after hours.
megumi fushiguro x implied f!reader
ʚ⁺˖ » synopsis: working overtime is nothing new for the average office worker, but when the cold, quietly mysterious megumi fushiguro offers to walk you home one late night, you're too tired to question it. luck, however, never seems to be on your side when a sudden downpour sends the two of you seeking shelter in a small izakaya.
ʚ⁺˖ » w.c: 8.3k, art cred: @/mjyeta〃modern office worker au, drunken flirting, cuddling, jealous megumi, kissing, megumi's a tsundere, tooth-rotting fluff, bonding over food and books, office relationship, adopting pets, domestic fluff, moving in together, happy ending.
ʚ⁺˖ » songs: playlist〃notes: it's a little cheesy (idc i love corny plotlines and tsundere megumi) for his upcoming birthday this winter—here's some warm fluff, and i hope you enjoy!! inspired by me clocking 20 hours of ot last week.
︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・
When the selection for Top Employee of the Month begins, one name is always plastered on the bulletin board. Megumi Fushiguro.
It’s never complete without yours as well, printed in the same monotonous Arial font as every other document this forsaken office churns out. Truthfully, you’re getting sick of seeing it, too, especially with your ceaseless dreams of Word files and spreadsheets now.
The office lights are off, and all that echoes through the empty room is the rhythmic ticking of the clock, followed by the clattering of your keyboard. Your desk is a scattered mess of pens and notes, illuminated by the pale blue glow of your monitor.
Even as your eyes burn, you peel them open, skimming the same paragraph for what feels like the tenth time. The words are garbling as you grip your hair to pull yourself together, dragging the cursor back up the page.
“Almost done…”
All of a sudden, a silhouette drapes over your eyes, and your head is gently pushed back. You lift your gaze to see Megumi, half-hidden by exhaustion. His eyes are similarly rimmed with a faint red, and it’s pitiful, really.
“...Working late again?”
His tone is flat, as usual. It isn’t the first time either of you has stayed back, slaving away in corporate hell during late-night hours.
“Mhm,” you hum, rubbing your eyes. “You?”
He sighs, gaze flicking across your cluttered desk.
“Finishing up some reports.”
Leaning against the divider between your cubicles, arms crossed, he blends too naturally with the grim grayscale of the workplace.
“What did our manager assign you this time?”
You scoot your chair closer, peering over his monitor as he slumps in his seat.
“Just reviewing sales data for the last quarter,” he mutters.
Your face instantly contorts at the blurred blinking cells on his Excel sheet. This whole week has been a total nightmare, and you push back your chair, yawning with a sore stretch.
“Well, at least tomorrow’s Saturday. Bet the others are already cheering at Gojo’s afterparty. I’d kill for a drink or two.”
He lets out a small scoff, eyes still glued to the crowded spreadsheet.
“You should try unwinding without alcohol once in a while.”
You chuckle, surprised that he’s even entertaining small talk this late.
“Do you hate it that much? I never see you at the after-work gatherings.”
Megumi raises an eyebrow at your sudden chattiness. No one normally breaches his quiet perimeter. Still, the night is so bitterly grim, he can’t care less.
“...I don’t see the point,” he replies flatly. “They’re a waste of time.”
“I see…” you murmur.
The silence stretches quickly with his bluntness, dangling in the air like a fragile string.
He pauses for a brief moment.
“Just get your work done so we can both leave.”
You blink at him.
With a glance over at you, he merely sighs. He isn’t the type to initiate anything, but still, the thought of you walking home alone this late doesn’t sit right with him.
“...I’ll walk you home.”
His tone is clipped and terse, leaving no room for argument. You glance over your shoulder, but you’re numb already with exhaustion. He doesn’t pry away from his screen, indifferent even as he types away.
“Give me a few minutes.”
Your typing grows brisker as you hurry to finish up, quickly packing while he shuts his laptop and stands. From the outermost corner of his vision, he peeks over to your side.
The exhaustion on your face is glaringly obvious. Lit from the sickly glow of your monitor, the faint dark circles under your eyes irradiated, even more so with the slump of your shoulders.
“Are you sure it’s not a hassle?” you ask doubtfully as the elevator doors slide shut.
He shakes his head.
“It’s fine.”
With a final ding, the doors open to the endless stretch of restless Tokyo.
Despite the harrowing hours, neon signs still pulse through the city’s veins, laughter spilling from passing bars, footsteps echoing on wet asphalt. The moon hangs low and full, a pale sentinel watching over the scintillating streets, the distant clatter of the last train fading into darkness.
But with each step, a tinkling sound echoes amidst the noise, the first pearls of rain plopping onto your head. Two small droplets fall onto your cheeks, and when you lift your hand, the third quickly follows. It’s only moments until the asphalt is completely glistening with rippling silver puddles, and panic flickers across your face.
“Shit, I didn’t bring an umbrella,” you mutter, clutching your bag closer.
Together, you scurry to the nearest awning, the scent of wet concrete mingling with the humid city air. The splatters grow heavier with each passing second, the buildings’ glaring lights fogging up as the downpour thickens. The sheet splatters against the ground, bouncing off neon signs and blurring their reflections into warning streaks of red and gold.
You peep at him, a flicker of exasperation over his expression.
