held up a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. "I think they're my grandparents' love letters."

His eyebrows rose. "From the war?"

"Maybe?" You were surprised for a second, not expecting him to remember the little detail you had told him one lazy afternoon in the sun—that your grandfather had served in the army and had been separated from your grandmother for some time. You untied the ribbon, handling the aged paper like it might crumble. The first envelope was postmarked 1943. "Oh. They are."

Satoru leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as you pulled out the first letter. His body was warm in the cool attic air next to yours, and you caught a subtle hint of sandalwood—a scent that had become inseparable from these shared afternoons.

"My dearest heart," you read aloud, then paused, suddenly feeling like you were intruding on something private. But it’s been over half a century, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t mind, surely. After all, they left all this to you. You continued, "The cherry trees are blooming here, and all I can think about is how we walked through the park last spring. Do you remember? You were wearing that blue dress, the one that matches the sky, and I knew right then I would marry you—"

"Your grandfather was a romantic," Satoru commented, a soft smile in his voice.

"Shh." You elbowed him lightly. "I carry your picture with me everywhere. The other men tease me about it, but I don't care. When things get dark over here, I just look at your smile and remember what I'm fighting for..." Your voice caught unexpectedly at the written words of your grandfather.

Satoru shifted closer and whispered, "Let me.” His chest brushed against your shoulder and his fingers slid over yours as he took the paper, the touch lingering for a moment longer.

“Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I'm back home with you," he continued, lips close enough to your temple that you could feel the words as much as hear them. His usual playful tone was gone, replaced by something that made your heart melt. "Sitting on that porch swing, watching the sunset. Nothing grand or fancy, just you and me and the quiet. That's what keeps me going, the thought of coming home to you."

Satoru stood up, brefting you of his warmth and sat down on a dusty stack of boxes near the small window opposite you to get a better view of the letters. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his white hair, making them glimmer like starlight. He looked younger, almost boyish in the soft light as he continued to read the letter. You watched him, struck by this unfamiliar sight.

"There are dozens more," you said after he finished, gesturing to the box. "Looks like they wrote to each other every week."

"Different time.” His startlingly blue eyes met yours, and for once there was no trace of his usual teasing smile. "People knew how to love back then. They took their time with it."

"You don't think people know how to love now?"

"I think we've forgotten how to do it slowly. How to let it build, letter by letter, moment by moment."

Your heart fluttered strangely, like a trapped bird. It was like glimpsing a part of him he usually kept hidden, a hint of the man beneath the playful nonchalance. Before you could process the feeling, before you could even form a coherent thought, he picked up another letter, breaking the moment with a small, almost apologetic smile. 

“My darling," he read, "Today Mrs. Henderson's cat got stuck in our rosebushes again, and all I could think was how you would have laughed..."

You smiled and settled back against the old boxes as he read, his warm voice washing over you like a soothing dream. The afternoon light caught dust motes dancing in the air, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

August arrived with a heatwave so oppressive, even the cicadas seemed to fall silent. You suggested starting at dawn, hoping to get some work done before the worst of the heat set in, and to your surprise Satoru had no objection, even though you knew he hated early starts and loved sleeping in.

And you were even more surprised when Satoru showed up right on time and you didn't even have to wake him up, armed with paintbrushes and a concerningly large supply of water bottles.

"You really don't have to help with this," you’d told him. "I can do it on my own, really. It’s not complicated or something.”

He arched a brow. "When has that ever stopped me?"

The house was a dull greenish colour. It had originally been a soft sage green, but it had faded over time. It was a colour your grandmother had loved, a shade that reminded her of the rolling hills of her childhood home. So you decided to paint it sage again. But by midday the heat had become almost unbearable, pressing down on you. Air thick and shimmering.

"You need to take a break," Satoru said, watching you sway slightly on the ladder. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," you insisted, even as your head throbbed. "We're almost done with this section."

"The paint will still be here in a few hours." He was already taking the painbrush from your hands. "Go rest before you fall off that ladder and give me a heart attack."

You wanted to argue, but the world was starting to spin in a way that suggested he might have a point. "Just for an hour.”

"Whatever you say." His hand steadied you as you climbed down the ladder, swaying slightly. "Go. Sleep. I've got this."

You wanted to lie down for a moment, just until the throbbing in your head subsided. Instead, you woke to the first gentle breeze of early evening, carrying the distant hum of a lawnmower from a neighbouring garden. You stumbled outside, still groggy, and stopped dead.

The house. 

It was finished. 

Every inch of peeling paint had been replaced with perfect sage green and the trim was crisp white. It looked like a completely different house, restored to its former beauty. 

Satoru was putting away the last of the brushes, his white hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his clothes splattered with green. He looked exhausted, but a genuine smile touched his lips when he spotted you. 

"You did all that?" you asked, still not quite believing it.

He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned stomach with sharply defined abs that you quickly looked away from. He must have seen your reaction, but for once, he didn’t comment. When you looked back, his shirt was down.

“You needed the rest. And I had the time.” 

"Satoru, this would have taken days—"

“A few hours with the right motivation.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Besides, couldn’t leave it half finished. Would have ruined the aesthetic of the street."

You knew that wasn’t the real reason. Just like you knew he didn't spend every free moment helping you with this house because he was concerned about the aesthetic of the street.

It was absurd. He was Satoru, infuriatingly charming, impossibly handsome Satoru. There was no way he could—no, it couldn't be. But the evidence piled up. It was the way his eyes lingered on yours, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way his presence filled every corner of your attention. It was a ridiculous notion, a phantom feeling that had no place in reality. He was a neighbour, a friend, someone who was simply helpful. 

That's all. 

The setting sun painted everything in shades of gold, catching in the wet paint and making your house shimmer like a scene from a fairytale. Satoru was still putting away brushes, his movements slower now, betraying his weariness even as he tried to play it off.

"You didn't have to do this," you said. "Any of it, really. The pipes, the porch, and now this."

He glanced at you, then back at the house. “I wanted to.”

"But why?" The question that had been burning in your throat all summer, since spring, since the first leaky pipe, finally escaped. "You have your own perfect house. Your own life. Why spend every free moment helping me with mine?"

“Would you believe me if I said I just like restoring things?”

"Not really," you said, trying to ignore the way your heart picked up speed when he moved closer. 

He reached out to brush something from your cheek. "You have a little…paint.” His thumb lingered against your skin, sun-warm and gentle. "Right here."

Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching like honey in the golden light. You could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the fine lines at the corners, the way his hair curled at his temples from sweat, and the small smudge of sage green along his jaw. He was so close. Too close.

"Satoru," you breathed, not sure if it was a question or a warning.

"Besides, watching you love this house back to life, even without knowing anything about renovations—" He paused, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. "It's unexpectedly cute."

You could feel his breath against your lips, could see the question in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer. His other hand came up to cradle your face, and you found yourself swaying towards him, drawn in by the gravity of this moment you'd both been circling since spring.

But then a car door slammed somewhere down the street and broke the spell. You both stepped back. 

Had that…had that almost just happened? You blinked, trying to clear the lingering warmth from your face. It must have been the heat. Or the paint smell. There was no way—

"I should—" He gestured vaguely at the remaining equipment.

"Right. Yeah. Sure" You were babbling, your heart racing like you'd been running. You desperately tried to convince yourself that you’d imagined the whole thing, that the almost kiss was just a figment of your overheated imagination. 

He turned to gather his things, nearly dropping his water bottle twice. You watched him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound desperate or awkward, but your mind was stuck on the phantom feeling of his thumb against your cheek.

At the garden gate, he paused, turning back with that smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Try not to break anything else before tomorrow?"

You smiled. "No promises."

He lingered for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something else, but then just nodded and stepped out onto the street. Just before he reached his door, you found yourself moving, yanking open your garden gate without thinking. "Satoru!"

He turned.

"Thank you!" you called out, hoping he could hear everything else you couldn't say in those two words. Thank you for helping. For caring. For almost kissing me.

His smile softened into something genuine, something that made your heart stumble in your chest. "Anytime!”

You stood there long after he'd disappeared into his house, your fingers absently touching the spot on your cheek where his hand had been, wondering how you were supposed to go back to normal after almost kissing your irritatingly perfect neighbour.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You'd never felt more ridiculous than when you found yourself standing on Satoru Gojo's immaculate porch, holding a slightly lopsided stawberry cake in your hand. After three attempts to ring the doorbell without letting the cake fall to the ground, you were seriously considering just leaving it on his doorstep with a note and running back across the street. But before you could execute your escape plan, the door swung open, and suddenly all coherent thought left your brain.

Satoru stood there in low-slung sweatpants and a fitted dark blue shirt that clung slightly to his still damp skin. A towel was draped around his neck, and his white hair was darker with moisture, falling into his eyes in a way that should be illegal. Droplets of water traced down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. 

Not that you were staring, of course.

His eyes widened and a stupid, handsome smile lit up his face. "Don’t tell me your kitchen is underwater again?”

"No, no…no emergencies today.” You thrust the cake forward like it’s something hot. "I made this. To say thank you. For all the help." The words tumbled out in a rush. "It's stawberry. Though now I'm realizing you might not even like stawberries, which would be really inconvenient, and—"

"I love them," he interrupted your rambling and took the cake out of your hands. "Did you make this just for me?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Come in. It’s too hot to stand out here."

You hesitated at the threshold. In all these months of him appearing at your house, you'd never actually been inside his. It felt like crossing some invisible line you hadn't even realized existed.

"Unless you're scared," he added with that familiar teasing note in his voice.

You groaned and stepped inside. Where your house was still a work in progress, his was... perfect. Somehow both modern and classic, with original hardwood floors that gleamed and a fireplace in the centre of the living room. The furniture was clearly expensive but comfortable, and large windows filled the space with natural light.

"This is—"

"Not what you expected?" He walked past you towards what you assumed was the kitchen, and you caught another whiff of his shower fresh scent.

"I was expecting more mirrors, actually. You know, so you could admire yourself from every angle."

He laughed. "Those are all in the bedroom."

You felt heat creep up your spine at his words and tried very hard not to think about Satoru and bedrooms in the same sentence. You followed him into his kitchen that was equally perfect like the rest of his house. Without thinking, you hopped up onto the wooden island and watched him move around the room.

"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for mugs.

“Please.” Your legs swung idly as you watched him slice the cake. "Though I should warn you, I don’t bake often.”

“Should I be afraid?" 

"I take it back. No cake for you."

"Too late." He slid a plate across the counter. He leaned against the island opposite you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his. "So, I was thinking about your kitchen.”

"What about it?"

"You need new countertops. And fresh paint." He took a bite of cake, his eyebrows rising. "This is actually good."

"Don't sound so shocked." 

You tried not to focus on how silly domestic this all felt—you on his kitchen island, sharing cake and talking about future projects like you were some kind of … couple.

"I was thinking," he continued, "we could start on that next week? I know a good carpenter who makes really cool wooded countertops that would match the original—"

Your gaze wandered as he spoke, taking in the space. That's when you saw it—a framed photo on the windowsill above the sink. Satoru, looking unfairly handsome in what appeared to be a suit, and a stunning woman with pale hair pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

They looked intimate. 

Happy. 

Like an actual couple.

Your stomach dropped.

"—and the marble could be saved if we—" He paused, noticing your distraction. "What's wrong?"

"Actually." You set down your cake, sliding off the counter, "I just remembered I have this... thing. I need to go."

"Now? But we haven't even finished—"

"It's important." You were already heading for the door, trying to ignore how low his sweatpants hung, revealing a bit of his perfect abs, how at home he looked in this perfect kitchen with its perfect photos of him and his perfect girlfriend. "Thanks for the coffee. And, um, good luck with... everything."

"Wait, what about your kitchen?" He followed you into the hallway. "Shouldn’t we talk about it first, before—"

"I'll figure it out," you said quickly, nearly stumbling in your haste to reach the door. "You probably have other plans anyway. With... people. Important people. I'll just YouTube it or something."

"Other plans? What are you—"

"Bye!" 

You practically fled down his porch steps, not daring to look back at his bewildered expression. You made it across the street with lightning speed, slamming your front door behind you and sliding down against it.

"Stupid," you muttered to yourself, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone that hansome, that charming, that annoyingly perfect—how could he not? And here you were, bringing him cake like some lovesick teenager, reading too much into things.

He was just being polite, probably feeling sorry for the disaster of a neighbour who couldn't even fix a leaky pipe without flooding her kitchen and you were making a complete fool of yourself. You wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

You could never face him again. How were you supposed to look him in the eye knowing you'd been almost kissing him in your backyard while his gorgeous girlfriend smiled at him from picture frames in his perfect kitchen? How could you ever stand on your porch again without remembering how you'd practically fled from his house like a guilty teenager?

Your kitchen tabletops would just have to stay ugly forever. You'd learn to love them. You pressed your forehead against your knees and groaned. 

And now you'd just have to avoid him for... oh, the rest of your life. 

Easy.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Summer melted into autumn with surprising speed, the maple trees lining your street turning from green to orange and crimson. As the days grew shorter, your grandmother's herb garden was dotted with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. Even the air felt different—crisper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of colder days to come.

And you threw yourself into the next project—the kitchen, armed with nothing but YouTube tutorials, sheer stubbornness and the grudging advice of the grumpy guy at the hardware store (who, you were convinced, hid whenever he saw you approaching).

Things weren't exactly going smoothly. You'd managed to miscalculate the measurements for the new cupboards (twice), and you were pretty sure you'd cracked the new sink while trying to install the tap. But it was your mess, your project, and you were determined to see it through, even if it meant several trips to the hardware store and more withering stares from grumpy guy. 

