bang bang, my baby shot me down @miirily - Tumblr Blog

It Almost Worked

It Almost Worked - Chapter Twenty-Six

Pairing: Megumi Fushiguro x f!reader

Synopsis: Your chest tightens until you can hardly breathe. Megumi’s crying. Not in the way that begs to be comforted. No tears flung to the wind, no voice calling for help. It’s a heartbreak so private it feels like an intrusion to even witness it. But you can’t not see it. The bowed head. The trembling. The way he’s holding himself so still, like maybe if he just stops moving entirely, everything else will stop too.

Content: MDNI, college!au, anxiety, fluff, aged-up characters, absent parent(s).

AO3 - Masterlist - Previous - Chapter Twenty-Six - Next (coming soon)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Can't Miss What You Never Had (word count 16k)

The karaoke room is alive with laughter and off-key singing, the small stage lit up in neon hues that bounce off the walls, giving everything a surreal, almost dreamlike glow. The bass from the machine thuds faintly through the padded floor and the lyrics to "紅蓮華" scroll across the screen in bold hiragana while Yuji and Gojo lean dramatically into their microphones, completely immersed in their performance.

Your gaze wanders from the impromptu band to the rest of the room. Tomoki claps along while sipping on a highball and Ana leans into your side as she snags another sip of the cocktail you’ve been sharing. Her eyes glitter as she glances at you in your bodysuit, already flushed from the alcohol and the excitement.

“You look stupidly good tonight,” she teases, nudging your hip lightly with hers.

You chuckle, brushing a hand through your curled hair, which took longer than you'd admit to get just right. “You’re just saying that because I let you steal my drink.”

“Obviously,” she grins, but you know she means it anyway.

Megumi, seated on your other side, hasn’t had anything to drink, just a single glass of iced tea that still sits mostly untouched in front of him. His posture is relaxed though, one arm draped behind you on the backrest of the couch, fingers brushing against your shoulder in subtle intervals. You glance over at him, taking in the way the lights from the stage flicker against his skin, softening the edges of his usually sharp features.

“Enjoying yourself?” you ask him, voice just loud enough to cut through Gojo’s theatrical wailing.

His lips twitch, faint amusement in his eyes as he turns towards you. “Define enjoyment.”

“You’re not running for the door, so I’ll count that as a yes.”

A breath of laughter escapes him, quiet but genuine. “It’s good to see everyone like this. You too.”

You glance down at his hand, now settled just behind your back, fingers grazing the curve of your waist with casual intimacy. Despite the buzz in the room, the alcohol, the music, the energy, there’s a stillness to his presence beside you, calming in the best way.

Ana elbows you again. “You better get ready, Ren's about to pass you the mic.”

Sure enough, Ren’s dramatically bowing towards the crowd and holding the microphone out towards your end of the couch, already queuing up another J-pop anthem. You groan softly, but Megumi nudges your thigh with his knee in encouragement.

“Go show them how it’s done,” he says, his voice low and warm.

You roll your eyes but stand anyway, grabbing the mic as Ana claps behind you, her encouragement a mix of giddy delight and mischievous amusement. As you take your place on the tiny stage, Megumi watches, a small smile playing at his lips, the kind he reserves just for you, tucked away beneath his usual guarded expression.

The familiar intro of the song pulses through the room, lights dimming just slightly as the screen shifts to display the lyrics in bold romaji and Japanese script.

Tomoki is the first to join you, already doing an exaggerated spin with a backup mic like he’s performing at the Dome. Yuto follows, his tone surprisingly solid as he hums along to the intro, giving you a mock bow that makes you laugh before the first verse even begins. The three of you start to sing, voices overlapping not quite in harmony but with enough shared joy that no one cares.

Your gaze drifts as you sing, skimming over your friends like a lens in soft focus. Gojo has taken a seat at the far end of the couch, legs long and comfortably stretched out, one arm thrown casually along the top of the cushions. Geto sits beside him, posture more composed but relaxed, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he listens. Yuji, standing beside Gojo, is talking his ear off with animated hand gestures, likely about the show he’d brought up earlier. Gojo’s nodding along, half-listening, half-interrupting with teasing quips if his occasional smirk is anything to go by.

Your attention slides to the other side of the room. Ana is now leaned in close to Nobara, her head tilted slightly as she listens intently and you can see the unmistakable sparkle in her eyes, the way her lips part slightly in awe, her whole posture angled towards the other girl like she’s gravity itself. You smile softly to yourself, because of course she’s like that; Ana’s had a quiet, slow-burning crush on Nobara ever since that first spring morning you dragged her to the coffee cart and introduced them, and it hasn’t faded.

Nobara, as always, commands attention effortlessly. She’s in the middle of what must be a hilarious retelling of something, her hands moving with sharp confidence, eyes bright as she grins at something Ana says in return.

And then your gaze shifts, almost magnetically, back towards the person who anchors you in this room, back to Megumi.

Sota and Ren have settled on either side of him, the three of them watching you now. Sota looks amused, elbow on the backrest as he leans his chin into his hand. Ren, more animated, whispers something to Megumi that makes the corners of your boyfriend’s mouth twitch just slightly, just enough to make your heart stir.

But it’s Megumi’s eyes that hold you. Quiet and focused, like there’s no one else in the room but you. The soft blue of his gaze catches the colourful stage lights and though he doesn’t smile outright, there’s a tenderness in his expression that makes your voice falter for half a second.

You pick it back up quickly, the moment stretching in that invisible thread between you. The music swells towards the chorus. Tomoki spins again. Yuto lets out a dramatic note. The room is loud with friendship and summer warmth, with happiness thick in the air.

You finish the song with a final, exaggerated bow, laughter bubbling up from your chest as the last notes echo off the padded walls of the karaoke room. Tomoki lets out a celebratory whoop and slings one arm around your shoulders while Yuto mirrors him on your other side, the three of you forming a triumphant, slightly tipsy trio in the centre of the stage. Your much smaller frame is nearly swallowed between them as they lean in, cheeks flushed with laughter and energy.

“Okay, okay, you two are heavy,” you giggle as you try to wiggle free, nearly stumbling as you make your way down the tiny step of the stage.

Tomoki steadies you with a flourish, “The stage is jealous we’re leaving,” he announces dramatically and you roll your eyes, cheeks warm as you pat his chest in thanks.

Megumi’s eyes haven’t left you. Not once. His gaze is steady, unreadable to most but not to you. You’ve known that look long enough now to recognise what simmers quietly beneath it: amusement, affection and just a little bit of restrained want.

You climb over Sota and Ren, murmuring playful apologies as you do, careful not to step on anyone’s feet. Sota blushes and grabs your wrist to help you down into the narrow space between him and Megumi, his touch hot on your skin, and Ren whistles low as you fall into place.

Megumi’s hand is already resting against the back of the couch and when you settle, it instinctively drops to your thigh, fingers grazing the sliver of skin where your bodysuit ends. You don’t even think; your head leans against his shoulder, the gesture natural, grounding.

You feel it instantly, the burn of Yuji’s gaze from across the room. He’s watching you with the wide-eyed intensity of a protective sibling who’s just daring you to test him. You smirk a little to yourself and tilt your head just slightly to look up at Megumi. He doesn’t move, not at first. But when your fingers brush against his thigh, he glances down at you, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly.

Gojo’s voice cuts through the tension. “Time for the old men to show you how it’s done!”

He and Geto strut dramatically to the stage as the opening beat of a cheesy 2000s boy band song booms from the speakers. Laughter erupts around the room.

Still, you can feel Yuji watching you. Daring you.

Your brother's gaze feels like static against your skin, expectant and taunting. For a heartbeat, you actually consider giving in, doing something petty, something sharp, something that might jab at him the way his words weeks ago had jabbed at you. “You should know better,” he’d said, and the memory of it still echoes like a bruise pressed too hard.

But you breathe in slowly. The air in the karaoke room is thick with the mix of too much alcohol and energy, the croon of Gojo and Geto’s off-key harmonising from the stage pulling at the corners of your attention.

No. You decide against it.

Instead, you just lean your weight gently against Megumi’s shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your temple. His hand instinctively squeezes yours in his lap, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. You glance over your brother’s way with a single arched brow, quiet and unimpressed, but not antagonistic.

Yuji meets your gaze with the same stubbornness that’s always lived in his eyes. But he doesn’t say anything. Just shrugs and throws back a sip of his drink like he’s trying to swallow down whatever emotion lingers behind his stare.

Ren and Yuto are already laughing over something on Yuto’s phone as they flag the staff down for another round of drinks. You can hear Ren calling out something ridiculous to the server about “doubling the fruity ones” and Yuto trying to order shots at the same time. Typical.

On stage, Gojo stumbles dramatically into Geto, the mic catching the tail end of his theatrical “why am I so alone~” wail, nearly toppling them both off the tiny platform. Their laughter is infectious and even Megumi snorts beside you, his body relaxing as the moment softens.

“Bathroom break!” Ana chirps suddenly from your other side and before you can answer, her hand wraps around your wrist.

You blink. “Wha—?”

“Nope. Girl code,” she insists, already tugging you up.

With a laugh, you let her pull you along, climbing your way over Ren’s legs, earning a mock groan from him and accidentally bumping Sota’s knee as you shuffle past.

“Sorry!” you whisper, grinning as you’re dragged along.

Megumi’s hand slips from yours reluctantly as you go, his eyes following you, calm and unreadable. But you catch it, the faint curl of a smile at the edge of his mouth as you’re pulled away.

Yuji is still watching. But this time, when your eyes flick to his, there’s something different in his expression. Not indignation. Just something quiet and unresolved.