“I don’t have one either.”
Almost on cue, your eyes catch the warm glow of the izakaya right behind. Its glow is lucent, the echoing commotion luring your weary mind through the half-open door.
“...Looks like we’re stuck here until it lets up.”
You tilt your head toward him, voice soft against the rain’s percussion.
“Have you eaten dinner?”
He turns to you.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Should we get something to eat while we wait?”
Paper lanterns flicker through the battering, muted glow glistering over wet cobblestones. Cheers and toast spill from the open windows of the tiny bar, wreathing into the damp night—and with the sizzling mist of meat amid the humid air, the offer is much too tempting to resist.
For a split second, he pauses.
“...Sure, let’s go.”
With that, he gestures towards the door, holding it open for you.
Warmth wraps around you the moment you step inside—the mingling scents of oil, spice, and sake like a soft embrace. You both settle at a corner table, quiet enough that you can hear the faint hiss of the grill. Scanning the QR code, your gaze drifts naturally to the room, the people, and the hum of vitality alive around you.
Laughter ripples through the space as brimming glasses clink, foam spilling onto the worn wood counter.
“One wouldn’t hurt, right…” you mutter, fingers grazing the option of an Asahi beer.
His gaze snaps to you, incisive, and under the warm lamplight, your fatigue is so apparent that even concern flickers across his face.
“You sure you should be drinking right now? You look exhausted.”
You pause.
“Ah, sorry… didn’t mean that. If I don’t… I usually wake up in the middle of the night. You know.”
You tilt your head, shrugging with a flippant mock of a smile.
“It helps.”
His expression remains indifferent, and he leans back in his chair, gaze still fixed on you.
“It's self-medication, then.”
You can barely stifle a chuckle at his choice of words, watching his stoicism waver just enough to give the air a little warmth. He makes it sound like some serious medical diagnosis.
“Mhm. But it gets annoying when the manager keeps pouring for me. If I don’t, it’s the juniors drinking more. He’s probably why half of them quit…”
You lean your head against the wooden wall, the texture rough beneath your temple, eyes tracing the menu as if searching for answers elsewhere. Megumi merely scoffs, a faint flicker of boredom crossing his otherwise unreadable face.
“It’s obvious you want it, so just get it already.”
Even as his words are curt, a corner of your lips lifts softly, knuckling under the giddy temptation.
“What about you, Fushiguro? Do you drink?”
He shakes his head, pococurante as ever.
“No. I find it pointless. Alcohol dulls the senses and clouds judgment. I don’t see the appeal.”
The rain outside drums harder, the battering of droplets on the awning hazing a soft white noise.
“Oh…”
Silence falls immediately after, unnervingly long, each breath disturbing the palpable colloquy of your fidgeting with his gaze.
The bar still hums on unconcernedly around you—glasses clink, laughter ripples through corners, and the faint hiss of the grill punctuates the space—but your little bubble of quiet tension feels almost tangible. The absence of words stretches the moment taut, and in it, he realises he might have inadvertently made things stiff with his cold bluntness.
He merely exhales a weary sigh, eyes flicking away. His frown lingers. It isn't exasperation, though. It’s from knowing you well enough all these years to sense when your thoughts are probably wandering into all sorts of uneasy places. Still, he lets the silence hang.
He’s never been much for handling this sort of thing anyway.
Each second feels like it’s overstayed its welcome, and the two of you are looking at anything but each other. Your gaze drifts to the glossy sheen of the metallic grill, the scent of sizzling meat curling up and cutting through the tension. But a few beats pass, and a beer glass slides onto your side—your holy saviour amidst the suffocating stillness.
He doesn’t speak, but when his eyes flick to yours, he notices an odd verve—the faintest spark of excitement glinting in your eyes. The warmth of the beer seems to seep quickly into the edges of the stiffness, easing the discomfiture as you help set up the grill, words spilling out more easily.
“Which do you like more—the beef?” you ask, tongs in hand, pinching a slice and gesturing for him to hand you his portion.
He nods quietly, observing the sudden lift in your mood. The composure he’s known you for all these years wavers just slightly, leaving him agog, caught in the subtle shift. “You’re more lively when you’re tipsy, huh?”
You can’t help smiling, passing the tongs back after sneaking some extra slices onto his plate. You lean back slightly, basking in the soft warmth settling between you, the aroma of grilled meat and beer curls in the air like smoke in slow motion.
“We joined the company the same year, but we haven’t really talked much,” you murmur, voice gentle against the low hum of the bar.
“Probably because you’re always working, and I keep to myself,” he replies, eyes still on the grill.
You lean forward, tilting your head, grinning smugly.
“Says you. You work overtime just as much. And that one time I thought you were a ghost—oh my god, the tongue’s amazing!”
He rolls his eyes, gently splitting the chopsticks.
“I didn’t scare you,” he retorts, though a faint corner of his mouth twitches upward.
“You were just jumpy because you were half asleep at your desk.”
He lifts a slice of beef tongue, placing it carefully in his mouth, and for a fleeting second, the tiniest curl lifts at the corner of his lips. All but behold the swirling rumours of how he’s secretly a robot, because you watch as his eyes widen, the faintest glint of approval glimmering.
“It’s good,” he admits, eyes softening ever so slightly.
