note: canon-divergent au where suguru stayed and the world is a little kinder but not less complicated.
song inspiration: my song — h.e.r.
he wasn’t ready to hear his own feelings sung back to him.
the bar is exactly the kind of place satoru gojo would choose— low ceiling, amber lights pooling low over polished wood and velvet booths. a piano that looks like it’s held a thousand secrets. he reserved the entire space and still hasn’t shown up. of course he hasn’t. a live jazz band had been playing earlier, soft saxophone and brushed drums, but they’ve stepped off for a break, instruments resting against their stands. the room hums with low conversation, glasses clinking, a few well-dressed patrons lingering over expensive drinks. it’s the kind of place that feels private even when it isn’t.
yuji is already on his second dessert, nobara is critiquing the cocktail menu like she owns the establishment, maki is unimpressed, and megumi is nursing something he insists is non-alcoholic. nanami looks like he might actually relax for once. utahime keeps checking the time in annoyance. shoko watches everything with half-lidded interest. suguru sits back, observant as ever. he watches everything, he always does.
you’re seated between megumi and shoko, laughing quietly at something yuji said, shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely are when you’re in scrubs or on a battlefield. you belong here, in both worlds. suguru has always thought that about you.
“she sings,” yuji blurts, too loudly.
you don’t even look at him. “no, i don’t.”
“yes, you do. i heard you in the lab once. it was insane.”
but it’s too late. nobara is curious. maki is already standing.
she doesn’t argue. she simply pulls you toward the stage with calm efficiency. the pianist who’d been idly running scales pauses, eyebrows lifting. “you play?” he asks. “a little,” you reply. he slides aside.
the bar quiets, curious. you sit. the first notes are barely there. soft. careful. your fingers press the keys. the sound is clean and solitary in the room without the band behind you— just piano, warm and unguarded.
when you start to sing, it’s low. almost a whisper. the first lines sit close to your throat, husky around the edges, like they weren’t meant for anyone but yourself. not breathy for effect, just intimate. lived in. the kind of voice shaped by empty rooms and late nights rather than stages.
“i wanna run away with you”, you start singing.
people stop talking. it isn’t volume that silences them. it’s sincerity.
at the entrance, the door opens.
satoru hears the piano before he registers anything else. slow, minimal, unaccompanied. then a woman’s voice— quiet, textured— threads through the air.
he steps inside mid-laugh, already halfway through some dramatic excuse for being late. his sunglasses sit low and relaxed on his nose— the familiar oblong frames doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s absolutely surveying the room like he owns it.
then he hears the lyrics clearly. and he stops. not dramatically, just still.
his gaze finds the stage. finds you.
he doesn’t approach immediately. he moves to the bar instead, asks for a drink without looking away. the glass is placed into his hand and doesn’t remember asking for it.
you don’t notice him yet. you’re inside the song, fingers steady, voice low and honest. when you reach the end of the first verse, you lift your eyes— and there he is. standing in the doorway’s shadow, staring. you don’t falter. you let the smallest smile touch your mouth before your gaze drops back to the keys.
put a smile up on my face,
it don’t matter the time or the place…”
the lines feel almost private.
satoru exhales slowly. he starts walking forward without realizing he’s moving. stops somewhere in the middle of the room. doesn’t sit, doesn’t lean. just stands there, drink loose in his fingers, looking at you like he’s seeing something he didn’t know he was missing.
your voice shifts slightly as you approach the chorus. still controlled. still soft. but there’s something fuller underneath now. not louder, just deeper.
your voice lifts. the falsetto is clean and precise and impossibly clear, sliding upward with quiet control. it isn’t showy. it’s emotional without being indulgent. the sound opens the room rather than fills it, bright but restrained, like light slipping through curtains.
it hits him straight in the chest.
no band to soften it. no harmonies to hide behind. just you and the piano.
the falsetto isn’t fragile. it’s steady. angelic in clarity but grounded in something very human. the kind of sound that doesn’t ask for applause but instead asks to be understood.
suguru watches satoru instead. because satoru looks undone.
you sing the next lines softer again, eyes briefly flicking toward him.
“i could love you forever now…”
this time you hold his gaze a second longer and with tender honesty, because eyes can indeed convey that.
satoru’s fingers tighten around his glass. he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but softer. his chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with combat or infinity or expectation.
is his heart fluttering? it absolutely is.
his mouth curves into a faint smile but it’s not playful. it’s almost stunned. his chest feels tight in a way he hasn’t felt since that night on your apartment floor.
you return to the chorus, falsetto blooming again, fuller this time.
all that i’ve been wishing,
found what i’ve been missing…”
the piano carries you gently, simple chords, nothing ornate. the simplicity makes it devastating.
