— the gardener, the brat, and the murder of the roses
feat. umemiya hajime
summary. you didn’t ask for much. just peace, a date that didn’t involve dirt, and maybe your boyfriend not co-gardening with a girl who thinks liking plants are a personality trait. instead, you got a rooftop garden, a jealous spiral, an emotional support driver on standby, and one (1) very patient boyfriend who had to learn that jealousy don’t mix well with spoiled brat.
triggers/warnings. this story contains heavy sarcasm, unfiltered cursing, emotional chaos disguised as romance, and one (1) spoiled princess with a god complex and a soft spot for her boyfriend. jealousy, brat behavior, and more verbal violence. expect a gentle boyfriend trying to survive a meltdown. light emotional manipulation via pout, clinginess used as a weapon, and an unapologetic amount of delusional affection. suggestive make-up kissing, ridiculous banter, and general proof that love sometimes looks like “i’ll forgive you but i’m still right.” proceed with caution if you’re allergic to spoiled behavior, sarcasm, or men who say sorry by pulling you close and ruining your lipstick.
it’s one of those afternoons where the sunlight feels too sharp for comfort, the kind that spills like liquid gold across the rooftop and makes the air hum with lazy warmth. from where you sit, the bofurin rooftop stretches wide and open—patches of green everywhere, umemiya’s small garden spread out like an organized chaos of soil bags, pots, and stubborn flowers trying to survive under his care. there’s a faint scent of mint and wet soil that mixes with the faint sweetness of whatever he planted last week, and you can hear the buzz of city noise far below—horns, chatter, wind tangling through metal fences.
you’re sitting on the long wooden bench tucked under the white canopy he set up just for you, because apparently, “my princess can’t melt under the sun like sugar.” the fabric flutters softly, shading you from the daylight, and the breeze moves enough to lift strands of your hair now and then. your legs are crossed neatly, one heel dangling lazily, tapping against the bench in quiet impatience. your outfit screams money even in a place that smells like dirt—you’re in a short cream sundress with thin straps, a delicate lace cardigan slipping off one shoulder, and your feet are wrapped in glossy designer sandals, the kind that cost more than half the plants in his garden combined. a tiny gold chain rests against your ankle, glinting every time you shift, the perfect little reminder that you don’t belong anywhere near mud.
and yet here you are, because your boyfriend—sweet, gentle, annoyingly persuasive umemiya hajime—had the nerve to text you this morning saying “come watch me garden, it’ll be fun.” which, apparently, translates to “sit here and slowly lose your mind while i roll around in dirt and pretend i’m not taunting you.”
he’s in front of you now, stretching his arms above his head while he adjusts the strap of his gardening overall, the kind made from some thick, plasticky fabric that looks half-functional and half-insane in this heat. he’s got gloves tucked between his teeth for a moment while he ties the straps, and you can see the smirk starting before he even opens his mouth.
“you look like you’re attending a funeral,” he says finally, voice dripping with amusement as he glances your way. “what’s with that face, baby? i said watch, not suffer.”
you narrow your eyes at him, resting your chin on your hand, elbow on the bench’s armrest. “you dragged me up here to sit in a literal dirt museum. what did you expect my face to look like, hajime? pure joy?”
he laughs, soft but loud enough to fill the quiet rooftop, that deep, warm sound that never fails to crawl under your skin and make you want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “come on, it’s not that bad. you’re just dramatic,” he teases, reaching for a watering can. “look at you, sitting there like royalty on her throne, glaring at the peasants.”
“if the shoe fits,” you mutter under your breath, crossing your legs tighter, one foot tapping impatiently again. “you should be thankful i even came. do you know how many people would kill for me to sit and watch them garden?”
he glances over his shoulder, half-grinning, eyes catching the sunlight just right. “oh yeah? who? your little fan club that couldn’t tell a rose from a weed?”
“don’t test me,” you warn, squinting at him through the lazy afternoon glare. “i could replace you in a heartbeat.”
“sure you could,” he says easily, turning back to the flowerbed, voice thick with sarcasm. “but would anyone else look this good in a pair of gloves while they’re elbow-deep in dirt? didn’t think so.”
you groan, flopping back against the bench. “god, you’re insufferable.”
he hums, not missing a beat. “and yet you’re still here.”
“barely.”
he chuckles again, shaking his head. “don’t act like you’re not enjoying watching me work. i can feel your eyes on me, sweetheart. or maybe you’re just mad you can’t touch me right now—don’t want to get your precious hands dirty, huh?”
you give him a flat look. “you’re disgusting.”
“mm, maybe,” he says, turning back toward you now, wiping his hands on the side of his overall and walking closer. “but i’m your disgusting boyfriend, remember?”
he stops in front of you, shadows from the canopy cutting sharp lines across his chest, and you tilt your head just slightly to avoid meeting his smug gaze. his hair’s tied back but a few strands have fallen into his face, and you hate how good he looks like that—half-sweaty, sunlit, with that grin that always promises trouble.
“you could’ve stayed inside,” he says softly this time, kneeling in front of you. “but you came up anyway. all dressed up just to complain.”
“you told me to come,” you hiss, tugging your dress lower out of habit, even though he’s already too busy staring at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
“yeah,” he murmurs, leaning his arm on your knee, resting his chin there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “and you listened. that’s what makes you so sweet sometimes. you act all spoiled but you still show up for me.”
you roll your eyes, but your throat tightens anyway. “don’t say that. it’s embarrassing.”
he grins again, eyes soft now, voice teasing but warm. “what, that i think you’re the best part of my day? yeah, real embarrassing.”
“you’re so full of yourself,” you mumble, trying not to smile.
“maybe,” he says, smirking, “but you love that about me.”
“no, i really don’t.”
“sure you don’t,” he whispers, and before you can respond, he leans forward, presses a kiss to your knee—quick, playful, and just annoying enough to make you shove at his shoulder.
“stop doing that,” you scold, your voice breaking halfway between anger and laughter.
“what? appreciating my spoiled little princess?”
“go plant your stupid flowers.”
he laughs again, rising slowly, stretching his back. “as you wish, your majesty.” then, just to be an ass, he winks. “try not to miss me too much while i’m over there.”
you throw your empty water bottle at him—it misses by inches—and he only laughs harder, voice echoing across the rooftop as he goes back to his plants, humming under his breath like you didn’t just threaten his life five seconds ago.
and somehow, despite everything—the sun, the dirt, the smell of earth, his constant teasing—you can’t help but watch him anyway. because there’s something about the way umemiya hajime moves when he’s happy, something about how every word he says drips with that mix of mischief and warmth, that makes the world feel less boring.
and maybe, just maybe, that’s why you’re still here.
you keep watching him, pretending not to, even though your eyes follow every damn move he makes. the way his shoulders flex when he bends over, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he looks down, that stupid little smirk that twitches on his lips every time he catches you staring—it’s infuriating. he knows exactly what he’s doing, and worse, he’s enjoying every second of it.
he glances up again, wipes sweat from his jaw with the back of his arm, and smirks like he can read your mind. you groan quietly, slumping into the bench, muttering just loud enough, “at least he could kiss me if he’s gonna act like this.”
his head tilts like he heard you, that slow, smug grin spreading across his face as he sets down the trowel. “what was that?”
you roll your eyes, refusing to repeat yourself. “nothing.”
he wipes his hands on his overall, walks closer—too close—and the sun catches the sweat on his collarbone, makes it worse, makes him worse. “didn’t sound like nothing,” he says, voice lazy, like he’s got all day to mess with you. “say it again, sweetheart.”
“i said—” you drag the words out, slow, deliberately testing him, “if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, the least you could do is kiss me.”
“that so?” he asks, amused.
“yeah,” you say, feigning boredom. “but don’t touch me with those filthy glove-ass hands. i don’t want gardening residue on my skin.”
he laughs, short and low, his head dropping for a second before he looks back up through his lashes, and you know that look—it’s trouble. “filthy glove-ass hands,” he repeats, mocking your tone. “you’re lucky i like the way your mouth runs.”
“you’re lucky i let you near me,” you shoot back, but the words start to melt halfway through because he’s already moving.
and then—like some dramatic movie scene he thinks he’s starring in—he hooks his thumb under the glove and pulls it off with his teeth, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on you. the plastic shifts with a soft crackle, and he spits it out onto the floor like he’s doing something holy instead of stupidly sexy. it’s the kind of move that should look ridiculous, but somehow, on him, it doesn’t. it’s unfair.
“happy now?” he says, voice all lazy drawl, stepping closer until his knees bump yours.
“barely,” you answer, trying to sound unimpressed even though your pulse betrays you.
he leans down, placing his hands on either side of you, gripping the bench, boxing you in without touching you. the wood creaks faintly under his weight, and he smells like sun and soil and a hint of mint from whatever he’s been planting. you tilt your head back to meet his eyes, pretending like he doesn’t make your breath stumble.
“you said i could kiss you,” he murmurs, the words brushing your cheek like static, “not touch. i remember.”
“good,” you whisper, fingers twitching against your lap. “follow directions for once.”
he hums low, that sound that sits somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “you always talk too much before a kiss.”
“then shut me up.”
his grin widens, but he doesn’t move—he waits, eyes heavy, teasing. you finally reach up, pinching his jaw between your fingers, not too hard, just enough to make him tilt his head toward you. he lets you guide him, lets you think you’re in control, and the way he hums under his breath tells you he’s enjoying every second of your bratty little display.
when his lips finally meet yours, it’s warm and slow, a drag of heat that builds too quickly. you pull at his jaw to keep him close, lips brushing and parting, tasting faintly of sunlight and salt and something unreasonably soft. he kisses like he talks—lazy, deliberate, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what buttons to push.
he doesn’t deepen it, though; he stays there, hovering, keeping that thin line of tension just to mess with you. his mouth moves against yours just enough to keep you wanting more, and when you try to tilt your head and chase him, he pulls back a breath, smiling against your lips.
“what happened to not touching?” he whispers, eyes half-lidded.
“this doesn’t count,” you murmur back, voice low.
“no?” he teases, brushing his lips against yours again, barely there. “then what does?”
you tug his jaw again, rougher this time. “shut up.”
he hums, biting back a laugh, and kisses you properly this time—slower, longer, until the world narrows to the sound of his quiet breathing and the faint creak of the bench beneath you. his breath hitches when you drag your nails down his neck, not enough to scratch, just to make him twitch.
“you’re impossible,” he mutters against your mouth, but the smile in his voice betrays him.
the kiss is still hanging there between your mouths, lazy and a little greedy, when the sharp metallic groan of the rooftop door cuts through the heat. it’s the kind of sound that makes your stomach drop—slow, dragging, impossible to ignore. you freeze first, lips still parted, breath still shallow. hajime groans like he’s the one being punished.
“no, no, no—don’t you dare—” he mutters against your lips, chasing you forward as you instinctively lean back, tilting your head to see who’s interrupting. except the movement just gives him a new target. the kiss lands hot against the side of your neck instead, his mouth pressing there once, twice, while he laughs softly through his nose.
“hajime,” you hiss, pushing at his chest. “someone’s coming.”
“yeah,” he hums, lips brushing your skin again, “me.”
you shove him harder this time, laughing despite yourself. “not funny, dumbass—your friends are here.”
he pulls back with a low groan, eyes rolling like the universe just personally wronged him. sure enough, when you look over his shoulder, the door swings open all the way, and a cluster of familiar chaos spills through.
“yo, hajime!” hiragi shouts first, way too loud for someone just entering. behind him, kaji waves lazily with a popsicle in his mouth, and tsubaki’s already half-carrying a bag of drinks like they’re invading the place. but it’s the unfamiliar girl beside them that makes you straighten a little, the one with perfectly brushed bangs and that cautious little squint when her gaze lands on you—on you and hajime, who’s still standing far too close.
he curses under his breath, quiet but sharp enough that you bite back a laugh. “perfect timing as always,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s been caught mid-crime.
“what?” you whisper, smirking. “didn’t plan on giving them a show?”
he glares down at you, half-embarrassed, half-annoyed, but mostly caught between wanting to kiss you again and not wanting to give his friends more material to torment him with later. “you think you’re so funny, huh?”
“i know i’m funny,” you say, tilting your head, voice dripping sweet and cruel. “but please, go greet your audience before they start clapping.”
he lets out a heavy sigh, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like i hate my life, and straightens up, stretching his back like this is all just an inconvenience.
you stay seated, watching as he turns around, shoulders squaring, voice slipping into that easy tone he uses with them. “you guys really don’t knock, huh?”
“knock? on a rooftop?” hiragi says, grinning. “bro, you were just making out under a canopy—what, you want a doorbell too?”
kaji laughs so hard he almost drops his popsicle. “look at him blushing. didn’t think i’d ever see the great umemiya hajime flustered.”
“shut up,” hajime mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “you guys can’t read a room for shit.”
tsubaki snickers. “we read it just fine. you’re the one who turned it into a romance novel.”
the girl—still silent—just smiles, small and polite, but her gaze flicks to you again, curious, a little sharp. you can already feel the judgment in her once-over, that quiet so that’s the girlfriend look, and something about it makes you want to smirk wider.
you cross one leg over the other, fixing your dress, calling out lazily, “if you’re gonna stare, at least say hi first. it’s rude to gawk.”
that earns a quiet snort from hajime, even though he’s trying to hide it. he glances back at you, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin. “behave,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.
“make me,” you whisper back.
he exhales sharply through his nose, mutters another curse you can’t catch, and turns back to his friends with a resigned smile that screams kill me now.
“guys, this is my girlfriend,” he says finally, and the way his voice softens on that last word doesn’t escape you. “she was just… keeping me company.”
“oh, we noticed,” tsubaki says with a smirk.
“you’re dead,” hajime says flatly, but his tone is too lazy to sound convincing.
you can’t help it—you laugh. soft, rich, bright, unbothered. the sound bounces across the rooftop, and hajime glances at you over his shoulder, shaking his head with that half-exasperated smile that never hides the fondness underneath.
you mouth the words you’re welcome, and he mouths back you’re impossible, which, of course, just makes your grin wider.
and when his friends finally turn away to start unpacking whatever they brought, he shoots you one last look—a warning, a promise, maybe both—before muttering quietly, “you and i are finishing that later.”
you hum, leaning back on the bench again, voice soft but laced with amusement. “oh, i know we will.”
you stand up, slow and lazy, like a cat stretching after a nap, the air warm and smelling faintly of soil and mint and him. your heels click against the rooftop tiles as you move closer, sliding your arm around his from behind, chin brushing the edge of his shoulder. he glances down immediately, that small flicker of surprise before the smirk catches up, his hand twitching like he wants to hold you but remembers you’re still surrounded by his friends.
you feel the shift in the air before you even look—the girl, standing a little apart from the others, her hand resting on her hip, her gaze not subtle in the slightest. there’s a glimmer in her eyes that feels too practiced, too deliberate, the kind of sparkle people wear when they think they’ve already been noticed. she’s watching him, not even pretending to look elsewhere, her stare sticky and sharp and sweet all at once.
you lean closer, lips barely grazing his shoulder, voice low enough that only he can hear. “who’s that?”
he hums, not even looking up. “that?” his tone is lazy, teasing. “that’s misaki. she hangs around sometimes. helps with the plants.”
you hum back, soft and unimpressed. “she looks like she’s about to help herself to your entire soul.”
he laughs quietly, tilting his head down toward you. “why, jealous?”
“of her?” you scoff, eyes narrowing as you watch misaki’s gaze trace the curve of his jaw. “please. i’ve met garden pests with more subtlety.”
he chuckles, low and warm, leaning a little into you like he can’t help it. “she’s just looking.”
“yeah,” you say dryly, “and i’m just thinking about taking her eyes out if she keeps doing it.”
he hums again, that amused, dangerous little sound he makes when you’re getting worked up for his entertainment. “mh. maybe she just can’t help it. maybe she thinks i’m pretty.”
“maybe she should start thinking from a safer distance,” you mutter, tightening your grip on his arm until he laughs under his breath.
“baby,” he says, that mock-warning tone, the one that usually means he’s about to kiss you into silence, “behave.”
you lift your chin, pouting but refusing to look at him. “you can’t tell me what to do.”
“sure i can,” he says softly, “i just don’t expect you to listen.”
you roll your eyes but the edge in you starts to crack, because that tone—lazy, fond, half-smiling—is the one that makes everything in your chest go stupid. “fine,” you mutter, quieter this time. “then give me a kiss and i’ll think about behaving.”
he doesn’t even hesitate. leans in, presses his lips against your forehead, warm and lingering. his breath fans against your skin and you almost forget the audience—until a shrill, high-pitched voice slices through the quiet like a paper cut.
“oh my god, look!” misaki chirps, voice bubbling with way too much excitement. “our plant’s blooming!”
the words hit you like cold water. you blink, tilt your head slightly, still resting against hajime’s shoulder. “your what?”
he stiffens for a second beside you, just enough for you to feel it.
you turn your head, watching her point eagerly at a small pot sitting on the far edge of the rooftop garden—a cluster of red roses, deep and glossy under the sunlight.
“what plant?” you ask, your tone light but your jaw tight enough to crack.
he opens his mouth, probably about to explain, probably about to say something harmless, but he doesn’t get the chance.
misaki beats him to it. “it’s the one we planted together!” she says, smiling too sweetly, her eyes flicking between you and him like she’s tossing bait into the air. “remember, hajime? i told you i wanted to see how red roses would grow here—and look, they actually did. our roses.”
she laughs, the sound airy and stupid and sharp all at once, and it lands somewhere ugly in your stomach. the way she says our isn’t just casual—it’s deliberate, pointed, smug, like a hand dragging down glass just to make you flinch.
you don’t blink, don’t move, just tilt your head a fraction and smile, sharp as broken crystal. hajime’s quiet beside you, shoulders tense, his jaw tight, and you can feel the shift in him—the low hum of frustration, the awareness of the storm about to form right next to him.
you keep your voice soft, almost sweet. “oh,” you say, staring at the roses like they’re something worth stepping on. “your plant, huh.”
she smiles wider, like she thinks she’s won something.
and hajime exhales slowly through his nose, his hand tightening once on your arm—gentle, grounding, warning.
you don’t look at him. not yet. you just watch her, eyes half-lidded, smile unchanging, while the air between all of you starts to hum with something dangerous. and you think, very quietly, this girl better hope those flowers are the only thing getting buried today.
it starts small, harmless, like a mosquito that won’t stop buzzing in your ear. first, it’s the rooftop again — her laughter floating in the background when you come to bring hajime coffee, the sound of her voice saying his name like she’s trying it on for size. she’s there, kneeling in the dirt next to him, pretending to listen while he talks about soil acidity or whatever plant bullshit he’s into that week. you try to stand there, smile polite, pretend you’re not plotting horticultural homicide in your head.
then it’s the café. your café. the one you told him was your spot, where the barista knows your name and he always sits across from you with his chin in his hand like he doesn’t see anyone else. except this time, she’s there too. standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder like she has the right, asking something about fertilizer ratios while you’re stirring your drink so hard the spoon almost snaps. she doesn’t even sit down, just exists too close, her perfume too floral, her voice too bright, and you want to pour your coffee on her goddamn shoes.
and it doesn’t stop there. somehow she’s everywhere—like she crawled out of the damn flowerpot and followed him home. when you meet him after class, she’s at the gate. when you pass by the park, she’s sitting on the bench next to him with a notebook open, pretending it’s about plants. once, when you went to grab ice cream, she waved from across the street like this is some kind of competition you didn’t sign up for.
every single time, she finds a way to talk about plants. the weather? plants. food? plants. love? fucking plants. it’s always the same, that high-pitched laugh and the way she pushes her hair behind her ear like she’s auditioning for the role of “background nuisance in someone else’s relationship.” and hajime, bless his dumb, gentle heart, doesn’t even notice the way she clings, doesn’t see the way she looks at him like she wants to bloom right there in his damn shadow.
you tell yourself it’s fine, you’re fine, until you’re not. until the next time you show up at the café and she’s already sitting at your table, her hands wrapped around his mug, nodding at whatever he’s saying about “root structure” like it’s poetry. and you stand there, staring at her, then at him, and the words come out before you even think.
“wow,” you say, voice sugarcoated and sharp. “didn’t know we were hosting a gardening seminar today.”
hajime looks up, startled for a second, then that lazy, infuriating smile creeps in. “hey, baby. you’re early.”
you slide into your seat across from him, not bothering to hide the glare you throw at the girl. “didn’t know you brought company.”
she laughs, that fake polite kind of laugh that makes your skin itch. “oh no, i was just asking hajime about pruning techniques—”
“yeah,” you interrupt, smiling with all teeth. “seems like you’ve been real interested in trimming lately.”
the silence stretches just long enough for hajime to sigh and say it, the way he always does when your tone gets sharp. “baby,” he murmurs, that warning laced with amusement, “behave.”
you turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes, voice flat. “i am behaving. this is my polite voice.”
he chuckles, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “uh-huh. and what happens when the polite voice goes away?”
“depends,” you say, stirring your drink again, metal clinking against glass. “how many limbs do you think she’d miss?”
“jesus,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s fighting a smile, eyes warm and stupid and amused. “you’re unbelievable.”
“and yet you’re still sitting here,” you hum.
he laughs quietly, shaking his head, then turns back to whatever pointless conversation the girl’s trying to resurrect. you zone out halfway through it, staring out the window, trying not to imagine every possible way to remove her from the narrative of your life.
by the time you’re walking back to the car, he reaches for your hand like everything’s normal, fingers brushing yours. you let him, but the irritation simmers under your skin, crawling up your throat.
“you didn’t tell her to back off,” you say finally, the words tasting bitter.
he sighs, looking down at you with that same gentle expression that makes you want to both kiss and strangle him. “she’s harmless. don’t waste your energy.”
“oh, i’m not wasting it,” you reply sweetly. “i’m saving it. for later. maybe when she tries to touch you again, i’ll show her just how harmless i can be.”
he laughs, a soft breath of disbelief. “you’ve got to stop threatening my friends.”
“she’s not your friend,” you mutter, but the rest gets swallowed by his low chuckle and the way his thumb strokes your hand absentmindedly, like he’s trying to calm you down without saying it out loud.
and somehow, that only makes it worse. because he’s still smiling. because she’s still everywhere. because no matter how hard you glare, she’s always there first—too sweet, too close, too damn loud.
and all you can think is how easy it would be to plant her right next to those stupid roses and see if she still smiles when you water her.
you watch the city roll past the car window, reflections sliding across the glass like water. the afternoon sun paints everything gold—terraces, storefronts, people moving too fast—and you sit in the backseat with your legs crossed, chin resting against your hand, pretending you’re not waiting for your phone to light up with a message from him. your driver doesn’t say much; he never does, just hums lowly to the sound of the traffic, and you appreciate the silence. it’s a soft kind of torture—the quiet before the storm, before the test of whether hajime umemiya actually keeps his promises.
he said he would. last night, when your voice was sharp and your patience had already started to crack, he reached across the couch, hand warm over your knee, and said, “i’ll stay away from her. i swear.” and maybe it wasn’t even the words—it was the look, the way his voice softened when you got quiet, the way he smiled like he still thought you were being dramatic but loved you for it anyway.
so now you’re here, in the backseat, hoping—no, praying—that you won’t see that girl’s face today. misaki. the name feels bitter in your mouth, like coffee that’s gone cold. one sight of her and you’ll probably walk right out, maybe throw a drink for good measure. but not before you look good doing it.
you’re wearing your favorite dress, the one that makes you feel like trouble wrapped in sweetness—a blue-and-white gingham print that hugs your waist and flares at your thighs, light enough to move when the breeze does. the neckline dips just enough, the sleeves puff slightly, the skirt short and unapologetic. your hair falls in soft curls that catch the sunlight when you tilt your head, and your shoes—bright, red, and shiny—match the lacquer on your nails. you don’t dress for him, not really, but you love how his eyes light up when he sees you. how he always leans back, looks you over like you’re the only thing worth staring at, and says something low and slow like, “you’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”
that’s what you want to hear today. that’s what you’ve been waiting for all morning.
the car slows as you pull up in front of pothos, the small corner café that smells like roasted espresso and lemon glaze. it’s warm inside when you step out, the little bell above the door chiming softly. the air smells like cinnamon and butter, and kotoha is there behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, her apron tied too tight, her smile genuine.