The door clicks shut behind you, the karaoke room’s noise dampening as you and Ana step into the softly lit hallway. She doesn’t say anything right away, just loops her arm through yours and starts walking towards the restrooms, her heels clicking on the laminate floor.

You exhale, a little lighter.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Ana smiles slyly. “What are friends for if not well-timed exits?”

The karaoke bar’s restroom is surprisingly sleek, all polished marble counters, ambient lighting that flatters every skin tone and a full-length mirror that makes you wish you’d brought your film camera just to capture the aesthetic. The coolness of the air conditioning in here is a balm after the pulsing heat of the private room, and you and Ana immediately flop down on the cushioned vanity bench like it’s been calling your names all night.

You sigh as you pull your lip gloss from your bag, leaning towards the mirror to reapply with careful precision. The sweet cherry scent of it lingers faintly in the air.

Ana lets her arms cross on the counter and drops her head onto them, her voice slightly muffled. “Girl, Yuji has been staring you and Megumi down the entire night like he’s trying to burn holes into your heads.”

You try not to let the sigh you exhale sound too annoyed.

“I noticed,” you admit, pressing your lips together to smooth the gloss evenly. You shrug a little, forcing a kind of casual indifference into your posture. “But... he’s trying. I think. Or he’s at least making an effort not to pick a fight, which is more than I expected a few weeks ago.”

Ana lifts her head, her chin now propped up on her arms, brows slightly raised. “Still sucks that he’s weird about it.”

You nod, snapping the gloss shut and dropping it back into your handbag. “It’s Yuji,” you say, brushing your fingers through your hair with a bit more force than necessary. “Everything hits him in the heart first. He’ll get there. He just needs time.”

Ana hums thoughtfully, pushing herself upright. Her fingers rake through her unruly curls as she squints at her reflection. “Still. He’s acting like you and Megumi are running some crime ring behind his back.” Her voice is teasing, but there’s a protective edge to it, one she never really hides when it comes to you.

You watch her in the mirror for a moment, then slowly turn towards her on the bench, your voice softer when you speak again.

“You know...” you start carefully, “I’ve been thinking… this must be weird for Sota, too.”

Ana’s eyes flick to yours in the mirror and for a moment, she says nothing. Then, her expression smooths into something unreadable as she shifts her weight to one side.

“He’s not subtle, I’ll give him that,” she says, her tone light but slightly brittle around the edges. “I think it’s more complicated for him than just having a crush. He really likes you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You’ve known for a while. Sota hasn’t exactly been secretive with his interest. But things with Megumi had been private, quiet and tender for so long that the possibility of anyone else never even entered your mind.

“I didn’t mean for it to be messy,” you say honestly, folding your hands together in your lap.

Ana glances at you. “It’s not your job to manage everyone else’s feelings,” she says, firm. “You didn’t lead him on. You’ve been with Megumi for weeks. It’s just... yeah, it’s a little awkward sometimes. But that’s his thing to process, not yours.”

You smile faintly. “You always make me feel better, you know that?”

She smirks. “That’s why you keep me around. That and my good taste in cocktails.”

You both laugh quietly.

Ana lets out that soft, quiet sigh and rests her chin back down on her crossed arms, her curls spilling messily over her sleeves. The laughter still lingers between you like warmth, but there’s something else now, something heavier settling behind her long lashes.

You tug gently at your bodysuit, the snug fabric reminding you how tightly you’re tucked into this moment. Turning fully on the cushioned bench, you watch her closely. She looks up at you with those big brown eyes, always so expressive even when she tries to keep them guarded.

“Hey,” she starts, voice low. “Do you… know if Nobara likes girls?”

Your lips curve slowly into a smile, not out of amusement but something gentler. “She always yells at the guys,” you say with a soft shrug. “So… maybe?”

Ana snorts, the sound muffled against her arms. “She’s definitely never mean to me,” she mutters, her mouth curving into the smallest grin.

You both laugh again, quiet and unfiltered, and for a moment the air feels light again.

Then, as the chuckles fade, you tilt your head and ask, “Hey… what happened to Emi?”

Ana’s smile falters.

Her fingers drift across the vanity counter, picking at invisible dust like it’s more important than meeting your eyes. “She met someone else,” she says flatly. “Broke it off last week.”

You blink, surprised. “Wait, what?”

Ana shrugs again, trying to make it look like it doesn’t matter, but you know her better than that. There’s a softness in her expression that she’s trying to harden, a silence stretching too long between her words.

You reach out without thinking, your hand finding hers. Your fingers wrap around hers gently, giving her hand a soft squeeze.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ana finally looks up. Her smile is small, eyes shimmering but dry. “Didn’t want to make it a thing,” she murmurs. “We weren’t official. It just… sucked more than I thought it would.”

You nod, your thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles. “Yeah. Still hurts, though.”

She sighs again, this one deeper, and squeezes your hand back. “I think I liked the idea of her more than I actually liked her. And I got carried away.”

You pause, then lean your shoulder against hers. “You always get carried away.”

“Hey!” she laughs, bumping you back.

“But,” you continue with a smirk, “it’s one of my favourite things about you.”

Her laughter softens and when you pull back, she’s smiling again, this time for real.

“You think Nobara would want to get a drink sometime?” she asks lightly, trying to sound casual.

You raise your eyebrows. “Want me to ask her for you?”

Ana’s grin turns mischievous. “Not yet. I want to look hotter than her first.”

You laugh. “Too late, she’s gonna look good in anything.”

“Damn,” Ana sighs dramatically. “Then I’ll need another bathroom break in twenty minutes to cry about it.”

You both giggle again, the mirror reflecting two versions of yourselves that feel lighter, sharper, somehow more solid than before.

“Ready?” you ask, rising to your feet and offering your hand.

Ana takes it without hesitation, standing beside you. “Let’s go before they give the mic back to Ren.”

As you and Ana head back down the softly lit hallway towards your private karaoke room, the muffled thump of bass and off-key singing grows louder. Ana walks ahead with a sway in her hips, reapplying her lip gloss as she grins at you over her shoulder.

You push the door open and are instantly met with a wave of chaotic energy: heat, laughter, the sharp scent of cheap liquor mixed with fried bar snacks and, of course, Ren and Yuji absolutely screaming into the mic, clearly halfway through the chorus of some rowdy anime opening. Ren’s voice cracks over the speakers as Yuji jumps up and down, fist in the air, matching none of the song’s rhythm but all of its spirit.

“Told you,” Ana mutters under her breath as you both slide back into the chaos. You laugh, the corner of your mouth pulling up as you shimmy past a very tipsy Yuto, who waves a half-full glass of shochu highball at you in greeting.

You aim for your previous seat wedged comfortably between Ren and Ana, but pause as your eyes catch on Megumi. He’s shifted over next to Geto during your absence, his posture casual but his gaze fixed entirely on you. There’s a quiet softness in his eyes, a calm gleam beneath the chaos of the room and the way he gives one of his very rare smiles makes the corner of your chest warm.

You’re about to return the look, a little flutter slipping into your throat, when you move to sit and a hand, tentative and a little clumsy, brushes your bare thigh. High up. Just where your playsuit ends.

You freeze for half a second, startled, as Sota pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. His face turns crimson, mouth opening with what’s probably an apology before he realises it might only make things worse.

Ren catches it instantly.

He whistles low, the sound piercing between verses of the song and slicing right through the tension. “Oooh, Sota. Really aiming high, huh?”

You whip your elbow into Ren’s ribs before he can get another word out and he nearly spills his drink trying to laugh and dodge at the same time. “Shut up, idiot,” you mutter through gritted teeth, though your tone is more exasperated than angry.

Sota’s eyes are wide and horrified, his voice just barely audible. “I—I didn’t mean to—! I was just— I thought your arm— I swear, I’m so—”

You wave him off gently, offering a short, tight smile. “It’s fine.”

It’s not entirely fine, but you’ve been in enough cramped karaoke rooms to know the difference between an accident and an attempt. Still, your skin prickles where his hand touched and you adjust the hem of your bodysuit, pulling it slightly down over your thighs before finally settling into your seat beside Ana.

She leans in slightly and murmurs under her breath, “You okay?”

You nod, eyes flicking briefly back toward Megumi.

He’s still watching. There’s no anger in his expression, no tension in his jaw or sharpness in his shoulders, but there’s a certain stillness about him. An alertness. The kind Megumi always wears when something catches him just off.

You offer him the faintest shake of your head, not a big deal, and after a pause, he nods almost imperceptibly, choosing instead to turn his attention back to Geto, who’s laughing at something Gojo is whispering into his ear while holding a tambourine like a weapon.

The music blares on. Another drink lands in front of you. Ren bumps your shoulder with his, mouthing a sorry even though he’s still clearly amused. You exhale through your nose, a quiet huff of breath and tip your drink back.

Sota leans slightly over Ren, voice tentative but carrying enough weight to slice through the buzz of music and laughter. “Hey,” he says, a little sheepish, eyes darting to yours and then away again. “I just—uh—I wanted to get your attention. We’ve been thinking about ordering two Ubers soon… hit that club in Shibuya, the one near the Yoyogi line? You and Ana down?”

You glance at Ana, who gives an eager nod the moment she hears club.

“Yeah,” you reply casually, flashing Sota a half-smile. “We’re in.”

He nods, clearly relieved to have accomplished his task without another accidental thigh touch and retreats back into the cushion behind Ren.

Your fingers curl around your phone as you settle deeper into the couch, the thought of leaving this sweaty box of cracked vocals and flashing lights for the sharp neon heat of Shibuya suddenly more enticing. You tap out a quick message to Megumi across the room.

Club in Shibuya. You coming?

You keep your gaze subtle, though you can’t help peeking up through your lashes to watch him as he feels the buzz in his back pocket. Megumi’s still seated next to Geto, who’s now trying, and failing, to get Gojo to sit still with the mic long enough to perform something vaguely coherent.

