A yellow glow creeped along the shadowed floor. The lanterns they emenated from sat in the ever busy hall. A door was slid shut. Clothes then rustled softly in the corner.
Your back still turned to the entrance, you opened an eye. Half-asleep, you still replied, "Welcome back."
More shifting.
Then, a dip in the mattress behind you.
"Y'know, you don't have ta keep waitin' up for me."
You hummed softly, smile subconsciously working itself on your lips. Maybe it was the familiar rasp of voice, the heap of warmth comforting your back, or the muscular pull of arms drawing you closer, but you couldn't keep the giddy joy from blooming in your chest.
"I know, but I like the extra time with you."
A gentle nuzzle into the nape of your neck.
"You see me everyday ... Surprised you're not tired of me yet."
A giggle held back by fingers to your lips. "I could never."
And it was true. Even after days and days of repeated minute long check ins, you never grew tired of seeing him, hearing him, or anything of the sort. All it did was make you more excited for those almost routinely moments. Though you weren't sure if there was ever a way you could convince him you meant that.
"Did everything go well today?"
"Mhmm. The girls caused more trouble than usual but it was handled."
"Hika and Hina? I can take care of them for you tomorrow."
"It's alright, Konro's on it."
"Damn, beat me to it again."
"I asked him to."
As you shifted around, he used a strong arm to lift the blanket till you were face to face. His tired eyes were half-lidded, brows relaxed from their frown, and thick lips set in their usual pout. His pulse was low and steady, a natural lullaby to sooth you to sleep. The X and O of his pupils tracked you slowly. Nature's way of allowing him to say "hugs and kisses" without needing to open his mouth, you liked to joke, the deep pink of his irises used as further evidence as they were "the color of love" (he was not amused).
"Why not ask me? I'm sure he'd like a break too."
"Cause we're going out tomorrow." He placed a large hand on your hip, thumb caressing the soft flesh. "And I'm waking you up early so get some sleep."
"Not if I wake up first."
"Heh, sure."
"I'm really looking forward to it. But, you know I can help you out with things like this."
He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "Thanks, but I don't want them to cause you trouble. I know they developed more of my ... less admirable qualities."
Smiling, you draped an arm over his back. Fingers traced the outline of well-defined muscles and down the length of his spine. Maybe it was cause of his training or cause he was simply used to it, but he didn't shiver or flinch under your ministrations.
"Well if I can handle you, I think I can handle two kids."
His lips finally curled into that rare smile. "I'm sure you could."
A deep yawn escaped him and you subconsciously followed suit.
"Get some sleep. You stayed up late waiting for me so I'm sure you're tired."
You tucked your head against his firm chest. His warm scent enveloped your senses like a cozy hearth, another factor that would ease your into a quick slumber. He rested his chin atop you, large arms hugging you closer.
"Since you work so hard everyday, I'll let you rest. But we're talking about this tomorrow."
"After tomorrow."
"Why not tomorrow?"
"Like I said, I'm taking you out. No worrying about anything but where you wanna go next and if you're happy."
Closing your eyes, a smile lifted your lips.
"Alright, fine. After tomorrow. But don't think a day out is gonna make me forget you keep going to Konro for help."
He nipped at your ear. "I'm sure I can find other things to distract you with. Now go to sleep."
You laughed and nuzzled closer. "Goodnight Captain Shinmon, you stubborn lug."
"Not the Captain right now. Just Benimaru."
You kissed his jaw, "Goodnight, Benimaru. See you in the morning."
I love that in the short time Iâve been in the Fire Force fandom, Iâve learned a few key facts:
1. Yes, we all are aware of the shitty âfan-serviceâ (if you can even call it that at this point⊠itâs just too muchâŠ) and we all curse the author for the stupidity that is Tamakiâs scenes. This is the burden we share as reluctant fans of the series.
2. While Shinraâs not awful, 95% of the fandom train is here for the sexy older guys. Konro is the captain of these dilfs.
3. If anything bad were to happen to Benimaru, weâd collectively hunt down whoever hurt our sunshine sweetheart like a well-trained army.
Immediately, as soon as your first words are uttered over the recording video, Rintaroâs booms down the hallway. You laugh and smack your hand on the counter, trying to keep it as quiet as you can as you hear him continue to yell.
âTHE FUCK YOU THINK THIS IS? WEâRE LOCKED IN, WHAT THE FUCK!â Socked feet barrel down the hall and youâre quick to hide the camera behind a bottle of mouthwash. His body quickly comes into the frame, chest puffed out and hands on his hips. âYou got something you want to tell me?â
You pull your lips down in thought before shaking your head, âno. I donât think so. I didnât even know you were home.â
âOh!â He says dramatically, clapping his hands together. âSo youâre just always talking about dumping me to your little Internet friends?â
âOnly in my fantasies,â you hum, tossing your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He pouts, and you giggle and kiss him again, âbut if I ever do decide to dump you, I promise youâll be the first to know.â
This, has him blinking unamused at you. Then, his hands leap up to grab your cheeks, and he pulls you in for a loud, wet kiss, his lips pressing kisses over your laughing mouth, teeth, and lips. âListen to me.â
âRinnie!â
âNo. Shush. Listen to me.â He pulls back and rests his head against yours, hands still squishing your cheeks. âI have shit out an engagement ring for you. I have your name tattooed on me. I got clawed to death by your rat fuck cat, and I have a shirt with your face on it that I wear when I go out. Weâve shared a toothbrush, you pinch my nipple when Iâm showering, you text me and ask me if Iâve pooped, and I know damn well you take ugly pictures of me when Iâm sleeping.â
âYour point?â
His nostrils flare, âyou so much as THINK this relationship is ending, Iâm going to tattle on you.â
âOh, please-â
âTo Komori.â
This, has you paling, and you nod softly and gently grab his shoulders, âno, okay, youâre right, youâre right baby, Iâm sorry.â He nods as you press a kiss to his lips, âbut in all seriousness-â
âOh, Iâm serious, too.â
You snicker, âin my seriousness, Iâm never going to leave you.â You flash your engagement ring to the camera and purse your lips out, and he smiles down at you. âwho else is going to poop out a ring, then lie to the salesman about why weâre returning it, and get me a new one, hmm?â
âThankfully, Iâm the only one who will.â He kisses your forehead, then looks at you with sad eyes. âWeâre locked in?â
âYeah baby,â you giggle, kissing his nose. âWeâre locked in.â
Rin Itoshi never thought heâd be the type of man who would melt at the sound of a tiny voice calling him Papa. If you had asked the teenage version of him, the one who was sharp, guarded, and so focused on nothing but soccer, he would have scoffed, muttered something under his breath, and turned away before anyone could see the faint redness in his ears. Family, softness, vulnerability, those things didnât fit the image he carried of himself.
