“𝒴𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞” · 𝒢.𝑺𝑨𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑼 ·
𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚄 tries dating someone new to distract himself. It lasts less than two days. 𖹭
𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇. ꒰ 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ⋮⋮ canon jjk ꒱
It’s Shoko who calls you first.
The phone buzzes against the kitchen counter while you’re staring at a half-eaten bowl of cereal gone soggy. You almost ignore it. Almost, but habit wins, and you do pick up.
"He's being weird,” she says, biting off a yawn, cigarette smoke curling lazily from her lips. “Weirder than usual. He brought some girl to dinner last night.”
You blink. “Oh.”
The word comes out small. Flat. Like it doesn’t belong in your mouth.
“She laughed like a goose and called him ‘Toru-bear’ and wore a shirt that said ‘Boss Babe.’” Shoko pauses. “You, understandably, weren’t there. So I had to suffer alone.”
“Sorry.” You almost sounded sincere.
“Don’t apologize. He should be apologizing. It was pitiful.”
You try not to let it get to you. You try not to think about how it felt, because just three nights ago, when he kissed you so soft and said, “You make everything quiet,” like it was a confession, like it hurt to say it, when the words left his lips...
And, now he’s… dating?
Trying?
Moving on?
Your chest aches, but you smile through it. “Maybe he just needs to figure some stuff out.”
Shoko exhales. “You’ve ruined him. You know that, right?”
You laugh. It sounds brittle and slightly amused. “I don’t think I’m that powerful.”
“You are,” she says dryly. “I watched this man— this man who used to brag about how hot girls lined up for him after missions— literally panic when his dinner date tried to kiss him.”
Your heart flips. “What?”
“He flinched,” she confirms. “Like, full-body jolted. Said, and I quote, ‘Sorry, I’m just not used to someone else’s face being that close. It feels wrong.’”
You’re stunned into silence.
Then: “He said it felt wrong?”
“Mhm.” A long pause fills the space for a moment. “And then he left. Mid-date. Suguru watched him walk outside and immediately call your number. You didn’t answer, did you?”
You hadn’t.
You’d seen his name light up your screen and tucked your phone under your pillow, heart hammering, unsure what you were even to him now.
That night, he left you a voicemail.
You hadn’t listened to it.
Not until now.
You pull it up after exchanging goodbyes with Shoko. Hands trembling, and you press play.
“Hey,” his voice murmurs. There’s a sharp exhale. “I know you probably don’t wanna talk to me. That’s fair.”
Theres a second of silence...
“I thought… maybe I needed to know what it would be like. To be with someone who isn’t you. To see if I could want something else. And I can’t.”
He laughs, soft and its self-deprecating.
“I couldn’t even hold her hand without thinking about the way you tuck yours under mine like it’s automatic. Couldn’t sit across from her without hearing your voice in my head telling me to chew slower because I eat like a gremlin.”
You close your eyes, breath shallow.
“You’ve ruined me, sweetheart,” he whispers .“And I think I’d let you do it a thousand times over.”
The message fizzles out to an abrupt end.
You stand there in the quiet kitchen, phone still pressed to your ear like the sound of him might come back if you just wait long enough.
Your pulse is loud in your throat.
You don’t think— you just go.
Keys. Shoes. The door slamming behind you hard enough that the frame rattles.
The night air hits your face. Cool and sharp because it's 10pm and you're running. You don’t remember deciding to run but your feet are already moving, pavement blurring under you, streetlights smearing gold across your vision.
Every step feels like it’s carving something open in your chest.
Three nights ago his mouth had been so careful against yours. Three nights ago he’d breathed against your temple like the whole world had gone soft just for the two of you. Three nights ago he’d looked at you like you were the only solid thing left.
And then he’d tried to date someone else.
Tried.
Failed so completely that Shoko called it pitiful.
You don’t slow down until you’re outside his building. The code for the gate is still muscle memory. The stairs take forever and no time at all.
You reach his door.
Knock once.
Twice.
The lock clicks.
He opens the door looking like a kicked puppy— eyes wide, hoodie sleeves too long, heart cracked open.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then you don’t say a word— just throw your arms around him and bury your face in his chest.
He holds you like he never wants to let go again.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m so— sorry.”
“I’m not,” you whisper back.
You lean up.
Kiss him like he’s the only person in the world worth knowing.
Like he belongs to you.
Because he does.
His mouth is warm and a little desperate under yours. One of his hands slides up into your hair, the other locking around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.
You feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast against yours. You feel the tiny tremor in his fingers.