“oh my god,” she says as soon as she sees you. “you look so pretty today.”
you grin, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i know,” you reply, voice light, teasing. “but thank you for noticing.”
she laughs, rolling her eyes affectionately before going back to work.
you glance around, eyes sweeping the room—the cozy tables, the soft hum of conversation, the warm light spilling through the big windows. sakura’s at the bar with a few of hajime’s friends, loud and laughing, waving when they spot you. they know who you are, of course. everyone does. hajime’s spoiled princess, his temper in heels, his soft spot in a short skirt. it’s not an insult, not really—it’s just what they say when they think you can’t hear.
you nod at them, polite but detached, not stopping as you move deeper into the café. the world narrows to the back booth, the one tucked beneath the big hanging plant that hajime likes because he says it makes the sunlight softer.
and there he is.
hajime sits with his back to the window, one arm resting across the booth, his hair slightly messy, his sleeves rolled up. you almost smile when you see him—almost—until your eyes shift to the other side of the table.
misaki.
of course. fucking misaki.
sitting across from him like she belongs there, hands folded neatly over the table, that same too-sweet smile plastered across her face. she’s leaning forward just slightly, the sunlight catching the gloss on her lips, her eyes soft and full of something that makes your stomach twist.
for a second, everything goes still. you don’t even blink. just stare, expression calm, too calm, like the kind of silence that comes before a storm shatters the sky. your heels click against the floor as you take another step forward, the sound cutting through the air sharper than the hum of conversation around you.
and hajime—poor, dumb, beautiful hajime—looks up just then, eyes catching yours, and his smile falters for half a heartbeat.
and that’s when you think—yeah, someone’s going to bleed for this.
you can feel the tension long before you reach the table — the kind that makes your pulse slow instead of quicken, that eerie calm that comes right before you start smiling like someone about to commit a small, beautiful crime. your shoes echo against the floor, the soft thud of each step deliberate, measured, and you hold your bag in one hand like a weapon, your phone in the other, grip tight enough to crack the case.
misaki looks up when you’re close enough to see her expression shift — that polite mask slipping for a split second before she pastes on something almost human. her smile twitches, her jaw stiffens, and her eyes flick from your face to your legs to your neckline and back again, calculating. you can see it, that urge she’s fighting not to roll her eyes, not to look away, and it makes your own smile sharpen like glass.
and then there’s hajime.
he look at you like the sun just clocked in for overtime, grin stretching wide, the corners of his eyes creasing, the kind of smile that makes everyone else in the room fade out. you catch the way his gaze slides sideways for a second — to misaki — just long enough to make a silent point before coming back to you.
“you look so pretty,” he says, voice low, full of warmth, the kind that slips under your skin before you can stop it.
you blink at him, that half-smile never leaving your lips. “do i?”
“yeah,” he murmurs, hand already finding your waist like it’s instinct. he tugs you closer, guiding you down beside him with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before, his thumb brushing slow circles against your hip.
you murmur a small thank you, tone sweet but your eyes never leave misaki. she’s sitting stiff now, back straight, her bitter smile doing a bad job of hiding the jealousy that’s practically humming in the air. hajime leans in, presses a soft kiss against your cheek, and the sound — that quiet, affectionate little moment — feels louder than the espresso machine, than the chatter, than anything else around you.
you tilt your head slightly, still holding her gaze, smiling like you’re both in on a joke she doesn’t understand.
“you look… nice,” misaki says suddenly, her voice dipped in sugar, sarcasm leaking through like poison. “but don’t you think that dress is a little too revealing? i mean—” she glances at hajime, all faux innocence and fluttering lashes, “if i had a boyfriend like him, i’d never wear something like that. i wouldn’t want to disrespect him by dressing for anyone else’s eyes.”
there it is. pick-me poetry.
you can hear your own blood thrum in your ears, the way your smile doesn’t falter but your grip on hajime’s arm tightens. he glances down at your dress — slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of the fabric like he’s cataloguing every reason he disagrees — before looking back at misaki.
“nah,” he says simply, shaking his head once, that lazy grin sliding back into place. “she can wear whatever she wants.”
misaki blinks, like she didn’t expect him to answer at all. “but—”
he cuts her off with a shrug, still smiling. “it doesn’t matter. she’s not dressing for anyone else. i know that. she likes looking good. i like seeing her happy. that’s it.”
and then his tone dips, casual but with that rough edge of finality. “besides, if someone ever got stupid enough to think they could say something about it, they’d figure out real quick who they’re dealing with.”
you hum low in your throat, turning your head slightly toward him, voice just above a whisper. “you’re so romantic when you’re threatening people,” you tease, lips curling.
he chuckles, leaning closer until your shoulder brushes his chest, his breath warm against your temple. “you like that, huh?”
“mm.” you hum again, eyes cutting back to misaki, who’s staring at you both like she just swallowed glass. “lucky for you,” you say softly, a wicked tilt to your mouth, “you’re not his girlfriend.”
her expression twitches, that polite smile cracking for half a heartbeat.
you rest your chin against hajime’s shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns along the inside of his wrist. “see, the thing is,” you continue, tone syrupy, cruel in the prettiest way, “he actually likes it when i look this good. can’t stop touching me when i do.”
hajime lets out a quiet laugh, low and breathy, his thumb slipping under the hem of your dress just slightly — not enough to be scandalous, but enough to make a point. “don’t start,” he murmurs, voice quiet enough for only you to hear.
“what?” you whisper back, grinning. “i’m just helping her understand the curriculum. she clearly didn’t do her homework.”
misaki exhales through her nose, eyes narrowing just slightly before she pastes her smile back on, all polite poison. the air between you three stretches thin, sharp, almost fragile.
you just lean in closer to hajime, your perfume mixing with the scent of coffee and tension, your voice a lazy drawl against his ear. “see?” you murmur, just loud enough. “i told you she’d still be around.”
he sighs, half amused, half resigned, and presses another kiss to your cheek. “yeah,” he says softly, “but now she knows where she stands.”
and you smile, small and slow and devastating, because he’s right — she does.
misaki doesn’t know when to quit — or maybe she does and just enjoys testing the limits of your patience, poking around to see how far she can stretch before you bite. she tilts her head when she speaks, voice all honeyed sugar, the kind that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you want to scrub it off.
“you know,” she starts, pretending it’s casual, eyes flicking to the edge of your dress again, “with the way you dress, you probably don’t like to get dirty, huh?”
the words come out soft, almost playful, but you can hear the undertone, the spoiled little princess echo that hides underneath. she keeps going before you can even respond, smiling so sweetly it hurts. “i mean, i get it—clothes like that must cost, what, hundreds? thousands? they don’t really belong anywhere near mud.”
you can feel your jaw tense, but your smile stays, slow and deliberate. you glance at hajime, who’s sipping his drink, watching the exchange with the look of a man who’s both entertained and deeply aware that he might need to stop you before you start a fire.
“you’re probably right,” you say finally, tone bright enough to be dangerous. “they don’t belong near mud. or weeds.”
her smile falters for half a second, but she catches it, leaning forward with mock sympathy. “that’s what i thought. i just find it a little sad, you know?” she says softly, voice laced with fake pity. “that hajime has to do all that work himself. must be tiring. it’d be nice for him to have his girlfriend—” she drags out the word, lets it hang there, heavy and possessive, “—help him sometimes. gardening together sounds kind of romantic, don’t you think?”
hajime’s hand twitches under the table, probably because he can already feel the murder rising off you in slow, steady waves.
misaki isn’t done, of course. she smiles, all gentle and pure and nauseating. “but don’t worry,” she adds, her tone the perfect imitation of care. “you don’t have to stress yourself about it. i’m always there, so i can help him. really, it’s no trouble at all. you don’t even need to come to bofurin anymore. i’ll be there for him.”
it’s the for him that does it. the way she says it like it’s a promise, like it’s a shared secret you’re intruding on. she’s smiling like she’s already won, like this is her territory now, and it’s so infuriating you can practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.
you inhale slowly, turn your head toward hajime with the calm of a woman one wrong word away from an arrest record. “you hearing this?”
he hums, noncommittal, hand slipping a little higher on your thigh under the table — a silent warning, or maybe a prayer.
you tilt your chin toward misaki, the edges of your lips curling. “that’s sweet,” you say, the sarcasm so smooth it sounds almost sincere. “but i’m a little too pretty for that kind of thing. dirt doesn’t really go with my skin tone.”
she blinks, confused, and you continue, your voice low and syrupy. “i like looking good for my boyfriend. spotless. perfect. he likes when i do too. right, hajime?”
he lets out a quiet breath of laughter, squeezing your leg gently. “yeah,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between you both. “i do.”
“see?” you say, smiling wider. “i’m not built for shovels and dirt and… bugs. i’d rather make sure i look like this every time he looks at me.”
misaki’s smile is starting to crack now, but she still tries to hold on, her tone softening again, fake and trembling. “i guess not everyone’s like that,” she says. “some of us just don’t mind getting our hands dirty. it’s about… effort, i think.”
you tilt your head, grin sharpening. “oh, i don’t mind effort. i just put mine into things that actually get results. you wouldn’t understand, though.”
she frowns, a tiny twitch, and you lean in closer, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping just enough. “you don’t have a boyfriend, right? that’s why you don’t get it. it’s a different kind of work, keeping someone’s attention.”
her mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. hajime’s quiet laugh slips between the tension, low and husky, his fingers tracing slow circles against your thigh like he’s both calming you and holding himself back from clapping.
“behave,” he whispers against your ear, and you hum softly, smiling at him without breaking eye contact with her.
“i am behaving,” you murmur. “just letting her know the dress code for my relationship doesn’t include mud.”
she exhales through her nose, and for the first time, her smile doesn’t return. you can see it—the faint flicker of irritation, the moment she realizes she lost the rhythm of her own game.
you lean back against hajime, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder, your expression the picture of satisfied calm. “see?” you say sweetly, voice dripping in victory. “everything’s easier when people know their place.”
and hajime, ever the patient, lovestruck fool, just laughs quietly into your hair. “you’re gonna get us banned from this café one day,” he mutters.
you grin. “worth it.”
misaki looks at you like you’ve just thrown a glass of wine in her face. her smile collapses into disbelief, eyes darting between you and hajime as if she’s waiting for someone to back her up, to rescue her from the humiliation you’ve just gift-wrapped and handed over with a bow. when no one speaks, she laughs once under her breath, sharp and hollow. then she turns her attention fully to him.
“hajime,” she says, voice all brittle sugar, “you’re seriously going to let her talk to me like that?”
he blinks, frowning slightly, genuinely confused. “like what?”
“disrespectfully!” she snaps, sitting up straighter, eyes wide. “she’s been rude this entire time and you just sit there like—like it’s okay!”
you raise an eyebrow, leaning back against him like the show’s gotten good. his arm stays around you automatically, his hand resting warm at your hip, while you watch her unravel piece by piece.
“disrespect?” you echo softly, smiling just enough to sting. “that’s a big word for someone who told me i’m not girlfriend material five minutes ago.”
she glares at you, breath catching. “see? that’s what i mean. you twist everything. i was just being honest. you can’t even take a little advice without acting superior.”
“oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you say, voice calm, almost sweet. “i don’t act.”
hajime sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s been dropped in the middle of a storm he didn’t see coming. “misaki,” he starts, gentle, trying to smooth it out, “come on, you kind of started—”
she cuts him off before he can even finish. “i didn’t start anything! i was being nice. i was trying to have a conversation and she—” she gestures at you, voice rising—“she keeps insulting me, mocking me, twisting everything i say like i’m the problem!”
you tilt your head, resting it against hajime’s shoulder, watching her spiral. she’s not yelling yet, but her tone’s slipping—too high, too shaky, the sound of someone who knows she’s losing ground but can’t stop digging.
“you are the problem,” you murmur, but you don’t say it loudly. it’s soft, almost a purr, and it makes her freeze.
“what did you just—”
“misaki,” hajime tries again, quieter this time, glancing around because now a few of his friends at the bar have started to notice the shift in tone, the way the air’s getting thick. “hey, relax. look, i get you didn’t mean anything, but she’s—”
“stop defending her!” misaki snaps, the words hitting harder than she probably meant them to. she pushes her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, eyes glassy with anger. “you always do this—she says whatever she wants, and you just laugh like she’s some kind of joke. she’s mean, hajime. she’s—”
he leans back, posture still calm but his expression tightening. “she’s my girlfriend,” he says simply. “what did you expect me to do?”
she falters. for a moment, the silence stretches. you can see the exact second she realizes there’s no saving this, that the conversation’s already over. her lips tremble with another retort that never comes out, her pride forcing it back down.
and then she laughs again—loud, awkward, brittle. “fine,” she says, voice cracking just slightly at the edge. “whatever. i hope you two are happy together.”
and with that, she grabs her bag, turns sharply, and storms out of the café, the door swinging hard enough behind her that the bell jangles out of tune.
you watch her go, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, and hajime just sits there beside you, hand still on your thigh, staring after her like he’s watching the last petal fall off a dying flower.
you watch the door swing shut behind her, the bell still jangling out of rhythm, and you can’t help it—your mouth moves before your brain does. “god, she walks like a toddler who just got told santa isn’t real,” you mutter, leaning back in your seat, swirling your drink lazily like you didn’t just watch a girl’s ego disintegrate in front of an audience. “if she tripped on the way out, i’d call that divine justice.”
hajime lets out a soft sound beside you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and when he says your name—baby—it’s low and warm, but threaded through with that gentle warning you know too well.
you turn to him, frown tugging at your lips. “what?”
he’s looking at you, shoulders still relaxed but eyes soft, a kind of calm you find both grounding and infuriating. he exhales, long and quiet, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand before speaking. “don’t do that.”
“don’t do what?” you snap, more defensive than you meant to.
he leans back, expression patient, too patient. “that thing where you start tearing people apart when you’re mad. i get it, she pissed you off, but—”
“but what?” you interrupt, voice sharp enough to slice the air. “she started it. i didn’t even do anything until she decided to play saint mary of the mud pit. if anyone should’ve been told to shut the fuck up, it’s her, not me.”
he doesn’t raise his voice—he never does—but his hand catches yours mid-gesture, fingers wrapping around your wrist in that steady, grounding way that makes your heartbeat skip. “i know,” he says, quietly, like he’s been waiting for you to stop fighting long enough to listen. “i know she did. but sometimes you can be mean, baby.”
you freeze for a second, the word mean hanging in the air, heavy and dangerous. he must see the spark flicker behind your eyes because he adds quickly, “which i like, don’t get me wrong. i love that about you. i love that you don’t take anyone’s shit. it’s one of the reasons i—” he stops, half-smiling, thumb brushing slow circles on your knuckles. “i just wish you’d try a little harder with my friends. that’s all.”
you stare at him, incredulous, before scoffing and yanking your hand out of his grip. “wow,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “unbelievable.”
he blinks, confused but still calm. “what?”
“i do get along with your friends,” you shoot back. “i’m nice to hiragi. i laugh at tsubaki’s stupid jokes. i even let him call me princess without throwing my drink at him. i get along great with kotoha, too, by the way—maybe because she doesn’t try to fuck you over a flowerpot.”
hajime’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile, which only makes you more annoyed. he opens his mouth, probably to say something level-headed, but you cut him off before he gets the chance.
“are you seriously blaming me right now?” you ask, voice dropping low, sharp enough to draw blood.
his brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that angle. “no, i’m not blaming—”
“because it sounds like it,” you say, tone flattening. “it sounds like you’re saying it’s my fault she lost her mind, that i should’ve been nice while she was sitting there basically volunteering to be your emotional support gardener.”
he groans quietly, running a hand through his hair, the gesture slow and tired. “that’s not what i said.”
“then what are you saying?” you demand, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “that i should’ve smiled and held her hand while she told me she’ll take my place? you wanted me to what—thank her for her fucking charity?”
his eyes soften again, that gentle patience you both hate and love returning. “no,” he says, voice low. “i wanted you to not let her get to you.”
you snort, looking away, your reflection catching faintly in the café window. “too late for that.”
he hums quietly, and even though he doesn’t reach for you this time, you can feel his gaze lingering, the air between you stretching thin—frustration, affection, and something you can’t quite name humming underneath.
you cross one leg over the other, arms still folded tight, pretending you don’t care, pretending you’re not waiting for him to say something that’ll make you soften.
but he doesn’t. not yet. he just watches you, eyes calm, lips curved in that small, maddening smile that always makes you want to kiss him and punch him at the same time.
you look away, staring hard at the window like it did something wrong. the reflection of your face blurs in the glass — angry, tight, too quiet. your chest feels like it’s caving in, the kind of ache that’s more fury than sadness but still burns the same. your jaw tightens, lips pressing together, and you bite down on the inside of your cheek just to keep it from trembling. you can feel the heat pooling in your throat, that humiliating sting behind your eyes, the kind you’d rather choke on than let fall in front of him.
you hate it. hate that he gets to sit there so calm, like he’s the reasonable one, while you’re trying to swallow every ounce of frustration that’s clawing up your ribs. he’s been letting that girl flutter around him like some fucking stray cat for weeks, smiling through it, saying “she’s harmless.” harmless. sure. until now she’s made you look like the jealous one, and somehow, somehow, you’re the problem.
your arms stay crossed tight, so tight your nails dig half-moons into your skin. the air between you is heavy, the silence thick enough to taste. hajime shifts beside you — you can feel the movement, that careful lean forward, the way his shoulder brushes yours, cautious.
“hey,” he says softly, and it sounds too gentle, too forgiving for the mood you’re in. you don’t move, don’t look at him, eyes locked on the glass. “baby, look at me.”
you don’t.
“come on,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your wrist, testing. “don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean to make you feel like i was blaming you.”
you scoff quietly, the sound sharp and bitter. “yeah, sure you didn’t.”
he sighs, trying again, his hand moving to uncross your arms, his touch slow, coaxing. “hey, stop. don’t shut down, okay? we’ve got the whole afternoon—remember the date? you’ve been talking about that damn reservation since yesterday.”
you yank your arm out of his reach, turning your head away, refusing to meet his eyes. “yeah, well,” you mutter, voice low but laced with venom, “i don’t really feel like playing happy couple after you just fucking blamed me.”
his head snaps up slightly at that, eyes narrowing in disbelief, but his voice stays low. “i didn’t blame you.”
you laugh once, sharp and humorless. “you basically did.”
“no, i didn’t.”
“you did.”
he groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose, frustration bleeding through his calm tone for the first time. “you’re twisting it.”
“am i?” you shoot back, finally looking at him, eyes burning. “because it sounded a hell of a lot like you telling me i’m the problem. like i’m supposed to just let her run her mouth and behave while she calls me spoiled to my face.”
he opens his mouth to argue, but the words die on his tongue when he sees your eyes glisten. his expression softens instantly, like watching glass crack. “hey,” he says again, quieter now, voice almost tender. “don’t cry. please.”
“i’m not crying,” you bite out, even though your throat betrays you, voice warbling just slightly. you turn your head again, blinking fast, furious at yourself for even letting the tears threaten to fall. “i’m just… so fucking mad right now.”
he exhales, slow, deliberate, leaning closer until his shoulder presses into yours, his hand hovering near your knee but not daring to touch again. “i know,” he says softly. “i know you are.”
you shake your head, jaw tight. “no, you don’t. because you’re sitting here all calm and reasonable like it’s not a big deal, like i’m overreacting. but she’s been hanging all over you for weeks, hajime. and you’ve just been letting her.”
he looks down, jaw ticking, but doesn’t interrupt. you push on, the words tumbling out, hot and bitter. “and now she finally gets what’s coming, and somehow, somehow, i’m the one who needs to behave? unbelievable.”
his hand moves again, reaching for yours, but you pull back before he can touch you, crossing your arms tighter, legs turning toward the aisle. the motion is stubborn, childish, maybe even cruel, but you don’t care.
he sighs again, that long, weary kind of sigh that says he’s trying to pick his words carefully. “i didn’t blame you,” he repeats, slower this time, his tone softer. “i just… wanted to calm things down.”
you don’t respond, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the window again. outside, people move in and out of the café, laughing, holding hands, their lives simple and oblivious. you sit there in silence, the ache in your chest tightening with every second, your anger too raw to hide and too tangled to untangle.
you can feel him watching you, though. his gaze heavy, patient, worried. and you hate that, too — the way he still looks at you like he loves you through all the mess, like your anger is just another thing he wants to take care of.
you don’t even bother wiping your tears — they slip down your cheek slow and angry, hot with humiliation, and the worst part is that he still looks soft. he still looks calm. like you aren’t seconds away from burning the café to the ground. you can’t stand that gentle tone, the way he’s trying to fix it with warmth, as if warmth will make you forget how small you felt two minutes ago.
“i want to go home,” you mutter, voice cracking halfway through, sharp but trembling, the kind of voice that comes from holding too much in for too long. you reach for your bag, your phone, your composure that’s hanging on by a damn thread. “you can go on your little date with fucking misaki. i’m done.”
“hey—hey, baby, no,” hajime says immediately, his voice panicked now, eyes wide as he leans closer. “don’t say that, please. come on, don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean it that way.”
you ignore him, unlocking your phone, scrolling through your recent calls, your tears dripping onto the screen and smudging your mascara. you sniff, wipe at your face with the back of your hand, and press the call button before he can reach you.
“you don’t have to call your driver,” he says quickly, trying to sound soothing but failing miserably. “i’ll take you home myself, okay? just put the phone down.”
you shake your head, refusing to even look at him, the phone pressed to your ear, telling your driver to pick you up. “no. you can take misaki home,” you bite out after, hiccuping mid-word, the sound making you even angrier. “go drop her off, give her a flower crown, plant your fucking feelings next to your little rose bush and watch them wilt together.”
he blinks, startled, almost choking on his own breath. “what—what the hell does that even mean?”
“it means you can go play gardener barbie with your emotional support earthworm, hajime!” you snap, sniffling hard, your voice breaking into something half-hysterical and half-furious. “you two can water your trauma and compost your self-awareness for all i care. maybe you’ll grow a backbone next season.”
“jesus, baby—” he starts, but you keep going, eyes glassy and wild.
“no, i’m serious! go teach her how to hold a shovel properly, maybe she’ll finally dig herself a personality. you guys can post about it too—#couplegoals, #rootboundidiots, #photosynthesisandchill.”
he groans quietly, running both hands through his hair, clearly torn between laughing and throwing himself off the booth. “you’re insane.”
“good,” you hiss, still hiccuping, wiping your nose with a napkin like your anger’s leaking out of every pore. “then maybe i’ll finally be immune to watching you play horticultural therapist for every girl with a trowel fetish.”
“what the fuck is a trowel fetish—”
“look it up!” you snap, voice too loud, your pout deepening until it hurts. you sound like you’re scolding him and begging him all at once, and it drives you even crazier.
he reached forward, trying to grab your wrist, trying to ground you again, but you pull away sharply, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. “don’t touch me,” you warn, voice shaking. “go touch your plants. or her. or whatever living organism wants your attention today.”
he exhales, long and low, dragging a hand down his face, and when he looks at you again, it’s that same damn softness that makes you want to scream. “i’m not taking misaki anywhere,” he says firmly, trying to meet your eyes. “i’m taking you home.”
you glare at him through your tears, the kind that don’t fall gracefully but roll down hot and angry, pooling at your chin. “bullshit,” you sniff, snatching a tissue. “you’ll probably drive her to bofurin after i’m gone and plant matching sunflowers or something, then she’ll post about it with some stupid caption like ‘growth is beautiful’ and you’ll fucking like it.”
he presses his lips together, shoulders shaking slightly like he’s biting back a laugh, and it only makes your chest burn hotter.