But then he had her.
The first time Rin held his daughter, so small she barely fit in the crook of his arm, something inside of him shifted in a way he couldnât put words to. He stared down at her with wide, stunned eyes, afraid to even breathe too hard in case she broke. And when her tiny fist curled around his finger, Rin Itoshi, the cold, aloof prodigy had been undone.
Now, years later, the world knew Rin Itoshi as a professional soccer player at the peak of his career. But at home? At home, he was Papa. At home, he wasnât the ruthless striker whose glare could freeze a stadiumâhe was the man who sat cross-legged on the living room floor with a pink plastic tiara tilted on his head because his daughter insisted he needed to be the âkingâ in her little tea party kingdom.
âPapa, sit still,â she scolded one afternoon, standing on the couch cushion to carefully press glittery star stickers to his cheeks. She had inherited his serious expression, but when it came to him, she wielded it with all the authority of a tiny queen.
Rin blinked, his lips twitching into a rare smile. âI am sitting still.â
âNot still enough,â she said, squinting as she pressed another sticker to the bridge of his nose. âYouâre gonna mess it up if you move.â
Anyone else, Rin would have rolled his eyes at. But his daughter? He sat as still as a statue, enduring the stickiness of glitter stars on his face, just to hear her delighted giggle when she leaned back and admired her handiwork.
âThere! Now youâre perfect,â she declared, and Rinâs chest warmed so completely he thought it might burst.
He didnât care if he had training in an hour. He didnât care if Sae found out and mocked him mercilessly for being wrapped around his daughterâs tiny finger. Rin only cared about the way she beamed at him like he was her whole world.
Because she was his.
And Rin was a girl dad through and through.
She clung to his leg when he tried to leave for practice, her little hands gripping him tightly. âPapa, donât go!â she whined, her lip wobbling.
Rin crouched down so they were eye level, brushing her hair from her face. âIâll be back, okay? Always back.â
âBut itâs too long!â
That familiar guilt twisted in his chest, but he kissed her forehead and whispered, âThen Iâll score a goal for you. And when I get home, you can watch it with me. Deal?â
Her tears instantly vanished, her whole face lighting up. âDeal!â
It became their thing. Every goal Rin scored, he dedicated silently to her. Sometimes heâd point to the stands after scoring, and the cameras would think he was being stoic as usual. But really, that small gesture was for his daughter watching at home, bouncing excitedly on the couch with you as she shouted, Thatâs my Papa!
Rin also discovered that being a dad meant losing arguments. Constantly.
Like when she wanted to paint his nails.
He had grumbled, âWhy not Mamaâs nails?â but sat down anyway when she pouted at him. Ten minutes later, his usually calloused, bruised hands were covered in streaks of uneven, sparkly pink polish. He lifted his fingers, looking at the mess, and sighed.
âItâs beautiful, Papa,â she said proudly, resting her chin in her hands.
And just like that, Rin nodded. âYeah. It is.â
Or when she begged him to braid her hair. Rin had zero clue what he was doing, his fingers werenât built for delicate tasks like that, but he tried. Fumbled. Retried. And when she looked in the mirror and squealed, âPapa, you did it!â Rin felt like heâd just won a championship match.
The funniest thing, though, was how obvious it was to everyone around them that Rin was a total softie for his little girl.
When his teammates visited, they would see the way she sat perched on his lap, babbling about her day while Rin listened intently, nodding like every word she said was the most important thing in the world. If she asked him for something, water, a snack, her stuffed animal, heâd get up without hesitation.
âSheâs got you whipped,â Bachira teased once.
Rin scowled, but his daughter patted his cheek and said, âDonât be mean to Papa,â and suddenly Rinâs glare melted into something gentle. âSee? Even she knows.â
She was his little shadow, following him everywhere, into the kitchen, out into the backyard, even sitting beside him while he stretched after training. Sometimes sheâd try to copy his stretches, her tiny arms and legs wobbling, and Rin had to bite back his laughter as he corrected her form like she was one of his teammates.
But the best moments came at night.
When the world was quiet, and it was just the three of you at home, Rin would carry her to bed after story time. She always begged for just one more book, and Rin, predictably, always gave in. Eventually, though, sheâd yawn, her little hands gripping his shirt as she drifted off against his chest.
Rin would tuck her into bed, brush his fingers gently through her hair, and just look at her for a while. In those moments, he couldnât believe how much he loved her. It was overwhelming, consuming. A kind of love that terrified him, because it was so much bigger than anything he had ever known.
And every time, without fail, sheâd mumble in her sleep, âPapaâŠâ like even her dreams revolved around him.
Rin would whisper back, voice low and rough, âIâm right here. Always.â
If you asked Rin Itoshi to describe himself, heâd probably mutter something about being a soccer player, a striker, a professional.
But if you asked his daughter? Sheâd grin wide, her eyes shining, and say proudly, âHeâs my Papa.â
And honestly, Rin wouldnât have it any other way.
Because the truth was simple: Rin Itoshi, the boy who once thought he was too cold and too sharp for softness, had become the biggest softie of all. A girl dad to his core. And his daughter? She was his little daddyâs girl, his pride, his heart, and his entire world.
