"Weekends With You"
You’re not his anymore. You haven’t been for a while. This is what moving on looks like. This is what he chose when he signed the papers you gave to him, when he convinced himself it was the right thing, the necessary thing. So why does it feel like something is being taken from him anyway?
synopsis: You and Suguru were high school sweethearts turned young parents, married before either of you knew how not to break the dishes when you were angry. Now divorced, you co-parent your daughters with a fragile truce that splinters whenever you’re in the same room too long. It’s been two years since the divorce, but the past won’t stay dead. The weekends are where it all unravels and comes back together, over and over again.
content/warnings: divorced parents au, suguru x reader, modern au, suburban setting, cosy messy lives, angst, slow burn, second-chance trope, family drama, fluff, hints of mental illness, eventual smut, each chap own warnings
a/n: i am so sorry it's short, but i'm already writing chapter six of this! my computer kept overheating, and then it broke, and it's overheating again lol
05 - 'we can go together'
You set your phone down face up on your chest. The ceiling greets you, familiar cracks you’ve traced a hundred times without meaning to. Your heart is doing that stupid thing. Thudding too fast for something that’s supposed to be nothing. It was just a message. One word. Three letters.
You didn’t flirt…you didn’t say anything risky, though your stomach still twists like you’ve admitted to a crime you can’t name. God, you feel ridiculous.
A heat creeps up your neck, embarrassment blooming. You press the heel of your hands into your eyes, groaning softly to yourself. You’re too old for this. Too tired. A mother of two, lying in bed staring at the ceiling like a teenager who just sent her confession text. Your phone feels heavier with every second that passes. You can feel it there, like a second pulse, humming with possibility.
Your phone buzzes.
For half a second, you consider pretending you didn’t feel it. Just delete the app. If you don’t look, it won’t count.
But your stupid body betrays you and your fingers curl slightly, chin tilting down.
One notification!
| Hey.
It’s so simple. You stare at the screen, thumb hovering uselessly above it. Your brain scrambles, suddenly loud and empty all at once. Say hey back! Ask a question! Don’t overthink it, though. This is normal. People do this all the time. So, why does it feel like you’re defusing a bomb? You try to remember how you used to do this. Before schedules and backpacks and custody calendars, there was a first time you spoke to Suguru. Something stupid, probably. A look held a second too long, and he was already falling for you.
The thought barely finishes forming before you shut it down. You’re not supposed to think about him like that anymore. This isn’t that. It will never be that again.
Before you can type anything clever, another message appears.
| Tell me about yourself.
How much do you tell a stranger?
| I’m a stay at home mom…I have two daughters. They keep me busy.
Why does that sound like a warning label? You hate that this is even a conversation. Are people into that nowadays? Is “mom” code for baggage? Too complicated, is it? Should you delete this and write something completely different? Who are you outside of motherhood?
You hit send before you can dwell on it any longer. You toss the phone onto your chest again, staring at the ceiling like it might judge you less. The buzz comes even quicker this time.
| I have a son :)
Your breath pauses. Another bubble appears almost immediately.
| I was married too, I’m widowed now lol. It’s been years tho
Widowed? The word lands heavier than the “lol” tries to make it. You stare at the message for a long while. He said it so casually, as if he were coping or something. Who would joke about something like that? Or maybe it’s not a joke…
You tap back into his profile. You hadn’t really looked before. You’d registered the surface-level things---attractive, different, not holding a fish---and then you’d messaged him on impulse. You would have never guessed he was a dad. He’s completely ripped: defined shoulders stretching the fabric of a fitted black shirt in one picture, veins visible along his forearms where the sleeves are rolled up. It doesn’t look performative, though. No flexing in gym mirrors. His body is clearly used to being strong.
Your eyes drift back to his face. Short black hair, slightly tousled. Just above the curve of his lips, a small scar. Faint, but definitely visible. It pulls your attention more than it should. You, out of curiosity, zoom in a little. Maybe roughhousing with his son, maybe a toy thrown too hard, maybe a split lip from catching a flying elbow during play-fighting on the living room floor.