"Back again?" he'd grumble. "What'd you break this time?"

"Nothing's broken," you'd insist, even as you clutched a piece of pipe that was definitely not supposed to bend that way. "I just need... clarification."

Your kitchen was slowly, painfully coming together. Sure, the subway tiles weren't perfectly aligned, and maybe one cupboard door hung a little lower than its neighbours, but it was yours. Every imperfect angle and slightly wobbly shelf represented hours of YouTube research and grumpy guy's reluctant advice.

If sometimes, late at night, you found yourself staring at your uneven grout lines and remembering how easily Satoru had fixed your sink that first day—well, that was between you and your slightly tipsy reflection in the new (only somewhat streaky) backsplash.

You'd gotten good at avoiding him. Early morning hardware store runs, late evening painting sessions with your curtains drawn. You'd even mapped out his routine—when he left for work, when he usually arrived home, which days he typically did yard work. All so you could time your own activities to minimize any chance of running into his blue eyes.

This was all totally normal, of course. Perfectly reasonable behavior for an normal adult obviously.

Some days were harder than others. Like when you could hear him on his porch in the evenings, chatting with Miss Tanaka about the weather and whether he wanted to go out with her granddaughter. She's so pretty and can cook such good beef stew, she'd say. As if Satoru didn't already have a girlfriend. A perfect girlfriend who could for sure cook a fantastic, wonderful, amazing beef stew. While you ate burned toast.

But you were managing. Mostly. The kitchen was... well, "finished" might be a strong word, but it was functional. Sort of. If you didn't mind that one burner that heated unevenly, or the fact that the new faucet made a strange gurgling sound when you ran hot water.

Even grumpy guy had stopped wincing visibly when you showed him your progress photos, which you counted as a win. "Could be worse," he'd said last week, which was basically a compliment coming from him.

You told yourself it was better this way. Better to have a slightly crooked kitchen than to face the mortification of asking for help from your impossibly perfect neighbour with his impossibly perfect girlfriend. Besides, character was important in old houses. That's what all the renovation shows said. And your kitchen certainly had... character.

It happened on one of those perfect late autumn evenings, when the sky turned deep purple and the air smelled like pine and fallen leaves. You were trying to hang a lamp in your dining room—the sort of task that would definitely require two people, but stubbornness had convinced you otherwise.

The ladder seemed stable enough. The wiring looked mostly right. You stretched, straining to connect the final wire, when you heard it. A soft groan from above, followed by the distinct sound of old plaster giving way. Everything happened at once. The ceiling cracked, raining down decades of dust and debris. The lamp slipped from your fingers, and your balance followed.

You hit the hardwood floor hard, the light crashing beside you in a shower of glass and plaster. For a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the hole in your ceiling and questioning every life decision that had led to this moment.

The sound of your front door bursting open echoed through the house, followed by rapid footsteps.

"Hey! Are you—" Satoru’s voice trailed off as he appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—you sprawled on the floor, surrounded by debris, the ladder tipped against the wall, and the sad remains of what was supposed to be your new dining room light.

"Don't say it.”

"Say what?" He crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside you. "That trying to hang a lamp by yourself is stupid? Or that you're lucky you didn't break your neck?"

"Both. Neither." You winced as you tried to sit up. "How did you even get in here?"

"Your door was unlocked. I was on my porch, heard you scream." His hands hovered near your shoulders, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to help. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine.” 

You tried to push yourself up, but your ankle protested.

"Don’t be stupid." He moved closer, dust from your ceiling clinging to his dark sweater. "Let me see."

"It's nothing—"

"Let me take care of you.” His usual teasing smile was gone, replaced with genuine concern that made your chest tight. "Please?"

The 'please' did you in. You nodded weakly, and before you could process what was happening, Satoru slid one arm behind your shoulders and the other under your knees. He lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all.

"What are you—" you started, your hands automatically gripping his sweater.

"Kitchen has better light.”  He carried you through the doorway, nudging it open with his shoulder. He set you down gently on the counter, careful of your ankle. His hands were warm where they rested at your waist, steadying you.

For a moment, he stayed close, closer than he had any right to be, and you found yourself level with those sky blue eyes that always made you weak.

"Stay," he whispered, finally stepping back. "Let me take care of this."

You wanted to protest, to maintain even a little bit of distance. But your ankle really hurt and you were really tired. So you sat there, perched on your counter (which was definitely not as level as you'd claimed to grumpy guy) and watched Satoru move around your kitchen.

He found a clean dish towel in the second drawer he tried and wrapped some ice in it. His movements were precise, practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before. Probably for his girlfriend, you thought.

"Your cabinet organization is creative,” he said.

"It's a new system I'm trying out."

"Is that what we're calling chaos these days?" He returned, ice pack in hand. The counter put you at perfect height for him to—no. My god. Stop that train of thought immediately. 

He carefully lifted your ankle, his touch impossibly gentle as he pressed the ice against it. The cold made you flinch, and his other hand came to rest just above your knee.

"Too cold?"

“No, it’s…” You swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand through your jeans. “It’s fine.”

He hummed, his attention focused on your ankle. He slowly rotated it, checking for damage. You studied his face—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his hair fell across his forehead, begging to be brushed back.

“Doesn’t seem broken,” he finally said, looking up at you. “But you should stay off it for a few days.”

“I have renovations to finish.”

“The renovations can wait.”

“Says the man with the perfect house.”

He frowned. "You know, for someone so smart, you can be surprisingly dense about—"

A phone buzzed loudly, making you both jump. His phone, you realized, as he pulled it from his back pocket with his free hand, the other still holding the ice pack against your ankle. Probably his girlfriend wondering where he was. 

You pulled your leg back, ignoring the pain. "I should let you go," you said, trying to figure out how to get down the counter without falling on your face. "I'm sure you have... plans."

“No wait.” He kept you were you sat with his hand on your leg. He spoke briefly to the caller, then said, “Just work,” and silenced the phone. His hand returned to your ankle, adjusting the ice pack.

"Oh." You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart hammering. "I thought... maybe it was your girlfriend." The words came out small, hesitant. "I wouldn't want to keep you. From her, I mean. She probably wouldn't want you touching other women's ankles and all that..." You were rambling now, a nervous habit you'd never quite kicked. "Not that you're really touching my ankle, I mean you are, but medically, like a doctor, not that you're a doctor—"

"What girlfriend?"

“The one in the picture? In your kitchen? Pretty. Blonde. Kissing you?”

To your surprise, Satoru started to laugh.  "That's my sister. From her wedding. Is that why you've been avoiding me the last few weeks? Because you thought I had a girlfriend?"

"Your... sister?"

"She'd kill me if she heard you thought we were dating."

"But you're so..." Your mind scrambled for words that weren't 'anyoingly attractive' or 'unfairly perfect.' Like, for real, how can he still be single?

"I'm so...?" He was definitely teasing now, thumb stroking your skin just above your ankle in a way that made it very hard to think straight.

"Annoying," you finally managed, which only made his smile widen.

"Annoying enough that you made me cake, then ran away?" He moved closer, until he was standing between your legs, still holding the ice pack but now definitely invading your personal space. "Annoying enough that you've been avoiding me for weeks because you thought I was taken?"

"I wasn't avoiding you," you said. "I was very busy. With renovations."

"Mhm." His free hand came up to brush some plaster dust from your cheek. "Is that why you tried to hang a lamp by yourself?" His fingers traced your jaw and you swayed towards him despite yourself, your heart pounding.

"You're insufferable."

"Some of us," he murmured, now close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "believe good things are worth waiting for. Worth doing slowly, properly." His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "Letter by letter, moment by moment. Remember?"

Before you could respond, he stepped back. "Your ankle should be fine in a few days. Try to stay off it. And maybe..." He paused at your kitchen door. "Maybe next time you need help with something, ask your annoying neighbour instead of risking you life?"

You managed a nod, your mind still reeling.

"Oh, and by the way?" He looked back at you, his smile softening. "I really like stawberry cakes. In case you feel like baking again."

With that, he was gone, leaving you perched on your counter with a rapidly melting ice pack and the strange feeling that renovating this house wasn't the only project that was going to take time to get right.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Autumn fully arrived, bringing crimson leaves, cloudy skies, and more of Satoru's overbearing everything. Your renovation plans resumed, though now with significantly less chance of bodily harm as Satoru was helping you again. He'd show up at your door with brownies and supplies, his teasing somehow both more and less bearable now that you both knew why you'd been avoiding him.

The universe, however, had a sense of humour. It was on a warm Saturday afternoon, while you were both covered in paint from freshening up your living room panelling, that his sister showed up unannounced. She burst into your house, barely containing her glee at finally meeting the neighbour who had mistaken her for her brother's girlfriend.

You wanted to sink into the floor as she told you cheerfully how hard she'd laughed when Satoru called to tell her about the misunderstanding. Her amusement only grew as she took in the sight of the two of you, splattered with paint and clearly at ease in each other's company. She left you with her phone number and the promise of embarrassing childhood photos of her brother, while Satoru tried and failed to get her out before she could do any more damage.

The rest of autumn rushed swiftly into the frozen stillness of winter as the lines between your lives began to blur more and more—his tools mixed with yours in the garage, his coffee mug claimed permanent residence in your cabinet, and his presence became as much a part of your home as the creaky floorboards and old doorknobs. 

It felt…natural in a way.

Natural that he'd show up at your house in the morning with fresh pastries and you'd make coffee for the two of you, and natural that you'd work on your house and do something fun at the weekends. Even the way your heart stuttered whenever he was near felt strangely normal, a natural rhythm in this new, unexpected something—something you never named. And yet, amidst the rush, there were moments when time seemed to slow, stretching out like taffy, each shy glance, each lingering touch, each shared laugh becoming a precious memory.

One of those moments was at the pumpkin patch. You'd been wandering through the rows of pumpkins, Satoru trailing behind you, searching for the perfect ones to decorate your house for Halloween. It was a tradition you loved since childhood, bringing back memories of visiting the local patch with your grandfather. You could almost feel the scratchy wool of his sweater against your cheek as he hoisted you onto his shoulders, hear his happy laughter, and feel the warmth of his hand in yours.

"Wait!" you called out, stopping so suddenly that Satoru almost bumped into you. "Look at that one!"

Off to the side sat perhaps the largest pumpkin you'd ever seen. It was definitely lopsided, one side bulging more than the other, and its stem curved at an odd angle.

"That's...quite a pumpkin." Satoru tilted his head. "Though maybe something a bit more manageable would—"

"It's perfect." You already tried to figure out how to lift it. The thing had to weigh at least twenty kilos.

"Perfect might be a stretch." His lips quirked up at the corners as he watched you circle the massive thing. "It's practically your size. And that's definitely not its best side."

You shot him a look. "Not everything needs to be perfect to be beautiful." Your hands settled on your hips as you studied your chosen pumpkin. "Sometimes the imperfect things are the best things."

"Like your crooked kitchen cabinets?”

You ignored his comment and attempted to lift the pumpkin, managing to get it about two centimeters off the ground before setting it back down. "It’s called character."

“Character?” He watched your continued attempts with clear amusement. "It's a safety hazard."

“Are you going to help me or just stand there looking pretty?”

“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?”

“Shut up and help me with this pumpkin.”

“As my lady commands.” 

He stepped forward, effortlessly lifting the massive pumpkin like it weighed nothing. Show-off, you thought. Was there anything he wasn’t good at? Renovations, apparently, and now this.

Back home, he carried the pumpkin to your porch, the orange leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You carved the pumpkins on your newly renovated porch as neighbours raked leaves, the crisp autumn air carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Later, his pumpkin looked like some stupid sculpture out of a museum. Of course. Because apparently, Satoru Gojo was good at literally everything. Yours? Well, yours was…cute. You’d call it ugly. Satoru insisted it was cute, and you almost, almost, believed him.

“Why are you so good at everything?” you sighed, more to yourself than him, leaning back and gazing upwards. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, actually.” Your cheeks flushed as you quickly sat up, a nervous stumble sending you straight into his face, as he leaned in too. “Oh, I didn’t mean—” 

Something flickered in his expression, a subtle twitch of his brow as his gaze flickered down to your lips. For a heartbeat, you thought he might—but then a single leaf drifted down and the moment shattered. He cleared his throat and turned back to his pumpkin.

"So, where do you want to place them?" he asked.

You let him return to safer topics, frustration washing over you, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingled where his leg had brushed against yours. This had become your new normal—these almost-moments, these near-misses that were driving you absolutely mad. Were you imagining things? Reading too much into every look, every touch? Or was he intentionally playing some game, dangling the possibility of something more, only to snatch it away at the last moment? It was agonizing, a slow torture that was getting harder and harder to endure.

You placed the pumpkins on your porch. Satoru excused himself, saying he had some work to do. Apparently, he was working on something international, fielding calls from overseas offices at ridiculous hours. 

"I've got that conference call at two," he said, already backing towards his house. "Dinner later? I'm trying out a new recipe."

It wasn't the first time he'd invited you over—these casual dinners had become a natural part of your... whatever this was. But was it just natural? Or was it something more? You'd thought, with every invitation, every lingering look, every almost-kiss—and at this point, with almost-kiss number 3000, you were starting to lose count—that this time would be different. But maybe, just maybe, it was all in your head. Maybe you were reading too much into everything, again.

"What time?" you asked.

"Seven? Bring wine. And maybe that stawberry cake recipe you've been perfecting?"

"You just want me for my baking."