“all my doubts and fears,
your voice softens again on the final lines, falsetto dissolving into something warmer, closer.
“you are still right here…”
and standing in the middle of that dim, expensive bar, satoru realizes something that makes his breath catch: you meant it. you meant every word you said weeks ago.
the last note fades into the air.
for a moment, no one moves. not because they don’t know what to do, but because it feels wrong to interrupt it. then applause breaks out all at once. loud, genuine. yuji is yelling. nobara whistles. maki nods approvingly. one of the bartenders lets out a sharp whistle that cuts through the room.
satoru doesn’t clap right away. he just stands there looking at you. and for a moment, it’s like he’s just heard his own heart translated back to him. it feels like you’re singing what he’s been too afraid to articulate since that golden hour on your floor. since you said you’d stay without needing more.
you weren’t asking then. you aren’t asking now.
and tonight, standing in the middle of a dim jazz bar with a drink melting in his hand, the strongest doesn’t look untouchable. he looks like a man who is very, very close to giving in.
back at the table, yuji is vibrating. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU ‘HUM A LITTLE’?”
yuji continues to spiral, “so wait. is this like, your secret alter ego? doctor by day, jazz legend by night?”
“no, i’m serious,” he insists. “this changes everything.”
“it changes nothing,” you reply.
“it changes everything,” he repeats.
satoru finally laughs softly under his breath at that.
suguru leans toward him. “you’re not even pretending to be normal right now.”
“you didn’t breathe for an entire chorus.”
suguru’s lips curve faintly. “you’re in trouble.”
he just looks at you again.
megumi leans closer once the noise dips a little, lowering his voice just enough to be heard over yuji arguing with nanami about mocktails.
“you okay?” he asks, casual but not really.
he squints at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “he glitched.”
“gojo-sensei. he glitched. like his brain lagged.”
you huff a small laugh. “he does that.”
“not like that,” megumi says. “that was… different weird.”
shoko exhales smoke beside you, unimpressed and entirely correct. “he went quiet.”
megumi grimaces. “yeah, that. i don’t like when he goes quiet.”
“you two are dramatic,” you reply lightly.
shoko tilts her head, studying you. “sweetheart, i’ve known him since we were kids. that wasn’t casual.”
you lift your glass. “he’ll survive.”
megumi gives you a look. “i’m not worried about him.”
you bump your shoulder gently against his. “i know.”
shoko watches the exchange with that look— half pride, half warning, entirely perceptive. “don’t underestimate what you just did.”
“mm,” she hums. “you did more than that.”
the rooftop is quieter than the bar, but not silent. tokyo hums below— traffic in the distance, faint laughter drifting up from the street, the glow of neon bleeding into the low clouds. it’s a short building but high enough that the air feels cooler and cleaner.
the door creaks open behind you. you don’t turn. “suguru told you, didn’t he,” you say. “maybe,” satoru replies.
you turn toward him fully now, back resting against the railing. the tokyo breeze moves a loose strand of your hair across your cheek and you don’t even notice. you never really notice when you look like this. satoru does.
he looks the same as always— handsome in a way that borders on offensive. the kind of face that belongs on billboards and battlefields and nowhere near a rooftop conversation like this. his white hair catching the neon glow, the city lights carve shadows along his jaw, his glasses sitting low and relaxed, his eyes clear and ocean blue deep when they settle on you. but right now, he’s not performing, he’s just looking.
you don’t look dressed for anyone. you just look like yourself— in your quiet stance, lips slightly parted from the cool air, but for a moment, he forgets to say anything. because you look unassumingly beautiful. not trying, just the kind of beauty that’s quiet and doesn’t announce itself because it doesn’t need to. and somehow that’s worse. it disarms him more than the stage did.
his footsteps are unhurried, cautious in a way that doesn’t suit him. he stops a few feet away instead of crowding you like he usually would. for a moment, neither of you speak.
it’s been weeks since golden hour. since without conditions. since you said you loved him and didn’t ask for anything in return. you hooked up once after that. maybe twice. one of those nights at his place— which almost never happens. something about that felt heavier than it should have. and then, inexplicably, it stopped. no fight. no discussion. just distance.
