summary: a sorority girl invites rafe cameron in for a casual “house tour” after a date, but the night escalates.
warnings: explicit sexual content and graphic sexual acts, alcohol use, @nal
an: a little scared to post this one bc of the last warning, not sure how ppl feel about that but🫣 in honor of sabrinawood!!! i’m also gonna be writing for nate jacobs soon so;)
the engine of the mercedes idled with a low, expensive hum, the only sound breaking the late night quiet of figure eight’s most pristine street. outside the driver's side window, the facade of the kappa delta sorority house gleamed white and imposing under the muted golden glow of the porch light. it looked like a dollhouse, a perfect, curated space for girls who had their lives perfectly curated.
rafe’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but he wasn’t looking at the house. he was looking at her.
she was angled towards him in the passenger seat, the hem of her short, pale pink dress riding up her thighs. the scent of her perfume, something sweet and floral like peonies and vanilla, hung in the small, air conditioned space of the car, a dizzying cloud. a faint, rosy blush still painted her cheeks from the wine at the country club, and her eyes, sparkling, had that specific, hazy quality that told him she was feeling it. feeling good.
"well," she breathed out, a little sigh that was half giggle. "this is me."
he didn't move. the engine continued its purr. "i see that."
"big, scary sorority house," she teased, her smile wide and bright. "full of secrets and hairspray."
a slow smile spread across rafe’s face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. his gaze was heavy, intense, tracing the line of her visible collarbones above the neckline of her dress. "you don't look scared."
she laughed, a soft, airy sound. "never." she leaned forward boldly, the motion bringing the scent of her even closer, and the space between them shrank to nothing. her hand came up to rest on the back of his neck, her fingers playing with the hairs there. her touch was electric. "thank you for tonight, rafe. i had… a really good time."
he met her halfway. the kiss wasn't gentle, not really. it was a collision. his tongue swept into her mouth, tasting the sweet wine on hers, claiming the space with a familiar urgency that made her head spin. she kissed him back with equal fervor, her other hand gripping the expensive fabric of his polo shirt, pulling him closer. the kiss deepened, growing messy and desperate, the car's quiet hum a forgotten backdrop to the wet slide of their mouths and the soft, breathy sounds she made.
when they finally broke apart, her lips were swollen and glossless, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. rafe’s thumb came up to trace her bottom lip, his gaze fixed and dark.
"you know," she said, her voice a little shaky but still playful. "it’s pretty much empty in there. everyone's gone for the weekend." she pulled back just enough to gesture with her chin towards the house. "if you have time, would you want… a house tour."
a beat of silence. rafe’s eyes searched hers, seeing the unspoken invitation, the alcohol fueled bravado, the raw desire simmering just beneath the polished surface. he killed the engine. the sudden quiet was absolute.
"lead the way."
she unlocked the heavy front door with a delicate pink key and pushed it open, revealing an interior bathed in the warm, soft light of strategically placed lamps. the air inside was thick with the scent of expensive candles, sandalwood and pear, lavender and linen. it was immaculate. the floors were a gleaming light wood, covered in plush, cream colored rugs. white couches were piled high with coordinating throw pillows, and every surface held a curated collection of ceramic vases, coffee table books, and framed photos of smiling, beautiful girls.
it was the physical manifestation of the "house tour" aesthetic, so perfectly clean and feminine it felt almost unreal.
"okay, so this is the formal living room," she announced, her voice a little too loud in the stillness, her words tripping over each other slightly. "we only use it for… well, for formal things. parent's weekend, you know. which is a whole thing." she let out a small, breathy laugh, adjusting a strand of her hair. "and this is the grand staircase. very grand, obvi."
she led him through the silent, perfect house, a whirlwind of slightly too fast commentary and bright smiles. she pointed out the pledge class composite on the wall, the little study nook with its pink velvet chair, the kitchen with its state of the art appliances and a bowl of flawless green apples on the island. her gestures were a little wide, her laughter a fraction of a second delayed. she was performing, trying to fill the heavy, charged quiet with the comfort of casual conversation, but she couldn't quite meet his eyes for more than a second.
he didn't say much, just followed, a silent, looming presence at her back. his presence seemed to suck the air out of the pristine rooms, making the curated decor feel like a flimsy stage set. he was watching her, his focus a palpable weight that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up.
"and, um, up here is where the magic happens," she said, her pitch a little higher as she led him down a carpeted hallway. "or, you know, the sleeping happens." another one of those slightly too loud laughs. she stopped in front of a door with a small, gold plated nameplate: Y/N.
with a slightly unsteady hand, she turned the knob and pushed it open.
her room was a softer, more intimate version of the rest of the house. the walls were a creamy white, the comforter on her bed a fluffy, cloud like duvet in a shade of champagne. a string of warm fairy lights were draped over her headboard, and a vanity table was perfectly arranged with perfume bottles, dainty jewelry stands, and a gold backed hairbrush. it smelled of her the peony and vanilla scent was stronger here, mingled with something warmer, like clean skin.
she plopped down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly. she patted the space next to her, a bright, practiced smile on her face. "and this is it. the inner sanctum. don’t touch the tiffany lamp."
rafe didn't sit. he stood in the center of the room, just inside the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and looked around. his gaze swept over the vanity, the neatly arranged pillows, the stack of vogue magazines on her nightstand. then, slowly, it returned to her.
the silence that fell was different from the one in the hallway. it wasn't empty, it was packed. packed with the memory of the kiss in the car, with the unspoken reason he was here, with the sheer, overwhelming force of his attention now concentrated in this small, soft space.
"nice lamp," he finally said, his voice a low rumble.
she let out a nervous giggle, twisting the pearl in her earlobe. "right? my dad got it for me for, like, being a good daughter or something. which is, you know, subjective." she trailed off, her bright smile faltering for a second as their eyes locked. "so… yeah. this is where i… sleep." god, she was rambling. "and study, sometimes. and watch Netflix. and… other.. things.."
he took a step closer. then another. the soft thud of his expensive sneakers on the plush carpet was the only sound. he stopped right in front of her, so close that her knees were almost brushing the denim of his jeans. she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, and the fairy lights caught in her hair, making her look ethereal.
her rambling stopped. her smile remained, but it was trembling now, fixed and fragile. she could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the same dark, consuming intensity from the car, now magnified a hundred times. the casual act was melting away, layer by layer, leaving something raw and exposed underneath.
"so," she whispered, the word barely audible. "end of the tour."
rafe didn't answer with words. he reached down, his fingers hooking under her chin, and tilted her head back further. his other hand came to rest on her thigh, his thumb slipping under the fabric of her dress and stroking the sensitive skin there. the touch was light, but it burned.
"good," he murmured, and then he was kissing her again.
this kiss was different from the one in the car. that had been a frantic collision. this was a deliberate conquering. his mouth was firm and demanding, his tongue claiming hers with a lazy, possessive stroke that made her whole body flush with heat. she melted into it, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders, her fingers digging into the muscle as she pulled him down with her onto the bed.
he followed her down without breaking the kiss, settling his weight over her, caging her in with his body. the fluffy duvet was a soft cloud beneath them, a stark contrast to the hard, demanding press of him against her. his hands were everywhere, sliding up her thighs, pushing the hem of her pink dress up to her hips, skimming over the lace of her panties. he hooked a finger in the delicate fabric, a question in the touch, and she arched into him, a silent, desperate yes.
he broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look down at her. her hair was fanned out on the pillow, her lips were parted and glistening, and her eyes were hazy with lust.
he looked at her like she was a meal he couldn’t wait to devour.
"rafe," she breathed, her voice a ragged moan.
he peeled the dress off her in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. then he took a moment, just looked at her. looked at the lacy white bra that barely contained her tits, the matching panties. he saw her as the ultimate version of this hyper-feminine world she lived in, soft, polished, perfect, and now, just for him, utterly debauched.
he lowered his head, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to the hollow of her throat. then another to her collarbone. he worked his way down, his lips and tongue tracing a path of fire over her skin. he kissed the swell of her breasts, nipping at the sensitive skin, before unhooking her bra and tossing it aside. he took one hard nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed, her fingers tangling in his hair.
he worshipped her body with his mouth, mapping every curve, every hollow. he kissed the dip of her waist, the soft skin of her stomach, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. he was slow, deliberate, savoring every gasp and moan he pulled from her. he was taking her apart, piece by piece, and she was letting him. she was a symphony of soft whimpers and desperate pleas, her body moving restlessly beneath him.
when he finally settled between her thighs, hooking her legs over his shoulders, she was already trembling. he looked up at her from between her legs, his eyes dark and feral.
"please," she whimpered, her voice broken. "please, rafe." he couldn’t make her wait. he licked a slow, deliberate stripe through her folds, and she saw stars.
he ate her out with a focus, an intensity that was almost too much. his tongue was clever and relentless, finding her clit and circling it until she was a writhing, begging mess. he slid one finger inside her, then another, curling them just so, and that was all it took. her orgasm crashed over her, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that left her gasping and boneless.
he didn't give her time to recover. he moved back up her body, kissing her again, letting her taste herself on his lips. he fumbled with the button on his jeans, shoving them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, and she felt a fresh wave of arousal pool between her legs.
he lined himself up, and for a moment, he just teased her, sliding the head of his cock through her wetness. she was so wet, so ready for him, and the anticipation was agonizing.
"look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.
she forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze. and then he pushed inside.
the stretch was exquisite, a delicious ache that made her eyes roll back.
he filled her completely, and for a moment, they just stayed like that, connected, breathing the same air. he was so deep, so present, and she felt a wave of something so intense it was almost painful.
then he started to move.
his thrusts were deep and deliberate, each one hitting a spot inside her that made her see stars. he set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against hers, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the quiet room. he was fucking her, really fucking her, and she was taking it, her nails digging into his back, her moans growing louder, more desperate.
she was a mess of tangled limbs and breathy cries, her body a canvas for his desire. he was marking her, claiming her, and she was reveling in it.
"rafe," she gasped, his name a prayer on her lips. "fuck, rafe."
he shifted, hooking one of her legs over his arm, changing the angle. the new position allowed him to go even deeper, and she cried out, her mouth falling open. he was hitting that spot, over and over, and she could feel another orgasm building, this one more intense than the last.
"cum for me," he growled, his voice a low command. "cum all over my dick."
and she did. her body convulsed, waves of pleasure washing over her as she came, her walls clamping down around him. he followed her over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself deep inside her as he spilled into her.
they collapsed onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and sweaty skin. he rolled off her, pulling her into his arms. her head was pillowed on his chest, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart under her ear. the room was quiet, the only sound their ragged breathing.
for a long moment, they just lay there, basking in the afterglow. the scent of sex and sweat and her sweet perfume filled the air, a potent cocktail that was more intoxicating than any wine.
she traced idle patterns on his chest, her fingers trailing over the light dusting of hair there.
she propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. in the soft glow of the fairy lights, he looked different. softer, somehow. the hard edges were gone, replaced by a satisfied contentment.
"so," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "what did you think of the tour?"
he laughed, a real, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "it was... informative."
"oh yeah?" she teased, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. "what was your favorite part?"
he considered this for a moment, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. "i think," he said, his voice a low murmur, "i’d have to say the bedroom."
"good choice," she whispered against his lips. "but, you know," she added, her tone shifting to one of mock seriousness, "there is one rule you should really know about this house."
he raised an eyebrow. "yeah?"
she nodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "i’ve been told you should never, ever enter through the back door."
for a second, he just stared at her, processing her words.
then, a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. he rolled her over, pinning her beneath him once again.
"is that so?" he growled, his eyes darkening with a new wave of lust. "that’s a shame. i was just about to suggest we break that rule."
her breath hitched, a fresh wave of arousal coursing through her. "well," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "rules are meant to be broken, aren't they?"
he didn't need any more encouragement. he flipped her over with surprising gentleness, positioning her on her hands and knees. he ran a possessive hand down her spine, making her shiver. he took a moment to admire the view, the graceful curve of her back, the swell of her ass, the glistening pinkness of her pussy. she was a vision, a princess.
he reached over to her nightstand, his fingers closing around a small bottle of lotion. he squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, warming it between his hands before slowly, carefully, working it into her tightest hole.
she gasped at the intrusion, a mix of pleasure and pain, as he stretched her, preparing her for him.
"relax," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. "i’ve got you."
and she did. she trusted him, completely and utterly. she took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to unclench as he worked her open. he was patient, methodical, taking his time, his other hand stroking her back, grounding her. once she was ready, he positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his dick pressing against her slick, puckered hole.
"ready?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.
she could only nod, her words lost in a breathy moan.
he pushed inside, slowly, inch by inch. the stretch was intense, a burning ache that bordered on pain, but beneath it was a current of pure, unadulterated pleasure. he filled her completely, and for a moment, they just stayed like that, savoring the sensation of being so intimately connected.
then he started to move.
his thrusts were slow at first, experimental, as he found a rhythm that worked for them. she was so tight, so hot, and the friction was exquisite. he could feel every clench, every shudder, as she adjusted to this new, deeper kind of possession.
"rafe," she gasped, her fingers digging into the sheets. "oh my god, rafe."
he leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his lips brushing against her ear. "you feel so good," he growled, his thrusts becoming deeper, more confident. "so fucking tight for me."
his words were like gasoline on a fire, and she was already burning. she could feel another orgasm building, a slow, creeping wave of pleasure that started in her toes and worked its way up her body. he reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles that pushed her closer and closer to the edge.