I have MISSED being on tumblr and fanfiction . net sooooooooooo much but itâs late and Iâm in bed and thatâs a big no-no for me because last time I accidentally fell asleep and sent something to someone and when I woke up in the middle of the night to roll over, I SAW WHAT HAPPENED AND IMMEDIATELY BLOCKED THAT PERSONđ đ«Ąđ€Šđ»ââïž
soulmate todoroki who when the first time your eyes meet you see a burst of colours for the first time in your life and that black and white, colourless existence that you've gotten so used to becomes filled with colour and it takes you a second to even realise because the immediate thing that pops into your head is how pretty you think his hair and eyes are.
soulmate todoroki who didn't want a soulmate. less than ten percent of people meet theirs and he had to meet his? he doesn't want that. not after his parents. he wants to reject the idea of soulmates all together but that's hard when you're his new coworker.
soulmate todoroki who hasn't spoken one word to you and you decide to accept that. for your life to have meaning you don't particularly feel like you need to be spend your life with whoever destiny chooses for you, so you understand that one of the top pro heroes could share a similar sentiment. you see the way he looked at you with confusion for the first time, surprised by his worldview turning bright and you attempt to speak to him only to be interrupted by someone wanting your expertise for something before you can get a word out, when you turn back to talk to him he left the room.
soulmate todoroki is in the same room as you for a prolonged period of time for the first time. he's out with some of his old classmates for kirishima's birthday and he noticed you but you hadn't noticed him, you're sitting at one of the back tables at a bar with your friend while he's in the booth right next to yours, separated by divider to create a sense of privacy but he can still hear your conversation.
"you're now at the same agency as shoto now right?"
you hum in conformation, "yeah..." suspicious of your friend's motives.
"do you know if he's seeing anyone?" she asks with a wicked smirk on her face.
"why would i know that?"
"i don't know, you're coworkers now, you might've heard or seen something."
"i haven't."
it's now your friends turn to be suspicious, "are you sure...? it sounds like you're lying."
"i'm not."
"so you don't have any secrets then?"
there's a pause, and a small couple taps from your table as drum your fingers on the surface. your face grimaces when you feel the sticky table from all the spilt alcohol from before you and your friend arrived. "i do not."
soulmate todoroki appreciates that you didn't tell your friend. he knows that you're unsure about his dating status but he appreciates that you didn't let slip he's the reason your world is no longer colourless.
soulmate todoroki stops listening after that, occasionally getting chunks of information and it's the most he's found out about you. your friend is in 'desperate need' of relationship gossip according to you and you tell her you won't listen to her advice.
soulmate todoroki is in an in-depth conversation with midoriya, not listening to yours anymore.
"that guy over there is cute! you should talk to him."
you shake your head vehemently. you could never say it out loud but you do have a crush on pro hero shoto. it's possible that you could of admitted if things were different, you're a little tipsy and you probably would of let your friend know that you had a crush on your new coworker but admitting you like your new coworker who turned out to be your soulmate? that's just something too private. "no way, that shirt is just terrible. that red and green outfit combination is way too much."
your friend stops. her cocktail in her hand in the air, her lips pursed. her eyes widen and she stands up, slamming her drink down and banging her hands on the table, ignoring how sticky and tacky the table is and focused solely on you. "when the fuck have you been able to see colours?"
soulmate todoroki hears the commotion and quickly looks over to you. instead of a look of panic on your face, you laugh.
"are you telling me you can't see colours?" you smirk.
"w-wha-no!"
"my life gets brighter and brighter every time someone new looks at me, i'm just that hot."
"be serious."
you widen your eyes, "i am!"
your friend sits down loudly and crosses her arms, annoyed that you haven't told her you found your soulmate. her tone is annoyed but she plays along with gritted teeth, "what about when you started at your new agency? how bright did the world get then, do all your coworkers love you and think you're hot?"
"awe, are you jealous? i know you love me more, it's okay. plus you're way cuter and hotter than any of them," your eyes are glinting with mischief and she rolls her eyes. you drum your fingers on the table again and under your breath you reply, "shoto's hot too."
"did you say something?"
"nope!" you grin.
shoto's mouth quirks up into a smile the next day when he see's you walk into the office, he makes no immediate attempt to leave, instead rehearing your words in his head, "shoto's hot too," before thinking, 'just like you then.'
geto suguru x f!reader
wc: 6.4k+
tags: sci-fi auâtbh i leaned into the cyberpunk futurism thing again i can't help myself đ, suguru's job is never explicitly mentioned but hopefully you get the gist, he's also a bit scary but i think that's normal ?? idk hehe
thank you thank you thank you to dear @rabbbitseason for allowing me to write this ! it's my first time with him đ„č i hope it's okay ! very grateful for all your support đ„č
ONE
On the night you meet Suguru, an outage swallows the bar in one gulp.
No flicker, just a snap and everything cuts. The holosign outside dies in a whine of static, fans grind to a halt, light collapses, and you're left standing in the dark, holding a tray of warm glasses in hands that suddenly feel too small.
It's disappointing, but nothing new. Youâre used to this. Your part of town doesnât scream when the power goes outâit just sighs.
Thereâs a rustle near the door. Not the scrambling kind, not like the usual patrons stumbling out to smoke and curse the grid; itâs measured, heavy boots on concrete, too slow to be familiar.
This part of town isn't kind, even to someone it's grown. You step behind the counter in preparation for somethingâanything.
The figure comes into view in piecesâat first, just a tall silhouette framed by the dim spill of emergency glow leaking in from the street, but then he steps closer, and you see him: all in black, lean and broad-shouldered, his coat trailing like a shadow that's grown too long. The emergency light catches in his eyes, plum; dark and sharp and sweet.
You try not to stare. He probably notices anyway.
"Power out everywhere, or just here?" His voice is low, silk wrapped around steel. Calm in the way that makes you wary.