Megumi pulls out his phone, thumb brushing across the screen, and despite himself, a twitch of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t look up yet, fingers moving quickly as he replies.

Megumi 💛: Yuji’s and Gojo’s vocals just drained the last bit of my will to live. Why would I willingly follow them into another pit of hell?

You grin, typing back instantly: Because I’ll be there. And I could give you a sexy lap dance if you behave 😇

You don’t even bother pretending not to look this time.

Across the room, Geto is doubled over in laughter as Gojo dramatically serenades him with a microphone cord wrapped around his neck like a scarf and Yuji has somehow started dancing on the table. But none of it holds Megumi’s focus, not when your message hits.

You see it immediately, the pause, the faint flicker of his brows drawing together, and then—

Megumi looks up. Right at you.

He stares for a beat too long.

And then, very visibly, he blushes a deep scarlet.

He tries to swallow it down but the heat creeps across his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears, and even from across the room you can tell he’s stammered something under his breath. It’s Geto who notices first, casting him a slow, amused look.

“God,” Ana whispers beside you, watching too. “He’s so whipped it’s embarrassing.”

You laugh, biting your bottom lip as you meet Megumi’s flustered gaze again and wink just to make it worse. He groans and drops his phone into his lap like it burned him.

You shoot one more message: So that’s a yes? 😏

Moments later, your phone buzzes.

Megumi 💛: Only if you promise to dance just for me.

You lock your screen, smiling to yourself.

Across the room, Megumi’s still red, still unable to stop glancing at you, even as Gojo throws an arm around his neck and shoves another mic in his face.

>>><<<

The sticky heat of late-summer Tokyo clings to your skin as the two Ubers finally pull up near the glowing entrance of the club tucked between towering buildings and pulsing neon signs. Shibuya at night is a different kind of alive; humid, loud and heavy with the promise of losing track of time.

Doors fly open with the hiss of overzealous hands. Ren tumbles out of the first car, laughing so hard he nearly falls flat on the pavement, and Yuji stumbles after him, breathless and already glassy-eyed from too many cocktails at the karaoke bar. Gojo follows with Megumi behind him, his hands buried in his pockets, jaw tight in that quiet way that says he’s probably already regretting agreeing to come.

You step out of the second Uber just as Geto, Yuto, Sota and Tomoki arrive behind you. Nobara fixes her skirt, Ana adjusts the strap of her bag and you link one arm through each of theirs like you’re three-pronged royalty arriving at your domain.

“Let’s go, my girls,” you grin, confidence humming in your bloodstream as the bass of the club throbs through the sidewalk beneath your feet.

The bouncers stand like statues under the fluorescent glow of the sign above them, one of them a massive guy with arms covered in black ink and an expression that could petrify stone. His eyes flick from you three to the chaos behind you, Yuji trying to shoulder Ren upright, Gojo giggling into his sleeve like a mischievous schoolboy and Megumi looking every bit like he wants the ground to swallow them whole.

The tattooed bouncer’s mouth tightens. “You with them?” he asks, gesturing towards the boys, tone clipped and unimpressed.

You clutch Ana and Nobara’s hands tighter and tilt your chin up, offering him your most radiant smile.

“Of course,” you say sweetly, lashes batting as you play the angle you’ve learned well. You soften your voice, just enough to sound tipsy-cute without sounding like a liability. “They’re all bark, I swear.”

Nobara snorts softly. Ana bites back a grin.

You let your lips part in a perfect pout, eyes wide and glinting beneath the dim light. “Please? It’s been such a long week.”

The bouncer holds your gaze a moment too long. Then sighs, deep and defeated.

“Fine. Just keep the loud ones in check.”

“Yes!” Ana hisses, triumphant, as the velvet rope clicks aside and the line of people behind you lets out a collective groan.

You flash the bouncer a grateful smile as you’re ushered inside, your sneakers thudding against the dark flooring as you disappear into the glowing underworld of the club. Nobara squeezes your hand once before letting go, leading Ana towards the bar with a predator’s grin and the words, “First round’s on me.”

You glance back. Megumi’s gaze catches yours just as he steps inside, low blue lighting slicing across his cheekbones. He doesn't smile, but the tension in his shoulders eases slightly when he sees you looking for him.

Gojo immediately disappears towards the DJ booth, dragging Yuji with him, and Geto calmly slides towards one of the lounge areas, Tomoki and Yuto flanking him, as Sota excuses himself to the restroom.

Ren points to the bar. “I need water and possibly divine intervention.”

You laugh and wait for Megumi to make his way towards you, heart light, pulse quickening in rhythm with the beat vibrating up your legs through the floor.

“Still regretting coming?” you ask as he stops in front of you, eyes half-lidded under the dim lighting.

He shrugs and glances at the dance floor where Yuji’s already making a fool of himself. “Undecided.”

You grin and wrap your fingers around his wrist, tugging him gently. “One drink, one dance. And if you still hate it after that, I’ll let you stand in a corner with Geto and judge people all night.”

Megumi huffs a quiet laugh, gaze flicking down to your lips for half a second too long.

“Deal.”

You and Megumi slip into the thick of it, through the hazy, electric press of bodies, the scent of cologne and sweat clinging to the humid air. The club pulses with heat and bass and as you weave your way forward, his hand finds the small of your back once, steadying you when a group of dancers sway too close. The touch is fleeting but grounding.

The bar glows ahead in a riot of LED panels and spilled drinks, and Ana’s waving to you from where she and Nobara have already claimed a spot. They're each holding tall glasses filled with something bright red and ominous-looking, umbrellas skewered through fruit slices clinking as they toast something you can’t hear.

Ren’s folded himself halfway over the bar like a desperate cat, trying to flag down one of the overworked bartenders with little luck. His silver hair is messy with sweat and his shirt is already sticking to his back. When he notices you approaching, he gives a pitiful look.

“Saviour,” he mumbles with exaggerated relief, pushing his damp hair back.

You sidle in next to him, Megumi right behind you, close enough that you can feel the way his chest grazes your shoulder blades with every breath. The heat of him sends a shiver up your spine that’s completely at odds with the icy blast of the bar’s overhead fan.

The bartender doesn’t even glance at Ren. But the moment you lift a hand and wave, his eyes snap to you like you’d cast some kind of charm. He nods once and beelines towards your section of the bar.

“Two Cokes,” you call over the music, voice confident, “and whatever he’s having—” You nod to Ren, who stares at you like you’ve summoned a demon from thin air.

“Vodka tonic,” he blurts, dazed. “And maybe... I don’t know. A lifetime supply of your luck?”

You flash him a smug grin. “Sorry, I only have the one charm slot equipped tonight.”

Ren groans and slumps forward, resting his head briefly on the sticky bar top. “You’re ridiculous.”

Ana leans across Nobara and flicks Ren on the side of his head. “You just lack presence.”

Nobara laughs around the straw of her drink. “Or maybe you just don’t have these—” she gestures to you dramatically and Ana chokes on her cocktail from laughing.

You feel Megumi's hand find your hip then, steady, grounding, like he’s reminding you he’s still there behind you, watching and listening. You tilt your head back slightly to look up at him and in the low glow of the bar lights, he’s all soft blue eyes and barely-there amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Popular tonight,” he murmurs near your ear and you catch the faint tease behind the words.

You lean your head back a little more, grinning at him upside down. “Don’t worry. I only ordered you a Coke.”

He hums, barely audible over the beat drop that rolls through the club like thunder. “Lucky me.”

The bartender returns quickly with your drinks, clearly not wanting to risk missing your attention, and you thank him with a smile before pressing a cold Coke into Megumi’s hand. His fingers brush yours when he takes it and even with the blaring music and flickering lights, that moment feels oddly intimate.

As you lift your bottle of Coke to your lips and turn to take in the swirling chaos of the dance floor, Ana bumps her hip against yours and shouts, “Ten minutes and I want your ass dancing out there with me. No excuses!”

You laugh into your drink, the fizz tickling your throat and look to Megumi again. “Think we can survive that?”

He sips from his Coke slowly, eyes not leaving yours. “With you? Maybe.”

Ren practically beams when the bartender sets his vodka tonic in front of him. He snatches it up like it’s holy water and, without thinking twice, leans over and plants a sloppy kiss on the top of your head. It’s warm and sticky from the heat and you wrinkle your nose with a laugh as he salutes you with his glass.

“You’re a goddess,” he declares, before weaving off to the dance floor where Yuji and Gojo are already mid-spin, their limbs flailing with abandon. You watch the three of them merge seamlessly into a chaotic group of dancers, a blur of neon clothing, sweaty smiles and hands raised to the beat. It’s a miracle they don’t topple into someone, but somehow they manage to flow with the chaos, laughing and exchanging fist bumps with strangers.

You smile, heart full, then glance over to Ana and Nobara beside you. They're shoulder to shoulder now, bent close, their drinks forgotten on the counter as they whisper and giggle like it’s just the two of them in the world. Nobara’s hair is curled just right tonight and Ana’s gaze keeps flicking to her lips with the tiniest, tell-tale bite to her own.

Your fingers twitch and instinctively, you reach for Megumi’s hand. He’s still right behind you, silent, steady and comfortably close. When you thread your fingers through his, his grasp tightens just a little, thumb brushing softly over the side of your index finger. The smallest touch, but warm. Assuring.

You tug gently, motioning towards the lounge area, giving Ana a quiet wink over your shoulder as you begin moving through the crowd. She barely notices but the grin tugging at the corner of her mouth says enough. All fingers crossed.

