missed calls . . . (⌒ω⌒)
car sex with ex!toji mmmm….
warnings : car sex ,, cheating ,, unprotected sex ,, p in v ,, emotional manipulation ,, minor angst ,, toxic relationship dynamics.
you knew better.
you knew better than to get in toji's car. knew better than to let him sweet-talk you with that gravelly voice and those dark eyes that stripped you bare without even trying. knew better than to believe him when he said he "just wanted to talk."
but here you were anyway, fog creeping up the windows of his black sedan, your sundress bunched around your waist, and toji's mouth hot against your throat.
"fuck, i missed this," he growled against your skin, his large hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as you straddled him in the cramped backseat. "missed you."
you should't let those word affect you. shouldn't shouldn't let them sink into your chest and make something warm and desperate bloom there. he had a girlfriend now. had moved on. this was wrong, so completely and utterly wrong, but—
his phone lit up on the center console.
'my love' with THREE red heats, something his girlfriend did. he hated it. always did. it made your stomach twist immediately when you saw it.
'toji—"
"ignore it," he muttered, his scarred lip dragging along your collarbone as his fingers found the edge of your panties. "she's not important right now."
the phone stopped ringing. started again almost immediately.
you should stop this. should climb off his lap, straighten your dress, and walk away with whatever dignity you had left. but then tori's fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding you already wet and wanting, and coherent thought became impossible.
"still so fucking responsive," he murmured, almost reverent, as he circled your clit with practiced ease. he knew your body better than anyone ever had—knew exactly how much your thighs tremble. "no one else touches you like i do, do they?"
you bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but your body betrayed you. your hips rolled against his hand, chasing the friction, and his low chuckle vibrated through your chest.
"that's what i though."
the phone rang again. and again, you both ignored it.
toji's free hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head back so he could claim your mouth in a bruising kiss. it was all teeth and tongue and barely restrained hunger—nothing gentle about it, nothing sweet. this was toji stripped down to his basest instincts: possessive, demanding, overwhelming.
you fumbled with his belt, desperate now, and he helped you shove his pants down just enough to free his cock. thick and heavy in your palm, already leaking at the tip. the weight of him, the heat—god, you'd tried to forget, tried to move on, but nothing compared to this.
"condom—" you started, but he shook his head.
"don't have one." his eyes met yours, dark and intense. "you trust me?"
you shouldn't. you absolutely shouldn't. but you nodded anyway, and the grin that split his face was absolutely wicked.
he pushed your panties aside and lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. for a moment, he just held you there, trembling and needy above him, and you could've killed him for the teasing.
"toji, please—"
he slammed you down onto him in one brutal thrust.
the stretch was immediate and overwhelming, punching the air from your lungs. too much, too full, too perfect. your nails dug into his shoulders as you adjusted to the intrusion, and toji groaned low in his throat, his head falling back against the seat.
"fuck, you're tight," he gritted out. "forgot how good you feel wrapped around my cock, ma..."
you couldn't respond, couldn't do anything but hold on as he started moving—lifting you up and pulling you back down, using his grip on your hips to control the pace. deep, punishing thrusts that hit something devastating inside you with every stroke.
the car rocked with your movements, the windows were completely fogged now, the air thick and humid with sex and sweat. every nerve ending in your body was on fire, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
his phone rang AGAIN.
"shit," toji hissed, but he didn't stop. didn't even slow down. just kept fucking up into you like his girlfriend warns desperately trying to reach him, like this wasn't the most fucked up thing either of you had done.
"you should—ah!—answer it—oh fuck!" you gasped out and moaned, even as your body betrayed you, clenching around him so perfectly.
"no." his voice was rough, almost angry. "i'm exactly where i want to be."
something about that—the certainty in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered—made your chest ache even as your body climbed higher. this was temporary. this was a mistake. tomorrow you'd hate yourself for this, hate him for making you the other woman, but right now-
right now, you were his, and he was yours, and nothing else existed.
toji shifted the angle, hitting that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids. your orgasm built fast and devastating, and when his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles, you shattered.
you came with a broken cry of his name, your whole body seizing as pleasure whited out your vision. toji fucked you through it, prolonging it, until you were a shaking, oversensitive mess in his arms.
"that's it, baby," he groaned. "fuuuuck, im gonna—"
he buried himself deep and came with a guttural moan, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his hot cum. the warmth of it, the intimacy of it, made something crack in your chest.
for a long moment, neither of you moved. just sat there, breathing hard, bodies still joint, while reality slowly crept back in.
his phone lit up again. another call. then a text notification.
'where are you? i'm worried.'
the guilt hit you like a freight train.
"i should go," you whispered, already climbing off his lap, wincing at the loss of him. your legs were shaky as your straightened your dress, tried to make yourself presentable.
toji caught your wrist. "hey—"
"don't." you couldn't look at him. couldn't bear to see whatever expression was on his face. "this was a mistake. we both know it."
you opened the car door and stepped out into the cool night air, toji's release already starting to leak down your thighs. you didn't look back as you walked away, even though you could feel his eyes on you.
your phone buzzed in your purse.
toji: same time next week?
you should block his number. should delete the message and pretend this never happened.
instead, you typed back: maybe.
and you both knew that meant yes.
okay… i don’t normally write smut so this suuuucks :(
《For this reading, I used a special zero-contact oracle deck that I created myself, channeling the messages, in addition to tarot.
I hope this resonates with your situation and brings you clarity.
Thank you for reading.》
🔮 Option 1.
You know each other deeply; you need to balance what each of you gives. There are impulses to seek you out; with you, I feel like new; I talk about you with my friends.
The Ace of Pentacles, Queen of Swords, 4 of Swords, Page of Pentacles, 7 of Swords, Page of Cups, 6 of Pentacles, and 2 of Swords.
In this situation, I feel that someone here offered something to the other person, but somehow, it wasn’t what was expected. I also feel that in some way you are turning your back on that offer your partner made to you, or perhaps this person has turned their back on you. You can’t stop thinking about what you did wrong, or, Why did you act this way? Or if it was he or she who behaved so badly, you might be the one asking yourself this. Adapt it to your situation. Some of you are wondering, Why did you tell me all that if it wasn’t true? I feel that you’re the one who feels this way. I see there was a very intense exchange of words, or for others, I feel that words were lacking because this person ghosted you or you blocked them. This person wants to come looking for you, but hasn’t made the decision yet. Some of you can’t stop focusing on the why of things how they happened that way and it’s like you want to move on, but somehow, you still can’t let it go. I also sense that there may have been a betrayal involved. Maybe there were disagreements, or it’s as if they took something from you or at least that’s how you feel. On the outside, this person feels very proud, because they swear they got away with it and that they won in some way, but the truth is that they’re trapped in a cycle of regret, because they know it was their fault, they know they hurt you, and that they just ran away. At first glance, it might seem like nothing affects them, but they’re actually sad about your absence. I see that they’ll start reaching out to you, acting like they’re not up to anything—in a more relaxed, chill way—sort of like testing the waters. They’ll probably talk to you casually, like it’s no big deal, sending you a meme or asking about someone else—obviously not directly, because they’re afraid of your reaction. They’ll bring some kind of gift; you might see them in person, and they might visit you at home or work. I also see an informal invitation or something along the lines of a get-together with.
🔮 Option 2:
Past-life connection, emotional imbalance, masks, I hope you come back to me, this connection is divinely protected and bound by destiny.
For some of you, this connection felt almost magical; perhaps you felt that the universe brought that person to you, as if you were part of each other. I sense that you are afraid, or that one of you is afraid of how the other person might react. It could also be that you’re afraid of losing them or something like that. I feel a lot of sadness. I sense that this separation weighs heavily on them. I sense a heaviness in the heart chakra and something trapped or heavy in the throat chakra. This person holds onto both good and bad emotions and tries to suppress them. Someone in this dynamic gave too much and expected the other person to give the same in return, but that wasn’t the case. I sense that your special someone is trying to avoid giving explanations; they also pretend to be fine on the outside—they seem perfect and unflappable, but the opposite is true; obviously, they don’t want you to know. This person is hurting because of the distance and wants you to come back to them. This situation could stem from past lives, where you came to learn and love one another, but certain obstacles prevented that from happening. Don’t worry, this connection is divinely protected and will be resolved in due time, for example, when both of you work on yourselves. For now, it’s time to focus on yourself and on growing. I also sense that this person reminds you a lot of yourself. Your special someone is going through a difficult time where they’ve finally realized what they had with you and what they lost. Your special someone knows and recognizes the relationship and how special it was, but I sense they didn’t know how to appreciate it. I also see that they’re struggling to let go and move on. I sense energy from water signs: Scorpio, Cancer, and Pisces; very strong Scorpio. Take this as it resonates with you. Now I sense that they’ve tried to connect with other people, maybe they have some prospects or someone interested but I see that your special person isn’t very convinced. I sense that they don’t really care; they feel apathetic and compare you to these new people all the time. They tell themselves over and over that it’s not the same.
🔮 Option 3
A pragmatic person, reconciliation on the horizon, masks, I promise to give you everything you deserve, this connection will reach a deep level, I’m ready to be honest, each of us has to do some inner work for the reconnection, I see you from a distance.
It may be that your special someone is adopting or has a dramatic personality. Or it may be that they have very pronounced personality traits, or perhaps they are very stubborn, or find it hard to believe in things—they are more of an actions speak louder than words type. This person pretends to be someone else around others, or perhaps they like to pretend that everything is fine. I also see that they’re watching you from a distance. I’m told that reconciliation is on the way for those who want to get back together, but first you must work on yourselves so that the reconnection can happen. If you decide to restore the connection, it will move to a deeper level. I also see that you’ll give this connection the importance it deserves.I see that they’re feeling anxious at night; or they’re afraid of not getting you back, because I sense an energy of doing impulsive things, nervousness, or agitation, I feel a very abrupt energy. Perhaps like: “Hurry up, we have to do this now, hurry up” like anxious or nervous energy. Your special someone thinks that now they’re finally going to tell you the truth and what they feel and what you mean to them. I do see that they want to offer you something, such as making a commitment, but before someone else does; this is being shown through this “hurry up” energy. The tarot cards that came up, I just feel like they’re confirming the oracle’s message.