You catch yourself staring and quickly glance down, cheeks warming. “You know your hair peeks out from your side, right? When we’re working late and I see that…” your voice trails off.
A goosebump quickly shudders past your shoulders.
He scoffs, amused at your awkward attempt to save face, a subtle gleam of mischief flickering in his eyes.
“So… you’re telling me my hair scares you more than the workload this month?” he teases, voice low.
“Both are just as bad! Don’t remind me!” you groan, pinching your brows.
Your voice catches slightly with mock exasperation, and he leans back, chuckling lightly as a faint smile escapes. He’s never really entertained anyone, let alone held more than three conversations with people. But if it’s with you… He assumes he doesn’t really mind too much.
You’ve always been the cog keeping the office running—the one everyone turns to for help, the one who stays late documenting unjust complaints, coupled with anonymous claims from peers.
He, in contrast, is the total counterpoint. Though he does get the job done, you can count on five working days before the juniors are pathetically on their knees, begging for any other supervisor. He’s efficient, but infamously strict and cold—probably because his morning routines include nagging them in the middle of the hallway. So, in his head, he thanks you, at least, for taking that useless bunch off his hands.
Your thoughts slip out before you can stop them.
“Say… I wonder what you’re like when you’re drunk.”
At this point, you don’t care what he thinks about you anyway. You tilt your head, grin lopsided, elbows resting on the table, and you let the warmth of the alcohol bleed into your words.
“Do you get quieter, or are you secretly the chatty type?”
He smirks at your tilt, an eyebrow rising in mild amusement.
“Why? Are you planning to get me drunk?”
You pause, the faint fizz of beer crawling through your chest and loosening your tongue.
“Hmm… if you’re a lightweight,” you tease, voice soft and slightly slurred, carrying on the night as if it’s your personal stage.
He shakes his head as your simper widens without restraint. Somehow, your rambles feel just barely tolerable, even amidst the distant clatter of plates and soft murmurings of the bar.
“I’ll have a drink… on one condition.”
Your brow lifts.
He leans closer, smile contorting to one of faint nark straight away.
“You stay by my side. Can’t have you stumbling home drunk.”
You scoff at him, like his answer alone was obvious enough.
“And don’t worry,” he adds, glancing sideways at you, almost accusatory.
“Someone has to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
You groan in exasperation, chortling into the warmth that curls in your chest. The rumours were true—his tongue’s sharper than even the manager’s. You’re never winning an argument with him.
The two of you continue your bickering, although one-sided it is. You’re rambling nonsense, and he simply goes along quietly, occasionally replying with a grunt or dry remark now and then. Any other day, and he’d probably be annoyed at this little side-quest you’ve pulled him into.
In his head, he confutes himself, reasoning that you’re just lucky he finished his work in time.
And when the rain finally dies down, the streets are glistening with the leftover sheen of water, neon reflections pooling on the asphalt like liquid light. You step out together, the faint scent of the bar lingering around you like a warm cloak. It settles lightly in your chest, just above the floating warmth seeping in.
Both of you pass the flickering streetlights, him sighing softly at your bubbling enthusiasm. The city is quieter now, the hum of cars distant, the air crisp. Each breath tastes of ozone and lingering warmth, of rain and night, and the fluttering of your heart echoes in your ears.
He glances at you as you walk side by side down the rain-slicked asphalt, the glow of flickering streetlights catching in puddles around your feet.
“You really think you’re ready to tackle those twenty documents your juniors left behind?” His tone is flat, but there’s a faint undercurrent of disbelief.
You shrug, letting your bag swing loosely against your hip.
“I only complain when it’s too much,” you reply, breath misting soft clouds into the chilly air.
“Most of the time… It’s just an icebreaker. The thought that I’m actually helping people is probably more than enough motivation for me.”
There’s a pause.
You hear the distant hum of traffic, the soft drip of leftover rain from the eaves above, and even his quiet footsteps alongside your own. You turn to glance at him briefly, and even as his expression is unreadable, there’s a degree in the way he tilts his head, absorbing your words, that catches you off guard.
He’s always thought you were too much of a people-pleaser, always bending and overachieving. Though now, he can’t quite map your mind anymore.
He doesn’t judge. And maybe, it’s the lateness of the night, the exhaustion still clinging to your limbs, or the faint burn of alcohol warming your cheeks—but he simply looks away, letting the silence dither between you.
And for that simplicity, you’re grateful. You don’t push, but you also ask him why he works so hard.
And it's rare, really, for someone to touch the edges of his principles, let alone earn the trust to ask why he upholds them. But tonight, in that rare softness of the calm, with only the streetlights and your warmth around him, he caves just enough to your curiosity.
“I just want to be able to help my sister.”
The two of you leave it at that, letting the quiet of the street envelop you both. The buzzing hum of the night wraps around you, flickering streetlights painting shadows across the pavement. The words are simple, but to you, they carry everything he rarely says aloud.
He says it after hearing your own reasons, too.
You understand, in a way most never could.
“That’s… crazy cool,” you murmur, the alcohol softening your voice, letting it drift afloat with the gentle breeze of midnight.
Underneath the shadows, his shoulders tense.
