Sometimes the city feels like too much—too loud, too fast, too everything. You never expected anyone to notice when your world slowed to a stop… until a he does. A tall stranger with kind eyes and a soft voice, who shields you from the crowd and offers you ramen, patience, and maybe something a little warmer.
One moment you were weaving through the river of people, bag strap clenched in your fist, and the next—the noise hit all at once. Honking horns, chatter layering over chatter, the shuffle and thuds of shoes. It pressed in on you from every direction. Your feet locked to the pavement like they’d forgotten how to move.
A cool breeze tugged at your curls. The smell of something fried wafted from a nearby food cart, and none of it reached you. You were somewhere else entirely, stuck behind glass while the world rushed on. People curved around you like water around a stone, never looking.
Except him.
He slowed as if the river didn’t apply to him, as if he had time to spare. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hands in his pockets. The kind of presence that made space around itself. Dark hair, a little messy like he’d run a hand through it on his way here.
He stopped just a step away, tilting his head. “You lost or something?” His voice was rough, rough in a way that didn’t scrape against your nerves. Your eyes darted everywhere but his face. Shop signs. Traffic lights. Your own shoes. Words tangled and dissolved before they could form. You shook your head, quick and small. “Ah.” Something eased in his expression. His tone softened. “Crowds get to you?” Your fingers twisted the hem of your sleeve. You nodded, barely. Heat rose in your cheeks.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t sigh. Instead, he shifted subtly, planting himself like a barrier between you and the blur of passing strangers. His back was broad, his stance casual, as though he’d always meant to stand there. “No rush,” he murmured. “Take your time.”
The words reached you slowly, gentle as a feather landing. You blinked up at him, startled by the kindness. He caught your fleeting glance and let it go, looking away like it was nothing, like you were allowed to look without being trapped.
Bit by bit, the air stopped buzzing. You released your bag strap just enough to feel your fingers again. The world tilted back into place, not so sharp at the edges. When the crowd thinned, he spoke again, careful and unhurried. “There’s a ramen place around the corner,” he said, nodding that way. “Quiet booths. Good soup. You like ramen?”
You hesitated. Your brain spun in circles. Stranger. Big. Scary-looking. Not scary? Deep voice. Smells like warm cologne and rain. Ramen. He watched your silence without impatience, then added, “Just food. If it’s too much, you can leave. No strings.” A pause. “I’ll pay.” Something unknotted inside your chest.
“…Okay,” you whispered, voice so small it nearly vanished. His mouth curved—just slightly, like a secret. “Alright.” And he stepped back, giving you space as if you were something delicate and important.
He didn’t walk ahead. He matched your steps. Slow, easy strides, never brushing against you, letting you decide the rhythm. The crowd wasn’t as loud with him soaking up the edges of it. His presence made a bubble of calm you could breathe in.
After a block, you found yourself stealing a glance. He was humming under his breath, eyes half-lidded like the city couldn’t bother him if it tried. “You always this quiet?” he asked, without teasing. You nodded, embarrassed. “Sometimes I… can’t talk.”
He hummed like that was perfectly normal. Your lips twitched, almost a smile. The ramen shop was small and warm, tucked between two brick buildings. Paper lanterns glowed soft gold in the window. When he opened the door, the bell chimed gently instead of clanging. Inside smelled like broth and comfort.
He picked a booth in the far corner, sliding in and letting you choose your side first. The noise here was small—clinking spoons, murmured voices, the soft hiss of boiling water. You could feel your shoulders unclench. He didn’t push conversation while you scanned the menu. Just sat there, calm, letting you exist. When you whispered what you wanted, he ordered for you like it was nothing, voice steady and sure.
And when the ramen arrived, steam curling into the air, he grinned faintly. You tasted it. Warm, salty, soft noodles that melted on your tongue. Your whole body exhaled. He noticed, eyes glinting with something like pride. “Told you it was good. Better?” You nodded, cheeks warm. Not from embarrassment this time. From something else. Something lighter.
Maybe it was silly. Maybe it was too soon. But as the city faded to a soft hum beyond the window, you wondered if this tall, quiet, lazy looking stranger might be someone you’d like to see again.