Navigating through the mass of bodies is easier with Megumi at your back, his hand solid in yours, your Coke clutched in your other like a fragile offering. The club is loud, music thudding in your ribs, lights flashing blue, red, violet, and the air feels like it’s humming, vibrating with bass and heat and youth. Your sneakers scuff against the sticky floor but you hardly notice. You’re too focused on getting back to the relative peace of the lounge area before someone’s drink ends up on your outfit.

Finally, you spot the low-lit seating nook tucked behind a glass divider wall. Geto, Tomoki and Yuto are sprawled over two plush leather couches, all long limbs and half-drunk smiles. There’s a hookah set in the middle, glowing coals pulsing softly as faint ribbons of smoke curl upward like lazy ghosts.

Geto spots you first, raising a hand in greeting, his hair half-undone and eyes glittering under the dark lashes. “Look who survived the pit,” he teases, voice smooth over the music, leaning back with a lazy grin.

Tomoki shifts to make room, patting the seat beside him. “Come join the sensible ones,” he jokes. “No risk of whiplash or beer-stained shirts over here.”

You laugh and sink down beside him, pulling Megumi gently with you. He takes the seat next to you and his arm brushes against yours as he leans back, stretching out his legs in front of him.

Yuto leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching the dancers with mild fascination. “Yuji’s out there like he’s auditioning for something,” he says, tone half-impressed, half-concerned.

“Yeah,” Geto chuckles. “An exorcism.”

You all laugh, soft, warm, like the space itself is taking a breath after the dance floor’s chaos.

You let yourself settle into it, the rhythm of the club now more distant, like background music to this quieter pocket of friends and safety. Your knee touches Megumi’s as you shift slightly to face him, but you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

Tomoki exhales a lazy stream of sweet, clove-scented smoke into the air before tipping the mouthpiece of the hookah towards Megumi with a casual, friendly gesture. "You want a hit?"

Megumi shakes his head, expression calm but polite. “I don’t smoke,” he replies, his voice low but clear over the hum of the club. “Thanks though.”

Tomoki nods, no judgment in his expression as he shrugs and passes the mouthpiece along to Yuto, who takes it with a little grin before taking his turn. The soft gurgle of the water inside the hookah mixes with the thrum of the bass as the conversation starts drifting towards Yokohama’s upcoming baseball match next week.

“Think they’ll bench their starter again?” Tomoki asks, stretching one leg out in front of him.

Geto, who has been lazily sipping from a glass of something golden and strong-smelling, leans in with a spark of interest in his eyes. “They’d be smart to. The guy’s been off his game since May.”

As the three of them begin to argue stats and starting lineups, Megumi turns his head slightly in your direction, his posture a bit more relaxed now that the pressure of the bar crowd has been left behind. His hand is resting on his thigh, fingers tapping absently against the fabric of his pants.

“You can join the others on the dance floor if you want,” he says, his voice pitched just for you, almost lost beneath the music. “I don’t mind. You don’t have to sit here with me the whole night.”

You tilt your head at him, your brows rising as you fix him with a look touched by both amusement and affection. “Oh, I’m quite enjoying myself right here.”

There’s a playful glint in your eyes as you shift just a little closer, your voice dropping with purpose.

“Besides,” you murmur, letting the words land with deliberate weight, “I did promise you a lap dance, didn’t I?”

Megumi freezes.

His eyes widen just a fraction, the pink rising in his cheeks nearly instant as his composure takes a hit. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something—maybe to play it cool, maybe to deflect—but all that comes out is a soft, startled, “...You did.”

You giggle, unable to help yourself at his rare display of flustered surprise. He’s so often the calm centre of the chaos, so seeing him caught off guard by your teasing always sends a little thrill through you.

Leaning forward, you press a quick, warm kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the heat blooming in his skin. His eyes flutter briefly shut and his hand, no longer fidgeting, turns palm-up against his thigh in quiet invitation.

Your fingers find his again, threading through them.

Across from you, Yuto exhales another lazy puff of smoke. Tomoki’s talking animatedly now and Geto is nodding along with a knowing smile, but in this quiet corner, away from the flashing lights and pounding beat, the warmth between you and Megumi hums just as powerfully as the club’s bass.

You sit back just a little, letting the soft press of Megumi’s shoulder against yours remain as a quiet constant while your fingers stay loosely laced with his. The club pulses around you, bass deep in your chest, the light show flashing on and off in bursts of cool blue and warm violet, throwing the lounge in alternating shadows and glow.

You and Megumi talk lowly between yourselves, about the week ahead, mostly. You’ve both got work and lab reports, and Megumi mentions a project Gojo roped him into helping with at the sports centre. Something about continuing to reorganise the training schedule for the fall. You laugh, teasing that it sounds like Gojo just wants an excuse to pawn off the admin work. Megumi snorts and nods. “He said it builds character,” he mutters dryly. “While he disappeared to ‘go check on the new vending machine.’”

You're mid-sip of your Coke when someone shifts near the booth and your eyes lift to see Sota standing off to the side, a new drink clutched in one hand. His hair’s a little messier now, the collar of his shirt slightly crooked like someone tugged on it in the crowd. He looks like he’s trying not to think too hard but the way his gaze darts to you, then to Megumi, then back again; it’s clear the hesitation’s eating at him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just kind of hovers with a stiffness in his shoulders, like he's caught between two equally unappealing choices: sit here and see you leaning into Megumi, fingers still intertwined, or join Yuji and the others, now somewhere between stage diving into strangers and choreographing a dance routine fuelled by pure chaos.

The tension is subtle but real. It tightens your posture, just a little.

Just before the silence can stretch awkwardly thin, Yuto waves him over with a cheerful grin. “Sota! Dude, come settle this; do you think Yokohama’s bullpen has any chance against Hanshin next week?”

Sota glances once more at you and this time, something a little sad flashes across his face. But he nods, offering a quick, polite smile, and slides into the booth beside Geto, careful to leave enough space between you all.

“Only if Hanshin’s pitching staff disappears overnight,” he replies, slipping smoothly into the conversation, though his voice is slightly quieter than usual.

You try to focus on your drink, the cold, fizzy sweetness grounding you in the moment, but your eyes still flit to him every now and then. The last conversation you had with Sota is still tucked behind your ribs, the way he'd looked at you that night after the frat party. You shake it off as best you can and take another sip.

Then—Buzz.

Megumi’s phone vibrates sharply against the low table.

He glances at it, pulling his hand from yours to flip the screen.

The glow reflects off his face, casting soft shadows under his eyes as he frowns just a little. You tilt your head, trying to gauge whether it’s something serious. His expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a flicker of thought in his features.

You lean in. “Everything okay?”

Megumi gives a quiet, clipped “Yeah,” but it doesn’t land right. Not with the way his jaw tenses or the way his shoulders draw higher, tighter. His fingers, which had been lightly resting on the table, curl into his palm. And though he doesn’t look at you directly, his eyes stay fixed on his phone like it’s suddenly become the most vicious thing in the world.

Something’s off.

You reach out, gently placing your hand on his knee, thumb brushing across the fabric of his dark jeans. It's a silent reassurance, I’m here, you can talk to me, but before you can even open your mouth to press further, to softly coax it out of him—Buzz.

His phone lights up again, the screen glowing like a shard of lightning in the dim. This time, you catch it. Just a quick glimpse.

Toji.

Your hand stills. The air around you seems to shift, a little colder, a little heavier. And then Megumi’s already on his feet, movements calm and deliberate in that practised way of his. But you can see it now, clearly: the tension in his spine, the way his mouth has flattened into something unreadable.

He leans down to press a kiss against the top of your head, soft and almost apologetic.

“I really need to get this,” he murmurs, voice rougher than before.

Your gaze lifts, locking onto his face.

His eyes are darker now, distant, the kind of distance that feels like it was built with years of practice. A frown creases your brow, but you say nothing because you know that look. You’ve seen it before. The one that says I’m not yet ready to talk about it.

Before you can even ask where are you going?, he turns, weaving through the lounge and towards the far side of the club, where you know the back exit leads out into the humid Tokyo night.

Your heart clenches with unease. You watch him go until the crowd swallows him whole.

The noise surges again; someone shouts as Gojo stumbles across the dance floor with Ren half-piggybacked over his shoulders, and Yuto is laughing so hard he's doubled over next to the hookah, but none of it quite reaches you.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your Coke bottle and then you reach for your handbag, sliding it onto your lap as you glance towards the back of the club again. You slide your fingers over the cool neck of your Coke bottle, your glossed bottom lip caught gently between your teeth as you glance once more at the back exit—still no sign of Megumi.

The weight in your chest grows heavier with each passing second.

Across the lounge, the ambient glow of blue and purple lighting flickers off Geto’s profile. He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely clasped, head angled towards the other boys, but he’s not listening. Not really. His dark eyes are narrowed ever so slightly, still locked in the direction Megumi disappeared. You can tell he’s beginning to worry, too.

Toji. The name means nothing to you. A blank space. A missing puzzle piece.

You hesitate. You hate snooping, prying, peeling open pages that aren’t yours to read.

But your chest squeezes again, tight and hot, because Megumi’s face before he left is burned into the inside of your eyelids. That too-calm quiet, the frown on his face, his locked jaw. The deep tension in his shoulders like he was walking towards something he couldn’t quite face.

Fuck it.

You shift forward, brushing past your handbag, and lean sideways over Sota, muttering a quick “Sorry” under your breath as your hand lands lightly on the armrest beside Geto. His eyes flick to you instantly, aware as if he’s already braced for what’s coming.

“Hey,” you say, soft but steady. “That call Megumi got… was it—do you know who Toji is?”

His expression doesn’t change for a beat and then, subtle as a muscle twitch, his jaw tightens. There it is. Recognition.