He was never one to accept compliments easily. Especially ones he thinks are wrapped in expectation he’s never asked for. But when he hears it from you, strangely enough, he doesn’t particularly take offense.
Maybe it’s that he’s never told anyone his real reason—or it’s your tone, so genuinely honest he feels that to argue would feel like offending you.
It’s just the alcohol, he thinks, shoving the absurd thought into the back of his mind.
The city quietly settles around you, and soon enough, you reach your apartment.
"Thanks for walking me back," you murmur.
And under the dim glow of the streetlight, he glances down at you.
Your cheeks still carry the flush of warmth and alcohol, lips tilting into that faint smirk he can never quite read. He exhales, relieved he didn’t let you walk home alone tonight.
"It's alright. Goodnight."
You smile at him.
"Mhm... Goodnight."
But a few steps after you turn to walk, a hiccup screws your muzzy focus, and you trip over a small rock, just outside the dim reach of light.
His reflexes kick in before he can think, and he quickly catches your arm before you hit the ground. You still wince in pain, though, a sharp pain piercing through your ankle.
His gaze instantly narrows.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice a hint of worry as he tries to hold you gently.
“Can you stand?”
"Yeah—" you nod, but the moment you get up, you stumble again into his arms, muttering a small curse under your breath.
He doesn’t waste time as he pins his brows, stepping in front of you.
“Get on.”
His back is now faced towards you, crouched. You pause. But slowly, you reluctantly let your arms fall over his shoulders as your gaze fixes on the floor, heat and embarrassment blooming. He lifts you with ease, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if he can hear your heart hammering against his back.
You pray he doesn’t.
The two of you make your way to your flat, and with one gentle push, the door to your little studio creaks open. He sets you on the bed before you point to the first-aid kit, and he rises, reaching for it from the cabinet above.
Kneeling back at your side, expression serious, he cuts through the silence.
"Let me take a look at your ankle."
You watch as he rolls up your pant leg, revealing the swelling.
“It’s definitely sprained. We need to ice it and keep it elevated. Do you have a pillow?”
He’s as composed as ever, and you, in resignation, nod your head. With him leaning down, your head wavers atop his. You can’t help but watch as he sets the pillow under your leg, the words spilling out of your mouth before you can even stop them.
“Pretty.”
He stops, hands still holding your ankle.
He turns to look up at you, eyebrows raised in utter disbelief.
"Did you just… call me pretty?"
Perhaps it’s the alcohol, maybe also the heat of the night—but the words tumble foolishly now. Your head is way too high up in the clouds, and both of you know they’re just utter ramblings now.
“And cool. How you don’t care what people say, and how you don’t let their expectations dictate you.”
Your gaze drifts to his face, dazed yet earnest.
“That’s… really pretty.”
You don’t see it from how dim your room is, but the faintest tinge of pink burns at the tip of his ears, and a rare heat crawls from his neck.
He quickly averts his eyes, forcing composure as the words ditheringly settle between you. He merely focuses on the wrap instead, your words hanging.
He hastily rises, brows furrowed as he turns around to brush the absurdity off.
“Just… get it checked at the hospital.”
Grabbing his bag, back to you now, he glances once over his shoulder.
You’re perched on the bed, grinning like nothing happened. And somehow, it irritates him, because even in the midst of the darkness, you’re still so bright and unbothered.
He promptly turns away, creaking open the door.
“…Goodnight,” he mutters softly.
“Goodnight. Thanks.”
The door closes gently behind him, leaving your room wrapped in a mellow warmth—floating in the air and burning softly in your chest as you stay there, smiling dazedly despite it all.
──────
“How is your ankle?”
The juniors are all huddled by the door, pressing their ears against the cold wooden surface and blocking the hallway entirely. Headlines are definitely going to sweep the group chat tonight—because for the first time ever, Megumi initiated a conversation.
“The doctor said it’ll recover in a week. Thank you for Friday night.”
Friday night? The juniors all look at one another, wide-eyed, minds shooting straight past Mars. Before any of them can move, the door suddenly swings open.
You and Megumi both flinch at the unexpected audience, and the juniors quickly scatter in every direction. Megumi merely grunts, while you chuckle nervously in response, bowing briefly before making your way back to your meeting.
The rest of the day passes as usual—you scan last night’s documents, help a junior or two with the printer, and type up the new report due tomorrow. The only peculiar event is that your ankle is now wrapped, and you’re limping every few steps.
You don’t notice it, but even as you explain the reports to an intern, Megumi stays seated beside your cubicle, watching from the corner of his eye. When the last footsteps fade and you turn back to your desk, the clock ticks in the quiet room.
“Are you sure you should be pushing yourself?”
His voice cuts through the silence. You sigh in exhaustion, packing your things as the crimson sun bleeds through the glass windows.
“If I can pull another job, sure.”
He scoffs at your dry humour and pushes back from his seat. His gaze lingers on you, and you meet it without flinching.
You don’t quite remember everything from the night before—only that he’d walked you home and helped you when you sprained your ankle.
“Do you want to grab dinner together? My treat, as thanks.”
He looks a little confounded by your offer, but he shuts his mouth. Running a hand through his jet-black hair, he turns from his monitor.
“No take-backs.”