Nine of Cups, The Moon, Six of Pentacles, Two of Pentacles, The Sun, Two of Wands, and the Knight of Pentacles.
I see that this person dreams of you and might be going through a lot of confusion in their life right now. Things aren’t going very well for them, because this is influencing them too much; I feel like they’re kind of holding themselves back or sabotaging themselves. And it’s as if they can’t seize the opportunities that come their way, because I sense they’re constantly thinking about what happened between you two. I see that they want to come back, with a serious commitment, but I see that they don’t know how—they don’t know how you’re going to react. I see that they plan to return, but this might be taking longer than expected.
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PLSSSS part 2 to this time tomorrow but it’s a year or so later and he’s dealt with his grief and guilt and happily ever after pls
Same time yesterday | MV³³
𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪
*can’t be read as a standalone.
✦ summary ──── It’s been eleven months since she left, and her absence haunted every aspect of Max’s life.
✦ pairing ──── Max Verstappen x she/her reader
✦ rating ──── explicit
✦ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, feelings of unworthiness, emotional angst, isolation, themes of guilt, grief and self-doubt, panic attack with descriptions of physical symptoms, struggles with self-worth, insecurity and personal trauma, healing through intimacy, smut, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, pet names, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.
✦ word count ──── 8.5k
✦ date ──── Jun. 12, 2025
✦ a/n ──── This is not very I don’t do part 2s of me, but the amount of people requesting it made me feel guilty, so here we are. YOU WIN (ILY) 🙄. All jokes aside, writing this healed something in me. Goodnight 🤍✨
MAX DIDN’T EXPECT her to actually leave.
In his stubbornness, he hoped that he’d find her back in his apartment once he returned from work a week later, when her mind would clear up and the adrenaline of the breakup would be long gone. But when that didn’t happen, and he came back to an empty place, he slowly began to panic. On the inside, of course. Because Max is the kind of person who rarely ever displays his feelings out in the open, and when he does it, it’s usually his ruthless side that comes out. He would never admit in front of anyone that he has weaknesses. The only time he’s ever done it was in front of the mirror, in those mornings when everything became too heavy to carry for a pair of shoulders already weighed by the burdens of the past.
He did not expect her to leave.
Not after everything they’d said to each other, not after the way she’d touched his face the night she walked out, and the way her lips lingered on his cheek like a goodbye she didn’t want to make real. Not after she whispered that he knew where to find her. That she was still willing to give them a chance, but this time, they as a whole had a price. And he needed to cover it in its entirety.
When her absence has finally caught up to him, Max got angry.
Not at her, but at the hole she left behind. At himself for not begging her to stay, even though that goes against everything he is as a person. At the way grief still had its claws in his chest even when he thought he’d buried it deep enough to allow himself to love again.
She said she understood. She acted like she did for so long. But then she left. She promised she wasn’t asking for more than he could give, and then she still walked away when he couldn’t give it fast enough. It felt like betrayal to Max, twisted and misplaced, but real.
After that, he threw himself into work like he always did: training, simulation, back-to-back race weekends. Late nights at the gym, longer ones behind the wheel. But no matter how many laps he ran, no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t outpace the noise inside his own head. At times, it felt as if it tried to deafen him completely. And sometimes, there were so many voices in there that they overlapped and he had the impression that he could go mad.
It got worse when doubts started creeping in.
What if he’d ruined something good once again?
What if she was right, and he never actually moved on, not from grief, not from guilt, not from his dead wife?
He couldn’t trust himself anymore. The same instincts that made him a four-time World Champion now betrayed him on track. He second-guessed overtakes, overcorrected in turns, and crashed into his rivals on purpose.
The paddock noticed it, so did the press. Max Verstappen didn’t make mistakes, until he did. And the worst part of all: he stopped caring.
His despair was subtle at first. It bled in during the long flights, in the lonely hotel rooms, and in the silence after a shitty race. He tried texting her a couple of times, but it was always short, dry, and empty. She responded kindly, as usual, but never let it go further. Though Max hated it, he respected that, because he respected her, even if he thought it was bullshit. All of it.
It wasn’t until one particularly sleepless night, many months after she left, that the loneliness finally did what the anger couldn’t: it made his mind quiet. It made him sit with himself and be brutally honest. Realistically, he realized that no trauma will ever completely heal. A shadow of guilt will always follow him, no matter who he ends up becoming, what he achieves in his career and who’s going to be there with him.
That night, Max stood in front of the mirror, the ring on his finger slightly sparkling in the bathroom light. It somehow looked dull, like it, too, got tired from being worn by a man who didn’t know how to let go. Only this time, he didn’t see his wife. Instead, he saw the woman who stayed even when he didn’t have the words to explain himself, the one who kissed him like she was pouring pieces of herself into the cracks of him, the one who left not to hurt him out of spite, but to save them both. Or at least try.
And he understood that the ring didn’t remind him of grief anymore. It reminded him of who managed to give it a whole another meaning. It reminded him of what he stood to lose if he didn’t start choosing life instead of loss. And just like that, still panicking on the inside, he figured a new way of feeling the pain and owning it without hurting so much.
Max’s fingers trembled, but he took it off. He took. The damn ring. Off.
And something about the silence cracked open the moment he did it. At first, it was a strange numbness, like his skin and limbs and even his thoughts didn’t belong to him. Then the trembling turned into tremors. His hands shook so badly that the ring slipped from his palm, clinking against the sink like a warning. He had a tiny impulse to put it back, but he didn’t. His breath hitched, chest rising in short bursts that couldn’t catch enough air. The walls of the room seemed to press in, tighter and tighter, so he gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. His heart thudded violently between his lungs, and he could hear it.
Then his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the cold tile floor, curled onto his side, eyes wide and unfocused as his mind raced with fear — am I dying? Is this how it ends? All alone…
He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He just lay there, whispering to himself that he deserved this. That maybe this was part of it: the punishment, the penance, the cost of finally letting go. But he’d chosen grief so long, it felt wrong to be free of it. And, ultimately, he ended up convincing himself it was better that way, but every time he looked at the empty space on his finger, he wondered how long she’d wait. If she was still waiting at all.
He couldn’t stand the thought of her saying no after that, so he never texted her again.
IT’S A RANDOM Tuesday when Max is in the pet aisle, squinting at a row of identical cat food cans, wearing an old Red Bull hoodie from the early 2010s. The hood is up, casting a shadow over his face, a subtle shield against the world.
He isn’t expecting anything. Maybe a fan or two who may recognize him. But not her. However, the second she walks through the automatic doors, pushing her cart slowly, head tilted like she’s scanning the shelves for something specific, he sees her. Her hair is a little shorter now. Her coat swings open as she walks, and she’s humming softly to herself, unaware.
Until she turns, and her eyes meet his. Time doesn’t stop, but it does slow, just enough for Max’s chest to go tight. And they both realize it at the same time: they’re going to have to choose. Quickly. A nod and a half-smile, play it off like strangers passing in the middle of something ordinary.
Or talk.
Max does it before she gets the chance to. He doesn’t even glance at the shelves again. His hand reaches out and grabs two random cans of cat food, the labels facing the wrong way, something he wouldn’t normally touch. But it’s not about the cat food anymore.
It’s about how she notices the way Max squeezes the cans in his hands, and how his left hand, in particular, molds around the circular container, making her heart stop for a beat.
“Your hand’s all naked,” her mouth talks without her permission the moment he gets close enough for him to hear her; the fact that it’s the first thing she tells him doesn’t come as a suprise for either of them.
Max smiles a little, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at it like he hadn’t realized it himself until now. “It’s been for a while.”
They stand there, hands full of domestic normalcy, bodies not quite knowing what to do next.
“Hi,” her lips curl slightly into something that isn’t quite a smile, but not quite neutral either.
“Hi,” he echoes, voice a little raspier than he’d like. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” adds Max, glancing around like maybe the store has changed since he last looked.
“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, looking anywhere but at him.
There’s too much unsaid between them to make small talk feel right. Too many memories that exist in kitchens and beds and mornings with whispers and kisses. And yet they try.
“You look good,” Max says, his eyes flicking up and down, unsure of where to land. “Shorter hair suits you.”
She nods. “Thanks. You look…,” her voice trails off, checking him out from head to toe in order to find something nice to connect with, but when she can’t do that, she chooses to be honest instead. “Tired.”
Max smiles, but looks defeated as he does. “Not sleeping much.”
“Work?”
He hesitates. “And everything else.”
They both look like they want to leave but can’t quite make their feet move. It feels like there’s too much air between them, and yet, too many things have already been said, cried out, and broken open like bones that never healed right. Max can feel it rising in his throat. It’s bitter and sweet all at once. The fucking guilt. The longing. It’s her, actually. Right here, in front of him again, after eleven months and three days of not seeing her. Of only surviving her through old texts and ghost limbs.
His fingers twitch around the cans.
She’s standing like she’s braced for impact, but her eyes finally land all over him: his face, the hoodie she actually wore a few times before when she was waiting for him to come back home, his hand, his left hand. His bare left hand.
“This is weird, right?” Max finally asks, his voice sounding like he hasn’t spoken a single word for weeks.
She lets out a sigh. “A little, yeah,” she agrees, nodding.
And still, neither of them moves.
“You know, I almost didn’t come in,” she admits, fingers curling tighter around her cart. “I was parked outside for, like, ten minutes just sitting there. Because I realized this is your neighborhood and I’d risk seeing you,” she adds quickly.
Max feels his heart racing again before he even understands it. His throat goes dry, and when he speaks, he sounds hurt. “You didn’t want to see me?”
