Infertile and Expecting.
AD model! Satoru Gojo x Photographer!Reader
note: reader is not Japanese
...
Pt.1
Pt.2
...
Longfic.
Fluff, comedy??? attempt at humor, etc.
...
The agency wasn’t always what people assumed it to be. To the outside world, it was a sleek, powerhouse advertising agency dotted across Tokyo’s business district, with too many interns and not enough espresso. But inside, it was chaos. And inside that chaos, there was AWs, Abroad Works, a sub-division that specialized in foreign campaigns, international collaborations, and very weird visa paperwork.
The CEO of AWs was Nanami Kento. Terrifying in his management style, pounce without warning, disappear without explanation.
Suguru Geto was the editor. sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and constantly muttering about how coffee should be a basic right, not a privilege.
Satoru Gojo was the model with chiseled features, dramatic sighs, and allergic to punctuality. Shoko Ieiri handled business talks but today, she wasn’t around. Something about a family emergency, a cousin’s wedding, and a goat.
Which brought us to the meeting room on a Tuesday afternoon that smelled like rain and ramen.
Nanami slid a folder across the table to Suguru.
“You’re going to the US next month. Florida. Big project. Only you and Satoru are here today, and you already know…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Everyone knew. If the earth split open and Satoru fell in, Nanami might ask for receipts before helping.
Suguru blinked. “Okay. Thanks?”
Two hours later, Suguru was editing a banner of Satoru standing next to a suitcase for an ad titled “Pack Light, Travel Bright.” He smirked and added a mosquito near his perfect jawline. Payback for last week’s snide comment.
Suddenly, the door creaked.
Satoru. Big eyes. Very big eyes. The kind you make when your pride has been crushed, marinated, sauteed, and served on a plate with grass.
“Can I have… one hour?”
Suguru blinked once. “What?”
“One hour. Just one”
“…why?”
“Just… come. I’ll pay.”
They ended up at a tiny dumpling shop near the station. Satoru didn't touch the menu. Just leaned forward like he was about to propose.
“I want to go to the US.”
Suguru narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“And… if you decline the offer, since Shoko is out, I’ll be next in line. Nanami won’t have a choice.”
“...Why should I give that up?”
Satoru’s lips twitched. There it was. The ego crack.
He leaned back, groaned once, rubbed his face like this physically hurt him.
Then launched forward.
"Okay, listen. All my friends went abroad, okay? All of them. USC, NYU, some went to San Francisco, I didn’t even know that was a real place! Every single one of them posts stories in their dumb little fake American accents like “It’s snowingg guyssss!” and “Starbucks hits different here.”
“You know what I post? Selfies with cutouts of detergent brands!! I have ONE wish in life, Suguru Geto. Just ONE!!"
He paused dramatically. Then said, slowly,
“I want to pick up the phone and say in the most forced American accent ever: ‘I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd.’”
Suguru’s face remained unimpressed. “No.”
Satoru blinked. “No?”
“Why would I give up this opportunity for a.....joke?”
Satoru’s face contorted. His hands clenched. His jaw twitched.
And he whisper-screamed, desperate, the rarest word in his vocabulary.
“PLEASE.”
…
The next month was approaching fast, and with it, Suguru’s all-expenses-paid trip to Florida, complete with fancy accommodations, American coffee, and a glorious break from office drama.
Unfortunately, “drama” had legs, a jawline, and an endless supply of turtlenecks.
Satoru had entered full pestering mode. Like Suguru’s success was a war crime.
He started small, delivering Suguru’s coffee exactly the way he liked it (which was suspicious in itself), complimenting his editing work “Wow, this is almost art, Suguru” (he cropped the picture), and even offering to carry his tripod bag. Suguru did not own a tripod bag. So Satoru bought him one.
By Friday, Suguru had enough. He slammed his sandwich onto the desk and turned, half-bread, half-murder in his eyes.
“You know what? If you wanna go to the US so bad, just buy a damn ticket and leave! Not that hard!”
Satoru stared at him like he’d just said “jump off a bridge.”
“I can’t,” he said, voice dropping like tragic violins in the background. “I literally can’t.”
Suguru squinted. “What, do you owe someone money?”
“No.”
Sigh.
“My clan elders,” Satoru began, “are deeply superstitious. Like...‘calls a shaman before ordering takeout’ superstitious.”
Suguru blinked.
“My parents too. And my grandmother— don’t even get me started, she calls me ‘curse magnet.’ Anyway, this one fortune teller my clan adores— some guy named Master Gakuganji or something, apparently saw my face in a tea bowl and said I have bad travel omens.”
“A tea bowl?”
“Yeah, and since then, they are convinced I shouldn’t cross the Japanese border. They cancelled my trip to kyoto in high school, they deleted my US college applications. Said, and I quote, ‘the wind outside Japan will swallow his luck and spit him back without eyebrows.’”
Suguru stared at him like he’d just aged 15 years. “You have GOT to be joking.”
“I WISH,” Satoru cried, hands flailing. “Do you know what it’s like to watch your school friends post beach pictures from Malibu while you’re stuck doing toilet flush product commercials in front of a green screen rain cloud?!”
Suguru squinted his eyes, then exhaled deeply. “Satoru, you think I’m that dumb?” Suguru asked.
There was silence. Then, “Because...Nanami only listens to you,” Satoru blurted. “You say the sky’s green, he believes it! Say your grandmother died, and boom— you’re free.”
Suguru paused, jaw twitching. “You want me to say...my grandmother died?”
Satoru grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. “YES! If I said it, he’d call the hospital to check if I was lying. You say it, he’ll send flowers, plus a free trip to Fiji for your mental well-being.”
Suguru yanked himself free, appalled. “Hell no! What’s wrong with you?!”
But Satoru wasn’t stopping. He was already on his knees, quite literally begging on the carpet Nanami once declared “imported Italian,” hands clasped like he was auditioning for a soap opera.
“PLEASE!”
Suguru sighed.
“Enough diversions and lying,” Suguru snapped, getting up.
“I WASN'T LYING!”
“Okay, half-lying.”
Satoru pulled out a small blue notebook.
Opened it. Then… lifted it up. And hid his face behind it. Peeking from behind the page… were two guilty blue eyes. Wide. Dramatic. Trapped.
“See, man. Be honest with me. We’ve had unnecessary beef for, like, forever. You mocked my editing, I insulted your hair—that’s history. But now, suddenly, you throw away all your pride just for a wish to go to the US?”
Satoru let out a dramatic sigh and took a mighty slurp of the cold drink before him, one of those neon-colored, sugar-overloaded concoctions that looked more dangerous than cursed energy. The moment the freezing hit the roof of his mouth, he jerked in his seat.