You try to reconcile the two images: this man who looks like he could carry you with one arm without breaking a sweat, and the same man kneeling on the carpet building Lego towers. Packing school lunches. Wiping a small face after dinner. It makes him more real.
And somehow even more attractive. You swallow and glance back at the messages. Widowed. A son. Years, though…if that makes it a little better.
| How old is your son?
Your phone buzzes.
| Six. He thinks he runs the house.
A small laugh escapes you. It startles you a little, the sound is unfamiliar in this quiet room where most nights end with you half sleep scrolling through tomorrow’s grocery list or upcoming school emails.
| No way! My daughters are six too…maybe they’re in the same class or something haha.
What are the odds of that? Tiny, probably. Your girls’ school isn’t that big, but still. You scroll back to his photos again, studying his face with new curiosity. If he’s a parent there, he’s probably stood on that same sidewalk during pickup. Maybe you’ve passed each other without noticing.
----
Suguru hates the idea of his job, but he doesn’t hate it more than he hates his co-workers. Although some of them are his friends, the rest get pretty annoying fast.
The office is the same as always: blinding overhead lights, sounds of the fans moving, the buzzing of overheated macbooks. He sits at his desk, fingers drumming against the keyboard.
His phone buzzes. He doesn’t check it immediately, focusing on the task at hand, but then another buzz. And another. Finally, he grabs it. A photo from his daughter’s teacher. She’s holding a drawing, grinning like the world is hers. Nana’s in the background, teeth showing, hair in a mess, mid-laugh.
He lets out a quiet, almost guilty smile. They’re growing. Too fast, maybe. It hits him harder than it should, though he doesn’t like to admit it. He’s a father, he always wondered things about his daughters. What they would end up as an adult, or if they’d get married one day. He hates to think about that one. He hopes they’d grow up and rely on him forever. Suguru doesn’t want them to grow up.
He shakes his head, clearing whatever thoughts he has and continues to the task.
“Mr Geto!” A voice calls from behind him.
Suguru lifts his head from his hand and turns around. He’s greeted by the sight of a tall, white-haired, piercing blue eyed man. His best friend, Satoru.
Satoru’s holding a bag of donuts, smiling ear to ear. Slyly, he pulls a chair next to him and eats through the bag immediately. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was nearly killing me.”
“It’s okay,” Suguru hums. “You don’t have any work to do?” “Nah, I got Nanamin to give me an extension ‘til next week.”
“You’re so…” He sighs, searching for the words. “Unbelievably irresponsible.”
Satoru just grins, holding up a donut as if it were a medal. “Guilty as charged.”
Suguru shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. He watches Satoru munch through the pastry like he’s solving the world’s problems one bite at a time. The chaos Satoru carries with him, it’s infuriating and comforting all at once. Suguru leans back a little too far and lets out a low groan. Then it hits him. His stomach rumbles—a reminder he forgot to bring lunch.
“Hey…you don’t happen to have an extra lunch, do you?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
Satoru lifts the bag of donuts like a trophy. “Already eating it.”
Suguru groans again, rubbing his forehead. “Figures. You would eat junk for lunch.” Suguru stares at the ceiling, pondering his options. “There’s a McDonald’s down the street…” maybe he could swing by, grab something quick.
“Ew…no? You’re gonna eat that crap?”
Suguru shrugs. “Better than starving, right?”
He smirks, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his phone. Within seconds, he’s typing furiously. Suguru blinks at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Solving your problem,” Satoru says, grinning like he just invented fire. “DoorDash!”
Suguru raises an eyebrow, a small reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You’re gonna order me lunch?”
“Yeah! You’re my best friend, and you’ve been through so much, you deserve it.”
“What do you mean?”
Satoru cocks his head to the side, blinking. “What?”