“don’t laugh at me,” you warn, voice wobbling.
“i’m not,” he says quickly, even though he is, his thumb rubbing at his temple, his tone patient and tired but fond in that way that makes you hate him more. “you’re mad, i get it. but you know i’d never pick her over you.”
you scoff, wiping your face again, pouting so hard it aches. “you shouldn’t even have to think about picking, hajime. you should’ve uprooted that bitch the second she started growing near you.”
he blinks, then lets out a soft, helpless laugh, the kind that makes your lip tremble all over again. “baby,” he says quietly, reaching for you again even though you’re still trying to call your driver, “you’re the only person i’d ever want to plant anything with.”
“stop being cute,” you mutter, voice small, angry, hiccuping, as you jab at your phone screen again, refusing to look at him. “i hate you.”
“you don’t,” he says softly.
and that only makes the next hiccup come out louder, meaner, messier, because goddammit, he’s right — and that’s what hurts the most.
he keeps talking — god, he won’t shut up — and every word feels like sandpaper dragging across a bruise. you’re staring down at your lap, nails digging into your palm, phone still in your grip, and hajime’s sitting there beside you looking like a man drowning in guilt and desperation.
“baby, please, listen,” he murmurs, voice low and soft and frantic at the edges. “i’m sorry, okay? i’m a fucking idiot. i didn’t mean to upset you, i swear. i was trying to make it better, not worse.”
you don’t move, don’t even blink. you’re done. the silence between you is sharp and heavy, like it could slice through skin.
he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands falling into his face. “look at me,” he says, gently tugging your chin, but you turn your head, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the café window instead.
“i fucked up, okay?” he mutters, voice thick with regret now. “i didn’t think before i spoke. i said something stupid, and now my gorgeous girlfriend’s crying on the day we were supposed to have our date.”
you let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter, your lips trembling from how hard you’re biting them. “oh, you think?” you hiss, your voice tight, dripping sarcasm. “wow, someone give you a phd in emotional awareness.”
“baby—”
“don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snap, cutting him off. “you’re lucky i’m not throwing this drink in your face. i’ve seen dogs handle loyalty better than you today.”
he flinches slightly, breath catching, but still doesn’t stop. “you’re right,” he murmurs, still trying to reach for you, still gentle like an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit. “you’re right, i was a dumbass. i’m sorry. please, don’t cry anymore, okay? you’re too pretty for that.”
“oh, fuck off with that line,” you spit, still not looking at him. “if i had a dollar for every time you used ‘you’re too pretty for that,’ i’d buy a better boyfriend.”
his lips twitch — maybe in pain, maybe amusement — you don’t care. you’re done pretending you’re fine. you hear him sigh again, long and ragged, his thumb brushing a tear off your cheek before you slap his hand away.
“stop touching me,” you mutter.
he does, finally. he leans back, defeated but still watching you, his knee bouncing restlessly under the table.
“i just—fuck, i hate this,” he mumbles. “i hate making you cry. i hate that you’re mad at me. it’s the fucking worst feeling in the world.”
“good,” you snap, wiping another tear away. “maybe next time you’ll think before you decide to be a spineless, clueless, misaki-apologist piece of shit.”
his mouth opens like he wants to argue, but your driver appears outside the glass door before he gets the chance. hajime spots him first, his head jerking up in relief like he’s been waiting for divine intervention.
“wait, no—don’t go yet,” he says quickly when you stand, reaching for you again. but you’re already grabbing your bag, shoulders squared, expression cold enough to frost glass.
you don’t even look at him when you walk past. he rushes up anyway, long legs closing the distance easily. he gets to the café door before you do and pulls it open, stepping aside.
“baby, come on,” he murmurs, his voice breaking just a little. “don’t do this. not over this.”
you walk out without a glance, heels clicking against the pavement, the weight of your anger holding your chin higher. hajime follows, trailing a few steps behind, still muttering apologies under his breath like a prayer.
“i’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “i’m sorry, i’m a fucking idiot, i know i am. i didn’t mean to make you feel like shit. please—hey, stop walking so fast—”
you stop right by the car, turning to him with a glare sharp enough to gut a god. “don’t fucking please me,” you hiss, your voice trembling with the effort of holding back another wave of tears. “you can take that tone and use it on your little gardening partner, maybe it’ll make the weeds grow faster.”
his shoulders sag, his breath shaking, but he still steps forward, reaching out like he’s going to hold the door for you.
“i’ll take you home,” he says, softer now, almost pleading.
you laugh—dry, cruel, beautiful in that venomous way. “no thanks,” you say, snatching the door handle before your driver can even move. “you can take misaki’s ass home. maybe you two can plant a fucking family tree while you’re at it, carve your initials in the trunk and die under it together like the two dirt-souled lovebirds you are.”
he winces, opening his mouth to say something, but you’re already ducking into the car, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “hell, maybe you can name your kids after fertilizer brands. that way, every time someone says ‘shit,’ you’ll think of her.”
“baby, stop—”
“don’t call me baby,” you snap one last time, your voice thick and trembling and furious, “you don’t get to call me that after defending that potted-plant enthusiast.”
he grips the top of the door, knuckles white, his other hand reaching for you again like he can still fix it. “please,” he whispers, but you won’t look at him.
you sniff hard, shaking your head, and mumble, “go water your conscience, hajime.”
and then the driver starts the car, the sound of the engine swallowing whatever apology he tries to mumble next, the world blurring as the café disappears behind you — him standing there, hands in his hair, looking every bit the idiot you just called him.
and umemiya hajime tries everything—calls, texts, paragraphs that could qualify as love letters if they weren’t just him apologizing seventeen different ways. every few minutes, another ping lights up your phone, his name glowing like he’s haunting you. you see them. you just don’t care. let him sweat.
because for all his patience and warmth, hajime can’t stand one thing in this world—his girlfriend angry at him. it eats him alive, that quiet space where you don’t talk to him, where your voice is replaced by silence. he can handle a punch, a slap, a full-blown tantrum. but your silence? that’s his apocalypse.
so by eight, he shows up. no call, no warning. the housekeeper must have let him in, because the next thing you hear is the deep, hollow creak of your bedroom door being pushed open. your room is massive—big enough to echo the sound of his shoes on the marble. the kind of big that makes his apartment feel like a closet. he pauses by the door for half a second, taking it all in, that soft, low whistle under his breath that he doesn’t even realize he makes.
you’re on the bed, sitting against the headboard, your knees tucked up, silk pajamas hugging you like a whisper. the balcony doors are open, letting the night air drift in, your hair moving slightly in the breeze. you don’t even look surprised. just annoyed. pretty and annoyed—a deadly combination he’s learned to fear and adore.
“what the fuck do you want?” you say, voice low and sharp, not even turning fully to him. “i thought i made it clear i didn’t want to see your piece-of-shit self tonight.”
he doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. the insult rolls off him like water off glass. he steps inside, shuts the heavy door behind him with a soft click, then locks it. you glare at him for that, but he doesn’t care. he hums, hands sliding into his pockets as he walks deeper into your room, his lips twitching at the corner like he’s trying not to smile.
“yeah,” he says quietly, stopping at the edge of your bed before sitting down. “i’m a piece of shit.” his tone is steady, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes that gives him away. “so why don’t you tell me exactly why?”
the challenge hangs in the air between you, thick and dangerous. you finally turn your head, eyes sharp enough to kill. “you really want me to spell it out?”
he shrugs lightly. “might as well hear it from the source.”
you scoff, the sound short and mean. “fine. you’re a piece of shit because you’ve got the emotional intelligence of a rock and the situational awareness of a traffic cone. because you let some over-perfumed, photosynthesis-obsessed charity case orbit around you for weeks while she looked at you like she was about to hump the hydrangeas.”
his jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet. you keep going.
“you’re a piece of shit because you sat there like a golden retriever on standby while she called me spoiled, and you didn’t even blink. because instead of backing me up, you told me to behave—like i was the one who needed manners. newsflash, hajime, i wasn’t raised in a barn.”
you lean forward, eyes flashing. “you’re a piece of shit because you keep acting like your niceness makes you some kind of saint when really it just makes people think they can walk all over you—and by extension, me. and i don’t get walked on. not by some chlorophyll-brained pick-me with a shovel and definitely not by my boyfriend who should’ve told her to fuck off the second she batted her eyelashes.”
you exhale sharply, chest rising and falling, your anger so thick it hums. “there. that’s your summary. congratulations. you’re the human embodiment of a doormat with biceps.”
he stares at you for a long beat, jaw slack, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, eyes glassy from how hard he’s holding it in. you know that look—the one he gets when you’re being cruel and brilliant at the same time.
and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, low, wrecked and fond all at once. “okay,” he says softly. “that’s fair.”
you’re not done. not even close. your voice sharpens again, that lethal edge returning, each word slicing clean and deliberate. “and you know what else?” you hiss, glaring at him like the very sight of him is offensive. “you’re a piece of shit for letting her ruin my day. the day that was supposed to be ours. our date. the one you promised would make up for all the bullshit this week.”
you sit up straighter, arms folding over your chest, chin lifting high like a queen about to announce someone’s execution. “you’re a piece of shit because you let that girl get in between us like she fucking belonged there. you sat there—smiling, nodding, pretending she was part of the conversation—while she pissed all over the mood i built, and you didn’t tell her to shut the fuck up. you didn’t even blink. you just let her talk, and talk, and talk—like some possessed lawn decoration who didn’t realize she wasn’t invited to the goddamn picnic.”
hajime exhales softly through his nose, but you’re on a roll now. your tone slides from sharp to venomous, your words slick with sarcasm. “you should’ve told her the only thing you and her were growing was a distance, not some fucking roses. a stupid, tragic, half-dead bush that’s probably crying for help under her fake nails. i hope the thing dies, by the way.”
you pause just long enough to give him the kind of look that makes men rethink their entire life choices. “you know i love roses. you know that. they’re my favorite flower, hajime. and now—” your voice cracks, just a little, the anger melting into something raw, “now i have to find something else to like, because every time i see a rose, i’ll think of your dumb ass playing gardener with that chlorophyll-chasing, dirt-scented freak.”
he opens his mouth, but you keep going, your words picking up speed, your sarcasm dripping like honey turned acid. “i can’t even look at roses now without imagining you two standing there with watering cans, smiling like idiots, pretending you’re in some fucking cottagecore commercial for heartbreak. oh, look at us, hajime and misaki, the love story nobody asked for, sponsored by miracle-gro and emotional negligence.”
you laugh, short and bitter, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “so yeah, congratulations. you ruined roses for me. do you have any idea how dramatic that is? who the hell ruins a flower for someone? that’s psychotic behavior.”
you gesture vaguely toward him, voice trembling from equal parts fury and heartbreak. “and don’t you dare try to fix it with one of your sorry smiles or your stupid soft voice. i don’t want to hear ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ or any of that crap. you’re not charming your way out of this one. you killed my favorite fucking flower, hajime.”
his shoulders drop, and for a second, he looks genuinely stricken. like he knows exactly what he’s done but can’t find the words to climb out of the grave he dug himself.
you sniff, crossing your arms tighter, looking away toward the balcony. “piece of shit,” you mutter, quieter this time, but the venom still there, thick and deliberate. “next time you decide to plant something, plant your sense of boundaries. maybe it’ll bloom faster than your fucking stupidity.”
he lets out a shaky breath, and though you’re not looking, you can feel it—the guilt, the way it weighs heavy on him, pulling him forward, pulling him closer.
but you don’t move. not yet. you just sit there in your silk pajamas, glowing under the soft light, furious and heartbroken and beautiful, like the kind of mess only someone stupidly in love could make.
he lets you talk, lets you spill every bit of poison sitting behind your teeth. when you finally run out of words he exhales, eyes flicking between your face and the balcony door.
“okay,” he says quietly, almost hoarse. “you’re right. i let her get near you, i let her get near us. i should’ve shut it down the first time she opened her mouth. i thought she was just harmless noise, but i see how it looks now. it’s on me.”
you don’t answer, still watching him like you’re deciding whether to throw him off the balcony.
he keeps going, voice soft but frantic underneath. “i’ll fix it. i’ll get rid of the fucking roses—hell, i’ll rip the whole bed out tomorrow if it makes you feel better. i’ll plant something else, something just for you. lilies, orchids, daisies—whatever you want. i’ll bring you every damn flower in the city if that’s what it takes.”
you snort, leaning your head back against the headboard. “oh wow, a floral apology tour. maybe you can get a discount card—buy ten bouquets, get your girlfriend’s forgiveness free.”
he smiles a little at that, but it’s weak, guilty. “i mean it,” he says, reaching out. his palm catches the side of your face, thumb brushing the line where your cheek’s still damp. “i’m sorry, baby. she can keep those roses for herself, i don’t give a fuck about them anymore. she’s not coming near you again. not at the garden, not anywhere.”
“good,” you mutter, still not looking at him. “because if she did, i’d turn her into mulch and send her to her own funeral in a flower pot.”
he huffs a laugh, forehead falling forward till it touches yours. “you really scare me sometimes.”
“you should be scared,” you whisper, your voice all sugar and steel. “you’re the one who thought sharing a hobby meant adopting a parasite.”
his shoulders shake with a quiet chuckle, and he leans closer until his nose brushes your temple. “no more parasites. just you. i promise.”
you hum, still pretending you don’t care, even though your hand’s already in his hair, tugging once like punishment. “you better, or next time i’ll be the one planting something—and it’ll be your dumb ass six feet under.”
“deal,” he says softly, kissing the corner of your mouth before you can say another word.
he kisses you like a man desperate for forgiveness, soft at first—testing the waters, lips brushing your jaw, the edge of your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—each one a quiet apology shaped like warmth. it’s annoying how good he is at this, how every gentle touch feels like he’s rewiring your anger cell by cell. you’re still mad, still seething, but your body betrays you, leaning into the familiar scent of soap and soil and him.
his thumb strokes your chin; another kiss lands just under your eye, another on the tip of your nose, and he murmurs something stupid like “i’m sorry, baby” between each one until your brain starts to blur around the edges.
you groan, half irritated, half drunk on his breath. “you think you can just mouth your way out of this?”
he grins against your skin. “maybe,” he says, voice rough, hopeful.
“yeah, well, don’t get too excited,” you mutter, pushing a hand against his chest though you don’t really mean it. “tomorrow i don’t want to see those stupid fucking roses ever again. burn them, drown them, sell them to a funeral home—I don’t care. just make them disappear before i develop a rash from secondhand betrayal.”
he laughs, low and nervous, the sound vibrating through his chest. “you really hate them that much?”
“hajime,” you say slowly, looking him dead in the eye, “if i see one more petal, i’ll start a bonfire big enough to roast your guilt on. i want that bush gone. dug out. i want the soil salted like we’re closing off a cursed graveyard.”
he presses his forehead to yours, trying not to laugh, but you can feel it—the soft shake of his shoulders.
“i’m serious,” you add, poking his chest hard. “you let that chlorophyll homewrecker touch my favorite flower. you think i can look at a rose now without hearing her voice? please. that plant’s tainted. it’s basically a botanical crime scene.”
he hums, still grinning. “alright. no more roses. i’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”
“good,” you whisper, eyes narrowing. “because if i see a single leaf left standing, i’ll personally rent a bulldozer and flatten that garden myself. and maybe your ego while i’m at it.”
he laughs properly this time, head dropping to your shoulder, the sound rumbling low against your skin. “you’re insane,” he says softly.
you smirk, fingers slipping into his hair as you pull him closer. “yeah, but at least i’m your problem.” and he kisses you again, the kind of kiss that tastes like surrender, like he’s already planning the funeral for those damned roses.
it doesn’t take long for the anger to start crumbling—not completely, not all at once, but enough that your shoulders stop shaking, enough that the edge of your voice softens. hajime’s always been good at this, at quiet apologies that sound like promises, at letting his warmth do the talking. his hands are steady against your jaw, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin, and every time he says something low and soft, you can feel the fight bleeding out of you.
his voice does that thing again—deep, patient, with that tiny tremor that always sounds like he means every word. “hey,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your cheek, “breathe, yeah? i’m right here.”
you sigh, half in frustration, half in surrender, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly. “i hate how you sound so calm,” you mutter, voice muffled. “it’s like your voice was made for manipulating me.”
he laughs quietly, his breath warm against your ear. “i’d call it soothing, not manipulating.”
“whatever,” you say, leaning closer until your forehead rests against his collarbone. your anger’s still there, simmering somewhere in the background, but it’s mixed now—with exhaustion, with affection, with that stupid ache that always shows up when you’re too close to him for too long. you murmur it before you can stop yourself, soft and tired, “i miss you.”
he stills for half a second, then hums, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “missed you too,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “and i’m sorry again, sweetheart. you must’ve been really upset if you missed me this much.”
you tilt your head up, glaring weakly. “don’t get smug about it.”
he chuckles, his hand sliding down your back, slow and careful. “not smug. just… relieved you still want to see me at all.”
“please,” you snort, swatting his chest. “i wanted to see you so i could yell at you again. don’t flatter yourself.”
he grins, that soft, stupid smile that makes your heart twitch even when you want to punch him. “fair enough. but you’re calmer now, right?”
“barely,” you mutter, though your hand’s already tracing the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you owe me.”
his brows lift. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you say, lips twitching. “you better plan another date. and i don’t mean one of your boring, coffee-shop, let’s-hold-hands-and-watch-you-pretend-to-be-a-gardener kind of dates. i want something nice. something expensive. something that doesn’t involve dirt or that woman’s cursed aura.”
he laughs, low and soft, tilting his head until your noses almost touch. “so… spa day, dinner, rooftop champagne?”
“keep talking,” you murmur, smiling against his mouth. “and maybe i’ll let you live.”
he grins, brushing his lips over yours again. “deal.” you hum, satisfied, closing your eyes as you let him kiss you again, the taste of apology and warmth and just enough smugness to remind you why you fell for the idiot in the first place.
you stay quiet for a long time, tracing the seam of his shirt between your fingers, the air heavy and warm from all the things you threw at him earlier. it sits there between you both—your anger, your guilt, your pride—like a ghost that doesn’t know when to leave. hajime keeps running his thumb along the back of your hand, like he’s waiting for something to shift, like he’s scared you’ll pull away again.
finally, you sigh. not the soft kind, the world-weary, dramatic, “fine, i surrender but only halfway” kind. your head stays against his chest, voice muffled and small but still sharp enough to sting. “i was mean,” you mutter. “like… really mean.”
he tilts his head down, kissing the crown of your hair. “mm.”
“and i said some fucked up things,” you continue, twisting your fingers into his shirt, “about you, not about her. i don’t regret any of the shit i said to her. she deserved every syllable. if anything, i wish i’d used bigger words.”
he laughs quietly, low in his throat, the sound vibrating under your ear. “noted.”
“but you…” you pull back enough to look at him, eyes still narrowed but softer now. “you didn’t deserve all of that. maybe eighty percent, tops. i might’ve… gone nuclear when a regular slap would’ve done.”
he hums, pretending to think. “so i’m only eighty percent a piece of shit now? progress.”
you glare, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “don’t push it.”
his grin widens. “you’re apologizing. that’s new.”
“don’t get excited,” you warn, flicking his collar. “this is a limited-time offer. i’m still mad, i just feel bad for calling you a spineless gardening simp and comparing your emotional awareness to a traffic cone. that was… maybe too creative.”
he bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “i liked the creativity part.”
“yeah, you would,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “you’re lucky you’re hot. if you looked like a thumb, i’d still be screaming.”
he smirks, leaning closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “you’re forgiving me because i’m hot?”
“no,” you correct, voice dripping with sarcasm. “i’m forgiving you because i’m merciful. the hotness just makes it easier to look at your dumb face while i do it.”
he chuckles, kissing the tip of your nose, his hands coming up to cup your jaw again. “i’ll take it.”
you tilt your head, pretending to think. “but just to be clear, i’m only apologizing for being mean to you. not the rest. not the part where i threatened to salt your garden or to start a bonfire with the roses. that’s still on the table.”
he laughs against your skin, the sound so warm it almost makes your chest hurt. “deal.”
“good.” you tug at his shirt, voice softening just slightly. “now start planning my damn date before i change my mind and go back to hating you again.”
he smiles, that stupid, gentle, hajime smile that always makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. “already on it, princess.” you hum, resting your head back against him. “yeah, you better be. and it better not include a single fucking rose.”
you stay where you are for a bit, your head on his chest, heartbeat steady under your ear, the air thick with warmth and that faint post-argument stillness. his thumb keeps tracing the curve of your waist, the rhythm almost hypnotic. after a while you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes skimming his face — that maddeningly perfect symmetry, the soft smirk that always looks one breath away from trouble. you try to fight the grin tugging at your mouth, suck your lips in like you’re hiding something, but he catches it instantly.
he raises a brow, knuckles brushing your cheek. “what’s that look for? you plotting something? or you’re about to say something perverted, aren’t you?”
you laugh, short and low, the sound melting into the quiet between you. “you wish,” you mutter, smacking his chest with a lazy slap that makes him chuckle.
“nah,” he says, smiling like he already knows what’s coming. “you’ve got that evil sparkle in your eye. that’s your danger zone face.”
you roll your eyes, drawing a little circle on his collarbone with your fingertip. “fine,” you whisper, voice slipping into a mock-serious tone, “you wanna have make-up sex?”
his reaction is immediate: a sharp inhale, a burst of laughter that fills the whole room, head tilting back as he grins like an idiot. you giggle too, the tension cracking open between you.
“jesus,” he laughs, still catching his breath. “you’re unreal. a whole menace wrapped in silk.”
“oh, please,” you snort, leaning closer until your lips brush the edge of his jaw. “you act like i came up with this all by myself. you’re the one who trained me for chaos, remember? i was a perfectly innocent girl before you showed up with your stupid voice and your stupid hands.”
he hums, grinning. “so now i’m the bad influence?”
“oh, absolutely,” you say, fingers curling into his shirt as you tug him closer, until he’s hovering over you. “you built this monster. now deal with it.”
he laughs again, lower this time, the sound rougher around the edges as he shifts his weight, letting you guide him down with that smug little pull. you fall back against the pillows, his body leaning over yours, the mattress dipping with the familiar gravity of him.
“god, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, voice half-amused, half-breathless.
“and yet,” you whisper, smirking, “you’re still here. congratulations on your poor life choices.”
he doesn’t answer. he just kisses you — slow at first, like he’s savoring the taste of forgiveness, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before deepening the kiss. it’s the kind that feels like an apology without words, a quiet ache that makes your chest twist. his mouth is warm, soft, a little desperate; you can feel the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor of relief underneath all the heat.
your hand slides up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he groans softly into your mouth, his laugh ghosting over your skin when you bite at his lip just to be annoying.
“still mad?” he murmurs between kisses.
“ask me again in five minutes,” you mumble against his lips, smiling when he laughs quietly, his breath catching at the sound.
he moves lower, tracing kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your throat. the world shrinks to the sound of his breathing, the slow, steady drag of his lips against your skin. he lingers there, just under your jawline, his mouth open enough to leave warmth that makes you sigh, your fingers threading into his hair as he works his way down.
“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper, breath uneven, though your tone still carries that familiar sarcasm. “you think kissing my neck’s gonna fix your entire PR disaster?”
he hums, lips brushing the spot just below your ear. “working so far,” he says, the words a low vibration against your skin.
you laugh quietly, a sound that melts into a sigh when he kisses you again, slower this time, longer — lips dragging lazily against the curve of your neck, his breath warm and steady. the scent of him fills everything: soap, coffee, and something faintly floral that makes you roll your eyes mid-blush.