“Brainfreeze—owowowow—okay, listen,” he whimpered, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically preparing to relive a decade-old heartbreak. “I’ll tell you.”
He placed the drink down, straightened his shoulders, and began:
“There was a girl.”
Suguru blinked. “A girl?” he echoed, already unimpressed.
“She transferred to our school when I was thirteen. A foreigner, one of the two foreign transfer students. Always carried this clunky DSLR, like a third arm. Nobody talked to her much. But one day, my bicycle, which was a girl's one, was parked next to hers and—”
“Wait.” Suguru frowned. “Why were you riding a girl’s bicycle?”
Satoru looked mortified. “…The fortune teller. He said the top tube on boy's cycles was dangerous for the Gojo family lineage.”
Suguru snorted so hard his straw jumped. “Bro, WHAT.”
“I didn’t question it! I was twelve!”
Suguru was full-on laughing now. “What, it was gonna erase your family tree or something?”
“Yes!” Satoru cried in frustration. “They said I’d never have children and the family name would end!”
Wheezing, Suguru wiped his eyes, doubling up. “Oh my God, man.”
Satoru glared but pushed on, determined. “Anyway. She didn’t laugh at my bike. That mattered. Most people did. Like you. She didn't laugh even when I told her.”
“She and I became… accidental friends. We never hung out alone or anything. She would laugh at everything I said. And one Christmas, I wrote her this card. It had a picture of Amelia Island on it, super random, no snow or anything, just a beach. But I don’t know, it reminded me of her. I gave it anonymously.”
Suguru tilted his head. “That’s kinda sweet.”
“She read it during recess. No expression. Blank. Next day, she comes to me, asks, ‘Did you write this?’”
Satoru scoffed. “I panicked. Said no. Then mocked the card I made. Called it lame. Said it looked like a brochure for lost tourists.”
Suguru winced. “Smooth.”
“She didn’t laugh. Just… stared at me and said, ‘That card made me feel something for the first time this winter.’ Then she walked away.”
Suguru, now slightly invested, raised a brow. “Oof.”
“I never told her I wrote it,” Satoru admitted.
Suguru squinted. “And what does this possibly have to do with you going to the US?”
Satoru waved his hand. “Let me finish.”
…
Suguru looked at the half-drunk cold drink, then back at Satoru.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “I can reject the offer. You’ll get the slot instead. But then... how will you convince your family?”
Satoru sipped the last of his drink slowly.
Looked out the window. And grinned.
Satoru leaned back in his chair, that infuriatingly smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes sparkled with something Suguru could only describe as unearned confidence.
“I already took care of it.”
Suguru narrowed his eyes. “Took care of what, Romeo?”
Satoru simply crossed his arms and nodded to himself like a villain finishing a chess game he started in his own head.
“Clarity,” Suguru said. “Give it. Now.”
…
In the building, another sub-branch office buzzed with quiet chaos. HR. Finance. And there she was, Gakuganji’s granddaughter. Mid-twenties, blunt-cut bangs, and permanently unimpressed with the universe.
She worked in HR, or maybe Legal, Satoru hadn’t actually checked. All he knew was that she existed.
He’d found his window.
Satoru stood outside a quiet break room with the phone against his ear, pacing in dramatic arcs like he was rehearsing for a movie.
He called.
Ring.
Ring.
Click. “Hello?” came the aged voice on the other end. The old elder himself. His enemy. His nemesis since age seven.
Satoru’s voice dropped into sugar-laced sarcasm.
“Hello, Master Gakuganji. This is Satoru Gojo. Your favorite clan's son.”
“Oh, it’s Satoru! What is it, son?”
“I just had a little doubt,” Satoru said, sweetly.
“A doubt?” the man chuckled. “Ask away, child.”
Satoru’s voice changed. From fake-sweet to quiet-deadly. “You know, your grand daughter and i work for the same company right? If I kidnap her…”
“…Eh?”
“…And elope with her…”
“WHAT?”
“…Then marry her…”
“Are you—”
“…And two months later… dump her, throw her out of the house, emotionally ruin her, and disappear from the family registry…”
The silence on the line grew nuclear.
“…Then, master,” Satoru asked, voice as cold as a weather app warning, “Whose horoscope do the bad omens belong to? Mine, your daughter's, or yours?”
“What do you want.”
…
Suguru stared, blinking. “You blackmailed a seventy-year-old spiritual consultant.”
“Gently intimidated” Satoru corrected.
“With the emotional threat of fake marriage and divorce.”
“Wasn’t fake in the moment,” Satoru said, sipping from the straw like a man who just solved world peace. “I committed to the bit.”
Suguru just stared.
“I didn’t actually do anything! I just... helped him consider some new astrological angles,” Satoru said. “Now, apparently the stars have changed or something. A fresh wind of fortune has entered my celestial corridor.”
“I can’t believe you dragged a whole girl into this—”
“She doesn’t even know. It’s fine. Her Insta bio says ‘Engaged to coffee’ anyway.”
“…What does that even mean—”
Satoru suddenly stood up and raised his arms like he’d won a national award.
“San Francisco! It’s rainin' like hell, OH MAH GAWD!!!”
The cafe went quiet. Everyone turned. A kid started crying. The waiter dropped a glass.
Suguru sank into his chair, hiding his face and muttering, “It's Florida.”
…
You were thirteen when you landed in Japan, still jetlagged, still unsure how far Tokyo was from anything familiar, your school, your grandma.
Your dad had one rule. “No Japanese boys.” You blinked.
He leaned in like he was whispering ancient wisdom. “They’re into shady stuff. Like... gambling and host clubs.”
You nodded. Not because you believed it, but because the jetlag had won, and your brain had clocked out somewhere over the Pacific.
You started school in March, jetlagged and freezing, with only two phrases in Japanese.
"Hello" and "I don't understand."
The only other foreign transferee was a boy named Miguel, who looked like he’d been born with a passport in his hand. Always a bit detached but practical, he spoke Japanese in scattered syllables and english with a heavy accent that made teachers squint.
You and Miguel became a team by necessity. You copied each other’s homework, traded cafeteria pickles for extra milk, and sat side by side during any group project, acting as one two-headed confused foreigner.
Then there was Satoru Gojo.
The Japanese boy who looked like he walked off a high-end shampoo ad, with his floppy white hair, moody aura, and that stupid girl’s bicycle he parked next to yours every morning.
He tried to speak to you.
“Hi. Me, am… Satoru… boy… I am goose pinples. No.—wait—I mean, I have the goose pinples.”
You and Miguel burst into laughter so loud, the homeroom teacher glared.
Satoru, unbothered, nodded proudly. "Funny. You laugh. You like me."