"you gonna cum for me again?" his thrusts becoming faster, more erratic. "cum for me, baby." he commanded.
and she did. her orgasm crashed over her, a tsunami of pure, unadulterated bliss that left her gasping and trembling. he followed her over the edge with a loud groan, burying himself deep inside her as he emptied himself into her.
they collapsed onto the bed, a sweaty, sticky mess. he rolled off her, pulling her into his arms, her back pressed against his chest. he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his face buried in the crook of her neck. for a long moment, they just lay there, their ragged breaths the only sound in the quiet room.
"mm," she whispered, her voice hoarse, raw.
he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her chest. "yeah."
she turned in his arms, facing him. she reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against her skin. he looked tired, but happy, a rare, unguarded expression on his face that made her heart ache.
a small smile played on her lips. "was it worth breaking the rules?"
he leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss.
"every rule," he murmured against her lips, "has its exceptions."
they lay in silence for a while, the comfortable quiet settling over them. the fairy lights cast a warm, gentle glow, making the room feel like a bubble, a separate world from the pristine, perfect sorority house outside.
he looked at her, his expression unreadable. he studied her face, as if searching for something, a hidden meaning. he saw the girl who had the perfect life, the perfect house, the perfect friends, and he saw the cracks in the facade, the raw, messy, beautiful truth underneath.
I wanted to make the colored text thingy and it didn’t work i actually started crying from the frustration but hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it(i genuinely did fucking NOT)🥺. I also do apologise in advance if this is similar to other works on here I just love gojo like an arrogant guy with no self respect whatsoever so my fyp is all about it unfortunately.
The bass from the Sigma Chi party pounded through the floorboards in heavy, violent waves, strong enough to rattle the cheap kitchen cabinets and make the red plastic cups stacked beside the sink shiver against each other. The entire house felt overheated and alive — packed shoulder-to-shoulder with drunk college students, humid with sweat, spilled beer, and expensive cologne trying and failing to mask the smell of cheap vodka.
Colored lights flashed lazily across the ceiling, staining the crowded rooms blue, then pink, then red. Somewhere downstairs, people screamed the lyrics to a song that was too loud to even recognize properly anymore. Laughter erupted every few seconds from different corners of the house, sharp and messy and alcohol-soaked.
Bodies shoved through narrow hallways without apology. Someone stumbled into the kitchen island hard enough to slosh liquor across the counter while another couple made out openly against the refrigerator like nobody else existed.
The whole frat house buzzed with the kind of chaotic energy that only existed after midnight at parties like this — when everyone was drunk enough to stop pretending to be embarrassed.
And through all of it, Gojo Satoru somehow still managed to stand out effortlessly.
Leaning against the back patio doorway with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a half-empty beer dangling from his fingers, he looked completely at home in the noise and disorder around him. His white hair was messy from people touching it all night despite how much he complained about it, and his laugh carried easily over the music — low, warm, careless.
The kind of laugh that made people turn toward him automatically.
The kind that usually pulled you toward him too.
You should’ve gone home an hour ago.
Instead, you stayed in the hallway outside the living room with your shoulder against the wall and your arms crossed tightly over your chest, pretending you weren’t exhausted by the party, by the noise, by the constant attention that came with existing in rooms like this.
The house was overheated and loud in the way frat houses always were after midnight — bass shaking faintly through the floors, drunken laughter ricocheting off the walls, liquor and smoke hanging thick in the air. The lights were dim enough to flatter everyone and blur everything ugly.
Girls from your sorority clustered nearby in tiny glittering groups, perfume sweet enough to make your head ache. Every few minutes someone passed through the hallway and looked at you twice.
That happened constantly.
You were used to it.
At this school, everyone knew who you were before they met you. Beautiful. Intimidating. Mean, depending on who got rejected. Guys chased you relentlessly until they realized you didn’t hand out affection just because someone wanted it from you.
Most of them couldn’t stand that.
Gojo Satoru had seemed different.
At first.
He didn’t scare easily. Didn’t fold when you dismissed him. If anything, he got more interested.
And unfortunately for you, every other girl on campus wanted him too.
Which made whatever existed between you feel less like flirting and more like a war neither of you wanted to lose.
A week ago, after another party exactly like this one, he’d caught your wrist while you were heading upstairs to find your friends.
“Where do you keep disappearing to?” he’d asked with a grin.
You rolled your eyes. “Why? Miss me?”
“Obviously.”
Cocky.
You should’ve walked away then.
Instead you let him drag you into his room.
The door barely shut before he kissed you.
Messy and heated.
Like both of you were trying to overpower the other.
You remember pushing him backward onto the mattress just to hear him laugh against your mouth. Remember his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. Remembered him muttering “fuck” into your skin when you bit his lip.
And afterward—
Afterward was what ruined everything.
Because afterward, when the tension settled and the room finally went quiet, Gojo looked at you like he actually cared.
Like he wanted something from you that had nothing to do with sex.
You panicked and left before he could say it out loud.
Now you wished you’d left this party too.
Because from the other side of the half-open living room door, you heard your name.
You froze immediately.
Inside, the room buzzed with drunken conversation. You could practically picture the scene without looking — Gojo spread across the couch like he owned the fucking house, one arm slung over the back cushions, everyone gathered around him waiting to be entertained.
“…I’m serious,” Gojo was saying.
Someone laughed. “Bro, you’ve been staring at her all fucking night.”
Your stomach tightened.
Another guy chimed in. “Can you blame him? Every dude here’s obsessed with her.”
A pause.
Then Gojo laughed softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the funny part.”
The room laughed with him.
“She’s got every guy in this house acting stupid,” he continued. “You all see the attitude and suddenly wanna fix her or some shit.”
Your jaw tightened.
Suguru laughed. “Sounds jealous to me.”
“Jealous?” Gojo scoffed. “Please. I just think it’s funny watching these guys flirt with her when she was literally in my bed last week.”
The room erupted.
Heat flooded your face instantly.
Someone shouted, “NO FUCKING WAY.”
“Way.” he scoffed.
“Oh my god,” another guy groaned. “You finally got her?”
Gojo snorted.
“‘Got her’ sounds dramatic,” he drawled lazily. “Wasn’t exactly hard.”
The words hit like a slap.
“She acts all untouchable,” he continued, “but honestly? Half that shit disappears the second you get her alone.”
“She walks around acting like God or shit,” he said, voice edged with something sharper now, something ugly and possessive underneath the amusement. “Then suddenly she’s grabbing onto me because she wants attention.”
Your stomach twisted hard.
Because now you could hear it clearly.
Jealousy.
Not just bragging.
Punishment.
“She doesn’t seem clingy,” Suguru said.
Gojo barked out a laugh.
“She’s not clingy,” he said. “She’s just fucking needy when it’s just me and her.”
Humiliation crashed through you so fast your ears rang.
“And the crazy part?” Gojo continued. “Every dude here keeps staring at her like they’d have a chance if she gave them one.” He scoffed. “Cute.”
Someone whistled.
Gojo’s voice dropped lower.
“But she wasn’t acting all up when she was on my dick, so.”
The room exploded.
Your pulse pounded violently now.
“She let you hit, for real?” someone asked incredulously.
Gojo laughed under his breath.
“Man,” he said mockingly, “all it took was getting her alone for ten minutes and suddenly the attitude disappeared.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“She talks so much shit too,” he continued. “Then you touch her the right way and she goes all quiet.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious,” Gojo said, sounding smug now. “Acts like she hates everybody but melts the second you give her attention.”
Every word felt deliberately cruel.
Like he wanted them picturing you beneath him.
Like he wanted every man in that room to know he’d gotten something they hadn’t.
Then he laughed again — softer this time, but somehow meaner.
“Watching all these guys flirt with her tonight after hearing the noises she made for me is fucking hilarious.”
The room LOST IT.
Your vision blurred instantly.
Because that one was intentional.
Designed to humiliate you.
To mark you as his.
“Satoru, you’re an asshole,” Suguru laughed.
Gojo only hummed.
“Maybe,” he said lazily. “But she still came back to me, didn’t she?”
And Gojo scoffed.
You didn’t hear the rest.
Blood rushed in your ears so loudly it drowned out the music downstairs. One of your friends touched your arm, eyes wide with horror, but you stepped away before she could say anything.
You walked straight through the party with your head high.
Despite everything that just happened.
—
By the time Gojo realized you’d heard, you were outside.
Cold night air hit your skin as you stood on the front lawn, staring at nothing. The muffled party sounds behind you felt far away.
A beat of silence.
Then hurried footsteps.
“Hey.”
You ignored him.
“Hey, wait.”
His hand caught your wrist lightly, and for the first time since knowing him, he actually looked nervous.
“You heard that?”
You let out a short laugh. “What gave it away?”
Gojo ran a hand through his hair. “Look, we were joking around—”
“So you decided to humiliate me for entertainment?”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
You finally looked at him then, and something in your expression made him stop cold.
Because you looked hurt.
“I get it,” you said quietly. “You needed your friends to think you’re cool.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“Oh, please.” You folded your arms. “You think I don’t know how guys talk after they hook up with a girl? You sounded just like the rest of them.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
For once, he didn’t have an answer ready.
The silence between you stretched painfully thin.
You swallowed hard before speaking again. “You know what’s funny? You were the first guy here I actually liked.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“And hearing you talk about me like that…” Your voice cracked despite your effort to stop it. “That was embarrassing enough. But the worst part is that I actually thought you were different.” you emphasised the word ‘were’.
The look on his face shifted instantly — regret hitting so hard it almost looked physical.
“Wait,” he said softly. “You liked me?”
You laughed again, except this one sounded miserable.
“There it is,” you whispered. “That’s the part you heard.”
Then you pulled your wrist from his grasp and walked away before he could see the tears finally falling.
Before everything went wrong, you and Gojo had been a disaster waiting to happen.
Everybody knew it.
The tension between you started long before you ever touched each other.
You were the girl people moved out of the way for in crowded hallways. Sharp tongue, perfect clothes, colder smile. Most guys on campus either wanted your attention or were terrified of becoming the next victim of your public humiliation.
Gojo somehow became both.
Because from the moment you met him at a fraternity mixer sophomore year, he would not stop provoking you.
“You always this mean,” he asked lazily that first night, “or am I special?”
You looked him up and down. “You’re not special enough for that.”
His grin widened instantly.
Most people got offended when you bit back at them.
Gojo looked delighted.
After that, it became a game.
He’d steal your phone and hold it above your head while you threatened murder. You’d insult his outfits in front of his entire friend group just to watch him laugh instead of getting mad. He’d walk into rooms and immediately search for you without realizing it.
Everybody noticed before you did.
“You two flirt like divorced parents,” Shoko told you once.
“We do not flirt,” you snapped.
Across the room, Gojo yelled, “She’s obsessed with me!”
You flipped him off instantly.
He looked unbearably pleased.
The thing was, nobody else got under your skin like he did.
And nobody got under his skin like you did either.
You challenged him constantly. Didn’t fall for his charm. Didn’t care that half the campus worshipped him.
Actually, sometimes you seemed actively annoyed by how loved he was.
Which only made him chase your attention harder.
He started sitting next to you in lectures he didn’t even need to attend.
Started showing up at parties only after hearing you’d be there.
Started noticing little things.
Like how you were only cruel to arrogant guys. How you secretly covered for drunk girls at parties. How you pretended not to care about anyone while quietly taking care of everyone around you.
And you noticed things too.
Like how Gojo got loud whenever he was uncomfortable.
How he hid exhaustion behind jokes.
How sometimes, after everybody else left, he’d look strangely lonely.
You never said any of this out loud, obviously.
That would’ve required emotional honesty.
Suguru once watched you both argue for twenty straight minutes over whether Gojo was banned from your apartment after he ate your roommate’s leftovers.
“You hooked up yet?” he asked eventually.
“No,” both of you answered immediately.
Then glanced at each other.
Suguru sighed. “Jesus Christ.”
The truth was, there had always been something dangerous underneath all the teasing.
Every touch lingered too long.
Every argument felt weirdly intimate.
Gojo would lean too close while smiling at you, all confidence and amusement, and your stomach would twist in a way that made you angry at yourself.
And sometimes you caught him staring at you when he thought you weren’t looking.
Like he forgot to hide it for a second.
You both knew this thing between you wasn’t casual long before you slept together.
The way he looked at you afterward made you think maybe this could become something real.
Which was exactly why hearing him laugh about you later hurt badly enough to ruin everything.
That night at the party only happened because the tension between you and Gojo had finally snapped after months of unresolved feelings, stupid arguments, dangerous eye contact, and pretending neither of you noticed the way everything changed whenever you were alone together.
The party itself had already become unbearable. Music pounded hard enough to shake the walls, people were yelling over each other in the living room, and someone had apparently broken a lamp an hour earlier because shards of glass still glittered near the hallway. The entire apartment smelled like alcohol, cheap perfume, and overheated bodies packed too close together.
You had escaped to the kitchen for exactly thirty seconds of peace before Gojo followed you in.
Of course he did.
“You’re avoiding me,” he announced immediately, pointing at you with the hand holding his half-empty drink.
You leaned back against the counter and sighed. “I’m surviving you.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “And here I thought we were connecting tonight.”
“You spilled alcohol on me.”
“You looked stressed. I was trying to include you in the experience.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m emotionally vulnerable.”
“You’re emotionally stupid.”
“Wow,” he gasped dramatically. “And people say romance is dead.”
You rolled your eyes, but a laugh escaped anyway before you could stop it.
Gojo noticed immediately.
The grin on his face faded just enough for your stomach to tighten. The teasing look in his eyes disappeared too, replaced by something quieter and infinitely more dangerous. The shift happened so fast it made your pulse stumble.
One second he was joking around like always.
The next he was staring at you in complete silence.
The noise around you suddenly felt distant, muffled beneath the violent pounding of your heartbeat. Even the music seemed quieter somehow.