Maybe not just for ramen.
✩˚｡⋆ Written with love by mintedmomments ⋆｡˚✩
🌸 I shared a little draft of this yesterday, but I couldn’t resist polishing it up and adding more love. If you’d like to see a part 2 (fingers crossed!), let me know — it would make my heart so happy. ♡
I want to have stories for me, written about all sorts of characters, but noooo if I want that, I got to write it.
But maybe I just want to read, not write.
Reading my own stuff frustrates me. I can swear all I want that I wrote things correctly or without typing errors, but every time I look over it, something shows up.
✩˚｡ Summary ｡˚✩
Two days. That’s how long it’s been since you last saw him—the tall stranger who shielded you from the noise and walked at your pace. Two days of walking the same route, hoping. Two days of silence that left you wondering if maybe it had been just a fleeting kindness. Today, life nudges you out of your thoughts with something simple: a grocery trip. But sometimes even the most ordinary errands have a way of changing everything.
♡ Warnings / Info ♡
🌸 Soft fluff
🍥 Shy, overthinking, autistic reader
🐰 Slice of life, gentle pacing
🫖 Mentions of grocery shopping, quiet daydreams
🚫 No angst, no spicy content — just cozy vibes
- Your Pace: Part 3 -
It had been two days. Two whole days since you’d seen him.
You lay curled up on your couch, blanket draped over your shoulders like armor, staring at the same spot on the ceiling you’d been tracing for the past hour. Your chest felt tight with the memory of his voice, his quiet patience, the way he’d shielded you on that busy street like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You hadn’t realized how much space that brief meeting would take up inside you. How the memory of a man you’d only just met could echo louder than the TV humming in the background, or the faint buzz of your phone screen lighting up with meaningless notifications.
For two days straight, you’d taken the same route home, walking the same sidewalk where he had slowed down for you. Every time, you’d told yourself it was just coincidence—you just happened to like that path, that’s all. But in truth, your eyes had scanned the crowd, your chest tight with hope. Every tall figure made your heart skip until you got close enough to see it wasn’t him.
Tonight, the hope had dimmed. You curled deeper under your blanket, cheeks warm with embarrassment at yourself. He’s probably just some guy who was being nice. People don’t just appear again like that… right? You shook your head and stood, determined to push the thought away. Your kitchen cupboards were nearly empty anyway. You needed groceries—milk, fruit, something more than instant noodles. At least that was an excuse to get out of your own head.
The walk to the store was quieter than the city sidewalks usually felt, but you were still tense, clutching your shopping list like it might keep you grounded. The glass doors slid open with a hiss, cool air rushing out to meet you, and you stepped inside. You took your time with the aisles, letting the small motions soothe you. Picking up a carton, setting it back down. Reading labels. Holding your basket a little too tightly. By the time you reached the produce section, you were almost calm again.
Almost. You were halfway down the strawberries, carefully inspecting each pack, when you heard it. “...You’re picky with fruit, huh?” Your head snapped up so fast you almost dropped the container. There he was. Toji. Leaning lazily on the handle of a cart a few feet away, an eyebrow raised, his lips tugging at the faintest smirk. The fluorescent lights shouldn’t flatter anyone, but somehow they carved out every line of his jaw, every shadow under his sharp eyes.
Your stomach flipped violently, like all the air had been knocked out of you. “I... um. I just don’t like the mushy ones,” you stammered, clutching the strawberries too tight. Toji pushed his cart closer, unhurried, like the whole store moved at his pace. His gaze flicked from the fruit to you, studying with casual ease. “Makes sense. Gotta pick the best. You always shop here?”
You nodded quickly, fiddling with the corner of the label. “It’s... it's close to home.” He didn’t respond right away. Just watched you. The silence stretched long enough that your chest ached with heat. Then, softer, almost careful: “Been a couple days. Thought maybe I wouldn’t see you again.” The words hit harder than you expected. He noticed. He noticed.