You shrug, but aren't sure he sees it. "Whole block, I think."
He hums, like that tells him something, and you reach below the counter to fumble for the old lantern. It flickers to life, casting amber light across the counter and his face. Heâs handsomeâsuddenly soâbut thereâs something else. Something in the way he stands, relaxed but alert, like a man used to being watched.
You clear your throat. "Can still serve you something, if you're not picky. Got a few bottles that don't need cooling."
He smiles, slow and deliberate. One strand of his long black hair has come loose from the tight bun at the back of his head, and it swings slightly as he leans closer.
"Something warm, then," he says, not looking at the bottles. Heâs looking at you.
You nod and turn, shoulders rising as you reach for the chipped ceramic pot. The movementâs an excuse to hide, give you a moment to settle the uneven flutter in your chest. Youâre not used to being looked at like that. Not with focus. Not with intention.
The powerâs out, but the potâs still warm from before the lights went. You kept it wrapped in a thermal sleeveâold habit from long nights, colder ones. You pour the tea slow, steady, hoping your hands donât shake as much as they feel they might. The silence thickens around you, too many shadows in too little space.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and steady, curling around edges in the dark. âCityâs quieter with the lights out.â
You donât answer right away, letting the sound of tea against ceramic fill the gap. Letting the heat of the cup chase back the chill climbing your fingers. âItâs always loud,â you say finally. âJust changes the kind.â
He makes a soft soundâagreement, maybe. Or understanding. Or neither. âNo neon, no noise,â he says, more to the air than to you. âFunny how much the city depends on its own distractions.â
You slide the cup across the bar. He doesnât reach for it right away, just watches the steam coil upward, like heâs waiting for something to reveal itself.
âI like it better this way, feelsâŠcleaner, I guess.â You say, and it's true; this part of town isn't kind, no, but without the automated glitz and glamour, there's no need to pretend.
You hear the soft shift of fabric as he leans inânot close enough to touch, but closer than before. His presence hums against the edges of your awareness.
âYouâre not scared of the dark?â he asks, voice smooth, teasing. His smile is wide, charming, disarms you in a way that it shouldn't.
You hesitate, trying to bite back your growing timidness. âOnly when itâs creepy,â you say, "when it creaks or breathes back at me.â
That makes him huff, amused. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. âSo, no ghosts in here?â
âWell, yeah, we have those,â you shrug, âThey just mind their business.â
That pulls something out of him, something real and small that feels like a reward. âInteresting bar,â he continues, finally reaching for the tea. âDo you see much traffic here?â
You keep your face still. âSome.â
âTravelers?â
You nod, wary of where this is going, though nothing in his tone gives anything away. Not pushy, not prying. Just drifting. âPeople passing through,â you say. âThey come. They leave. Same as anywhere.â
He sips. Thereâs something practiced in the way he does it. Measured, like heâs used to watching, used to waiting. âThis part of the district,â he says after a beat, âdoesnât get much patrol. No official presence. Doesnât that bother you?â
You shrug. âThey never helped much anyway.â
Another pause. Another small pull of his attention. You realize too late how much you're giving away, when you see the thought behind his eyes, whatever he's cataloging for whatever reason, but he doesn't press it.
âSometimes the places with the least oversight are the ones that know best how to take care of their own,â he says, almost like a proverb.
You nod. Youâve learned to let silences hold the things you donât want to voice.
He drinks again, not watching you now, not exactly, but still aware of you. His presence wraps around the room like heatâdelicate, thick, hard to ignore. You wonder if heâs just a traveler; surely not, with how handsome he is, how subtly elegant, the way he speaks. You wonder what heâs really looking for.
The thought doesn't go farther than that before a stool screeches from the back of the bar. Not the clean scrape of someone careful, but the lazy sprawl of someone who thinks the world owes him the space and time.
Jogo has been here since before the outage, hunched in the far corner like heâs part of the decorâone of the peeling posters or half-lit neon strips that doesnât work right anymore. You shouldâve made him leave with the others. You didnât. You never do.
âStill no power?â His voice lurches into the dim, louder than necessary, too smug. âPlace like this, surprised it had any to begin with.â
You press your palm flat to the bar. Not in fearâjust to keep still. Shame flickers inside of you at the insult, a small flame, ever-burning; no pretending in the dark, no pretending you and your handsome stranger could be from the same world.
Jogo gets up, boots thudding against the composite floor. âSurprised youâre still running this place at all. Must get real lonely in here, huh?â
The sound of his approach stretches the silence thin. You donât answer. Words feed men like him; it's always best to let them starve.
He stops at the bar, leans in with that breath like rot and synth-spice. âWhatâs wrong? Cat got yourââ
He sees Suguruâwho you don't know is Suguru, not yetâstill half-sitting, one elbow resting on the counter like heâs got all the time in the world. Jogo must not have noticed him in the shadows before, but now he has, after the air has changed around him, gone colder, thinner. Like the room is holding its breath, too.
Suguru lifts his gaze to Jogo, calm as still water. "Sheâs busy," he says, voice smooth enough to be polite, but not a bit friendly. "Maybe try saying what you need without spitting."
The smile he wears is soft. Mannered, almost pleasant, though it doesnât reach his eyes.
Jogo blinks, tries to laugh. It dies somewhere in his throat. âDidnât mean anything by it,â he mutters, suddenly smaller. âGonna smoke.â
He turns on his heel and stumbles out, too fast to be casual, too slow to be brave, and the door hisses shut behind him. The silence returns, heavier than beforeâbut gentle, too. You breathe, slow, and let your hand drift from the counter. Suguru hasnât moved.
When you risk a glance, he's watching you, eyes like dusk, plum-dark and unreadable, but not cruel, not smug; observant. Like he's measuring the weight of the moment and choosing not to tip it.
âDidnât mean to bring any problems with me,â he says, voice low, dry with something like an apology.