She blinks, startled, like she hadn’t expected the question to come out that way. “No,” she breathes. “No, Max, that’s not what I meant.”
He holds her gaze, and this close, he can see the sheen of emotion swimming in her eyes. There’s no anger in there anymore. Just, maybe, a little ache.
“It’s nice to see you,” she says. “I did want to see you so badly that I almost turned the car around, because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.”
Max’s chest caves inward, his brows drawn together like the weight of all those lost months just landed right between his ribs. “Well, I think you’re handling it very well,” he jokes, but she doesn’t laugh, which makes his smile fade a little, not knowing if he crossed a line he shouldn’t have.
She looks down for a moment, biting at her kower lip, then back up. “I think you do, too.”
They both go quiet again, surrounded by fluorescent lights and grocery store music and the quiet chatter of other people, but none of it registers. The world has narrowed down to just them in the shortest time, like it always did. Knowing someone so intimately does that to a space, no matter how big or small.
Max rubs the back of his neck, like he’s trying to release the tension lodged there. “Listen, I don’t want to do this here. In front of the cat food and the Goldfish treats.”
His words earn the smallest smile from her, just for a second. “And what is this, exactly?”
He stops, looking around in order to get his thoughts together. “If you’re not busy, I was about to order a pizza for dinner,” Max hesitates, then adds quickly, “I swear, I just want to talk. I just…” he runs a hand over his jaw. “I haven’t been able to say anything that matters in a long time, and I want to. I owe you.”
She swallows, wary. “You don’t owe me anything, Max. Not anymore.”
He shakes his head. “I owe you my time.”
He sees the way her brow furrows, confusion flickering across her face, and Max knows she doesn’t understand what he means by that. And he can’t quite tell her that he means all the months he spent with her while only giving her a fraction of himself, because the most part was still buried in grief, clinging to a past he couldn’t change. He means the smiles she gave him that he didn’t return fast enough, the quiet ways she showed up for him while he kept one foot in a world that no longer existed. He means every second he spent being afraid to choose them, and every moment he let that fear win. What he owes her is his precious time, the kind that’s undivided, intentional, and fully present.
The time he should’ve been spending loving her without hesitation. Without conditions.
The time he still hopes to give, if she’ll let him.
THE MOMENT HE turns the key in the lock and nudges the door open, the apartment comes alive with a flurry of soft meows and pattering paws. Jimmy is the first to appear, coming out from the hallway with the usual cheeky air, followed by Sassy, who practically chirps in recognition when she sees that her owner is not alone.
The girl barely has time to step out of her shoes before the cats are circling her feet, tails high, meowing as if they’ve been abandoned for weeks. They don’t hesitate, don’t even sniff to confirm, yet the purring starts instantly, the kind of sound they only made when she used to come home late and curl up with them on the couch. Both cats cling to her like she’s their mother, like home walked back through the door after years of waiting.
Max watches it all unfold, frozen, with the cans stacked on top of the other still in hand.
“Fuckin’ assholes,” he complains under his breath, shutting the door behind him. “The only reason I even left the apartment was because they wouldn’t shut up about being hungry. And now they won’t even look at me,” adds Max, a little irritated.
She looks up with a smirk and gently takes the cans from his hand. “Allow me,” she says with a mock bow, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen with the ease of someone who still remembers exactly where everything is.
Max leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her open the cabinets to pull out the tiny cat dishes they once picked together at a pet store in Italy. Her movements are fluid, the muscle memory guiding her every gesture; the clink of the spoon against the dish, and the way she splits the food evenly, as if it still matters that Sassy used to pout when Jimmy got more.
The remembering. That’s what gets to him every single time. The way it all looks like she wasn’t away for months. The way his own pets remember her scent and presence — more than that, they crave it. And they’re not the only ones, he figures.
Eventually, Max leaves her to it and goes to order the food he promised, knowing that he will be ignored anyway, at least until the cats eat and get bored of playing. The pizza arrives just as she finishes washing her hands, and they settle on the couch like they’ve done a hundred times before, the box open between them, the cats finally dozing at their feet.
For a moment, the quiet sets peacefully around them and it almost feels like they never fell apart at all. Their legs don’t touch, but the distance isn’t as wide as it used to be. Between bites, their eyes meet, without causing unnecessary tension, just a bittersweet quiet wrapped in intimacy. He watches the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she catches the way he still wipes his fingers on his thighs, like always.
Finishing his second slice, Max finally decides to disturb the peace. “Thanks for giving them some attention,” he says, pointing at the cats that are now back in their donut beds. “They’ve been such jerks lately.”
She glances at the cats, her gaze softening. “You know they treat you like you treat them.”
He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift. “I’ve been nothing but an endless fountain of joy around them since you left, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her smile falters the second his sarcasm slips out. And suddenly, the guilt wraps around her ribs like a vice, because she had no idea just how lonely it must have been. She tried to imagine it a few times, sure, but the truth is always harsher.
“Back at the store,” she begins, a little hesitant, “You said it’s been a while since you took it off.”
Max takes a moment before he nods, not immediately meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you… you know,” she says, gesturing at his hand. “I thought that was our agreement.”
He swallows, running his fingers over his jaw, which he often does when he’s struggling to think of the right thing to say. “And say what? Thank you for waiting, I’m ready to finally offer you more than the bare minimum?” he says in a sarcastic tone, shaded by a trace of anger. “You deserve better.”
She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him with those eyes that always made him feel seen. Like she could read the gaps between his words, without needing anything else but him.
The girl shrugs. “That would’ve been a start,” she says casually, taking the pizza box and putting it on the coffee table in front of them.
Max almost flinches at the thought. It tastes so wrong in his mouth, because he doesn’t want to act as if the time they spent together was just a draft. He wants what they had and what they were. The laughter in the kitchen. Her voice humming in the bathroom. The weight of her body curling toward his in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. The way she used to look at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.
“I don’t want a start,” he insists. “I want what we left behind.”
Her brows lift slightly, her expression unreadable, but her lips part like she’s about to speak. He beats her to it.
“It’s been fucking awful,” the words come out unfiltered. “Missing you, I mean,” he explains, like the thought has been sitting on his brain for months, maybe since the second she walked out of his life. “Not just in passing. Every day.”
His hand moves without thinking, crossing a distance far greater than the space between them, and when his calloused fingers curl gently around hers, all those months of pain fade somewhere into a distant past. Her skin is just as he remembers, warm and soft like silk. The touch is tender, Max’s thumb brushing the back of her hand like he’s reminding himself that she’s real, and not just a figment of his twisted imagination.
He doesn’t want to go beyond the invisible line they’ve both drawn, but when she squeezes him gently, it’s more than a confirmation. It’s her equally strong desire to return to their own normalcy. And after that, it takes almost nothing, maybe just a look and the smallest shift in the air, and he pulls her in his lap.
Her legs straddle him, fitting there with maddening ease. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingertips threading into his hair, playing with it absentmindedly like it’s second nature.
The sudden closeness forces him to breathe in sharply, inhaling her scent that fans across his lips.
“Max...” she whispers, her face tilting toward his, eyes dropping to his mouth as if kissing him is inevitable.
But he can’t have that. What good thing has ever come so easily in his life? Twice.
Max’s hand presses against her waist to push her away, and his head turns as a response. At that, she stills in his arms, eyes searching his face.
“Liefje?” she whispers again, hurt and confused.
He shakes his head, still avoiding to look at her. “I can’t.”
She frowns. “Why?”
Finally, Max’s eyes flick to hers as he swallows the lump in his throat. The blue in them is dark and faded, and it scares her a little. They’re glassy, full of things he’s never been good at saying out loud. “Because I don’t... I don’t deserve it,” he says, quiet like a confession passed through gritted teeth.
Her hands slide from his neck to either side of his face, forcing him to keep his gaze on her.
“Look at me,” she demands when he tries to look away again, but it sounds almost pleading. She can feel the way his muscles are tense beneath her, how hard he’s trying to stay composed. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t want to?” she asks.
His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again, “How could you possibly still want this?”
Her thumbs brush along his cheekbones, pressing closer, her nose brushing his. “Because you want this,” she replies simply. “I left because I thought you didn’t want us, and that hurt the most.”
Max flinches, “I did,” he nods, “Want us.”
“The ring on your finger told a different story at the time,” she smiles, a trace of sadness shadowing her face.
“I’m sorry,” it’s all he says.
She tilts his chin slightly, kissing the corner of his mouth, careful. She understands that, after all, this is their dynamic. She’ll always have to wait for him, one way or another. Do everything at Max’s pace. It may not be ideal, but it has worked in the past, when the tallest walls separated them.
He lets out a trembling breath, arms circling her waist to bring her closer.
“Please,” she whispers, “Let me kiss you.”
This time, his lips crash into hers with a desperate need. Her attempt was soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the way needs her. It’s heat and hunger and all the months of silence and aching compressed into one kiss. His fingers move to cup her face, and he groans against her mouth, finally letting go.
She shifts as the kiss deepens, slowing down until it becomes worshipful.
“I missed you,” he says again.
She smiles through the ache in her chest. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Her hips move unconsciously, but it’s enough for Max to catch her meaning. The girl slides forward and presses down right where he’s already hard beneath her. The friction hits hard between them, and they both still for a moment. Max breathes in through his teeth, and a silent gasp stutters out, all distance suddenly dissolved.
She traces down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones and lower, palms gliding across the fabric of his hoodie. It’s soft and worn, but it hides too much for her liking. So she hooks her fingers underneath it, pushing up, and Max doesn’t stop her. He lifts his arms, helps her peel it off, and the warmth of his skin underneath makes her breath catch in her throat. The muscles of his torso flex as he breathes, tight and lean, built by years of control and discipline.
But right now, he’s giving her none of that control. He just looks at her like he’s ready to rip his heart out and give it to her on a silver platter. With a smile on his face.
Her blouse is next, coming off in a smooth motion. And then, before she can say anything more, he shifts quickly underneath her. In a blink of an eye, he has her on her back, stretched out along the couch, his body poised above hers.