“No,” Miguel wheezed. “Because you said you are goose pimples.”
“Goose pinples happen when heart is... too loud!” Satoru declared, without understanding a thing.
“My English is very… constipation.”
“I feel you, I have many… hormone today.”
“This snack is… how do you say? Explode in mouth? Like… popsex?”
“Today is Constipation Day in Japan!” and what not.
You and Miguel lost it every single time.
You never corrected him.
Because he always looked so damn confident. Like the world should revolve around his pronunciation.
Miguel would record some of it. You’d play it back in the dorm at night, wheezing into your pillows, whispering,
“Popsex. He really said popsex.”
But there was something endearing about him. Or maybe something tragic. You couldn’t tell.
The sun was setting. You were taking a photo of the schoolyard. He walked up, fiddling with something behind his back.
He didn’t say anything. Just dropped a card on the bench and left.
The cover was of an island. Amelia Island.
Inside, written in broken English:
“You make my heart like dance. Happy marry Christmas.”
You didn’t smile.
Because it was sweet. And embarrassing. And probably from him.
The next day, you asked him, straight-faced:
You: “Did you leave this?”
Satoru: “What? Me? This??”
(Laughs too hard. Slaps his knee.)
“This very funny! Haha. Island card! Very joke.”
You told him you liked it very much. That for once you felt like someone gave you something worth keeping. His eyes widened and he was about to say something when you walked away, a bit hurt.
“No dating Japanese boys,” your dad said again, while reheating soup and watching historical dramas like a hypocrite. “Keep that in mind.”
You’d just nodded.
He didn’t know about Satoru. Not really. He was your friend. Mostly. Kind of. Not technically anything that violated international treaties or fatherly warnings.
Even when he gave you that Amelia Island card, anonymous but obvious, you said nothing. He denied it. Called it lame.
So you shrugged, hurt a little, and moved on.
Eventually, your parents moved again. Another town. Same country, but a new school, new skyline, new loneliness.
You never saw Satoru after that.
…
Your sister was the golden one.
She smiled brighter. Spoke softer. Her eyes watered during shampoo commercials and she once cried when a stray cat let her hold it for a minute.
So when she came to you, eyes big and trembling, and said, “Can you tell them? Please? I don’t think I can. He’s Japanese. You know how Dad’ll be.”
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want her to be happy. But because the moment she asked, you felt it, that old familiar weight settling on your shoulders again. The one you carried through your teens, through immigration, through every rule your father ever carved into stone.
You sat on the edge of the living room couch, your fingers digging crescents into your thighs, while your father’s silence sharpened the air like a blade.
Your mother’s voice cut in, pleading, but soft, rehearsed, like she already knew the end.
“She’s never asked for anything her whole life. Let her marry him, please. We have ___, don’t we? When have you ever said no to her? She’ll marry whomever you ask her to, it's the least she can do.”
You blinked. Felt the ground vanish a little under your feet.
But you didn’t say anything.
You smiled. A small one. A polite one.
You didn’t know then that smile would cost you something.
The wedding was small. Rushed. A white dress borrowed. A groom with tired eyes and a job in tech. Your sister looked happy, though. For a while. With you as the photographer.
Eight months later, you were at the hospital. Premature baby.
“She’s in labor. Come if you can.”
You went. You held her hand when her husband was at work. You remember the way she looked at you, sweaty, scared, but still somehow calm, like you were the only solid thing in the room.
Then the baby didn’t cry.
And everything after that blurred into this cold, sterile memory of machines and silence and a doctor’s voice trying to be gentle.
They named him Noah. He was perfect. For ten minutes.
Then he was gone.
The funeral was the kind of heartbreak people don’t talk about because there are no right words for something that brief and permanent.
Her husband blamed her for not taking care of herself while pregnant.
“You said you didn’t want kids. You remember? You told me a year ago. That maybe... you’d regret it.”
And your sister just stood there. They never recovered.
You held her until her breathing evened out. Until her voice cracked open.
And you just kept rubbing her back, trying to hold her together with hands that were already so used to holding other people’s pain.
Later, your mom pulled you aside while helping pack up some things for her.
“At least you… you should listen to your father. You don’t want to end up like your sister.”
You didn’t respond because she was right.
Years later, you’re still in Japan. Still taking jobs from strangers who don’t know your language but trust your eye. You have clients. You have your quiet little life.
…
It started with a hand graze.
James had bumped into you at a small book café in the quieter part of the city, apologizing so earnestly for a moment you barely noticed. “Sorry—wasn’t watching,” he said, British lilt and coffee-stained fingers holding onto a stack of art books. You glanced up briefly from your own pile of screenwriting guides, nodding once, distracted.
He returned a few minutes later, leaned against your table, and offered you a smile that held no arrogance, no performance. “You like writing, I guess?” he asked. “Or maybe just collecting intimidating books?”
You smirked at that. He sat. He talked. He stayed.
And you didn’t expect that you’d like him so much.
He was sweet. Not in the manufactured way you’d grown used to, he didn’t send flowers, didn’t quote poems he didn’t understand. But he remembered the books you liked, bought a matching notebook when you mentioned needing one, and waited outside the film school for two hours on rainy days with an umbrella and half a chocolate bar.
He met your sister. Made her laugh, even. Played card games with her in the cramped corners of the house when your father wasn’t around.
But when you finally told him, quietly, anxiously, that you wanted him to meet your father, he hesitated.
“Give me a month,” he said, voice low. “Just one month. I want to have a job by then. I want to come to him with something in hand. I know what your dad is like.”
You frowned. Not because he was wrong, but because that month already sounded like an escape route.
Still, you nodded.
You always wanted to believe the best of people.
One month turned into two. Then four.
He kept trying, he said. But you were the only one holding onto his promises anymore.
…
2 years later.
Your father came into your room. He had a printed photograph in his hand. A boy in a navy blue shirt, smiling politely.
“His name is Joseph,” your father said. “Son of Thomas. Good job, salary, family, and most importantly, nice and respectful.”
You stared at the picture. You knew Joseph from church. But it wasn’t even Joseph you were reacting to, it was the sudden realization of what this meant.
He thought you were ready for marriage.
“Dad,” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”
You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.
It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.
“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”
There was a long pause. He didn’t react for a full minute. Just stared.
Then, finally, he placed the photograph of Joseph on the table and sat back.
“You know I’ve never denied you anything,” he said quietly. Not angry. “Don’t take it for granted.”
“I’m not,” you said. “I promise I’m not. I just… I really think this will help. With the way the industry’s changing, and—”
He raised a hand, stopping your excuses mid-way. You felt like you were shrinking.
He nodded once, a little stiff. Then, after a moment, rested his callused hand on your head the way he always did when you were little. Gentle, warm, still.