You shake your head, smiling reflexively. âNo problems, just finicky ghosts.â
He smiles, enough to show his teeth, and something sour in you eases, recedes. âThat so?â
You nod once. It feels like the right answer.
He leans back again, and the moment should pass, but it doesnât. Not really. The bar settles around you both like the world has exhaled, but thereâs still something coiled in the space between you, waiting. Watching. Becoming.
TWO
Suguru comes and goes like a rumorâwhispers first, then footsteps, then silence.
You donât know what Suguru does, or what he has to do to come back. He doesnât tell you, and you donât askânot because you donât care, but because some part of you already knows itâs nothing soft. Whatever world he disappears into when heâs not here, it stains his silence, lingers in the way his eyes avoid yours when heâs too tired to pretend heâs fine. It sits between you like something alive and untouchable, a quiet, clawed thing neither of you dare disturb.
Sometimes he brings strange giftsâtokens you donât understand, bought in currencies youâre sure you never want to learn. Once or twice, he shows up with that white-haired menace in tow, loud and too tall for your doorway, trying too hard to be funny and laughing like he owns the air.
But most of the time, itâs just Suguru, and the rain.
He comes when he wants to, leaves without warning, watches you too long sometimes, like heâs memorizing the shape of your silence. Like thereâs something he wants from you but doesnât know how to hold without breaking. And still, he never says why he comes, and, still, you never ask him to stay.
But the space between those two thingsâwhat you donât say and what he wonât admitâis shrinking.
In the morning, you stirâbones stiff, muscles whispering their usual complaintsâand the city mutters back outside your window, indifferent. Your apartment is still, small, the kind of place that remembers everything youâve ever done in it, that won't let you forget.
You donât want to wake up, but your body doesnât care what you want. You shift, stretch, dreams still clinging to your lashes like cobwebsâand then you hear it: soft, wrong, from the kitchen.
And that easily, youâre no longer alone.
It only takes a breath for your nerves to remember themselves. You already know who it is. No need to ask.
The air has changed. Sweet, smoky, with something metallic curling at the edge; sharp, familiar, a memory you didn't have to invite back in. Heâs here, Suguru, and of course heâs made himself at home again, like this place was carved to fit him and not the other way around.
The clock says six. Early, but time doesnât mean anything to Suguru; he isnât ruled by it, doesnât bend to it. He arrives when he wants, leaves when heâs done, and youâyou just let him.
The floor is cold beneath your feet. Not just icyâartificial, indifferent, the kind of chill that comes from old synth-tiling, worn thin by time and use. In the corner, your heater clicks to life with a tired hum, flickers once, then settles into its usual half-hearted wheeze. Itâs trying, and failing, just like every other morning.
Suguruâs already steeped in the hush of the kitchen, the shadows wrapped around him like old friends. He doesnât turn, just moves, slow and precise and controlled, the way he always doesâtea, window, silenceâand your exhaustion finds you again, soft and sudden. You should be used to thisâused to himâbut surprise has a way of wearing new faces; even the expected can weigh heavy.
His voice cuts through the morning, low and smooth. âGood morning.â
You rub at your eyes, suddenly too aware of yourself. Of the old pajamas clinging to your skin, the sleep still dragging at your limbs, the way your hairâs decided it has a mind of its own. Bare, vulnerable things.
Your words are dry, meant to sound casual. âBack so soon?â
He glances back, just enough. Eyes finding you like they were made toâslow, deliberate, full of something unreadable that still manages to see too much. You catch the shape of his smile in them before it ever touches his mouth.
âDonât sound so disappointed.â
His ease scratches at something inside you. Not longing, not quite, something worse, maybe, that doesnât have a clean name. The kind that slips into your throat and settles there. Every time he comes like this, unannounced, unbothered, itâs like he leaves part of his shadow stitched into your space when he's gone.
You sigh, slow and shallow, trying to collect your thoughts before they show on your face. âNo Gojo this time?â
His name lands heavy in the room: Gojoânoisy, untouchable, always dragging storms in behind him. You already know the answer; if heâd come, it would have been obvious, because the walls would still be vibrating. Heâs never hidden the disgust in his mouth when he talks about this place, your dirty little corner of the star-system, as if it's a smudge on Suguruâs reputation. Shame and relief crawl into your chest together and sit there, when Suguru shakes his head.
âHe can handle things on his own every now and then.â A pause. A glance. âDonât tell me you miss him.â
Your laugh breaks out too fast, too sharp. Itâs loud and uglier than you want it to be, but real, the way everything Suguru drags out of you is.
He turns fully at the sound and steam curls from the mug in his hand, held like an offering. He doesnât speak, just smilesâthat Suguru smile. The kind that knows too much. The kind that doesnât need words to press against you. His presence settles like warmth between youâjust enough heat to stay. Just enough to forget it will burn when it leaves. You take the mug, fingers brushing his, barely, and he steps aside.
And then you see it.
A package on the counter no larger than your hand, plain brown paper folded with precision, sharp corners and clean edges and neatly tied with a band of thin copper wire.
You eye it warily. It looks expensive. More than thatâit looks deliberate. That kind of careâsmall, quiet, meticulousâis more him than any signature. You feel it in your chest before your brain can catch up. No one else wraps things like that. Not in this city. Not for you.
âWhat's this?â you ask, already knowing he wonât answer the question directly.
Suguru just slides it toward you quietly.
You pick it up slowly, running your fingers along the cool surface. The band slips off with a soft click, revealing beneath the paper a slim e-journalâcompact, beautifully made. The kind sold by back-alley specialists who donât advertise but somehow always have a waiting list. The kind youâve lingered near before, just to stare. A soft hum rises from it as the display lights up with a warm, golden pulse. Your name flickers in the top corner, small and elegant.
You blink. âThese arenât easy to get.â
Suguru doesnât respond right away. His eyes flick to yours, unreadable. âYou said your old one was glitching.â
You canât even remember when you said that. Weeks ago, maybe, in passing. You doubt you even meant for him to hear it.