He leans back, exhaling slowly, gaze drifting toward the haze of dancers and strobing lights beyond you before flicking back to your face. His voice, when he speaks, is low enough that only you can hear it, steady like a drumbeat under the storm in your chest. “Maybe,” he says, watching you carefully, “you should go check on him.”

You blink, brows drawing in instinctively. That’s it? That’s all he’s going to give you?

Confusion flickers across your face, your lips parting to ask, but then Geto’s gaze meets yours in full. It’s calm, composed, but there’s something unspoken beneath it. Not guarded, not cruel. Protective.

You feel it in your gut. He knows more. Maybe even a lot more. But he won’t say. Not here. Not now.

“He probably needs you more than anything right now,” he adds softly and the way he says it, like there’s no room for argument, but still so gentle, has you nodding before your thoughts can catch up.

You squeeze his arm lightly in silent thanks, your fingers tapping twice before pulling back. You rise quickly, shouldering your tiny handbag, already pivoting. Tomoki’s voice follows you, “Hey, where you going?”, but you don’t stop. Sota and Yuto glance up, puzzled, but you keep moving.

Megumi. Megumi. Megumi.

You thread your way back through the haze and heat of the club, pressing through the tightly packed bodies. Someone grabs for your wrist, some drunken guy shouting something slurred but you slip free and push harder. You can barely hear yourself think over the pulsing bass, but your mind is entirely elsewhere.

Your eyes catch the slim, glowing Exit sign near the back.

You shove the door open.

The cool night air hits your face first, heavy with humidity and the scent of city asphalt still clinging to the pavement. It’s quieter here. The door thuds closed behind you, muffling the chaos as you step out into the alley.

Dim street lights cast golden halos along the stone walls. Crickets hum faintly somewhere out of sight. A car honks in the distance. And there, just a few feet down, half-shrouded by shadow, you finally spot him.

Megumi’s standing with his back partially to you, head bowed slightly, one hand braced against the brick wall, the other holding his phone loosely at his side. His shoulders are taut, the line of his back unreadable in the low light, but you can hear the way he breathes, quiet and shallow. Fragile in a way that twists something deep inside your chest.

Your heart lurches at the sight.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

The night presses in close and humid, thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and spilled liquor. The street lights hum softly above. Every surface glimmers slightly under the weight of Tokyo’s late-July air, and the music from the club throbs behind you like a second, distant heartbeat, muffled bass pulses that feel far too loud for a moment this fragile.

You step slowly into the alley behind the club, the rubber soles of your sneakers crunching faintly over discarded cigarette butts, glittering glass shards winking like broken promises at your feet. The heat clings to your skin, curling damp tendrils of your hair along your neck, but you hardly notice.

All you can see is Megumi.

You hesitate, then try: “...Babe?”

The word barely carries in the thick night air, delicate and uncertain. You clutch the strap of your handbag tighter like it might ground you somehow.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even flinch.

But you see it now, in the subtle quake of his shoulders, in the way he holds his phone in his hand like it’s something toxic, fingers locked around it in a death grip, like he’s one breath away from hurling it against the concrete. His other hand is curled slightly, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. Like his body’s forgotten how to carry pain this heavy.

And then you hear it.

Barely audible over the distant bass and city noise, but there.

Not sobbing. Not even crying in the way most people do. Just these quiet, uneven shudders of breath, jagged in the throat, like he’s trying to fight each one back and losing. The sound of someone breaking silently, desperately, as if even now he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to fall apart where anyone might see.

Your chest tightens until you can hardly breathe.

Megumi’s crying.

Not in the way that begs to be comforted. No tears flung to the wind, no voice calling for help. It’s a heartbreak so private it feels like an intrusion to even witness it. But you can’t not see it. The bowed head. The trembling. The way he’s holding himself so still, like maybe if he just stops moving entirely, everything else will stop too.

You step forward slowly, breath shallow, reverent. Like approaching a wounded animal that doesn’t know it’s been hurt. Close enough now to see the shimmer of tears on his cheeks, the stark line of his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

You ache too. For him. For whatever he just heard.

For the part of him that always tries so hard to hold the world on his shoulders without ever asking if he has to.

You’re close now, close enough to reach out. But still, you hesitate, caught in the space between needing to touch and not wanting to startle him.

Your voice stays caught in your throat. All you can do is stand there for a breath, and then another, surrounded by the hum of faraway music and the ache of the boy you love, quietly coming undone in the dark.

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching him, standing in the halo of dim orange light, listening to the fragile hitch of his breathing as if the night itself has gone quiet to make room for it. His back is drawn tight like a wound refusing to close, his shoulders trembling with a grief so quiet it feels sacred. It stabs through you. The sight of him like this.

Then, slowly, gently, you step closer and lift your hand to rest it between his shoulder blades.

Your touch is light. Barely there. But the moment your palm makes contact with the tense, shivering muscles beneath his shirt, something in him seems to wilt. Not collapse but give in, just enough to let the weight of it all show. His back shifts beneath your fingers, trembling faintly and he releases a shaky breath—more of a soundless exhale, really.

You press your hand a little more firmly into him. Not to urge, not to push but to anchor. Just to say: I’m here and I always will be. You don’t have to carry this alone.

Your heart clenches. It hurts. Hurts in a way that feels unfair, unbearable, that someone you love this much could be hurting and still try to carry it all alone. You can feel the tremble beneath your fingertips, the tiny, fractured tremors that ripple through him. His breathing is uneven. And even though you can’t see his face clearly, the sound of those quiet, restrained sobs laces through your spine like barbed wire.

His tears still come slow and quiet, slipping one by one down the curve of his cheek and catching in the shadows under his jaw. The lump rising in your own throat threatens to spill over, your chest tightening with the force of your love, your worry, your need to somehow make this better, but you swallow it.

You swallow it all down like it’s your turn to carry something for him, like if you just stay still and steady enough, maybe he won’t feel so alone inside whatever just cracked open.

You lean forward slightly, your voice barely a whisper as you try again. “Megumi,” you whisper, voice cracking around the edges. Nothing.

He doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn’t pull away.

That small silence hurts but it’s not empty. It’s considering. His body doesn’t tighten further, and for the first time since you stepped outside, you feel something inside him loosen. Just barely. Just enough.

So you risk it. You speak again, this time with even more care.

“What happened?”

Your voice is so soft it nearly dissolves into the humid air. Like you’re afraid anything louder might break him completely. And maybe it would. Because whatever this is, whatever that phone call was, it carved something deep into him. Something raw and still bleeding.

He doesn’t answer, not with words.

But after a moment, his hand, the one still curled around his phone, drops slowly to his side, the screen going dark in his grip. His shoulders lift and fall in another shallow breath and then, as if the tension finally becomes too much, he turns just slightly towards you. Not enough to meet your eyes but enough that you can see the shimmer of his lashes, the way his throat works as he swallows hard against whatever storm is still roaring inside him.

And then, finally, finally, his body tips.

Not fully. Not dramatically. Just enough that he leans ever so slightly into your touch. A quiet surrender. A silent cry for closeness.

You shift instantly, your hand sliding from his back to his side, your arm curving gently around him, inviting him into your embrace. And still, the words don’t come. But that’s okay. You don’t need them yet. The explanations. The names. The context. You can wait for all of that because right now, this quiet is everything.

You stay like this for a while longer, your body gently curved towards his, one arm wrapping around him in a soft but grounding half-embrace. He doesn’t resist the pull. If anything, he lets himself be drawn in, lets you become a harbour for whatever storm he’s still weathering. His forehead has lowered to your shoulder now, resting there with a heaviness that makes your chest tighten. His breath is shallow but it’s no longer fractured. It’s slower now. Calmer. Still shaky, still too fragile, but calmer.

You run your fingers lightly across the back of his shirt, just barely moving, the way you’d soothe a frightened animal. The way you want someone to touch you when your own world feels like it’s tipping sideways. You wish your body could do more, say more, be more, but all you have is the steadiness of this moment and the warm weight of his presence leaning into you.

Then, sudden and sharp, the back door of the club creaks open behind you, its hinges whining in protest. You both flinch slightly as three people stumble out with high-pitched laughter, heels clicking across the concrete, cigarette smoke already curling in their wake. For a second, your heartbeat kicks up, protective and anxious, but they barely glance your way. Their laughter fades as they move off towards the alley's edge, lighting up and blowing clouds into the thick summer air.

You exhale slowly, feeling the humid night wrap around you like a heavy second skin, sticky and warm against your back.

And then Megumi stirs.

Slowly, reluctantly, he lifts his head from your shoulder. You don’t have to look up to know he’s watching you. You feel the shift in his breathing, the way something inside him tightens again, not with anger this time, or even grief, but something else. Something rawer. Something bare.

You look at him and your heart cracks all over again.

His eyes are red and glassy, lashes still damp, the faint trails of tears catching faint light along his cheekbones. His brows are drawn tight, deep furrows etched between them like he’s holding onto something too heavy for words. But what shatters you most is the look in his eyes; not the pain but the shame, as if letting you see this part of him has left him exposed.

Like he expects you to flinch away now. Or worse, pity him.

But you don’t move. You don’t even blink.

And maybe that’s why he raises his hand, slow and uncertain, fingertips brushing your cheek with the gentlest, most reverent kind of touch. His thumb lingers there for a second and you lean into it without hesitation.

His voice, when it comes, is soft. Still hoarse. Still shaky.

“You should… go back inside.”

You blink, startled by how much it hurts to hear those words. Not because you don’t want to go back in—because you know, just by the way he says them, that he doesn’t want you to leave.

He’s trying to protect you again. Trying to be good. Trying not to ruin your night. Trying not to be a burden. Even now.