"Among other things." Before you could respond, he was already heading back to his house, calling over his shoulder, "Don't be late!"

You watched him go, your heart stuttering, wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Dinner at Satoru's had become a natural part of your week, but something felt different that evening. Perhaps it was the early autumn darkness pressing against the windows, or the intimate warmth of the kitchen under the amber pendant lamps. Or maybe it was just how he moved around you in his kitchen, always somehow managing to brush past even though there was plenty of space.

 He'd outdone himself with dinner, though you'd never tell him that—his ego was big enough already. But he was, you had to admit, a surprisingly excellent cook. Watching him plate the food with the same careful attention he gave to everything, you had to admit he had a talent for this too. Of course he did. It was starting to seem like there wasn't anything Satoru Gojo couldn't do perfectly.

The wine you'd brought paired perfectly with his cooking, because of course it did. He'd probably somehow predicted exactly what you'd choose and planned the meal around it. You wouldn't put it past him, not with how he seemed to anticipate your every move these days. Conversations flowed easily between you. He shared work stories, you gave updates on your projects, and somehow, your feet ended up on his lap beneath the table. He massaged them absently, after you complained about standing all day.

When he suggested a movie afterward, it felt natural to say yes. You watched him make popcorn on the stove and then moved to the couch. The movie was something neither of you really paid attention to, both too aware of how close you sat on his ridiculously comfortable couch. Every time you reached for the popcorn bowl between you, your hands would brush, sending little sparks up your arm. You caught him watching you more than the screen, but whenever you turned to catch him at it, his eyes were innocently focused forward.

As the evening wore on, the warmth of the wine and his presence made your eyelids heavy. You tried to stay awake, but when he gently draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, resistance melted away. You drifted off against his shoulder, the last thing you remember is the soft brush of his lips against your hair as sleep pulled you under.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

November deepened into December, and the air grew cold with the promise of winter. One morning, the first snow fell, lightly covering your porch and making everything look like a Christmas card. The holiday market downtown was in full swing by mid-December, stalls lined with evergreen boughs and twinkling lights that reflected off fresh snow. You'd been surprised when Satoru suggested you both go, casually mentioning it while helping you install new crown molding in your dining room.

"They've set up an ice rink this year," he'd said, measuring tape in hand, not looking at you directly. "Thought it might be fun."

Which is how you found yourself wandering between market stalls on a Saturday afternoon, your breath clouding in the cold air as Satoru walked beside you, unfairly handsome in a charcoal peacoat and blue scarf that matched his eyes.

"Have you tried the hot chocolate?" Satoru asked, nodding towards a stall where steam rose from copper pots. "I've heard they make it with real Belgian chocolate."

"Are you trying to fatten me up for winter?" But you were already moving.

He followed, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just trying to keep you warm. Can't have you catching a cold before we finish that bathroom tilework."

The hot chocolate was rich and velvety with a hint of cinnamon, the warmth spreading through your chest as you continued to wander the market. Your fingers grew numb despite your gloves, and Satoru must have noticed because he suddenly handed you his cup.

"Hold this a second." Before you could question him, he removed his own gloves—expensive-looking leather ones—and handed them to you. "These are better insulated. Trade me."

"I can't take your gloves."

"You can and you will." His tone left no room for argument. "Besides, my hands run hot."

You reluctantly made the exchange, noticing how his gloves swallowed your hands but feeling instantly warmer. Something about wearing his gloves made your heart do a strange flutter. As it always seemed when you were near him. 

As afternoon stretched into early evening, the market lights came on, making everything look magical. That's when you spotted it—the ice rink, lit up with fairy lights, skaters gliding in circles across the surface.

"Ready to try?" Satoru asked, following your gaze.

"I haven't skated since I was a kid."

"Perfect time to remember then. I'll make sure you don't fall."

Ten minutes later, you stood at the edge of the rink, wobbling precariously on thin blades while Satoru waited patiently beside you. He'd stepped onto the ice with infuriating grace, as if skating were as natural to him as breathing.

"How are you already good at this?" you said, clutching the railing.

"Can’t help it," he replied, like that would explain it. "Come on. I've got you."

Taking a deep breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, as he pulled you onto the ice. Your legs immediately threatened to slide in opposite directions, but Satoru kept you upright.

"Small steps." His other hand came to rest at your elbow for support. "Don't think about it too much. Let your body remember."

You focused on not falling, even though all you could focus on was his hand in yours, his presence beside you as you slowly made your way around the edge of the rink. Other skaters whizzed past, some holding hands, others chatting to their friends. 

After one cautious lap, you began to find your balance. Your death grip on Satoru's hand loosened slightly, though you weren't about to let go completely.

"See? You're a natural," he said, his voice warm.

"I wouldn't go that far. You're doing most of the work."

He smiled, adjusting his pace to match yours. "We make a good team."

The way he said it—so casually, so confidently—sent your thoughts spiraling. Did you make a good team? The evidence was certainly there—the beautifully restored porch, the new plumbing that never leaked, the kitchen with its even countertops that you'd finally finished together. But was that all this was? A renovation partnership?

Because holding his hand like this, skating side by side under twinkling lights with Christmas music playing softly in the background—it felt like more. It felt like a date. 

Like something couples did.

Your mind raced as you made another lap around the rink. When had Satoru Gojo become more than just your annoying neighbour? When had his smug smile started making your heart race instead of your blood pressure? And why, despite all the lingering touches and loaded glances over the past months, had he never once tried to kiss you?

"You're thinking too hard again," Satoru said, interrupting your thoughts. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

"Just trying not to fall."

"Relax. I've got you." He squeezed your hand reassuringly, and you couldn't help but wonder if he meant it beyond the ice rink.

Was it possible you were imagining the whole thing? Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe this outing was purely neighbourly. Maybe he wasn't interested in you that way at all. Or worse—what if he was gay? No, that couldn't be it. You'd met his ex-girlfriend when she stopped by to drop off some mail that had been mistakenly delivered to her place. Besides, no straight man looked at a woman the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

So what was it then? Was something wrong with you? Were you not his type?

"Ready to try without the railing?" Satoru asked, pulling you from your spiral.

"Um, I don't think—"

"Trust me," he said softly, and despite your better judgment, you did.

He guided you towards the center of the rink, one hand still firmly clasping yours, the other now resting lightly at your waist. The contact, even through layers of winter clothing, sent a jolt through you.

"You're doing great," he said as you wobbled slightly. "Just find your balance."

"Easy for you to say. You're apparently good at everything."

He laughed. "Not everything." 

You didn’t believe him for a second.

Your right skate hit a rough patch of ice, and suddenly you were pitching forward, arms flailing. Time seemed to slow as you prepared for the inevitable crash onto hard ice. But instead of cold pain, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, catching you. Satoru pulled you against his chest, steadying you both.

You found yourself pressed against him, your hands clutching his coat, faces inches apart. His blue eyes were wide, a few strands of white hair falling across his forehead. You could feel his heart racing—or was that yours?

"Are you okay?" he asked, breath warm against your cheek.

You nodded, unable to speak, certain that this was it—the moment he would finally close the distance between you. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there as one of his hands moved up to brush a strand of hair from your face. Your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, heart hammering against your ribs.

"You know," Satoru said, amusement colouring his tone, "for someone who managed to restore an entire Victorian house, you're surprisingly bad at staying upright on a little ice."

Your eyes snapped open to find him grinning down at you and the moment shattered. He set you back on your feet, though he kept one arm loosely around your waist for support.

"I think I need a break," you said, trying to hide your frustration. "My ankles are killing me."

"Of course." He led you to the exit, his hand returning to yours like it belonged there. "Hot cider? My treat."

As you made your way off the ice, you couldn't help but think that for someone so skilled at fixing things, Satoru Gojo seemed determined to leave whatever was between you two beautifully, frustratingly unresolved.

Despite your disappointment at the almost kiss, the rest of the evening at the market had been pleasant enough. You'd shared warm cider at a wooden table, watching children chase each other through the snow while Satoru told stories about his own childhood winters. He'd insisted on buying you a knitted scarf when he'd caught you admiring it, and wrapped it around your neck himself with aching tenderness. And it made you want to die that he didn't kiss you while he wrapped the scarf around you.

By the time you'd explored every stall, your earlier frustration had mellowed into a dull ache of confusion. Satoru seemed completely at ease, carrying your purchases and guiding you through the crowd with a gentle hand on your lower back—another gesture that felt so intimate, yet so casually offered.

The drive home was quiet, snowflakes dancing in the headlights as Satoru navigated the slippery roads. You stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of your neighbourhood change under the touch of winter, your mind replaying that moment on the ice over and over again. Why hadn't he kissed you?

He must have felt it—that perfect alignment of circumstances, that electric current running between you. For months now, you'd been dancing around this thing, this unspoken whatever it was.

"You're quiet," Satoru said, his voice breaking through your thoughts as the car came to a stop in front of your house. The snow was falling harder now, collecting on the windshield.

"Just tired." You forced a smile. "Thank you for today. It was fun."

"Are you sure that's all it is?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Before he could answer, you gathered your bags and pushed open the car door. "Goodnight, Satoru."

You hurried up the now perfectly restored steps of your front porch, fumbling with your keys as snowflakes clung to your hair and eyelashes, desperate to bury all those confusing feelings deep down, underneath a lot of chocolate and trashy romance Christmas movies. But then the sound of a car door closing behind you made you stop.

"Hey," Satoru called, his footsteps crunching through fresh snow. "Wait a second."

You took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was standing at the bottom of your porch steps, snowflakes catching in his white hair, his forehead furrowed. "Something's wrong. I can tell."

"It's nothing. Really, I'm just tired."

"After all these months, I'd hope you'd know you can't lie to me." He climbed the steps slowly until he was standing in front of you. "Did I do something? Say something?"

You shook your head. "It's not about what you did."

"Then what?" He took another step closer, and you could see the genuine confusion in his eyes. “What is going on?”

"It's about what you don't do, Satoru." The words escaped before you could stop them, tumbling out in a rush of frustration and longing. "What you never do."

He blinked. "What I don't do?"

You gestured helplessly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. You fix my pipes and paint my house and take me ice skating. You look at me sometimes like—" You paused. "But then nothing. You never... you never try to..."

"You think I don't want to kiss you," he said.

"Well, what am I supposed to think? You spend every waking moment at my house, you bring me coffee every stupid day, you watch movies with me and like, you buy me cute little scarves and, I mean—who does that?” 

You were pacing now, your frustration building as months of confusion spilled out. Snowflakes swirled around you as you moved, melting against your flushed cheeks.

"Do you have any idea how confusing that is? One minute you're touching my face like you can't help yourself, the next you're acting like we're just neighbours working on a house together. Am I imagining things? Are you just being nice? Is there something wrong with me—"

Your rant was suddenly cut short as Satoru closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His hands came up to frame your face and before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours. His mouth was warm despite the cold, his lips soft but insistent against yours, effectively shutting down every coherent thought.

You stood frozen for a split second before your body caught up with reality. Then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his coat, pulling him closer as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours as one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, little clouds forming in the cold air between you, his hands still cupping your face.

"For the record," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than you'd ever heard it, "I've wanted to do that since the moment I steadied your ladder that first day. Every time I've been in a room with you. Every time you've chewed your lip while concentrating on something. Every damn time you've worn my chequered shirt".

You blinked up at him, still dazed from the kiss. "Then why didn't you?"

"Because I was trying to be a gentleman." His thumb traced your lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "Because I didn't want to complicate things when you were already dealing with so much. Because I wanted to be sure you felt the same way." A small, self-ironic smile touched his lips. "And because every time I worked up the courage, I'd get lost in those eyes of yours and forget how words work."

"So instead you taught me about crown molding?"

"I'm better with my hands than with words," he admitted, then immediately looked chagrined at the unintended innuendo. "That's not what I—"

This time, you cut him off, rising on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you slightly so you fit perfectly against him as snowflakes continued to fall around you.

"For future reference," you said as you broke the kiss, "I'd much rather you kiss me than explain proper grouting techniques."

"Noted." 

Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, one hand supporting your back, the other beneath your knees, and carried you towards your front door with the same effortless strength he'd shown lifting drywall and moving furniture.

"The door," you reminded him, fumbling with your keys.

"I've got it." He somehow managed to balance you perfectly while taking the keys and unlocking the door. "I'm very good with my hands, remember?"

Satoru carried you over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. Snowflakes melted in his white hair as he set you down in the dim entryway, but he didn't step back, holding you between his body and the wall.

"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." His hands slid up your sides as his mouth claimed yours once more. "How many nights I've lain awake across the street, thinking about you in this house."

And you nearly fainted as you imagined him in his house across the stress, thinking about you, his hand down his pants and—

"Every room in this house," he said, his voice rough as he pushed your coat from your shoulders. "I've thought about having you in every single one."

"We did renovate them all." Your voice faltered as his lips found your neck, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot where it met your shoulder. "Seems only fair we should... test our work."

"I think I’d like that." His hands slid beneath your sweater, warm against your chilled skin as they traced up your sides. Your own fingers tangled in his snow dampened hair, pulling him back to your mouth for a kiss that quickly burned away any remaining cold.

"Bedroom?"

"Too far," you breathed, already tugging at his sweater. "Besides, we just redid the living room couch."

He smiled. In one fluid motion, he lifted you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you towards the living room. The last snowflakes in his hair melted as he lowered you onto the couch you'd spent three weekends reupholstering together. His body covered yours perfectly, like he belonged there, had always belonged there.