Your chest tightens, that odd pull of gratitude and disbelief tangling behind your ribs. You press your thumb against the screen, watching it open to a clean interfaceâblank pages, empty folders, but one tab already labeled: Home.
"SuguruâŠ" you start, voice shaky, barely pushing past your throat.
He just tilts his head slightly, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. âDonât mention it.â
The journal hums gently in your hands, in response. Itâs light, sleek, and somehow heavier than it should be. A gift like that isnât about what it is, not with him, itâs about the way he remembers. The way heâs been gone for weeks, and yet, when he returns, he still knows exactly what you need.
You keep your eyes on the journal even after the screen fades to black, the glow slowly dimming beneath your fingertips. It feels like the only thing anchoring you, like if you let go too quickly, the quiet swell of feeling might show on your face.
Heâs here. He brought you something. He thought of you.
And you like the way that feels. You donât hate itânot at all. Youâre just shy about the way it wants to spill over. Youâre not sure what heâd do if it showed too obviously, but from the way heâs watching you, eyes half-lidded and amused, maybe he already knows.
You squish your lips together, trying to tide back your smile. âYou know, I was managing just fine with my ancient, barely-functioning piece of junk.â
Suguru hums, warm and buttery. âMm. I noticed.â
âI was!â
âYou say that, but I watched you slap the screen four times just to open the calendar.â
âIt still worked.â
He lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug, like the act of teasing you is something luxurious, a taste he wants to savor. âBarely.â
The air feels lighter already. Youâre still holding the journalâstill feeling the warmth of its casing, still tracing its smooth edge with your thumb like it might disappear if you let go.
You move to the kettle to keep yourself from lingering too long in your thoughts. The teaâs already ready, still warm in its ceramic pot. You pour him a cup without askingâitâs second nature by nowâand the motion steadies you.
When you pass it to him, your fingers brush again. This time, the contact lingers just a little longer than it should, and you pretend not to notice how your breath catches in your throat. You don't dare meet his eyes.
âThank you,â Suguru says, voice softer now. How many times will you have to say it back before you're even?
You nod once, keeping your arms folded loosely across your chest. âYou didnât have to bring anything, you know that, right?â
âI know.â He blows gently across the rim of the cup before adding, âbut I wanted to.â
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The steam from his tea curls upward, catching the low light spilling through the window behind him. His expression is unreadableâsomewhere between patient and quietly pleased. And it settles deeper than you expect it to.
âWell,â you say, small this time, âitâs nice. Youâve officially outdone yourself.â
Suguru leans beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he shifts. His presence is always heavy, but now it feels warm, grounding. âIâll try not to make a habit of it.â
You let out a breathy scoff. âLiar.â
His mouth curves, a small, knowing smile. âMaybe.â
The silence that follows stretchesânot tense this time, but gentle. Lived-in. The kind that doesnât demand anything from either of you. Just... a moment shared. A stillness made from something softer than what this world usually offers.
When you finally look over again, heâs already watching youâeyes dark, but not distant.
This time, you donât look away so quickly.
And for a second, everything feels suspended: his hand cradling the tea, the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the soft click of the journal as it powers down completely. The hush of the kitchen wraps around you like a secret, and you let yourself stay there just a little longer than you should.
THREE
Something eats away at him.
You donât notice it at firstâheâs always been distant, unreadable in ways that feel deliberateâbut something shifts. Subtle at first, then sharp as a crack beneath ice.
Whenever the mask slips, Suguru speaks in riddles. About rot. About weakness. About the way curses cling to people like smoke in their lungs. Suguru never says what he means outright, but you start to understand that what he hunts is no longer just out there: it's in him now, settling deep. Youâve always been afraid to ask where he goes, what he does in the stretch between his visitsâbut one day, something starts ticking inside you, soft and slow, like a countdown. And you know you have to ask, soon, before the poison spreads.
He comes in just after midnight; a whisper of the stairwell, the slow press of the door, the scent of cold air and blood and rain. The room bends with his presence, drawn to him like gravity to a star, but tonight he is no source of light. Now he swallows it whole.
For a long, terrible moment, he simply stands there, tall, broad-shouldered, soaked through the folds of his coat. Hair down, black and heavy, falling like a curtain, hiding more than it shows. You don't speak. You don't want to fill up any more of the space than you have to.
Suguru crosses the room like a man half-remembering the shape of it, as though heâs not really here, not yet. His eyes skim the walls, the ceiling, the half-empty cup on the counter like itâs all unfamiliar, like heâs unsure whether heâs still dreaming.
He finds the edge of your bedâan altar he has never bowed toâand sits slow, deliberate. The same way someone eases into the bath after a long battle.
The silence feels brittle, glass under pressure. His hands are braced on his knees, fingers twitching, opening and closing like heâs trying to hold something he canât quite name.
âDid you eat?â you ask, because you donât know what else to say.
His gaze flicks to you. Something unreadable in the dark plum of his eyes, bruised purple, shadowed and strange.
âNo,â he says. Then adds, almost like an afterthought: âI'm not hungry.â
You don't care if that's true or not. You have to do something with your hands, offer comfort made just for him, even if it's instant and simple and comes from a packetâbut before you can leave the room, he asks:
"Do you think people are born evil?"
Heâs not looking at you. Just at the floor, at the space between his boots, like the question fell out of him without permission.
âI donât know,â you say softly, and it's trueâyou don't.
You never had time to wonder about things like good and evil, never had the luxury. Your choices were simpler, narrower. How to keep the lights on. How to make enough for the next meal. How to stay whole in a place thatâs always trying to carve pieces from you.
But thisâthis is a crack in his armor, and through it you see the shape of his world. A world built on consequences, on lines drawn and crossed again. You wonder who youâd be if your life asked those kinds of questions, if every choice you made had to hold up under the weight of whether it was right or simply necessary.