“you smell good,” you whisper.
he chuckles, the sound muffled against your throat. “i showered. i’m trying to smell like redemption.”
“try harder,” you murmur, your hand fisting in his shirt.
he tilts his head, kissing higher, slower, until your breath catches again. his thumb traces the corner of your mouth, the motion tender, almost teasing.
“better?” he whispers.
you hum, pretending to think, even as your heart’s beating too fast. “you’re getting there,” you say finally, your lips twitching. “if you keep going, i might even forgive you by sunrise.”
“i’ll take my chances,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss just below your jaw before lifting his head, eyes meeting yours with that stupid, boyish smile that always ruins you.
and you sigh, pushing his hair back from his face, the sarcasm softening just a little. “fine,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “maybe i’ll keep you around.”
“oh, lucky me,” he teases, grinning.
“don’t push it,” you mutter, but you’re already pulling him down again.
the next day, the sun’s already too bright for your mood, and you’re still halfway convinced hajime dragged you out just to test your patience. you’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, your attitude set firmly to don’t talk to me unless it’s praise or apology. he’s humming to himself like an idiot, that calm little smile on his face that always looks suspiciously like he knows something you don’t.
“you’re being shady,” you mutter, swirling your straw. “you have that face. that ‘i’m about to do something dumb but it’s romantic so she can’t kill me’ face.”
he glances at you, laughing softly. “you’ll see.”
“if you brought me somewhere near dirt again, hajime, i swear to god—”
“you’ll see,” he repeats, obnoxiously patient, and keeps driving.
by the time you’re standing on the bofurin rooftop again, you’re seconds away from throwing him off it. the sun hits hard, the air smells faintly of soil and humidity, and you’re ready to start your usual speech about how this place is your personal hell on earth—until you look around.
no roses.
not a single one.
the corner where they used to bloom in arrogant little clusters is now spotless, the soil turned, fresh, bare. no sign of red, no smug petals staring back at you like a reminder of your temporary insanity. just dirt, clean and unbothered.
you hum, slow and satisfied, the sound low in your throat as you fold your arms. “well, well, look who actually listens for once in his life,” you say, smirking at him. “did you kill them yourself or did you outsource it to someone with emotional stability?”
he grins, leaning against the fence, hands in his pockets. “i did it this morning.”
“oh, how poetic,” you deadpan. “nothing says devotion like early morning floral homicide.”
he chuckles, stepping closer, his eyes soft even as yours gleam with smug triumph. “you’re welcome.”
“damn right i’m welcome,” you mutter, squinting at the empty patch of soil. “good riddance. those roses had bad energy. smelled like insecurity and pick-me perfume.”
he laughs louder this time, shaking his head. “you’re unbelievable.”
“no, i’m traumatized,” you correct, turning toward him. “do you know how cursed those things were? every time i saw one i could practically hear her voice talking about root systems and sunlight exposure. i had flashbacks, hajime. actual horticultural PTSD.”
he covers his mouth with his hand, clearly trying not to laugh, but the sound still slips out.
“go ahead, laugh,” you say, pointing at him. “but if one rose dares to regrow here, i’m calling an exorcist. i’ll sage this whole fucking rooftop and hang garlic like it’s a vampire nest.”
he grins, stepping behind you, his arms wrapping loosely around your waist. “no roses,” he murmurs against your ear. “just us.”
you hum again, smug as hell, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “as it should be. you and your dirt patch—romantic in a tragic, redemption-arc sort of way.”
“you really can’t just take the win, huh?” he teases, his voice warm, brushing against your skin.
“oh, i’m taking it,” you say, reaching up to pat his cheek lightly. “i’m taking it, framing it, and engraving ‘i was right’ in gold letters.”
he laughs, his breath against your neck. “you’re something else.”
“yeah,” you murmur, glancing over the empty garden with a self-satisfied smile. “something better than a rose.”
and you catch the way he looks at you when you say it—like he agrees, like he’d tear up the whole garden again just to prove it.
— my boyfriend, his stupid plants, and that bitch with the bangs
feat. nanami kento
summary. you don’t get jealous — people get jealous of you. so why are you crying in a cinema bathroom over nanami kento explaining photosynthesis to another girl? after an emotional meltdown worthy of an award, nanami steps up to prove you’re his priority—setting boundaries, choosing you loudly, and holding you through every tear and tantrum. slowly, painfully, beautifully, you relearn what it means to be loved without having to perform for it.
triggers/warnings. non-sorcerer au x college au, jealousy, emotional breakdown, crying in a public bathroom, mild emotional manipulation (unhinged brat behavior), swearing, threats of violence (mostly botanical-themed), possessiveness, and unhealthy coping mechanisms that eventually lead to healthy communication and comfort.
the day was offensively bright, the kind of sunlight that made glass buildings glitter like they were mocking anyone who couldn’t afford to exist beautifully, and you—obviously—were the exception; if the universe had taste, it would put a spotlight on you the moment you stepped out, and today felt like one of those days where the pavement should’ve rolled out a red carpet simply because your shoes touched it.
the campus was buzzing in that nauseatingly enthusiastic way students got after midterms, everyone acting like sun exposure and iced coffee was enough to cure the generational trauma of academia, and god, just breathing the same air as these people felt like charity work.
still, you strutted down the pathway leading to the campus café—miu miu cropped knit in a red so sinful it should’ve come with a warning label, the tiny matching buttons straining against the shape of your chest in a way you knew made nanami rub his forehead like he suddenly had a migraine from “dealing with you,” which translated directly to “you look too good and it stresses him out.” your black alaïa pleated mini skirt swayed with each unapologetically privileged step, wolford sheer tights hugging your legs like a second skin, white miu miu socks folded just right above your glossy chanel mary janes, each click of your heel on the pavement sounding like a verdict—everyone else was underdressed.
you held your iced latte—oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, and emotional superiority—raised delicately between manicured fingers as if the cup itself was beneath you, but unfortunately necessary for survival. the tiny vintage chanel handbag slung over your shoulder bounced against your rib as you walked, and you didn’t even bother pretending you were rushing because punctuality was for people with nothing better to do. truthfully? you didn’t even go to class today. like hell you were going to drag your soul out of your egyptian-cotton-bed cocoon before noon just to listen to some underpaid academic talk about things google could teach you in five minutes. but nanami didn’t need to know that. your boyfriend would give you that glare—the one that could make a country surrender—and you really weren’t in the mood to be lectured by the only man who could make discipline sound like intimacy.
you approached the café, a place plagued by the aesthetic curse of trying too hard to look indie and failing spectacularly. the outdoor seating was crowded with students who thought reading murakami made them profound, but your eyes zeroed in on the table by the glass wall—the round one far too small for six people, which was exactly why those idiots chose it. gojo’s white hair was like a flag of chaos even from a distance, geto lounged like the cult leader he could easily become, shoko looked chronically done with everyone including herself, and haibara radiated optimism like a deranged labrador. but none of them mattered the second you saw nanami’s back.
the black short-sleeved knit polo you picked for him stretched over his shoulders like the fabric was praying for mercy, the sleeves hugging his biceps tight enough that your teeth tingled with the urge to leave evidence. his arm rested on the table, forearm flexed casually, veins visible—disgustingly attractive. he sat so straight, so composed, like he personally invented posture and everyone else should pay him royalties. even from behind, you could sense that irritating calm aura of his—your own personal grounded planet you orbited, even if you’d rather die than admit it out loud.
you didn’t slow down. you didn’t greet them like a normal person. no, normalcy was too cheap for you.
your free hand slid onto nanami’s shoulder the moment you reached them, fingers pressing into the warm, firm muscle like you were checking if heaven was solid. you leaned forward just enough to cast your shadow across their conversation, smiling like a disney villain in silk gloves.
“afternoon, children,” you said, voice honeyed and teasing, because you knew how to command a room without even trying.
gojo looked up first, his grin instantaneous. “look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he said. shoko muttered something you didn't bother to hear, but you were already sliding into place, which meant you didn’t have to answer.
nanami turned, eyes already giving away that quiet mix of exasperation and affection he reserved solely for you. you leaned down, pressed a kiss against his cheek like you were marking territory, murmuring, “hi, baby.”
he hummed low in his throat, one arm looping around your waist in automatic surrender. the other hand—warm, steady—rested on your thigh, thumb brushing over the sheer fabric of your tights like he was reminding you to behave, though you both knew that was a lost cause.
“you’re late,” he said quietly.
“i’m fashionable,” you corrected, twisting slightly so you could face the table, still perched neatly on his lap. “there’s a difference.”
gojo snorted into his drink. “yeah, about three hours’ worth.”
“you can count? proud of you, sugarcube.”
haibara laughed, bless his innocent heart, and geto just smiled behind his cup like he’d seen this play a hundred times before. nanami’s fingers tightened on your thigh, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that the show had an audience.
you tilted your head, looking down at him. “you missed me?”
he didn’t look up, but the smallest smirk tugged at his mouth. “you were gone for four hours.”
“and that’s four hours too long,” you said, leaning in until your lips brushed his jaw. “don’t be shy, you can say it.”
his eyes flicked to you—sharp, restrained, golden under the café light. “behave,” he murmured, just for you.
you smiled sweetly. “no.”
shoko groaned. “if you two start making out, i’m leaving.”
“then leave,” gojo offered. “less witnesses.”
“you’re all disgusting,” shoko said flatly, sipping her drink anyway.
you grinned, cheek lean on nanami’s head. “we’re adorable.”
“you’re unbearable,” nanami corrected.
but his hand didn’t move from your thigh.
you basked in the warmth of him, the way his presence steadied you even as you tried to poke holes in it. he was too serious, too controlled, and you were everything he shouldn’t have fallen for—spoiled, dramatic, perpetually five minutes away from chaos. it wasn’t that you wanted to make him jealous or tired or undone. it’s just that you loved watching the cracks form in that composure. loved being the one person who could unmake him.
the conversation at the table moved around you—movie plans, class gossip, haibara’s endless optimism—but your focus stayed where it always did. the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the quiet flex of muscle under his sleeve, the pulse that beat steady against your thigh.
gojo squinted at you over the rim of his iced matcha like a nosy suburban aunt pretending to be subtle, which, obviously, he wasn’t. his sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on his head despite being indoors, because he had a disease called “attention-seeking,” and he leaned forward with that shit-eating grin that made you want to shove his face into the table.
“question,” he announced, finger pointed at you like a courtroom accusation, “why didn’t i see you anywhere on campus today? don’t tell me you skipped again.”
you didn’t react at first. you simply blinked, slow, turning your gaze towards him as if he had personally offended your bloodline. then, with the grace of a woman who knew silence was powerful, you dragged your eyes from gojo to nanami—very slowly—because if anyone was going to kill the mood, it was the tax-paying adult you were dating.
nanami’s profile was stoic, but his head turned just a fraction, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to say: i heard that. answer correctly if you value your life. his hand remained on your thigh, thumb frozen mid-stroke, waiting. he didn’t speak—nanami didn’t need to. his expectation sat in the air like a guillotine.
you shook your head quickly, too quickly, a little too eager to throw the lie forward before anyone could breathe. “no,” you said, voice falsely innocent, like a kid denying stealing cookies while covered in crumbs. “i did not skip class, actually. thanks for the concern, satoru, really. very touching.”
your friends reacted like you’d just given the worst performance in the history of lying. haibara tried to hide his laugh behind his hand, geto smirked into his drink, and shoko—who didn’t believe in sugarcoating unless it was on donuts—snorted so loud the table next to you turned.
“you definitely skipped,” shoko said flatly, deadpan as if stating the weather. “i was looking for you in lecture earlier and you were nowhere. not even in the bathroom pretending to cry so someone would comfort you.”
you gasped at the accusation and placed a hand on your chest, clutching invisible pearls because real pearls would’ve required more wardrobe planning this morning. “excuse me? i did fucking not skip.”
geto didn’t even look up. he just lifted a brow lazily. “yeah? then where were you?”
your mouth opened… and absolutely nothing came out. your brain went to file excuses and found the cabinet completely empty except for a metaphorical moth. you inhaled sharply, turned away from all the eyes staring at you, and reached for nanami’s drink like it was diplomatic immunity. you took a sip—an unnecessarily long sip—as if green tea could save your soul from the social execution happening around you.
nanami let you drink it, which should’ve been a red flag in itself. he only let you touch his drink when he was either (1) too tired to argue or (2) preparing to lecture you.
you placed the glass back, very gently, very slowly, the way one disarms a bomb, and then turned to face nanami with your sweetest, most weaponized smile—the one that got you out of legal consequences once.
“baby, listen—”
he didn’t raise his voice. nanami didn’t need theatrics. his disappointment alone could level civilizations.
“you skipped class.”
“i— no, i didn’t skip, i just… didn’t attend,” you argued, hands moving in useless little gestures as if rearranging air could make your excuse sound less idiotic. “there’s a difference.”
nanami blinked once. slowly. the way a man does when mentally calculating if prison is worth it. “and what,” he said, tone calm to the point of terrifying, “is the difference, sweetheart?”
gojo leaned in like a hyena. “yeah, educate us, princess.”
you shot satoru a look that could curdle milk. “the difference,” you said, straightening your back on nanami’s lap, as if delivering a thesis, “is that skipping sounds intentional and irresponsible. i simply chose peace and preserved my mental health by not exposing myself to academic distress. self-care. you should try it.”
shoko wheezed. geto covered his smile with his hand like a scandalized victorian woman in church. haibara actually clapped quietly, the traitor.
nanami stared. “you overslept.”
“i—” you lifted a finger, offended, “no. i rested.”
“until one in the afternoon,” nanami clarified, because of course he checked.
you clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes and looking away because you refused to be wrong in front of an audience. “god, you say that like it’s a crime.”
“it is when you’re paying for courses you don’t attend,” nanami replied, adjusting your position on his lap like he was grounding you into sanity. “do you intend to graduate, or do you plan to survive on generational wealth alone?”
gojo grinned. “i vote for generational wealth. it suits her.”
“shut up, satoru!” you snapped, smacking his arm across the table.
nanami caught your wrist mid-swing—gentle, firm, thumb pressing into your pulse like a warning. he leaned in, voice low enough that it curled down your spine like expensive silk. “behave.”
and your friends, the demons you called family, burst into laughter like they’d been waiting for that exact moment.
your face heated—not embarrassed, because you didn’t do embarrassment—just… strategically annoyed. “are you all done enjoying my suffering, or should i perform a tap dance too?”
geto raised his cup. “please do, bonus points if you fall.” you scowled, sinking further into nanami’s chest, arms crossed like a brat, mumbling, “you’re all mentally ill.” shoko took a drag from her vape and exhaled smoke right over your hair. “and yet, we go to class.”
six of you slipped back into conversation, the kind that required zero brain cells—mostly gojo lying, geto enabling it, haibara believing it, and shoko regretting her existence—but it was comfortable chaos, and nanami’s arm around your waist grounded you, thumb tracing slow circles on your thigh in that absent-minded you’re mine, don’t start way he did.
and then she appeared.
a girl materialized beside the table with the unwanted presence of an unsolicited ad popup. weird bangs—like she cut them during a psychotic episode or let a blindfolded toddler do it—long black hair, cardigan buttoned wrong like a cry for help. she beams at gojo first, all teeth, dimples, and misguided optimism.
“gojo-kun! hey!”
of course she knew him. everyone with bad decision-making skills did.
gojo lit up like a dumb golden retriever who just saw its leash. “ohhh, utahime! guys, this is utahime! she’s in my and nanamin’s major.”
you zoned out at the name because it sounded like a villain from a discount fairytale. irrelevant. what wasn’t irrelevant was gojo pulling out a chair for her—the chair right across from nanami.
oh. so this is the type of day we’re having.
“utahime, this is geto, shoko, haibara, and—” gojo gestured vaguely at you and nanami, “—nanami and his girlfriend.”
you lifted your hand with the grace of royalty blessing peasants. “hello.”
she glanced at you for half a millisecond, uttered a bland “hi,” then turned fully to nanami like you were an aesthetic prop that came with the table.
“nanami, right? i think i’ve seen you around in the literature department.”
you stared at her like she’d grown a second head. you were literally sitting on his lap and she still managed to mentally crop you out of the frame like a bad ex. the audacity smelled like drugstore perfume.
nanami nodded politely, because unfortunately he was raised with manners. “yes, we share a few lectures.”
she smiled at him. smiled. like she had teeth specifically for him. “i thought so. you always look very focused. it’s impressive.” your eyelid twitched. impressed? what was he, a circus act?
nanami, oblivious to your growing homicidal aura, replied with that calm, respectful tone that made professors love him. “i just prefer not to fall behind.”
gojo elbowed geto under the table, whispering loudly, “she’s so into him.”
geto hummed. “dead on arrival. she has no idea who she’s messing with.” shoko exhaled smoke into the shape of a middle finger. “she’s brave. or stupid. likely both.”
utahime didn’t hear—tragedy. she settled in, and somehow, like a cursed domino effect, the conversation shifted. you were mid-complaint to shoko about how leggings weren’t pants when you noticed nanami and utahime were… talking.
like, actually talking.
animated.
engaged.
she asked about some assignment or some book, and nanami—your nanami, the man who rationed his words like they were wartime supplies—responded with actual sentences.
you narrowed your eyes. suspicious.
you tuned back in when you heard utahime say, “you’re part of the campus horticulture and sustainable agriculture society, right?”
you blinked. the campus what?
nanami nodded. “yes. the horticulture and sustainable agriculture society—HSAS. we’re focusing on soil health improvement this semester. most students ignore the foundational care required for—”
“soil health,” you repeated blankly under your breath, like the words themselves gave you indigestion.
shoko chuckled. “oh look, your boyfriend’s having his plant ted talk.”
utahime leaned in, elbows on the table, chin in hands, like nanami was reciting poetry in italian. “that’s fascinating. i’ve been wanting to grow herbs in my apartment but everything i touch dies. what soil do you recommend for beginner plants?”
nanami actually warmed up. warmed up. his voice gained depth, like she just unlocked npc dialogue level two. “well, herbs require well-draining soil. most beginners overwater because they assume more water means faster growth, but it increases the risk of root rot—”
you stared. root rot? this man barely used more than five words with anyone and suddenly he was the david attenborough of basil plants?
gojo leaned toward you with a grin that deserved jail time. “look at nanamin go. bro’s flirting plant-style.”
you hissed, “one more sound and i will shove your matcha straw so far up your nose you’ll taste grass.”
haibara laughed nervously. “guys, be nice…”
geto sipped his drink, amused. “this is fantastic. i’ve never seen nanami talk so much to anyone who wasn’t her.” he tilted his head at you. “how does it feel to be replaced by fertilizer talk?”
you glared at him, jaw tightening. “i’m not bothered.”
you were absolutely bothered.
it was like watching your golden retriever boyfriend suddenly become conversational with a passing pigeon. who the fuck was she to get this much dialogue from him?
nanami continued, utterly unaware of the storm brewing on his lap. “if you’re new to plants, start with mint or rosemary. they’re resilient and don’t require much intervention.”
“wow,” utahime said softly, eyes big enough to irritate you on a spiritual level, “you know so much.”
you could feel your soul leave your body, hover above the table, and consider flipping it.
shoko leaned over and whispered, “you gonna let her herb-flirt with your man like that?”
“i’m unbothered,” you repeated, nails digging into nanami’s thigh hard enough to pierce through his soul. nanami’s hand tightened on your waist—not painfully, just enough to say behave without interrupting his fucking spinach seminar.
geto smirked. “you look seconds away from committing eco-friendly homicide.”
you whispered through a closed-teeth smile, maintaining your princess composure, “i swear to god if that girl asks him one more plant question, i’m ripping the rosemary out of her hypothetical garden and making her eat it.”
gojo cackled. “i will literally pay to see that.”
and nanami, sweet plant-talking, politely smiling nanami—was still answering her question about sunlight exposure like he wasn’t currently sitting under a girlfriend-shaped nuclear bomb.
you inhaled, slow, deliberate, eyes narrowing as utahime leaned closer to him again.
your grip on nanami’s thigh tightened, nails sinking in.
he paused mid-sentence, finally turning his head just enough to look at you, brow slightly raised—only a millimeter, but on nanami that equaled what are you plotting.
you smiled, all teeth.
if he didn’t stop this herbal bonding session soon, you were about to water that girl with holy water and bury her in “well-draining soil.”
as everyone left the café to walk toward the cinema, the situation deteriorated with the same speed as your patience. what was supposed to be your afternoon—your boyfriend, your friends, your post-class movie date—had now been hijacked by the bangs-gone-wrong herbal witch who somehow glued herself to nanami’s side like an unwanted sticker on a luxury bag.
you should’ve known gojo was capable of this level of treason. he was skipping ahead like a golden retriever who found a ball, proudly leading utahime into your circle as if he’d discovered fire. the bitch was now walking in front, beside nanami—beside your nanami—talking about plants. still. they were still talking about the horticulture club (you mentally renamed it the horti-culture-of-ruining-your-day-club), her voice full of curiosity and fake academic interest, while nanami nodded and responded like he was a responsible mentor in a children’s education program.
normally, nanami would hold your hand, walk beside you, adjust your pace like you were the center of his orbit. now? you were behind him. behind. like a side character. a background extra. a cautionary tale.
gojo slung an arm over your shoulder, grinning like he was waiting for popcorn to watch you combust. shoko walked on your other side, hands in her pocket, already scrolling her phone. behind you, geto and haibara chatted about something that wasn’t nearly as important as your personal crisis.
you crossed your arms over your chest, eyes drilling holes into the back of utahime’s skull. maybe if i stare hard enough, a giant plant pot will fall on her head from a cosmic balcony and she’ll go back to photosynthesis permanently. you were not wishing for her death—you were merely manifesting a gardening accident poetic enough to send her away.
gojo glanced down at you, smirk widening. “you look like you’re planning a homicide using fertilizer.”
“don’t tempt me,” you muttered, voice low, venom-dipped. “i’m one intrusive thought away from repotting her six feet under.”
shoko snorted without looking up. “you’re dramatic.”
you whipped your head toward her, offended. “i am realistic.”
gojo gasped in exaggerated betrayal. “so you’re jealous.”
you turned slowly, face blank, tone flat but dangerous. “jealous? of who? of that… bangs-with-a-personality-disorder? please. the only thing i envy is the delusion she has that she belongs here.”
geto actually choked on air behind you.
gojo wiggled his eyebrows. “she’s just talking to nanami. they’re bonding.”
“over fucking soil, satoru. soil.” you hissed, voice cracking like your sanity. “tell me why my boyfriend is suddenly the plant whisperer for an outsider? what is he, some kind of agricultural tinder? people swipe right and he waters their basil?”
shoko sighed. “you’re spiraling.”
“i’m descending,” you corrected, gesturing passionately with one hand while the other murderously clutched your chanel bag. “this is a free-fall.”
nanami glanced back briefly—just a fraction—to check if you were keeping up. normally that look would soften you, but today it made your rage glitter. he didn’t even offer his hand. he just turned back to the demon-spawn herb girl and resumed discussing mint infestations like he was the ceo of oregano.
you leaned in to your friends, voice dangerously polite. “look at them. walking together. talking. breathing the same oxygen. disgusting.”
haibara, sweet innocent soul, tried to reassure you. “i’m sure nanami is just being polite—”
“polite?” you snapped softly. “he is my boyfriend. the bare minimum is him being rude to other women. loyal men don’t discuss rosemary ratios with anyone except their girlfriend. i should be the only herb in his life.”
gojo wheezed. “you did not just call yourself a herb.”
“shut your mouth before i season you with salt and eat you alive.”
utahime laughed at something nanami said. oh, she laughed. she laughed like she understood him. like she had the right. your eye twitched so hard it could’ve powered a light bulb.