You blinked, and before you could stop yourself, the truth slipped out, quiet and clumsy. “I... I walked the same street, but...” The words tangled and died, leaving the admission hanging in the air, too vulnerable, too much. But Toji didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. He just looked at you, something easing in his expression, like he’d heard all the parts you couldn’t say. “Guess it worked out,” he said finally, his voice warm and low.
Then he plucked the strawberries from your hands, turning the pack over like he was inspecting something delicate. “These’ll do. You should get ’em.” A laugh bubbled out of you; small, shy, but real. And standing there in the middle of the grocery store, you realized how much you’d missed this. His presence. His voice. The way the air wasn’t so heavy when he was near.
He placed the strawberries gently back in your basket and started pushing his cart down the aisle. He glanced back once, tilting his head just slightly, like an invitation. “C’mon. Walk with me. Might even show you which snacks are worth buying.” Your feet moved before your nerves could stop you. And suddenly, grocery shopping wasn’t just grocery shopping anymore. It was an excuse—no, a chance—to keep this unexpected thread from snapping.
Your steps fell in beside his, quiet but steady. The cart rattled gently on the tile, and though the store hummed with voices and faint music overhead, you felt more aware of him than anything else. He didn’t rush. He never did. After a moment, he glanced sideways at you. “So… what do you usually get when you shop?” The question was simple, but he asked it like he actually wanted to know. You hesitated, fingers tightening on your basket before you spoke. “Um… creamy peanut butter. And organic strawberry jam. The regular ones taste… kind of fake to me.”
His brows rose slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that much detail. “Yeah? And you just make sandwiches with ‘em?” You shook your head quickly, a small blush creeping up. “No. I… scoop a little of each out with a spoon. Together. It’s better that way.” For a beat, he stared at you—then a low chuckle slipped out. Not mean, just amused. “Huh. Didn’t think I’d meet someone eating peanut butter and jam like ice cream.”
Your lips twitched, almost a smile. Encouraged, you kept going. “I like Japanese pears, too. They’re crisp and sweet. Oh, and potatoes—scalloped, mashed with turkey gravy, or just diced in a pan.” Your voice softened, a little more confident. “But I like to eat meat a lot! Only chicken, turkey, and pork only a few times a year.”
Toji hummed, pushing his cart a little further. “So, picky.” The word wasn’t sharp. If anything, he sounded faintly approving. You bit your lip, thinking. “I just… know... what I like. I only drink water, cranberry-grape juice, strawberry lemonade, and apple juice.” “I see.” he muttered, nodding like he was filing it away. You hesitated before adding softly, “For my cat… I don’t use store food. I cook for her. Chicken with peas and carrots, a little paprika and turmeric. She likes it better.”
That made him stop for half a second, one hand resting loosely on the cart’s handle. His eyes flicked toward you, unreadable but intent. “…You cook for your cat.” You nodded, fiddling with your sleeve. “It’s healthier.” A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “You’re somethin else.” The words lingered, low and almost warm, as he started moving again. He didn’t tease, didn’t push. Just walked beside you, like he’d been given a glimpse of something rare and was content to let you share at your own pace.
By the time you reached the checkout, your basket was fuller than you’d planned—fruit, juice, potatoes, peanut butter, jam. Toji leaned on his cart beside you, relaxed as ever, eyes flicking toward your choices like he was memorizing them. “You always shop like this?” he asked casually. You nodded, hugging your basket closer. “Yeah. It’s… what i need.... a routine...” His smirk deepened just a touch, not mocking. “Routine suits you.”
The words stayed with you through checkout, through the quiet shuffle out into the cool night air, groceries bagged in your arms. He was waiting just outside, cart set aside, as if he hadn’t considered leaving without you. “You eaten yet?” His voice was steady, low. “There’s a diner down the street. Nothin’ fancy. Just food.” Your heart thudded at the offer. For a moment, nerves tangled your thoughts—but you heard your own voice say, “…Okay.”
He tilted his head toward the street, grin faint and sure. “Then let’s go.” And just like that, you found yourself walking beside him again, bags in hand, the night humming around you....