“Go,” he said. “Make sure you do it properly.”
You smiled, but your eyes had guilt.
Packing didn’t take long. neither did the goodbyes.
You kept your room clean. Hugged your sister a little tighter. Stared too long at your walls and the half-torn posters you’d never get to finish decorating.
Then came the early morning of departure. The airport lights felt too white. Too quiet. Your sister walked next to you, carrying your hand luggage while you tugged along the suitcase. You were wearing a hoodie.
“Is that him?” your sister asked softly, referring to the guy who sat on the waiting lounge, very far away, the matching hoodie you wore was a hint.
You told her everything last night.
You nod and stop. Right outside the terminal glass doors, you turned toward her. And your face crumpled.
“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, voice cracking, your breath stuttering. “I didn’t mean this, I didn’t—”
You swallowed. Clenched your teeth. Covered your mouth with your hand for a second, trying not to let it shake. Your sister didn’t say anything. She just looked at you the way she always did, waiting, quiet, gentle.
“Please,” you whispered, “don’t tell them.”
And that was all. You picked up your bag again. And walked through the doors.
You made it through security in silence, your hoodie pulled low over your eyes, your steps heavy. The air inside the airport felt sterile, metal chairs, quiet voices, the hum of announcements you weren’t really listening to. You held onto your passport like a lifeline.
And then you saw it.
A lone suitcase just a few feet ahead, with a grayish denim jacket draped lazily over it. The chair beside it was empty.
You paused. Tilted your head slightly. Maybe the guy had gone to the washroom. You didn’t care.
You didn’t even want to care. You sat down with a gap of one chair in between, resting your small handbag on top of your own suitcase. The weight of the flight, the course, your family, James, and everything you didn’t say sat on your chest like bricks.
A headache was already blooming behind your eyes.
You stood again, rubbing your forehead, and made your way to the tiny pharmacy stall just across from the waiting area. Bought a strip of pills, a small water bottle, and pressed your palm to your temple as you walked back.
And then you saw him.
Long legs stretched out. Foot tapping on his suitcase and kicking it forward like a bored child playing air hockey with himself. And then pulling it back with his heel, only to do it again.
You stared at him for a solid ten seconds.
He didn’t even notice you, he was too busy whistling a terrible, off-key rendition of some unknown classical tune. Probably something he made up.
Your brows twitched. You moved to sit down anyway, deciding to just pretend he didn’t exist.
But the moment your hand touched your suitcase handle, he looked up.
And his face lit up like he was actually five.
A slow, mischievous grin crept onto his face. He tilted his head, blinked dramatically, then, because he had no self-preservation instinct, shifted one chair closer, leaned into your face from the side.
He pointed a finger and poked your shoulder. With far too much confidence.
“Ma’am,” he said, in the most suspiciously fake tone you’d ever heard, “have we met before? Or… are you just the reason the stars look dim tonight?”
You blinked.
And then smacked his shoulder with a loud thwap.
“Satoru Gojo!” you snapped. “Stop overacting! What the hell?! I’ve been searching the entire airport like a lunatic—!”
“I told you I was inside—!”
“You were not! You left your suitcase here like you live here. Is this a goddamn palace?! Were you taking a heritage walk or what?!”
“It’s my first time in this terminal!” he defended, eyes wide and innocent, “I got excited, okay?! It’s like a mall but worse!”
You glared. “You’re unbelievable.”
He leaned in closer, voice full of pride. “But also really good-looking.”
You deadpan-stared at him. “I’m this close to checking in my morals and leaving you in the cargo.”
“Noted.” He nodded solemnly, then grinned again. “Oh, by the way—Florida’s gonna be awesome, baby. Imagine all the white sand and palm trees and—ow, ow—okay, sorry, stop hitting me—!”
You had shoved him lightly on the chest, but he reacted like he was dying.
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Grow a spine.”
“Oh my God,” he mimicked in a high voice, holding his chest. “Grow a spine—You hit me! I might never emotionally recover from this moment.”
You turned away, cheeks puffed in exasperation.
He leaned in again, wrapped an arm around your shoulder without asking, and pulled you in close like a clingy koala. You squirmed, tried to push him off, but he was already launching into another act.
“Milady,” he said in a terrible british accent, “I humbly beg your forgiveness. I was so very bewitched by the splendid architecture of this steel-and-concrete airport that I momentarily forgot I had a beautiful lover waiting for me.”
“‘Beautiful lover’?” you raised a brow.
He straightened, chest out like a knight. “I would doth die a thousand deaths to bask in thy gaze.”
“…Are you high?”
“I took two mints. Close enough.”
You started laughing despite yourself.
You hated that he always knew how to twist your mood, how to flip the script, to go from heavy and aching to ridiculous and warm. Like he could sense exactly when you were on the edge.
And even though you were still mad… you rested your head on his shoulder for a second before standing up.
“Come on,” you muttered, grabbing your boarding pass. “Let’s go. Before you get distracted by another vending machine and try to marry it.”
Satoru gasped, following you with exaggerated shock. “That was one time! And it said limited-edition strawberry milk—!”
You walked ahead, shaking your head.
And behind you, suitcase rolling, Satoru trailed after you with that same stupid smile, already reaching out to hold your hand like it was muscle memory.
This is a notice from the heavens: what in the ever-loving hell just happened ?
…
Flashback.
Satoru barely sat down at his desk when the dreaded voice pierced the air.
“Satoru Gojo. Office. Now.”
His eyes lifted like a man being summoned to court. Nanami never calls. Nanami appears like a spirit of mild annoyance and sarcastic judgment. But this? This was serious.
He stood, heart hammering, already mentally cycling through everything he might’ve done wrong, was it the extra-long lunch break last Tuesday? The incident with the bubble tea explosion in the studio? That one time he accidentally hit ‘Reply All’ and sent a crying cat meme to the entire office?
No time to wonder. He walked in.
Nanami sat at his desk, arms crossed, face unreadable. Very Nanami. Behind him, the screen glowed with a blank spreadsheet, deadly in its own way.
“We’re changing the face of the AWs campaign,” Nanami said, without even looking up.
Satoru blinked. “...Okay?”
Nanami leaned back. “We can’t afford celebrity models. The budget is ass. So. New idea—we pick someone from the team.”
Satoru tilted his head. “Oh… That’s actually kinda genius. Like… relatable marketing. ‘We are you’ type vibe.”
He nodded, warming up. “If we do a shoot with banners and everything, it’ll look organic. Sales will go up.”
“Exactly,” Nanami said, drumming his fingers. “So now comes the real question…”
He stared straight into Satoru’s soul.
“Who should be the model?”
And in that moment… Satoru knew he was absolutely screwed.