“You said I’ve been through so much? What’s that supposed to mean?” He inquires. His friend takes a few more donuts and shoves them into his mouth, shrugging. Rolling his shoulders back, he places the donut bag down and leans forward, clasping his hands together.
“Well…everyone’s starting to see it. Suguru, have you been okay?” Satoru places his hands on Suguru’s acromion. “I’m here for you, Shoko’s here for you. If it’s about her, you’re more than welcome to talk about it. We’ve all been friends for how long?”
Suguru blinks. He doesn't register the question. He tries to think about it, at least. Reaches for something concrete in the back of his mind. A feeling, maybe. A clear yes or no. But there’s nothing. Just a mundane, stretched-out quiet in his chest, like a room that’s been emptied of furniture but still echoes when you step inside.
What does okay mean anymore?
He wakes up. He reads emails. He gets his daughters to school on certain days. He visits his daughters when they’re not at his house. He picks up his daughters on time. He goes back to work. On his off days, he sits around. Maybe he cleans up, maybe he cooks, but it isn’t nearly as good as when you do. He remembers birthdays. He pays bills. He eats, sleeps, and then the next day after that, it’s all the same.
There’s this constant sense that he’s…missing something. He can’t recall what though, like trying to remember a dream you know mattered, but the details keep slipping the harder you chase them. Suguru swallows. He wonders, briefly, if this is just what life turns into eventually. If everyone around him is walking around like this.
He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek.
If this is living, why does it feel like waiting?
Waiting for what, he doesn’t know. Something to start. Something to end. Something to change. Suguru becomes aware of himself again in fragments. He wonders when he started getting so tired. This kind of tired settles deeper. It doesn’t go away with sleep. It lingers in the way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he avoids mirrors a little more than he used to.
Like something in him is slowly dimming, and he’s the only one who can see it happening.
Or perhaps not.
Everyone’s starting to see it.
Satoru said that.
Suguru exhales slowly through his nose.
Of course they are.
He’s not as good at hiding it as he thinks. Or maybe people are just better at noticing than he gives them credit for. Either way, he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want to be someone people worry about. He doesn’t want to be handled. And more than that…he doesn’t know how to explain something he doesn’t fully understand himself. How do you tell someone that nothing is wrong, and that’s exactly the problem?
That your life is stable, predictable, even good by most standards, and yet it feels like you’re standing just slightly outside of it, watching it happen to someone else? That you’re not unhappy enough to break, but not happy enough to feel whole? That every day blends into the next until time stops feeling like something you’re living and starts feeling like something you’re spending?
There’s no point in saying any of that. It wouldn’t fix anything. It wouldn’t even sound real out loud.
Would anyone understand?
“I’m fine,” he laments.
A beat.
“Thank you.”
Satoru doesn’t believe it for a second. He leans back slowly. “Really? Are you really fine? Or are you just telling me that?”
Suguru doesn’t answer, only stares at the ceiling, a rectangle of fluorescent light reflecting off the screen of his monitor. “I mean it, Satoru,” he clarifies. “I’m functioning.”
Satoru exhales, a little too harsh. “You’ve been moving through days like they’re nothing. It’s like someone gave you a script.” Suguru swallows his bitter spit, and he looks away from Satoru. “I’m not trying…to corner you. I’m here. If you ever need someone to speak to, I’m here.”
Suguru lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He picks up his coffee mug, warming his hands against it. He’s lost in that half-conscious drift when Satoru claps a hand on his shoulder, startling him. “Earth to Suguru! Food’s here man. Check the front door before it gets cold.”
He shakes himself and exhales a small, humourless laugh. “Of course, wouldn’t want it to get cold.” He stands, shoving one hand into his pocket, then jerks the other free to deliver a quick smack to Satoru’s arms. “Thanks.”
Suguru makes his way to the elevator, pushes the button to the first floor, steps inside, and makes his way all the way down.