Your heart twists, and your free hand rises to cover the one he’s still holding to your face. You lace your fingers gently with his, not tightly, just enough to keep him from drifting away again. Just enough to say, I’m not going anywhere.

“Megumi,” you whisper, your voice quieter now, tender. “Don’t do that.”

His eyes flicker, confusion and guilt flickering behind the storm-blue of his gaze.

“Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear,” you continue, barely louder than the wind, “just to protect me. I’m here because I want to be. With you. Right here.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Just looks at you, like he doesn’t know how to hold the weight of your care. Like he’s afraid if he breathes too hard, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, his hand tightens around yours.

You don’t ask again what happened. You don’t need to.

Instead, you hold Megumi’s gaze, refusing to flinch from the weight of his pain. Your hand squeezes his a little tighter, only once, a silent promise that you’re going to stay. His thumb twitches under yours, like his body is still struggling to catch up to the comfort you’re trying to offer.

He keeps looking at you, like he’s searching for something in your face, permission, maybe. Or courage. Or maybe just the confirmation that he’s allowed to break open a little more. That he’s allowed to let you see it.

And for a moment, it seems like he won’t. Like he’ll swallow it down, like he always does; smooth over the cracks, stuff the pieces back in and act like they never fell apart to begin with.

But then, voice low and raw, barely more than a breath, he murmurs, “He always knows how to ruin my day.”

The words land between you like a rock sinking into water, heavy, inevitable and distorting everything around it.

You don’t need to ask who he is.

The name Toji is still burned into the back of your mind, seared there from the moment it lit up on Megumi’s screen. You hadn’t recognised it, but now—now, with the way Megumi’s entire body tenses under your touch, with the bitter twist in his mouth and the ache behind his eyes—it’s clear: Toji must be his father.

Megumi doesn’t look at you now. His gaze drops, sharp and hollow, fixed on the dirty concrete below. A street light nearby flickers, casting harsh shadows across the alley, dancing over broken glass and cigarette butts like they’re trying to mock the mess of the moment.

“He only ever calls when he needs something,” Megumi says and now his voice is rougher. Sharper. Anger threading through it like barbed wire. “Like I’m some kind of tool he left behind and just picks up when it suits him.”

He lets out a bitter, humourless breath and balls his free hand into a fist again. His knuckles are pale from how hard he’s gripping, like he’s holding back everything else he wants to say. Maybe everything else he’s said to himself a thousand times already but never dared speak out loud.

He won’t look at you now. Like he’s ashamed. Ashamed of the way his father treats him. Ashamed of letting you see this side of him. Ashamed of the fact that some part of him still cares, even if he doesn’t want to.

You feel your chest clench, a tight and painful and familiar pressure blooming beneath your ribs. There are words piling up in your throat now—angry, comforting, protective things—but you bite them back, because right now isn’t about fixing anything. It’s about witnessing it. About being the one person who doesn’t turn away when it gets ugly. When it hurts.

You squeeze his hand again, firmer this time. Not to tell him to stop talking. Not to interrupt. Just to say: Keep going. If you want to.

But if he doesn’t, that’s okay too.

You shift slightly, closing what little distance there is between you, pressing your knee lightly against his. He swallows hard, the movement tight in his throat. You remain silent. Because you’ve come to the realisation that, sometimes, love isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s just staying put when someone’s breaking. Sometimes it’s a touch on the hand, a steady breath, and a heart that refuses to look away.

You don’t rush him. You don’t push. But your thumb begins to move slowly, softly, brushing across the back of Megumi’s hand in gentle strokes, the kind you hope he feels all the way down to his bones. It’s a small motion, almost nothing at all, but it says everything your voice can’t yet.

Then you speak, quiet and low, as if afraid to startle the moment away. “What did he want… this late?”

You don’t add this time but you know Megumi hears it anyway. You see it in the way his shoulders rise and fall in a slow, heavy breath. His eyes flick up to meet yours again and your heart gives another sickening twist because the pain there hasn’t lessened. If anything, it’s deepened. The kind of pain that’s been aging inside him for too long, heavy with too many almosts and maybes and I thought this time.

He lets out a short, bitter scoff. It’s not quite laughter. It never makes it that far.

“He’s always asking for the same things” he says, voice hoarse. “Money. A place to stay. It’s always one of the two. Or both.”

The sounds of drunken giggles and slurred conversation float towards you from the far end of the alley. Someone lights another cigarette and the flicker of the flame briefly lights the shadows. It all feels surreal, the laughter, the warmth spilling from the club just feet away. Like it belongs to a different world, one you both stepped out of and can’t quite return to yet.

Megumi’s hand flexes beneath yours. Not to pull away, just to move, like his body still needs to express everything his voice won’t.

“I feel like such an idiot,” he mutters. His jaw tightens again and the look in his eyes shifts from pain to something colder. Sharper. Not directed at you, never at you, but turned inward like a blade he’s too used to holding against his own skin. “I kept letting him back in. Even after everything. Even when I knew he’d just… leave again. Use me.”

You stay quiet, letting him spill it out, piece by jagged piece.

“I don’t know why I can’t cut him off.” He shakes his head slightly, the movement more broken than angry. “Maybe I keep hoping he’d… I don’t know. Wake up one day and remember I’m his fucking kid.”

His voice cracks then. Not much. Barely. But enough that it slices clean through you.

“And every time he doesn’t... it still hurts like hell.”

You don’t realise how tightly you’re holding his hand now until he shifts, turning his palm to thread his fingers between yours. Clinging back.

Your breath catches quietly in your throat, not because you’re surprised, no. Because of how careful he is with you, even now. Even while he’s unravelling, he still holds you like you’re something precious. Like he’s afraid of tainting you with the mess of him.

But you’re not going anywhere. And he needs to know that.

So you squeeze his hand tighter and when you lean in to press your forehead lightly against his, your voice comes out barely more than a whisper.

“You’re not an idiot, Megumi.”

His eyes widen slightly, barely a flicker, but you see it. It’s in the way his lashes lift, the faint tremor in his brows, the way his grip on your hand falters for a split second like your words have landed somewhere unfamiliar. Like no one has ever said that to him before. Like he’s never even thought it.

“You’re not an idiot,” you say again, softer now, but firmer. Pressing the truth into every syllable like you want to mould it into something he can finally believe.

He blinks once. Slowly. His gaze drops, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks still flushed and damp from earlier tears. His lips part like he wants to say something; maybe argue, maybe laugh it off, but nothing comes out.

You take a small breath, watching the way his shoulders have begun to curl inward again, as if the weight of everything is trying to fold him in half. So you shift a little, reaching your free hand to gently cup his jaw and coax his face back towards yours. Your thumb brushes just under the curve of his eye, where a new tear has quietly fallen.

“It’s normal to feel this,” you continue, your voice low and even despite the tightness forming again in your own throat. “To feel all of it. Anger, hurt, guilt—grief, even. Because he’s your dad. And in a world that wasn’t so… fucked up, he’d care about you the way he should have. The way you deserve to be cared for.”

You pause as Megumi’s jaw clenches again under your touch, but he doesn’t look away. That’s something. That’s everything.

You press on. “So it makes sense that it hurts. It doesn’t make you weak. And it definitely doesn’t make you stupid.”

A slow breath shudders out of him, uneven and almost soundless.

“He’s the one who keeps messing up, Megumi. Not you. He keeps choosing the same patterns, the same selfishness. That’s his failure, not yours.”

You can feel the ache, the fragile tension, the part of him that still wants to flinch from that truth. Like it burns to hear it aloud. Like the part of him that still wants to hope is at war with the part that’s tired of bleeding for it.

“And maybe… maybe tonight isn’t the night,” you add, brushing your fingers along his cheek now, “and maybe tomorrow won’t be either. But the day will come when you get to draw that line. When you say enough and it sticks. And it doesn’t make you cold or heartless. It makes you someone who finally puts himself first.”

His eyes begin to glisten again, not with the same raw grief from earlier, but with something quieter. More settled. Like a truth he doesn’t know how to hold just yet but maybe wants to try.

He closes them for a moment, a breath hitching in his throat, and then he leans into your palm. And when he opens his eyes again, they’re still rimmed red, still tired and cracked open, but they’re also focused. On you. Like you’re a tether.

“…You always know what to say,” he murmurs, hoarse.

You shake your head gently, thumb brushing his cheek once more. “No. I just know you. And I love you.”

You don’t even realise what you’ve said until you hear the sound he makes in response, a noise so soft, so cracked at the edges it catches your breath in your chest. It’s a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a sigh, like he’s been holding onto a breath for years and only now has dared to let it go.

Megumi leans in without a word, cupping the back of your neck, his touch gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s too rough with the moment. And then he kisses you.

It’s slow. Raw. Full of things he hasn’t found the words for yet and maybe never will. You lean into it, into him, uncaring of the salty wetness still lingering on his lips, the tremble in his jaw. It makes the kiss more real. Makes him more real in your arms, flawed, hurting and still trying.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again, his breath warm and uneven between you, like the words are catching fire in his chest before he can speak them.

“I love you too,” he whispers.

And it breaks you open. It melts through you like sunlight over frost, slow and deep and unrelenting, your knees softening as you exhale a shudder of air you didn’t know you’d been holding. Your arms tighten around him instinctively, like you can engrain yourself in the shape of his pain and his tenderness all at once.

You don’t cry but you feel the sting behind your eyes, your throat gone rough with the weight of the moment. When you speak, your voice is low and raw, rasping against the night like something secret.

“I’ll stand by your side,” you murmur, your fingers sliding up into the hair at the nape of his neck, “if you’ll let me.”

Megumi’s eyes flutter shut at your words and you feel the tiny nod he gives before you even see it. Like he’s saying yes not just to you but to being held, being seen. Maybe for the first time in a long, long while.