Gojo straightened slowly and took a step closer.
Then another.
Not enough to corner you. Not enough to force anything. Just enough to make it obvious he was giving you time to move away if you wanted to.
You didn’t move.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes, and the tension that settled between you after that felt almost unbearable.
“Satoru,” you whispered softly.
You didn’t even know what you meant by saying his name like that. Maybe it was supposed to be a warning. Maybe a question. Maybe you were trying to stop whatever this was before it destroyed the fragile balance you’d both been pretending still existed.
Gojo looked at you like he understood every possibility anyway.
“You know this was gonna happen eventually, right?” he asked quietly.
Your chest tightened painfully because the worst part was that he was right.
You had known for months.
You’d known every time he stood too close to you just to get a reaction. Every time his hand brushed yours and lingered for half a second too long. Every argument that somehow felt more intimate than actual flirting. Every lingering glance that neither of you ever acknowledged out loud.
You knew.
You just never expected either of you to finally cross the line.
Gojo stepped closer until warmth radiated off him in waves. Close enough that your breathing started feeling uneven. Close enough that one small movement would close the distance completely.
“Tell me to stop,” he said softly.
The words should’ve made this easier.
Instead they ruined you because he actually meant them.
Despite the flirting and the cocky attitude and the constant teasing, he was giving you a real choice. If you told him to back away, he would.
But you didn’t want him to.
Not even a little.
Your fingers tightened against the edge of the counter behind you while Gojo searched your face one last time like he was looking for hesitation.
Then he kissed you.
And it wasn’t cocky or careless like you expected it to be.
There was no smugness in it. No teasing.
It felt terrifyingly sincere.
Like months of tension and affection and restraint had finally snapped all at once.
The second his mouth touched yours, your brain stopped functioning properly. Heat rushed through your body so fast it almost hurt. Gojo kissed you carefully at first, like he still thought you might pull away, but the moment you kissed him back something in him broke completely.
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you against him hard enough to drag a sharp breath from your throat.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips.
The sound sent a violent shiver down your spine.
Without thinking, you grabbed the front of his shirt, and Gojo made this low, wrecked sound that nearly destroyed what little self-control you had left.
The kiss deepened instantly after that.
Messy, desperate, months of unresolved tension crashing together all at once.
Your head spun from how overwhelming he felt. The warmth of his body, the faint taste of alcohol on his mouth, the rough sound of his breathing every time you pulled him closer—it was all consuming you faster than you could process.
It felt dangerous in the worst possible way because you already knew this wasn’t something either of you would be able to come back from afterward.
And honestly?
You didn’t care anymore.
Gojo’s hand tightened slightly against your waist while the other moved up your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw so gently it almost contrasted painfully with how hard your heart was pounding.
You barely had time to breathe before you looked up—
And you’re outside the party, crying your heart out.
ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader
ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.
ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)
ᰔ chapter. 9/x (probably 12)
ᰔ words. 15.6k (WHY DO THEY KEEP GETTING LONGER)
a/n. HELLO MY DEAR KICKOFF READERS IVE MISSED YOU ALL SO MUCH i am soooo sorry for the wait on this one. this chapter felt very vulnerable to write for some reason lmfao, but i really hope it was worth the wait :''') see you at the bottom!! if there are typos or some things don't make sense i'm so sorry i literally gave up on proofreading this i just ended up raw-doggin it and then posting it
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☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1
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an additional author's note. hellooo ellie here. there are some additional warnings/tags for this chapter, i added them to the tags above, so if you know you have any sort of triggers, please refer to them before reading! but if you don't have any and don't want to be spoiled ab anything then you can keep reading lol. thank youu <33
--
The restaurant address that Kai sent you was just a ten minute taxi ride away, save for the five minutes you spent trying to evasively maneuver through the hotel lobby in order to avoid running into people you’re not too keen on seeing right now, a list that stacks up to just one person at this moment.
It’s a Korean barbecue place, it’s been ages since you’ve been to one, probably since they’re way too expensive for any sort of outing you could afford these days, but the crisp sizzling sounds of the grills and the savory air has your mouth watering in a way that makes you indifferent to the cost. Anything to get this churning feeling out of your stomach.
It’s instantly brought to your attention that Hana’s tipsy off of Soju because she’s slid out of the booth the second you emerge to the tablestide, and she’s onto her feet to pull you into a hug. You hug her back.
“I’m ssssoooooooo glad you’re—hic—here,” she says, voice sounding loud near your ear, but her embrace is surprisingly calming to you.
Her face appears flushed when you pull away, and you give her a smile and a kind hold of her elbow. “I’m happy to be here, sorry for coming late, I just decided I wanted to have dinner with you all.”
Minato is pulling on Hana’s arm to get her to sit down, which she finally agrees to, and you glance to the left side of the table where Kai sat, meticulously turning over pieces of meat on the grill. His eyes are on you, and the seat next to him is empty.
“You look nice,” he says, eyes falling to your lap under the table once you’ve taken a seat next to him.
Your eyes fall to your lap as well. “Oh. Thanks. I wasn’t really trying to look any sort of way, though.” Just faded jeans with a few rips & holes you made yourself, way back in high school when that sort of thing was trendy.
“I know,” he says, smirk heard perfectly through his words, “I like that.”
You ignore him, a fleeting thought passing through your head of how annoyingly forward men are to women they’ve met within a day, just something you’ve noticed recently, and then you’re accepting the glass of Soju that Minato’s poured for you. Quick to tip it back, you feel a burn on your tongue that’s just enough to distract.
“Today’s game was pretty interesting,” Minato speaks up, picking up a few pieces off the grill with his chop sticks and placing them on Hana’s plate first before taking some for himself. You find the gesture sweet. “The first half was intense.”
Hana nods enthusiastically, elbows rested on the tabletop as she waves her hands around in the air. “Uh huh, uh huh, the boys kicked the ball like whoosh. Goes all over the place! Can’t get a—hic—can’t get a single shot. No, I mean me, I can’t get a camera shot. Not them, they can get the shots of goals. The goals of shots? Huh.”
“Alright, you’ve had enough,” Minato grumbles as he drags the glass of Soju that she was nursing away from her.
Kai lets out a laugh beside you, his knee bumping against yours under the table. “I’ve watched so many of these soccer games for this job, and I’ve still got no damn clue what the rules are.”
You blink down at your empty plate for a second before grabbing the silver chopsticks laid neatly on your napkin, and taking some food from the center of the table. “Really? I’ve only been to a couple, and I feel like I get the gist of it.” Maybe it’s because you had a personal interest, though.
Kai lets out a low whistle next to you. “Okay, you’re a smartass then.”
You give him a sidewards glance. “Maybe you’re just dumb?”
Your own words startle you a bit. Minato lets a laugh out, but under his breath, while Hana does absolutely nothing to conceal hers. Kai’s eyes just widen. You bite down on a carrot stick.
“Hey, hey, hey, y/n,” Hana chirps, tapping at your wrist, “do you know any of the soccer players? Utahime said you doooo.”
You swallow slowly to buy yourself time, but give a preliminary shake of your head before answering, “no, not really.” You catch a whiff of the cologne on your wrist when you lift your glass to your lips.
“Oh,” she sulks her shoulders and then sinks down into the booth again, her head falling onto Minato’s shoulder. The man stiffens a bit and then there’s a content smile playing at his lips. A hint of a smile develops on your face too at the sight when you put two and two together. What an adorable little crush. It makes you feel sick.
Kai pours you some more Soju the second you drink down the last of it in your glass, and you nod to him as a thanks. “Pretty sure most of my photos from the first half are fucked,” he says, dragging the opening of the bottle against the rim of your glass before pulling it away, “didn’t realize until way later that my aperture was way off.”
You bring the glass to your lips, inhaling before taking a sip. You’re about to speak up about that when Minato beats you to it.
“Are you serious?” he asks, disappointed, like they’re suddenly talking business now. “I better see some good shots. Your side was where most of the action took place. Like that through-pass, tight behind the defensive line, from Nanami Kento to Gojo Satoru before he sunk it a couple mins before the half ended.”
You choke a little on your Soju at the mention of Gojo’s name, and then all three of them are looking at you. You wave a hand in front of your face. “Sorry.”
Kai grumbles something under his breath and then stuffs a piece of pork belly into his mouth. “Yeah, whatever, man. I’m pretty sure I got some good ones. Don’t worry.”
Dinner goes on like that, where you count the number of times Kai thinks that someone saying something funny across the table is an excuse to press his thigh against yours, but at least the cute way that Hana and Minato seem to inch closer to one another all night is enough to put you at some sort of bitter ease. But that unsettling feeling in your stomach from a couple of hours ago still lingers.
The four of you stand outside the restaurant, heels rocking back and forth in the cold as you all take up the last chance to debrief the day, and then Minato’s glancing at his watch.
“Alright, it’s probably time to head back. We can all share a ride to the hotel, it’s cheaper that way,” Minato says. Hana’s clinging to his sleeve.
“Oh, uh, I was going to stay here. There’s a cool camera shop around the corner. I was gonna check it out,” Kai says, pointing over his shoulder before glancing at you. “Wanna come? I saw they’ve got used film cameras.”
You twiddle with the hotel key card in your pocket. It’s cheap plastic, could break easily with just the right amount of pressure. Like your resolve right now. “Sure.”
He smiles at you.
“Alright, well I need to get this one back to her room,” Minato says with a sigh, pointing to Hana, “so I’ll see you all at the next game?”
You and Kai nod at him and then watch as he walks away with Hana on his arm towards the curb, pulling his phone out to call for a ride.
“Where’s this camera shop at?” you ask Kai once the silence between the two of you stretches out a little too long.
“It really is just around the corner,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He starts walking down the row of miscellaneous shops and establishments under dim street lighting, and you follow after him before the two of you circle to the adjacent end. A tiny shop in the distance catches your eye. The LED sign above the storefront was blinking sporadically, and read 17th St Camera & Rentals, except half the letters were extinct of any light. Next to it was a 24/7 liquor store.
It’s only when you walk right up to it that you realize the sign dangling behind the glass door that says closed.
“Oh. Bummer,” Kai comments in a flat tone. “I swear it was open before I got to the restaurant.”
You sigh, pulling your phone out to glance at the time. “Yeah, at 8pm? It’s past 10 now.”
He looks at you and taps the camera case still hung at his neck. “That’s fine. I’ve still got a camera to show you, anyways.”
You blink your eyes at him, suddenly feeling a bit exhausted and then glance over your shoulder at the curb of the street to see if Minato & Hana were still there waiting for a ride. You don’t see them anymore.
A distraction. Wasn’t that what you wanted?
“Yeah, show me.”
Kai seems to know the area better than you, since he walks down the haphazardly lain sheets of concrete across the ground with more confidence than a tourist would. The thought occurs to you that maybe the newsletter photographers have eaten here before during their time in Kyoto.
“What made you start working with the newsletter?” you ask, glancing at him as the two of you walk down further, into what seems like a neighborhood.
He shrugs. “First job I could find out of college. I had a lot of freelance experience, so I’m assuming that’s why they hired me.” He nudges your arm with his elbow. “What about you?”
“I’ve known Utahime for a while. She was impressed with my work.”
“Ahh, connections,” he muses, “smart. That’ll get you far as an artist.”
He suddenly stops walking and peers off to the right, into a darkness that you can’t really make anything out of until you’ve spent a few seconds staring too. He walks in that direction, the loud echoing stomps of his boots on concrete no longer audible once he crosses the threshold onto grass, and you follow behind to what seems like a deserted children’s park. You wish there were more trees in the city. There are a lot here in the countryside, and it makes you homesick for something you’re not even sure of.
A gust of wind brushes through, rattling the set of swings hung on rusty chains. The wood chips underneath your feet feel stale, with no snap to them at all as you follow Kai through the playhouses set up in connected fashion. There are two picnic benches, one looks like it’s been freshly painted with faux effort to improve its image in the line of sight of the street, while the other has red paint peeled back to reveal bronze underneath the moonlight, neglected and tucked behind a few trees. The latter is what he chooses.
He slides into the bench, and he shakes his head when he sees you try to take a seat on the other side before patting at the seat beside him. “It’d be easier for you to take a look at my side.”
He has a point, so you sit next to him instead. Although at this point in the night, you were feigning interest. He zips his camera bag open and you take a better look at the lens. There’s no way it was as cheap as he told you it was.
“There’s no way this was as cheap as you told me it was,” you say.
He laughs, pulling the camera out and handing it to you. “Yeah, maybe the guy cut me a deal since I’ve bought from him before.”
You’re smart enough to put the strap around your neck, even though you’re only holding it a few inches above the table, because a camera like this deserves the care and respect. The material is minimalist and sleek, and it’s heavy in your hands. You click the shutter button, screen coming to life with a few mechanic chirps. “Woah. Is it LCD or OLED?”
“LCD.”
“That’s nice,” you say, “paying for the OLED just seems silly to me.”
“I concur, Canon. Color accuracy is king.”
He shuffles to pull something out of his pocket while you continue to inspect the camera in your hands, and you see him fidget with said thing over the table in the corner of your eye. The flick of something and the light of something makes you turn your head to face him, and he’s pinching the end of a joint to his mouth, lighting the other end.
He gives you a glance when you stare for too long, inhaling from it before pulling it from his mouth. “What?” You can see the smoke leave his mouth in the chill of the air.
“Is that why you chose the secluded bench?”
“I did? Didn’t even notice.”
You blink at him, and he places his elbow on the table to lean closer to you.
“Do you mind it?” he asks.
“No, not really.”
“Wanna smoke with me?” Two fingers pinching the origin of smoke tilt towards you. “This is my good weed, though, so, I charge by the drag.”