---
Suguru steps out of the elevator and freezes. You are there. Yellow and flowing. Your hair catches the sunlight as you shift the plastic bag in your hand. His heart drops to his ass, and suddenly the air between you two thickens. He notices the gentle curve of your calves, the way your dress flutters slightly with the motion of your arms, the tilt of your head, the shine of your lipgloss. He swallows hard, and only then does his feet betray him, moving forward.
“Why…why are you here?”
You look up, smiling softly, “Satoru said you needed food, and I happened to be at home.”
His eyes focus on your dress, to the way it moves, the colour catching him in a way it shouldn’t. “That dress…you look good in it. It’s new?”
“Thank you,” you blush.
He hesitates, then blurts, “Why are you dressed so nice right now?” He hopes the answer will be simple: that you’re here to see him.
You shrug again, a little faintly amused. “I’m going shopping today.”
Suguru arches an eyebrow, lips twitching, and he can’t help a teasing note. “Shopping? Or, you know, a date or something? You can be honest with me.” A humourness tone in his voice. You sigh, the sound folding around him. He slows his smile, the teasing lifting, replaced by a quiet atmosphere. “You do…have a date?”
You shake your head quick and defensively. “Not a date! But, yeah. I’ve been talking to someone?”
“You’re not gonna tell me who?”
You shake your head again, meeting his violet eyes for just long enough, lips pressed together in a line that says more than words could. You remember what happened the last time you let him into your love life. He gladly ruined that one for you. “No. You ruined the last one, Suguru.”
He forces a laugh. “Right, fair enough.” He lingers on it anyway. “Talking to someone, that’s so vague. What’s his name?”
“No.”
He pushes air out of his nose, glancing off to the side. “C’mon. Just a name.”
“Nope.”
“Occupation?”
You shift the bag in your hand and lift a brow at him. “You’re being annoying.”
“You’re being secretive,” he shoots back.
“Drop it!” you shake your head. You press the bag into his hands. “Here.”
He takes it automatically, the warmth of it seeping through the paper. “What is it?”
“Zaru soba,” you answer.
His fingers clench around the bag. “You made this?”
A small nod. He tilts his head toward the exit. “Walk with me.”
You fall into step beside him without protest. The office doors slide open, and Suguru hadn’t been outside all day that the warm air hit him all at once.
“How’ve you been?” he asks eventually, glancing down at you.
“Fine. Bored, mostly.” You nod your head, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. He shouldn’t, but he briefly scans over your chest. The soft drape of the dress shifts as you adjust the strap, the fabric pulling just enough. Memory follows immediately, uninvited. Memories of you laying on top him, giggling in his arms and playing with his hair; the way you used to fit into his hands without thinking. He tears his eyes away like it burns.
Clears his throat, looking ahead.
“...Bored, huh?” he echoes.
“Yeah. kids aren’t home. The house is quiet, and I don’t have a job so there isn’t much I can do. What about you?”
He shrugs. “Work is the same as always. Girls are good though.”
“They told me you let them have ice cream before dinner.”
“They negotiated with me like young ladies.”
You snort, waving your hand. “You’re so weak!”
He shifts the bag in his hand, then adds, “School break’s coming up soon.”
You nod. “I know.”
“I was thinking about what you said. We should take them somewhere. Like…out of the country. A trip.” He glances at you, a little more careful now. “I’ll plan everything so you don’t have to lift a finger.”
You blink, then a small giggle slips out. “I wanna help plan, I know them more.”
He scoffs. “You know them more?”
You cross your arms, already smiling. “Yes.”
“I literally pack their lunches.”
“So do I, I literally raised them.”
“I raised them too,” he argues, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “They live with me half the time.”
“And who do they come to when they want something?” you shoot back.
He pauses, thinking about it, then grimaces. “…You.”
“Exactly!”
“That’s because you spoil them.”
You sigh and fold your arms. “Of course I spoil them, they’re my daughters aren’t they?”
Suguru leaned against the pale glass windows, trying to hide the smuggish simper on his face. “Yeah…so, what are you shopping for?”