Suguru looks upâand in that moment, heâs someone else. A snake in the grass, coiled so tight you hadnât noticed his presence until too late. He remains seated on the edge of the bed, and youâre still standing, but the distance between you feels like a black hole, sucking you in; it doesnât give you control, doesnât make you feel safe.
âWhat if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me?â
The question hangs in the air, sharp and unsettling. You donât like the way he asksâdonât like any part of it, truthfully, but this, especially, settles under your skin like a stain that wonât wash out. It makes you wonder if heâs lied to you. If heâs been playing you all along, smiling just long enough to hide the knife in his hand, to keep you from seeing the truth.
Suguru has always unnerved you, in ways you never quite could face. From when he stepped into your bar, drifting in from the dark street outside, bathed in the emergency lighting. Like a warning you were blind to.
Since he walked into your apartment tonight, his attention has been scattered, drifting through the room like smoke, but now itâs all on you. You thought you wanted it, thought you could handle it, but now, under the weight of his gaze, you feel like prey. His focus presses on you, slow and deliberate, until every breath feels too shallow. When he rises from the edge of your bed, you step back, head bumping into the wall of your cramped room. The space between you disappears with one swift motion, and suddenly, heâs right thereâclose, too close.
"Would you kill them if I told you to?"
The question hits you before youâve even had a chance to form an answer. You shake your head, words bubbling out in a rush, helpless. "I don't know."
"If I told you they were born wrong, would you kill them?"
You donât know. The answer drips out, thick and slow, but it's the truth. "I don't know."
"If I told you they were little demons, twisted and demented, brought nothing but death and ruinâwould you kill them? Even if they were young?"
You canât answer anymore. The question feels unceasing, endless, like itâs reaching beyond you. His eyes, once dark and intense, have gone emptyâhollow like a well. You donât know if heâs even still looking at you, if he sees you at all.
Then, you notice itâblood. Slowly seeping through the chest of his white shirt, dark and damp, spreading like ink across the fabric. The realization hits you harder than anything heâs said, because thereâs truth in it: something has collapsed inside him, something broken that you couldnât stop.
âYâyouâre bleeding.â The words sound too small, too stupid, leaving your mouth like an afterthought, but he's still so close, close enough that you could count the long, dark lashes of his closed eyes when he blinksâand something flickers across his face. A snap, and then everything cuts.
His expression barely changes from that haunted look, but his voice is steady when he says, âItâs nothing.â
âItâs not nothing.â The words leave you with more force than you expect, anger flickering beneath the surface of your worry. You latch onto it, grounding yourself with it, needing something to steady you against the unease crawling up your spine. âYouâre hurt and you didnât tell me.â
Suguru straightens, settling back onto his feet, back into his bones. It should be terrifying, how familiar he seems in that moment, how quickly he slips back into himself, but you're so desperate to get him away from that horror that you don't care.
His voice is sharper now, edged with something close to irritation. âWas I meant to?â
âYou couldâve said you were bleeding.â
âItâs not new.â
âItâs new to me.â
That stops him. The space between now and the last time you saw him flickers behind his eyesânot like before, not like a wound he couldnât name, but something else. A fact. A shared recognition: That was then. This is now. He is not whoever he was then. Not here. Not with you.
He closes his eyes, eventually. Breathes out a quiet sound, almost a hum. âIt is,â he says. âIâm sorry.â
But he doesnât step back. Doesnât give you the space to go. Thereâs no hand on your wrist, no body blocking your pathâbut you know, with a kind of terrible clarity, that you couldnât pull away from him right now, even if you tried.
It canât be life-threatening, you realize, now that your heart isnât pounding so loudly in your ears. Not a picked scab, but not a torn stitch either; the blood looks worse than it is, startling against the clean white of his shirt, thin and vibrant where it crosses in straight, resolute lines. In better lighting, you might have been able to see through the soaked fabric. Youâre not sure that would do either of you any good.
The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, something so profoundly unlike him it feels like a slip in character, and the pale glimpse of his collarbones is distracting, delicate in a way you hadn't expected. You shouldn't be looking, but it's hard not to. Enticing in a way that pulls gently at your attention, makes your breath catch for reasons you don't want to examine, not with him so close. You almost canât stop staring, canât help but wonder what else youâre missingâuntil the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely, but enough.
You clear your throat and press your spine against the wall, like it might make more space between you. It doesn't. "How recent is ânot newâ?â
âWeeks,â Suguru says, casuallyâso easily it startles you. Youâve never talked about his work before, and youâre still not, not really, but youâre closer now than youâve ever been, in too many ways. âIâm fine.â
âYouâre fine now,â you say, not quite believing it. His smile tightens, enough that it reaches the corners of his eyes, though you wouldn't call it warm.
And then his hand moves. Slow, deliberate, like heâs afraid of startling you. His fingers rise until they hover beside your face, and when they finally make contactâjust the backs of his knuckles brushing your cheekâitâs featherlight. Reverent. Itâs not possessive, not even asking; itâs a question in the shape of a touch, and somehow you already know the answer is yes. The air between you grows impossibly still, as if the world stopped turning just to see what you'll do next.
Your heart stumbles. Youâve never seen him like thisânot the version that walks in shadows, not the one who smiles like a bladeâbut something else. Something stripped down and aching. It terrifies you how badly you want him to stay.
His eyes donât leave yours. They could lie, but they donât. "Yes," he says, "I'm fine now."
FOUR
Not much time passes, surprisingly.
Days, maybe a week or two, though time stretches differently when you're waiting for somethingâor someoneâyouâre afraid wonât come back.
Outside, the neon gutters spit their color against the wet pavement. The air smells like ozone, like the skyâs about to split open again. Maybe it will. You wouldnât mind. Rain makes everything seem farther away. The night is nearly over; youâve wiped the counters twice, swept the floor even though no one spilled anything, stacked the chairs with a little more force than necessary. You move slower than you need to, hands lingering on small tasks just to stay busy, just to keep from looking at the door.