“That’s ridiculous, and no thanks. It doesn’t suit me.”
He lets out a laugh, releasing whatever tension he was building in your space, and the smell of weed is nauseating, but at least it's a new sensation to you.
“You’ve gotta be the only film major on the planet that doesn’t smoke weed. How do you manage?” he asks, the orange flicker of his joint being the only color you can distinctly see under the similarly flickering street lights.
Your finger traces the rim of the camera lens and is careful to not smudge the glass. “I think I manage just fine.”
“Yeah. With delusion,” he says, coughing, scattering smoke into the air this time instead of a clean blow.
You turn a bit in your seat to face him more, placing the camera down. “You’re extremely blunt.”
His eyebrow raises in amusement and you close your eyes with annoyance at the pun. You brush it off.
“I mean, seriously, I get you’re probably just looking out for me, I guess. I appreciate that. But do you really think my dreams of becoming a filmmaker are that far-fetched?” you ask. There’s a crack to your voice at the end that you didn’t like.
He sighs, setting his wrist down on the table. There’s a long pause where he thinks about what to say. Probably the most you’ve seen him consider what words leave his mouth next. “I was in the same shoes as you, y/n. A couple years ago. I, too, had big dreams of making movies. I was going to apply to film grad school as well, although you’re shooting higher than I was at the time. There’s no way I would’ve gotten into UTokyo’s.” He tilts his head to the side a few times while looking straight off ahead. “I sent scripts in everywhere. To every fucking production company, creative agency, you name it. Never got a callback, not even once. While all my fellow grads were landing decent, respectable jobs.” He brings the joint to his mouth again, but he doesn’t inhale, just bitterly bites it. “I could’ve went on like that, but,” his brow furrows, “I’ve seen my peers torture themselves for years for those dreams of theirs. I swore I wouldn’t be one of them. Because they’re all delusional fucks.” He finally glances at you. “Are you one, too?”
Your shoulders drop a little and your lips purse. “I don’t know yet. It’s too early to say.”
“It’s never too early to say, if the outcome is all the same,” he tells you.
You consider his words for a moment. It’s the easy way out. You should consider yourself lucky. Everyone wants a reason, a sign, to turn away from the one thing they’re scared to think about. And here he was, giving that to you on a silver platter.
But if what you wanted was really all that fragile, then it means there’s nothing to show for any of it. For all the effort it took you to get here, and all the effort you’re still willing to give.
“I’ll keep going until I fail,” you say, “or until I succeed.” It’s not really something you say for him, but for yourself.
He juts his bottom lip out and raises his eyebrows, slowly nodding his head, like he’s impressed by you. But his posture remains lax. “I mean, you’re working this job. You’ve got some sort of plan, at least. It’s not like I’m your parent to tell you what to do and what not to do.” He finally takes another drag, eyebrows pinching together at the same time his fingers pinch close to the burn of his joint to pull it away. “What’s that one saying? You can take a horse to the water, but you can’t make it drink.”
“Wow. You don’t sound a day older than sixty-five.”
He smirks at you. “You’ve got a lot of attitude, Canon. Where does it come from?”
You sink a little in your seat, turning away from him to look down at your hands that were still messing with the features of his camera. “My annoying feelings lately.”
“Feelings about what?”
You consider telling the truth. But you don’t. “My car is in repair and I’m not sure I can afford to pay for the bill, since things keep coming up with it.” It was the thing at the top of your mind at the moment though, for some reason, so partially truthful.
He laughs. “Yeah, cars have a way of doing that when you’re finally getting caught up on bills.”
“At what point does spontaneously picking up random, obscure jobs go from omg I’m so excited to have this opportunity to I just need the money?” you ask.
“You mean you’re not already at that point yet?” he says with a scoff. “Soon, then.”
You sigh.
“Y’know I used to work at this lousy cinema a few miles away from Central,” he tells you, hand tapping the table with a rhythm that makes no sense. “Busted my ass working minimum wage on night shifts because I thought I’d catch a big break in conversation with a director, as if Martin Fucking Scorcese would choose to host his opening night at a random Edwards in Tokyo.” His tapping on the table stops. “Tell me that isn’t pathetic as hell.”
“That’s pathetic as hell.”
“The things you’ll do for money,” he says with a sigh. He sounds detached, like it’s really just a message for you.
You lick your lips, skin feeling dry from the wind that occasionally brushes by, and when you glance at Kai again, there’s a grit to his jaw.
“Should’ve been born as one of those damn college athletes,” he grumbles, sucking in fast through the joint that was close to withering away. “Those fuckers don’t pay tuition.”
The harsh colors of the soccer team’s color-coded practice schedule on your phone are visible when you blink, as well as the exhaustion under Gojo’s eyes in the warm lighting of the hotel lobby earlier tonight. “They work hard.”
He looks at you. “I work hard, too.”
Your shoulders tense. “I’m sure.”
“You work hard as well.” Just to include you.
“Yeah.”
“I mean, you can’t tell me that it’s fair.”
Your mind wanders to some of the people you’ve met on that team, who have been nice to you. You think of Gojo, and the memory of him makes you wish you were with him right now. Despite everything.
“I guess it’s not fair,” is all you say, a tactic to diffuse the conversation, one that you’ve had to use twice with him today. The sound of the swing chains clinking together from the wind in the distance runs a chill down your spine.
You feel heavy in your chest, and you glance at the joint pinched in between Kai’s fingers. He’s not keeping an eye on it, so it’s easy to steal, and you bring it to your lips before sucking in. You instantly let out a few coughs. He’s looking at you with surprise. And you’re still in desperate need of that distraction you’ve been craving.
“How long does it take for it to kick in?” you ask, coughing again and pressing a hand to your chest.
“Super long when you can barely stomach a single drag.”
You try again. He watches you. You swear you feel a buzz this time, and you hand the joint back to him. You feel like you’re having an out-of-body experience.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Good,” you tell him, “really good.”
“That’s gotta be placebo, Canon.”
“No, really,” you sigh it. Even if it was, maybe your mind was just blessing you with a single moment of reprieve. “I feel…really good,” you say with your head in a haze. “Best I’ve…” you don’t know why you have to blink back tears, “best I’ve felt this whole week.”
Kai’s silent next to you. You look over at him, and he’s got a scrutinizing expression on his face. His eyes are glazed. “You seeing anyone right now, Canon?”
It’s the savory question you know has been on the tip of his tongue. Ignorantly asked, as if you would’ve been sitting here with him right now in the dead of night if the answer was yes.
“No.”
He’s leaning towards you, and you’re dazed and also sleepy. His face is close now, there’s an urge to giggle, which means there’s no way this is all just placebo, and when his lips dip towards yours, you’re conscious enough to push him away by a weakly fisted hand pressed to his collarbone.
“Oh. I. Um,” you stutter.
“What?” he asks, eyebrow raised, still close to you.
“No. No thanks.” Because it felt wrong.
He fully pulls away from you, and runs a hand through his hair, a deep sigh leaving him. “Alright.”
You’re breathing faster now, surroundings feeling vague, like you’re in sweltering heat but the air only bites cold.
You stand up suddenly. “I…I want to go back.”
“Go back where?”
“To the hotel. To my room.” You pause. “I mean, by myself. Not with you. We can share a ride, though.”
He stands up too, hands reaching for you, gripping the straps of his camera still hung around your neck and he pulls it off to place it back into the case. You feel like you’ve lost favor with him somehow. “Okay. Sure.”
“But not with you.” You felt the need to clarify again.
“I get it, Canon. It’s fine.”
—
“Maybe you just need to fuck him aggressively without mercy.”
“I beg your finest pardon?”
You’re sitting in a booth inside this streetside KFC with Mina sitting across the table, waving a fry around in the air, and with Nobara next to you as she tries to open a packet of ketchup with her teeth. The hangout the three of you have been hyping up all week, just to be sat in the same place you always go to. You were about to take a bite out of your sandwich, but you set it back down on your tray.
Mina points the fry at you and shrugs. “I’m saying. Maybe you’re having such a hard time getting over Gojo because you got so close to fucking him in that bathroom, but you didn’t, and now you’re in, like, this constant state of edging.” She bites down on the fry. “The clit knows what the heart doesn’t.”
“Your theories never fail to amaze me,” you mumble, sinking further into the booth.
“Perhaps it’ll take the edge off.” Mina sucks through the straw of her Diet coke. Nobara finally succeeds in opening her packet of ketchup.
“I doubt it. Besides, I technically already gave him an invitation to,” you say, fingers rubbing at your eye with a swipe as you wince from the memory, “and he rejected me, so, still swimming in the self hatred from that one.”
Mina hums. “There’s no way he’s not foaming at the mouth for it, y/n. Men never let a meal they were craving go unfinished,” she states, dramatically stabbing a chicken nugget with a fork.
“What kind of pigs do you guys associate yourselves with?” Nobara asks. She’s a lesbian, by the way.
“I raise another question. Why are we talking about this in a public restaurant?” you offer.
“Listen, babes,” Mina continues, like your words fall on deaf ears because she’s got some point to make, “it’ll either poof. Make your feelings go away like the drop of a hat because you find out he’s a bad lay. Or it’ll be so good that you realize you’re never getting over him and you’ll be thinking of his dick instead of your husband’s on your wedding night.”
“We’re. In. A. Public. Restaurant.”
Mina steals a biscuit from your tray. “If it ends up being the first outcome, then the whole thing was my idea. If it’s the second…then just know that Nobara has steered you wrong.”
“Why the hell do you have to drag me into this?” Nobara asks.
You’re about to take a bite from your sandwich again when you’re interrupted by the buzzing of your phone in your purse. You pull it out and glance at the caller ID, then let out a sigh.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” you mumble, slipping out of the booth and towards the restaurant’s exit, pushing the tense door open with a gust of fresh air brushed through you.
“Hello?” It’s the car repair man. “Really? I thought you said it was fixed.” Apparently something else came up. “Okay…how much longer will it be in repair?” Much longer than you had thought. “And how much will it cost?” Much more expensive than you had thought. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, really, I feel as though every time I’m on the line with you all, I have to wait longer to get my car back, and the bill just racks up higher.” They’re trying their best. “I know. Is it necessary to fix in order to drive, though?” State laws require it. “Okay…thanks for the update.” And then you hang up without another word, and with all the frustration in the world.
You head back inside and grumble about your car woes to Mina and Nobara, who try their best to respond with interest.
“Why can’t your insurance cover it?” Mina asks.
“Apparently they can’t claim it’s because of those rocks I drove over,” you sigh, “since it looks like it’s been a problem for longer than that.”
“Can you afford it?” Nobara asks.
“Not really,” you say. “I’ll just have to postpone having my car for a bit.”
You sigh with a glance out the window of this fine dining establishment, into the blue skies just beyond, head drowning out the voices of Mina and Nobara as they continue to grill you about all sorts of questions that you don’t have the energy to answer right now. You had another student loan payment to make once you got home today, and just the thought of it makes your heart drop a little. And you realize you just can’t afford to be picky about your financial situation anymore.
—
“Thanks for helping me out with this,” you say, footsteps over familiar grassy hills as you head towards the UTokyo’s practice field, your digital Canon EOS hanging from your neck.
“Sure,” Kai says as he keeps pace next to you, “why the sudden mission, though?”
You’re gazing off straight ahead, a nervous pit in your stomach since it’s been a while since you’ve walked across this landscape towards the field.
“I just feel like I need to diversify my income somehow,” you sigh, the buzzwords leaving a bitter taste in your mouth as you say them but it was the reality of your situation, “to make ends meet. When you mentioned freelance work during our conversation last week, it made me think it’s time for me to pick that up too.”
Kai hums. “Yeah, it’s a good plan. I’ll try to show you what I know.”
Once you’ve made it to the top of that hill, the one that oversees the field, your eyes instantly scan the field for familiar silhouettes, and your breath catches in your throat when you spot Gojo passively kicking a ball back and forth between one of his teammates for warm-ups.
It’s the second time you’ve seen him since that argument the two of you had in the hotel lobby, the first being at the post-game conference in which you did everything in your power to swiftly avoid him, and you plan on keeping that up. There’s also an urge to run away, but you’re starting to realize that’s not much of an option anymore.
“Honestly, you don’t really need to worry too much about shutter speed with freelance like you do for shooting sports,” Kai is mumbling next to you as he messes with the settings on his camera, the two of you making your way down the hill towards the field, and you’re not really listening because your eyes are on Gojo, who’s yelling something across the field to his teammates with a look of concentration on his face.
“Uh huh, I see,” you say. You see Kai glance at you in his periphery.
“You again!” you hear a familiar harsh voice call out, and you turn on your heel to face Coach Yaga who’s standing a few feet away in his custom UTokyo tracksuit with his arms crossed against his chest. “Why are you on my field?”
You hold your breath for a second. “Hi, Coach Yaga, so sorry, but I’m just here to take some more photos.”
He lets out one of his hmphs, unrelenting. “You’re a distraction. Get off my field.”
“D-Distraction?”
“Coach!” Suddenly, Geto’s in your line of sight as he emerges with a light jog up to your side. “You should really be nicer to our photographers, they give us a lot of publicity for our games. And publicity means funding.”
Coach Yaga narrows his eyes. “I need all my players focused right now. Even during practice.” He gives you a disapproving glance and you’re still confused, but also weirdly angered.
“Excuse me, Coach Yaga, but last time I checked, this field is technically open for all students. And I’m a student,” you say to him, crossing your arms across your chest now. “So, I can be here if I want.”
You have no idea if that’s true at all, but sometimes you’ve just gotta fake it ‘til you make it.