You purse your lips and look at your surroundings. To the salarymen walking around you two and to the few women looking outside at you and Suguru, possibly wondering why his ex-wife is bringing him lunch. That sudden thought brings him back to reality. He realises how awkward it must look for others; Why are you bringing your ex-husband his lunch? You have better things to do, don’t you?
‘It’s hard to believe you two seriously divorced,’ everyone would say. It wasn’t so hard, he thinks. If anyone had been in [either of] your shoes, they would’ve understood instantly. Suguru loved you, and you loved him, too. You guys just stopped seeing each other. Staying wouldn’t have made anything easier, you two had kids. You understood gravely what being a child of separation felt like. You and Suguru agreed you didn’t want to be that family. You would’ve done anything to be perfect for your little girls. He would never blame you.
“I’m just shopping for a few things for Mimi and Nana. Then, I’ll start shopping for myself, I think it’s really nice if I go out more to places.”
“Like how? To clubs? Dates?”
“Funny.” You roll your eyes. “I should. But no. I mean, like going on more walks, sitting in cafes more and maybe journalling? Just something that doesn’t involve sitting at home all day.”
He nods, but something about it sits wrong in his chest. You talk about it so simply, stepping out of your life and finding new things. “Yeah…that’s good. You should get out more.”
You glance at him, studying him a little too closely.
He looks away first.
“The trip,” he adds, quicker now. “We should actually do it. Not just talk about it.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah. The girls would love it, and I think somewhere in Europe is nice. You said they wanted to see castles?”
“Castles, they’d love that! I heard Germany is perfect for that kind of stuff.”
Then, quieter, almost like he’s testing the words before committing to them, “We can all go together.”
You tilt your head, brows pulling together just slightly. “We were already going to go together. What do you mean?”
Suguru blinks. Right. Of course you were.
He hadn’t thought that quick. The words came out before he could catch them, before he could dress them up into something that made sense. Now they sit there between you, exposed, a little too revealing for comfort, and now he looks like a complete fool. His grip tightens faintly around the bag in his hand. Think. Fix it.
“No, I—” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean like…all of us. Together, together.” That sounds worse but he pushes through it anyway. “Same place! Same room, maybe. Keep it simple for them. You know how they get…haha.”
It’s flimsy. He knows it is the second it leaves his mouth, because that’s not what he meant.
You click your tongue, slow, knowing. “Uh-huh.” You shift your weight, glancing past him toward the building. “Anyway, I should let you get back to work.”
He nods quickly, almost grateful for the out. “Yeah—yeah, you’re right.” He lifts the bag slightly. “Thank you. Really. I should eat before it gets cold.”
You smile, faint. “You should.”
Another pause.
Neither of you moves right away. Then you step back first.
Suguru watches you leave until you’re swallowed by the street, yellow fading into the crowd like a bright butterfly being flown away. For a second, he almost calls out. Doesn’t know what he would’ve said if you turned back, only that something in his chest reached for you before he could stop it.
He exhales through his nose and turns on his heel, heading back inside.
The elevator doors slide shut with a soft click, sealing him into a quiet that feels too tight for his thoughts. He shifts the bag in his hands, the warmth of it still clinging to his palms. Zaru soba. Of course you remembered. Of course you made it yourself instead of letting Satoru order something stupid and greasy.
His jaw tightens. You looked good. That thought comes back uninvited, heavier this time. The dress, the way it moved when you walked, the way you stood there like you hadn’t been in his life and out of it all at once. Like nothing had changed, except everything had. He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek.
You’re talking to someone.
It sits there, sour and quiet. Not a date, you said. Not yet. He doesn’t have a right to feel like this anymore, he knows it. He’s not gonna stop the feeling though. And then there’s that moment.
We can all go together.
His brow furrows slightly. He hadn’t meant it like that. Or maybe he had. It slipped out too easily. He hadn’t even thought about it until you looked at him like that, head tilted, catching it. The elevator dings.