And as the snow continued to fall outside, covering your Victorian home in a pristine blanket of white, Satoru Gojo finally showed you exactly what his hands were capable of—proving once and for all that some things were worth the wait.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Spring arrived with a gentle persistence, coaxing crocuses from the soil and washing away the last traces of winter. Your Victorian house looked lovely in the morning light, its sage green paint gleaming, and its porch ready for the warmer days ahead.

The sound of knocking preceded Satoru's arrival, followed by a short pause and his usual sigh when he'd remembered he had keys, before his familiar footsteps echoed across the parquet floors you'd refinished together. You were in the kitchen, still in your pyjamas, going over the plans for the sunroom you'd decided to add to the back of the house.

"Morning," Satoru called, appearing in the doorway with his usual—two coffee cups balanced in one hand, a small paper bag of pastries in the other. His white hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he'd rushed out without taking the time to comb it properly.

"You know you don't have to knock anymore," you said as he handed you the coffee. "You have a key."

"Force of habit." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the chair next to you. "Besides, what if you were up to something scandalous?"

"At seven in the morning?"

"I distinctly remember yesterday morning getting pretty scandalous. And the day before that—”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as memories flooded back of the way he'd pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other explored your body with agonizing slowness. The way he'd whispered in your ear exactly what he was planning to do to you, his voice dropping to that low register that always made you shiver. The way he'd taken his time, so thorough in his attention that you'd been reduced to breathless pleas before he finally gave you what you needed and—okay, stop. Not now.

Three months into your relationship, and he still made you blush like a stupid teenager—among other things.

"Those were special circumstances," you said, trying not to smile.

"Oh yeah? What kind of special circumstances?"

"You brought croissants." You peeked into today's bag, ignoring his teasing. "Are these the chocolate ones from that bakery downtown?"

"Maybe." He smiled, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip. "I had an early video call with our research partners about the new pharmaceutical trial. Thought I'd pick up breakfast on the way back."

You paused, coffee halfway to your lips. "Wait, you already had your meeting? I thought that wasn't until nine."

"Started at five." He shrugged, stealing a piece of your pastry. "The Munich lab had some promising results they wanted to discuss right away. Worked out, though—wanted to catch you before you got too deep into those sunroom plans."

Warmth blossomed in your chest. In the months since that snowy night on your porch, Satoru had slowly woven himself into every aspect of your life. He still brought you coffee every morning, still helped with renovations, still looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The only difference was that he now often spent the night, his clothes gradually migrating into your wardrobe, and his shower gel suddenly appeared one day in your bathroom. Even his microbiology textbooks and research papers had found their way onto your coffee table, his lab notes sometimes mixed in with your renovation plans.

"Speaking of the sunroom," he continued, "I think the windows we recently found in the attic would look great in there. The original glass has that slight waviness that would catch the light beautifully."

"I was thinking the same thing." You slid the blueprints towards him. "I've been playing with the dimensions to make sure they'd fit."

He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. "This looks perfect. Though we might need to adjust the framing here to account for the original hardware."

You smiled at his use of “we”—so natural now, so right. Every project had become a shared undertaking, every decision made together.

"By the way," he began, "I've been thinking—"

"A dangerous pastime for you."

"I'm serious." He took a breath, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. "The house is looking amazing. We've fixed almost everything that needed fixing."

"Except that creaky step on the back stairs," you reminded him.

"And the slight warp in the pantry door," he added.

"And the—"

"Okay, so there's still a list." He laughed. "But my point is, we've done so much work here. Together."

"We have," you agreed, wondering where he was going with this.

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Meanwhile, my house is just sitting there. I'm barely even there anymore except to grab clothes or check if anyone's stolen my mail."

Your heart began to beat faster as you caught his meaning. "Satoru Gojo, are you trying to say something specific?"

“What if we just... you know, focused on one house instead of two?" His eyes met yours, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. "Maybe focusing on just one house instead of maintaining two?"

"Are you asking to move in together?" You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face.

"Well, technically I'm asking which house we want to live in. Though I'm kind of partial to this one. We've put so much of ourselves into it."

You twisted in your chair to face him fully. "You'd leave your perfect house with its perfect kitchen and perfect view?"

"My perfect house feels empty without you in it." The simple honesty in his voice made your throat tight with emotion. "Besides, this house has better bones."

"Yes," you said, sliding your arms around his neck. "Yes to consolidating our renovation efforts. Yes to deciding which house. Yes to all of it."

"You sure? I know you like your space and I don't want to, like, suffocate you or—"

You cut him off with a kiss, soft and sweet and tasting of chocolate pastries. "Satoru, you've been in my space since the day you showed up to fix my stupid leaky pipe. At this point, it doesn't feel like my space without you in it."

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a moment. When he looked at you again, there was that softness, that tenderness that still made your heart flip.

"I love you," he said simply. "In case that wasn't clear."

"I figured that out somewhere between you painting my entire house during that insane heatwave."

He laughed, the sound echoing in the kitchen you'd rebuilt together. "And here I thought it was my extensive knowledge of old pipes that won you over."

"That helped," you admitted, fingers playing with his hair. "Though it was really your hands that sealed the deal."

"My hands, huh?"

"Mmhmm." You pressed closer, coffee and blueprints momentarily forgotten. "Very skilled hands."

"Well" he murmured, those hands already finding their way under your pajama top, "some things deserve special attention to detail.”

"Are we seriously still doing renovation metaphors?"

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your neck. "Some traditions are worth keeping."

Later, as sunlight streamed through your kitchen windows—windows he'd helped you restore months ago when you were still pretending to be just neighbours—you lay tangled together on the kitchen floor.

"You know," you said, tracing patterns on his chest, "your house does have that amazing bathtub."

"True." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But this house has you."

You smiled against his skin. “We could always redo the bathroom here. Get an even better tub."

"I like how you think." His arms tightened around you. "Though we'd need to check the floor supports first, maybe upgrade the plumbing—"

You propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him, at this impossible man who'd somehow become your everything.

"I love you," you said simply. "Even when you're being a total renovation nerd."

His smile was soft, genuine, the smile he saved just for you. "Especially then?"

"Especially then."

Outside, spring painted the neighbourhood with fresh green. But inside, in this house you'd brought back to life together, you'd found something even better—a future you were building together, room by room, day by day, one cup of morning coffee at a time.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — omggg, we made it through all four seasons and a complete house renovation ! kept thinking while writing that the most unrealistic thing about this story is not satoru gojo being a perfect neighbour and fixing leaky pipes for us, but owning a house in this economy lol.

anyway, thank you so much for reading this silly little story and i hope it brought you as much joy as it did me while writing it. until next time ! <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu @90s-belladonna

@fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy @wiserion

@moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss @raendarkfaerie

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[starspenxcie]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

fluff and crack - pranking bf!toji by screaming while he’s asleep

you don’t mean to do it.

okayyy. that’s a lie. you definitely mean to do it.

but it’s 2:47 a.m.

you’re awake. toji is asleep. you’re bored. and he looks so peaceful it makes you want to ruin his life just a little bit.

so you lean in close. take a deep breath.

and you scream.

“AAAAAAAA-“

his eyes snap open instantly.

he jolts upright, body tense, reaching for something under the bed like he’s about to commit a felony. there is murder in his eyes. he’s shirtless. sleep-ruffled. half-hard. panting.

“what the fuck?!”

you’re already wheezing.

you point at the corner of the room. “i saw an ant.”

he blinks.

you crack up.

his face goes blank. entirely unamused. he stares at you like you’re a failed science experiment.

“you screamed like you were being stabbed because of a fucking ant?”

you’re fully sobbing with laughter now. clutching your sides. your whole body shaking under the sheets.

he rubs a hand down his face. growls. “you’re insane, proper insane.”

“you should’ve seen your face- “

“i thought you were dying. i was about to bury your attacker in the backyard. jesus.”

you snort. “what were you even reaching for? do you have a weapon under the bed?”

he doesn't answer. just lies back down with an annoyed grunt. you crawl over, still giggling and throw yourself dramatically across his chest.

he doesn’t react.

you poke his cheek. “toji. toji. are you mad.”

he sighs.

you kiss his jaw. “what if i say sorry.”

“you’re not sorry.”

“what if i show you my boobs.”

he opens one eye. thinks about it. “…that would help.”

you beam. “yay! i forgive you for being mad at me.”

he groans. “that’s not how forgiveness works.”

you kiss him again. softer this time. hands warm on his skin.

he pulls you close with a low sigh. burying his face in your neck.

“if you ever do that again, i’m throwing you off the bed.”

you grin.

he mutters against your skin.

“dumbass.”

based on this request

[warmsatoru]

the way back to you | gojo satoru x reader

synopsis: A winter getaway was supposed to be a relaxing break, but a room mix-up leaves you sharing a small room with your ex. Between the mountain air and the shared space, the distance you spent seven months creating starts to crumble before the weekend is even over.

tags: exes to lovers, ex!gojo satoru, f!reader, forced proximity yay <3, winter vacation trip, angst, hurt/comfort, domestic, happy ending, soft gojo satoru, workaholic satoru, emotional 'toru <3

word count: 13k

credits: gojo art by gisei27 on twitter!

The blue light of your phone screen was the only thing illuminating your bedroom as you stared at the Winter trip! RSVP list for the tenth time. It was a minimalist app Nanami had insisted on using, and it was currently the bane of your existence.

Everyone was marked in green. Nanami, Geto, Shoko, and Haibara. They had all confirmed their rides and their grocery contributions. But there was the final name at the bottom of the list.

Gojo Satoru. Status: Undecided.

You bit your lip, thumb hovering over the screen. It had been seven months. Seven months of untangling your life from his, of learning how to sleep in the middle of the bed again, of ignoring the headlines when his firm made another billion. You were doing fine. You swear. But your hands said differently.

They scrambled to open your messages with Shoko.

you: hey is satoru gonna go on the trip? the stupid app says he’s still undecided

shoko-pie: honestly? no clue. he’s been in london for meetings & he hasn’t replied to us in days. knowing him he probably forgot the password to the app

you: i really dont want to ruin the trip if he’s going… i can just sit this one out

shoko-pie: don’t be boring >:( he’s probably 4,000 miles away & even if he does decide to come, he’ll be late and probably stay at a hotel because he’s a snob and u know it. just come!!! i need someone to help me drink this case of wine

You took a breath. He hasn’t decided. In Satoru-speak, that usually meant he had something better to do. After an eternity, you tapped the green check mark and deleted the app, desperate for some relief from the stress.

The drive to the mountains was supposed to be relieving. But as the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks and the snow began to smear the windshield into a blurry mess of white, the drive felt more like an isolation ward. The GPS led you deeper into the woods, down a gravel driveway that ended at a sprawling, cabin-style house that looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine.

You parked, grabbed your bags, and ran for the porch to escape the snowstorm. Inside, the house was alive. The smell of steak and expensive wine hit you first. You heard Haibara’s boisterous laughter and the rhythmic thrum of a playlist.

"I made it!" you called out, kicking your shoes off by the door. "And I brought the good vodka."

"In the kitchen!" Shoko’s voice drifted out.

You rounded the corner, a smile already forming on your face, ready to drop your bags and melt into the safety of your friends. But the smile died before it could fully form. Standing at the kitchen island, a bottle of beer in one hand and a glass of water in the other, was Satoru.

He wasn't wearing a suit. He was in a black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows; his hair was a mess, white strands sticking up in every direction, like he’d been running his hands through it. He looked up as you entered. For the first time in your life, you saw Satoru look utterly blindsided.

He choked on his water, coughing as he slammed the glass onto the marble counter.

"You’re here?" he gasped, his blue eyes wide and darting toward Shoko, then back to you. 

"You’re here? You didn’t even RSVP!" you snapped, the shock finally giving way to a prickling flare of anger. You turned to Shoko, who was leaning against the fridge, looking entirely too relaxed. "Shoko. You said he was going to be in London."

"He was," Shoko said, tilting her head toward Satoru. "Then he took a private jet because he missed the mountain air. He showed up like thirty minutes ago. Don't look at me, I didn’t know either."

"I checked the app before I boarded!" Satoru defended, his voice hitting that defensive pitch that always came out when he was caught off guard. "It didn't update. I thought I was safe."

"Safe?" You dropped your bag with a heavy thud.

"Well, you're both here now," Nanami’s voice cut through the tension as he walked in, looking exhausted. "And unfortunately, because you both were the last to arrive and everyone else has already unpacked, you’re the only ones left for the loft."

Your heart did a painful somersault. "The loft?"

"The house is overbooked," Nanami said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "There are four bedrooms. Three are taken. Shoko has the fourth. But, there’s a finished loft upstairs with a king bed. It was supposed to be for one of you. Now, apparently, it’s for both of you."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Satoru looked at the ceiling, then at you, then at his beer.

"I can sleep on the couch," Satoru muttered. He didn’t look at you when he said it. He was focused on the label of his beer, picking at the corner with his thumb. It was a classic Satoru move, offering a sacrifice that sounded noble but was practically a dare. He wanted you to tell him no.

"Good," you said immediately, your voice clipping the end of his sentence. "Because I'm taking the bed."

Satoru finally looked up, his eyebrows arching. He’d expected a fight, or at least a polite are you sure?

"Right," he said, a slightly forced smirk spreading across his face. "The couch it is. I'll just… You know… Fold myself into a crane or something. It'll be a fun challenge."

"Satoru," Nanami interrupted, his voice like a cold splash of logic. "The couch in the loft is a mid-century loveseat. It’s barely five feet long. Your legs are basically the length of the entire thing."