Coach Yaga grumbles something and then waves his hands in the air. “Fine! I’ve no bandwidth to argue about this anymore! Just don’t distract my players.”
You’re shocked that it worked, and Geto nudges you with an elbow to correct your expression so that Coach Yaga doesn’t catch on to the bullshit you just spewed.
“Are you here to take some photos?” Geto asks, facing you. He’s got his hands on his hips, breathing slightly fast, some of his hair falling onto his forehead.
“Yeah, I am, just for practice though. I’m here with—” you glance at Kai, who’s standing with his fists shoved into his pockets, “Kai. He’s also with the newsletter.”
There’s a moment where Geto studies the two of you for a second before speaking. “I know,” he says, extending his hand out for Kai to shake, which he does, “I think I’ve seen you around. Not sure if we’ve formally met, but it’s nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, likewise.” Kai’s hand is then shoved back into his pocket.
You feel awkward suddenly, and then quickly say something to Geto about how he should probably get back to practice, which he agrees to, and then you’re standing at the chalk sideline with Kai as he shows you the ins and outs about digital photography.
“Have you tried shooting in burst mode?” he asks, switching the feature on your camera and then handing it back to you. You sling the strap around your neck.
“Hm…” you start, pointing your camera across the expanse of the field to multiple areas. The trees off into the distance, the goal posts, Coach Yaga’s yapping Pomeranian. “Not really…” The grass beneath your feet, the sky above your head, and then blurrily focused before settling on Gojo who stood in the distance straight ahead.
You see through your viewfinder that he’s caught sight of you too, a look of surprise on his face seen only by the level of zoom, and you glance up from the screen to make eye contact with him in reality. He’s fully staring at you, and you can barely see the way his expression relaxes from that one of athletic concentration to something wistful and strange that you’ve had a hard time reading lately.
“Canon? Are you even listening?”
“Huh?” you snap out of it and look at Kai. “Sorry. Could you repeat that?” You quickly glance toward Gojo again, and his line of sight points towards Kai now.
“I was asking if you’ve tried panning before,” he says, reaching for your camera, pulling it towards him, but the strap around your neck means you’re pulled closer to him too.
“Satoru!” Coach Yaga yells in the distance. “Eyes on the ball!”
“Just got to set your camera to manual mode first,” Kai mutters, confusion in his voice. “Where the fuck is it?” He’s turning your camera in his hands, which only has you stumbling with another small step towards him, your chest pressed flush to his arm, and he looks down at you for a brief second with a smirk on his face.
You hear the sound of a ball being kicked on the field, followed by the shout of one of the players.
“Ah, here, found it,” Kai says, handing your camera back to you, and just as you’re about to say thanks and you hold your camera up, you’re hit straight in the face by a flying object and fall backwards onto the grass with a painful thud.
What the fuck?
Where are you?
Who are you?
Okay, that’s dramatic, it wasn’t that bad.
There’s shouting in the distance as you hold your head with a groan, eyes shut tight with images of your life flashing behind your eyelids, and when you open your eyes again from where you’re sat up on the grass, you’re surrounded by soccer players.
Gojo’s suddenly in your line of sight, knelt down beside you and he’s holding your shoulders, trying to get you to look at him but you’re still blinking away the stars you’re seeing. “Fuck, y/n, are you okay?” he asks, and you register the concern on his face.
“Dude,” one of his teammates kicks the heel of his cleat, “where the fuck were you looking? It was clear as day I was tryna pass to you.”
Gojo grumbles something to him, his brow furrowed, and he’s lowering his head to try to make eye-level contact with you but you’re still holding your head with a wince.
“Oh shit,” Kai comments, “she’s bleeding.”
You pull your hand from your face to glance down at the wetness that you feel, and bright red color stains the tips of your fingers.
The next thing you register is Gojo picking you up off the hard grassy ground into his arms, and starts carrying you away down the field.
“W-What the hell are you doing?” you ask, his pacing across the grass is fast and you have to wrap your arms around his neck to keep from getting dizzy.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he says, voice strained in his throat, and you’ve never seen him look so worried before.
“The hospital?! Please don’t, I don’t have health insurance right now.” His face is so close and you’re distracted from the pain of your headache.
“You’re bleeding on the face, I’m taking you whether you like it or not,” he grumbles.
You dig your nails into his shoulder through the nylon of his shirt, and he hisses from the pain before stopping in his tracks. “I don’t need to go to the hospital, Satoru, I just need a fucking bandaid.”
“You could have a concussion.”
“A concussion?!” You kick your feet for him to let you down but his grip on you only tightens. “You’re being ridiculous. Let me go, or I’ll bite you.”
He scoffs at that and continues walking forward. “You’re gonna bite me? That’s the most threatening thing you could come up with?”
“I’m being so dead serious, Gojo Satoru. No hospital.”
He grumbles something under his breath at your use of his full government name, and then says “fine” but he’s still walking down the grass until his cleats begin to tap on concrete, and then on what sounds like tile as he carries you into a building a few yards from the field.
He seats you on a cold counter, your hand gripping the faucet of a sink, and you finally take a comprehensive look at your surroundings. light blue, faint scent of chlorine in the air
“Is this…a locker room? The men's locker room?”
He sighs, bending his knees a bit to look at your face closely. You flinch when his hand reaches out, and he pauses, but you relax slightly and then he rubs his thumb over your cheek. You feel the smear of a droplet of blood. “Yes. I need running water.” He turns the faucet of the sink on to run his thumb under.
“For what?” you ask. His thumb is running over your cheek again.
“To take care of this cut.” He disappears behind a tile wall for a moment. You can hear metal clanking, probably of a locker opening and closing, and he re-emerges with a first-aid kit.
You slide your butt across the counter to the edge, about to hop off and make a run for it when he grabs your hips and puts you back into place. “Don’t even think about it,” he grumbles. He leans forward, grips you strongly, and you see that he’s still breathing heavily from practice, strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and you can practically taste the salt on his neck.
You press your shin to the front of his thigh, desperate to put some space between the two of you. “I don’t wanna be in here. Men are scary.”
“Well I can’t take you into the women’s locker room,” he says, ripping the packet of an antiseptic wipe open with his teeth, “I’d get registered as a sex offender.”
You attempt at an escape again, and he’s quick to get his hands on you to stop it.
“Quit manhandling me, or I’ll scream,” you threaten through gritted teeth, because you’re still mad at him. For everything.
“Go ahead,” he says, using his knee to spread your legs apart, then finds a place to stand between your thighs to get closer to you. “I’ve got a lot of ways I could shut you up.”
You blink at him, breath catching in your throat, and the expression on his face tells you he’s not interested in dealing with your stubbornness anymore.
“Just hold still,” he grumbles, placing the packet down on your thigh and then stepping off to the side to wash his hands under the sink.
“What exactly happened?” you ask, watching him dry his hands off with a few paper towels. One moment, Kai was trying to explain good digital photography to you, and the next you were dizzy from being knocked back onto the ground.
“You got hit by a soccer ball.”
“I know, but how?” You remember your camera hit your face from the impact too, and now you’re worried about it.
“I…wasn’t paying attention when my teammate passed it,” he admits with a sigh, finding his place in front of you again, the knuckles of his clean hand brushing across your cheek, caressing. Your expression softens slightly. He uses a hand spread across the small of your back to push you forward to him, then he gently passes the wipe over your wound.
“Oh okay so, you failed to protect me from a flying soccer ball.”
He pulls his hand from you to read the lettering on the back of the packet. “I’m patching you up now, aren’t I?” he says, annoyed. “…oh fuck, I was supposed to go in with water first.”
“So glad to be in such good hands right now.”
He gives you a pointed look, but you ignore it and turn your torso to see your reflection in the mirror for the first time. You had a small wound on your cheek, right over the bone, with some bleeding and it’s wider than it is deep. But when you look at Gojo again, who’s putting some ointment onto a Q-tip now, the look of guilt and worry on his face makes you feel satisfied for some reason, and you wanted to make it worse.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, brow furrowed, applying the cold gel to your cheek.
“Mhm. A lot.” Not really, no.
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he sighs, head dipping towards you slightly to get a better look, “can you feel this?”
“Ahh, yeah. Ouch. So much.” Barely.
His other hand is placed flat on the counter next to where you’re sitting, and you allow it when his thumb starts to run soothing circles over your hip.
“Hmm…” you start, wide eyes looking up at him as he seems to lean closer and closer to you with every word that leaves your lips, “I really wonder if it’ll leave a scar.”
He looks tortured. His hand that was maneuvering the Q-tip in his hands drops to the counter now, and he brings his other one to your face, cupping your cheek. His eyes dart from the wound, thumb pressing at the plush of your cheek, and this time, it hurts a little so you wince. His expression is tense, some sort of inner turmoil you could read across his forehead, and then his jaw hardens.
“Who was that guy you were talking to earlier?”
You blink a few, then tilt your head slightly. You feel like you’re on a game show, where there’s four options and only one right answer. New boytoy, gay best friend, fuck buddy, or— “He’s my coworker.”
“That’s it?”
“Mhm.”
“Has he tried anything funny with you?”
You almost roll your eyes. “No, dad, he hasn’t.”
“Woah. Say that again but make it daddy.”
“Hey just a quick question for you. Where do you get the audacity?”
His bent index finger finds a place under your chin, tilting your head up so you’re forced to look at him. “It’s your fault, really. I can’t help it sometimes,” he says, voice lower now. You’re squirming a little, wanting to push him away but his lips get close to your cheek, brushing near your wound, like he wants to make it all better somehow. “I really am sorry,” he whispers, near your ear. There’s a whimper you have to stifle in your throat. He pulls aways just enough to where he can look into your eyes. “A cut…” he starts, thumb now passing over your bottom lip, “on your pretty face.” He sighs. You shouldn’t, but when he prods, you tuck his thumb under your front teeth and your tongue presses slightly against the padded skin of it. He looks like he’s being driven to insanity, and his other hand has no shame at all in pulling you towards him, to seat you at the edge of the counter, and you miss the texture of his thumb on your tongue when he pulls it from your mouth. But it’s so he can dip his head down to kiss you instead.
Of course the sensation of his lips on yours only lasts for a second, because the universe really fucking hates (or loves?) you, so the loud clanking of a metal water bottle against tile interrupts with harsh reverberation throughout the locker room walls, and he pulls away from you when you jump at the sound.
You both turn your heads towards the origin, located at the curved end of the entryway hall, and one of Gojo’s teammates is standing there with his duffle bag slung around his neck and hanging heavily to his thigh, his water bottle clutched in his hand. He blinks at the two of you.
Oh. It’s the one you kissed at that party a few weeks ago.
“What—…Why is there a—” his teammate starts, panicked, turning his head to double check the sign on the locker room wall as if he’s hallucinating, and when his eyes land on you again, they widen with recognition. His gaze shifts, and his chin tips down at the sight of Gojo’s irritated side eye from where he was still all up in your personal space. “…you know what. Nevermind.”
His teammate’s eyes are on you again, and you give him a shy little wave, just a fluttering of your fingers in the air paired with a small smile, legs swinging back and forth under the counter. He lets out an amused scoff from the entryway, lifting his hand to return the gesture, some cheeky grin on his face as he then scratches the back of his head before turning on his heel to leave the locker room, out of sight. You let out a sigh, hand dropping to your lap, and you don’t need to look at Gojo to tell that he’s staring at you with disbelief.
“What the fuck was that—”
“You,” you interrupt him, finger jabbing at the center of his chest, “have seriously got a lot of fucking nerve,” you hop off the counter, “to not only allow a soccer ball to sock me in the face,” he’s taking a step back with every harsh jab of your finger, “but to also hold me hostage in a mens’ locker room,” his back is pressed up against cold tile wall now while he just looks down at you with wide eyes and something akin to fear, “and then, oh my god, the audacity to kiss me?”
“I—”
“I don’t wanna hear it!” you yell, which shuts him up. “You really are just a fucking player.”
He’s stiff, not wanting to catch a punishment from you right now.
“But it doesn’t matter,” you grumble, still drilling your finger into his ribcage with the intent to cause pain. You didn’t need to be this close, but his body is warm, probably due to the blood pumping from practice, and it feels nice to be pressed up against. “Because I don’t have feelings for you anymore, so just fucking get over yourself.” It was a lie if you’ve ever told one, but you wanted to believe it so much that it could come off as the truth.
His eyes narrow down at you, eyebrows flattening. “You don’t have feelings for me anymore?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
You roll your eyes. “Why? Because you want me to keep suffering?”
He grabs your hips, then makes a motion that is evident of his desire to pull you flush to him, but he stops himself. There’s a moment where he just takes a few deep breaths and looks at you with a hardened expression, then a split second where his eyes fall to that little cut on your cheek, and every single feature of his face softens, and then he lets you go.
You take a small step back, breathing heavily of your own, and you feel the ghost sensation of his fingertips wrapped around your hips. It makes you feel dizzy, and your thoughts are a mess.
He sighs. “Sorry. For the soccer ball, and this locker room. But I’m not really sorry for kissing you, and if that makes me a jerk, then so be it.”
Your heart is beating fast. “You are a jerk, Satoru,” you say. He doesn’t like you, he doesn’t want you. A mantra played over and over in your head that you’ve started to hear it at night. “A real fucking jerk.” And you leave him standing there in a way that feels like the hundredth time.
—
2:34pm kaito (work): yo
2:34pm kaito (work): i had my guy look at your camera
2:35pm kaito (work): it’s pretty fucked up
2:37pm you: :( oh okay isee. does he have an estimate for the fix? the lens is okay though right?
2:39pm kaito (work): yeah lens is fine, you should really count your blessings on that.