And before you know it, you’re walking the same streets as last Friday. The dipping sun stains the horizon in shades of crimson and violet, seagulls crying in the distance. Crowds bustle past you, but amidst the blur, something catches your eye.
You tug on Megumi’s sleeve without thinking. He glances down at you, then follows your gaze—only to find you already slipping through the swarming mob.
“Wait—” he mutters under his breath, hurrying after you and stumbling into a narrow alleyway tucked between two small shops.
You’re kneeling in front of a small litter box, a handful of black kittens sprawled inside. Megumi watches your wide-eyed awe, his mouth parting slightly before a quiet scoff escapes him. The corners of his lips curve upward as you lean in, trying not to get too close, your expression mushy in the dim evening glow.
“Fushiguro, look!” You turn to face him quickly.
But his eyes are already on the kittens, soft with quiet fondness. When he looks back at you, you’re scanning the crowd, glancing around as if searching for something.
“What are you looking for?” he asks, crossing his arms.
“I’m wondering if there’s a convenience store nearby… maybe I can get some food for them.”
You pull out your phone to search, but before you can even finish typing, Megumi’s already turned away.
“Wait here.”
You blink, tilting your head in confusion as he disappears into the faceless blur of the crowd. A few minutes later, he reappears—calm, collected, and with a small plastic bag dangling from his hand.
He holds it out to you, and you peek inside curiously.
“Your ankle’s sprained. You shouldn’t walk too much.”
A quiet laugh escapes you as you pull out a small packet of kitten food. His tone is as callous as ever, but beneath it, you can sense the gentle concern he doesn’t know how to show. You tug lightly at his sleeve, opening the bag before dropping a tiny fish-shaped treat into his palm.
He gives you a puzzled look. You frown in return.
Oh, he remembers.
You can’t crouch.
Without a word, he kneels in your place, holding his hand slightly forward so the kittens can crawl over. They push and tumble into one another, tripping over their tiny paws. Even he can’t hide the faint grin tugging at his lips, and you stifle a giggle as you watch the scene.
Outside, Tokyo hums on—cars, chatter, and neon lights aglow—but in this narrow alley of two, the air stills. The only reverberations are the soft mews of kittens, blanketed by the quiet warmth dissolving the austere chill between you two.
Before you realise it, it becomes a routine. Your ankle’s healed already, yet every few days, you and Megumi still stop by the same alley on your way home, sneaking off to feed the litter together.
Somehow, he also starts to ease up around you. Both of you are crouching beside the box, you giggling as you poke one of the kittens peeking out, its tiny head tilted curiously toward you.
“Do you like animals, Fushiguro?” you ask, noticing the rare gentleness in his eyes as he watches.
He nods.
“I wanted to be a veterinarian.”
You blink in surprise, turning to look at him. You hadn’t expected that from him. As the shadows grow longer with the setting crimson sun, your voice softens.
“Why didn’t you?”
He pauses, exhaling a quiet sigh.
“I needed to find work right after graduating. Most clinics didn’t have any openings then.”
In your mind, the pieces connect, but you don’t ask. You simply nod in quiet understanding.
You don’t know it, but he’s thankful for that.
──────
Ino Takuma.
One of the new juniors this month—and the unfortunate soul who’s spent the past few weeks on the receiving end of Megumi’s infamous death glares.
He doesn’t mean to stare, but he can’t help it. It starts with the way Ino hovers around your desk, his tone a little too light, his grin a little too comfortable. Every time you turn toward him with that patient smile, something in Megumi tightens.
He sees it all.
The way Ino slyly leans over to ask for help with the simplest things, tasks Megumi swears even an infant could handle. He can’t operate the printer, manages to make fifty typos in every report, and to top it all off, lectures Megumi on how to “improve his communication skills.”
But what gets under his skin most isn’t the incompetence. It’s the way you always defend him.
Every single time.
The faint flush at the tips of Ino’s ears whenever you lean close enough to check his screen is all the evidence Megumi needs. Yet, you, in your ever-so-oblivious kindness, never seem to notice. You just smile and brush it off, saying,
“He’s still new, Fushiguro. Be nice.”
But he never replies—he only looks away, jaw tightening.
Later, when he catches sight of you both again, your head tilted slightly toward Ino’s as you explain something, he feels that same queasy wrench in his chest. It’s unfamiliar, and he hates that it’s even there.
He doesn’t say a word, but the next time Ino calls for your help, Megumi’s already standing behind him before you can move.
“I’ll handle it.”
You blink in surprise, glancing between the two of them. Ino awkwardly laughs, scratching the back of his neck, while Megumi simply folds his arms with that quiet, unrelenting stare.
You sigh softly, not understanding what’s gotten into him—but Megumi does.
He just doesn’t want to admit it.
The rest of the week passes, but Megumi can’t quite shake off that feeling. Each day lingers with creeping irritation and the same inexplicable heat, crawling up his neck every time he hears Ino’s voice echoing from your desk.
Even when you both stay late at the office, reviewing tomorrow’s reports, he’s unusually silent. You notice it, but you don’t press. You’ve learned that with him, silence often speaks louder than words.
By the time you both leave, the city’s already bathed in amber light. The streets hum with after-hours chatter—salarymen smoking by vending machines, students laughing as they run for the train. You walk side by side in the same comfortable silence you’ve grown accustomed to, steps falling into rhythm with his.