She barely has time to register the change in position before his mouth is back on hers, as possessive as it used to be, like the last kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Max’s lips trail down over her jaw and neck, leaving heat in his wake. Patient, he kisses along the edge of her bra, then he looks up at her. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s still that sliver of restraint behind them.
“Can I?” he asks, a tiny smile blooming in the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.
She nods. “Yes.”
Swiftly, he unclasps her bra and slips it away, tossing it somewhere behind him. His hands slide down her sides as his mouth drops to her chest, breathing her in deeply. The first touch of his tongue on her nipple makes her inhale sharply, her hands flying to his back, gripping and squeezing. Max groans quietly against her skin when she arches up into him, and his hands weld themselves to her thighs to encourage her to wrap her legs around his waist. After that, he changes his position just slightly and grinds down into her, swallowing her whimpers with his mouth still latched onto her breast.
She closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel everything, all at once. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, teasing, sucking, and she pulls him closer and closer by the shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of his weight. His presence. Him.
“Can you stay like this for a sec?” she asks in a trembling voice, the emotion evident in every word. She keeps him pressed down against her with her arms locked around his shoulders before Max can even process. “Just stay here, please.”
He lifts his head to search for her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Then, he kisses between her breasts, and rests his forehead there, listening to her heartbeat decrease in intensity with each passing second. His weight is warm and secure around her, his breathing slowing, too. She brushes his hair back with one hand, and the other strokes his spine.
“I missed you, too,” she finally says. “So much it started making me sick.”
Max’s eyes flutter closed, but he’s content to just listen, offering her the space to speak her mind.
“I had to buy a weighted blanket,” she chuckles shyly. “I couldn’t sleep, either. My anxiety was so bad I felt like I was floating out of my skin.”
Max blinks, then slowly pushes up on his forearms to look at her fully. There’s concern etched into every inch of his face, and he sounds stern when he speaks again, “You never told me it got that bad.”
She shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Didn’t want to make you feel worse. You already blame yourself for everything else.”
His jaw tightens, fingers twitching against her ribs. “That’s for me to worry, right? You should’ve told me.”
With a small sigh, she shakes her head as if it doesn’t even matter anymore. “I’m telling you now.”
Her words settle into the air between them like a sudden change in gravity, and it makes Max still completely. It takes him a second to process what she’s said, and not just the meaning, but the weight of it. That she hurt too. That while he was spiraling in silence, buried in self-loathing and racing to outrun emotions he couldn’t face, she was also falling apart as quietly.
His forehead presses against hers, but this time, the tension in his shoulders give away the war he carries in his mind, the guilt and regret in his soul, the anger, and the fear that he might still mess this up. He chokes on a breath, the kind of harsh inhale you take before something breaks and can’t be stopped.
She can feel him slowly but surely detaching, so she doesn’t hesitate to bring him back to the present moment with her. She kisses him all over, not just his lips. A sweet series of soft, scattered kisses along his cheek, his temple, his nose. His shoulders. His collarbones. She kisses him as if that would cure him of all his guilt, insecurities and self-hatred.
Max lets out a broken laugh, unexpected yet warm, as she keeps going, clumsier now. “That’s how you used to kiss Sassy when you stepped on her paws,” he reminds her. “You didn’t break me, baby,” he assures her. “It’s not your fault.”
The words hang there, heavy with understanding, because he can see she feels guilty, as if his pain is somehow hers to fix. Even now. His heart cracks at the thought of her carrying that weight, but it also warms at her tenderness and the quiet way she’s trying to make everything stop hurting. For both of them.
He sighs. “Maybe we should just finish the food, hm?” Max offers, his tone laced with hesitation, trying to give her an out, without putting too much pressure.
She shakes her head instead, then stares at him for a second. While continuing to maintain eye contact, her hand moves down between them with purpose. The metallic sound of his zipper being undone slices through the air like a whip in an empty room, and Max’s body responds instantly, looking like he’s suddenly struggling to breathe, as she pushes his pants lower over his hips.
“I’m hungry for something else,” she says, smirking at him.
The last of their clothes disappear in a blur of heat and touch, the space between them closing until it’s completely gone, and not a speck of dust can seep in. Their bodies press together, skin on skin, making Max curse under his breath, his hands roaming her waist, thighs, and ribs, remembering the shape of her all over again. After taking the ring off, he convinced himself that being alone and deprived of her entirely was the new punishment. But now, he’s surprised to find out that no amount of penance could ever be worth losing her again.
She gasps when his lips catch her off guard, kissing her deeply, hand sliding south, slipping between silk folds already wet with want.
“Shit,” he whispers through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself. “I forgot how soaked you get from a little nipple play.”
She moans faintly into his mouth, hips lifting with ease toward his touch. His fingers stroke through her slowly, savoring her sounds, while his middle finger presses in. Just the tip, to test her patience and give her all the time in the world to open up for him.
As if he’s under a spell, Max watches her face, completely transfixed. “I swear you’re trying to kill me,” he praises her deliriously, pushing his finger deeper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”
“Mhm,” she hums, her nails digging lightly into his back, leaving faint love scratches behind.
At that, he smiles a little smug, and starts pumping his finger with much purpose. He’s on a mission now, intending to relearn every twitch and tiny flinch, because for some reason, making her come like this has become his new life’s purpose. And the fact that she’s obscenely wet, encourages him to keep going, gliding his finger in effortlessly, the slick noises echoing between them like he’s already halfway inside her with his cock instead.
“I fucking missed it, too,” he admits, voice cracking at the way he feels her clenching around him. Every time his finger strokes against that soft, spongy spot inside, her thighs lock around his wrist like Max is her puppeteer, hips canting up, chasing more. “There it is,” he says with satisfaction.
Without pulling away, he eases in another finger, curling them with surgical precision, dragging against that same spot until she’s shaking. Her tiny gasps turns into broken moans, high and breathless, her palms squeezing his shoulders harder. Max starts scissoring them in the way he knows it’ll make her see stars, stretching her open, happy to watch her squirm and melt because of him.
“Want me to keep going until you can’t think straight?”
She tries to answer, but all that comes out is just another pathetic whimper. Her slick coats his knuckles, dripping down his palm, earning a low hum from Max while driving his fingers faster.
“So tight and desperate,” he says mostly to himself. “Let me see you,” his thumb finds her clit, rubbing delicious circles as his fingers keep fucking up into her, stretching her sweetly.
Her reaction is immediate: her whole body jerks, thighs quivering as her pussy fights to hold him in, harder than before.
“Max,” she tries to warn him in a shaky voice.
He doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, he pulls his fingers out and dives in on instinct, burying his face between her thighs like a man starved. His tongue replaces where his fingers had just been, fucking into her with messy, greedy strokes. Max grips her thighs, making sure to groan loudly into her, wanting her to hear exactly how much he’s enjoying this. She keens, hands flying to his hair as he eats her out with a kind of reckless devotion that leaves her gasping for air.
Her orgasm crashes over her with an unexpected loud cry. Her hips arch off the couch, body convulsing as she soaks his face, a warm flood dripping down his chin and onto the cushion beneath him. Max agrees satisfied, like he lives for this, licking her through it until she’s shuddering and whimpering and very much not thinking straight, trying to push him away from overstimulation.
He pulls back with a glossy mouth, chin dripping, and eyes blown wide. That clear blue has finally returned, contrasting beautifully against the bright pink of his flushed face. His hair is a mess, and he’s breathing hard like he just came. She wishes she could paint him like that, but she knows that no brush would ever do justice to the beauty she sees in him.
“My god, Max,” she laughs, still breathless, reaching up to pull him toward her. She wipes his chin with her palm, eyes half-lidded, before tugging him in for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. “You’re such a show-off.”
He smirks, resting his forehead to hers. “Well, I am a professional.”
“Oh yeah?” she teases, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Did they add that as part of your pre-race routine?”
Max shrugs with a deceptively serious expression on his face. “Helps with focus. And finger control.”
The girl chuckles. “You’re disgusting.”
“You’re perfect,” he replies quickly, leaning in to finish their kiss.
His lips are soft and plumped, and they give her the second she needs to breathe before the air shifts. Max’s hand cups her cheek, and when he looks at her, his voice drops, eyes filled with a tamed concern.
“You okay?” he asks, the kind of okay that means are you still with me?
It’s the care behind his voice that gets to her. The one that she only saw a couple of times in him, when Max really let her see the purest version of him. The version that’s not on any screen, nor the version that walks out the door everyday to go to work. This Max is too soft, afraid, and weak. Or so people would say if they’d know.
She finds it hard to speak, instead, she reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. She nudges the thick head through her folds, dragging it up and down in maddening passes, not letting him in, just coating it in the mess he made of her. It’s a sweet tease, a challenge, and a bit of revenge from her side, that gets the expected reaction out of him: Max whines, and his hips twitch in anticipation.
But before she can do it again, he bucks forward just enough to slip between her lips. Not inside. Just there. Nestled. Pressed. Bothering.
“Shit,” she gasps at the drag of his cock against her folds. Is too much already, yet not enough, her body betraying her before she can play it cool.
Max laughs at her failed attempt, dragging himself up her slit again, slow and sticky. “What do you think you’re doing, schatje?”
She moans, frustrated. “Nothing.”
He keeps going, rubbing himself through her wetness, teasing her entrance, but never pushing in. After all, she just showed him how to, didn’t she? It’s punishment for both of them, his cock is throbbing, coated in her, and every pass just winds them tighter.
“You feel that?” asks Max in a quiet whisper. “That’s how much you want me,” he continues, finally pushing in. The stretch is sweet, tight and wet and warm, and the moment he’s fully inside, everything goes still. He lets out a relieved sigh, his head dropping to her shoulder, “And this is how much I want you.”
Perfection in just the right amount. Being inside her like this shuts his brain off and, soon enough, the silence inside his skull becomes addictive.