2:40pm kaito (work): but nah, fix would be around the same as the cost of it, so you’re better off getting a new one
2:42pm you: i don’t have thousands of yen laying around unfortunately. my car bill has sucked me dry
2:44pm kaito (work): well let me check with him. maybe he can hook you up with a good deal on a used one
2:45pm kaito (work): i got a 50% off on one of my canon cameras i bought from him a few years back. maybe he’s still got some like that
2:46pm you: yes could you check with him please? thanks so much, really
2:48pm kaito (work): sure. although i think the guy that kicked the ball to your face should be paying for your camera replacement
2:51pm you: they were just practicing. it’s their field
2:56pm kaito (work): alright. btw, you free tonight?
You blink at your phone screen from where you were sprawled across your bed. Before you have a chance to type out a response, your phone lights up with a phone call from kaito (work). You accept the call.
“Oh, hi,” you say.
“Hey, are you free tonight?”
“Oh uhh, I was just about to check my schedule.” You shake your head at your inability to come up with an excuse on the spot.
“Okay,” he says on the other line. You hear the sounds of cars honking in the distance. “Well let me know. I just left my camera guy’s shop, and he was telling me about how one of his friends does visuals for a short-film director, and that the director is looking for an assistant.” Kai grumbles something about someone he walked past being rude. “I think the director’s agency is Verve Films, so.”
You sit up in bed, eyes wide at the mention of the name. “Oh, oh wow. That’s insane.”
“Yup,” he says, “anyways, apparently the director is busy as fuck, so he left the hiring process up to my camera guy’s friend. I told him I knew someone that might be interested. Are you?”
You take a deep breath in and out. “Yeah, I am. Most of my experience on my resume lines up with short-film, so I’d be able to—”
“Alright great,” he interrupts, “so we can hold the interview tonight.”
“We?” you ask.
“Well yeah, me, my camera guy, the hiring guy. Maybe go for drinks or something.”
Your brow furrows. “That hardly sounds like an interview.”
Kai sighs. “Well, it’s not an interview for a desk job or something. It’s more of like—well, like building connections. I know you know all about that, since Utahime got you the newsletter job.”
Well, yes. She put a word in for you, which helped get the interview, but you still went against qualified applicants. “I guess.”
“It’ll be like that. Most opportunities you’ll get if you still want to pursue filmmaking are going to be like that,” he tells you, “if it feels informal, it means you’re doing it right. You might not think so now because you’re still in school, where they practically serve opportunities to students on platters, but it’s going to be different in the real world.”
You lay your head back onto the pillow, feeling like you’re receiving a lecture you didn’t ask for, and your first instinct is to pretend that you know better than he does. But when you think about all the stress recently, all of the not knowing, and the unsure, you question if you should start leaning into the advice of the people around you, and start to accept this career path for what it’s known to be. Unruly, unconventional, and a lot of times, unfair.
“I see. Well, can I think about it? Tonight is too soon, I’d need time to research the director, put a portfolio together, and also do some interview prep,” you say, pulling your phone from your ear to glance at the time.
“Well, tonight’s the only night that works since their team’s shooting abroad for the weekend and they leave tomorrow morning,” he says.
You purse your lips together.
“But also,” Kai says, “it’s the nice thing to do, y’know, since my camera guy is taking the time to look at your camera for free, you could at least help his friend out. By the way, he just texted me, he does have some used Canons available at discount.”
You close your eyes for a second, just trying to process this conversation right now. Kai was speaking too fast, hardly enough time for you to even think.
“So do you want to do the interview tonight?”
“Yes, sure. Okay. Just— just send me the details. I’ll be there,” you say.
“Alright cool, will do.”
You say bye, and then he hangs up.
A few hours pass by, where you spend some time putting together a flash drive of a couple of your best short films you’ve worked on in the past with other directors, as well as a portfolio of some recently developed film photography. The last thing to do was grab your emergency stash of print outs of your resume, and then you stuff it all into a folder before glancing at the mirror to take in your reflection. It felt extremely weird to show up to a job interview in something as casual as what you were wearing right now, but Kai insisted to not wear anything business. But at least you opted for jeans that don’t have any DIY holes in them.
Your face is glued to the navigation on your phone screen the second you get out of the taxi, and you walk down the bustling nightlife streets of Tokyo to get to this bar that Kai sent you the address of. But just as you’re about to turn the corner to your destination down the bar strip, you bump into someone’s chest due to lack of paying any proper attention.
“Ah— I’m so sorry,” you say, your grip on your phone tightening when you realize it was about to get knocked out of your hand, and then you look up to see a familiar face.
“Oh!” Geto exclaims from where he’s standing right in front of you, “You’re everywhere, y/n. What are you doing here?”
You open your mouth to speak, hesitate for a second, and then continue. “I’m here to…get drinks with some of my friends.”
He gives you a smile. “That’s nice. I am too.” He points over his shoulder to behind him. “Nanami got into his MBA program earlier this week, so, Satoru, Choso and I are buying him a few rounds. Or possibly a million. The plan is to incapacitate him as punishment for giving up on playing in the national league with us.”
You humor him with a laugh. “That’s sweet. Or not? Well anyway, tell him I said congrats.” Your heart starts to beat a little faster, because from the direction Geto came from, it meant Gojo was likely just around the corner somewhere. “Where are you heading to now?”
“We’re bar hopping, and I think I forgot my phone at the last one we went to over there,” he says, pointing across the street. “So I’m going to go look for it.”
“Oh alright,” you say. “Good luck with that. I’m going to go find my, uh, my friends.”
Geto tilts his head at you and had a slightly more serious expression on his face, glancing at the folder in your hands. “Thanks. And stay safe.”
You nod at him and then walk past him to round the corner onto the street that had groups of people loitering in front of restaurants, bars and all sorts of establishments as they wait in the cold to get inside or be seated. You recognize the name on one of the signs hanging as the one Kai sent you in his message, and when you’re a few feet away from it, you spot Kai. He’s wearing his typical street photographer wear, with a red flannel over a gray shirt and pants that are possibly a size too big for him, but that’s likely the style he was going for. He’s standing with two other people.
“Hey,” you greet Kai first, who has a pleasant look on his expression before he greets you back and gestures to the two people he was with.
“Yo, this is Junichi, my camera guy,” he says. “Don’t bother shaking his hand, he’s a germaphobe. Gotta keep ‘em clean for the electronics.”
“Oh,” you say. Junichi is a big man, broad shoulders and thick muscles. His neck is almost as thick as his bicep, and he has no hair on his head. His arms are crossed. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for taking a look at my camera.”
He nods at you in acknowledgment. “Sure thing. Pretty Boy here says you want to buy one of my used Canons. I don’t refurbish them, so you’d better know how.”
Kai sighs, nudging Junichi a little with a fist. “Relax, dude, we can talk about that later. Also, stop calling me that.”
Your eyes flicker to the right, where another man stood, who you assume was Junichi’s friend and this Verve Films director’s visual effects specialist. He’s similar in stature to Kai, with that casual artist look, and he has a scuffle of facial hair littering his jaw in less of an intentional fashion but rather a five-o-clock shadow fashion. You vaguely register the scent of weed, familiar to the one that lingers in the photo lab on campus after class hours. He reaches his hand out to you first.
“Hi, I’m Ren. I work in visual effects for director Akira Ko at Verve.”
Your eyes widen as you shake his hand. “That’s amazing. I’ve studied a lot of his contemporary works, I’d love to learn more about his process.”
Ren lets a fast exhale out through his nose. “Yeah, you’ll learn a lot under him.” He pauses to shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Most of his assistants always do.”
“We’ve been waiting for too damn long,” Kai interjects before you could ask any questions about the assistant position, and he glances at his watch, “and there’s still a lot of people ahead of us.”
You glance around to the small groups of people gathered in front of this bar on a lively Friday night, eyes jumping from one area to the next, until a familiar silhouette catches your eye.
You see Gojo standing with Nanami and Choso a few strides away, near the lamppost. He’s mostly turned away from you, Nanami nudging his arm annoyed at something he said, and the sound of his laughter in the air makes your heart feel like it’s at stray. Like that was where you were supposed to be right now, not here.
You watch him from the distance as he sighs, shrugging his shoulders up and down slightly before crossing his arms when Choso gestures towards the entrance of the bar, and so he looks in that direction too. He’s frowning slightly and he brushes some of the hair fallen over his forehead away from his eyes, in that boyish way that makes your heart skip a beat, and you know he’s just doing it to see a little bit better, but it makes you want to cry.
Geto walks up to them and rejoins their little circle, and holds his phone up in the air, and then there’s the melody of their voices bouncing off one another’s again. Geto rests his elbow up onto Gojo’s shoulder, leaning in a bit closer to tell him something, and when Gojo hears it, you see his entire body tense before his wide eyes are searching his surroundings, until those eyes land on you.
Your breath catches, and you hold his eye contact for only a moment before you look away, because it almost felt like too much to bear.
“What’s that folder in your hand?” Ren asks you, and you turn completely to face him so you can’t see Gojo in your periphery at all anymore.
“I just brought some of my work, for your—er, I guess Mr. Ko’s—reference if he’d like to see it after today’s…interview,” you say. “There’s a flashdrive, too.”
Ren has an amused look on his face and he shoves Kai’s shoulder with his palm. “Dude, you didn’t tell her?”
Kai shakes his head. “Tell her what?”
“Ohh, I see how it is,” Ren muses.
“What?” Kai asks, starting to sound annoyed.
Ren tips his chin up slightly to study Kai’s face, and then his look of amusement dissipates into one of understanding. “Nothing.”
“Tell me what?” you prod.
“Just that you didn’t really need to bring all of that with you,” he says. “Sorry for the trouble.”
You shake your head. “It’s fine, but if you could still give it to him—”
“I’m surprised Kai suggested someone when I asked if he knew anyone,” Junichi jumps in, “I’m used to him grumbling on and on about how shit the work is in filmmaking. Would’ve thought he’d convinced you to look the other way by now.”
You blink at the gruff man, then look at Kai, and he’s just staring down at the dirt of his shoes. “Well, we had a conversation about it. But I’m pretty set on what I want to do,” you say.
Kai lets out a scoff. “Yeah, I don’t really know how else to warn you about the shit show you’re in for, but if you want to be in debt to grad school for the next couple decades of your life, then it’s up to you.”
“Hey, jackass, try to be a bit nicer,” Ren speaks up. “She’s got some goals. Big fuckin’ deal.” He turns to you. “Although, he’s got a point sweetheart, school’s not going to get you anywhere in this industry.”
You frown. “A lot of directors I look up to went through graduate schooling. Most, I would say. I don’t understand where this rhetoric is coming from.”
“It’s coming from real people with real experience,” Ren says, and you dislike the way he takes a step closer to you to reiterate his point, “honestly, you should save yourself some time and give up on applying. It’s not worth it.”
“I’ve already put my application together,” you say, brow furrowing slightly, “I’ve asked professors for my references, spent the past four years working on my profile—”
“But working under a director, I mean really getting to work under one, beats all of that. Which is why you’re here, right?” Ren asks, but it’s not curious, it’s testing.
You feel a sheen of sweat build at your forehead, even in this cold, and you clench your hand into a fist once, twice, thrice. You’re breathing fast, and the three sets of eyes that are staring so scrutinizingly into your soul right now have you faltering, like if they took another step forward, tried to intrude what you thought you knew one more time, you’d fall backwards over the cliff.
Suddenly, a hand wraps around your upper arm, and when you turn your head to the left, you see Gojo standing there.
“Hey,” he says to you, sparing one single sidewards glare towards Kai, who immediately averts the eye contact, before Gojo’s eyes are on you again, “can I talk to you for a second?”
You look at the three men in your circle, who suddenly adopt skittish body postures, and Gojo doesn’t really wait longer than a few seconds before he’s pulling you away from them over towards the edge of the curb towards the street.
“What?” you ask once he lets go of your arm.
“What are you doing here with those guys?” he asks.
“I’m—…why does it matter to you?” you ask.
“It matters to me because of the fucking absurd conversation I just overheard,” he says, “now answer me.”
His tone annoys you, and you cross your arms. “Are you eavesdropping?”
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he says, taking a step forward to you, “who are those guys, and why are you here with them?”
You blink at him, furrowed brows relaxing slightly as you drop your crossed arms to your side, and you stare straight ahead at the blankness of the white t-shirt he’s wearing, as your mind runs blank to his question. Why were you here with them? Was it because you had no other plans? Was it because the opportunity sounded too good to be true, and you just had to see for yourself? Was it because you’ve been unable to sleep at night from all the stress, the financial worries, the rejection, and you just want to finally feel like you’ve done one good thing for yourself? To feel like you’re at least making one step in the right direction, no matter the cost?
“I’m here for a job interview,” you say to him. Your tone is flat, and you feel numb.
“A job interview?” he asks, with just about as much incredulity you would’ve expected to hear from him at that answer, “At a bar? How does that make any sense?”
“It…” you start, “sounded fine.”
“It sounds shady as fuck.”
“This doesn’t concern you, okay? I’m—…I’m just trying to make my goals work for me, Satoru, and I really don’t expect you to understand.”
“Why wouldn’t I understand?” he asks. There’s confusion in his voice, and maybe even a little bit of hurt.
“Because you can’t even understand how unfair and painful it is for me that you keep—” you have to purse your lips together briefly to fight back the knot in your throat, “…that you keep interfering with my life everywhere I go.”
His expression softens, and he silently stands in front of you for a moment. His eyes dart across your face, and then he reaches out to grab your hand. “Listen, if you still want to get drinks tonight, then just get drinks with us. But don’t hang out with those guys. They’re bad news, especially the dude with the flannel, and I don’t think you’re in a good place right now to see that.”