✩˚｡ Summary ｡˚✩
The diner was supposed to be just another quiet stop—a place for warm food and soft conversation, where the world could stay small for a little longer. But when a sharp moment cuts through the calm, Toji’s steady presence becomes something fiercer, something protective. And somehow, in the glow of neon lights and the clink of coffee mugs, you find yourself sharing more than just a meal.
♡ Warnings / Info ♡
🌸 Soft fluff, budding romance
🍥 Shy, autistic reader (fidgets, stutters, sensory sensitivities)
🐰 Gentle/protective Toji, with a glimpse of his fiercer side
🫖 Cozy diner setting, grocery shopping follow-up, mentions of reader’s routines
🚫 Mild tension (no heavy angst), no spicy content—just cozy vibes with a touch of drama
- Your Pace -
The evening air was cool, carrying the faint bite of damp pavement and car exhaust. Your grocery bags pulled at your arms, the plastic handles pressing into your palms, peanut butter, jam, cranberry-grape juice, Japanese pears, and a few potatoes tucked inside. The city’s hum was softer now, a low murmur of neon buzz and distant laughter, but it still prickled at the edges of your awareness. Toji walked beside you, his single grocery bag slung over his shoulder, his broad frame moving with an ease that made the weight seem like nothing. His sweater shifted faintly against his jeans, and you caught a trace of his cologne, cedar, maybe, with a hint of something clean, like rain.
He’d mentioned a diner down the street. “Nothing fancy. Just food,” he’d said, his voice low and unhurried. Your heart had flickered, nerves twisting, but you’d managed a quiet, “Okay,” surprised by your own certainty. Now, your steps matched his, slow, deliberate, like he was measuring his pace to yours. The city’s noise felt less sharp with him there, his presence a buffer that dulled the edges. The bags crinkled with each step, a steady rhythm that kept you grounded.
The diner appeared around the corner, its neon sign glowing red and blue, the word Diner humming faintly in the dark. Fogged windows let warm light spill onto the sidewalk, casting gold streaks across the pavement. A bell jingled as Toji held the door open, just long enough for you to slip inside. The air was warm, thick with coffee, grilled bread, and a faint sweetness, pancakes, maybe, or pie. It settled into your bones, loosening the tension in your shoulders.
The place wasn’t packed but not empty either. An older man sat at the counter, flipping through a newspaper. A couple murmured over coffee in a booth. A woman scrolled her phone, earbuds in. Chrome-edged stools lined the counter, glinting under fluorescent lights, and a jukebox in the corner played a soft, old tune, some crooner’s voice weaving through the clink of dishes and the hiss of a coffee machine.
Toji nodded toward a booth in the back, tucked against a window. “That work?” he asked, his voice cutting through the diner’s hum without overpowering it. You nodded, fingers tightening on your bags. He led the way, sliding into the booth with a casual ease, setting his bag on the floor. You hesitated, then settled opposite him, the vinyl creaking under you as you carefully placed your bags beside you.
The table was worn, smooth from years of use, with a faint stickiness under your fingertips. A laminated menu sat between you, edges curled, listing burgers, fries, and shakes in faded print. You traced the menu’s edge, the texture keeping your nerves in check. Toji leaned back, one arm along the booth’s edge, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert, watching you with a quiet focus that made your chest tighten.
“Know what you want?” he asked, nodding at the menu, his tone gentle, like he knew choosing could feel heavy. You scanned the options, words blurring slightly under the weight of too many choices. Your fingers twitched, itching to fidget with your sleeve, but you kept them on the menu. “Um, fries and chicken tenders, maybe? And, strawberry lemonade?” Your voice was soft, tentative, but it came easier with him there.
He gave a small nod, like it was a perfectly reasonable choice. “Fries, tenders, lemonade. Good call.” His lips twitched, a faint smile that felt personal, not performative. “I’ll get a burger. Coffee, black. You cool if I order for you?” Relief hit you like a warm wave. “Yes, please,” you said, a little too quickly. Talking to servers always felt like navigating a minefield, your words tripping over themselves under their impatient stares. Toji just hummed, flipping the menu closed like it was no big deal.