"I'm very flexible, Nanami," Satoru chirped, though the bravado felt a little thinner than usual. He glanced at you, his blue eyes searching yours for a hint of softening. "Unless you're worried I'll get a cramp and have to scream for help in the middle of the night?"

"I’m worried you're going to spend the whole weekend sighing loudly so everyone knows how uncomfortable you are," you countered, crossing your arms. "But that's your problem. I’m not sharing a bed with you."

Shoko cleared her throat.

"Well, now that the seating chart is settled," she said dryly, "let's eat. I didn't spend three hours on this spread to watch it get cold while you two play chicken."

The dining table was a polished slab of oak that seemed to stretch for miles, even though Satoru was sitting directly across from you. The air in the cabin was warm, smelling of roasted garlic and the expensive wine Shoko had been pouring with a heavy hand, but to you, the air had felt thin. Oxygen was hard to come by when every breath felt like it was being shared with him.

You kept your eyes on your plate, tracing the ceramic pattern with your fork. You didn't trust yourself to speak. If you opened your mouth, you weren't sure if a sob or a scream would come out, so you settled for a practiced silence.

"So, Satoru," Geto chirped, blissfully unaware of the tectonic plates shifting beneath the table. "How was the London trip? Did you actually do any work, or did you just spend the whole time playing tourist?"

"Work, unfortunately," Satoru replied. His voice was lower than usual, stripped of its typical theatricality. "Meetings, contracts, the usual boring stuff."

"It couldn't have been that boring," Nanami interjected, his voice calm and clinical as he cut a piece of steak. "You seemed fairly distracted when we had dinner last month. I assume it was that woman you were seeing? The architect?"

The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

The architect. The words echoed in your mind, loud and distorted. You felt a cold, prickling sensation crawl up the back of your neck. You didn't look up, but you could feel Satoru’s gaze snap to you, then away, his silhouette tensing in your peripheral vision.

Of course, he’s seeing someone. You were exes; he’s allowed to see other people. It’s been months. He’s Satoru Gojo. He doesn't sit in empty apartments and wonder why the silence is so loud. He fills the space. He moves on. He finds an architect. You pictured her, someone with clean lines and a logical mind. Someone who didn't fight him about how he pushed people away. 

"It was just a few dinners, Nanami," Satoru said, and you could hear the subtle edge of a warning in his tone. "Nothing worth mentioning."

"You mentioned her plenty at the time," Nanami said, entirely without malice. He was just stating facts, his mind already moving on to the next topic. "You said it was nice to be with someone who didn't know your history. You know, a fresh start."

A fresh start. You wished the wine in your glass were poison, but when you lifted it to your lips, it betrayed you by tasting like nothing more than wine. You felt Shoko’s eyes on the side of your face, the perceptive gaze that saw through every one of your defenses, but you refused to crumble. You stared at a small knot in the wood of the table, memorizing its shape, its grain, anything to keep from looking at him.

You wondered if he took the architect to that Italian place. The one with the dim lighting where he’d first told you he loved you. Or maybe he was smarter than that. Maybe he was building a whole new world where you didn't exist as a ghost, or even as a mere memory.

"The food is great, Shoko," you finally said, your voice sounding small and far away in your own ears. It was the first thing you’d said in ten minutes.

"Glad you like it," Shoko replied, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She knew. They all knew. The silence that followed was heavy with the collective realization that a wound reopened without anyone meaning to touch it.

You fled upstairs under the guise of exhaustion, the wooden steps creaking under your feet like a countdown. After you got ready for bed, the loft settled into a silence that felt unbearable. The skylight showed a world of black and gray, snow falling against the glass in a frantic pulse.

You heard him coming up the stairs a few minutes later. You didn't turn around. You stood by the sliding door, watching a single snowflake race down the glass. Satoru entered the room, and the space immediately felt half its size. He didn't say anything. He went straight to the small loveseat in the corner. You heard the rustle of his bag, the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor.

"You're not going to fit on that," you said, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

"I'll manage," he said. He sounded tired. Not the tiredness that comes after a long flight, but the bone-deep weariness of a man who was tired of his own skin.

You finally turned. He was sitting on the tiny sofa, his knees nearly hitting his chest, his long arms draped awkwardly over the sides. He looked absurd. He looked like a giant calico critter in a minuscule dollhouse. You climbed into the bed, the sheets cold against your skin. You rolled onto your side, facing the glass door, putting your back to him. The silence was so thick you could almost hear the thoughts racing in his head. Or maybe they were yours.

Creak. He shifted his weight. Thud. His heels hit the floor as he tried to find a place for his legs. Sigh. A shaky exhale that vibrated through the floorboards and up into the mattress. You gripped the edge of the duvet, your knuckles white. You wanted to tell him to shut up. You wanted to tell him to sleep in his car. But mostly, you wanted to ask him if that damn architect made him laugh.

"The snow’s really coming down," Satoru said. His voice was thin, stripped of its usual richness. It wasn't an opening for a conversation; it wasn't a plea for forgiveness. It was just a hollow observation, a way to puncture the suffocating silence before it choked him.

"I can see that," you whispered. You didn't turn around. You didn't want him to see the way your eyes were stinging. Another long, agonizing stretch of time passed. You heard him stand up, the floorboards groaning under his height. You tensed, your fingers curling into the fabric of the duvet. You expected him to walk toward the bed, to explain, to lie, to say anything about the architect that would make it hurt less.

But he didn't.

He walked to the sliding glass door and pushed it open just a few inches. A sudden, sharp blade of mountain air sliced into the room, smelling of ice and dead pine. It was cold, but it was better than the recycled air of the loft. He stood there, a towering silhouette against the ghostly white of the storm outside. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. 

He looks lonely, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow. You wanted to hate him for the fresh start. You wanted to be disgusted that he’d tried to replace you with someone logical. But as you watched him stand there, looking out into a white-out that offered no answers, all you felt was the echoing grief of two people who had forgotten how to exist in the same space.

The draft from the balcony vanished as Satoru slid the glass door shut. The click of the lock felt final, echoing through the muffled silence of the snowy night. You watched his silhouette move, a dark shape against the pale moonlight reflecting off the drifts outside.

He didn't even look at the loveseat. He didn't try to make it work a second time. Instead, he walked past the foot of the bed toward the linen closet in the corner. You heard the door creak, the rustle of him pulling out one of those complimentary, cheap, scratchy wool blankets, the kind that were meant for decoration, not for comfort.

Then, the sound of him sinking.

It wasn't a graceful movement. It was the heavy, thudding weight of a man who had reached his limit. You heard the rustle of the wool as he spread it out on the hardwood floor, right next to the bed. The floor. Your heart twisted. Satoru Gojo, a man who spent his life surrounded by the finest things, who slept on silk sheets and lived in penthouses, was lying on a dusty wooden floor because the air between you was too toxic to breathe.

You lay perfectly still, your eyes wide in the dark. You could hear everything. The soft friction of his hoodie against the floor. The sharp, chilly exhale as he tried to find a position that didn't hurt. The floorboards creaked under his weight, a rhythmic protest.

You wanted to tell him to get up. You wanted to tell him that you weren't that heartless, that the king-sized bed was big enough for two people who stayed on their own sides. But the words were stuck in your throat, choked by the memory of Nanami’s voice. A fresh start. If Satoru wants a fresh start, you’ll let him have it. Let him feel the cold. Let him feel the hardness of the floor, just like you’d felt the hardness of the silence he’d left you with seven months ago.

But as the minutes ticked by, the silence of the snow outside seemed to seep into the room. The house was dead quiet. And then, you heard it.

A shiver.

It was faint, the involuntary rattle of his teeth, the sharp intake of breath as his body tried to generate heat. The loft was poorly insulated, and with the heater struggling against the mountain storm, the floor was likely ice-cold. 

Don't look, you commanded yourself. He’s a grown man. He made his choice. But you knew Satoru. You knew that even when he was freezing, even when he was miserable, he would never admit it. He would stay on that floor until his bones turned to ice just to prove that he could. He was stubborn, arrogant, and currently, he was shivering three feet away from you.

You rolled onto your stomach, staring at the dark heap of him beside the bed. He was curled on his side, his long legs tucked in, the thin blanket barely covering his shoulders. He looked like a shadow of himself.

"Satoru," you whispered.

The shivering stopped instantly. He didn't move. "Go to sleep."

"You're going to catch pneumonia."

"I'm fine," he said, his voice tight and vibrating with the cold he was trying to hide. "The floor is... solid. Good for the back."

"You're a bad liar," you said, your voice cracking just a little. "You're freezing."

He finally shifted, rolling onto his back to look up at the dark ceiling. In the faint light, you could see the glint of his eyes. He looked exhausted. "Even if I am, it’s better than the couch. And it’s better than..." He trailed off, the rest of the sentence, better than being near you and knowing I can't touch you, hanging in the air between you, heavy and unspoken.

"Satoru," you said, your voice louder this time.

The shivering stopped, but he didn't answer. 

"Get up," you commanded, sitting up and pushing the heavy duvet aside. The cold air of the loft immediately bit at your shoulders, giving you a taste of what he’d been enduring for the last half hour. "Get off the floor. Now."

"I told you, I'm-"

"If you say you're fine one more time, I will actually kick you," you snapped. You reached down, grabbing the corner of the scratchy wool blanket he was huddled under and yanking it. "Get in the bed. It’s a king, Satoru. Stay on your side and don't say a word. Just get up before you get sick."

A long silence followed. Then, the agonizing sound of him unfolding his cramped limbs. He stood up, his tall frame a wavering shadow in the moonlight. He looked unsteady, his shoulders pulled up to his ears as he shook.

He didn't argue. He walked to the empty side of the bed and climbed in, moving with a cautiousness that was entirely uncharacteristic. He stayed right on the edge, his back to you, leaving an empty expanse of white linen between your bodies. As he settled, the mattress dipped under his weight. The heat radiating off him was immediate, even through the distance. He was like a furnace that had been left out in the snow.

"Thank you," he whispered. His voice was raw, the bravado finally extinguished by the cold.

"Don't thank me," you said, pulling the duvet up to your chin and rolling onto your side, facing away from him. "I just don't want to explain to Shoko why there’s a frozen corpse in the room tomorrow morning."

Logically, the problem was solved. He was warm; you were safe. But the physical proximity was torture of its own. You were acutely aware of him. You knew exactly where his heels were resting, the way his shoulders took up too much space, the rhythmic puff of air against the pillowcase.

For seven months, you had practiced the art of not thinking about his scent, that mix of expensive laundry soap and something uniquely him. Now, it was filling your lungs, digging up memories you had worked so hard to bury.

You thought about the architect again. Did he hold her the way he held you? Did he pull the covers over her shoulders in the middle of the night? The fresh start Nanami mentioned felt like a physical wall between you, thicker than the two feet of mattress separating your spines.

Satoru shifted. The bed creaked.

"You're still awake," he murmured. It wasn't a question. He always knew, after months, he still had a sensory map of you that he’d never quite be able to forget.

"It's hard to sleep when there's a giant in the bed," you replied, your voice flat.

"I'm staying on my side."

"I know."

"I really didn't know you were coming." He spoke to the ceiling, his voice low and vibrating through the mattress. "If I had known, I wouldn't have put you in this position."

"It doesn't matter," you said instead. “We’ll be out of here in a few days, and we can go back to pretending we don’t exist to each other.”

A heavy silence followed. You expected him to agree, crack a joke, or fall asleep. But he didn't.

"Is that what you've been doing?" he asked softly. "Pretending I don't exist?"

"It’s the only way to move on, Satoru. Some of us don't find architects to fill the gaps."

You regretted it the second it left your mouth. It was too revealing; it showed him exactly where the wound was. You heard him turn over, the mattress groaning as he shifted to face your back. You didn't move, but your heart began to hammer against your ribs.

"So that's what this is," he said, and you could hear the realization in his voice. "Nanami and his big mouth."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"There is no architect."

"Well, no- there was an architect," Satoru said, his voice flat, echoing against the slanted wooden ceiling. "I went on dates. I sat through dinners."

You waited for the punchline. You waited for him to say he missed you, or that it was a mistake. But the silence stretched, filled only by the muffled thud of snow sliding off the roof.

"And?" you finally prompted, your voice barely a whisper.

"And nothing," he said. He let out a heavy breath that sounded like a tire losing air. "I didn't like her. Not like that. Not even a little bit, really. She was perfectly fine, but we had nothing to talk about once we got past the what do you do for a living part. I sat there for two hours checking my watch and wondering if I had enough milk in the fridge for coffee the next morning."

A strange, bitter knot formed in your stomach. You should have felt relieved. You should have felt a sense of victory that the architect hadn't won. But instead, you felt worse. He tried to find a way out, but he just found a wall. But what if he had broken through the wall and discovered there was still something worth saving on the other side?

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you asked, turning your head to look at him. The moonlight reflected off the white snow outside, casting a pale light over his features. 

"No," Satoru said, turning his head to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were dull in the shadows. "It wasn't for you. It was for me. I wanted it to work. I wanted to be that guy who goes on a date with a professional woman and has a nice, professional life. I wanted to be someone who doesn't come to a cabin in the mountains and spend the whole night staring at the ceiling."

He shifted, his arm brushing against the duvet.

"But I’m not that guy," he continued, a hint of his usual edge returning, though it was tinged with self-loathing. "I’m just me. And she was just her. It was a chore. Everything feels like a chore lately."