Your eyes see white fury at that, and you all but snap. Because the irony of this whole situation, is that you’re not in a good place right now because of him. Because of all the pain that he’s put you through, for promising to stay away but then always being near, for saying he doesn’t want you but then acting like he does.
“You know what I think, Satoru?” you ask through gritted teeth, yanking your hand from his grasp.
He’s looking at you, studying. “What?”
You take a step forward, threateningly, and he takes a step back so that he steps off the curb and onto the road, and you’re at eye-level with him now. “I think that you’re jealous,” you say, eyes glaring daggers into his.
He blinks at you, almost dumbfounded for a moment before he says “what?”
“You’re just fucking jealous that I seem to be moving on after you rejected me, because for some weird reason, you think it’s okay to not want me, and yet not want me to be with anyone else,” you say, practically hissing the words. “You don’t like seeing me with any guys other than you? You don’t want to believe me when I say that I’m over you? You’re not sorry for kissing me? Even after knowing,” you take a pause to breathe, because you feel like you can’t, “even after knowing that I like you,” eyes blinking fast because you don’t want him to see you cry right now, “you know that I like you so fucking much, and that it’s hurtful, and that it’s wrong— and even after all of that, you act the same, and still won’t promise me any commitment of your own.”
He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t read, but you’ve lost all interest in trying to understand it anymore.
“You don’t want me hanging out with them?” you repeat after him, “I’m not listening to that. Because it’s possessive. And it’s wrong.”
At the mention of them, Gojo clenches his jaw. “That has nothing to do with you and me, right now. What they’re trying to convince you of doesn’t make any sense, and it won’t help you achieve your dreams either, y/n.”
“You don’t know anything about my dreams, Satoru,” you say, just to hurt him. But you think about the sincere expression on his face the first time you met him when you told him that you wanted his help with your assignment. You think about the playful nudge of his elbow that night he stayed with you on the curb, and told you that you just had to try to put yourself out there, because you couldn’t accomplish anything without facing your fears. You think about how he’s always the first to like every single one of the slideshows you post of your pictures on Instagram. You think about the adoration in his eyes, reflected off the moonlight through the hotel window, when you told him about a little cottage on the countryside, one you’ve always wanted, and those eyes told you that he was really rooting for you. “You don’t know. Because you—” there’s an echo of words in your head. Someone else’s words, not yours, “Because you’re a college athlete. And—” you let out an exhale, “and you don’t pay tuition.”
His brow furrows. There’s a beat of silence as his confusion settles in. “What?”
“You were born blessed with talent, and you’re popular, and people adore you, and you don’t have to worry about internships, or jumping from job to job just to make something of yourself,” you say, picturing your life in your head along with all the strife, “or about all of the sinking debt, and the worry, and the— and the car repair bills,” you say, almost with a scoff, eyes sheening with tears, like you’re losing your mind, “all of the fucking car repair bills.” Your chest is heaving as you shake your head. “Because you’re set for life as long as you kick a fucking ball.”
His lips purse together, like he can tell there’s more on your tongue to say, more hurtful words, and he wants to hear you say them. And so you do.
“You’ve never had to suffer or worry about a single thing in your life. So don’t pretend like you understand what I’m trying to do here tonight,” you say, inflection signing off on the end, to tell him that you’re done.
He stands in front of you, practically motionless except for the slow movement of his chest as he breathes. His expression, tense and hurt, softens slowly, and you see him digging his nails into the skin of his palms through fidgeting clenched fists at his sides. And then he relaxes them, too.
“Does that make you feel better?” he asks.
His question confuses you, and for some reason, regret washes over you. “What?”
“Does thinking of me that way—…does it make you feel better about all of this? Between us?”
You’re breathing fast, eyebrows pinching upwards to look at him, and the defeated expression on his face makes your heart ache. He’s waiting for an answer, and so you give him one. “Yes.”
He glances down at the ground for a moment, then at your collarbone, before meeting your gaze again. “I’m sorry. For everything. And I—” the words catch in his throat briefly, “I’ll try to leave you alone tonight.”
His use of the word try doesn’t escape you, but you give him a furtive nod, and he studies your face for a few moments before he steps back up onto the curb and walks past you. You watch him walk all the way, no longer with that confidence or conviction you’re so used to seeing in him, as he steps back into his circle, to Geto’s side. Geto gives a small glance over his shoulder to look at you with discerning eyes before looking at Gojo again, and then he’s turned away from you.
Heavy feet drag you back to Kai, Ren, and Junichi, and you feel feverish. They mention something about the table being ready, and you nod. The bar is rustic, with more tables than barspace, and the four of you are seated and then presented with a small food menu. You’re seated next to Kai, Ren is right across from you, and Junichi is to his right. You watch a waitress usher Nanami, Choso, Geto and Gojo to one of the tables as well, two away from yours, and you forcefully blur your vision so you don’t have to catch sight of the expression on Gojo’s face.
“So,” Ren speaks up as his eyes peruse the food menu and Junichi waves the waitress over to order a round of sake, “tell me more about your experience, sweetheart.”
You blink at him, eyes feeling heavy, heart feeling heavy. “I’d prefer it if you called me by my name.”
Ren lets out a coo, and you briefly glance at Kai who’s shaking his head with a sigh. “My bad, y/n. Your experience?”
Your hands play with the folder sitting in your lap. “I started writing screenplays for small-scale directors when I was a freshman, and was greenlit on a couple into my sophomore year. One of the films I worked on, I had directing credits for, and it was nominated for best screenplay at Etoile Film Festival the year following.”
Ren swallows slightly, shifting in his chair and pushing his shoulders back, like he’s trying to establish himself now. Kai is clenching a fist on the surface of the table.
Ren clears his throat before speaking again. “Wow, okay, so you’ve actually got some serious shit going on.” His voice is a faux octave deeper. “What do you know about being a good assistant? Ever worked in customer service? Secretary?”
“Oh, I mean I have worked in customer service, but I wasn’t done sharing about my experience—” you try to say but Junichi cuts you off.
“First round’s on me,” he declares, “for bringing her out here.” He tips his chin to you and then sends Kai a glance.
A waitress brings by a bottle of sake, and Junichi begins pouring drinks into the glasses, then slides them across the table. Kai gives Ren a pointed look.
“Don’t get too wasted,” Kai says to him as he brings his glass to his lips, “you start running that mouth of yours a little too much when you do.”
Ren grins at him and immediately knocks down the glass Junichi barely finished pouring from him in one go, and the gruff man beside him is grumbling. “Whatever you say.”
Something had been bothering you since you came here. “Wait,” you say, pointing between Kai and Ren, “do you two know each other already? Because,” you turn to look at Kai, “on the phone earlier, you sounded like you didn’t.”
Kai’s eyebrows raise in surprise, as though he’s discovered you have some skill for foresight. You glance at Ren, and he gives Kai a puzzled look.
“Uh, yeah. I’ve known Kai for years,” he says, “we go way back. We went to highschool together.”
Kai shifts a little in his chair. “Sorry. Probably forgot to mention it.”
You glance down at the glass of sake in front of you, and the way it twinkles under the lighting of the bar. You slowly bring it to your mouth, taking a small sip, and the way it coats your tongue is less than pleasing.
“Can you tell me more about the assistant position?” you ask Ren, who’s emptied out the bottle of sake and waving someone over to order more. He already has a slightly flush to his face.
“Yeah, yeah, will do,” he says, “but first, let me tell you about what I do in visuals.”
Another round of sake is dropped by, and then another, followed by another, as Ren continues to ramble on and on about what he does for work, and how it’s entirely integral to the final piece of the film, although you’ve never really had a terrible level of appreciation for visual effects in short-film craft, since it’s hardly much work. But you wouldn’t say that, you just continue to nurse your one glass of sake as the three men surrounding you knock back more and more, and there’s slurs to their speeches now.
“Sooo, I’m so sorry, sweetheart—I mean y/n, for cuttin’ you off earlier,” he says, “but what was that experience you wanted to talk to me about?” Ren asks from across the table, and his eyes are all traveling over you.
“I…” you start, “well, I started to work with one of my professors last year, she’s a two-time Cannes Film Festival winner, and she let me under her wing for one of her projects last year.”
“Who is she? Oh wait, nevermind, probably wouldn’t have heard of her anyways,” Ren says, but when you fail to laugh, he waves his hand in the air. “Joking, joking. What’s her name?”
“Naoko. Naoko Ogigami.”
“Oh shit. I have heard of her,” Ren says, followed by a shallow hiccup. Junichi shrugs his shoulders, and when you look at Kai, he’s nodding slowly and toying with the rim of his glass with a finger.
“Yes. Well, anyways—” you start up again, before Kai sets his glass of sake down particularly loud.
“This is all bullshit. Really. I told you, filmmaking is a waste of time. Just focus on your photography, and your freelance or whatnot,” Kai says, grit to his jaw, face looking red with possibly something other than just a tipsiness.
Ren lets out a laugh. “Fuckin’ Kai. What a pessimist. Don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” he says, slurred, and you furrow your brow at him with a glare, “sorry. Don’t listen to him. Trust me, you’ll learn a lot under Mr. Ko. He’s a suuuper nice guy.”
“What’s the compensation?” you ask. It’s a brazen question, one you’d never ask so soon in a formal interview process, but this table was hardly anything formal.
“Real good. Mmm I think like…5200 yen an hour, and then also, you get your foot in the door.”
“Oh,” you sit up a little in your chair. It was higher than most entry-level anything for undergraduates or even new grads.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he drawls when he sees you’re more interested. “Good stuff. Kai used to pick these kinds of jobs up, too, back in his college days. I remember. Although, he’s hardly Mr. Ko’s type, so I doubt he’d be any good for this one.”
Your head snaps to Ren again at his words, face tensing.
“Tell her about what a job like this—hic—entails,” Ren says as he extends his glass out for Junichi to pour him another.
Kai glances at Ren once, and you watch him grind his teeth for a moment, and then there’s a hint of a smirk on his face.
“Oh. Y’know, clerical work. Stuff like printing scripts out,” Kai starts, Junichi filling up his glass and then he raises it into the air to watch the liquid swish around, “grabbing him coffee. Making sure his trailer is stocked.”
“Blowing him in said trailer,” Ren says. It’s something quiet, under his breath with a small laugh, where you could barely hear it across the table. But you heard it nonetheless. And your heart sinks to the core of the earth.
“Excuse me?” you say. The benefit of doubt sitting on your shoulder, watching in disbelief as well.
“He’s joking,” Kai says, quickly, “runnin’ his mouth.”
“Oh fuck off, Kai,” Ren says, throwing his hands up in the air, “don’t act like that’s not why you brought her here.”
Your head slowly turns to Kai, who can’t meet your gaze. Your eyes flicker to Junichi, who looks amused.
Ren leans over the table, elbows resting on top, to look you straight in the eyes. He’s got a sleazy smile, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he dips his tone down low enough to where you can hardly hear it over the sounds surrounding you in the bar. “That’s how you’ll make it in this industry, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not, you’ll be working under those directors until you make it.”
You stand up so fast that your chair falls behind you, hand raised in the air, and you swiftly slap the man across from you so hard across the cheek that it leaves his skin even more red than the flush from before, and your palm is stinging.
There’s gasps all around the bar, hushed voices, eyes on you, but you don’t care. There’s not a single thing in the world you care more about right now than the anger swelled in your chest.
Ren holds his cheek, surprised, blinking like a pathetic animal. He almost looks like he’s about to cry, and you let out a scoff at the sight.
You turn to face Kai, whose eyes are wide and he’s staring up at you. Your fists are clenched at your side.
“Is this why you brought me here tonight?” you ask. Your voice is trembling, anxiety at the wake, the white anger spotting your vision. But there’s also pain. So much pain, and you’re just so fed up with all of it. “Because your belittling, condescending words weren’t enough to tear my hopes apart, so you had to humiliate me in front of your friends instead?”
Kai holds his hand up. “Woah, Canon, relax. He was just joking—…” Kai glances at Ren, who’s still holding his cheek and biting down on his lip, and then his gaze hardens. “Y’know what? It’s about fucking time you get this wake-up call, y/n. I’ve been trying to do the nice thing to steer you in the right direction, and the least you could—”
“Steer me in the right fucking direction?!” you’re yelling now, registering the way your voice echoes in the bar. “You know what I think this is all about, Kai?” You grit your teeth, “You’re a sick, stupid, sexist fuck who didn’t have the balls to go after what he wanted. So miserably pathetic that you’ve got no other fucking business than to pull people down to your level.”
Kai pinches his eyebrows together, hand on the table clenching into a fist.
You lean down closer, an exasperated scoff leaving your lips. “Why don’t you go be his assistant instead? Since I’m sure you’re good at taking it up the ass.”
Kai’s eyes twitch, “you fucking—”
You grab his glass off the table and throw the alcohol into his face, eliciting another round of noises around the bar, and his mouth falls agape in shock before he gets up out of his chair, hand reaching out to grab for you. You close your eyes shut with a flinch to expect pain. Any sort of pain. But you don’t feel anything at all.
When you open your eyes, you see Gojo standing to your left, veins of his arm tense with the tight grip he has on Kai’s forearm, and you can see he’s practically shaking with rage. He steps in front of you, guarding, and you can’t see the expression on his face, but the fear in Kai’s eyes is enough to say it all.
“That’s enough,” he says, the clench of his jaw evident through the strain in his voice, “try to put your hands on her again, and I’ll split your fucking face in half.”
You can see Kai’s breathing pick up from where you’re peering over Gojo’s shoulder, and then Gojo shoves him backwards right as Choso kicks the fallen chair to his feet so he trips over it backwards then hits the ground with a loud and indignant thud.