Nanami never asks for opinions. Which meant, he already had someone in mind. And Satoru was called here, which meant, it was him.
An intrusive image assaulted his brain: A massive banner over a subway station. Satoru. Smiling. Thumbs up. Next to a toilet seat.
“AWs: Flushing Problems Away.”
He swallowed thickly.
“Suguru,” he blurted. “Suguru Geto's got that—like, you know—model energy. Face like a drama second lead, right? Like the nice one that dies?”
“Satoru,” Nanami said flatly. “You’ll do it.”
“No—no no no,” Satoru stammered, waving his hands. “Nanami, listen—my family’s got… issues. Yes. Terrible issues. There’s a… a spiritual curse, actually. We can’t be on printed material. It invites curses. My grandmother said—”
Nanami didn’t even blink. He turned to his monitor.
“Do it or resign.”
There it was. Classic Nanami. Dropping ultimatums like it was Monday morning Sudoku.
Satoru stood frozen. He sighed. Long. Dramatic. Almost award-worthy.
He turned to the door. Put a hand on the handle. Then paused.
“Give me one hour,” he said, turning back.
Nanami didn’t glance up. “Take it.”
“Your time, sir,” Satoru added with unnecessary formality, voice full of noble defeat.
Nanami finally looked at him, eyes squinting with the exhausted patience of a man being begged to let a golden retriever run a government agency.
“What now?”
…
The lighting is warm, jazzy music hums faintly, and there's a rustic charm to the place. The only thing out of place is the sheer tension radiating from one side of the booth.
Nanami sits like a man about to order his final meal before heading into a warzone.
Satoru sits like a man who is the warzone.
The waiter approaches with a notepad.
Nanami: “Dakgalbi. Extra spicy. Add cheese. Double portion.”
Satoru: “...A glass of hot water. Please.”
The waiter blinks. Looks at Satoru. Then at Nanami. Then back at Satoru, silently judging his life choices.
“Hot… water?”
“Yes. Plain. Hot.”
“Lemon?”
“No. I’m not here to feel joy.”
The waiter backs away slowly.
Nanami sighs. “Are you starting or should I just punch myself in the head and save time?”
Satoru takes a dainty sip of his steaming hot water, wincing like it burned his soul. Then places the cup down like he’s just returned from a war front.
“I asked you here tonight because I needed to explain why I absolutely cannot be the face of this campaign.”
Nanami: “Uh huh.”
“There’s a girl. She never judged me. Not when I was in my girl's cycle.”
Nanami freezes mid-napkin-unfold, he remembers something.
“We were 13—”
Nanami cuts in, deadpan:
“You gave her a card for Christmas and it had an island on it and blah blah blah?”
Satoru freezes. “Wait… how do you know that?”
Nanami sips his water now, mocking.
“You also asked for one hour during your job interview and told me the same sob story.”
Satoru seals his lips, humbled into silence. For a moment.
“There’s… more! But I’ll have to go with the flow—”
Nanami cuts in again, already halfway through his meal.
“Come to the fucking point. I’ll only be here till this plate’s empty.”
Satoru mutters under his breath:
“Didn’t know you were gonna inhale the damn dish…”
Nanami: “What?”
Satoru (straightening): “Nothing. So—what happened was…”
He breathes in deep. Eyes down.
Nanami looks pained.
“One night… I opened Instagram. And there she was. With another guy. Matching hoodies. Holding hands. At the zoo. I saw the giraffes in the background, Nanami. Our giraffes.”
“You had giraffes?”
“We once watched a giraffe documentary together. That was OUR moment.”
Nanami slows down. Just a little.
“And she was dating a guy who was a small-time struggling photographer, looking for another job, and hence, I quit getting photographed out of spite.”
Nanami paused eating. “What.”
“I archived my entire gallery. Stopped taking selfies. I haven’t touched my camera in half a year. The guy at canon messaged me to check if I died.”
Nanami tosses his chopsticks down.
“Gojo. During your interview, you also told me you quit riding bikes because your family bought you a girls one. Are you the son of the agency’s founder that we should excuse your behavior like it’s performance art?!”
Satoru looks mildly insulted. “It had a bell shaped like a bunny. It traumatized me.”
“Okay. Shut up. You’re coming tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. You’re shooting a campaign for room spray. If you cry, I’ll make you do deodorant and drain cleaner next.”
“—my aura is not compatible with room spray.”
“Neither is your soul compatible with employment, apparently.”
Satoru looks like a dying goldfish.
“But Nanami, I’m emotionally unavailable. I won’t be able to concentrate!”
“It’s not like you ever achieved anything while fully concentrated anyway.”
He stands. Leaves.
Satoru sits there, stunned, insulted, and still clutching his hot water like a widow.
The waiter brings the bill.
Satoru also starts to get up, following Nanami… when—
“Satoru,” Nanami calls without turning.
“Pay the bill.”
He disappears around the corner.
Satoru opens the bill and his soul leaves his body.
“Of course. I love being financially exploited right after emotional trauma.”
…
The lights are dim. Not in an artistic, mood-lit way. In a “someone forgot to turn on the switches” way. The studio smells faintly of coffee, industrial cleaning spray, and vague regret.
Satoru Gojo stands in the middle of it.
Half-dressed in an orange jumpsuit with “AROMA WHISPER” stitched in cursive over the chest. Someone handed it to him like it was a privilege. Like he wasn’t just betrayed by the concept of personal dignity.
He’s brushing something off his shoulder. A bit of lint. A speck of despair. Maybe both.
The shirt underneath doesn’t sit right. Too stiff. The kind of material that squeaks when you move. Corporate cosplay.
His white hair’s been half-slicked back, the way Nanami said it would “photograph clean.” His soul, however, remains smeared across the floor.
He adjusts his collar. Winces.
The fabric is itchy. The zipper is mocking him.
Every fiber of the jumpsuit screams, “You used to be an artist. Now you are a mascot for air particles.”
Satoru mutters under his breath, eyes down. “Room spray… Room slay. Whatever makes it hurt less.”
And then,
“...Satoru?”
A voice. A very specific voice.
He freezes. Not like a subtle stiffening. No. He freezes like a man whose worst emotional enemy just pulled the fire alarm inside his chest. His heart flinches so hard, he forgets how to breathe for a moment.
Slowly, like in a drama that’s low on budget but high on intensity, he lifts his head.
And there you are.
You. The girl. The she of all his tragic Instagram stalking. The one who never judged him during his girl cycle era. The one he once sent a pressed hydrangea and poetry-level card to.
You’re standing there, slightly confused, holding a clipboard, wearing the company vest. You’re dressed like a part-timer in production, but to him, you look like the goddess of febreze herself descended from Olympus to ask why he stopped posting mirror selfies.