Suguru straightens, expression smoothing out before the doors even open. By the time he steps back onto his floor, his face is neutral again. Practiced. Clean. It doesn’t last long. He walks straight past a few coworkers, ignoring whatever half-hearted greetings they throw his way, and heads directly for his desk. Satoru is right where he left him, leaned back in the chair like he owns the place, legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone with zero shame.
Suguru doesn’t slow down.
His hand comes up and cracks clean against the back of Satoru’s head.
“OW—what the hell?!” Satoru jerks forward, nearly dropping his phone. He spins around, glaring. “Are you insane?”
“You lied to me,” Suguru shoots back, dropping the bag onto his desk with a soft thud.
Satoru blinks once, twice, then grins. “Ohhh,” he drags out, sitting up straighter. “So you saw her?”
“Don’t act stup—”
Satoru leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yeah, I figured you’d need a little push.”
“A push?” Suguru scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “You could’ve just told me.”
“And risk you making up some excuse to stay upstairs?” Satoru raises a brow. “Please. I know you.”
Suguru clicks his tongue, looking away, but there’s no real bite in it. Just irritation. Frayed at the edges.
“You still love her, bro.”
Suguru’s shoulders stiffen.
Satoru huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t even try to play it off. We all see it. Me, Shoko…hell, probably the mailman at this point.”
“That’s not—” Suguru starts, then stops.
Because what is it? He exhales, slower this time, and sinks into his chair. The bag of food sits in front of him, untouched.
Satoru leans back again, arms folding behind his head, completely unbothered. “Childhood sweethearts to divorce? That kind of thing doesn’t just disappear.” He glances over, eyes a little too perceptive for someone who acts like him. “You think you’re the exception or something?”
Suguru stares at the bag. At the careful way it’s folded. The way you must’ve packed it.
His fingers twitch slightly against the desk.
“…Eat your donuts,” he mutters finally.
Satoru snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Deflect all you want.”
Suguru doesn’t rise to it this time. Satoru keeps talking for a bit—something about being right, about how he should thank him later—but it fades into background noise. Suguru reaches for the bag instead, unfolding it carefully. The faint scent of soy and cold noodles drifts up, familiar in a way that feels almost intimate. You always packed things like this neatly.
He leans back in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling again, the same fluorescent light buzzing overhead. It’s too bright. It always is. He brings a hand up, dragging it slowly over his face, then lets it fall.
You’re talking to someone. He doesn’t have the right to care. He knows that. You’re not his anymore. You haven’t been for a while. This is what moving on looks like. This is what he chose when he signed the papers you gave to him, when he convinced himself it was the right thing, the necessary thing. So why does it feel like something is being taken from him anyway?
Suguru exhales slowly, fingers tapping once against the desk before stilling.
The trip. That, at least, is something solid. Something he can do without overstepping, without crossing lines that don’t belong to him anymore. The girls would love it. You would too, even if you tried to downplay it. He knows you. He always has. Somewhere warm enough for the girls to run around without jackets would get the job done well enough. He’ll plan it properly. Not rushed, not half-done. Flights, hotels, places to visit, things the girls would talk about for weeks after. He’ll make it…easy. Something you don’t have to think about.
Something worth remembering.
His fingers curl slightly.
And that guy…He doesn’t know anything about him. Not his name, not his face, not what kind of man he is. Just that he exists. That he’s close enough for you to hesitate when answering, close enough that you wouldn’t tell Suguru.
If he pushed, Satoru would dig it up in a day: name, place, time, all of it. He always does. But Suguru doesn’t reach for that. Not this time. He knows you hate it when he sends Satoru to circle your life like that, and if he’s going to win you back, it can’t feel like he’s watching from the shadows.
Across from him, Satoru watches, far too perceptive for his own good, a knowing look creeping back onto his face. Suguru ignores it. He takes a bite, eyes lowering to his desk, shoulders set just a little tighter than before.
He’ll work everything out.
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