You looked back at the ceiling. Everything feels like a chore. You understood that feeling. Since the breakup, your own life has felt like a series of boxes to check. Wake up. Go to work. Eat something that doesn't require much cleaning. Call Shoko. Sleep. Repeat. You hadn't gone on dates with architects, but you had spent plenty of nights staring at your phone, wondering if you should download dating apps, only to realize the thought of explaining your favorite movie to a stranger felt like climbing a mountain.

The architect wasn't a threat because she was better than you. She was a threat because she was proof that Satoru was trying to be done with you. But it still upset you, because the fact that he failed didn't mean he was yours again. It just meant you were both stuck in this liminal space, unable to move forward and unable to go back. Seven months of thinking he was off living some grand, redesigned life, only to find out he’s just as stagnant as you are.

"Why did you come, Satoru?" you asked. "If you had any doubt, why didn't you just stay in London?"

"I told you," he said, and for the first time, he sounded defensive. "I wanted the mountain air. I wanted to see Shoko, Geto, and you know, everyone. I’m allowed to have friends."

"You didn't come for the air."

"Fine," he snapped. His presence was suddenly a physical heat. "I came because I was tired of the silence. I was tired of feeling alone. I thought seeing everyone would make me feel like a person again. I didn't think you’d be the one assigned to the loft. I thought I’d be drinking with Geto until 4:00 am and sleeping on a rug."

"Instead, I'm here," he whispered. "With you."

With the windows cleared of the night’s heavy snow by a sudden gust of wind, the loft was instantly flooded with a light so white and aggressive it felt like a physical weight. You squinted, the back of your eyes throbbing with the remains of a restless sleep.

For a second, you forgot. You reached out to pull the duvet higher, your hand sweeping across the vast expanse of the king-sized mattress, until it hit something warm and solid.

You froze.

Satoru was still there. He had drifted during the night; now he was lying on his stomach, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his white hair a chaotic halo against the pillowcase. He looked younger when he was asleep, the cynical lines of his face smoothed out by the sheer exhaustion of the night.

You watched him for a moment, your heart doing a painful roll in your chest. Even in sleep, he looked like he was bracing for something. You pulled your hand back, sliding out of the bed with the stealth of a thief. But every creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot. You grabbed your bag and ducked into the bathroom, the click of the lock the only thing that made you feel like you could breathe again.

The bathroom was freezing, the tiles like ice under your bare feet. You stared at yourself in the mirror. You looked exactly how you felt. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were puffy, and there was a faint, lingering scent of sandalwood on your skin, Satoru’s cologne. You dress in layers, anything to create a barrier between your skin and the world. When you finally emerged from the bathroom, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bed.

He was awake, staring at the floor where he’d tried to sleep just a few hours earlier.

"Morning," he said. His voice was a gravelly wreck, a remnant of the cold and the late-night talking.

"Morning." You didn't look at him. You focused on zipping your bag. "Shoko's probably making coffee. We should go down before she starts screaming."

"Right." Satoru stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The hem of his hoodie lifted, revealing the lean strength of his torso, a sight that used to be as familiar to you as your own reflection. He caught you looking. "You okay?"

The house was full of the domestic sounds of people who hadn't spent the night wrestling with the ghosts of their exes, the smell of bacon and coffee filling the air.

"Look who’s alive!" Haibara shouted from the stove, waving around a spatula. "We thought we might have to send a search party into the loft."

Shoko was at the kitchen island, leaning on her elbows and holding a mug. Her eyes flicked from you to Satoru, then back at you again. She didn't miss the way you were standing three feet apart, or the way Satoru was unusually subdued.

"How was the couch, Satoru?" she asked, her voice dripping with dry amusement.

"The loveseat is a war crime," Satoru said, sliding into a chair at the far end of the island. He reached for the coffee pot, his movements slow. "I’m pretty sure my spine is permanently shaped like a question mark."

"I told you to take the bed," Nanami said, not looking up from his newspaper. "But you always were a fan of unnecessary drama."

You sat next to Shoko, clutching your cup like a lifeline, “Ready to snowboard, ‘Ko?”

The group moved like a bright, noisy wave down the ridge, but Satoru remained hushed. He didn't speak. He didn't offer the hand you’d expected. He simply adjusted his goggles, the reflective surface hiding his eyes, and kicked off his board.

You followed. The sound of the mountain was dominated by the sound of steel edges carving through the crusty top layer of snow. In the silence, every other sound was magnified: the wind whistling through the vents of your helmet, the rhythmic puff of your own breath, and the confident thud of Satoru’s board landing a jump a few yards ahead of you.

He’s not even trying, watching the fluid way his body shifts. You remembered a time when he would have been doing spins just to make you laugh, or spraying you with a wall of snow as he skidded to a stop. Now, he was just a black silhouette against the blinding white, a memory in high-end gear. You hated how much you still knew about him. You knew by the way he was standing that his left knee was probably aching from the cold. You knew that he was thirsty but was too stubborn to ask for the water bottle tucked in your side pocket. 

He looked back then, his goggles catching the sun. For a second, you thought he was going to say something. The air felt heavy, expectant. You prepared your "fine" and your "I’m okay," ready to shut him down before he could start.

But he didn't speak. He just gave a single, curt nod, a "you good?" translated into a movement, and then he dropped over the edge of the next steep incline, disappearing into a cloud of white powder.

The slopes stretched ahead, sun glinting off untouched powder and jagged edges, trails weaving through the forest like ribbons of white. Shadows from the pines cut across the snow in sharp lines, and the crisp mountain air carried the faint scent of pine and ice. Every incline and drop seemed alive, waiting silently for someone to carve through it. Riders streaked down the slopes, leaving trails of powder in their wake. A blur of neon jackets and helmets darted between trees, carving tight turns and launching off hidden lips. Laughter and shouts bounced off the cliffs, mingling with the hiss of boards on snow and the occasional thud of a wipeout.

The teenager in front of you had been a blur of fluorescent neon and bad judgment for the last three runs. He was doing 180-degree flat-ground spins on a crowded trail, catching edges and laughing with a group of friends who were filming him on their phones.

You saw him a split second before the world turned upside down.

He tried a trick he didn't have the balance for, caught the front edge of his board, and became a human projectile. He slammed into your side with a sickening thud, the weight of his momentum sweeping your legs out from under you. You hit the hard-packed snow shoulder-first, your helmet bouncing off the ground with a hollow crack that echoed inside your skull.

For a few seconds, the world was just white noise and the smell of churned-up ice.

"Hey! Watch where you’re going!" the kid yelled, his voice cracking with the defensive adrenaline of someone who knew they were wrong. He was already scrambling up, more worried about his GoPro than the person he’d just attacked.

Then, the air in the valley seemed to drop ten degrees.

Satoru decelerated with a violence that sprayed a wall of ice over the teenager. He was off his board before the mist had even settled. He didn't look at you first; he looked at the kid.

"Hey," Satoru said.

It wasn't his playful voice. It wasn't the voice he used in boardrooms or the one he used to tease Shoko. It was a vibrating growl that made the teenager freeze mid-sentence. Satoru stepped into the kid's personal space, his towering height casting a predatory shadow over the neon jacket.

The kid went pale, his mouth hanging open. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't see her!" the kid stammered, his eyes darting to you where you lay in the snow.

Satoru didn't acknowledge the apology. Not even a second later, he was on the ground beside you.

"What the hell happened?" Shoko and Geto slid to a halt beside you, their boards throwing up twin sprays of snow. Shoko was off her gear in an instant, her medical instincts overriding the vacation haze.

"Kid was being a moron," Satoru snapped, not looking up from you. "Check her shoulder, Shoko. She hit the ice hard."

Shoko knelt on your other side, her cold fingers expertly feeling along your collarbone. "Deep breaths," she muttered to you, her eyes flicking to Satoru. "Relax, Satoru. You’re vibrating so hard the snow is melting under her."

Geto stood over the group, his arms crossed as he watched the teenager and his friends scurry away down the mountain. He looked back at Satoru with a heavy expression.

"I'll go talk to the patrol. Satoru, let Shoko work. You’re crowding her."

"She’s fine," Shoko announced after a moment, though her face remained serious. "Strained joint, maybe some bruising. But we’re done for the day. Let’s get her back to the house and get some ice on this."

"I'll carry her," Satoru said immediately.

"I can walk," you protested, trying to sit up, but the world did a slow, nauseating tilt.

"You're not walking," Satoru said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. He looked at Shoko, then at Geto, a silent communication passing between the three of them. Satoru slid his arms under you, lifting you with an ease that made you feel small. He didn't look at the mountains. He just looked at you, his jaw set in a line of unadulterated terror that he was trying and failing to hide.

The cabin was warm, smelling of cedar and the leftover coffee from the morning, but the atmosphere was suffocating. Satoru had carried you through the front door as if you were made of glass, ignoring your protests and Geto’s quiet suggestions that he let you sit on the chair. Instead, he deposited you directly onto the kitchen island counter, his hands lingering on your waist a second too long before he stepped back, pacing the length of the tiles like a caged animal.

"Ice," Satoru muttered, his movements jerky. He started opening cupboards at random. "Where is the—?"

"Bottom drawer of the freezer, Satoru. Same place it’s been since we got here," Geto said, leaning against the doorframe. He looked at you with a knowing exhaustion. He knew Satoru was spiraling; he’d seen this version of his best friend before, usually right before something, or someone, broke.

Shoko walked in, having already shed her snow gear. She dropped a medical kit on the marble counter next to your hip and pointed a finger at Satoru.

"Out," she said simply.

Satoru froze, a bag of frozen peas in one hand and a dish towel in the other. "I’m helping."

"Go pace on the porch. Go anywhere that isn't here while I check on her.

 "I'm staying," Satoru said, his voice dropping into that stubborn pitch. He didn't look at Shoko; he looked at you. 

"Satoru," you said softly, your first words since entering the house. "I'm okay. Just let Shoko work."

He flinched at the sound of your voice. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders was so high you thought he might actually snap. Then, with a sharp, frustrated exhale, he slammed the peas onto the counter and walked out, his boots thudding heavily as he retreated toward the living room. Geto gave you a small nod and followed him, likely to keep him from putting a fist through a wall.

The silence that followed was heavy. Shoko began to gently peel back the layers of your sweater, her hands cool and steady. You hissed as she manipulated your shoulder, the pain sharp and hot.

"Deep breaths," Shoko murmured. "Nothing’s broken. Just a nasty strain. You’re going to be colorful tomorrow."

You watched Shoko work, your mind drifting back to the mountain, the way Satoru had looked.

"He hasn't slept, you know," Shoko said suddenly, not looking up as she taped a cold compress to your skin.

"What?"

"Since the breakup. He acts like he’s fine, better than fine, actually. The dates, the London trips." Shoko finally looked at you, her dark eyes tired. "But I’ve seen him when the lights go down."

"Everything is a chore for him right now," Shoko said, packing her kit. "He’s never learned how to be alone. Seeing you hit the snow today, I think it broke the last bit of his resolve. He’s in the other room trying to figure out how to be your ex when he clearly still feels like your boyfriend."

She patted your knee and stood up. "Don't let him back in here until you're ready to deal with him."

The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the muffled voices of Geto and Haibara out on the porch, discussing the snow chains for the tires. Satoru didn't barge back in. He lingered in the doorway first, leaning his shoulder against the frame. He had taken off his heavy outer gear, standing now in just his black t-shirt. 

"Shoko says you'll be fine," he said. His voice was casual, but there was a softness to it that hadn't been there all weekend. He walked over to the counter, not standing too close, and picked up the bag of frozen peas he’d discarded earlier.

"I heard her," you said, shifting slightly on the counter. The pain in your shoulder had settled into a manageable throb. "It’s just a bruise. I’ve had worse."

"Yeah," he murmured. He reached out and gently nudged the ice pack Shoko had taped to you, making sure it was centered. It was a small gesture. "You always were a bit of a magnet for trouble on the slopes. Remember that time in Switzerland?"

A ghost of a smile pulled at your lips despite yourself. "I hit a tree, Satoru. A very large and stationary tree."

"And you tried to apologize to the tree," he added, a genuine huff of laughter escaping him.

The silence that followed wasn't the sharp, jagged one from the night before. It was comfortable.

"Nanami’s a gossip," Satoru said suddenly, leaning his elbows on the marble island beside you. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking at his own hands. "He makes it sound like I’m out there building a new life. I wasn't. I was just... bored. And lonely, I guess."

"I know," you said quietly. "I think we both are."

"She didn't get my jokes," he said, tilting his head to look at you. His blue eyes were clear, the frantic energy from the mountain gone. "I’d say something, and she’d just look at me like- I don’t even know."

You looked at him and saw the man you’d left. He hadn't changed, but the space between you had. "I'm going to drive your car back when we go home," he said, shifting back to that helpful tone. "Your shoulder is going to be too stiff to handle the gear by the time we hit the highway. Geto can drive my car."

"Satoru, you really don't have to-"

"I want to," he interrupted, pushing off the counter. He reached out and briefly, almost tentatively, squeezed your hand. It was a quick touch, gone before it could become something, but the heat of it lingered on your skin. 

He walked out, his steps light on the wooden floor.

The next morning arrived with a stillness that only exists in the mountains after a storm. Because of your shoulder, the planned hike for today was scrapped, and the group fell into a lazy, unhurried rhythm that felt like a throwback to your university days.

The afternoon dissolved into a haze of board games and competitive bickering. You were glued to the sofa, propped up by a mountain of wool pillows, watching as Geto and Satoru nearly came to blows over a game of Monopoly. It was a sight you’d seen a thousand times, Satoru leaning back with a smug, infuriating grin as he bought up every utility on the board, and Geto methodically counting his remaining cash with a dangerous, quiet focus.