And then,
CLICK.
Suddenly, someone hits the main camera lights. They beam on like interrogation spotlights. White. Blinding. Glorious.
Satoru flinches as it hits him in the face, full beam. But he doesn’t close his eyes. Because yours are on him. Just your eyes. On just him.
And even though he’s dressed like a traffic cone, even though his ego is currently six feet under a pile of product sponsorship, even though his knees feel like a newborn deer’s and he knows he’s about to be told to hold a fake daisy-scented bottle next to a toilet prop, all he can think is, “Damn. I’m in love again.”
And this time, worse than before.
A few moments after the blinding lights switched on and his soul left his body temporarily, Satoru starts piecing things together.
You’re not just standing around. You’re not observing. You’re holding a camera.
No. No. No, no, no—
“____,” Nanami’s voice cuts through the silence like a very smug dagger, “Let’s start the shoot. Just get a couple of green mat shots for the catalogue, we’ll fix the color grading later.”
Green mat. Green mat. Green mat.
Satoru’s eyes twitch toward the green rectangle of synthetic shame rolled out like a yoga mat meant for humiliation. A little fake potted plant sits next to it. He’s told to hold the "Rain breeze blossom" spray bottle and “smile with your eyes.” He doesn't even know what that means.
You’re behind the camera, adjusting the lens. Professional. Focused. The way you bite the inside of your cheek while testing the lighting makes him want to throw himself out of a very medium-height window.
He’s smiling in the photos. But only his teeth are participating. The rest of him is trying not to dissolve into a puddle on the floor and flow straight into the studio’s drainage system.
Click. Click. Click.
He poses. You shoot. They don’t say a word.
Nanami walks up, grabs the camera from your hands casually, scrolls through the display. He stops at a photo of Satoru holding the room spray like it’s the antidote to his broken heart.
“Good job,” Nanami mutters.
Satoru exhales. “Thanks,” he says quickly, too quickly, heart blooming just a little—until Nanami looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Not to you,” Nanami says, not even hiding his disgust. “To her.”
Satoru wilts.
“Thanks,” you say, smiling lightly, taking the camera back.
It’s worse than rejection. It’s non-existence.
…
You’re not sure how you ended up here. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the only room still lit up in the whole building, like it remembered you both still had things to say. Or maybe it’s the way he looked after the photoshoot. Like he was trying not to look at you. Like looking might hurt. Like not looking already was.
You sit across from him, the table between you unnaturally clean, like the both of you are too polite to leave even a teaspoon of mess anymore.
He’s wearing a plain shirt now. Something soft and pale and very him. His white hair is messier. Looser. You wrap your fingers around your tea mug. It’s hot, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach your chest yet.
“You’re really a photographer now,” he says, half-laughing, like it snuck up on him.
You shrug. “You’re really a model now,” you say back, with a smile that almost counts as teasing.
He groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t say that. That’s the worst moment of my professional life. I’ve peaked in a citrus jumpsuit.”
You laugh a little. Not because it’s particularly funny, but because he’s always been good at saying things just wrong enough to be endearing.
There’s a pause. The kind you used to fill with banter, or stolen fries, or your fingers brushing his across a couch cushion when no one was looking. Now it just hums.
“So…” he starts, drumming his fingers lightly against the table, “You’ve been good?”
You nod. Slowly. But he notices. You don’t say yes. And he doesn’t press. Because he knows you.
The same way you know his silence is always louder after 10 PM. The way he brushes the back of his neck when he’s anxious. The way he always shifts his gaze to the corner of the room when he’s afraid of hearing something he wants.
He’s doing it now. Looking away. Like he’s scared you’ll say something real.
“So… uh. You and that guy from Instagram. You broke up?”
You raise a brow slowly, suspiciously. “What, are you stalking me now?”
“No—I mean, no! I just—it was on your story. Publicly. With, like, the couple hashtags and everything,” he mumbles, his cheeks turning a light pink. “I just saw it.”
“Stalker,” you whisper behind the rim of your mug, lips twitching.
He groans. “I’m not—! Ugh. Whatever.”
You tilt your head, eyes sharpening just slightly. “Yeah. We broke up.”
“Oh,” he says, a little too quickly. “Good—I mean—uh. Not good. I meant… interesting.”
Your lips quirk. “He cheated on me.”
That wipes the color from his face in less than a second. He stiffens. Hands clenched into weak little fists on the table. His blue eyes darken like storm clouds, like he was just given permission to go commit arson.
“Satoru,” you say lightly, “You look like you’re gonna punch someone.”
“No,” he says, deadly serious, “Just… imagining kicking him into a trash can and sealing the lid shut.”
“Tempting.”
“If you give me his workplace location, I swear I can pull up with a bat and an apology card.”
You laugh again, softly. Only a little. But his eyes flick up instantly.
And then, suddenly, he goes dramatic. He straightens, hands gesturing wildly now, dead serious like he’s about to drop the philosophy of the decade.
“So—when you go to a salon, right? And you get a new haircut, it feels… weird at first. Like, who is this? You stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you just ruined your entire look. Right?”
You nod slowly, amused.
“But then,” he continues, “the next day, you see yourself again and go, hey. Wait. It’s not that bad.” His eyes widen for emphasis. “And then, one week later, you look in the mirror like—damn. I'm kinda cute. Actually, wait. This is the best haircut ever.”
He places both hands on the table like he’s just proven a major theory. “That. That’s what your breakup is.”
You stare. He waits. You narrow your eyes, biting your lip to stop yourself from cracking a smile.
He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly grinning now. “I mean… I did go to the salon yesterday, sooo…”
You blink again. And then you actually laugh.
Satoru freezes, his mouth parting slightly. “Wait. Did you just laugh?”
He gasps dramatically, standing halfway up from his seat like he’s discovered light. “Manager—turn off the lights! We’ve got enough sunshine here! let’s save the planet!”
You roll your eyes, laughing, reaching out your hands to pull him down. “Sit down, idiot.”
“Hey, hey, turn that side and smile a little. We could take a photo and put it in the lobby. You just solved the building’s electricity crisis.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile too much. But it’s too late. He sees it. And for a second, he just stares. Like that one smile of yours could pull him back into orbit.
…
The room is packed.
Slides are changing slowly on the projector as Nanami paces at the front, pointer in hand, talking about fragrance variants of the new room spray product like it’s a matter of national security.
Satoru’s eyes, however, are glued to his phone. Not the screen on the wall. Not the notes in front of him.
Your text thread. Your name, sitting there in his messages like a tiny piece of serotonin.
He types under the desk with the subtlety of a kid cheating on a test.