A server approached, young, tight ponytail, name tag reading Kayla Hing. Her face was pinched, like she was counting down the minutes to the end of her shift. She tapped her pen on her notepad, barely glancing at you. “What’s the order?” she asked, voice flat, eyes flicking to her watch. Toji leaned forward, his presence steady. “Fries, chicken tenders, strawberry lemonade for her,” he said, tone firm but even. “Burger for me, medium, no onions. Black coffee.” His eyes stayed on her, making sure she heard.
Kayla scribbled, her pen scratching loudly. “That it?” she muttered, already half-turning away. You realized you’d forgotten something, your throat tightening as you forced the words out. “Can, can the lemonade be, not too sweet? Please?”
She stopped, spinning back with a sharp exhale, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say that before,” she snapped, her tone slicing through the diner’s hum. “I already wrote it down. You want me to change it now?” The words hit hard, like a door slamming shut. Your breath caught, fingers freezing on the menu. Your thoughts scrambled, words tangling before they could form. Heat pricked at your eyes, and you felt your chest tighten, the diner’s sounds, clinking plates, the jukebox, distant voices, suddenly too loud, too close.
“I’m sorry,” you stammered, voice barely audible. “I didn’t, I just,” Your hands twitched, reaching for your sleeve, twisting the fabric hard. A tear slipped down your cheek, hot and humiliating, and you swiped at it, trying to shrink into the booth. The noise pressed in, overwhelming, and you wanted to disappear. Toji’s posture changed. He’d been relaxed, almost slouched, but now he sat up, shoulders squared, his gaze locking onto Kayla with a cold intensity. His voice, when he spoke, was low, sharp, like a blade held steady. “Hey. She’s ordering. You don’t get to talk to her like that.” The words weren’t loud, but they carried a weight that made the air feel heavy. Kayla froze, her pen hovering, her face flushing.
“I didn’t mean,” she started, but Toji cut her off, his voice still low but edged with something hard, protective. “You did. She’s being polite. You’re being rude. Fix it.” His eyes didn’t waver, and you caught a glimpse of something new in him, not just the calm, steady Toji, but something fiercer, like he’d step in front of anything that tried to hurt you. Your breath hitched, hands still trembling as you wiped your cheek again. The diner felt too bright, too exposed, but Toji’s presence was an anchor, even if his anger made your heart race. Kayla muttered something, scribbling again. “Fine. Less sweet,” she said, clipped, before turning and stalking off.
You stared at the table, fingers still twisting your sleeve, the fabric soft but not enough to stop the spinning in your head, I messed up, I shouldn’t have spoken, he’s mad, she’s mad. But Toji’s voice cut through, softer now, the edge gone. “Hey,” he said, leaning forward just enough to catch your attention. “You good?” You nodded, too fast, eyes fixed on the table’s worn grain. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice shaky. “I didn’t mean to, make her mad.”
Toji exhaled, not quite a sigh, and leaned back, his posture easing. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, his voice steady, like a hand pulling you back from a ledge. “She’s just got an attitude. Not on you.” He paused, then added, quieter, “You don’t gotta apologize for asking for what you want.” The words settled slowly, like leaves falling, and your shoulders loosened a fraction. You glanced at him, just for a second, his face calm again but with a new glint in his eyes, something protective, resolute. It made your chest feel warm, despite the lingering sting of the moment.
A man in a collared shirt approached, name tag reading Manager. His expression was all apology, hands clasped. “I’m so sorry about that,” he said, voice professional but genuine. “That’s not how we treat customers. Your server’s been let go, she’s had issues, and this was the last straw. Your meal’s on us, and I’ll make sure your order’s right.” He looked at you, then Toji, his tone softening. “I hope you’ll give us another chance.”
Toji gave a short nod. “Appreciate it,” he said, his jaw relaxing. The manager nodded, offered another apology, and left. The diner’s hum returned, soft music, clinking dishes, low voices, like nothing had happened. You fidgeted with your sleeve, the motion slower now. “You didn’t have to, do that,” you said, voice small but steadier. “But, thanks.” Toji’s lips twitched, a faint smile. “Don’t mention it,” he said, echoing his words from the park, but with a warmth that made your chest lighten. “Just how it should be.”