“Are you alright?” you finally ask, tilting your head toward him.
“You’ve been quiet lately.”
He exhales slowly, hands buried in his pockets.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
You hum softly, unconvinced.
“Then let’s get dinner before heading home. You look like you need it.”
He opens his mouth to refuse, but your hand tugs gently at his sleeve, just enough to make him stop. And that’s all it takes. He sighs in resignation, following as you veer off the main road.
Just a few months ago, after feeding the litter as usual, the two of you stumbled across a tiny restaurant tucked between an old bookshop and a florist right ahead. Now, it isn’t minutes until you find yourselves here again, the warm scent of grilled fish and soy broth seeping through the wooden door.
It’s small inside, with just a few tables, paper lanterns hanging low, and the quiet hum of jazz spilling from an old speaker in the corner. You take the seat by the window while Megumi sits across from you, the faint glow of streetlights painting his face gold.
“It’s cosy,” you murmur, flipping through the menu.
He nods.
When the food arrives—homey rice bowls with miso soup—you catch him staring. It’s different from the usual glare that headlines every office group chat, and you tease lightly, breaking the silence.
“You’ve stopped glaring at Ino.”
He blinks, caught off guard.
“...I wasn’t glaring.”
You smile, eyes glinting.
“Mhm. Sure.”
He clicks his tongue, looking away, but the faint pink at the tip of his ears betrays him.
You don’t say anything after that. You both eat silently, the clatter of chopsticks and the faint music filling the air. Somewhere between the warmth of the food and the glow of the lanterns, that invisible wall between you softens just a little more.
And without meaning to, you find yourselves returning there again the next evening. And the one after that.
Its mellow warmth envelopes the two of you—the faint aroma of grilled beef and simmering broth drifting through the cosy air. The low murmur of conversation fades into the distance, leaving only the soft clinking of chopsticks and the faint hum of a jazz tune spilling from an old speaker.
But most importantly, it’s quiet. Tucked away, hidden from the chaos of the streets, this little restaurant feels like the one corner of the city untouched by time.
And surprisingly enough, Megumi’s grown used to it. He doesn’t even mind. He spends most days with words caught behind his teeth, conversations short and to the point. But here, in the dim glow of this small haven, he finds himself talking more than he ever expected to. Listening.
He’s noticed that the way you speak with him is different from what he’s originally thought you to be. At work, you’re composed, restrained; the kind of person who carries phlegmatic authority without ever needing to raise your voice. He’s always respected that about you.
But outside, when your shoulders loosen and it’s just the two of you, he gets to see something else. A gaze even softer, etched into each easy smile you naively give.
He’s learning more about you now, in these dinners, than he has in all four years since you first met.
You tell him about your favourite books, your strange collection of music playlists, and how you always overbrew your tea because you get distracted halfway through steeping it. He listens, occasionally adding one or two of his own favourites to your list.
After some time, he mentions that he likes nonfiction, almost hesitantly—you just smile and ask for his recommendations.
The next week, you show up to work with one of the titles he mentioned tucked neatly in your bag. You pull it out every lunch break, pretending not to notice when he passes by your desk. And even when you think you’re sly, he catches every glance, every quick swipe of yours to hide the cover behind your notebook.
He never calls you out on it. He just scoffs at your ridiculousness—because honestly, what did he expect from you?
Now, even the silences between you feel different. Sometimes, your hands brush when you both reach for the teapot. Sometimes, you catch him looking before he quickly looks away. The air between you lingers just a beat longer each evening, and you don’t dare name it.
And tonight, as you talk about a book you’re halfway through, your voice softens mid-sentence.
“You know,” you say, staring into your cup, “I think I get why you like nonfiction.”
He glances up.
You smile faintly, not meeting his eyes.
“You just don’t seem like the type to enjoy happy endings.”
He huffs a soft laugh, setting down his chopsticks.
“I don’t really believe in them.”
The words hang there, quiet and a little heavier than before. The jazz fades into a softer tune, and for a moment, the world outside the window blurs into streaks of amber light and passing rain.
You look at him then, and for the first time, something tentative passes between you.
Neither one of you moves to break it.
──────
You’ve grown more comfortable with the silence, he with your friendliness. But there is still something he’ll never get used to.
“You’re sooooo prettyyy…” you mumble, voice soft and slurred, fingers threading through the spiky urchin of his hair.
You’re clinging to his back, legs loosely wrapped around his waist, while he props you up with both arms and a tired sigh, laced with something that hints a lot like fondness, though he’d never admit it aloud. It’s been almost a year since the two of you started hanging out like this, and yet he can’t understand how your alcohol tolerance remains nonexistent.
In the distance, the faint hum of cicadas lingers in the air. Beneath the night sky, his ears flush a soft shade of pink. You don’t notice it, of course.
You never do.
He feels the gentle buzz of your phone in your pocket. Once, twice, then again. With a weak sigh, he shifts your weight and sets you down on the bench.
“Your phone’s ringing,” he mutters, crouching down in front of you.
You simply stare at him, eyes glazed yet full of warmth, and grin without saying a word. Your heart is beating far too fast for your own good, and he hates how he can’t look away. Even more so, because he’s almost certain of your little secret.