Satoru:
where are you
you weren’t at the shoot
you didn’t reply this morning
are you okay
is nanami making you quit
blink twice if you need rescuing
Three dots pop up. Then:
You:
Going to a friend’s wedding!
Wanna come?
His thumb freezes. Then moves so fast he almost stabs the touchscreen.
Satoru:
I’M COMING
I’M COMING OMG
Then, a GASP. An actual, audible gasp in the dead-quiet room.
Nanami pauses his monologue mid-sentence. Everyone looks up like they just heard a fire alarm.
Satoru is on his feet, clutching his phone like he’s just received life-altering news. “No… no, no, no—this can’t—this can’t be happening…”
Nanami narrows his eyes. “Gojo.”
Satoru staggers dramatically toward the door, hand to his mouth like he’s going to faint. “I… I have to go. I—It’s—It’s personal. Very personal. Family. Emergency. Sad things. Crying things.”
He wipes an invisible tear from his cheek and sniffles audibly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Nanami stares at him, completely unmoved. “You’re not even crying.”
Satoru forces a high-pitched sob. “NOW I AM.”
Nanami doesn’t blink. Just folds his arms, sighs, deadpans. “Go.”
Satoru immediately drops the act and grins. “Thanks, boss!! Love you!”
He darts out the door in a blur of limbs, nearly knocking over the intern carrying sample bottles.
Nanami sighs deeply, clicking the pointer with the weariness of a man who has seen too much. “Okay. Back to lavender mist and cinnamon-sugar sorrow. Slide twelve, please.”
…
The sun’s dipping low, painting a deep, heavy gold across the windshield and casting long shadows over the dashboard. The soft hum of the AC fills the space, a steady rhythm against the quiet that has been building between you both all afternoon.
He’s sitting in the passenger seat, his hoodie slightly wrinkled, his white hair a little messy from how the wind was playing with it through the open window five minutes ago. His bag is still in his lap, untouched, his fingers lightly gripping the fabric as if he’s trying to anchor himself. Your car is parked right outside his house, the engine switched off, neither of you saying a word.
Neither of you are.
It’s the kind of silence that doesn't feel empty; it feels loaded. It carries the weight of thirteen-year-old accents and ridiculous girls' bicycles, of years spent apart in different cities, of tragic Instagram stalking and orange jumpsuits in dimly lit studios. It carries the unspoken truth that you both have known for a very long time. no matter how much distance grew between you, or how many barriers your families built, the thread between you never actually snapped.
You had tried to play by the rules, tried to accept the loneliness, but seeing him again had ruined all of that. He was still the only person who knew exactly how to twist your mood from heavy to light, and you were still the only language he actually wanted to learn.
Suddenly, you reach across the console and hold his hand. Your grip is firm, warm, and entirely intentional.
Satoru blinks. He looks down at your fingers laced through his, tracking the line of your wrist up to your sleeve. Then, slowly, he looks up at you.
You’re completely serious. Your expression doesn’t wobble even slightly, your eyes holding his with absolute certainty as you ask,
“Will you marry me?”
He freezes. The breath leaves him all at once, his chest dropping as if someone just told him he won the lottery and the prize is entirely you. The usual dramatic shield he wears, the jokes, the overacting, the loud declarations, vanishes instantly, leaving him entirely exposed.
“Wait—wait. Hold on,” he breathes, his voice cracking slightly around the edges. His fingers twitch against yours. “What.”
You nod. Still serious. Still holding his hand tight enough that he can feel your steady pulse against his palm. “You. Me. Marriage. What do you think?”
He stares at you. The silence stretches, but this time his mind is visibly racing, sorting through the years of pining, the frustration of the clan elders, the absolute certainty that he has never looked at anyone else the way he looks at you. He swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he tries to process the fact that the girl who walked away from him in the schoolyard all those years ago is now sitting in a parked car, offering him everything he ever wanted.
He stares some more, his blue eyes searching yours for even a hint of hesitation. Finding none, the corners of his mouth soften, the tension leaving his shoulders as a quiet, genuine smile takes over his face. He grips your hand tightly.
Finally, very softly, he speaks. “You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
…
He’s lying in bed. Lights off. Blanket up to his chest like he’s in a horror movie.
Only the horror is… His parents.
Satoru Gojo sighs dramatically into the void. “My dad is going to kill me.”
His eyes widen. “No—worse. He’ll kill me. Then resurrect me just to execute me again.”
He turns to his side. Opens his phone. Stares at your name in the messages. Doesn't dare text. You’re probably thinking about the same thing.
“A foreigner. An artist. A photographer. With opinions. Style. Confidence. Love. And—God forbid—humor.”
“I’m dating everything my family prayed against during clan rituals.”
He throws the blanket over his face.
You're lying flat on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling fan. It’s been spinning for hours. It has no answers. Neither do you.
“How do I explain this? Mom’s going to be confused. Dad’s going to have a nosebleed.”
You pull the blanket over your face. Scream into it.
“I’m marrying a Japanese guy. A model. An AD model.”
You sit up.
They’re lying in their beds, phones still in hand, both sighing at the ceiling. Then simultaneously:
“Maybe we should elope.”
Beat.
“But we can’t. My mom would find me in whatever continent I hide in.”
“So would my clan. With a specialized tracking ritual.”
…
You’re already there when Satoru shows up. You're pacing. Hands shaking. Mind spinning.
He sees you from across the street, crosses quickly, no goofy wave today. You're chewing your lip. Hard.
"Hey," he says gently. "Let’s sit inside?"
You shake your head. Eyes sharp, voice sharp-er. “Why did you call me here?”
“Plan,” he says, raising a finger. “I have a plan.”
You squint. He opens the door. You walk in with him, reluctantly.
Small booth. Two cups between you, one coffee, one untouched hot water. You're silent. Satoru keeps fidgeting with the sugar packets. Then:
“Let’s elope.”
You stare at him. Like stare stare. As if he just said “let’s skydive into a pit of sharks.”
“Are you actually serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Satoru—my parents—” You slam your palm on the table, rattling the spoons. “Do you know how many hopes they have for me?! Do you know what kind of deal it was for them to send me here? Do you know what my sister’s going through? Do you think I’m just going to throw everything away and—elope?! With a guy who models room spray?!”
Satoru’s mouth opens. Then shuts. He nods slowly. “Cool, cool, cool. I see where the disrespect is.”
“What?”
“No, no, continue. Ruin my entire bloodline.”
“Oh my god—”
“As if my parents have ever looked at me and thought: wow, our prized baby is going to make wise, marriageable decisions. No! My dad told me I should have been born a turnip. At least turnips don’t take photos in orange jumpsuits.”
You blink. “Turnip?”