“i hope,” you said calmly, like a villain making a vow, “she tries to plant basil and it sprouts a fungus. i hope her rosemary wilts. i hope her soil becomes a cursed wasteland. and i hope nanami’s watering can leaks all over his shoes so he remembers this betrayal every time he walks.”
shoko stared at you. “…girl. therapy is right there.”
you ignored that. “and him.” you gestured toward nanami, voice rising an octave of offended royalty. “he should know better. he shouldn’t look at other women—”
“he’s not,” haibara pointed out gently, “he’s literally staring at the pavement while talking.”
“bare minimum!” you shriek-whispered. “he shouldn’t talk to other women either! silence is free!”
gojo hummed. “so you want nanami to be mute to everyone except you?”
“yes,” you said without hesitation. “and to plants, apparently, since that’s his thing now.”
geto laughed quietly. “you’re insane.”
“i’m in love,” you corrected, nose in the air. “there’s a difference. love makes you gracious and kind.”
shoko stared. “you literally manifested a potted-plant accident five minutes ago.”
you shrugged. “compassion has levels.”
ahead of you, utahime giggled again—at something plant-related—and nanami, sweet oblivious nanami, slightly nodded along like he was a guest speaker at a gardening conference. you inhaled sharply. “i’m about to photosynthesize rage.”
you kept walking, seething so loudly it was a miracle the concrete under your feet didn’t crack from the sheer force of your offended aura. the world should’ve stopped. the sky should’ve darkened. alarms should’ve gone off. your boyfriend was talking to another woman—and about botany, of all the unsexy, grandma-coded subjects—and everyone around you was acting like this wasn’t a catastrophic betrayal of romance, loyalty, and personal branding.
you sped up half a step so you could hear them better—because how dare he have a conversation you weren’t the main character of—and the words “nitrogen fixation” drifted back to you like a personal insult.
you gagged dramatically. “jesus christ, he’s talking about soil nutrients. does he want to get cheated on? because that’s how men get cheated on.”
gojo raised both brows, arm still lazily over your shoulder. “wow. plants are now infidelity?”
you turned to him, eyes wide with religious conviction. “plants are a gateway drug to emotional affairs, satoru. first it’s rosemary, then it’s sharing gardening tools, and next thing you know she’s repotting her heart into his hands.”
shoko made a noise that was half-laugh, half-choke. “you’re sick.”
you ignored her diagnosis.
up ahead, utahime tucked her limp tragic hair behind her ear, leaning a little too close to nanami as she asked something about photosynthesis like it wasn’t common knowledge taught to six-year-olds with crayons and carrot sticks. nanami answered with that calm, informative tone he used when guiding lost children or explaining tax forms to you so you wouldn’t cry.
he didn’t look at her—no eye contact, bare minimum, congratulations—but he responded. willingly. completely. as if she deserved personalized nanami tutoring services.
you stared at the back of his head like you were trying to set his hair on fire telepathically.
“i can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered, crossing your arms tighter, suffocating in betrayal and your own expensive perfume. “this was supposed to be our movie time. our date. our quality time with the background characters we call friends. and now?? now we’re the supporting cast in gojo’s charity show-and-tell featuring some stray cat with bangs.”
gojo snorted. “be nice, she’s new.”
“and she can stay new,” you shot back. “new and far away. new and outside the group. new as in return to sender.”
geto chimed in from behind, amused. “you realize she can’t hear you, right?”
you whipped around so fast your hair nearly slapped him. “trust me, if she could, she would compost herself on the spot.”
haibara, ever the sunshine idiot, tried to calm you. “maybe she just wants to make friends?”
“oh, please. look at her.” you gestured violently at utahime’s back, nearly elbowing gojo in the ribs. “she’s walking like she’s auditioning to become the new moral compass of this group. we don’t need a moral compass. we barely need a compass. we are lost and we like it.”
shoko raised a brow. “you? moral compass? please. you’d sell this group for a birkin bag.”
you blinked. “shoko. don’t be ridiculous.” you paused. “it would have to be a limited edition birkin. crocodile leather. gold hardware. preferably one-of-one.”
“see?” shoko mumbled.
you ignored the truth because it was inconvenient.
you focused on your boyfriend again—your gorgeous, infuriating, plant-talking boyfriend who should’ve been holding your hand, kissing your temple, ignoring every female organism in a 50-meter radius—and instead he was giving unsolicited gardening advice like some attractive greenhouse consultant.
you hissed under your breath, “he shouldn’t be talking to her. he shouldn’t be talking to anyone. he should be carrying me like a princess and stepping on rose petals while doing it.”
gojo actually laughed. “you want nanami to be your servant?”
“i want nanami to act like a man in love,” you snapped. “not a walking national geographic episode.”
geto added, “you could just walk next to him, you know.”
you gasped as if he suggested you lick hospital floor tiles. “i will not chase him. i am not a golden retriever. i am the ball. people chase me.”
shoko pinched the bridge of her nose. “you are not the ball.”
“i am the ball, the player, the coach, and the entire damn tournament. everyone attends because of me.”
you said this right as utahime laughed again at whatever nanami said and your blood pressure skyrocketed so hard you nearly astral projected.
“i hope,” you said with the serenity of a cursed prophet, “that she wakes up tomorrow and every plant she owns is dead. i hope the leaves turn black. i hope her basil commits suicide. i hope her fertilizer expires. i hope her watering can cracks. and i hope nanami—”
gojo perked up. “ooo, what do you hope happens to nanamin?”
you inhaled deeply. “i hope nanami’s plants grow mold. i hope his little gardening gloves shrink. i hope his stupid herb club—”
“horticulture society,” haibara corrected softly.
“—i hope his STUPID herb club,” you emphasized, “loses funding and they have to sell carrots on the street like failed vegetables.”
shoko stared at you, dead-eyed. “seek help.”
you ignored that. again.
“he should only discuss plants with me,” you muttered, wounded, betrayed, dramatically heartbroken. “i don’t even like plants. but he should only talk to me about them.”
and with that, you stared ahead, at the back of your boyfriend walking beside another woman, and you thought, in the most poetic, dostoevsky-meets-deranged-princess way possible:
if this is what love is, no wonder russian literature is full of suffering.
when you all reach the theatre entrance, the neon lights flickering like a cheap attempt at glamour, gojo’s arm is still slung over your shoulder, the weight of it both grounding and irritating because it wasn’t the arm you wanted. nanami was still walking beside utahime, still talking, still breathing the same air as her, and your eye twitched so violently you were convinced you developed a new facial tic.
gojo followed your burning stare, eyes darting from nanami to you, and with a dramatic sigh—like he was babysitting a rabid raccoon in couture—he tugged you toward the ticket counters. “come on, princess,” he muttered, steering you away, “let’s just forget about him. ignore him too.”
he didn’t even wait for your response, just dragged you away, and you let yourself be pulled only because your body had entered that numb, offended, heart-bruised autopilot that happened once every blue moon—specifically when nanami kento, the one man in the universe who never, ever, not even for one second, failed to give you attention—shifted it to someone who wasn’t you.
you looked over your shoulder at them, your steps slowing, just to witness nanami tilt his head slightly toward utahime as she spoke, his hands in his pockets, posture polite but relaxed—not intimate, not flirtatious, just… engaged. it wasn’t even what he was saying. it was the absence of what he usually did with you—glancing at you, checking if you were next to him, adjusting your bag strap, brushing your hair behind your ear, telling you to watch your step, holding your waist in crowded places.
those things didn’t exist right now.
you faced forward again, jaw locking. you tried not to care, truly, you tried to swallow it with the dignity of a queen who refused to crumble in public, but the petulant, deeply spoiled part of you—the part nanami privately adored and publicly tamed—was clawing at your ribs like how dare he.
nanami had never denied you. not attention, not affection, not his time. you were the center of his carefully organized galaxy and he orbited you with steady devotion. and now? one afternoon of neglect and you felt like the moon had been kicked out of the solar system.
and the worst part? beneath the rage, beneath the jealousy, beneath the desire to poison a plant so it symbolically represented your emotional suffering—there was something softer, uglier, something you hated admitting even to yourself: it hurt.
after gojo paid for the tickets—because you sure as hell weren’t taking out your card for anything under a thousand dollars—he pulled you toward the concession stand where shoko, haibara, and geto were gathering with popcorn and drinks.
the moment they saw you approach—quiet, stiff, lips pressed together—they exchanged glances like doctors diagnosing a terminally ill patient who still thought she had the flu. geto’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, confirming the sight of nanami still with utahime before his gaze returned to your face.
he leaned closer, voice low, non-judgmental but smug enough to rankle. “are you actually upset about them?”
you didn’t trust your voice, so you hummed—short, flat, unimpressed—lifting one shoulder like an attempt at nonchalance, but the tension in your jaw exposed you like a confession written in blood.
geto hummed back, almost sympathetic, handing you a drink like it was medication. “then talk to nanami. if you feel ignored, tell him.”
of course, gojo—diplomatic as a drunk pigeon—ruined the moment.
“oh please,” he scoffed, snatching a handful of popcorn with his free hand, “she feels ignored when a houseplant gets more sunlight than her. miss spotlight here needs constant admiration or she wilts.”
you elbowed him in the stomach, sharp and precise, making him grunt. “shut the fuck up, satoru, before i rearrange your ribs into modern art.”
shoko snorted into her drink, haibara coughed to hide a laugh, and geto smiled behind his cup like he was enjoying a theatre show that didn’t require tickets.
you inhaled sharply through your nose, lifted your chin, and let the dam break.
“he should give me attention,” you snapped, keeping your voice low enough not to cause a public scene but sharp enough to cut god, “he is my boyfriend. my boyfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for it like some charity case. i shouldn’t have to tap him on the shoulder like a fucking waiter asking for the bill. attention is part of his job description. loving me includes looking at me.”
your words were venom-wrapped silk, but your fingers—clenching your straw, the slight tremble at the tips—betrayed the vulnerable thread under the rage.
geto exhaled through his nose, head tilting, his voice kinder this time, “it makes sense you feel that way. you’re used to him being… very present with you. he set that standard, so it’s normal you expect it.”
you blinked at him, thrown off for a second by the emotional validation that hit you like someone offering you a blanket mid-tantrum.
but geto wasn’t done.
“just… maybe give him a minute? she’s new, he’s trying to be polite—”
you scoffed instantly, an unhinged, offended laugh escaping. “polite? no. no. absolutely not. nanami does not get to be ‘polite.’ he is not a community library. he is not available for public use. if he wants to be polite he can hold the door, say thank you, and move the fuck on. conversation is intimacy and intimacy is mine.”
gojo burst out laughing, a hand slapping his knee. “oh my god. you sound like a medieval king guarding his royal concubine.”
you raised your cup and pointed the straw at gojo’s throat with threatening precision. “say one more word and i will introduce your face to the popcorn machine and butter you like a croissant.”
gojo, shaking with laughter, held his hands up in surrender. “fine, fine—jealousy looks adorable on you. like a chihuahua guarding a yacht.”
“i’m a rottweiler,” you growled.
“you’re a poodle with diamond fur,” he corrected.
you glared at him, then turned to geto, voice dropping, unfiltered, raw, but still dipped in drama.
“if my boyfriend wants to suddenly audition for earth’s next top botanist with bangs mcgee, he can enjoy watering plants alone in his dorm for the rest of his natural life. because i swear, if i have to tell my boyfriend to notice me? to look at me? to choose me? i would rather swallow fertilizer.”
shoko blinked slowly. “please don’t.”
you shrugged. “depends on how long they keep talking.”
and geto, annoyingly calm, annoyingly wise, annoyingly right, just corrected quietly, “you don’t have to ask him to choose you. he already does. every day. you just haven’t told him you feel ignored.”
you hated that logic.
you hated that he was right.
you hated most of all that it made your anger taste like sadness. and you crossed your arms, chin raised, choosing violence over vulnerability—for now.
the popcorn machine hummed behind you, the smell of butter thick in the air, sticking to your skin and your mood alike, and you stood there rigid, spine straight, arms crossed so tight across your chest your bracelets dug into your skin, like your body was trying to hold your ego together before it shattered on the sticky cinema floor. geto’s words lingered like a bitter aftertaste—annoyingly sensible, nauseatingly calm, the verbal equivalent of someone placing a warm blanket on you while you’re trying to commit arson.
you stared at him, lips curling, because if there was one thing you hated more than utahime’s haircut, it was being psychoanalyzed correctly.
“oh look at you,” you muttered, shifting your weight onto one leg, jutting your hip out, your manicured nails tapping sharply against your bicep, “dr. phil reincarnated with a man bun. how poetic. how wise. how about you diagnose my foot up someone’s ass too while you’re at it?”
geto didn’t flinch—he never did, which made him infinitely more punchable in moments like this. he held your gaze, eyes soft, voice level, his cup cradled loosely between his palms like he was warming his hands on the heat of your fury. “you’re allowed to feel ignored. anyone would be upset if their partner suddenly shifted attention. it’s valid.”
you scoffed, dramatic and sharp, head tossing back as if you’d been insulted by god personally. “oh great, thank you, priest suguru, for telling me my feelings are valid. how groundbreaking. next you’ll tell me water is wet and gojo is stupid.”
gojo, who was now sipping his drink like he was watching a romcom unfold, lifted a lazy hand. “both true.”
you ignored him and leaned closer to geto, your voice lowering into that venom-laced whisper reserved for emotional emergency or homicide, whichever came first. “validation doesn’t fix shit. i don’t want to feel better about being ignored. i want him to stop fucking ignoring me.”
you felt your throat tighten—not enough to show, never enough to show—but enough to force you to look away, down at your own fingers gripping your cup like it might explode if you loosened your hold. you repositioned your stance, shifting the weight of your body just slightly so you leaned against the counter, but even that wasn’t relaxed; it was defensive, closed off, chin tilted up in futile superiority.
geto exhaled through his nose, elbows resting on the counter, leaning a little closer so you couldn’t run from the truth he was about to drop like a boulder onto your fragile, dramatic ego. “you’re hurting because you expect the version of nanami who’s always glued to you. but he’s allowed to exist as his own person too. you want devotion, not a hostage.”
your brows flew up, disbelief etched across your face as you pointed your straw at him like a weapon. “first of all, how dare you speak logic to me when i’m actively spiraling. second, nanami being obsessed with me is not hostage behavior, it’s romance. third, don’t stand there with your jesus hair and tell me to be understanding. i’m rich. i don’t do understanding. i do receiving.”
gojo wheezed.
shoko pinched the bridge of her nose, already exhausted.
haibara looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.
geto, still impossibly calm, still infuriatingly kind, lifted a hand in surrender. “fine. you don’t have to understand. but talk to him. he doesn’t know you feel this way yet.”
you gave him a slow, sarcastic blink. “wow. brilliant. stunning. inspiring. what a fabulous idea. i should talk to my boyfriend. how revolutionary. no one in the history of existence has ever thought of communication before. should we hold a press conference? maybe write a thesis?”
geto raised a brow. “so you won’t talk to him.”
you inhaled sharply through your teeth. “of course i will not talk to him. talking requires vulnerability. vulnerability requires humility. i have neither.”
gojo cackled. “at least she’s self-aware.”
you snapped your head toward him, eyes blazing. “self-awareness is not the virtue you think it is. it’s the burden of the elite.”
geto sighed but the corner of his mouth twitched, because even when you were insufferable, you were entertaining. “he cares about you. deeply. you know that.”
you bit down a bitter laugh. your throat felt tight, your stomach twisting, nails scraping lightly against your arm through your sweater sleeve. “yeah? well he should show it. i shouldn’t have to perform emotional gymnastics to earn the attention he used to give freely. if i wanted to beg for scraps, i’d date a man who makes minimum wage.”
shoko actually choked on her drink this time, coughing. “jesus christ.”
geto stared at you. “you do realize nanami is allowed to have conversations with other women, right?”
your head snapped toward him so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder like a weapon. “and you do realize i don’t give a singular microscopic fuck about what men are ‘allowed’ to do, right? he is my boyfriend. my emotional support adult. my legally binding emotional investment. if he wants to discuss rosemary with another woman, that woman better be me in a wig.”
haibara blinked slowly. “why would you need a wig?”
you waved him off. “for dramatics, haibara, please keep up.”
and there it was—the truth sitting on your tongue, bitter and humiliating, but ready to spill because no amount of sarcasm could bury it forever.
you exhaled shakily, your voice dropping half an octave, quieter but no less sharp. “i just… i shouldn’t have to ask to be seen.”
and the silence that followed was loud—accompanied only by the violent popping of kernels in the machine behind you, like applause for the tragedy of your own making.
the waiting area outside the theatre was cramped and buzzing, the kind of space where the floor was sticky with decades of spilled soda and regret, circular tables placed close enough that strangers’ conversations bled into each other. all six of you crowded around one of those round tables, chairs stolen from nearby like barbarians claiming land. the digital screen above the hallway flickered with “screen 4 – seats cleaning, please wait”, and everyone settled into that pre-movie limbo — except you, who sat with your back painfully straight, pretending nanami wasn’t sitting right beside you with his hand on your thigh like he owned real estate there.
you tried to ignore him. ignore the warmth of his palm through the sheer wolford tights, ignore the weight of his fingers curving around the top of your thigh like you were his favorite page-turning novel, ignore the small absent-minded circles his thumb drew — gentle, steady, familiar — the exact type of touch that usually melted you, soothed you, tethered you to him.
but right now? it felt like salt on a wound.
because while his hand was on you, his attention wasn’t. nanami was still talking to utahime. still. like the universe hated you personally.
you stared at the table, chin tilted slightly away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your eyes, while on your left, geto raised his brows at you, a silent talk to him written across his face. you shook your head once, small, stubborn, your lips tightening, and he sighed, leaning back like he was watching a predictable tragedy unfold.
nanami didn’t seem to notice your emotional apocalypse. his posture was relaxed, other hand resting on the table, his voice low and polite as utahime asked him something about club meetings or plant pots — you didn’t care, you refused to care, but it clawed at you anyway.
you snapped.
you slowly leaned in, one elbow on the table, your body turning toward nanami, your hair falling like a curtain over your shoulder, your voice dipped in honeyed poison. “what were you two talking about?”
nanami turned instantly — and god, you hated that your heart reacted before your brain could block it. his gaze softened the moment it met yours, that small, warm smile appearing — the one that was just for you, the one that made you feel chosen, the one that usually cured every storm inside you.
his knuckles brushed your cheekbone, tender, affectionate, familiar enough to make your inhale stutter. “just some things about the plants,” he dismissed gently, thumb brushing your skin like he was smoothing your irritation away. “utahime is thinking of joining the horticulture club.”
the club again. as if the word itself didn’t sound like an allergy.
you hummed, but your eyes didn’t soften, and your jaw was wired tight. “what things?” you asked, voice light to the untrained ear, but razor-edged if anyone listened with their soul. “tell me.”
it wasn’t a question. it was a command masked as a request. you wanted him to elaborate, to include you, to bring you into the conversation where you belonged — beside him, not outside of him.
nanami exhaled, a small barely-there laugh from his nose, the kind a man makes when he thinks you’re cute for being ridiculous. “you wouldn’t understand, sweetheart,” he murmured, tone meant to soothe, not belittle — yet it sliced through you cleanly anyway. “don’t stress your pretty head about it.”
and then — the fucking bastard — he turned his attention back to utahime as if you hadn’t just spoken. as if your opinion, your presence, didn’t demand the gravitational pull it always had.
you froze.
your frown carved in deeper, lips pressing so tightly together your lipstick nearly cracked. your chest hollowed in that humiliating, nauseating way pride bleeds when pricked. and from the corner of your eye, you caught it — the smallest twitch of utahime’s lips. not a smile. a smirk. subtle, fleeting, but you saw it. the kind of expression one makes when they think they’ve been chosen over someone else.
you bit the inside of your cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood bloomed on your tongue.
nanami kento had just dismissed you. in public. in front of people. for plant girl.
humiliation and fury tangled inside you like barbed wire.
you didn’t speak. you couldn’t — because to speak now would be to either cry (never allowed) or stab (socially frowned upon). your pride was a spoiled, overfed beast, raised in luxury, pampered with attention, never starved a day in its life — and suddenly nanami had fed someone else first. your ego didn’t know how to process deprivation. it was built on the unshakeable fact that you were the exception to rules, not subject to them.
nanami had always been one of those things placed into your palms without effort — not because he was easy, no, he was one of the only things you actually wanted badly enough to hold with care — but because he chose you endlessly, without hesitation, without question, making you believe his devotion was fixed, guaranteed, unshakable.
and now? now he had shifted his attention for a moment too long, and it felt like a throne had been pulled an inch from under you. not enough to fall — just enough to wobble, enough to threaten your crown.
your voice finally emerged, low, venom-soaked, each syllable enunciated like a curse. “you know,” you said, staring at the table because if you looked at him you’d either combust or kiss him and both would be humiliating, “i must be delusional to expect my boyfriend to act like he gives a shit when i’m sitting right next to him.”
nanami blinked, head turning slowly back toward you, brows gently knitting, confusion and concern surfacing in equal measure. “i do give a—”
you cut him off, a cold laugh escaping you, sharp enough to slice the air. “really? because you’re acting like i’m some decorative throw pillow you keep around for aesthetics. should i sit on the floor so you can focus better on your little garden club recruitment?”
geto sucked in a breath. shoko mumbled “oh, fuck.” gojo was already grinning like a hyena at a feast.
nanami’s hand on your thigh tightened, firm, grounding, not rough but authoritative enough to demand your gaze — so you turned, finally meeting his eyes, and god, you hated that the warmth there made your chest ache.
“i wasn’t ignoring you,” he said softly, calmly, trying to stay level-headed like he always did with you. “she asked questions. i answered. it wasn’t meant to make you feel left out.”
you tilted your head, smile slow and poisonous. “well congratulations, you failed. gold star. ten out of ten on the ‘make my girlfriend feel like a side character in her own life’ scale.”
nanami sighed — not annoyed, not angry — but patient, because of course he was patient. “i’m sorry you felt that way. but you know you’re important to me.”
your lips curled again, a mocking echo of sweetness. “important? i’m not asking to be important, nanami. i’m asking to be prioritized. you can’t treat me like the main course one day and a mint garnish the next. pick a menu.”
and even as you stabbed him with your words, your chest throbbed with something awful, something you didn’t allow to surface: you were scared. scared of being replaceable. scared of indifference. scared because nanami was the one person you didn’t know how to exist without winning.
he held your gaze, thumb rubbing soothing circles again — this time not absent-minded, but intentional. “i should’ve paid more attention to you,” he admitted quietly.
you wanted that to fix it.
it didn’t.
not yet.
and that line — “i should’ve paid more attention to you” — should’ve knocked the fury out of your bones, wrapped you in silk, lulled you into that soft spoiled-brat slumber where you win simply because nanami surrendered first. it should’ve been enough to stop the spiral dead in its tracks.
because nanami didn’t deny you, didn’t gaslight you, didn’t tell you you were “doing too much.” he validated you. he handed you the crown back with his own hands, kissed your ego gently and placed it on the throne again — no resistance, no argument, no double meaning. pure, steady sincerity.
but you?
you were a dramatic piece of shit.
your entire existence was built on ego the way temples were built on sacred ground — your pride wasn’t a personality trait, it was the spine you walked with. one microscopic moment of humiliation felt like being stripped naked in public. you weren’t wired to crumble gracefully. you were wired to explode, self-destruct, resurrect, and then deny it ever happened.
you prided yourself on being untouchable, above nonsense, above insecurities. you prided yourself on being that girl — the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t break, didn’t chase. the one who ignored gojo’s existence for an entire freshman year because he annoyed you and you refused to give his ego oxygen. you were a monument of indifference when you wanted to be.
so admitting something got to you? that a girl with tragic bangs shook your composure enough to make you feel?
fucking humiliating.
you were supposed to be the one people cried over — not the one hiding tears.
and the worst part was knowing utahime heard you argue, saw you demand attention, witnessed the crack in your armor. she should’ve been the one feeling threatened by you — not you feeling anything over her.
your chair scraped back sharply, the sound slicing through the table’s chatter. nanami’s hand instantly reached for your wrist, instinct kicking in, but you jerked your hand away like his touch burned. the shock that flickered across his face — brief, quiet, wounded — nearly broke something inside your ribcage, but you bit down on it, rose to your feet with your chin high, spine rigid, and walked away.
you didn’t look back.
you refused to give them the image of your eyes shining.
you could hear footsteps behind you — one pair, steady, controlled (nanami), another lighter and lazier (gojo), and a third too bored to hurry (shoko). you prayed it wasn’t nanami, because if he saw your eyes, saw the crack, saw the tear that fought to slip free, your pride would shatter so loudly the universe would hear it.
you pushed the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the fluorescent lights too bright, mirrors too reflective for fragile emotions. it was empty — stalls open, silence echoing off the tiles — a sanctuary for humiliation to decompose in peace.
you braced your palms on the counter, head tilted up toward the ceiling like you were begging gravity to pull the tears back into your skull instead of down your face. you grabbed tissues, folding them like they were fine linen napkins, pressing them beneath your waterline carefully — because you would rather die than let mascara betray you. ugly crying on top of public humiliation? no. you had standards, even in breakdowns.
your shoulders trembled once — quickly — the way a spoiled princess shakes only in private, only for a second, only before putting the mask back on.
the door creaked open. shoko entered, leaning against the sink beside you, arms crossed, chewing her gum like she was watching a circus she didn’t buy tickets for.