"You're cheating," Geto said, his voice a calm contrast to the way he was crushing a small plastic hotel between his fingers. "There is no physical way you rolled three doubles in a row with those dice."

"It's not cheating, Suguru, it's destiny," Satoru chirped, though he didn't look at the board. His eyes flicked to you every few minutes, checking the height of your ice pack or the way you were shifting your weight.

Later, the games were pushed aside for a makeshift lunch. Shoko sat on the floor by your feet, peeling oranges and passing the slices up to you without a word. There was a comfort in the silence, the kind that only comes from people who have seen each other at their worst and decided to stay anyway. You watched Haibara try to teach Satoru how to knit with a pair of pencils and some spare twine, a disastrous endeavor that ended with Satoru accidentally tangling himself in a limitless knot of yarn.

You realized then that while Satoru had been looking for a fresh start in London, he had left the only people who actually knew how to handle his edges right here in this room. You caught his eye as he struggled with the yarn, and for the first time all weekend, he didn't look away. He just gave you a small, sheepish shrug; the most powerful businessman in the country was defeated by six feet of cheap acrylic wool.

The next day, you welcomed your last night at the cabin. The snow had stopped, leaving the mountain in crystalline perfection. In the fire pit behind the house, Suguru had built a blaze that roared against the freezing night air, the orange light dancing off the snowbanks like flickers of gold.

Everyone was gathered around. Shoko was wrapped in three blankets, nursing a glass of whiskey, Haibara was trying to roast a marshmallow to a perfect golden brown, and Nanami was staring into the flames with the profound exhaustion of a man who knew he had to be back at his desk in thirty-six hours.

You were tucked into a low porch chair, your injured shoulder propped up by a cushion. And Satoru, in his typical fashion, wasn't sitting in a chair. He was perched on the stone rim of the fire pit itself, the heat of the flames at his back, his face half-hidden in the shadows.

"I don't want to go back," Haibara sighed, his marshmallow finally catching fire. "I think I could live here. Just me, the snow, and enough cocoa to drown in."

"You'd last three days before you missed the city's noise," Shoko deadpanned. She flicked an ash toward the fire and looked at you. "How’s the shoulder holding up?"

"It’s fine," you said, the word feeling familiar now. "Just stiff."

You felt Satoru’s eyes on you. He didn't say anything, but he reached into the cooler at his feet, pulled out a fresh bottle of water, and leaned over to set it on the small table next to your good arm. It was a silent, casual check-in, the kind that didn't require a thank you.

You watched the sparks fly upward, disappearing into the black void of the mountain sky. This was always the part of the trip where the real world started to bleed back in. Tomorrow, you’ll be in your apartment. Satoru will be in his. You won’t be sharing a loft or a kitchen island. You looked at Satoru. He was poking at a log with a stick, his expression unreadable. 

"I think I'm moving," Geto said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

The group shifted. Even Satoru looked up, his interest piqued. "Moving where?"

"Further downtown. Closer to the park," Geto shrugged. "New start. The old place has too many ghosts."

He didn't look at anyone when he said it, but the implication was heavy. Everyone at this fire had ghosts. You all were untangling yourselves from the lives you've lived together for a decade.

"Ghosts are fine," Satoru said, his voice surprisingly soft. He tossed the stick into the heart of the fire. "They remind you that you actually lived somewhere. The new places are just empty. No matter how much logic you put into the blueprint." He wasn't looking for a fresh start. He was just trying to find a way to live with the ghosts he already had.

"I like my apartment," you said, finding your voice. "Even the ghosts. They make it less quiet."

Satoru’s head tilted toward you. For a second, the rest of the group seemed to fade into the background. The firelight caught the edge of his jaw, the slight curve of a smile that wasn't arrogant.

"Yeah," he whispered. "The quiet is the worst part."

The loft was colder on this final night, the heater downstairs finally giving up against the sub-zero mountain air. The skylight was a dark window into a universe that felt much too big, and the only sound was the heavy thump of snow sliding off the roof.

You were already under the covers, your back to the empty side of the bed. Your shoulder was throbbing in a way that made sleep feel like a distant country.

The floorboards groaned.

You didn't turn around, but you felt the mattress dip as Satoru climbed in. He didn't hesitate tonight. He simply slid under the duvet, his movements slow and careful, mindful of the invisible line that still ran down the center of the bed. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just lay there in the dark, two silhouettes in a house full of sleeping friends.

"I'm not going to pretend I didn't see you hit the snow the other day," Satoru said suddenly. His voice was low, vibrating through the mattress and into your spine, cutting through the heavy silence of the loft. The incident had happened days ago. The board games, the shared meals, and the quiet afternoons on the sofa had happened since, but hearing him say it days after made the pain in your shoulder flare up again.

"And I'm not going to pretend," he continued, his tone dropping into a jagged tone, "that seeing you hurt hasn't been the only thing I've thought about every second since. It made me want to level the entire mountain just for being under your feet."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Satoru, it was just an accident."

"It wasn't just an accident to me," he murmured, and you felt him shift in the dark, his heat drawing closer to you. "It was a reminder that I’m not there anymore. And I haven’t been able to breathe right since."

"I'm not asking for anything," he whispered, and for once, his voice lacked any hint of his usual arrogance. "I know we’re where we are for a reason. And I know I’m a lot to handle."

You rolled onto your back, looking up at the ceiling. "It wasn't just you. It was both of us. We just… ran out of room."

"Yeah," he murmured, propping his head up on his hand. He wasn't crossing to your side of the bed, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "But this room feels pretty big tonight."

You looked at him in the shadows. His eyes looked softer, more vulnerable without a veil. You wanted to say it. You wanted to tell him that you’d spent the last seven months looking for his face in every crowd, or waiting for him to call your phone again. You wanted to tell him that hearing about him trying to move on had felt like a physical wound.

But you didn't.

Because a confession wouldn't fix the reasons why he’d left. It wouldn't fix the way his life tended to swallow yours whole, or the way the silence between you sometimes felt like an abyss. Instead, you just let the air exist between you.

This is enough. Being able to breathe in the same room is enough.

"We're leaving early tomorrow," you said, your voice finally steady. “We need to leave before the next snowfall hits.”

"I'll have the car warmed up," Satoru replied. He reached out, his hand hovering over the sheets between you. He didn't grab your hand; he just let his fingers rest on the mattress, an inch away from yours.

"Thank you."

The morning was a blur of frantic packing and the smell of exhaust fumes in the freezing air. 

You were in the passenger seat of your car, your arm in a sling, watching Satoru load the last of the bags into the trunk. He moved with that same effortless grace, his white hair bright against the morning sun. He looked back at the cabin one last time, then hopped into the driver's seat beside you.

"Ready?" he asked, his hand on the gear shift.

"Ready," you said.

As the car pulled out of the gravel driveway, you looked in the side mirror. You saw Shoko and Geto standing on the porch, waving as the house got smaller and smaller. Satoru didn't look at you as he drove, but he reached over and turned on the seat heater for you without being asked. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, navigating the winding mountain curves with a focus that felt like a promise.

The highway was a grey ribbon cutting through enclosures of white powder. Inside the car, it was warm, almost too warm. Satoru drove with a relaxed precision, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. The silence was comfortable until his phone, currently mounted on the dashboard, buzzed with a persistent vibration.

He glanced at it, a flicker of that familiar, high-stakes focus crossing his face.

"Don't," you said softly, staring at the passing trees. "It's Sunday, Satoru."

"It's the Tokyo-Hong Kong merger," he muttered, though he didn't reach for the phone. "They’ve been trying to close the logistics gap for six months. If I don't answer, they’ll lose the window for the spring quarter."

The words hit you like a physical weight. The spring quarter. The logistics gap. It was the same language, the same tone, the same relentless urgency that had been the background noise of your entire relationship.

"It sounds just like the Singapore deal," you said, your voice sounding flat even to your own ears.

Satoru’s grip on the wheel tightened. He knew exactly what you were referring to. The Singapore deal had been the beginning of the end. It was the night of your third anniversary, the night he’d left you at a table for two for five hours because the so-called window was closing. By the time he’d come home, exhilarated by the win, you’d already packed half your clothes.

"I remember," he said quietly.

"You came home at 3:00 am," you continued, "you were so high on the adrenaline of the deal that you didn't even notice I was sitting in the dark. You started telling me about the contract terms before you even asked why I wasn't in bed."

"I was doing it for us," he said, but even he sounded like he didn't believe the lie anymore. "I thought if I just finished that one, if I just secured that last bit of the market, I could finally stop."

"But you never stop, Satoru. That’s the problem. There’s always another window, another quarter, another merger.” He hasn't changed, you realized. He still hears the buzz of the phone like a siren call. You thought about the months after the breakup, how the silence of your apartment had been terrifying at first, but then it had become a relief. You didn't have to check your watch. You didn't have to wonder if a meeting was more important than your dinner plans.

But seeing him now, driving your car, caring for your injured shoulder... It was a reminder that the man who forgot your anniversary was also the only man who knew how you liked your seat heater set. It was a cruel, complicated thing.

"I didn't take the Hong Kong call last night," Satoru said suddenly.

You turned your head to look at him. "What?"

"In the loft. My phone buzzed three times while you were asleep. I didn't answer it. I didn't even check the preview." He glanced at you, his eyes honest. "It’s not much, I know." But it's a start. I’m trying to learn how to separate work and my life."

You noticed the way his thumb traced a small arc on the steering wheel, a restless habit he only had when he was truly present. You felt a strange, flickering sense of safety in the shared space of your car. Satoru was quiet, his profile sharp against the passing streetlamps, his hands relaxed on the wheel. The highway had slowed to a crawl, a sea of red brake lights reflecting off the slushy pavement. Inside the car, the heater hummed a steady note that made the world outside feel distant and unimportant. It was a fragile peace, but it was enough to make you want to offer him a piece of the life you had built in his absence.

"I’ve started going to the supermarket on Sunday mornings," you said. The statement was so mundane it almost felt like a challenge to the air in the car. Satoru didn't jump in with a joke; he simply tilted his head, eyes still on the car in front of him, letting the silence open up to receive the words.

"At 8:00 am," you continued, watching the rhythmic arc of the windshield wipers. "The city is dead then. I spend twenty minutes picking out the right kind of apples. I stand in the aisle and read the labels on things I don't even plan to buy. It’s calm, and it’s slow."

Satoru let the car roll forward a few inches as the traffic breathed. "That sounds... peaceful."

"It is," you said, turning your head to look at him. "I used to think I needed a lot of noise and a lot of movement to feel like I was getting somewhere. But lately, I’ve found that I’m perfectly fine just being the person who knows which grocery store has the best light in the morning."

You didn't mention the mornings you used to spend with him. You didn't mention the late dinners or the missed calls. You just gave him a glimpse of the person you had become while he was away.

"I think I’ve forgotten how to do that," Satoru said softly. "Everything I do has a deadline. I don't think I’ve looked at an apple in three years. I just eat whatever someone puts in front of me between meetings."

"You should try it," you said, a genuine smile touching your lips. "But find your own store. I like having mine to myself."

Satoru let out a real, bright laugh, “fair enough."

He watched the reflection of the red brake lights in the rearview mirror and felt the jagged edges of his own restlessness finally begin to blunt. For the first time since he’d packed his bags for London, he wasn't thinking about the next quarter; he was just thinking about the way your voice sounded when you talked about something as simple as apples. It was a terrifyingly quiet realization, but it gave him the courage to offer up a piece of his own clumsy attempt at a life without you, a small, unpolished truth that he hadn’t even told Shoko.

"I tried to buy a plant last month," he said.

"A plant?" you repeated, shifting slightly to ease the pressure on your shoulder. "You don't even have a watering can, Satoru. You’re never home long enough to even keep a cactus alive."

"I know," he said, and for the first time, there was no defensive edge to his voice. "I stood in the shop for like forty-five minutes. The guy kept asking if I needed help."

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, a restless motion. "I ended up leaving with nothing. I realized I didn't know if the windows in my new place even got enough light. I’ve lived there for like six months, and I couldn't tell you which direction the living room faces."

You watched a single snowflake melt against the side mirror. In the past, you would have filled that silence. You would have told him which plants were easiest, or offered to go back to the shop with him. You would have managed his life for him, because that’s what you did; you were the anchor.

But now, you just listened.

He’s realizing he doesn't know how to live. It wasn't a satisfying realization; it was just sad. He was the most powerful man in his field, a person who could move markets with a phone call, and he was defeated by the orientation of his own windows. It showed how much of his life had been a carefully constructed stage: work, you, and nothing else. Take away his work, and he feels empty. Take away you, he’s not only empty, but he doesn’t even know where to begin with a plant.

"My apartment has south-facing windows," you said, your voice quiet. "The light is great for ferns. But they’re finicky. You’d have to mist them every morning."

"Every morning," he repeated, as if memorizing a mantra. "That sounds very consistent."

The car crawled another few feet, the wipers clearing away a fresh layer of sleet. The city felt closer now, the air was getting thicker with the hum of sirens and the smell of wet asphalt.

"How was London?" you asked. It was a neutral question, the kind you’d ask a distant colleague.

"Gray," he said after a moment. "It was mostly just gray."

"The city or the meetings?"

"Both." He let out a dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "I stayed in a hotel for three weeks. Five stars. Floor-to-ceiling windows. I could see the entire skyline, but I spent most of the time staring at the minibar and wondering why the television had so many channels."

"Nanami said you were doing great," you said, looking at his profile.