When you finally pull back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours.
“I hated it,” he says, voice low and rough. “Every second of it. She kept talking and all I could hear was you. She touched my arm and it felt like static. Wrong frequency. Wrong everything.”
You don’t answer with words. You just kiss him again, slower this time, tasting the apology still sitting on his tongue.
He walks you backward into the apartment without breaking the kiss. The door clicks shut behind you. Somewhere a lamp is on, casting soft gold across the floor. His place smells like the laundry detergent he always uses and the faint citrus of the cleaner he pretends he doesn’t buy just because you once said you liked it.
He presses you gently against the wall by the entryway. Not hard. Just enough that you can feel how solid he is, how carefully he’s holding himself back.
“I kept thinking about the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Like I’m something worth keeping. She looked at me like I was a prize she’d already won. I couldn’t stand it.”
Your hands fist in the front of his hoodie. The fabric is soft from too many washes. You know every loose thread.
“I shouldn’t have gone,” he says. “I knew the second I sat down across from her that I’d made a mistake. But I stayed. Like an idiot. Like maybe if I just forced it hard enough it would start feeling right.”
You tip your head so your lips brush the corner of his jaw. “Did it?”
“Not even close.”
He kisses you again, deeper, and you let him. Let the heat of it pull everything else out of focus until there’s only the two of you and the quiet apartment and the way his body fits against yours like it was designed for exactly this.
When he finally draws back there’s a flush high on his cheeks. His eyes are bright in a way that has nothing to do with residual cursed energy and everything to do with you.
“Stay,” he says. Not a question.
You nod.
He takes your hand the way he always does, fingers sliding between yours like they belong there and leads you further inside.
The couch is still a mess of throw pillows from the last time you were here. One of your hair ties sits on the coffee table. Evidence of a life that never quite stopped belonging to both of you even when you tried to pretend otherwise.
He sits first and pulls you into his lap without ceremony. You go willingly, knees bracketing his hips, arms looping around his neck.
For a long moment you just look at each other.
Then he starts talking again, quieter, like the words have been waiting behind his teeth for days.
“She ordered something with cilantro and I almost told her you hate cilantro. Almost said it out loud. Like my mouth forgot who I was sitting with.”
You brush a strand of white hair off his forehead. “You left mid-date.”
“Yeah.” A short, self-conscious laugh. “Suguru gave me the look. You know the one. The ‘you’re an idiot and I love you but also please stop’ look. I walked outside and called you before I even thought about it. Needed to hear your voice. Needed to know you still existed in the same world as me.”
You remember the way your phone had lit up. The way you’d shoved it under the pillow like that could protect either of you from whatever this was becoming.
“I listened to the voicemail,” you tell him.
His arms tighten around you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Silence settles for a few heartbeats. Comfortable. Heavy with everything neither of you has said yet.
Then he leans in and presses a kiss to the side of your neck, soft and lingering.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it properly,” he murmurs against your skin. “That you’re it for me. That nothing else even comes close. That I tried to prove myself wrong and only proved the opposite.”
You tilt your head to give him more room. His mouth follows the line of your throat with careful, deliberate attention.
“You don’t have to figure it out,” you say. “Just keep showing up.”
He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. There’s something open and a little raw in his expression.
“I will. Every time. Even when I’m being an idiot about it.”
You kiss him for that. Slow. Thorough. The kind of kiss that says you already knew and you’re still choosing him anyway.
His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, palms warm against your waist. Not demanding. Just anchoring you to the present.
You feel the way his breathing changes when your fingers find the nape of his neck and scratch lightly the way he likes.
“Stay the night,” he says again, quieter this time. Almost a plea.
“I’m already here.”
He smiles against your mouth. The real one. The one that softens everything about him until he looks almost young again.
“Good.”
Later, when the apartment has gone fully dark except for the city glow through the windows, you end up tangled together on the couch under a blanket that smells like both of you. His heartbeat is steady under your ear. One of his hands keeps tracing idle patterns along your spine like he can’t quite stop touching you now that you’re close again.
“Shoko’s going to give me so much shit for this,” he says eventually, voice drowsy.
You huff a quiet laugh. “She already did. Called the whole thing pitiful.”
“She’s not wrong.”
You press a kiss to the center of his chest through the soft fabric of his hoodie.
“I don’t care if it was pitiful,” you tell him. “I’m glad you figured it out.”
His arms tighten around you one more time.
“Me too,” he whispers. “God. Me too.”
Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside, everything is quiet the way it only ever is when it’s the two of you.
And for the first time in days, it feels like enough.