“that was dramatic as hell,” she sighed, like this was episode twelve of a show she couldn’t stop watching. “even for you.”
you snapped your head toward her, eyes glossy but sharp, whisper-hissed so your voice wouldn’t crack, “shut the fuck up, shoko, unless you want to be the next victim in my emotional homicide spree.”
she raised both brows, unimpressed. “i’m just saying — storming off mid-conversation like a telenovela villain after her husband cheats with the maid? iconic, but dramatic.”
you glared, aggressively patting the tissue under your eyes with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. your voice was tight, vibrating with swallowed rage. “i am trying not to cry, okay? if uta-fucking-hime makes me cry just by breathing in the direction of my man, i’ll bury her in the community garden next to the fucking carrots.”
shoko huffed a laugh, shaking her head as she grabbed another tissue and handed it to you. “you’re insane.”
“i’m territorial,” you corrected sharply, dabbing at the corner of your eye, making sure your eyeliner stayed crisp. “and i refuse to let some no-name, middle-class herb girl with a discount shampoo routine see me cry. she will not get that satisfaction. i will set myself on fire first.”
shoko shrugged, leaning next to you in the mirror. “you know nanami didn’t mean to hurt you.”
you threw the tissue away like it offended you. “he dismissed me, shoko. me. in front of her. do you know how humiliating that is for someone with my upbringing? i grew up in a house where the sun rose when i woke up. i am not emotionally equipped to be treated like… like fucking background noise!”
shoko sighed, but there was something gentler in it this time. “you felt replaced for a second. it happens.”
you clenched the edges of the sink, knuckles white, nails digging into porcelain. “i don’t get replaced.”
your voice broke on that line — just slightly, enough that shoko’s gaze softened — and you sniffed, anger and vulnerability tangling in your throat like poison.
“i don’t get replaced,” you repeated, quieter, like you were reminding the universe. “especially not by basil-enthusiast barbie.”
shoko handed you another tissue, her tone flat but honest. “you won’t be. nanami’s obsessed with you. it’s gross.”
you swallowed hard, eyes lifting to your reflection — furious, wounded, beautiful, trembling. you whispered, voice shaking but trying so hard not to break, “then why did it feel like i was… optional?”
the door creaked again, interrupting the moment before your throat could fully tighten around the confession, and a voice—annoyingly recognizable, obnoxiously casual—floated in:
“you’re not optional.”
you closed your eyes like god was testing you personally. shoko didn’t even react—meaning she expected this circus act.
gojo stepped in, sunglasses pushed up on his head like a headband, hair a mess like he styled it with electricity. he took in the scene—your glossy eyes, shoko leaning like a bored therapist, tissues everywhere—and he sighed dramatically.
“jesus, you’re really in here having a main-character mental breakdown in a bathroom,” he muttered, walking closer. “and not even a luxury bathroom. this is tragic. i expected better from you.”
you glared at him, voice already cracking with rage and humiliation. “fuck off, satoru.”
he didn’t. he reached out, plucked the tissue from your hand with surprising gentleness, and guided your chin upward with two fingers so you were forced to look at him. his movements were slow, almost annoyingly tender, as he dabbed beneath your lashes to catch the tears before they could fall.
“nanamin is disgustingly obsessed with you,” he said, tone matter-of-fact, almost bored. “like, clinically. it’s gross. if he could lock you in a little glass display case so no one breathed the same air as you, he would. he’s feral about you.”
you scoffed, voice trembling not from disbelief but from how badly you wanted to believe him. “this is my fucking fault,” you muttered, shoulders curling inward as you snatched the tissue back just to shred it between your fingers. “all my fucking fault.”
gojo hummed. “yeah. kinda.”
shoko’s head whipped toward him. “satoru—”
but you raised a hand sharply to stop her, because weirdly, you needed the honesty, even if it sliced. “no. he’s right. it’s my fault because i let myself get… bothered.” the word felt dirty, like weakness, like rust on a crown. “i shouldn’t be this… affected. i shouldn’t fucking care. i’m me. i don’t do insecure. i don’t do threatened. but here i am—crying in a fucking cinema bathroom like a side character in a netflix teen drama.”
you gestured around wildly, voice rising again, hysteria bubbling because once you started, you couldn’t stop. “and not even a nice bathroom! do you see the tiles? this place looks like it was decorated by a depressed cockroach. if i have to emotionally collapse in public it should at least be inside a hotel restroom with marble counters and a couch.”
gojo nodded seriously. “you deserve chandeliers with your breakdowns.”
“exactly!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was the only person with IQ in the room. “i am too expensive for this kind of emotional scenery.”
shoko leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you unravel like yarn. “you’re spiraling.”
you shot her a glare through the mirror. “i am aware. now shut up and let me spiral with dignity.”
you turned back to gojo, eyes burning. “and it’s your fault too.”
gojo blinked. “my fault? how did i enter the chat?”
you jabbed a finger into his chest with the force of an entitled squirrel on caffeine. “you brought that farm-fresh disney side character into our group. you let her tag along. you encouraged her. and now i’m crying over miss herbal-essence-reject because she dared to breathe within ten inches of my boyfriend.”
gojo’s lips twitched. “okay, fair, i’ll take partial responsibility for releasing the eco-friendly demon into our circle.”
shoko snorted.
you ran both hands through your hair, pacing a small circle, your heels tapping aggressively against the tiles, movements sharp, emotional energy radiating like static. “i am so embarrassed. do you understand? embarrassed. i do not feel. i make other people feel. i do not chase, i get chased. i do not compete, i get worshipped. and suddenly i’m… this.” you gestured to yourself like you were a cursed portrait. “this pathetic puddle of emotional goo because my boyfriend decided to talk about fucking plants with someone who isn’t me.”
gojo placed a hand on his chest, tone solemn. “plants are disrespectful like that.”
you nearly laughed—almost—before the ache returned, tightening your throat.
“i hate that i care,” you whispered, eyes dropping again, thumb rubbing at the tissue in your hand like you could scrub the feeling away. “i hate that she got under my skin. i hate that he let her. i hate that she saw me crack.” you swallowed, voice thinning with raw embarrassment. “she’s not even on my level. i shouldn’t feel anything. she should feel inferior, insecure, irrelevant — not me.”
and there it was again—your truth, ugly and spoiled, but honest.
gojo’s voice softened just slightly, just enough to cut through your tantrum. “you care because he matters. that’s not pathetic. it’s just… love. the messy, vomit-inducing kind.”
you clenched your jaw, lip trembling despite your effort to kill it. “i don’t want love to make me look stupid.”
shoko spoke this time, voice dry but real. “yeah, well… that’s kind of the default package. love fries brain cells.”
you stared at your reflection. eyeliner still sharp. mascara intact. lipstick only slightly smudged. you looked angry and beautiful and fragile and terrifying all at once. you exhaled shakily, like forcing out poisoned air, “if loving someone means i cry in a public bathroom that smells like buttered trauma, then i want a refund.”
gojo stared at you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just enough to reveal something almost… human. sympathy, guilt, the faint wrinkle of someone realizing oh shit, i accidentally kicked a puppy while trying to pet it. he let out a breath, long and uncharacteristically genuine, his hand settling briefly on your shoulder—not heavy, not mocking, just there.
“okay,” he said quietly, “i’m sorry. i didn’t think bringing her would… you know, make you feel like this. i didn’t mean to dump emotional compost on your royal garden of delusion.”
you sniffed, wiping the corner of your eye with a new tissue as if dabbing at expensive wine spilled on silk. “as you should be sorry.” your voice was hoarse but sharp. “you’re lucky i’m emotionally unstable right now or i’d be charging you for emotional damages. and trust me, my invoices come with interest.”
a small laugh puffed out of him, but he nodded. “i know. you come first. always. dramatic loyalty oath or whatever.”
you flicked your wrist like a queen accepting tribute. “good. as you should choose me first. imagine picking her.” you scoffed like the idea itself was beneath language. “ew.”
gojo leaned back against the sink next to shoko, crossing his arms, shoulders slumping, expression turning thoughtful in a way that made him look borderline competent. “you know,” he said, head tilting, “if i did actually like her—like like her—I’d be spiraling, too. probably worse than you.”
you gestured at him with the damp tissue. “exactly. you are the blueprint of being a dramatic clingy bitch in this friend group. i learned from the best.”
shoko snorted, arms crossed as she leaned beside him. “he’s dramatic, not psychotic. your issue is… more advanced.”
you didn’t hesitate. you threw the crumpled tissue at her face with perfect aim.
“shut the fuck up, shoko, or I’ll flush your vape down the toilet.”
she caught it mid-air, dropped it in the trash, and exhaled like dealing with you aged her in dog years.
you turned back to gojo, brows furrowing as you wiped under your eye again carefully, preserving the wing of your eyeliner like it was a fragile national treasure. “seriously, though. how are you not losing your shit? miss herbal shampoo is out there flirting with nanami in 4k, and you’re just… breathing. like normal. aren’t you supposed to be performing a one-man telenovela by now? throwing yourself dramatically over the concession counter? faking a fainting spell? something?”
gojo shrugged, pushing his sunglasses further into his hair as he examined his nails like he was filing his feelings away. “i mean, i don’t really care-care. she’s cute, but not ‘cry-in-a-bathroom’ level. the crush wasn’t crushing, you know?”
you gawked at him, scandalized. “so you brought a girl you didn’t even like like into our sacred circle of dysfunction? you contaminated the ecosystem for a lukewarm crush? are you deranged?”
he lifted both hands, palms out. “in my defense, my standards are confusing even to me.”
you threw your hands up. “so you emotionally derailed me for absolutely no fucking reason except your brain short-circuited and thought ‘hey let’s invite the human embodiment of a compostable tea bag to movie night’?”
he opened his mouth. closed it. then nodded. “yeah that sounds about right.”
you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest like a heart-broken victorian widow. “i swear to god, satoru, if i ever commit a felony, you will be the reason.”
shoko muttered under her breath, “you’ll commit a felony no matter what.”
you shot her a look. “not the point.”
you turned to the mirror again, tilting your head to assess your reflection—puffy waterline, makeup still salvageable, lashes intact, lip gloss slightly faded but fixable. good. you could still walk out there and look untouchable. but the humiliation? still boiling.
your voice softened—not weak, but the kind of softness anger uses when it starts eating itself.
“i just… i hate that someone like her got under my skin,” you admitted, picking at your thumbnail, your reflection looking back at you like a stranger you didn’t consent to be. “i hate that i cracked over something so… beneath me. she’s not even competition. i shouldn’t have felt anything.” your throat bobbed, your pride bleeding slowly. “i’m supposed to be the storm. not the one caught in it.”
gojo bumped your shoulder lightly with his. a rare, gentle gesture. “storms still get tired.”
you stared at him through the mirror, eyes narrowing as if evaluating whether to accept the comfort or set him on fire.
“i don’t get tired,” you muttered.
he arched a brow. “you’re literally crying next to a hand dryer.”
you inhaled sharply, scanning your reflection once more, lifting your chin a millimeter higher, as if that alone could glue your dignity back into place.
“fine,” you said, swallowing pride like poison. “maybe i got… temporarily… inconvenienced by emotion.”
shoko snorted. “inconvenienced? you sprinted out of there like nanami announced he was marrying utahime on wednesday.”
you pointed at her again. “keep talking and i will bite your face.”
but your reflection didn’t lie: you were shaken, cracked, and scrambling to rebuild the throne inside your chest before anyone else saw the fracture.
you weren’t done spiraling—but you were done being seen falling apart.
and just as you braced your palms on the sink to steady yourself, the bathroom door opened again.
this time, footsteps were steady. familiar. slow.
nanami.
the sound of those footsteps—measured, unhurried, familiar in their quiet certainty—slithered under the bathroom door crack and hit your spine before the door even opened. nanami’s footsteps always sounded like intention, like calm inevitability, like consequences arriving dressed in beige and self-restraint.
the door pushed open with a soft click. gojo and shoko both straightened, not out of respect but because nanami Kento entering a bathroom while you were mid-breakdown was the emotional equivalent of a nuclear inspector walking into a live warzone.
nanami stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him, his eyes scanning the room until they found you. his posture was composed, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared yet soft, like he was approaching a frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. his gaze moved from your blotchy waterline to the tissue shreds on the counter, and something in his expression shifted—pain, regret, a flicker of guilt tightening the muscles of his jaw.
gojo cleared his throat, stepping slightly in front of you like a bodyguard wearing clown shoes. “hey, we’re having a very important emotional meltdown here—private screening, by invitation only.”
nanami didn’t look away from you. “step aside, gojo.”
gojo opened his mouth to argue—then saw the look in nanami’s eyes and decided he valued his life. he lifted both hands in surrender. “roger that. therapist daddy mode activated, we’ll leave.” shoko followed him out, but not before patting your shoulder like she was petting a traumatized cat.
the door shut again. silence fell, thick and suffocating as expensive velvet.
nanami took one step closer. you instinctively straightened, lifted your chin, wiped the corner of your eye with a sharp swipe like erasing evidence. your arms crossed over your chest, your body angling away from him—not quite running, not quite ready to forgive, suspended in the ugly in-between of pride and pain.
he spoke first, voice low, steady, the kind that softened even when saying hard things. “you walked out. can we talk?”
you scoffed, avoiding his gaze in the mirror, fixing an imaginary smudge on your eyeliner. “wow, you noticed. truly a christmas miracle.”
he exhaled slowly, stepping closer but leaving enough space so you didn’t feel cornered. “i noticed the second you stood up.”
“congratulations,” you muttered, tossing the ruined tissue into the trash with surgical precision. “a little late though, don’t you think? maybe if you had noticed i existed five minutes earlier, we wouldn’t be starring in this bathroom drama.”
he ran a hand through his hair—once, a small tell he was gathering patience. “i wasn’t ignoring you.”
you spun around to face him fully, arms still crossed, heart still bleeding but covered in barbed wire. “you dismissed me, nanami. in front of her. i asked you to include me and you basically told me to go play with crayons because my stupid little brain couldn’t understand your plant science shit.”
nanami’s brows knit, genuinely pained. “that’s not what i meant. i wasn’t belittling you. i thought you were frustrated already and—”
“oh, so now i’m fragile? delicate? mentally allergic to academia?” your laugh was dark, humorless. “please, enlighten me, professor horticulture—explain how telling your girlfriend ‘don’t stress your pretty head’ while turning your back to her isn’t dismissive. i’ll wait.”
he closed the distance by half a step, hands lifting but not touching you yet, as if waiting for permission you would never verbally give. “i was trying to keep the conversation light, not make you feel inferior.”
your throat tightened. you hated how badly you wanted to believe him. how much you wanted him to fix the bruise he caused.
you turned away again, pacing a small line near the sinks, heels clicking like punctuation to your rant.
“do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” your voice cracked before you forced it steady again. “i don’t do… this.” you gestured angrily to the bathroom, your face, your reflection—your vulnerability. “i don’t get affected. i don’t compete. i don’t chase attention. i am the attention.”
nanami’s voice softened. “you are.”
you ignored the way that hit you. “and suddenly i’m crying in a public bathroom that smells like expired mops because some random girl dared to speak to my boyfriend like she—” your breath wavered, “like she was entitled to his time.”
nanami’s shoulders softened, and he stepped closer again, slow, deliberate. “you are not optional. you are not second to anyone.”
you snapped your gaze to him, eyes burning. “then why did i feel like a placeholder? like a side character sitting there while you entertained fan mail from some herb-obsessed homewrecker apprentice?”
nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling, then met your eyes again—direct, unwavering. “i should have put my attention on you. i should have noticed you were upset. i got caught up in answering her questions and didn’t see how it affected you. i’m sorry.”
his apology wasn’t defensive. wasn’t performative. wasn’t sugar-coated.
it made it worse.
because now you had no villain to fight but your own fear.
you scoffed to keep from letting it soften you. “sorry doesn’t un-humiliate me. sorry doesn’t make her forget she saw me beg for attention like some common mortal.”
“you didn’t beg,” he said firmly. “you asked. because it mattered to you.”
you bit back the ache behind your teeth. “well, it shouldn’t have. i shouldn’t care this much. tears over plants? is this what i’ve become? an emotionally unstable salad?”
nanami’s lips twitched—not mocking, but like he wanted to smile at the sheer absurdity of you. “you care because you love me.”
you rolled your eyes so fast you saw heaven. “don’t say it like that. it makes me sound weak.”
“loving someone isn’t weakness.”
you scoffed, pacing again, resorting to sarcasm like armor. “easy for you to say. you weren’t the one crying next to the tampon dispenser.”
nanami took another step, closing the gap, his voice low. “i love you. i am allowed to talk to others, but you are the one I choose. always.”
you swallowed, hating how your pulse reacted to hearing him say it plainly.
you lifted your chin, clinging to the last shard of drama left. “you better. because if i have to keep sharing your attention with some botanical disney princess, i swear i will uproot her entire bloodline, replant them, and watch them wilt.”
nanami nodded, dead serious. “noted. i’ll make it clear to her that we won’t be having more one-on-one conversations.”
you blinked. “…oh.”
your ego perked up like a spoiled cat being offered caviar again.
his hand finally reached for yours—slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. he held your fingers carefully, like they were something precious he almost dropped once and refused to lose again.
“you come first,” he said quietly. “if i made you feel anything else, i’ll fix it.”
and for once, you had no witty comeback ready.
your pride hated how good that felt.
and yet—because you were you—you sniffed, wiped under your eye again, and muttered, “you better, because i refuse to cry in a 2-star bathroom twice in one day. my reputation can survive one mental breakdown per quarter at most.”
but here’s the universal truth mothers should stitch into baby blankets so no girl grows up delusional: men are fucking liars. even the good ones. even the morally-upright, self–righteous, tax-paying, cardigan-wearing, philosopher-souled species of man. the ones who read books without pictures, the ones who sort their recycling, the ones who speak gently to old people and cats.
yes—even nanami kento.
your precious boyfriend, the man who lectured you about honesty like it was a religion and he was the last pope standing—turned out to be a man with a mouth capable of lies. small ones, yes, but lies nonetheless. lies sprinkled in moral salt. lies marinated in good intentions. but lies.
because after all that cinematic bathroom telenovela meltdown, after all the comforting, the forehead kisses, the “i’ll fix it,” the “you come first”…
utahime was still there.
not only there.
everywhere.
the bitch multiplied like mold in humidity.
somehow, she burrowed into nanami’s horticulture club like a tick with a dream. and because the club wasn’t just weekly—it was meetings, garden maintenance, farmer’s market volunteering, seed exchange events, greenhouse cleanup, weekend plant fairs—she was suddenly permanently glued to his schedule like ivy choking a wall.
every time you turned a corner on campus—she was there. carrying a watering can. laughing too loudly. holding seedling trays like they were newborns.
every time you looked out the window during class—you saw her walking with nanami to the greenhouse.
every time you checked instagram—someone posted a story of the club and guess who was standing too close to him?
every time you waited outside his lecture—she walked out with him, talking, giggling (yes, giggling—like you didn’t threaten to bury her under a basil farm).
she joined the same library study group.
she sat two rows behind him in lectures she didn’t even take.
she suddenly found “reasons” to be in the cafeteria when he got lunch.
the girl was haunting your life like a stalker ghost with bangs.
and worse? nanami didn’t shut her down like he promised he would.
so you did what any self-respecting spoiled princess with injured pride and an inflated sense of self-worth would do:
you ignored him.
full commitment. full silent-treatment olympics. gold medal performance.
you didn’t text first.
you didn’t sit next to him in class.
you left his messages on read and sometimes—just to inflict psychological warfare—delivered.
you walked past him in hallways with your chin up like a widow attending the funeral of a husband who died in dishonor.
and the audacity of nanami?
the man noticed and chased.
today, he cornered you outside the library, hand gently curling around your wrist—not forceful, just enough to halt your dramatic strut. his voice soft, tired, laced with concern.
“you’ve been ignoring me.”
you turned slowly, sunglasses on despite being in the shade, chewing gum like violence, your posture dripping with aristocratic disdain. arms crossed, hip popped, chin lifted—your entire body language declared: try me, peasant.
you took a long, theatrical breath. “ignore you? no, darling, i simply redirected my attention. i’m sure utahime is thrilled to receive the overflow.”
nanami’s jaw flexed—a tell. “you know it isn’t like that.”
you barked a dry laugh, head tilting with enough sarcasm to slice a man. “really? because from where i stand, it looks exactly like that. she’s glued to your side like you’re the last functioning brain cell on this campus.”
his brows knit, his hand loosening slightly on your wrist so he wouldn’t hold you if you pulled away. “she keeps approaching me. i’m not entertaining anything inappropriate. i’m just being courteous.”
you ripped your hand out of his hold, stepping back like his touch burned. “courteous? you were supposed to make it clear—your words, not mine—that there would be no one-on-one interactions. ring a bell or do you need me to write it on your forehead with permanent marker?”
nanami sighed through his nose, the way he did when he was trying so hard to remain patient with your unfiltered psychopath era. “i didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the club. she’s new. she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
your head snapped back as if slapped by the stupidity of that sentence. “not done anything wrong? existing near you is wrong enough for me. breathing your air is a felony in my book.”