The first thrust feels like coming home.
The second thrust brings all the memories back.
The third thrust makes her eyes roll, her hands clutching at his arms, hips trying to chase every retreat he makes.
Max has to grip her tighter to keep her in place, and gently pushes her thighs apart wider. He watches the way she spreads, how easily she welcomes him, and it lights something heavy in him, but also devastatingly tender. It pushes him to slide in again and again, deeper and deeper, and the sound she lets out has the power to knock the breath out of his lungs.
It’s not difficult to find their rhythm. That perfect pace that makes it feel less like fucking and more like a love language only they understand. Every push and pull is a new promise. Every moan, a certainty that they will keep those promises this time. As the pleasure builds, they understand it’s more than that. It’s healing. With every stroke and every breathless sound between them, they’re stitching something back together. Something they thorned and fractured because they didn’t know better, now is slowly mending, making them stronger than they’ve ever been.
Max fucks her like he’s never going to get another chance to be this whole again. Like this is the last time it’ll ever hurt, and the first time they’re finally allowed to live. Their bodies slap together, the sounds echoing like music against the walls; it’s hot, thirsty, a song made by them, just for them. He keeps her open, holding her thighs in place because he wants to see all of it. The way she takes him. The way she glistens for him. The way she gives herself so fully, without flinching. And if she can do that — if she can give him this —, then maybe he’s not broken beyond repair.
He fucks into her harder, hips slamming and claiming. It’s like his darkest side cracked open and poured out all the ugly through need, hope, love, all tangled in sweat and skin and moans and and and.
“Fuck, Max. Yes, you feel so good,” her praise makes him sob, hips jerking like he’s being praised for something holy.
He leans down to kiss her, but they’re both too far gone. It ends up being just open mouths, shared breath, moans between lips that can’t quite meet, not with how their bodies are still colliding, over and over.
“Mine,” Max spits out breathless, as he feels her start to tighten around his cock, fluttering repeatedly like her body is begging to fall apart with him.
Her hands curl around his biceps in order to be able to meet his thrusts halfway, nails digging in. “All yours,” she wails.
He shifts her legs higher around his waist, his hand sliding beneath her knee to angle her just right, and when he thrusts again, her whole body jolts. “Right there?” he asks, watching her eyes closing shut, her mouth falling open. “Ja, that’s it. That’s how my baby needs it.”
Her entire body shakes with pleasure, panting with every thrust as he drives into her with a need that’s no longer just physical. It’s every moment he missed her, every second he hated himself for letting her walk away, instead of ripping that ring off his hand, finger and all.
Max’s voice breaks against her skin, “You have any idea what you did to me for eleven months?”
She nods, arms wrapping around his neck.
“Of course you do,” Max smiles into her neck, maintaining the pace, sweat dripping from his brow as her walls spasm around him, pulling him deeper. “You know I jerked off to the thought of you every night,” he continues, the confession nearly unraveling him. “Couldn’t touch anyone else because your pretty face was everywhere I looked.”
Her fingers slide into his hair, pulling gently. “My good boy,” she purrs, and the sound he makes in response is feral, like it strips him down to his most basic instinct.
Max cries out, thrusts faltering for a second before he slams into her harder. “Say that again,” he demands in a pleading voice.
“You’re my good boy,” she whispers, then kisses his cheek, smiling as he loses himself a little more. “You always were.”
The words wreck him. He breathes wetly into her neck, almost embarrassed by how much he needs to hear it, and how much he actually craves being her good boy. Beneath his though exterior, there’s always been a constant need to belong to someone entirely. Not out of weakness, but out of a desire to be seen and chosen. To be loved, treasured, and protected like he mattered. Because as a kid, those things came rarely, if ever. And though Max learned to survive without them, part of him never stopped longing for that kind of love. The kind he once found and lost, the kind he almost recklessly pushed away. The kind she gave him, without asking for anything but his love in return.
“I didn’t let anyone else touch me, either,” she continues, breathless but determined to let him know, her fingers now tracing down his spine. “Told every guy that hit on me I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home. Did I lie, Maxie?”
He moans louder, his body surging forward like something inside him just snapped. His thrusts grow rougher, driven by the need to prove her right. To remind her that she is, indeed, his, and no one else can ever make her feel this way.
“No,” replies Max. “You’re mine,” he pants, “My little kitten, ja?”
She laughs, half-sob, half-moan, body shaking as she clings to him.
Somehow, his lips find her breast again, latching onto her nipple like it’s instinct. He sucks on it a little rough, making her head bury further into the couch cushion with a soft whimper. She’s obsessed with The Feel of Max — his weight, the way he pushes into her and how his skin presses into hers, the sound of his breath against her chest. Every cell in her body burns for him, a deep fire that’s been waiting to reignite since the moment she did one of the hardest things: removing herself from her heart, because she had to choose herself for once.
His left hand reaches for hers blindly, pulling her out of the dreamy state she’s fell into. Max threads their fingers together and pins them above her head against the cushions. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she clutches his hand tighter, her stomach flipping with emotion. Her eyes fly open, not from surprise but from the intensity of it and how light it is. It’s impossible not to feel the difference; that tiny missing weight that used to sit there like a wall between them.
Max notices the shift in how she exhales, in the way her body clings to his. He doesn’t ask, but he knows.
“I see you,” he says. “I fucking see you, baby.”
She sobs out a sigh, something between a moan and an overwhelmed yes.
“You feel so good. So good, my love,” repeats Max again and again, like he can’t say it enough. “I’m never letting anything come between us, I swear.”
His honesty is poured into every thrust, every kiss against her jaw, her mouth, her neck and shoulder. Everything she needed to hear, he’s saying now, as if he finally realizes that she’s been waiting. And he knows she believes him. He feels it. Feels it in the way her walls flutter around his length faster, needier. Sees how her hips lift to meet his and how her chest expandes rapidly.
Her stomach coils tight, pleasure rising sharp inside her, “Max, if you don’t shut up,” she cries, “I’m gonna fucking come all ov—”
He laughs softly against her lips, silencing her, but he doesn’t stop. “Make a mess for me then,” he encourages her, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve got you.”
He does. He always did.
With Max’s name on her tongue, his hand in hers, and every part of her clinging to him like gravity isn’t ever going to be enough again, she lets go. Her climax sends him spiraling, soaking everything, from the couch to his thighs and cock, with the kind of release that leaves no question how much she needed him. He wraps one arm around her waist in order to keep himself present as he shoves in deep one last time and stills, body shaking.
“Fuuuck,” Max chokes, forehead falling to her collarbone.
His cock throbs as he empties himself into her, her body welcoming every drop from him. His heart is hammering against her ribs, and he needs to breathe her in a few times before lifting his head, eyes glazed as they drop to where their bodies are still connected.
The sight nearly makes him come again.
Her thighs are trembling, spread wide, their slick mixed with his cum, smeared across her skin and his cock and the ruined couch. It’s absolute chaos, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
Satisfied, he collapses onto her fully, letting his weight sink into her just like he knows she needs. The girl sighs, breath tickling his temple, her hands finding his arms, scratching soft patterns along his skin. Goosebumps rise in waves, but Max doesn’t move. He just melts into her, letting her touch soothe him.
Her body acts before her brain has time to process. Gently, she lifts his hand and presses her lips to each knuckle. One by one. Then soft pad beneath his thumb. His palm, and the faint scar across it. She remembers how he caught the knife by the blade that night, and all the blood that spilled into the sink.
“Come home,” he whispers, voice cracking from the effort of saying it aloud. “Please.”
When there’s no answer, Max’s hands grip her waist, but he can’t find the strength to get up and look at her.
“Please,” he repeats. “I want to cook for you. Fight with you over stupid shit. Watch you fall asleep on this couch again. Just… let me love you right, baby.”
She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. Max’s scent clings to her skin, to her hair, to the air around them, and that mix of sweat and sex drives her insane. It’s in the crook of her neck, on the inside of her thighs, behind her knees, soaked into her very inhale and exhale. It’s impossible to tell where she ends and he begins.
“What did you do with the ring?”
Max stills. Not the soft kind of stillness that comes from rest after sex, but the rigid kind, where his muscles lock and his breath stops short, like her words caught him mid-step somewhere deep inside himself. And unfortunately, she feels it in the way his touch pauses, not pulling away, but no longer moving forward either.
Her heart sinks into her stomach.
She hadn’t meant it to feel like an ambush, or a test she didn’t even want the answer to in the first place. But the silence stretches just long enough that fear creeps in. And her mind is relentless, thoughts flying around, mean and uninvited: It still means something to him. Maybe more than you ever will.
But then Max’s voice cuts through all that, pushing all the dark clouds aside.
“I gave it back to her,” he says. “Took it to her grave and—”
“I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, fighting the tears in her eyes. She reaches to cradles his face in her hand, thumb sweeping gently across his cheek. His skin is warm beneath her touch, his stubble coarse. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”
It’s his turn to interrupt her this time. “It’s okay,” Max assures her. “You were right. I needed to let it go if I wanted to be here. With you. It’s just… I am sorry it took so long.”
“No,” the girl shakes her head. “We can’t get mad at time for doing its thing,” she says gently.
Max’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until it lands in him, like puzzle pieces falling into place. His eyes drift, settling on the digital clock glowing faintly on the wall. At the same time yesterday, he was lying in a cold bed, silence drilling through his ears louder than anything else. Swallowed whole by a grief so dark it didn’t even feel like sadness anymore. It was just a big hole of nothing.
A day later, he’s pressed against her, inside her, held by her. Breathing the same air as her.
Even though she didn’t say yes yet, even though he still has troubles sleeping, he’s content with the fact that the clock has reset itself for him. And for the first time since he got that call, he’s at peace.
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Ex!Satoru who used to be yours in every filthy, possessive way that mattered.