The place is quietâfinallyâand you welcome it.
Suguru left as he always has: without reason. Something has changed, yes, but still, he left you in the same shape he always doesâlike the world has flipped itself inside out. He never leaves without unmaking something. Every return, every departure, carves a new gap into you. They donât heal. You donât even notice theyâre there until you're trying to stand still and find you can'tâuntil gravity presses in wrong, sideways, like it's trying to fold you in half.
You've never seen him that way, so unraveled. It's been replaying in your head on repeat, unending: what if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me? Sometimes you think you shouldâve said yes. Not because you would believe it, but because maybeâjust maybeâhe wouldâve stayed, but that thought brushes up against something inside of you thatâs cold and rotten and not meant to be touched. It makes your stomach twist. You don't like who you are in that version of the story.
You tell yourself, maybe it's for the best that he's done, that he doesn't come backâbut the thought feels distant, like it doesn't belong to you. Like it doesn't belong to him, either.
You donât hear the door open, but you feel it, a shift in pressure, like the world exhaling. You turn just as he steps inside, though it's not quite the same as before; his hair is down again, though only half-way, not the wild ink-spill it was before, and his shoulders seem more relaxed, like heâs shed whatever that unseen weight was. Heâs not walking with that same tight, controlled confidence; this is different, lighter, somehow, but thereâs still something about him, something sharp behind the soft way he moves.
And he's not alone.
Two little girls are with him, though they haven't moved from the door, haven't commanded the space as he has. They're just watching. One of them has her arms crossed tight like a shield, the other clutches somethingâmaybe a toy, maybe a scrap of clothâpressed to her chest like it might anchor her. Both of their eyes seem too old for their small, round faces.
It's been playing in your head on repeat, unending: would you kill them? Even if they were young?
You stand there, unsure of what to say. The silence stretches, taut as a wire, until his voice cuts through it.
âItâs quiet tonight,â he says, lightly. Too lightly. Like heâs trying to smooth the air between you, pretend nothingâs changed. Maybe itâs for the girlsâ sake. Maybe itâs for yours.
You open your mouth. Close it again. A question rises and flattens against your tongue. You donât ask. He doesnât offer. But thatâs always been your dance, hasnât it? The space between whatâs said and whatâs not.
He follows your gaze, then crosses the bar to stand in front of you. In front of them. âIâm tired,â he says, quiet and sharp. âOf that world, of the filth it feeds on. Of fools who think hurting someone small makes them strong.â
That wordâsmallâlands like a dropped glass; the question you never asked answers itself, shattering quietly between you.
Suguru lifts his hand to your face, like he did the last timeâbut now the gesture is different. Looser. No tremble at the edges, no hesitation, as if heâs no longer afraid he might break whatever he touches.
His thumb grazes the arch of your brow, traces down to the soft skin beneath your eye. You thinkâmaybeâheâs counting your lashes.
âI want them to live in a world thatâs better than ours,â he murmurs, barely louder than a breath. âSafer.â
You've always thought Suguru was built from something other. Something finer, sharper, less breakable. A different species from whatever you are, clinging to the bottom rungs in your corner of the world, but now, up close, that divide feels thinner. Imagined.
You donât know where he came from, not really, but you know where he is now. Youâve seen the edges of it, the pieces he hasnât named and maybe never will, and theyâre ugly. Embedded like grit beneath his fingernails, worn into the quiet lines of his face. Ghosts clinging to the hem of his voice.
Youâre not the same. But thereâs something unkind that lives in you both. Something heavy, and tired, and human. Something he wants to cut outâfor their sake.
You glance back at the girls. Theyâre clinging to each other now, as if the world might fall out from under them at any moment, and the only thing they trust to hold is each other. Their small hands are tangled in fabric, sleeves bunched in fists, pressed so close they breathe as one. The sight turns something in your gutâsharp, instinctive, like a wire pulled too tight.
The thought that someone, anyone, had wanted to hurt themâhad triedâmakes your throat close. Your body moves before your mind does and you lean into Suguruâs touch. Maybe itâs deliberate, maybe itâs not, but his hand doesnât hesitate. His fingers drift into your hair, curling there like a root finding soil, like he belongs.
For a moment, neither of you speak. You donât have to. The quiet stretches, warm and fragile.
Then, softlyâbarely above a whisperâyou say, âI donât know where youâre going to find a place like that.â
Because you donât. Youâve lived your whole life in the dirt of this city, in the cracks of what people like to pretend is order. Youâve never been offworld, never even dreamed of it, but youâve heard enough to know thereâs no such place waiting out there, not one untouched, not one that wonât eat girls like those alive the moment you look away.
Suguru hums, low in his chest. The sound rumbles through his fingers where they rest against your scalp.
âIâm not going to find it,â he says, quiet but certain. âIâm going to make it.â
And when he says it, you believe him. Maybe not in the way of miracles, but in the way storms believe in rain. His hand lingers in your hair a moment longer, then slides down, slow, catching at your jaw, your cheek. He doesnât move away. You donât either.
Behind you, one of the girls makes a soft noise on the tile, barely a scuff of her feet, but it tethers everything back to the moment. The realness of it. This isnât a story. Itâs a turning point.
Suguru glances toward them, then back at you. You're not used to seeing him like this, less worn, less closed off. Like the jagged edge heâs always carried has been tucked away for a moment of stillness.
âIt's not going to be easy, and Iâll need someone who knows how to build things that last. Someone steady.â
Heâs not smiling, but his eyes hold the weight of something close to it. Hopeful, uncertain, wanting. A line cast into a dark sea.
You could laugh, if it didnât feel like your whole chest was shaking. Thereâs no question what he means. Not really.
The silence sits between you again, but itâs different nowâwaiting, watching. Becoming.
And when you speak, your voice is quiet, but it doesnât tremble. âSomeone like me,â you say.
Suguru's thumb brushes your cheek again, soft as a promise. âExactly like you.â
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