99.9% certain.
He’s not stupid. Your smile falters when you’re with him, your guard slips, and you treat everyone with the same friendliness, yet you only ever drink like this when he’s the one walking you home. And even when he tries to rationalise it—tries to dissect it the way he does everything else—there’s no denying what it means.
In his head, it’s logical. It makes sense.
In his heart? It’s unbelievable, and it’s so obvious it irritates him.
You like him.
And worse? He thinks he might too.
He hates how idiotic that sounds. He denies it over and over, but as you sit there beneath the dim streetlight, your laughter spilling out in soft waves, your hair glowing gold under the faint light, something in his chest just gives.
You’re on the bench, drunk and smiling like you’re holding the whole world in your palms. He’s kneeling before you, the night wrapped in cicada hums and soft wind, your eyes locked. And in the midst of it all, he feels an irrational urge to pull you in and stop thinking. To let go of all his thoughts for once.
But like always, he swallows it down.
The phone rings again. He reaches for it before you can. The name flashing across the screen makes his stomach twist.
Ino Takuma.
He doesn’t want to admit it bothers him… but it does. More than it should. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or all those restless weeks building up inside him, but he answers before he can stop himself.
“Ah, sorry! I was wondering if you could help me with the printer? I’m still at work and—”
“She’s busy.”
His voice is low, clipped, colder than it should be. He glances up; you’re giggling again, hands reaching for his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t let anyone touch him like this. Doesn’t even like it. But as if he’s done this a million times already, he leans into your touch, giving in to the warmth.
“And didn’t she help you with that at least six times already?”
Before Ino can reply, he hangs up. The click is final. He shuts your phone, exhaling through his nose before looking up at you again.
Idiot.
You’re sending both his head and heart spinning, and you don’t even realise it. He wants to pull his feelings out of his chest, crush them, bury them; anything but this—this fluttering, chaotic warmth that refuses to die down.
You’re driving him insane, and you don’t even know it.
He grabs your wrist and looks up. The dim light paints your cheeks in a soft, careless pink, and the crescent curve of your eyes gleams like moonlight caught in a quiet stream. Crickets hum faintly in the distance, a lullaby for the stillness that hangs between you, thick and unspoken.
He rises, frowning down at you, the beat of his heart hammering against his ribs like a drum.
You’re so pretty—it drives him to the brink of insanity. Tearing at the edges of his patience, pushing him closer to just stepping into your light with every careless smile, every soft laugh.
“Just get back on,” he mutters, crouching once more.
You giggle, shimmying onto his back, the warmth of your breath ghosting against his neck. He presses his lips into a thin line, hiding the small smirk that fights its way up despite his efforts. Your hands dangle lazily in front of him, and the world narrows to the gentle rhythm of your combined breaths.
The cosy hum of the returning silence stretches between you, speaking in turn of the absence of a thousand unvoiced things. The night air wraps around you like a soft blanket. Every thump of your heart echoes, quick and alive, yet the time around you slows, spanning and pooling in the space between each puff of mist.
“...I like you.”
He whispers it quietly into the wintry night, the gentle breeze carrying his words away. The sound barely lingers, fading as soon as it leaves his lips. He exhales a heavy sigh—like it’s forbidden, a sacred taboo. And yet, in that small, warm bubble between you, swaying softly under the night sky, he lets it drift with the wind.
His chest is tight, yet he wishes you’d cling to him tighter.
His heart is beating so fast, he hopes it will stop altogether, and he feels so high in the clouds, yet the warmth of your breath pulls him back to Earth. His foolish confession does little to lift the weight off his core.
“Gurooo, you’re sooo quiet…” your head leans against his neck, and he shivers.
Quietly. Inside, his walls crumble. Every careful, measured piece of himself is crumbling. You don’t notice. You’re just holding on, simple as a heartbeat, and it’s unfair.
He’s brought you back so many times that he even has your spare key. As he rustles through his pocket to find it, he can’t help thinking how unfair it is. Awfully, utterly unfair.
He lays you down on your bed like he did the first time. It’s natural, almost painfully so, and your eyes meet his, still wide, still bright. His jaw tightens. His teeth grind together as his gaze flickers over your face; your eyes, your cheeks, then your lips.
His heart stutters.
He shouldn’t. He can’t.
He turns around.
“...Goodnight—” he mutters, but the faint tug at his blazer stops him.
He turns back, and you’re staring at him. Your smile is still wide, softer this time. Something unspoken moves in the curve of your lips, in the warmth of your gaze, and for the few nights he’s ever had in his life, he wants to run into your arms, to vanish into you entirely.
“It was the yakuza’s code.”
He blinks, lost in the hush.
“What?”
“Confessions of a Yakuza, Junichi Saga,” you murmur.
You hold his gaze, tugging him just a little closer.
“He never got to form any real connections because of the yakuza’s code.”
He stares at you, and realisation hits him like a wave. His eyes widen; panic flashes across his face.
That was the book he’d mentioned just last week.
“...How long...?” he stammers, disbelief twisting through his voice.
He stands frozen, unmoving. You smile brighter as the soft glow of the bedside lamp warms your face, your grip on his sleeve tightening.
“Since last week,” you grin smugly.
“But you’re so red—”
“That’s just how I get.”