Ex!Satoru who could never keep his hands off you. dragging you into empty classrooms to shove his tongue down your throat, fingers hurrying to touch every inch of your pretty skin. who would pin you against the wall and grind his hard cock between your plush thighs until you were soaked and a whimpering mess for him.
Ex!Satoru who fucked you like he hated how much he needed you. bending you over his desk, yanking your hair into makeshift ponytails, slapping your ass red while he pounded into your tight little cunt and called you his good slut. who would fill you up with thick, hot loads of cum and then push it back inside with his fingers.
Ex!Satoru who ruins everything over one stupid, baseless rumor. who doesn’t even let you explain, just looks at you with those cold cerulean eyes and says, "didn’t think you’d be the type to whore around behind my back."
the words made your entire world flip in seconds, your heart crushing and shattering at once. he turns his back to you before you walk away with your own heart in bits and pieces.
Ex!Satoru who rebounds so fast it feels like a fucking knife to the gut. new girl on his arm in less than two weeks. bubbly, sweet, smiling up at him like he hung the moon. he kisses her lovingly, hands locked with hers, hanging in the exact same hallways where he used to have you up against the wall, fucking you so raw and senseless as he kissed you stupid.
she got the version of him people assume was new, but you used to have the real satoru- the one who dropped his walls and collapsed right into your arms, your fingers in his hair while your name slipped out of his mouth like it was the only thing he truly knew how to say right.
somewhere along the way, losing that version of him began to hit you too. you went quiet without even noticing, stopped doing the things that used to bring you joy, started avoiding the places where he used to light you up so so much. your eyes were always on your phone as a barrier between you and the world. even your friends would try to pull you out, but you just smiled weakly and said you’re tired.
you see them everywhere. his arm never leaving her shoulders, titling her head for quick kisses. you can’t lie and say you don’t miss the way he would kiss you. your jaw, your neck, your tits…
people around them smile and whisper how perfect they look together. at group hangouts or parties you still force yourself to attend so no one worries.
Ex!Satoru who notices you in those exact parties, sees you leaned against the kitchen counter in the corner of his eye when he knows he isn’t fucking supposed to, with his girlfriend right there, tucked against his chest on the couch.
but how the hell could he not when your pretty face is still burned into every corner of his brain?
how could he not stare when you’re standing there in those tight clothes that hug your perfect tits exactly the way his hands used to?
he bites the inside of his cheek, trying to play it cool. the memories of you slam into him. that same mouth that used to stretch so fucking perfectly around his cock, gloss smeared all over his shaft while you drooled so prettily for him. he remembers the way you’d look up at him through teary lashes, eyes glassy, taking every inch of him. "that’s it, baby," he’d groan, fingers tangled in your hair, hips snapping forward until your nose pressed against his pelvis. you always swallowed every drop like it was your favorite fucking dessert.
his gaze drops to your neck. the same neck he used to bite and suck until you were marked up for days- weeks, even. he shouldn’t look, he has seen how you’ve become a ghost in the same halls where you used to be the brightest thing in his day.
his girlfriend squeezes his thigh again, oblivious as fuck, and satoru forces a lazy smile.
he remembers the last time he had you bent over the kitchen counter, cute sundress shoved up around your waist, panties ripped to the side while he pounded into you from behind. his hand fisted in your hair, cock dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you. "this pussy is fucking mine."
you’d come so hard you nearly blacked out, legs shaking as he filled you up until it leaked out around him. you were always the only one who could take everything he gave you, and still beg for more. and god, how badly he missed that shit.
Ex!Satoru who laughs right in his face when he hears it- actually fucking laughs, head tipping back and all like it’s the dumbest joke he’s ever heard.
"say that again."
the guy shifts, suddenly not so confident, scratching the back of his neck. "i mean- it was stupid, man. just some rumor. people were talking and you had, like, the hottest girl in school, so—"
so.
so.
"so i made some shit up," he shrugs, like it’s nothing. "people believed it. guess it worked, yeah? you two broke up and—"
gojo doesn’t even let him finish. his fist connects with his jaw so fucking fast it barely registers.
"satoru!" his girlfriend’s right there at his side, grabbing at his arm, voice high and startled.
someone else tries to pull him back but he yanks free, breathing hard, pupils blown so wide.
it wasn’t real.
the rumor wasn’t fucking real.
none of it. not a single fucking word.
and the worst part? his chest doesn’t feel lighter in the slightest.
it doesn’t fix anything- and worse, it doesn’t bring you back.
what it does do, is make him stand there, knuckles stinging, realizing he would’ve loved you anyway.
Can I request piwon as your ex headcannons? who would be the type to yearn for you to come back to them, who’s the type to just let it go, and ect? I love your writing btw<33
pairing: P1Harmony x reader
warnings: Alexa play "Happier" from Ed Sheeran....that's it
Keeho looked the same. Same easy posture, same grin that arrived before he did, like it was sent ahead as a warning. Three months. No texts. No accidental likes. No late night slip ups. You had built your life carefully around the shape he left behind, and suddenly he was right there, leaning against a railing like nothing had ever cracked between you.
“Wow,” he said, eyes flicking over you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Small world, huh? Universe has no boundaries. Very rude of it.”
You laughed because everyone else laughed. It came out thinner than you meant it to. Your hands stayed busy, phone in your grip, bag strap adjusted twice for no reason.
Keeho noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.
He filled the space anyway. Jokes stacked on jokes, commentary on the weather, on the friends who dragged you both here, on how awkward reunions were in theory but not this one, see, totally normal, very chill. He flashed that familiar grin like a shield, like if he kept talking nothing sharp could get through.
You nodded. You smiled when you remembered to. Your body leaned away even when your eyes didn’t. Every time he laughed, your chest tightened just a little, like muscle memory didn’t get the memo that things were over.
When someone pulled you into another conversation, you felt relief and guilt at the same time. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You could feel him watching anyway.
Keeho stayed cool until you left.
He stayed cool all the way home. Told himself it went fine. That you were fine. That he was fine. He replayed his own jokes and winced at half of them, congratulated himself on the other half. He told himself the tight feeling in his chest was just leftover adrenaline.
Then evening came. Quiet. Phone face down on his desk.
It buzzed.
Your name lit up his screen like it had been waiting.
It was nice seeing you again today.
Keeho picked up his phone immediately. Too immediately. Fingers already moving before his brain caught up.
Yeah, it was nice. Hope you got home safe.
Sent.
The message whooshed away, and the room felt very still.
“Idiot,” he muttered, staring at the screen like it might apologize to him. He dropped the phone onto the desk and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.
Three months. He had survived three months. He had trained himself not to reach for you when something funny happened, not to open your chat when he felt tired or proud or lonely. He had convinced himself that distance was proof of growth.
And then one text, and his heart reacted like nothing had changed.
He grabbed the phone again. Read your message. Read his reply. Wondered if it sounded too eager. Wondered if you noticed how fast he answered. Wondered if you were overthinking it too, thumbs hovering, heart doing something stupid.
He hated that he cared. He hated that seeing you uncomfortable earlier had hurt more than he expected. Hated that all the jokes in the world hadn’t erased the fact that he missed you in a quiet, aching way.
Another buzz.
Nothing. Just his imagination.
Keeho sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, smile gone now.
He missed you. That was the truth. No punchline, no clever framing. Just a feeling that sat heavy and familiar in his chest, like it had been waiting patiently for him to slip.
And he wondered, not for the first time, if you had felt it too.
☁︎Theo☁︎
Theo sat on the edge of his bed with his back against the wall, phone heavy in his hands like it had gained weight just to spite him. His room was quiet in the way that made thoughts louder. No music. No distractions. Just the soft hum of the air and the glow of his screen.
He scrolled slowly.
The gallery opened like a door he should not have unlocked. At first, it was easy. Screenshots. Random photos. Blurry shots of food and notes and nothing important. Then your face appeared. Then both of you.
He paused only for a second before pressing delete.
One photo disappeared. Then another. You at a café, smiling at something he said but could no longer remember. Deleted. You half asleep in his hoodie, hair a mess, eyes soft. Deleted. The two of you reflected in a mirror, shoulders touching like it was the most natural thing in the world. Deleted.
His thumb moved steadily, mechanically, like if he kept the rhythm his chest would not cave in. Each photo vanished with a small confirmation that felt far too final.
He told himself it was necessary. That holding onto these things only slowed healing. That moving on required proof, some visible act of letting go. He swallowed hard and kept going.
Memories slipped in anyway.
You laughing quietly so you would not wake anyone up. You reaching for his hand without looking. You listening when he talked, really listening, like his words mattered more than the noise around you.
Theo exhaled through his nose and scrolled faster.
His finger hovered over your name in his contacts by accident. He backed out immediately, heart jumping like it had been caught doing something wrong. For a moment, he imagined pressing call. Imagined hearing your voice say his name again. Imagined pretending it was casual, that he just wanted to check in.
His thumb trembled.
He locked his phone and set it face down on the bed, staring at the wall until the urge passed. When he picked it up again, he did not open his contacts. He went back to the gallery. Back to deleting.
Photo after photo vanished. The album thinned. The past became lighter, emptier, quieter.
Then he reached a selfie.
It was taken on a day he remembered clearly. You both leaned into the frame, faces close, eyes slightly squinted from smiling too hard. You looked happy in that effortless way that never felt posed. He looked softer than he ever allowed himself to look anywhere else.
Theo stared at it.
His thumb hovered over delete and stayed there. Seconds passed. A minute. He zoomed in without meaning to. Saw the way your cheek pressed against his shoulder. The way his eyes were fixed on you instead of the camera.
His chest tightened.
He imagined the photo gone. Imagined never seeing this version of you again. Not the real you, just this frozen moment where everything had still been okay.
His thumb lowered, then stopped.
Theo sighed quietly and let the phone rest against his palm. He did not make excuses. He did not justify it as sentimental or harmless. He simply acknowledged the truth.
He liked this picture. He liked who he was in it. He liked who you were together.
He backed out without deleting it.