“YES, TURNIP. That’s what I’m dealing with. So don’t come at me like you’re the only one with cultural pressure, alright?”
You stand up suddenly, chair scraping loudly. “I won’t run away like a coward. I won’t mess up everything my parents worked for!”
…
It’s dark, except for the soft amber glow from your bedside lamp. The world feels slower at this hour, still, almost forgiving.
You’re curled up in bed beside him. One leg thrown lazily over his, your cheek resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart. It’s comforting. So is the weight of his arm around your waist, his fingers tracing thoughtless circles over your back.
But your thoughts won’t stop. They keep chewing at you like cold air under a thin blanket. You’re stressed. You don’t even have to say it, he can feel it.
“Hey,” he whispers, mouth brushing your forehead. “You’re still thinking about it.”
You don’t answer. Just nestle in closer like maybe silence will erase the pressure sitting on your chest. He shifts, just enough to tilt your chin up and look at you.
“What’s the rush?” he asks, eyes soft, voice even softer. “We don’t have to get married tomorrow, baby. Chill.”
You blink at him, mouth parting like you might argue, but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.
“We’ll figure it out. Okay?”
Still, you frown. “But what if they hate me? Your parents—my mom—my sister—”
“They probably will,” he replies without missing a beat, grinning. “That’s fine. Let them. They can start hating me and end up loving me. Happens all the time.”
You let out a quiet laugh, but the nerves don’t go away entirely. He notices. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice low and warm like honey. “You and me, we’re good. We’ve got time. No one’s waiting at the altar yet.”
You nod slowly against his chest. “Okay,” you whisper.
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Besides,” he adds with a smug smile you don’t even have to see to know, “your mom’s gonna love me.”
You shove his chest, laughing for real this time. “You’re so full of it.”
He tightens his grip on you. “Full of love, actually.”
“Satoru.”
“What? Let me have my poetic moment.”
Your fingers are lazily tangled in Satoru’s hair.
The sun’s barely up. Golden light spills through the curtains in sleepy ribbons. Satoru’s breathing is deep and even, his face turned into the crook of your neck, lips slightly parted. He’s fast asleep, smiling faintly like his dreams are filled with you and snacks.
…
You’ve got one arm on him and your phone pressed to your ear with the other. Your sister’s voice is soft and cheerful on the other end of the line.
“I’m pregnant again.”
You blink. “Wow.”
“Mhm! Found out last week! Everyone’s so happy.”
You glance down at Satoru’s messy white hair, then back up at the ceiling with a small smile. “Congratulations… that’s amazing!”
“Yeah, well… now that I’m knocked up again, he’s pampering me like crazy. Foot rubs, back rubs, breakfast in bed... as if my value exists only by a fetus.”
You snort softly.
“You have to talk about kids with Joseph before marriage, though, just so you don’t end up like me.”
You freeze. “…Who?”
“Joseph.”
“…Who the hell is Joseph?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Wait… Dad didn’t tell you?”
Your heart rate spikes.
“Oh no. Oh my god. He’s probably planning to surprise you. ___, don’t tell him I told you, okay?! Promise me—promise! I don’t want to be the reason you get overwhelmed.”
“What the fu—”
“BYE! Love you!”
Click. The call ends. You stare at your phone in horror. A full three seconds pass before you whip the blanket off like it personally betrayed you. You shake Satoru by the shoulder, gently at first.
“Satoru.”
He groans sleepily. You slap his arm.
“Satoru!”
“Mmmphh—five more minutes, sunshine…”
You yank the pillow out from under his head. He shoots up like he’s been drafted into war.
“WHAT?! WHAT?! Are we being robbed? Did I leave the stove on? DID I ACCIDENTALLY LIKE YOUR MOM’S INSTAGRAM PHOTO FROM 2017?!”
You grab his face. “My dad is trying to arrange my marriage to some guy named Joseph.”
He stares at you. Blank. Blinks once. “…Who the fuck is Joseph?”
“EXACTLY.”
You’re already stumbling out of bed, throwing on whatever sweatshirt you find. Satoru finally wakes up for real. He throws off the blanket.
“Get me my pants. We ride at dawn.”
THE PLAN.
You’re curled up at the foot of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tight around them. Satoru’s sitting nearby, hands in his lap, eyes locked on you like the whole world’s balance depends on your next word.
You’ve been silent for almost twenty minutes. He finally speaks.
“You haven’t said anything since you ran out of the kitchen. Talk to me.”
You look up, your voice tight and soft. “We’re talking about lying to our parents, Satoru.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
You bury your face into your knees. “I already feel disgusting for knowing Joseph exists and not confronting my dad yet. And now I’m supposed to say I’m pregnant—just so they’ll let me marry you?”
He stays quiet, waiting.
You lift your head, eyes watery. “My sister went through hell after her first baby died. My whole family’s grief was shaped around that loss. It’s why they’re treating this new baby like a gift from God. And now I’m supposed to use that pain? To manipulate their hearts?”
A tear escapes without permission. “I’m the worst person alive.”
He moves to the edge of the bed, his knees nearly brushing yours. “Then I’m worse. Because I’ll lie by saying I’m infertile just so my family treats you like some self-sacrificing angel.”
You laugh through your tears. He pulls you gently into his arms.
“I’m scared too,” he whispers into your hair. “But if we tell the truth, they’ll try to tear us apart. I’m not sure I’ll survive watching you walk away again.”
You press your cheek to his chest, heart aching at the way his voice shakes. “I don’t want to lose you either.”
A pause. Then, very quietly, he says, “We can lie. Just… for now. Until they know us. Until we’re so much a part of their lives that they forget the lies ever mattered.”
You don’t reply for a long time. He breathes in like he was waiting for your approval to live again.
“I’m in love with you,” he says. He cups your face gently, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. “So much it’s ruining my organs.”
Your mouth trembles. “I still hate this plan.”
“I know,” he whispers. “So do I.”
“But we’re doing it anyway?”
He nods, forehead resting against yours. “Till death—or Joseph—do us part.”
You let out a weak laugh, and for the first time that night, it doesn’t feel like your whole world is collapsing. Just… rearranging. Messily. Painfully. But with him.
You decide to go to Florida, because lying from a distance is so much less scary. And Amelia Island was there. You always wanted to get married there, you told him once, and hence it was decided that you both exchange rings there, just for formality.
“But how the hell do we go to Florida?”
He grinned.
And hence……
To Suguru Geto:
“Can I have… one hour?”
Suguru blinked once. “What?”
“One hour. Just one. Please.”
“…Why?”
“Just… come. I’ll pay.”
To your dad:
“Dad,” you said slowly.
“I… I want to show you something.”
You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him. It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.
“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”