You swallow hard and keep going, not letting the tears push through your voice. “Tsumiki will too. And Yuji. Gojo, Geto…” You smile faintly through the ache. “Even Nobara, though she’ll pretend not to care.”

He lets out a huff of breath, something close to a laugh if it wasn’t so weighed down, and his lips twitch faintly against yours where they still linger close. But there’s a light in his eyes again, fragile but unmistakable. A flicker of belief where there had only been hollow silence before.

“You don’t owe anything to people who only call when they need something,” you continue, quieter now. “But you do owe it to yourself to hold onto the ones who love you. Who choose you. Every damn day.”

Megumi’s jaw clenches again, but this time there’s no pain behind it. Just quiet resolve.

He exhales a long, ragged breath, his thumb absently brushing along yours. His voice is low and tired as he mutters, “I hope one day I’m strong enough to tell him. To tell Toji to either step up… or to fuck right off.”

The words land heavy between you but you smile softly and almost proudly, and squeeze his hand a little tighter, grounding him in that fragile flicker of resolve he's still finding his way through. You nod, not needing to say anything more than, “Let’s get outta here.”

You turn, gently tugging at his hand to follow but he doesn’t move right away. Instead, he gives your fingers a short, hesitant pull to stop you. You glance back at him and his eyes are wide again, still a little uncertain, always a little too used to apologising for simply existing.

“I don’t want to ruin your night,” he says, brows knitting. “It’s okay if you want to go back inside. Really. I can just—”

You cut him off with a small raised hand—not abrupt, not sharp, just enough to stop him gently. The smile on your face hasn’t faded, but there’s something firmer in your eyes now, something unwavering.

“Megumi,” you say, your voice low and warm, “the idea of going home with you and curling up with Kumo on the couch sounds way more appealing than watching Yuji spill his drink all over himself or Gojo try to grind on unsuspecting strangers.”

That gets him. His lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but the corner of his mouth lifts with something caught between disbelief and reluctant amusement. You can see the exhaustion still sitting in his eyes but the tightness in his shoulders begins to ease just a little. You step in close, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead and planting a quick kiss on his lips. It’s soft and sure, and you feel his breath catch before he exhales into the moment.

“Come on,” you murmur with a smile, tugging at his hand again. “Let’s go home.”

This time, he follows without hesitation, fingers laced tightly with yours.

You wind your way back towards the front of the club together, the heavy pulse of bass still thumping behind its dark walls, a dull heartbeat you’re both already leaving behind. The humid night air clings to your skin as you step onto the main street, neon signs washing the pavement in shifting pinks and blues.

Megumi walks close beside you, his shoulder brushing yours with every step, quieter now but no longer lost. Not entirely. Not with your hand in his and not with the thought of home just a quick cab ride away, Kumo waiting for both of you like a quiet promise.

Neither of you says much more as the club fades behind, but you don’t need to. You’ve both already chosen the rest of your night. Together.

>>><<<

Megumi’s bedsheets are warm and smell faintly of clean cotton and whatever subtle cologne he always uses. Your bodies are still damp in places where the towels hadn’t quite done their job after the shower but the heat between you more than makes up for it. His chest is pressed against your back, one arm slung over your waist, thumb tracing small, absentminded circles on the skin just beneath your borrowed T-shirt.

The room is dark, only illuminated by the soft amber glow of his bedside lamp. The digital clock blinks 2:30 AM, the numbers oddly comforting in their stillness. Outside, the world has quieted, and inside, it feels like the two of you are wrapped in a bubble of soft sheets and unsaid promises.

Kumo is curled up at the foot of the bed, his fluffy tail flicking slightly now and then, the occasional snore escaping him once in a while. You both glance down at him at the same time, your smiles mirroring each other’s, lazy and content in the afterglow of warmth and comfort and that earlier flurry of lips and hands in the shower that still lingers on your skin.

You stretch slightly, phone balanced in your hand as you type a short message into your university group chat: Left the club with Megumi. Still alive. Don’t let Gojo convince you all to end up in a river please.

Not a minute later, Ren responds with U R TRASH FOR DITCHING US 💔💔💔 I LOVED U ONCE followed by a keyboard smash and several emojis you don’t care to interpret. You snort.

Megumi hums sleepily behind you and shifts closer, his chin coming to rest against your shoulder as he peers at your screen.

“Ren’s dramatic even through typos.” You giggle and tilt the screen slightly so he can see better. Ana’s sent a blurry, off-kilter selfie with her cheek pressed against Nobara’s, both of them throwing up peace signs while Yuji photobombs in the background, eyes half-shut, drink sloshing precariously in one hand.

Megumi’s breath is warm against your shoulder as he exhales in amusement. “They’re gonna regret all of that tomorrow.”

“They’re gonna regret everything tomorrow,” you murmur back, your voice thick with sleep and affection. You let the phone slip from your fingers onto the mattress, snuggling back into the crook of Megumi’s body. “But they’re having fun.”

His hand squeezes gently at your waist in silent agreement. There’s a pause, filled only with the rustling of sheets and the occasional sleepy snort from Kumo.

“I’m glad we left,” he says quietly, his voice husky, softer than it had been earlier. “Not just because of… that. But… just this. You. Me. Here.”

Your heart squeezes and you shift just enough to turn and meet his eyes; blue still, even in the dim light, and calmer now. Grounded. You brush your fingers lightly over his cheek, then lean in to kiss him again. This one is gentler, slower than the ones in the shower. It’s a goodnight kiss. A thank-you kiss. A we’re okay kind of kiss.

“Me too,” you whisper against his mouth and when he pulls you in again, you go willingly, happily, until your forehead rests against his and the world narrows down to this bed, this room and the quiet rhythm of your joined breathing.

Kumo sighs in his sleep at the end of the bed.

You giggle again, muffling it into Megumi’s shoulder before twisting slightly in his embrace. “Kumo’s snores are almost as loud as yours, you know.”

Megumi jerks his head back, eyebrows lifted in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you say with an impish grin, poking his chest. “Don’t act so shocked. You definitely snore.”

“I do not snore,” he replies, eyes narrowing in playful defiance.

“Oh, you so do.” You let out a snicker, ducking your head when he suddenly starts tickling your ribs, fingers dancing up your side with deliberate vengeance.

You squeal, squirming in his arms, your laughter echoing soft and breathless between the quiet rustles of the bedsheets. “Stop, stop! Okay, fine—Kumo wins, you’re a graceful sleeper—just stop!”

He pauses, triumphant, his grin subtle but smug. You take advantage of his temporary mercy to turn fully in his arms and steal a kiss, quick and warm, your fingers curling lightly against his chest.

Megumi sighs, but it’s the contented kind that’s full of warmth, not weariness. He presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes briefly like he’s savouring something quiet and precious. You trace your fingers over the line of his jaw, feeling the soft scratch of stubble he hadn’t shaved before your night out and when he opens his eyes again, there’s something soft and nostalgic in them.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asks quietly, voice low and a little rough from the hour.

Your brow lifts in amusement. “You mean the day you almost decapitated me with the glass door at Momonoki?”

He groans under his breath but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips that betrays him. “Yes,” he mutters, “that day.”

You smile, tilting your head slightly on the pillow. “Hard to forget. You were storming out, shoulders all tense like you were ready to take on the world.”

“You walked right into it.”

“You threw the door open like you were a dramatic anime protagonist,” you tease gently. “How was I supposed to know that day was gonna end in bruised dignity and future boyfriend material?”

Megumi rolls his eyes again, but now the smile is real, slow-spreading and tinged with a softness he rarely lets show. “You looked at me like I was the biggest asshole in Tokyo.”

“Because you were,” you tease, laughing into his neck. “You didn’t even apologise.”

“I didn’t know how to talk to you,” he admits after a second, a little quieter, like it’s still embarrassing somehow. “You were… intense.”

You blink, then laugh again, softer this time. “I thought you were intense. You had this whole aura of mystery and brooding silence going on.”

Megumi sighs again but this time it’s all exasperated fondness. He tugs you a little closer, wrapping an arm fully around you until you’re tucked against him again, your legs tangled easily beneath the sheets. “I still kind of can’t believe you stayed.”

“Of course I did,” you murmur, brushing a kiss against the curve of his jaw. “You’re terrible with doors but you’ve got a great heart.”

Megumi’s breath slows against your hair, warm and steady. For a while, he doesn’t speak, like the memory’s pressing too heavily against his ribcage to let words form. But eventually, his voice rumbles low and quiet, a confession unspooling between you like thread tugged too tight.

“That day…” he murmurs, not looking at you. “When I ran into you. At Momonoki.”

You blink up at him, still nestled into his arms, your body humming from the leftover warmth of laughter but your breath stills.

He continues, slower now. “Toji… he’d been calling me all day. During my shift. Over and over. I tried ignoring it at first, but it wouldn’t stop.”

You don’t speak—you just listen, heart sinking.

Megumi shifts slightly, his fingers twitching along your side like he needs something to ground him. “He wanted money. Said it was urgent. Rent or food or some bullshit excuse. He’s always got a new one. I couldn’t focus. I kept messing up orders. Snapping at people. I think I even yelled at Toge when he knocked into the counter.”

“And that Saturday shift,” Megumi adds after a beat, voice even lower, “the one with you, Utahime and Yu where I barely said a word. I met Toji after work. I gave him what I had on me. And then…” His jaw clenches, and his eyes dart away towards the dim shape of Kumo curled at the foot of the bed. “He left. Didn’t even say thanks. Just took the cash and walked off. Left me standing there like an idiot.”

You shift in his arms, eyes wide and green and serious now as you tilt your head to look up at him. “Megumi,” you whisper, stunned. “I didn’t know.”