“you’re being unreasonable,” he murmured gently.
your spine straightened, chin lifting a millimeter higher, eyes narrowing into slits of diamond-cut rage. “don’t you dare call me unreasonable. i am extremely reasonable for a woman who hasn’t committed aggravated assault yet.”
he stepped closer, voice lower. “i understand you’re upset. but i’m doing my best to handle this without causing unnecessary conflict.”
you scoffed, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “newsflash, nanami: conflict is necessary. humiliation isn’t. and you let me look like a clown that day. so now? i’m protecting my dignity.”
his expression softened in that maddeningly stable nanami-way. “you’re not a clown.”
you shrugged, indifferent mask slipping back on. “maybe not. but i felt like one. and you didn’t stop it.”
a beat of silence.
the truth sat between you like a wounded animal.
nanami’s voice came quieter, careful, the way a man sounds when stepping on emotional landmines. “i should’ve set boundaries more firmly. i thought I could handle it politely, but I see now that it hurt you. I’m sorry.”
and god, he made it so hard to stay angry when he did that—when he offered accountability instead of excuses.
but you weren’t done bleeding yet.
you clicked your tongue, looking him up and down like he was a disappointing purchase you were considering returning. “sorry isn’t enough this time. fix it. or i swear i will start a rumor that you and your plants are in a polyamorous relationship.”
nanami blinked. “that… doesn’t even make sense.”
you smirked coldly, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper of rich, spoiled poison. “watch me make it make sense.”
and then, because pride demanded a dramatic exit, you turned on your heel and walked away—leaving the scent of expensive perfume, ego, and emotional carnage in your wake.
but here’s the cruelty in the universe that no one warns you about because it would make little girls grow up violent: men will swear on their grandmother’s grave that they won’t do something… and then go do that exact thing with clean conscience and a student-discount coffee in hand.
and nanami kento — your nanami, the man built from ethics and moral consistency, the man who looked like he’d file a police report if he saw someone cut in line — turned out to be a man, too.
a man capable of promising and then failing.
after the cinema meltdown, after the bathroom breakdown, after nanami held your hand and said the equivalent of you’re my priority, after he placed metaphorical rose petals on your ego and vowed to do better…
utahime didn’t disappear.
no, the bitch multiplied.
like she was photosynthesizing off your rage.
and the worst part? she wasn’t just present. she was strategic.
she was everywhere nanami was — like she subscribed to his personal movement calendar.
everywhere, meaning: when you went to meet nanami after class? utahime was there, “coincidentally” packing her bag slower than a glacier melts. when nanami had club duty in the greenhouse? she was already inside with gloves on, hair clipped back all “i’m such a hardworking little plant fairy” aesthetic.
library study sessions? somehow she “didn’t understand the homework” and asked nanami for help. she sat next to him — next — not across, not diagonally. group lunch with your friends? she slithered in like a side character trying to make herself relevant, tray in hand, pretending she “just happened to be here too.”
and your friends saw it. gojo saw it first (and enjoyed it like live theatre). geto sighed like a disappointed parent. shoko made nicotine-laced commentary. haibara tried to “give her a chance” until you threatened to drown him in fertilizer.
you did what any self-respecting, pride-soaked, ego-driven, spoiled girlfriend with an image to protect would do: you went full cold war.
if nanami wanted politeness, he could enjoy silence instead. you ignored him with the elegance of a duchess excommunicating a traitor. and nanami noticed immediately because you didn’t just ignore — you withdrew.
you didn’t sit next to him in class — you sat between gojo and your bag like a chastity belt.
you didn’t touch him — no hand on his arm, no kiss on the cheek, not even a hair tuck.
you didn’t text first — and when he texted, your responses were so short they were practically Morse code:
him: are you free after class?
you: busy.
him: can i call you?
you: no.
him: are you upset with me?
you: ask your club member.
you left his “goodnight”s on read.
you left his “are you okay?” on delivered because read would be too generous.
in the group, it was worse — because nanami tried public damage control, which was humiliating for you and painful for him.
like earlier today, all of you were at your usual table in the campus café. you arrived last, sunglasses on, iced latte in hand, a picture of uninterested royalty. nanami pulled out the chair beside him for you — your usual seat — and you walked right past it and sat between shoko and geto instead, crossing your legs like a throne had been rolled under you.
nanami’s hand hesitated mid-air before lowering. everyone saw.
a muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing — at first.
then, after ten minutes of group chatter, he tried to join your space.
he leaned slightly toward your side of the table, voice low enough for you but audible to others, “you’re quiet today.”
you didn’t look at him. you sipped your drink, adjusting your sunglasses, and responded with a tone dry enough to produce drought:
“maybe i’m photosynthesizing.”
gojo choked on his muffin. shoko coughed to hide a laugh. geto stared into his drink like it was a portal to escape reality.
nanami inhaled, patient but cracking. “can we talk later?”
you smiled — cold, polite, corporate-HR-email kind of smile. “why? so you can politely ignore me again in favor of plant girl? i’m busy later. very, extremely, unprecedentedly busy.”
“you’re upset,” nanami said softly — and god, he sounded like he was trying not to touch a wild animal, “and I understand why, but i told you, i’m not entertaining anything. she’s new and i’m trying to be decent.”
you turned your head just enough to look at him over the rim of your sunglasses — only the lower half of your gaze visible, dripping with contempt and luxury.
one brow lifted. “decent? don’t use words you clearly don’t understand. decent would’ve been keeping your promise.”
geto winced. haibara whispered “oh no.” gojo grabbed popcorn like entertainment had begun.
nanami kept his voice steady, though his fingers tapped once against his cup — a tiny crack in composure. “i didn’t break the promise. i haven’t spoken to her alone outside of club responsibilities, and when she—”
you cut him off with a laugh — sharp, cruel, aristocratic. the kind a queen gives when a peasant offers excuses.
“club responsibilities,” you repeated, mockingly. “what a sexy phrase. truly. i’m so thrilled you found a morally sound loophole in your vow. maybe next you’ll say ‘we only breathed air in the same vicinity for charity reasons.’”
his brows pulled together — he was trying, really trying. “you’re twisting my words.”
“no,” you said, leaning back with one arm draped over the back of your chair, looking him dead in the eyes, “i’m repeating them. just slower. so they sound as stupid as they actually are.”
nanami exhaled, steady but strained, and the worst part? he still validated you because he loved you like it was a discipline. “i understand why you’re hurt. you’re right to feel neglected. i should’ve enforced stronger boundaries.”
you shrugged, inspecting your nails like the conversation bored you. “words, words, words. if i wanted rehearsed accountability, i’d date a politician. i wanted results.”
nanami’s voice dipped lower. “i’m trying to fix it.”
you stared at him, expression blank, voice sugar-poisoned, “try harder.” and after that, you went back to ignoring him — because you weren’t done punishing him yet. your pride demanded interest.
nanami kento, for all his monk-like patience and buddhist-level self-control, was still a man with limits, and you—blessed, cursed, loved, unbearable you—had been kicking those limits like a toddler on a sugar high. he missed you. painfully. he missed the chaos, the clinginess disguised as entitlement, the way you demanded affection like it was your birthright, how you’d climb into his lap without asking because why the fuck would you ask, the iced coffee orders you shoved into his hand when he picked you up, the kisses you gave like they were currency and he was the only bank that accepted them.
he missed you so much it made him irritable, and nanami kento being irritable was a rare supernatural event—like the northern lights or a government official being honest.
so he did the only logical thing: he showed up at your stupidly large house.
the house you didn’t call a mansion because “mansion sounds tacky” but where the staff wore uniforms and the ceiling height legally required a parachute. the kind of house that had wings—plural—as in east wing, west wing, wife’s-attitude-control wing.
the workers knew him by now. the butler gave a respectful nod. one of the maids greeted him by name. none of them questioned the expensive, tall, blond man walking through the front door like he paid the mortgage. nanami climbed the spiraling staircase—custom marble, cold under his palms when he used the railing—and walked the long hallway to your room at the far end, because of course the princess needed isolation and acoustics for dramatic exits.
your door was ajar just enough for him to push gently, and he entered quietly.
there you were.
sitting in the center of your ridiculous, king-plus sized bed like a pissed-off deity. silk pajamas clinging to your shoulders, the color soft and expensive, the kind of fabric that looked like it refused to touch poor people. your hair damp from a recent shower, strands falling around your face, lashes dark against your cheeks, skin still warm from steam. you looked soft enough to hold and sharp enough to stab—your default state.
you looked up, saw him, and rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you didn’t see your brain. you didn’t say a word. not “why are you here,” not “go away,” not even “fuck off.” nothing. the silence itself was an insult.
nanami closed the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed in the large room, and walked further in, footsteps slow, gaze steady on your face—even if your expression screamed i hope you step on lego barefoot for eternity. he took a moment to just look at you, as if memorizing your resentment was better than not seeing you at all.
you snapped, voice sharp and flat: “what.”
nanami hummed, that infuriatingly calm, deep hum of his. “can we talk?”
you scoffed, leaning back on your palms, chin tilting with aristocratic disgust. “i don’t talk to pieces of shit. and you’re a big one. like, family-sized. extra value pack.”
nanami blinked once, head tilting a fraction, absorbing the insult without flinching. “i’m a piece of shit?” he repeated, tone so soft it made the words sting more.
you crossed your arms tight over your chest, silk rustling. “yes. obviously. congratulations on finally joining the rest of your gender.”
instead of defending himself like most men would—loudly, stupidly—nanami did something worse.
he accepted it.
he quietly dragged one of your chairs—one of those stupidly soft velvet ones meant for “decorative reading” you never actually used—across the floor and set it directly in front of you. he sat down, knees spread slightly, forearms resting gently on his thighs, posture straight but not intimidating. it was the posture of a man prepared to listen, not fight. which made your chest tighten and your temper spike—because you wanted to be angry, not understood.
he met your eyes, unwavering, voice low, even, heartbreaking in its steadiness.
“then tell me why,” he said. “why am i a piece of shit?”
and just like that, the floor was yours—your stage, your arena, your battlefield. and nanami kento sat there, ready to let you stab him with every word.
you stared at him for a long moment, the kind of stare that wasn’t silent—no, it was loud, screaming, accusing, trembling at the edges with wounded pride you refused to show. your jaw tightened, your fingers curled into the silk pooling around your thighs, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out low, cracked with disbelief and venom.
“do you ever think,” you began slowly, eyes narrowing at him, “how fucking humiliating it was for me to sit there—your girlfriend—fighting for your attention against nobody but uta-fucking-hime?”
nanami didn’t flinch, but his throat bobbed.
you continued, leaning forward, one finger stabbing the air at him like you were pointing at a suspect in court, “she’s not even competition. she’s a filler character, a background extra with tragic bangs and soil under her nails. i shouldn’t have to compete with that. i shouldn’t have to try. but there i was, reduced to fighting for scraps like some desperate peasant dog waiting for the king to drop crumbs from the fucking banquet table.”
nanami opened his mouth, but you kept going, steamrolling him because if he spoke now, you’d crumble, and weakness was not on tonight’s agenda.
you huffed a humorless laugh, sitting upright again, crossing your arms tight across your chest, chin lifting with aristocratic disgust. “do you understand how degrading it felt? i don’t fight for attention. i’m used to being the center of gravity. people orbit me. planets shift because of me. i don’t beg. i don’t chase. i don’t sit there like some forgotten decorative pillow while you—” your voice sharpened, “—politely entertain some herb-collecting homewrecker apprentice.”
nanami inhaled, eyes soft but steady. “i never expected you to fight for my attention. i’m sorry you felt you had to.”
you scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking away because his softness was a knife to your ribs. “yeah, well, congratulations, you put me in that position. so yes, you’re a piece of shit.”
you extended a hand toward him like you were listing charges in court, each finger flicking upward with another bullet of rage.
“one: you dismissed me. like i was some stupid little decoration on your arm. like i was a shiny accessory you forgot to polish that day.”
nanami sat straighter, hands clasping gently between his knees, voice calm. “i didn’t intend to dismiss you. i thought—”
“wrong,” you cut him off, glare sharp, “your intentions don’t fucking matter if the result still makes me want to drown myself in fertilizer.”
nanami pressed his lips together, accepting the hit.
you held up a second finger.
“two: you told me you would set boundaries. you said you’d stop the little one-on-one herb therapy sessions with her. and guess what? she’s still glued to you like mold on bread. if this is your definition of ‘boundaries,’ i fear what chaos your freedom must look like.”
nanami exhaled a long, controlled breath. “i did limit our interactions. i haven’t spoken to her outside the club and—”
you barked a laugh that was almost a choke. “oh, outside the club—wow. such discipline. such restraint. truly, a saint among idiots. i’m so touched. should i nominate you for boyfriend of the year or just frame your bullshit and hang it in a museum?”
his brows pulled together, a muscle flexing in his jaw—but he stayed calm, infuriatingly so. “i’m telling you the truth. i’m not entertaining her.”
you leaned closer, voice dropping to a slow, lethal whisper. “you don’t have to entertain her for it to still feel like betrayal. the bare minimum for a boyfriend is to make sure his girlfriend never questions whether she comes first. and you didn’t do that. you left space. you left opportunity. you left room—and she ran into it like a stray dog finding an open door.”
that one hit. nanami looked down for a second, breath steadying, his hands loosening on his thighs as if unclenching invisible tension. “you’re right. i shouldn’t have left any room for doubt.”
and god, the way he agreed so easily made your anger burn hotter—not colder—because part of you needed him to fight back so you could keep throwing knives. his accountability cornered you into feeling instead of yelling, and you hated it.
your voice wavered very slightly, and you looked away quickly to hide it. “and three,” you whispered, throat tight, “you made me feel small. and i don’t get to feel small. ever.”
nanami’s head lifted, eyes on you instantly, body leaning forward just enough to reach you if you needed grounding. “you’re never small to me. not for a second.”
you swallowed, back stiffening, legs crossing and uncrossing because the vulnerability made your skin itch. “well, that’s what it felt like. and feelings are facts now because mine are expensive.”
nanami nodded once, accepting your twisted logic as truth because to you, it was. “then i’m sorry. for every part of this that made you feel less.”
you blinked hard, jaw clenching, because his calm acceptance was suffocating in the most disarming way.
you wanted to stay angry. you wanted to scream. you wanted him to beg. but he just sat there—quiet, steady, unshaken—offering himself as the place for your rage to land, not deflecting it.
and that—somehow—was worse.
so instead of softening, you scoffed again, looking away with a shaky breath, because god forbid he sees the crack forming.
“you should be sorry,” you muttered, voice smaller than you meant, “because if i ever have to feel that kind of humiliation again, i’m burning down the greenhouse with you both inside. i’m not joking, nanami. i will commit arson in the name of love.”
you weren’t done—oh no, your rage had chapters, footnotes, an appendix, and a director’s cut. and nanami sitting there so calmly, giving you space to unravel, only fed the fire.
you pushed off the mattress and sat up straighter, the silk of your pajama shirt sliding against your skin as you hugged your knees loosely to your chest, posture defensive but regal, like a dethroned princess still wearing the crown out of spite. your fingers dug into the soft duvet, knuckles whitening as the words clawed up your throat.
“and another thing,” you snapped, pointing at him again, your voice shaking—not with fear, but with insulted pride, “you made me look fucking stupid.”
nanami’s brows drew in, but he didn’t speak—he knew better than to interrupt when you were winding up.
“do you have any idea how that felt?” you continued, your tone rising in waves, “you made me sound like some brain-dead bimbo who couldn’t comprehend the basic concept of sunlight and leaves. like i’m incapable of understanding the most entry-level plant shit. me. you treated me like i’m stupid.”
nanami shook his head, voice quiet, “that wasn’t my intention.”
“but that’s what you did,” you shot back immediately, not letting softness leak in. “i asked what you two were talking about at the cinema—my boyfriend, talking to another girl—and you dismissed me. like i was some annoying toddler interrupting grown-ups having a cultured conversation. like i couldn’t hold a single fucking sentence about your club.”
your voice cracked, and you hated that it did.
your fingers curled tighter into the blanket, nails sinking into the velvet fabric.
“before,” you went on, quieter for a second, “when i asked about your club, when i tried to show interest in the nerd shit you like, you’d tell me things. short things, but still things. and i listened. i tried.”
nanami opened his mouth slightly, and you saw the apology forming, but you didn’t let it land—you surged forward, fueled by humiliation you hadn’t digested yet.
“but the moment uta-fucking-hime bats her dollar store lashes and asks you something?” your voice rose again, bitter, sarcastic, acidic, “suddenly you’re hosting a fucking TED Talk on soil acidity and root trauma. suddenly you’re plant Jesus delivering parables. suddenly you found the fucking words you never bothered using with me.”
nanami’s chest expanded with a slow inhale, his elbows resting lightly on his knees, fingers intertwined—not defensive, not reacting, just listening, which somehow made it worse.
you dragged a hand through your damp hair, pushing it back sharply, pacing a few steps in front of him like your body couldn’t contain the indignation.
“do you know how fucking humiliating that was?” your voice trembled as you paced, silk pajamas swaying with every sharp turn. “you didn’t just ignore me. you made me feel like i wasn’t smart enough to be included. like i didn’t belong in your world when i’m the one who’s supposed to be in it the most.”
nanami finally spoke, tone soft but steady, “i didn’t share more with her because she’s special. i did it because she asked specific questions, and i—”
you spun on him, eyes burning. “so when i ask, what? my questions aren’t specific enough? sorry for not speaking fluent Plant Nerdish. should i learn latin and photosynthesis formulas to earn basic politeness?”
he shook his head immediately, “that’s not what I—”
“because it sure as hell felt like it,” you spit out, arms crossing again, hugging yourself without wanting to look like you needed comfort. “felt like i wasn’t worth the same energy. like you didn’t think i’d care. like you assumed i’m too shallow to understand anything that isn’t shopping, lipstick, or chaos.”
nanami’s eyes softened further—the exact softness you avoid because it disarms you. “i never thought that of you. i know you can understand anything you want to. i just didn’t want to bore you or overwhelm you when you already seemed upset.”
you stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly, the fight still trembling inside you like a caged animal.
he continued gently, “with utahime… i wasn’t thinking about you in that moment the way i should have. i should’ve noticed how it made you feel and prioritized you instead. i’m sorry.”
and because your pride was a skyscraper—tall, expensive, reinforced with ego—you refused to let his sincerity dissolve your anger.
you scoffed, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand before the tear could fall. “you better be sorry. because if i ever have to watch you give some other girl a powerpoint presentation while i get the toddler-version explanation again, i’ll personally make sure your precious rosemary never sees sunlight again.”
nanami actually huffed a quiet breath—half a sigh, half a disbelieving laugh.
you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like a warning blade, voice low and lethal:
“try me, kento. i’ll turn your little greenhouse into a botanical graveyard.”
he stared at you gently, the smallest curve at the corner of his lips—not mocking, but full of something unbearably tender.
“i believe you,” he said.
and for a split second, the room pulsed with something that wasn’t anger—but you shoved it back into its cage before it could soften you.
you sat down on the very edge of the bed, like the mattress might swallow you whole if you dared to sit properly, silk pajamas pooling around your thighs, your spine stiff and your hands gripping the duvet so tightly the fabric bunched under your fingers. your legs were tense, knees angled inward, like you were holding yourself together through sheer ego alone. your chin trembled—not enough to expose you, just enough to betray the strain of holding everything in.
your eyes burned, lashes wet, vision blurring in that humiliating way that felt like defeat. you blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall because crying in front of him felt like handing over your crown—but your voice betrayed you, coming out raw, cracked, furious.
“do i have to learn fucking plants now?” you snapped, glaring at the floor because looking at him would break you. “is that it? i have to memorize soil pH and fucking photosynthesis just so you don’t have to talk to uta-fucking-hime?”
nanami inhaled, slow, steady, as if bracing himself to not crumble at the sight of you unraveling. “no,” he said gently, “you don’t—”
you cut him off with an unhinged laugh, bitter and broken at the edges. “because apparently that’s what it takes to get your attention these days. maybe i should start growing basil out of my ass too. will that help?”
nanami’s eyes widened a fraction—not at your vulgarity (he was used to that) but at the complete sincerity under the sarcasm. he took a slow breath, leaning slightly forward in the chair, hands clasping together, his voice careful. “you don’t need to learn any of that. i don’t want you to change. you don’t have to pretend to care about something just because I do.”
your head snapped up at that, eyes flashing, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “aren’t i already pretending?” your voice wavered, then steadied through force. “i sat there, listening to you talk about leaves and soil and mint like it was the fucking cure to cancer, trying so goddamn hard to look interested, to support you—because it mattered to you, so i made myself care.”
nanami’s face softened, guilt pooling in the lines of his expression, but you continued before he could speak.
“and the one time—ONE TIME—I ask to be included, to be part of your little plant world, you shut me out like i’m some airheaded idiot you have to protect from botany knowledge.” your hand flew to your chest, pressing there like the pressure could keep your heart from cracking open. “what is that? what do you think i am?”
nanami’s voice dropped, quiet but urgent, “i didn’t shut you out because i think you’re stupid—”
“no?” you snapped, leaning forward, your anger trembling with hurt. “then why did you treat me like i’d break a nail if you explained what fucking soil is? why did she get the encyclopedia version while i got the kindergarten summary with sparkles and crayons?”
his brows pulled together, jaw tightening, but his voice stayed gentle—too gentle. “i thought I was making it easier for you. i didn’t want to overwhelm you with details when you were already upset.”
you scoffed again, wiping under your eye aggressively with the heel of your hand, smudging nothing because your skincare was too expensive to budge. “then you should’ve shut up, not dumb it down. i don’t need you to simplify the world for me like i’m some fragile porcelain doll who’ll shatter if exposed to big words.”
your throat tightened painfully, words spilling before pride could stop them.
“i’m not broken,” you whispered, then louder, sharper, “i’m NOT stupid.”
nanami’s face softened entirely, his voice warm and low and infuriatingly tender. “i know you’re not.”
your lips trembled, but you forced them still.
he tried to reach for your hand, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away—but you did, snatching your hand back to your lap, your body curling slightly inward, shoulders tightening, like you were trying to shrink away from the hurt without letting him see the wound.
“i don’t want to learn about plants,” you spat, voice thick with tears you refused to let fall. “i don’t want to join your stupid club. i don’t want to talk about soil or herbs or whatever the fuck rosemary trauma you deal with. i just…” your breath shook, “i just want you. and i shouldn’t have to study for the role of being your girlfriend.”
nanami’s eyes softened further—dangerously, heartbreakingly so—and he leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees, voice steady in a way that threatened to unravel you completely.
“you already have me.”
you laughed—ugly, shaky, self-mocking. “do i? because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it when you were looking everywhere but at me.”
the tear finally escaped.
you swiped it away so fast it barely had time to fall.
he saw that tear—just one, microscopic, fast—but nanami was the kind of man who could feel an earthquake from a single tremor. his expression shifted, softened, his breath leaving him in something almost pained as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he was holding the weight of this carefully, terrified of crushing it.
“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice low, raw, without any of the neat composure he’d tried to maintain. “i hurt you. i shouldn’t have dismissed you, and i shouldn’t have allowed room for you to feel replaced or lesser. that was my failure.”
you scoffed instantly, curling further away from his sincerity like it burned. “oh, wow. an apology. revolutionary. should i clap? maybe roll out a red carpet? you want a medal for saying sorry like a big boy?”
nanami accepted the jab without flinching. “i’m not asking for praise. i’m telling you the truth—i’m sorry.”
“yeah, well,” you muttered, sniffing harshly as you dragged the sleeve of your silk pajama top across the corner of your eye before the next tear could betray you, “sorry doesn’t erase the fact that i looked like a fucking clown.”
nanami’s brows pinched at the word, but his voice stayed steady. “you didn’t look like a clown.”
you laughed—sharp, bitter. “don’t lie to me now. i humiliated myself for a man—you, unfortunately—and she watched. that’s worse than death. i should fake my own disappearance and move to monaco under a new name at this point.”
he shook his head, leaning closer on instinct, like his body couldn’t stand the space between you. “you reacted because you care about us. there’s nothing humiliating about caring.”
you snapped your gaze to him again, fury flaring through the heartbreak. “stop saying caring like it’s cute. it’s pathetic. i don’t do pathetic. i’ve never been pathetic. i don’t cry over boys. boys cry over me. that’s the natural order of the universe.”
nanami’s voice softened even more—a tone you hated because it saw right through you. “you’re not pathetic. you’re hurt. because I made you feel like you weren’t valued. that’s on me.”
you shook your head fiercely, hair falling forward, fingers tugging at the silk on your thigh like you needed something to anchor you. “you made me feel like some… irrelevant, dumb, useless accessory. and i know i’m spoiled and dramatic and ridiculous but—” your breath broke again, “but i shouldn’t have to beg to matter to the one person who’s supposed to love me most.”
nanami swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, thicker. “you never have to beg for that. you never should have felt you did.”
you scoffed again, but weaker, because his sincerity was cracking your armor. “well, congratulations, you made me feel exactly that. you can add it to your achievement list: hurt your spoiled girlfriend enough to make her almost learn about basil.” you sniffed deeply, then glared at him like it was his fault oxygen existed. “do you know how low that is? i almost googled plants for idiots. that’s rock bottom.”
nanami blinked, then exhaled a breath that was almost—almost—an amused disbelief, but he restrained it because he knew laughing now was equivalent to suicide. “you don’t need to learn anything for me. i don’t want you to pretend interest for my sake.”