His frown deepens, eyes narrowed in disbelief, and your laughter spills into the quiet. He steps closer, helplessly, as his hands tremble around you slightly. But even so, you pull him down, voice gentle as your words brush the air.
“I like you too.”
He can’t take his eyes off you. He can’t look away.
All this time, he’s thought he was the one leading you on—but he couldn’t be more wrong.
You’re the one who has him wrapped around your finger.
You lean forward and press a soft peck to his lips. And when he pulls back, seeing you giggle, he realises just how stupidly, hopelessly gone he is for you.
──────
The days pass like normal—you scan last night’s documents, maybe help a junior or two with the printer, then spend the rest typing up the next report due tomorrow. The only peculiar event is that you’re being pulled away to a hushed room now every lunch break.
The door shuts behind you, and Megumi pins you gently against it, leaning down for a kiss. You giggle into him as he nuzzles your neck, grumbling about some idiotic junior messing everything up.
Both your hard work and exemplary performance were rewarded—but you’ve learnt that promotions only bring more work.
Though, at least the pay’s good, right? Cancels out.
You stare at the ceiling, fingers threading through his ever-spiky hair as he vents softly about his day. To the world, he’s a monotonous, snarky dog who bites every chance he gets—but behind closed doors, he lets himself be just the tiniest bit childish. You don’t complain.
The apartment you return to is no longer the cramped studio you rushed to rent when you first moved to Tokyo. Kittens tumble over each other now across the floor, chasing stray shadows and the soft trails of dust illuminated by the vast chandelier. Megumi’s penthouse is large, yet it feels warm, comfy—like the first night he brought you home, stumbling drunk through the door.
You’re all curled up on the couch under a blanket, while Megumi approaches with a small cup of warm chocolate, the scent of cocoa wrapping around you from behind. Head against his chest, you watch the first snowflakes drift past neon-lit buildings, the city quieter than usual under winter’s hush.
“Happy birthday,” you murmur.
He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, and a kitten leaps onto the couch, nudging at him until he unwillingly shifts to make room.
“So… when were you going to tell me you handed in your resignation paper?”
He freezes, catching your frown, and the smile from a heartbeat ago fades.
“Uh—how did you find out?”
Your brows furrow, pressing into your interrogation.
“We’re literally in the same department. Don’t dodge the question.”
He stares at you, silent. You keep your glare, exaggerated, with betrayal written in every line of your face. He has the same expression as when he’s trying to make up an excuse for not attending one of Gojo’s after-work drinks, and you’re not patient enough for whatever vindication he’s formulating in his stubborn head.
He opens his mouth, shuts it again, before grumbling to himself and pushing the blanket off.
He gets up.
“Was going to save it until Christmas…”
You raise an eyebrow, watching him walk upstairs. Moments later, he returns, in his hand, a singular sheet of paper. He sets it gently on the couch beside you. You pick it up, eyes widening.
He rubs his neck in embarrassment, ears tinged pink beneath the chandelier’s glow. Even as he grumbles, there’s a spark in his eyes, something only you have ever seen.
“You’re opening your own veterinary?!”
You bounce on the couch, hand over your mouth, gasping.
“Mm.”
He tries to play it cool, but your reaction just makes him feel way more embarrassed than he should be. You wave him closer. He frowns but relents as usual, leaning down as you giddily whisper in his ear.
“Well, since we’re revealing our Christmas presents early, I’ll tell you mine.”
His eyes widen.
“We’re getting two dogs!”
He slowly pulls back, looking at you in surprise.
“And their names will be…”
You pause dramatically, then tug him closer, ruffling his messy urchin of a hair.
“What the—stop!” he grunts, grabbing your wrist playfully.
“Kuro,” you whisper, then you point at the white falling specks of snow, draping the city you’ve once thought lonely and full of bleakness.
“…and Shiro.”
He simply looks at you, his sigh dissipating into a smirk.
Honestly, what did he expect from you?
He avenges himself in retaliation, wide palms ruffling through your hair, fingers kneading through each strand in an attempt to mess it up.
“You—”
Now, the streets see you hand in hand, strolling past the izakaya where you first spoke, laughing as you pass the alley where you once rescued the kittens. You remember being draped over his back, dazed and drunk, babbling nonsense into his ear beneath those same streetlights years ago.
You settle on the couch again. Snow drifts lazily against the windowpane, scattering soft light across the kittens tumbling around your feet. One squeezes between you and Megumi, curling up on his lap and demanding attention, while another bats playfully at your dangling sleeve, purring as you pat its head.
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before slipping beneath the blanket. You frown tauntingly and catch his wrist, pulling him down until your lips meet his.
You giggle first, spilling into the hush, and he just follows like it’s the most natural thing in the world—propping himself up on an elbow, one hand cupping your chin as he draws you closer. The kittens scatter, tiny paws padding into the dark, leaving only the rustle of blankets and the faint hum of the heater between you.
“They must’ve been so bored waiting for us to get home…” you murmur, eyes tracing their little silhouettes vanishing into the hallway.
But before you can say more, he cuts you off with a quiet frown, his fingers tilting your face back toward him.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, his gaze unwavering beneath the dim light.
A rare smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he watches you pout.
“I’m keeping you for myself.”