"Nanami sees what he wants to see," Satoru replied. He looked at the red brake lights ahead. "I did the work. I met the people. I went to dinners at those places where the plates are too big, and the portions are too small. I even went to museums on my off days because I thought I was supposed to be expanding my horizons." He paused, his jaw setting.

"I stood in front of a massive oil painting in a museum for forty minutes. I tried to feel something, inspiration, awe, even just boredom. But all I could think about was that the room was too cold and I didn't have anyone to tell about the weird brushstrokes in the left corner of the canvas."

You could almost hear your own voice in that cold museum air, whispering a joke about the artist’s messy technique just to see the corner of Satoru’s mouth twitch. He was lonely, you can tell. The kind where you have all the money and power in the world, but no one to share a mediocre museum trip with. You thought about the London trip you both went on years ago, how you’d dragged him to a tiny bookstore in the rain, and he’d complained the whole time until you bought him a hot chocolate. Back then, the gray didn't matter because you were the color in his world.

"Did you find what you were looking for there?" you asked softly. "In the museums? Or the dinners?"

"No," he said, and the finality in his voice was absolute. "I was still me. I was still the guy who works too much and forgets to eat. London didn't change the architecture of my head. It just taught me a different view of my life."

The traffic finally broke, the red river of brake lights dissolving into the familiar, flickering lights of your neighborhood. The transition felt jarring; the mountain’s muffled white world had been replaced by the metallic screech of the subway and the smell of exhaust and damp concrete.

Satoru pulled the car up to your parking spot in your apartment building. He didn’t kill the engine immediately; he let it idle, the vibrations of the car a low hum between you. In the harsh, yellow glow of the parking structure, he looked exhausted.

"We're here," he said softly.

"We're here," you repeated.

He stepped out of the car and walked around to the trunk. You watched him through the side mirror, his tall frame cutting through the parking garage’s shadows. He moved with quiet efficiency as he lifted your bag. He met you at the passenger door, holding it open as you navigated the parking lot with your stiff shoulder. He didn't reach out to grab you, but he stood close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body.

"I'll walk you to the elevator," he said.

The lobby was bright and smelled of floor wax. The doorman gave you a professional nod of recognition, a sign that your life here had continued without interruption while you were away. Satoru sets your bag down by the elevator bank. He looked out of place in the lobby, too large and too vivid for the beige walls and the quiet atmosphere.

"Take the ice pack Shoko gave you," he said, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. "And don't try to unpack tonight. It’s just clothes. They can wait."

"Right."

He nodded, his eyes lingering on the bandage visible at the collar of your sweater. He looked like he wanted to say something more, something about London, or the grocery store, or the months of silence, but he caught himself. He wasn't going to break the peace.

"I'm gonna call my Uber now. I’ll also see if I can find that supermarket of mine."

"Good luck," you said, and for the first time, the smile you gave him was entirely real. "Try green apples first. They’re harder to mess up."

He let out a short, genuine huff of laughter. "I'll keep that in mind."

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open with a mechanical sigh. You stepped inside and turned around. Satoru was still standing there. He didn't wave, and he didn't wait for the doors to close. He just gave you that same, curt nod from the mountain, a silent acknowledgment that the space between you was still there, but at least it was peaceful.

As the elevator rose, you watched the floor numbers climb in the silence. You walked into your apartment, dropped your bags, dropped your keys on the bowl by the door, and listened. It was empty. It was calm. You moved through the rooms in a daze, turning on lamps that cast long, lonely shadows and adjusting a stack of mail you didn't care about, trying to reclaim the space that had felt so vital to your independence just a few days ago. To fill the calm you claimed was so healing, you found yourself chasing the low hum of the kitchen lights and throwing the windows wide, desperate to let the frantic honks of the city traffic drown out a quiet that had become far too loud.

You had only been home for twenty minutes. The radiator was still clanking as it struggled to wake up while you stood in the kitchen staring at the kettle on the stove. Yet, even with the artificial buzz of the apartment and the outside, it was still too quiet; the world couldn't compete with the deafening roar of your own mind, replaying every look Satoru gave you and every word you’d left unsaid.

But then, the knock came.

It wasn't the measured tap of a neighbor. It was heavy, hurried, and persistent. Your heart did a slow, painful thud against your ribs.

When you pulled the door open, Satoru was standing there, still in his coat, his hair tousled by the wind. His eyes were wide, bright, and terrifyingly bloodshot, as though he hadn’t spent his time waiting for his Uber at all, but fighting a silent war with himself and losing instead.

"I can't do it," he said, his voice raw. He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped into your space, forcing you to back up into the hallway. "I took one step outside, and I realized I was just going back to an empty box of an apartment. I’m tired of being alone, I’m tired of the silence."

"Satoru, we talked about this-"

"No, you talked. I listened. And I tried to be the guy who could just let you leave." He let out a frustrated breath, his hands shaking as he reached out, not to touch you, but as if he were trying to grab the tension between you. "But I’m not that guy. I sat in London for weeks thinking about how to be better, how to be less, how to be someone who doesn't leave you at the table."

He moved closer, his height suddenly overwhelming in the small confines of your apartment. He looked smaller than he ever had, in the way that his shoulders were hunched, the way his gaze was searching yours with a terrifying vulnerability.

"Please," he whispered. The word was a wreck. "Don't make me go back to where I don't even know which way the windows face. I don't want a fresh start with anyone. I don't want a fresh start at all. I want the mess we had. I want to try again, but actually try this time."

You wanted to tell him that he was too late, seven months too late. But as you looked at him, you saw the man who had stayed awake in a freezing loft just to make sure you were comfortable. You saw the man who had watched you hit the snow and looked like his soul had left his body.

"It won't be different just because you want it to be," you said, your voice trembling. "Work is still there."

"I'll give it up," he said instantly, an irrational edge to his voice. "I'll give the mergers to Nanami. I’ll quit the firm. I’ll go to the supermarket at 8:00 am every single Sunday for the rest of my life if it means I get to come home to you."

He took a step forward, finally closing the gap. He dropped his forehead against your good shoulder, his weight leaning into you, his hands clutching the fabric of your sweater like a lifeline.

"Just a second chance," he choked out against your skin. "A real one. Please. I’m dying out here."

You didn't say yes. You didn't throw yourself into his arms. Instead, you reached up, your fingers grazing the damp strands of his white hair.

"Go sit on the sofa," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "The tea is almost done."

The kettle whistles in the kitchen, a domestic scream that cuts through the raw tension of the hallway. Satoru didn't move. He stayed hunched over, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breathing ragged. He was waiting for a verdict.

"Go sit down, Satoru," you said again, your voice firmer this time.

He obeyed, though he moved like a man in a trance. He walked into your living room and sank onto your couch, the one he’d helped pick out years ago, the one that still held the faint indentation of where he used to sit. When you walked in with the mugs, the air was different. In his place was just a man in a damp hoodie, looking at your bookshelves as if they were a foreign language he was desperate to relearn. You set his sweet tea on a coaster and sat in the armchair opposite him. You needed the distance to think.

"You can't give it all up, Satoru," you said, cutting through the silence. "Don't lie to me. You’d be miserable in a week if you didn't have a market to move. I’d have to watch you fade away."

"I don't care about work anymore," he argued, his voice cracking. "I told you, London was gray. Everything is gray."

“Because you think it’s all or nothing. You think you’re either the most powerful guy in business or you’re just a guy buying apples. The reality is, I wanted a partner. I wanted someone who understood that the meetings weren’t more important than the person sitting across from him at dinner."

"If we do this," you said, your voice dropping an octave, "there are no more windows to close. There are no more midnight mergers that I find out about in news articles. You don’t get to be Mr. Gojo in this apartment. You just get to be Satoru. And Satoru has to show up."

Satoru looked at you, the blue of his eyes finally focusing, sharp and clear. "I’ll show up. I’ll show up every day until you’re sick of me. I’ll pass the Hong Kong deal. I’ll pass all of them if I have to. I just... I just need you. Please."

You looked at the space on the sofa next to him, the space you’d kept clear for months, even when you told yourself you were moving on.

"Come here," you whispered.

He didn't hesitate. He set the mug down with a clatter and was across the room in a heartbeat, but he didn't grab you. He knelt on the floor by your chair, his hands resting on the armrests, looking up at you with a hope so fragile it made your chest ache. You reached out, your fingers sinking into the white shock of his hair. It was soft, cool from the city air, and so incredibly familiar that it felt like a physical homecoming.

"We aren't fixed," you warned him, even as you leaned down to press your forehead against his. "It’s going to be hard. You’re going to mess up, I’m going to mess up and be angry, and the world is still going to try to pull you away."

"Let it try," he breathed, his eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. "I’m not going anywhere again." He stood up then, pulling you with him. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He was heavy, solid, and warm, a stark contrast to the cold gray of the mountain. You held him back, your good arm hooked around his neck, finally letting the weight of the last seven months drop.

The radiator in your bedroom was clicking a rhythmic pulse, and the city outside was a muffled hum of distant sirens and falling sleet.

Satoru was asleep. Truly asleep. Not the guarded rest he’d been having the last few months. He was sprawled across the mattress, his heavy limbs taking up nearly three-quarters of the space. You lie on your side, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your shoulder was still stiff, a dull reminder of the collision, but the ache in your chest had finally quieted.

Then, the nightstand vibrated.

The sound was sharp and intrusive, the aggressive, persistent buzz of a high-priority work alert. In the silence of the room, it sounded like a siren. You didn't move, but you felt Satoru’s body tingle beside you. His eyes didn't snap open, but he shifted, his hand moving instinctively toward the noise.

The screen of his phone lit up the room in a cold glow. You could see the preview from where you lay: Tokyo Logistics – Final Confirmation Required. Urgent. It was the window. The one he had told you about in the car. The one that used to be more important than your sleep, your dinners, and your life together.

Satoru’s fingers brushed the phone. He squinted at the screen, the blue light reflecting in the iris of his eyes. You held your breath, the old fear, the one about the Singapore deal and the three years of being second best, rushing back into your throat.

He’s going to take it, you thought. He’s going to slip out of bed, go into the kitchen, and be Mr. Gojo again.

But Satoru didn't take the call.

He didn't even unlock the phone. He looked at the notification for a split second, his jaw tightening, and then he did something he had never done in the three years you were together. He swiped the notification away, pressed the button to silence the ringer entirely, and flipped the phone face-down on the wood of your nightstand.

The blue light vanished. The room returned to the heavy darkness. He turned over, his large frame shifting toward you. He didn’t say anything; he just buried his face in the crook of your neck. 

The sunlight hit the kitchen tiles in a sharp, geometric slant, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was 7:45 am on a Sunday. Three months ago, this hour would have been a hollow victory, a quiet apartment, and a solo trip to the store. Now, it was a negotiation.

Satoru was leaning against the counter, still in his sleep-muddled state, his white hair a mess of static and gravity. He was staring at the grocery list you’d stuck to the fridge with the intensity of a man deciphering a high-level security code.

"We don't need the organic apples," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "I checked the ones in the bowl last night. They’re still crisp. It’s the milk we’re low on. And that specific granola you like that always sells out by nine."

You leaned against the doorway, a mug of that tea in your hands, watching him. He was just Satoru, the man who now knew exactly which shelf held your favorite snacks and which burner on the stove was the finicky one.

"You’re over-optimizing the grocery run again," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"I’m not over-optimizing," he countered, finally looking at you. The blue of his eyes was soft. "I'm applying logistics to the most important deal of the week. If we miss that granola, the whole morning ecosystem collapses."

It wasn't always this light. There were still nights where the phone vibrated at 11:00 pm, and you saw that familiar and sharp hunger for the win flash in his eyes. There were days when your shoulder ached from a long day at work, and you found yourself snapping at him just because he took up too much space in a room. Last Tuesday, he stayed late at the office. You’d sat at the dining table, the food getting cold, and felt the familiar bile of the Singapore deal rising in your throat. You’d almost packed a bag. You’d almost called Shoko to tell her it was a mistake.

But then, at 8:30 pm, the door had opened. He hadn't come in with excuses about the workload. He had walked straight to you, dropped his bag, and sat on the floor at your feet.

"I'm late," he had said, resting his head on your knee. "I let the meeting run over. I’m sorry. I'm learning."

And that was the difference. He was a man who was willing to be seen failing, as long as he was failing in your direction.

"Ready to go?" Satoru asked, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door after you both got ready for your usual Sunday routine. He’d added a small keychain of a tiny mountain, a silent ode to the winter trip mistake that had started it all.

"Ready," you said, reaching for your coat.

As you walked to the elevator, he reached out and took your hand. It was a firm, grounding weight. It was an anchor. The city was waking up below, the same gray, frantic world he had tried to outrun. But as the elevator doors opened and you stepped out into the 8 am light, you realized that in the end, Satoru didn’t have to quit his job or dismantle the parts of himself that made him, him. You also didn't have to be perfectly okay with every late dinner or missed phone call.

The work meetings still ran over, and the phone still buzzed at dinner, but you stopped looking at those moments as reasons to leave. He learned to stop treating his life like a series of winnable contracts, and you stopped trying to make yourself small enough to fit into the gaps of his schedule. You just learned how to exist alongside the parts of each other that were simply always going to be there. It wasn't a perfect fix, but it was finally enough to just be home.

author's note: heheheh i love when a man grovels and yearns!!! BUT! whatever u do... DO NOT go back to ur ex!!!! ( `ε´ ) overall i had a great time writing this piece even tho it was difficult to write an ending that felt Right. but as always, let me know what u think! <3

[xnighten]