The rest of the photos stayed gone. The album felt sparse now, like a room after moving boxes out. But that one image remained, tucked away among the emptiness.
Theo locked his phone and placed it carefully on the nightstand. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, chest rising slowly.
He did not text you. He did not call.
He just let himself keep one quiet thing.
☁︎Jiung☁︎
Jiung filled his days until there was barely room to breathe. Morning workouts that left his muscles burning and his mind blank. Long hours in the studio, headphones on, pen moving fast across paper like if he stopped writing the thoughts would catch him. Late nights with friends where he smiled too wide and laughed too loud and said all the right things.
“I’m good,” he told everyone. “Really. It was necessary. Made me stronger.”
He said it so often it started to sound like a slogan. He lifted heavier. He wrote brighter melodies. He talked about growth and lessons and timing like he had read the manual on how to be okay.
People nodded. Some smiled. Some exchanged looks when he turned away.
Jiung ignored that part.
He chose optimism like armor. Every ache was progress. Every quiet moment was a chance to improve. He told himself he was better now, lighter, freer. If his chest tightened sometimes when he was alone, he brushed it off as leftover emotion. Normal. Temporary.
That was what he told himself as he pushed open the door to a café one afternoon, earbuds in, playlist upbeat. He ordered quickly, thanked the barista with a grin, picked up his coffee to go.
He turned around.
And walked straight into you.
The impact was small, barely more than a bump, but it stopped time anyway. Your shoulder brushed his chest. His coffee sloshed dangerously. You both froze, eyes lifting at the same moment.
For half a second, the world went quiet.
Then you smiled.
It was soft. Careful. The kind of smile that asked permission before existing.
“Oh,” you said. “Hey.”
Jiung’s heart stuttered, then raced to catch up. He pulled his earbuds out, hands suddenly unsure of where to rest.
“Hey,” he replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. He smiled back automatically, muscle memory kicking in like a reflex.
You both stepped back at the same time. Awkward. Polite.
“How have you been?” you asked.
“Good,” he said immediately. “Yeah. Busy. You?”
“Same,” you replied. “Busy.”
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just fragile. Like one wrong word could crack it open.
He commented on the weather. You nodded. You mentioned the café being crowded lately. He agreed. Everything stayed safely shallow, skimming the surface of what you used to know about each other.
You looked well. That realization landed quietly and hurt more than he expected.
“Well,” you said after a moment, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “It was nice seeing you.”
“Yeah,” Jiung said. “Nice seeing you too.”
Another smile. Another pause. Then you stepped aside to let someone pass, and the moment broke.
He waved once, short and polite, and pushed the door open. Cold air hit his face as he stepped outside. The bell chimed behind him, and just like that, you were no longer in the same space.
Jiung walked a few steps down the sidewalk before stopping.
His hand tightened around the coffee cup. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out without warning. All the noise he had filled himself with went quiet at once.
He inhaled, slow and shaky.
He was not okay.
The optimism slipped, cracked at the edges. No amount of workouts or songs or smiles had prepared him for the way your voice still settled into him, familiar and dangerous. For the way one brief smile had undone weeks of pretending.
Jiung stared down the street, jaw tight, eyes stinging.
Stronger, he told himself again.
But this time, the word did not stick.
☁︎Intak☁︎
Anytime someone brought you up, Intak smiled like it was instinct, like his face had memorized you even if his heart pretended it had moved on. He leaned back, arms crossed, acting relaxed, acting easy.
“Oh, her?” he said once, grinning. “She’s amazing. Always has been.”
Someone joked that you were probably annoying sometimes. Intak’s smile sharpened instantly.
“Not really,” he replied, voice light but firm. “You just didn’t get her humor.”
The room went a little quiet. He did not notice, or pretended not to. To him, defending you felt natural, like breathing. He talked about you like you were still a safe topic, like your name did not pull something tight in his chest every time it left his mouth.
He told himself it was normal. You had ended things on decent terms. You were a good person. Of course he would speak well of you. That did not mean anything.
That was what he told himself.
Later, they all sat sprawled around the practice room, bodies tired, conversation loose. Keeho leaned against the wall, phone in hand, thumb scrolling lazily. Intak watched him from across the room, half listening to someone else talk.
Then Keeho’s face changed.
It was subtle. A pause. A tightening around his eyes. His thumb stopped moving.
Intak noticed immediately.
“What?” he asked, sitting up. “What did you see?”
Keeho locked his phone a little too fast. “Nothing.”
Intak stood and crossed the room in two steps. “Show me.”
Keeho sighed. “Bro.”
“Show me,” Intak repeated, smiling, but his stomach had already dropped. He knew. He did not know how, but he knew it was you.
Keeho hesitated, then unlocked his phone and held it out.
Your Instagram story filled the screen.
You stood somewhere bright, laughing, head turned toward someone beside you. A guy. Tall. Close. Too close for Intak’s liking. His arm was not around you, but it did not need to be. The way you leaned toward him felt intimate anyway.
Intak’s smile disappeared.
His jaw tightened as he stared at the screen, eyes tracing details he hated himself for noticing. The guy’s hand near yours. The ease in your posture. The fact that you looked happy.
“Who’s that?” Intak asked quietly.
Keeho shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably just a friend.”
Intak scoffed. “Doesn’t look like just a friend.”
“It’s one picture,” Keeho said gently. “You’re reading into it.”
Intak handed the phone back, fingers stiff. His chest felt hot, restless, like he needed to move or say something or do anything except stand there.
You were allowed to move on. He knew that. He had told himself that so many times it should have stuck. Still, the idea of someone else standing that close to you felt wrong in a way he could not explain.
“Could be a coworker,” Keeho added. “Or a friend of a friend. You don’t know.”
Intak laughed, short and humorless. “Yeah. Sure.”
He turned away, pacing a few steps, hands running through his hair. Jealousy buzzed under his skin, sharp and embarrassing. He hated that Keeho had seen it first. Hated that you had not thought twice before posting it. Hated that he cared this much.
“You’re overthinking,” Keeho said.
Intak stopped and looked back at him. “No,” he said, quieter now. “I just know her.”
And that was the worst part.
Because knowing you like that meant he knew exactly how easily someone could fall for you.
☁︎Soul☁︎
Five months had passed since she was the one who ended it, five months since Soul had learned how quiet heartbreak could be. He carried it silently, tucked between schedules and rehearsals, letting time do what it could. Tonight was supposed to be loud enough to drown everything else out.
The club pulsed with light and sound, bass crawling up the floor and into his bones. Soul danced with the others, movements loose, sharp, a little reckless. Someone handed him a drink. Then another. Laughter blurred at the edges, neon streaking across the room like color spilled too fast.
He was almost okay.
Then Jongseob grabbed his wrist.
Soul leaned in so he could hear him. Jongseob did not say anything. He just tilted his head toward the bar.
You stood there.
The room narrowed instantly. Sound dulled. Light softened. You wore confidence like it had grown into your skin since the last time he saw you. Hair different. Smile the same. Soul’s chest tightened, attraction rushing back without asking permission.
“Oh,” someone said behind him. “No. Absolutely not.”
“She’s here?” Keeho added, already shaking his head.
Soul barely heard them.
“I’m going to say hi,” he said, voice calm, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Hands grabbed his arm. Someone protested. Jongseob muttered something about bad ideas and worse timing.
Soul stepped forward anyway.
He wove through the crowd, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the music. When he reached the bar, he stopped just behind you, close enough to feel your presence, not close enough to touch.
“Hey,” he said, grin sliding easily into place.
You sighed, like you had expected him, like you had known this moment would come. Then you turned, and your face softened into a smile.
“Hey,” you replied.
For a second, neither of you spoke. The air between you hummed, familiar and dangerous.
“You look good,” Soul said, eyes flicking over you before he could stop himself.
You nodded, accepting it without flinching. “Thanks. You do too.”
He smiled wider without meaning to, something warm and unmistakable slipping through. You noticed immediately.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said, but there was no heat in it. Just a warning wrapped in humor.
Soul chuckled, lifting his hands slightly. “Like what? I’m just standing here.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced.
He leaned against the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
You raised your glass slightly. “I’m good. I’m paying for my own drinks tonight.”
He stayed. He did not crowd you. He did not push. He just looked at you, eyes soft, expression open, like five months had not taught him how to hide it better.
You felt it. He knew you did.
A faint blush crept into your cheeks. You lifted your drink in a small salute. “It was nice seeing you.”
Soul nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was.”
You turned to leave, weaving back into the crowd. Soul stayed where he was, eyes following you longer than he should have, chest aching in a way that felt almost hopeful.
Then you stopped.
You turned around once more, catching his gaze. You smiled at him, quick and bright, like a secret.
Soul smiled back before he could think.
As you disappeared into the crowd again, he exhaled, hand tightening around his glass.
This was not over.
He felt it settle in his chest, certain and steady, like a door left deliberately unlocked.
☁︎Jongseob☁︎
Jongseob did not announce his heartbreak the way others might have. He folded it inward, tucked it between beats and lyrics and schedules. He stayed busy on paper. Always working. Always thinking. From the outside, it looked like focus. Discipline. Maturity.
Inside, it was loud.
His thoughts kept drifting back to you no matter how hard he tried to anchor them elsewhere. A melody would spark, and suddenly he remembered the way you used to hum without realizing it. A lyric would land too close, and he would stop writing altogether, staring at the page like it had betrayed him.
He replayed everything.
The moments he spoke too fast. The times he chose logic when you needed comfort. The silences he assumed were fine because you did not complain. He broke things down like a problem to be solved, like if he examined it carefully enough, he could arrive at a different ending.
He told himself it was for growth. For learning.
But sometimes it just hurt.
One afternoon, the city moved slowly around him. Traffic noise, footsteps, conversations blending into a steady hum. Jongseob walked without much direction, headphones in but no music playing, lost in thought.
Then he saw you.