He gives you a small shrug, like it’s not worth much now, like the damage was already done and what’s the point in crying over what couldn’t be fixed. But you see the way his eyes darken again, how that old, familiar hurt lingers just beneath the surface, raw and gnawing and unspoken.

“I was a dick to all of you,” he says, quieter now, more ashamed. “And you didn’t deserve that. No one did. I just—” He exhales hard through his nose. “I hated that he could still do that to me. That I let him.”

Your hand slides up from his side to rest gently against his chest, right over where his heart is still beating steady but tired. “You were in pain,” you say softly, your voice firm even as it wavers. “That’s not an excuse for shutting people out, I know that, but… it doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.”

He finally meets your eyes again and for a moment, he looks impossibly young, like the boy he must have been when all this started, when he first learned what it meant to be disappointed by the person who should have protected him most. His eyes then move towards the ceiling and silence stretches between you, his chest rising and falling against your palm. You feel the tension coiling just beneath his skin like a quiet storm.

“I know you’re right,” he says finally, voice low and thick. “I do. I know I shouldn’t keep letting him in. Shouldn’t keep hoping.”

His fingers curl slightly against your back, not in anger, but like he’s holding on to something slippery, something that keeps slipping through no matter how tightly he tries to grasp it.

“But I always end up giving in,” he admits. “Every time. I tell myself it’s the last. I swear I’m done. And then he calls and it’s like—” His voice cracks faintly and he looks away again, eyes tracking the shadows on the wall. “It’s like there’s still a part of me waiting for him to… realise something. To wake up and see what he’s done. What he keeps doing.”

He lets out a breath that sounds far too tired for someone his age and shakes his head slowly, bitterly, like he’s mocking his own hope. “It’s pathetic.”

You open your mouth to protest but he speaks again before you can.

“I guess,” he says, a hollow laugh escaping him, “you can’t really miss what you never had. Not really. But I think there’s a part of me that keeps trying to fill in the blanks. Like if I just give him enough chances, maybe I’ll finally get to feel what it’s like to have a dad. Just once.”

Your heart breaks all over again at the quiet, broken honesty in his voice. There's no venom in his words, no rage. Only exhaustion and resignation. The kind that comes from years of building a dam around grief and pretending it was strength.

The thought crashes into you with the quiet force of a wave that’s long been building offshore, silent, slow and inevitable.

You blink up at the ceiling as Megumi’s breath warms the crown of your head and yet suddenly, it’s like the weight pressing on your chest isn’t just his anymore. It’s yours, too. Familiar and sharp, layered in old dust and unspoken things.

You know that feeling. That hollow ache that doesn’t roar but lingers. That grief with no clear death to mourn, only the absence of what should have been. The kind that doesn’t come with funeral rites or eulogies, but lives in the empty seat at a school play. In the blank spaces on medical forms. In the birthdays marked by silence.

You know it intimately.

Because even now, even now, you still glance at your phone sometimes when you’re alone in the dark, when the world is quiet and your defences are down. You still imagine it lighting up with his name. You wonder what you’d do. What you’d say. Whether you’d scream or stay silent or crumble entirely.

You wonder what it would have been like if your own father had stayed.

If, after your mother died, he hadn’t turned away. If he had chosen to hold on instead of letting go. If he had taken your hand in those early, disoriented days of grief and said, “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this. Together.”

If he’d raised you and Yuji beside your grandfather, instead of letting you grow up with questions in your chest that no one could answer. If you hadn’t had to grow up so quickly, learning to fold your pain into corners of yourself that no one could see.

When you peel it all back, the too bright smiles that fooled your teachers, the clean clothes you ironed yourself before every first day of school, the immaculate hair and make-up that made people call you ‘beuatiful’ and ‘put together,’ the good grades that earned you praise and filled your time so you wouldn’t notice the silence—you’re still mourning.

You always have been.

You swallow around the lump rising in your throat, curling tighter into Megumi’s side like you could draw strength from his bones if you got close enough.

It hits you all at once, this strange, painful comfort. That you’re not alone in this. Not in this ache. Not in this kind of loss.

Because Megumi’s grief wears a different face, shaped by broken promises and a father who’s still alive but never truly there. But your wounds mirror each other. Two sides of the same jagged coin. You, abandoned by a man who left without a word. Him, haunted by one who never knows when to stop.

You turn in his arms until you’re fully facing him, your cheek resting just below his collarbone, your eyes searching his, those endless, storm-tossed blues that have carried so much more than anyone should have to. And then you speak.

“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you say softly, voice careful and low in the hush of his dim bedroom. “That people can’t miss what they’ve never had.”

Megumi’s brows draw together, his expression softening with a quiet sort of confusion, like he’s not sure whether he should brace himself for a correction or something more tender. But he doesn’t interrupt. His thumb still traces gentle, unconscious circles over your knuckle, grounding you.

“I mean…” You exhale shakily, your eyes flicking to the ceiling for a second as if to steady yourself before returning to him. “Of course we should be grateful for what we do have. That’s important. That’s real. But that doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to feel the ache for the things we never got. Not when they could’ve mattered.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel it in the way his hand stills, how his body tightens just slightly beside yours.

“I think people confuse that kind of sadness with being ungrateful,” you go on, your voice growing thinner, shakier. “But… longing for something you should have had—like a dad who protects you, or just… stays… that’s not the same as dwelling. It’s not weakness, either.”

You swallow, the lump in your throat blooming and threatening to choke you. You press your cheek a little harder into Megumi’s chest and close your eyes.

“God, I sound like a hypocrite,” you whisper, a weak laugh catching in your throat. “I’m really good at telling other people this stuff. Not so good at believing it when it’s about me.”

You feel his arm curl tighter around your waist, the warmth of him drawing you in like gravity. Like the world might fall away and he’d still be the one holding you in place.

“You don’t sound like a hypocrite,” Megumi says quietly after a moment. “You sound like someone who gets it.”

You nod wordlessly into his chest, because there’s no room for pride here. No need for it, either. The room feels heavier now though not in a suffocating way. More like a shared weight, like two people finally daring to name the things that shaped them, even when those things still hurt.

Even when those things still define too much.

The glow from the alarm clock glints off the curve of Megumi’s jaw, casting soft shadows across his face. You reach up to trace a finger along the bridge of his nose, then down to his lips, where you pause.

“I think,” you whisper, “that the pain of wanting something you never had is just… proof that your heart still believes it could’ve been different. That somewhere inside, you still know what you deserve.”

Megumi’s eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat, lashes fanning over flushed skin, as though your words have reached some tender, buried place within him, the kind no one’s been allowed to touch in a long time. When he opens them again, they’re glassy with something fragile, something brave. His gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens, not in accusation, not in pity, but in knowing.

He studies your face for a few quiet, charged seconds, like he’s seeing you all over again. Not the version you show the world. Not the girl who laughs at Yuji’s stupid jokes, who fusses over university group projects, who keeps it together even when she’s not okay. But you. And it almost undoes you.

Then, gently, so gently it feels like it floats on the air between you, he asks, “Do you yearn for the father you never had too?”

Your breath catches in your throat. And the world stills.

You blink at him, stunned; not by the question itself but by how easily, how intimately he voices something so painful, something you’ve never dared to say out loud. Not even to yourself, not really. You’ve lived with the ache for so long you stopped questioning it. Let it settle into your bones like background noise. But hearing him name it like that, it hits you like a wave.

You’ve never told him about Jin. Never spoken of the man who disappeared like smoke after your mother’s funeral, who left a fatherless ache in you that nothing ever quite filled. Not because you didn’t trust Megumi—you do, deeply—but because the words have never felt right in your mouth. They never do. Because how do you explain missing someone you barely knew? Someone who chose not to know you?

But Megumi must’ve seen it anyway. In the way you go quiet when other people talk about their dads. In the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when the subject comes up. In the way you cling to Yuji and the memory of your grandfather like the whole world depends on them never leaving.

So when your eyes lock with his and he sees your silence stretch long enough to become an answer, his lips part slightly, almost like he’s about to apologise for asking.

But you stop him with the truth.

You nod.

And then your chin wobbles and your throat tightens and suddenly the tears are there, brimming over before you can stop them. Hot, aching tears that don’t ask permission, they just fall. You make a soft, broken sound, not quite a sob, and then press yourself into Megumi’s chest like he’s the only solid thing keeping you upright. His arms close around you immediately, securely, and he breathes your name like it’s something precious.

“I do,” you whisper, the words muffled by his shirt and thick with pain. “I yearn for that all the time.”

His hand moves to the back of your head, threading through your hair, holding you close. Not just holding you, but grounding you.

You let yourself cry for the little girl who waited by the phone, who watched other kids run into their fathers’ arms and wondered what she’d done wrong. You cry for birthdays missed, for the heavy silence that always followed the question “Where’s your dad?”, for the love you deserved and never got. And somehow, Megumi’s presence makes it feel okay. Makes it feel like maybe the years of burying this ache don’t make you weak. Maybe they just make you human.

“I used to make up stories,” you murmur after a while, voice scratchy from crying. “That he was some kind of secret agent. Or that he had to go somewhere important but he’d come back. I used to believe that, for a long time.”

Megumi lets out a breath against your temple, and you feel it tremble. “I did the same,” he admits. “I used to think that if I was good enough, quiet enough, helpful enough… maybe Toji would want to stay.”

A silence stretches between you then, thick and aching. But not empty.

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze again, both of your eyes rimmed red, both your cheeks tear-streaked. But somehow, in that mess, you find each other fully. Honestly. And you know, in a way that doesn’t need saying, that you’re not alone in this anymore.

That your grief and his, though different in shape, speak the same language.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

bang bang, my baby shot me down