“but she asked,” you hissed, leaning forward, hands dropping to the mattress, gripping the edge as if the bed would levitate otherwise, “and you gave her the whole encyclopedia of plant shit like you were teaching a masterclass. meanwhile, when i ask, i get don’t stress your pretty head. do you hear how insulting that is?”
nanami closed his eyes briefly—guilt flickering across his features like a shadow—and when he opened them, he held your gaze firmly. “you’re right. that was condescending. i thought i was protecting you from stress, but i see now that it sounded like I was belittling you. that wasn’t my intention, but it doesn’t change how it made you feel.”
you stared at him, breath shaky, throat tight, and your voice dropped into something almost small—but still edged with venom because you refused to hand him the pure version of your pain.
“i don’t need protection from information. if i don’t understand, i’ll ask. i’m not fragile.”
nanami leaned forward more, hands loosening, as if fighting the urge to reach for you but respecting the invisible wall you kept between you. “i know you’re not. you’re strong, sharper than anyone I know. i should’ve respected that instead of trying to soften things for you.”
the compliment, the acknowledgment, the correction—it hit somewhere deep you didn’t want him to reach, so you snapped, defensive:
“you should have. because now? now i look like the stupid girlfriend who can’t keep up, while miss horticulture homewrecker gets the professor edition.”
“you’re not stupid,” nanami repeated, firm enough to anchor the air around you.
you looked away again, jaw clenching, your voice barely above a whisper: “but you made me feel like i was.”
he inhaled deeply, voice steady but pained. “then i failed you. and i’m sorry.”
this time, the apology didn’t feel like words— it felt like weight. and your pride, your last line of defense, forced your chin up, even as your voice cracked, “you should be. because if you ever make me feel like that again, i’m ending us both. emotionally, socially, and possibly legally.”
he apologized again—soft, steady, without flinching—and you opened your mouth, ready to snap back with one of your signature lines that would absolutely emotionally assassinate him and then ruin your life five seconds later, but he lifted a hand ever so slightly.
not commanding.
not silencing.
asking.
“can you… listen to me first?” he said, voice low, gentle, the kind that didn’t demand obedience but somehow earned it.
you hated that tone.
because for all your unhinged chaos, you weren’t heartless—you weren’t immune to the way nanami spoke when he genuinely needed you to hear him. his voice dipped lower, his posture leaned in—not towering, not intimidating, not challenging—just close enough to show sincerity, far enough to give you space to breathe.
you clenched your jaw, eyes narrowing, but you nodded once—sharp, reluctant—like you were granting an audience to a criminal on trial.
your body language screamed i’m listening against my will, but you stayed quiet, arms still folded, nails digging into your silk sleeves, your chin tilted up just a fraction as if to remind him you were still pissed, still wounded, still royalty on her throne of spite.
nanami exhaled, relieved you didn’t storm out or throw a pillow at his head.
his voice stayed calm, steady—because he was talking to a hurricane, not a person, and he knew it.
“i didn’t handle things correctly,” he began, his tone soft but anchored. his hands rested on his thighs, fingers relaxed now, not clasped tight like before. “i thought I was doing the considerate thing. you were upset that day, and I didn’t want to overwhelm you with details or make you feel out of your depth. i thought simplifying things would help. i see now it came across as dismissive and condescending.”
your lips twitched—because yes, that’s exactly what it was—but you held yourself back, biting your tongue, letting him continue because you agreed to listen and your pride wouldn’t let you break your own rule.
he kept going, breathing slow, every word careful:
“with utahime, I didn’t realize how it looked. she kept asking questions, and I answered because I thought I was being polite, not because I found her more deserving of my time.”
he swallowed once, eyes softening as they held yours. “but intention doesn’t erase impact. and the impact was that you felt second. that’s on me.”
the words hung in the room like incense—heavy, honest, impossible to ignore.
you shifted on the bed, uncrossing your arms just to cross them again tighter, because your heart tried to soften and your pride screamed no, not yet. your foot tapped once against the floor—restless, emotional energy leaking out in movement because sitting still with feelings was dangerous territory.
nanami continued, leaning in a little—not invading, just closer, grounding:
“you felt replaced. dismissed. stupid. and that’s the last thing I ever wanted you to feel. you’re the person I respect most. you’re the person whose attention I cherish, not hers. you matter to me more than anyone else does.”
your throat tightened. you looked away, staring at the edge of your vanity table, anywhere but at him, because if you looked directly at the warmth in his eyes you would break.
he let the silence settle a moment—not awkward, not rushed—just enough for his words to land, to breathe, to reach the place in you that still cared through all the rage.
“i should’ve shut the conversation down sooner,” he admitted quietly. “i thought staying polite would avoid unnecessary tension, but it cost you peace instead. and that isn’t worth it to me.”
your hands loosened just a little in your sleeves—barely—but enough for him to notice.
nanami breathed out, voice softer:
“I’ll fix it. properly this time. not just with words, but with action. I won’t let you feel sidelined again.”
you sat there in silence for a few seconds, your heart pounding against your ribs like a prisoner demanding release, your pride fencing every emotion like a guard dog on steroids.
and because you can never sit in vulnerability without throwing a knife to feel balanced, you finally muttered, voice low, biting, but thinner around the edges:
“if you start defending her, i swear to god i’ll shove your plants up your ass root-first.”
nanami blinked, then nodded, dead serious, as if you hadn’t just threatened him with horticultural assault. “i’m not defending her. i’m explaining myself to you, because you deserve that.”
your jaw clenched again, and though the rage was still there, the ice around it had begun—just barely—to crack.
you sighed, dramatic, exhausted, wiping at your lower lash line with your thumb like the tears were dust you could remove and pretend never existed.
“okay,” you muttered, still refusing to fully face him. “go on. i’m listening. finish the monologue before i change my mind and kick you out.”
and nanami—ever patient, ever steady—continued. and the more he spoke, the harder it became to keep your armor intact. his voice wasn’t trembling or begging, he wasn’t groveling or panicking — no, that would’ve been easier to reject. instead, he spoke in that devastatingly calm, steady, nanami way, the way that slipped past your defenses because he wasn’t trying to win, he was trying to understand you.
“you don’t deserve to share space with doubt,” he said, tone low, warm, maddeningly sincere. “you don’t deserve to question your place in my life. you are the person i choose, every day, in every room. i should’ve made that impossible to doubt — especially for you.”
you swallowed, your throat clicking, jaw locked so tightly that your teeth ached. you looked everywhere but at him: the chandelier reflection in your mirror, your perfume bottles arranged like a shrine to your vanity, your silk pillowcases, the edge of your nail on your thumb — anything that wasn’t his eyes because you knew one direct second of eye contact would flatten you.
nanami didn’t move closer, didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch you before you allowed it — and that alone made your chest twist painfully. he knew pressure would make you bolt, so he simply sat there, giving you space to break at your own pace.
“i love you,” he continued, voice smoothing out like velvet pulled taut, “and i don’t expect you to hide your feelings or pretend you’re unaffected. you feel deeply — loudly — and it’s overwhelming sometimes, yes, but it’s also one of the things i adore most about you. you love in color. in flame. in extremes. i would never want to dim that.”
your lip trembled — actually trembled — and you pressed your teeth into it to physically punish the weakness.
nanami’s voice gentled even more, if that was somehow possible. “i will make sure you never feel like a second option again. i will be clearer. firmer. i will not leave room for anyone to assume my attention is available. i’m yours. you don’t need to fight for that.”
you breathed out — a fragile, uneven sound that almost wasn’t a breath at all. something in your ribcage shifted.
your shoulders sank an inch.
your fists loosened.
your vision clouded.
you hated it.
you hated how easily he could peel your rage back and expose the soft, shaking thing beneath. hated how his calm didn’t belittle your chaos — it held it. hated how he didn’t match your fire with ice or irritation, but with something worse: understanding.
you blinked, and a second tear slipped — traitorous, slow, warm against your skin. you swiped it away angrily, like it offended you. “fuck you,” you muttered — not hateful, not sharp — just broken. “fuck you for talking like that. i can’t stay mad when you talk like that.”
nanami’s gaze softened so achingly you had to glance away again. “i don’t want you to stay mad. i just want you to feel safe with me.”
your breath hitched — actually hitched — and suddenly the space between you felt unbearable. the absence of his touch felt like a scream against your skin.
you slid forward on the bed — once, hesitantly, like pride was clinging to your ankles — then again, knees brushing his, breath shaky, silk whispering across your thighs. nanami didn’t move, didn’t reach first, didn’t break the fragile consent of your approach — he waited, letting you choose him.
you moved that final inch — your knees between his legs, your hands trembling as they reached for his shoulders — and then you climbed into his lap, settling with your legs curled around him, your forehead pressing into the warm column of his neck like you were hiding in him, not hugging him.
the moment you made contact, nanami’s arms came up — slow, careful, then firm — wrapping around your waist with the kind of hold that said i’m not letting you go unless you ask me to. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sinking into your damp hair, the other anchored at your spine, steady, grounding, warm.
the first sob was silent — a sharp inhale into his shirt, your nails clutching at his shoulders like you were falling and he was the only surface left on earth. the second made a sound, a small broken one, like a wineglass cracking.
nanami tightened his arms around you, one thumb stroking the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple, voice low against your skin. “i’ve got you. i’m here.”
you hated how safe it felt — hated how quickly you melted — hated that after all your swearing and threatening arson and botanically themed murder monologues… you were crying in his lap anyway.
you sniffed against his neck, voice muffled, angry even through tears: “you’re still a piece of shit.”
nanami nodded into your hair. “i know.”
you curled tighter into him, your pride bleeding into his shirt, your voice cracking, “but you’re my piece of shit.”
his hand stroked your back, slow, intentional — the kind of touch that rebuilt things quietly. “always.”
and just like that, the storm inside you finally collapsed — not because he forced it to, but because he sat in it with you until you could breathe again.
it took a while—long enough for your breathing to steady, long enough for your fists to unclench in the fabric of his shirt, long enough for the heat behind your eyes to settle into a dull throb instead of a storm. you stayed in his lap even after the crying slowed, face tucked into the warm crook of his neck, your weight fully resting on him now like your body had finally surrendered to the truth that you felt safest with the same man you threatened to bury alive with his plants.
his palm stroked your back in slow, absent circles, the kind that weren’t meant to hush you but to anchor you. it was disgusting how much it worked.
after a long stretch of quiet—your kind of quiet, the heavy kind where pride is still limping around the room—you exhaled against his skin, voice rough, reluctant, and grudgingly soft.
“…i shouldn’t have… lost my shit like that.”
nanami didn’t speak, just hummed, a subtle vibration against your cheek that meant i’m listening.
you shifted slightly on his lap so you could look at him, but you didn’t move far—you stayed close enough to breathe the same air, your fingers still curled lightly over his shoulder, your forehead almost touching his. your voice stayed low, as if it would break if you raised it.
“i was fucking mean,” you muttered, eyes darting away because eye contact made honesty more painful, “i insulted your hobby like it’s stupid and i know it’s not stupid. it makes you happy. it gives you peace or whatever. and i shit all over it like a bitch having a tantrum.”
nanami cupped your jaw with one hand—not forcing you to look at him, just holding you gently, thumb brushing your cheek with steady warmth. “you were hurt. you reacted from that place. i don’t take it personally.”
you rolled your eyes with a watery scoff, wiping your face with the sleeve of your silk top, smearing your expensive moisturizer but not caring for once. “you should take it personally. i called you soil jesus. who even says that? what the fuck is wrong with me?”
the corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile—but he kept it small, respectful of your fragile dignity. “you’re passionate. and dramatic. it’s part of who you are.”
you glared half-heartedly. “that’s a diplomatic way to say i’m a fucking menace.”
“you are,” he agreed evenly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear with maddening tenderness. “but you’re my menace.”
you inhaled sharply, offended at how easily that softened you again. “stop saying things like that. it makes it hard to stay mad and i deserve to be mad for at least another six business days.”
nanami leaned in just enough that his forehead almost touched yours, his voice dipping lower, sincere in a way that stripped you bare. “you don’t need to punish yourself for feeling jealous. or threatened. you’re human.”
you clicked your tongue. “i don’t want to be human. i want to be a god. untouchable.”
nanami’s thumb stroked your cheek again, slow, grounding, annoyingly gentle. “i don’t want an untouchable goddess. i want you. spoiled, dramatic, sharp-tongued, mean when you’re hurt, soft when you think no one is watching—you.”
your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t painful, it was warm and terrifying.
you sniffed once, shifting again in his lap to hide the growing softness in your features. “i’m still sorry for being… like that. insulting your club. your plants didn’t deserve that verbal abuse.”
“no,” nanami said calmly, “they didn’t.”
you glared, offended that he agreed so easily. “you’re supposed to say ‘no, baby, you were totally valid in threatening my rosemary.’”
nanami’s lips curved slightly. “you weren’t valid in threatening my rosemary.”
“fuck you,” you muttered, but it had no heat. “i’ll poison your basil first.”
he nodded, indulgent. “i know.”
you sighed—heavy, dramatic, collapsing your full weight against his chest like the universe exhausted you. your fingers fisted lightly in his shirt for stability as you mumbled into his collarbone, voice muffled:
“i am such a bitch sometimes.”
nanami’s hand slid up your back, resting at the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbing small, rhythmic circles there that made your muscles melt one by one. “yes,” he said softly, honestly. “you can be… very mean.”
you jerked back just enough to glare at him, eyes still glossy, mouth open in disbelief. “you’re supposed to disagree, you emotionally constipated goldfish!”
nanami held your glare without flinching. “you asked me to listen and be honest.”
you blinked at him, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “…i hate that you’re right.”
“i know,” he repeated, with infuriating calm.
you stared at him a second longer, lips parted, then shook your head slowly, your voice lowering into something almost vulnerable, almost small.
“and you still want me? like this? spoiled, mean, psychotic gremlin behavior and all?”
nanami didn’t hesitate. not even a breath.
“i like my girl spoiled and mean,” he said, voice warm and sure, eyes steady on yours. “i love you exactly as you are.”
something inside you cracked again—but this time it didn’t shatter into sharp pieces.
it softened. melted.
you swallowed, heat burning behind your eyes again, but you didn’t fight it this time as you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his, your voice breaking in a whisper, “you’re still a piece of shit.” nanami smiled—small, real, adoring—and whispered back, “i know.”
you end up horizontal without even remembering the transition — one moment you were sitting on his lap falling apart like a wet cupcake in the sun, the next nanami was lying beside you on your absurdly large bed, both of you under the soft weight of your overpriced duvet. the room was dim now, only the soft bedside lamp on, throwing a warm gold across his cheekbone and making him look disgustingly gentle, the kind of gentle that made your chest ache in that embarrassing, sentimental way you would sooner die than admit in daylight.
you were curled against him, your head on his chest, your leg thrown over his like you owned every square inch of him (you did), and his hand was in your hair — fingers combing through the damp strands slowly, over and over, like he was memorizing the texture of you. his other arm was wrapped around your waist, palm splayed over your back, thumb tracing slow circles beneath the silk that made your skin warm.
your voice came out small, muffled against his shirt, “are you staying tonight?”
you hated how you sounded — soft, almost shy, like a child asking if the thunder would stop — but nanami didn’t tease, didn’t smirk, didn’t make you regret vulnerability. he tightened his arm around you, his nose brushing your hair as he answered, voice low enough to settle into your bones,
“yes. i’m not going anywhere.”
you exhaled, long and slow, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric at his chest, not in anger this time but in that instinctive don’t leave yet way that made your throat squeeze. “good. because if you left after all that emotional nonsense i’d actually pull a juliet and poison myself.”
he huffed a laugh against your forehead — quiet, warm, fond — and pressed a soft kiss there, his lips lingering like he was sealing the promise into your skin. “please don’t poison yourself. it would ruin the sheets.”
you swatted his chest weakly, raising your head to glare at him with no heat left in your body. “i hate you.”
he tipped his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, soft in the lamplight as his thumb brushed your cheekbone. “you love me.”
your lips twitched. “tragically.”
he smiled — a real one, warm and a little tired from the emotional hurricane you put him through — and he pulled you closer, tucking you just under his chin so he could speak against your hair. “i love you more than i know how to say. more than anything.”
his fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, not stopping for even a moment, like he needed the contact as much as you did. you let yourself melt into him fully now, all the claws retracted, all the sharpness dimmed. it was embarrassing how good it felt to be held like this — safe, wanted, adored — and you hated how much your body relaxed because of him.
“i missed you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt, and this time your voice didn’t come out defensive or dramatic — just honest, soft in a way only nanami ever got to hear. “i was so pissed at you and i still missed you the whole time.”
he angled his head down, his lips brushing your temple again, then your hairline, then the corner of your forehead — as if he was following a map of where to place comfort. “i missed you too. more than i expected. i didn’t like the distance. not from you.”
you shifted up just enough so that your face hovered near his, your nose brushing his jaw, your fingers moving to lightly trace the line of his throat — slow, absent, intimate. “you better never do that again,” you whispered, soft threat with no teeth left behind it. “i can’t handle missing you and being mad at you at the same time. it’s emotionally exhausting. i could’ve died.”
nanami smiled into your hair, one hand sliding down from your back to your hip, resting there with a protective weight that made your heart turn into warm pudding. “i won’t. i’ll do better. i promise.”
you sniffed, leaning up to press a tiny, barely-there kiss at the corner of his jaw — feather light, like your lips were shy now that they weren’t arguing. “good. because you’re mine. and i’m yours. and i don’t share.”
his grip tightened at your hip, gentle but firm, like the words hit him somewhere deep. “i know. and i don’t want you to.”
you hummed, content now, your body molded against him like you were crafted to fit there. his hand drifted up again, sliding into your hair, fingers massaging your scalp slowly, like he wasn’t even thinking about it — just needed to touch you in some way, any way, constantly.
“you’re very clingy,” you whispered, eyes growing heavy.
he kissed the top of your head again — slow, deliberate, warm.
“only with you.”
you smiled — soft, sleepy, safe — and buried your face in his chest again, breathing him in like warmth, like home. for once, you didn’t feel like you had to perform, or prove, or defend, or win. you just existed in his arms, and he held you like that was enough.
it turned out nanami wasn’t just a man who talked pretty—he actually followed through, which was infinitely more dangerous for your heart because now you couldn’t even stay mad at him for fun. the very next day, when you showed up at the greenhouse after class — not because you suddenly cared about plants, but because you needed to see his promise in action — he proved himself in 4k HD.
you arrived looking like sin among seedlings: hair perfect, lip gloss expensive, outfit curated to silently declare “i own the man in charge here”. the greenhouse smelled like damp soil and mint and academic overachievement. nanami was inside, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing while watering something green you didn’t know the name of but decided to internally call “future pesto.”
he noticed you instantly — his entire posture softened, jaw unclenching like you were oxygen. he put the watering can down and walked straight to you, one hand sliding around your waist with a confidence that made your pride purr. he pressed a brief kiss to your temple in greeting, low enough for only you to hear when he murmured, “hi, sweetheart.”
and then—she appeared.
utahime and her tragic bangs, holding a notebook like she was auditioning for a role in “botany for people with no charisma.” she approached, clearing her throat, and launched into yet another question, voice way too chipper for a woman who should’ve learned fear by now.
“nanami, can you explain again why the rosemary is wilting even though i watered it twice? i think i’m still doing something wrong—”
nanami didn’t even let her finish.
he turned slightly, keeping you tucked to his side, his hand on your waist tightening possessively — polite, but unmistakably boundary-marking — and said in a level, courteous tone that somehow carried a scalpel:
“i’ve explained that twice already. i’m spending time with my girlfriend now — you can ask one of the senior members for help.”
the silence that followed was delicious, like a gourmet dessert made of karma.
utahime blinked, startled, clearly not expecting the polite brick wall. “oh, i— right. sorry, i didn’t mean to—”
you smiled sweetly, leaning your head onto nanami’s shoulder, nails tracing along his forearm as you added, voice dripping with honeyed poison:
“maybe try listening next time. watering every time you feel emotional isn’t how plants work, babe.”
utahime stiffened. nanami squeezed your waist — warning, but gentle — though you could feel him trying not to laugh. she retreated toward some other helpless club member, and nanami turned his face into your hair for a second, exhaling like he was holding back amusement.
“be nice,” he murmured.
you scoffed, pulling back to look at him. “i was educationally constructive. i’m contributing to the learning environment.”
he kissed your cheek. “you’re impossible.”
you smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “and you like it.”
later that week, the friend group witnessed Proof #2: nanami’s boundary olympics.
you were all at your usual table — coffee, snacks, gossip, geto reading something philosophical he didn’t understand. you sat on nanami’s lap, his arm around your waist like a permanent seatbelt, your legs draped over his like you owned the throne and the king.
utahime walked into the café — of course — and spotted you all. either god hated you or you were starring in a sitcom. she approached, smiling like she wasn’t the antagonist in your personal novella.
“oh! i didn’t know you guys were here. do you mind if i join?”
already pulling a chair. already delusional.
before you could unsheathe your verbal knives, nanami beat you to it — politely, gently, firmly.
“we’re having quality time with our friend group right now,” he said, voice almost warm but with an iron spine. “maybe another time.”
shoko, sipping her iced coffee, didn’t miss a beat. “yeah, we’re trauma-bonding. it’s exclusive.”
gojo grinned with all teeth, draping himself over the back of his chair. “also we’re at maximum capacity for straight-laced energy. one more person with no sense of humor and we’ll combust.”
geto added thoughtfully, “we reached our quota of new people three years ago.”
haibara waved apologetically, “maybe next time! like… next century.”
utahime froze, blinked, and did the walk of shame back to the counter.
you leaned in, whispering into nanami’s ear with prideful satisfaction, “i could kiss you right now.”
nanami didn’t hesitate — he turned and kissed you softly in front of everyone.
gojo gagged loudly. “okay but i didn’t mean in front of me, have some respect for my single trauma.”
you flipped him off without looking.
and the thing is — nanami didn’t just do it once for show.
he kept doing it.
day after day, little actions stacking like bricks rebuilding trust. when utahime approached him during club, he redirected her to literally anyone else. he kept you close — hand at your back, fingers intertwined, lips brushing your hair, gentle touches that said mine without needing to say it
he included you deliberately in plant conversations, explaining things properly — not simplified, not dismissive. he sent you photos of his plants with captions like “this is thriving. like us.”. when people asked about his schedule, he said, “i’m with my girlfriend,” like it was a valid unbreakable appointment (it was). he texted you good morning and goodnight like rituals of devotion. he left club early to walk you to class, iced coffee in hand, your order memorized down to ice quantity and foam thickness
and slowly — painfully, annoyingly, wonderfully — your anger had nothing left to feed on. nanami didn’t leave space for doubt anymore. he made it obvious — to you, to your friends, to utahime, to the plants, to the universe — that you were his priority.
one evening, as you curled into his side again, your voice barely above a whisper, you muttered, “…you’re still a piece of shit.”
nanami kissed your forehead, fingers tracing your spine.
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