A new server brought your drinks, strawberry lemonade for you, pale pink and cool, and black coffee for Toji, steam curling from the mug. The server was quick, polite, gone before you could feel overwhelmed. You wrapped your hands around the glass, the chill soothing your palms, and took a sip. It was just right, tart, not too sweet, with a soft strawberry bite. Your shoulders relaxed fully.
Toji watched, his coffee untouched. “Good?” he asked, checking more than the drink. You nodded, a small smile breaking through. “Good,” you said, voice soft but sure. He took a sip of his coffee, his hands nearly swallowing the mug, calloused fingers steady. A thin scar crossed one knuckle, catching the light. You wanted to ask about it, but the words stayed stuck. Instead, you sipped your lemonade, letting it ground you.
“So,” he said, setting his mug down. “You cook for your cat. What else you make?” His tone was easy, like he was picking up a thread from earlier, genuinely curious. You blinked, surprised. Your fingers tapped the glass lightly, a small fidget. “Mostly simple stuff,” you said, voice soft but steadier. “Turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce. Scalloped potatoes sometimes. Things that, feel right.” You hesitated, cheeks warming. “Cozy, I guess.”
Toji’s lips twitched, like he was holding back a grin. “Cozy’s not a bad thing,” he said. “Beats takeout. You ever make soup? Seems like it’d suit you.” You tilted your head, thinking. “I’ve thought about it. Maybe potato leek. Or miso. But, no good recipe yet.” Your voice gained a little strength, the topic pulling you out of your shell. He nodded, like he was tucking that away. “I make a decent miso,” he said, casual. “Broth, miso paste, tofu. Nothing complicated. Keeps you warm.” He paused, then added, “Could show you sometime, if you want.”
Your heart did a small flip, the word sometime carrying a promise of more moments like this. You nodded, too shy to look up. “I’d like that.” The food arrived, golden fries and crisp chicken tenders in a red basket for you, a hefty burger for Toji, stacked with lettuce and tomato, the bun glossy with butter. The smell of warm bread and grilled meat mixed with your lemonade’s sweetness. You grabbed a fry, its warmth steadying your fingers, and took a bite. Salty, crisp, comforting. Your chest loosened.
Toji bit into his burger, chewing slowly, eyes half-closed like he was savoring it. You watched the way his jaw moved, the faint stubble catching the light. He caught you looking and raised an eyebrow, no judgment, just a spark of amusement. “What?” he asked, voice muffled. You flushed, shaking your head. “Nothing. Just, you seem to like it.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it felt like enough.
He chuckled, low and easy. “It’s a solid burger. Wanna try?” He tilted it toward you, not pushing. You shook your head, fingers tightening on a tender. “No, thanks. I, don’t do beef much.” He nodded, setting it down. “Fair enough.” He wiped his hands on a napkin. “You said chicken, turkey, sometimes pork. Why’s that?” The question felt natural, not prying. You broke a fry in half, fidgeting. “Texture,” you said softly. “Beef’s, heavy. Chewy sometimes. Chicken’s lighter. And I like knowing what’s in my food. Feels, safer.”
He nodded, no trace of judgment. “Makes sense. Control’s good.” He sipped his coffee, eyes flicking to you. “Knew someone once, real picky about food. Said it was about knowing what’s going in you.” You tilted your head, curious. “A friend?” The words slipped out, and you froze, worried you’d crossed a line. Toji’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Yeah. Old friend. Long time ago.” His voice had a weight, like there was more to the story, but he didn’t share, and you didn’t push. The small glimpse felt like enough.
You took another bite, chewing slowly. The diner’s warmth, the soft jukebox tune, Toji’s steady presence, it all made the air feel less heavy. You felt bold enough to ask, “Do you, like the city? You seem, okay with it.” He leaned back, arm along the booth. “It’s fine,” he said, thoughtful. “Loud, crowded, but you find quiet spots if you know where to look. Like here. Or that park.” He nodded toward the window, the neon sign buzzing faintly. “You just carve out your space.”