“you disappeared after,” he says quietly.
you glance at him. “you did too.”
he huffs softly, almost a laugh. “i was… recalibrating.”
he steps closer this time. not all the way, just enough. “we haven’t talked,” he says.
you study him now. really look at him. he looks the same— tall, composed, irritatingly handsome under the city lights— but there’s something unguarded about him tonight. something that isn’t trying to win.
“i missed you,” he says, and it’s so simple it almost doesn’t land.
you fish for it, “in what way exactly?”
his jaw shifts slightly. “all of them.”
“i thought,” he continues carefully, “that if i stepped back, it would… settle.”
“not at all.” that answer is immediate.
“you’re not being subtle right now,” you say softly.
“i’m trying to be. because last time,” he says, voice lower, “you weren’t asking me for anything and somehow that felt worse.”
“you said it was enough. that whatever i gave you was enough.” he exhales. “do you know how dangerous that is?”
“for me.” the honesty lands between you, heavy and bare. he steps closer like he’s approaching something fragile. his hand lifts slightly, pauses, as if asking permission without words. you don’t move away.
his fingers brush yours first. just the tips. tentative. warm. then he threads them properly, holding your hand like it’s unfamiliar territory. his thumb traces once over your knuckles.
“i don’t want this to be something i visit when it’s convenient,” he says quietly.
your breath shifts. “then what do you want it to be?”
his free hand rises to your face. not possessive, just careful. his thumb brushes your cheek, slow and warm against skin that’s cooled from the night air.
“i want…” he starts, then stops. swallows. recalibrates. “i want you,” he finishes. no joke. no smirk. just that.
he leans down slowly. the kiss isn’t what you’re used to. it isn’t teasing. it isn’t urgent. it doesn’t demand. it’s gentle. soft enough that it almost hurts. like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. your hand lifts to his collar pulling him closer, the other on his nape, and when you tilt your head just enough, the kiss deepens, still controlled, but warmer now. fuller. the kind that lingers instead of consumes. his hand slides from your cheek down to your waist, fingers spreading slowly over your hip. he draws you closer until your body fits against his like it always has except tonight, it feels charged differently. not reckless but more intentional.
you’ve slept together more times than you can count. you know his rhythm, the way his hands move, the way his breath changes when he loses control. and this isn’t that. this feels like a confession spoken through skin. electricity builds. slow and steady. a quiet storm. and then he stops. the kiss breaks, but only barely. his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
“if we go any further,” he murmurs, “i’m not pretending anymore.”
“you stopped pretending weeks ago,” you whisper.
his hand at your waist tightens slightly.
the breeze shifts, colder now. you barely react to it, but he notices immediately. of course he does.
his gaze drops briefly— not lingering, not possessive— just assessing. the satin of your dress catches the light, deep and fluid, backless and minimal, the cool air brushing against skin you’re pretending isn’t chilled.
“you’re cold,” he says quietly.
without another word, he shrugs out of his coat. it’s expensive— tailored, dark, faintly structured— and it still holds his warmth. he steps closer and drapes it over your shoulders before you can argue, the fabric settling around you. his hands adjust it once, lightly at your collarbones, fingers brushing your skin in a way that is careful rather than claiming. the coat smells like him— clean, cool, expensive, something crisp beneath it. not overpowering, just enough.
“there,” he murmurs. “i’d rather not have tokyo competing with me.”
“for your attention,” he says smoothly. then softer, “or your comfort.”
the coat hangs long on you, sleeves swallowing your hands slightly. you don’t take it off. he steps back half a pace, studying you like he’s quietly pleased with himself. and somehow that small gesture does more damage than the kiss did.
“come with me,” he says softly. “to my place.”
you know what that means.
not just incredibly good sex, not just the familiar heat and the way you fit together like something practiced and dangerous. not just the way he loses control in your hands or the way you unravel under his. you’ve had that before. this would be different.
this would be the continuation of something you both stopped pretending about weeks ago. a step forward from the restraint. from the almosts. from the space you created after golden hour because neither of you knew how to move without breaking the balance. this would mean you’re not circling it anymore. this would mean progress.
he doesn’t pressure. doesn’t pull you in with charm or arrogance. there’s no teasing, no smugness. he comes closer again, resting his hands on either side of your waist, steady but not possessive. then tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. his eyes, those ocean blue eyes that have seen everything and flinched at nothing, are patient now. waiting…