You stood across the street, sunlight catching in your hair, posture relaxed in a way that made his chest tighten immediately. You looked real. Unfiltered. Not a memory softened by time, not a version shaped by regret. Just you, standing there, alive in the same world as him.
Jongseob stopped walking.
He watched you like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he blinked. The way you shifted your weight. The small expression on your face as you checked your phone. Everything about you felt achingly familiar and painfully distant all at once.
He felt the yearning settle heavy in his chest, deep and slow. Not desperate. Just honest.
You did not notice him.
Part of him was grateful for that. Part of him ached anyway.
He imagined walking over. Saying your name. Apologizing better this time. Saying everything he had practiced in his head late at night when sleep refused to come. He imagined you listening, imagined the outcome in a dozen different ways.
None of them felt safe.
You moved slightly, adjusting your bag, turning your head as if you sensed something. Jongseob’s heart jumped into his throat.
When you turned around, his body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He stepped back. Then another step. He turned sharply, blending into the flow of people like he had never stopped moving. He did not look back. He did not give himself the chance to see if you had noticed after all.
He walked faster than necessary, breath shallow, chest tight.
Jongseob told himself it was better this way. That some feelings were meant to be carried quietly. That wanting did not always mean reaching.
Still, as he disappeared down the street, your image stayed with him.
Can I request a gojo slow burn love/fluff/family dynamic vibes? (Is that combo too much?) hahah
Love youuuu 💕💕💕🥹
omg sorry this took so long i was wondering what i should do for ittt. i love you too, you’re so kind 🫶🫶🫶:333
co-parenting
pairing: gojo satoru x reader
genre: domestic, soft angst, romantic tension, ex-lovers to maybe lovers again, slice of life
warnings: mentions of co-parenting, emotional tension, longing, light suggestive humor
synopsis: co-parenting with satoru wasn’t easy especially when you’re both still secretly in love with each other.
⸻
the text comes in just as you’re halfway through your morning coffee.
toru: your daughter tried to feed me shampoo. again.
you stare at the message for a beat before laughing into your mug.
you: maybe she’s trying to improve your hair care routine.
toru: rude. my hair is already flawless. this is sabotage.
toru: also, bring coffee when you come. the good kind :3
you can almost hear the mock injury in his tone through the screen, and it’s enough to make your chest ache with the kind of fondness you wish you didn’t still feel.
and just like that, your morning softens. it’s always like this with him. the little things, the easy of it all. you’d think after everything, it’d fade. but it doesn’t.
co-parenting with gojo satoru was… unconventional. the kind of arrangement that shouldn’t have worked — two people with too much history, too much chemistry, and one tiny human who somehow inherited all of your stubbornness and all of his chaos. and yet, it did work. somehow, the universe hadn’t imploded yet.
by the time you arrive at his apartment — sleek high rise, all glass and clean lines, the kind of place that looks too modern for a man who leaves cereal boxes open and never remembers where he puts his shoes — he’s already left the door unlocked.
you step inside to the familiar smell of pancake batter and sugar, and the distant sound of your daughter giggling. the living room’s flooded with sunlight, the city glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
the kitchen’s a mess — flour dusted across the counter, syrup dripping down a cabinet handle, one of his socks (just one) hanging from the edge of the couch for no discernible reason, one of your daughter’s stuffed animals sitting beside a stack of jujutsu reports.
“hey, mama!” she beams, batter on her cheek.
“hi, sweetheart,” you say, pressing a kiss to her head before your eyes shift to gojo. “what’s this?”
he spreads his arms wide. “breakfast. obviously.”
you blink at the absolute war zone around him — flour on the counter, syrup dripping from the edge of the table, and a frying pan emitting a suspicious sizzle.
“looks more like a massacre,” you deadpan.
he gasps. “such cruelty, this early in the morning?”
you shrug. “i speak the truth.”
gojo grins, leaning a hip against the counter. “you know, most people would say thank you for making breakfast.”
“most people don’t have to clean it up afterward,” you say, but your voice is soft, your smile unguarded.
he’s wearing a loose white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, and for some unfair reason, he looks good — effortless, comfortable.
“you look like you just rolled out of bed,” you comment.
“i did,” he replies, smirking. “we can’t all wake up looking like cover models.”
“oh, right. because you do.”
“you said it, not me.”
he watches you as you move — reaching over to wipe syrup from your daughter’s hand, rinsing a cup in the sink. his gaze lingers longer than it should.
“you didn’t have to come so early,” he says, breaking your thoughts. “we were about to head out to the park.”
“you and her?”
he nods. “yeah. figured she’d tire herself out before nap time. she’s been asking about you, though.”
“she has?”
he nods again, eyes glinting. “asked me why i didn’t live with mommy anymore.”
you freeze for a moment, then manage a small, strained laugh. “what’d you tell her?”
“that mommy kicked me out because i snore.”
“you don’t snore.”
“don’t ruin my credibility,” he says, smirking again. “i’m the tragic exiled dad now.”
“you’re ridiculous.”
gojo leans against the counter, looking as you cross the kitchen, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “you look nice, by the way.”
“i’m in sweatpants,” you mutter.
“yeah,” he says easily, grin widening, “nice ones.”
you give him a look, one brow raised. “are you flirting with me right now?”
“what if i am?” he asks, stepping closer. the space between you shrinks until you can feel the heat of him, the smell of coffee and faint cologne. his voice drops to that teasing low timbre that always gets to you — the kind that shouldn’t sound so intimate, but does.
you tilt your head, smiling now, the sarcasm curling in your tone. “then that’s disgusting. we have a child.”
he laughs — a low, amused sound that fills the kitchen. “and chemistry,” he says, smirking wider, “don’t forget that part.”
“you’re impossible.”
“and yet, you’re smiling,” he points out, his grin boyish and victorious.
you shake your head, fighting the way your heart jumps. “you’re a menace.”
“a charming one,” he says, before turning back to the stove as if he didn’t just make your pulse trip over itself.
you move to rinse the bowl in the sink, and he’s right there beside you, far too close, reaching for a dish towel he definitely doesn’t need.
he’s always close — like gravity bends around him a little differently, like the space between you is just another thing he can manipulate at will.
“so,” he starts, casual, like you’re not hyperaware of his arm brushing yours, “you free tonight?”
you arch a brow. “why?”
“thought maybe we could do movie night again. you, me, her. she’s been asking for it.”
“she always asks for it,” you point out. “you’re the one who makes popcorn with half a bag of sugar.”
“exactly,” he says, completely unashamed. “that’s called being the fun parent.”
“you’re the unhinged parent,” you correct, but your tone is soft, fond.
he smiles at that — a real one this time, not the usual cocky grin, but something smaller, warmer. “maybe both,” he murmurs.
you hate the way your chest tightens.
you tell yourself it’s for your daughter — that you linger after she’s already packed, that you clean his kitchen and fold his disorganized laundry because you want her to have stability.
but it’s more than that. it’s the way he hums when he makes coffee, the way he knows exactly how to make her laugh so hard she hiccups, the way he still looks at you sometimes like he remembers what it felt like to love you… and maybe still does.
the morning unfolds in that quiet, familiar routine — the three of you eating pancakes (slightly burnt, but still good), your daughter talking with her mouth full while gojo pretends to take her seriously. she giggles every time he sticks syrup on his nose just to make her laugh, and you catch yourself thinking, this feels too easy.
you stay longer than you should. you always do.
while your daughter colors on the living room floor, you find yourself tidying up his place, wiping down counters, picking up toys from the floor, tucking one of his shirts into the laundry pile. you tell yourself it’s out of habit — not because it feels like home.
“you know,” he says from the doorway, arms crossed as he watches you, “if you keep cleaning like that, people are gonna think you live here again.”
you glance up, meeting his gaze.
“someone has to make this place livable.”
he grins. “oh, so you miss living here?”
“i miss organization.”
“that’s code for me,” he says, standing up, stretching lazily.
you glance over your shoulder, and there’s that look again — soft, like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid to lose.
“you’ve got that look,” you say.
“what look?”
“the one you get before you say something stupid.”
“ah,” he nods solemnly, stepping closer, “the romantic one.”
you snort. “that’s debatable.”
he grins, but his voice dips, quieter now. “you ever think about it?”
“about what?”
“us,” he says simply. “trying again.”
the words hang there — fragile, dangerous, warm.
you turn to face him fully, your heartbeat picking up. “satoru…”
he smiles faintly, though there’s something vulnerable beneath it. “don’t make that face. i’m not saying we need to. just… wondering.”
you exhale, slow, your hands gripping the counter behind you. “you don’t just wonder about things like that.”
“don’t i?” he asks softly, stepping close again, close enough that your knees almost touch. “because i do. every time you’re here. every time you laugh at something i say, or clean my kitchen like it’s still yours.”
your lips part, but the words don’t come out.
he leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter beside you. “i miss it, you know. us. the late nights, the arguments about who got up for her bottle, even the way you’d steal my blankets.”
you meet his gaze, that stupid, unfairly beautiful gaze that’s always felt like a universe all on its own. “you’re doing that thing again,” you whisper.
“what thing?”
“making it hard to breathe.”
his grin softens. “then you still feel it too.”
the silence stretches between you, heavy and tender. your daughter laughs from the living room, calling for him, and it breaks the moment like sunlight through water.
he straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck. “so about move night. you’re staying?”
you should say no. you should draw that line. but instead, you nod. “fine. one movie.”
“one movie,” he repeats, smiling like he’s already won.
later, the three of you sit on the couch, your daughter fast asleep halfway through the film. gojo’s arm stretches across the backrest, just behind your shoulders, his fingers occasionally brushing your hair. the city lights paint the room in gold and blue, and his breathing evens out beside you.
he glances down, voice low. “see? feels right, doesn’t it?”
you don’t answer, but your silence says enough.
because it does.
maybe the world keeps giving you reasons to drift apart, but somehow, you always end up right here — in his apartment, your daughter between you, the chemistry still burning quietly between words.