You nodded, his words hitting home. “I try. Quiet places help. But, it’s a lot sometimes.” Your fingers tapped the table, a small rhythm. Toji’s eyes softened slightly. “Yeah. Used to hate the noise myself. Still do, some days.” He paused, then added, “That’s why I notice folks like you. Ones who look like the city’s weighing on them.” Your breath caught, eyes flicking to his before darting away. He’d noticed, not just you, but people like you, carrying too much. Your cheeks warmed, and you focused on your tenders. “Didn’t think anyone would,” you murmured.
He shrugged, like it was obvious. “I do.” The words were plain but heavy, stirring something warm in your chest. The meal passed quietly, bites, sips, small words. Toji didn’t push you to talk, but he kept the silence light, commenting on the diner’s retro vibe or the coffee’s bite. You added quiet thoughts, a food truck you liked, how the lemonade was just right. Each word felt like a step forward.
When the plates were cleared, the server brought a slice of apple pie, ice cream melting into the crust. “On the house,” she said, her voice kinder than Kayla’s. Toji nudged it toward you. “You first.” You hesitated, then took a small bite. Warm apple, cinnamon, flaky crust, it was perfect. You closed your eyes briefly, savoring it. Toji watched, his expression soft. “Good?” he asked. You nodded, a small smile forming. “Really good,” you said, voice steady for the first time that night.
He took a bite after you, fork clinking lightly. The diner’s hum faded, and for a moment, it was just you, him, and the neon glow. You didn’t want it to end. The bill, covered by the manager, came and went. Toji stood, stretching, his shirt lifting slightly to show a sliver of skin. You looked away, cheeks warm, and gathered your bags. The night air was sharp as you stepped outside, the city’s hum quieter now. Toji matched your pace, bag over his shoulder, the sidewalk streaked with light from passing cars.
You walked in silence, bags crinkling, your apartment not far. Toji’s presence felt steady, his cologne faint but grounding. You glanced at him, catching the scar on his lip in the streetlight. At your building, a narrow brick walk-up with a flickering streetlamp, Toji stopped, eyeing the steep stairs. “Bags heavy?” he asked, voice casual but careful. “Want help getting them up?” Your heart skipped, the offer unexpected but warm. You hesitated, fingers tightening on the handles. Letting him into your space felt big, but his calm expression made it seem okay. “Um, yeah,” you said softly. “If you don’t mind.”
His lips curved slightly. “Don’t mind,” he said, taking a bag, his fingers brushing yours briefly. He nodded toward the stairs. “Lead the way.” You took a breath, clutching your remaining bag, and started up, Toji’s steps steady behind you. The city’s hum faded, and for a moment, the world felt lighter, like it could fit in the space between you.
As an autistic person myself: there should be more autistic readers inserted into fanfic, kinda tired sometimes seeing the same basic setup for a woman, so this is just a note to all writers and I would do an autistic reader but I can't write so. Also autistic people have many different things that are individual to their own person. Also not ALL autistic people stim the same way which I understand it would be hard to write since every person is different. But not all autistic people blush (I don't cause I have darker skin), but I also just feel like they're perceived as weak and not capable of achieving things which unfortunately people think that in the real world. But continue to write this was just a tangent.
I'm also available to help anyone who has trouble writing for autistic readers! I will do my best to say descriptions that the majority of autistic people have if that makes sense.
We popped into HMV today and I spotted these on offer, some I've been meaning to buy for a while. A nice treat after a mad week of birthday celebrations, cake baking, and procrastinating on my first proper review going up out of nerves as usual even though no-one ever reads them. #autisticreader #autisticwriter #actuallyautistic #literaryautistic https://www.instagram.com/p/BoXSlB8BMmc/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1j80ntrz3fif6
A bath and a good book! The book I'm reading at the moment - 'Kitty Peck and the Music Hall Murders' by Kate Griffin. #bookstagram #autisticreader #SpecialInterest #books #reading
Happy Saturday morning! Last day of October, tomorrow will be November 1st. #Autism #AutismAwareness #AutisticGirl #AutisticReader #AutisticDisorder #AutismSpectrumDisorder #ASD #IG_Autism #Selfie #Saturday (at Pag-asa Bankerohan Davao City)