Gojo’s hovering over Kai, his hands shoved in his pockets as he glares down at him, while Geto and Nanami put space between you and the other two men at your table. You feel a searing flush to your cheeks. You’re breathing fast, the peering eyes all around you are scrutinizing, looking at you with surprise, confusion, shock, and pity. Your mind is racing, and you wonder what your parents would think of all this. What your friends would think of all of this. What the people who support you would think of the fucked up situation you’ve found yourself in, and the humiliation courses so deep through your veins that you just want to run away and hide. The ground could swallow you whole right now, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
You take one step back, then another, before you turn on your heel to rush out the door into the night, and you barely register that it’s raining. You can feel your heart thumping fast in your chest and in your head, that familiar knot in your throat twisting tight as you walk fast down the street and ignore Gojo’s call of your name from behind you.
You don’t want to see anyone right now. You don’t want to be seen by anyone right now. Especially Gojo, of all people, because he was right about everything, and the fact that you had shut him down about it, and the way that you had shut him down about it makes your head numb and your breathing pick up fast.
“y/n,” you hear him call out from behind you, his pace is getting faster and so you’re resorting to longer strides as well, puddles of water splashing under your feet with every step, “just wait—”
“I’m seriously,” you start, and the tears begin to fall, “I’m seriously so, so, so, so, so fucking embarassed right now,” you gasp out the words with no air left in your lungs to breathe as you continue to run away from him, “so please, just leave me alone.”
You can picture it all in your head. Something like I told you so from his lips, because after what you’ve been put through tonight, you just want to assume the worst in people.
But just as you round the corner into an alley, feeling lost with the sight of a dead end, you feel a hand wrap around your arm and then you’re being pulled into an embrace.
Your eyes are blinking with tears streaming, your face buried in a chest that is warm, with a heart beating so fast that it’s keeping time with your own, and the fragrance that surrounds you is so painfully him that it makes you sob even more.
Strong arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and Gojo rests his chin at the top of your head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and you can feel the rumble of his voice, “I just needed to stop you from running.”
Your arms are weakly raised, an outline over his torso but not yet grabbing on, until you hesitantly do. And when you hold onto him, it’s so tight and strong, and you realize that after everything between the two of you, it’s the first time you’ve been wrapped in his arms.
“I feel so stupid,” you start, already hating the words because you want to be stronger right now, but you can’t.
“You’re not stupid,” he quickly corrects you, “those guys are fucking insecure losers. You’re just trying your best. You always have, for as long as I’ve known you, and it’s something you should be proud of yourself for.”
You don’t know what to say to him, you just cling to the damp fabric of his shirt in the rain.
“Things are going to work out for you, no matter what, because I know you’ve got what it takes and you’re willing to work hard for it,” he says, his chin nuzzling so you’re tucked into him even further, “and if things don’t work out, that’s okay, you’re strong and you’ll always get back up. And I want to be there to help you through everything.”
You pull your face from his chest to stare up at him, droplets of rain falling to your face and making you flinch occasionally. “I’m confused.”
His hand comes up to cup your face, swiping at a tear on your cheek, or maybe it was rain. “I thought that—” he starts, his thumb briefly running over the small cut still healing on your cheek, his brow furrowing, “I thought that I’d be okay with watching your life from afar, through cropped pictures on a screen,” he says, a chill running through you, “but I can’t. It’s killing me. And I’m really sorry that it took me this long to tell you this, but I like you so much and I really want to be with you.”
Your eyes widen at his words, and you don’t know how to feel. You push your face into his chest again. His thumb runs circles at your side through the dampness of your shirt.
“There are a lot of reasons I didn’t feel like I could date you, or show up for you,” he says, “but the pain of not getting to be with you, of not getting to hold you, and just share my life with you is way worse than whatever reasons I kept trying to convince myself of.”
You nod slowly, because there was a part of you deep inside that knew that all along.
His grip on you relaxes slightly and you take that as a request from him for you to look up at him, so you do. “I know I’ve put you through a lot of pain, and I’m really not a perfect person, but if there’s room in your heart to forgive me, I promise you that I’ll do everything I can to make you feel happy and cared for.”
Your eyes study his face for sincerity. They’re words you’ve been wanting to hear, words you could’ve pictured in your head, but the adoration in his eyes makes you realize you never could’ve imagined the true sweetness of those words when they’re said from him.
You press your cheek to his chest again. You’re not crying anymore. “I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier. About kicking a soccer ball, and having it easy,” you bite down on your lip, because now there’s tears in your eyes again, “I didn’t mean it.” You sniffle a little, “I know you work hard. And it was a really mean thing to say.”
He sighs, holding you flush to himself. His cheek presses against the top of your head. “That’s okay, you don’t have to apologize for that.”
“But I do.”
There was no grudge at all. There was nothing withdrawn from you, nothing taken away as punishment. He just held onto you, exactly as you are, and you felt so safe in every second you spent in his arms.
You look up at him again. His hair is damp, strands clinging to his face in all the places they usually fall over, droplets of rain falling from his fringe onto your face and he does everything he can to wipe them away. “It’s too late,” you tell him, and he immediately knows what you’re referring to.
He just holds you closer. “I know.”
“I don’t have feelings for you anymore,” you say through a sniffle.
He knows you’re lying, and that you say it just out of spite, but he holds your head to his chest. “I know.”
“You’ll have to beg and grovel, and even then, I might not like you ever again,” you say, gripping so tightly onto his shirt for purchase, your voice sounding muffled as you breathe in the scent of him. “That’s your punishment.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. A firm press of his lips, lasting as he takes a few deep breaths. And then he kisses the same spot again, staying still in that position as he repeats himself.
“I know.”
--
a/n. phewww thank you for reading, i swear, this chapter felt like a goddamn war to write. my emotions were all over the damn place, i think cause i wrote from a place of bitter experience lol.
i dedicate this chap to my lovely friend she’s a film major (she inspired me to create this story) and i srs wouldn’t be able to write kickoff without her 😭💕 dear M♥︎, i thought of you sm while writing this chapter, i can only hope i’ve captured even the slightest bit of the understanding i will always aim to have of you, and that you feel seen. i’m incredibly proud of you, always rooting for you, so often thinking of you, and terribly missing you so much rn (plsssssss visit meee😩💔 ) dedicated w sm love 💕
-bitchasshoe
this chapter is also dedicated to anyone who’s going through a hard times n maybe just trying to figure themselves out :”) i am so proud of you, you should be so proud of yourself, there’s still so much to live and learn, and i hope the universe blesses you w everything you’ve ever wanted!!
big thank u to my lovely m00t @quinnyundertow she pulled me out of my writers block for this chapter and also beta read a lot of it for me
there’s only three chapters left for kickoff (i’m gonna cry just thinking ab it :”)) which doesnt sound like a lot but there’s still a lot i’ve got planned 😭 i’m just noticing that i very poorly planned the second half of this series. chapters 1-6 combined have less words than chapters 7-9 combined 😅✨ sooooo i may increase the chapters from 12 to 14 by splitting them up to make it easier on me, or just stick to the plan and come out with long chapters like the last two. idk. i’ll figure it out.
thank u to everyone for reading i love you all dearly 😭💕 i’ll see you in the next one!!
synopsis: Transitions are hard. Grief is real fucking tough. But when you have Gojo Satoru in your corner, just about anything can be overcome. He is the "Ghost" who flies across three continents to "min-max" your heaviest academic weeks, turning your grief and your hell-weeks into Closed Weekends. He’s the reason the digital myth your friends gossip about is currently shirtless in your kitchen, wearing the red evidence of your six-request victory under a morning-after smirk.
Tags: p in v, dirty talk, manhandling, swearing, college/ modern au, cunninglings, fingering, oral, mentions of grief, panic attacks, and anxiety.
Author note: reader is frequently called Sugar. This is also a prelude to an HBCU Spring Break wip I have cooking up in my drafts.
not proofread
Part Two
“I can’t believe you already got this whole place furnished!” Maya’s voice echoes against the high ceilings, her hands trailing over the cool marble of the kitchen island.
The apartment is a light-drenched sanctuary of open-concept living. Creams and buttery yellows catching the Chicago sunset through floor-to-ceiling windows. It looks like a spread in a magazine, a sharp contrast to the cramped dorms your peers are fighting over.
You offer a small, private smile, digging your toes into the plush yellow carpet. It wasn't "luck." It was a series of late-night international wire transfers, three coordinated delivery teams, and Satoru’s refusal to let you live in anything less than a "palace" while you adapt to being back in the states and to a new school.
“Well, maybe I should believe it,” Maya continues, popping a grape into her mouth. “The fact that you even got us a spot this close to CU is a true testament to your ‘Lucky Girl’ syndrome, Sugar. Seriously, what star did you wish on?”
You roll your eyes playfully, plopping down on the soft couch as you finally take in the fact that this is happening. You’re attending an HBCU with a childhood friend. You’re no longer in Japan after two years of acclimating to the culture and experiencing life with the love of your life by your side. Instead there’s an ocean in between you and a new laundry list of responsibilities and expectations.
“I assure you that of the many wishes I’ve made in the past six months, this wasn’t exactly one of them,” you mutter.
You’ve wished for your grandmother to recover so that you didn’t have to leave. You wished for your mom to understand why you desperately wanted to stay in Japan. You wished CU would accept your late application when the conversation moved from possibly moving home to having to move home.
Maya’s attention shifts from taking in your new shared apartment to you. The girl she’s been best friends with since middle school. The girl who told her she was going to do a year abroad for her senior year of high school, but spent an additional year after getting into Tokyo University, has come back as a young lady with weights on her shoulder and an air of mystery that she can’t quite decode.
She remembers the girl who called her six months ago, sobbing and desperate for solid ground.
Her gaze softens, and she moves to sit at the edge of your feet.
“It must be weird being back,” she says, her hand gently patting your knee. “I can only imagine how crazy it is—new school, new apartment, people you don’t know. In a city you’re barely familiar with.”
You offer a tight smile. Crazy is a fucking understatement.
“Yeah… all of that. I don’t even know what I’m really doing here,” you whisper, pressing your palms over your eyes as the heat of tears threatens to spill over. “I feel… wrong. I’m happy to be with you, and that my family is only a few hours away. But it feels shitty. It feels like a mistake. I know I’m doing what my grandma would have wanted…what I want too.. But I keep getting these waves, these–these moments that tell me I'm not supposed to be here.”
The tears swell past your hands and down your wrist as your new reality hits you for what feels like the hundredth time in the last thirty days.
Maya moves from the couch to the floor, haphazardly wrapping her arms around you to allow you to sob into her shoulder. “I’m not going to pretend that I understand…but I’m here for you and with you,” she expresses with conviction laced in every word.
The familiar scent of her pistachio perfume and Blue Magic grease grounds you. It envelopes you with the reminder that despite this being everything you didn’t want to happen, someone else is beside you, and that’s why it’ll eventually be alright until the dust settles.
You pull back after a minute, your chest hitching as you reach for a tissue. Maya stays on the floor by your knees, her eyes searching yours. She’s trying to bridge the gap, trying to find the girl she knew before Tokyo.
Before either of you can fill the silence, a sharp knock on the door draws your attention as well as the various voices overlapping. You and Maya share a look of confusion before a moment of realization crosses her face.
She presses two fingers to the bridge of her nose and groans. “Shit. sugar, I am so sorry. I told my friends the address, but didn’t expect them to show up until I actually told their dumbass I was done unpacking. I’ll go tell them to le–”
“No,” you shoot out, eyes wide at your quickness. “This is your space too, let them see it. Besides, I’ve been coveting you rather fiercely for the past two months.”
She giggles, pushing herself off the floor, “You had reasons and I’ve loved every second of our bonding time.”
You smile softly. Fingers moving with lightning speed as you try to clean up your face and runny nose. Your footsteps aren’t too far behind Maya as you throw tissues away and wash your hands.
“There was a package at your door”
“Oh my god. It’s so fucking nice in here!”
“How the hell are you affording a place like this? The twelfth floor? You're so lucky Maya.”
“Is your friend here?”
Four people spill into the entryway—two girls and two guys. Their gazes a mix of awe and suspicion.
"I said after I was done unpacking, y'all!" Maya laughs, though she doesn't actually look mad.
You step into the hallway, drying your hands on a kitchen towel. You’ve done your best to scrub the tearstreaks from your cheeks, but your eyes are still heavy.
"Is this her?" one of the guys asks. He’s holding a large, heavy box tucked under one arm. His eyes sweep over you, then back to the expansive view behind you. "Damn, Maya. You really surprised me with this one–Oh, found a package on your doormat,”
He sets the box down on the island with a heavy thud. Yellow wrapping paper with a white shimmering bow.
"It's not mine," Maya says, looking at the box and then at you. "Must be Y/n's."
Your gaze remains fixed on the name and the group watches.
Observes how a smile slips on to your lips and illuminates the space. Despite being red-eyed and flushed, you’re stunning with the last rays of the sun basking down on you.
The Kanji is a simple read. Symbols you’ve seen over a thousand times in the two years you spent discovering what lies beyond the walls of the South and the Midwest. The shipping label is clear: Satoru Gojo. The man who lies at the other end of your red thread.
“Y/N?” Maya calls, her touch gentle as she squeezes your shoulder.
“Oh! My apologies,” you bow on instinct, a habit you’ve been trying to break since returning. “ Pleasure to meet you all, I’m Y/N and that package is for me. Thank you for bringing it in.”
“N-no problem. Wow, you bow and everything huh? You really were in the depths of Japan. I’m Jordan. The girl with the crooked fro is Liz. Standing next to her with the glasses is Chloe, and the doofus rubbing his bare feet on your carpet is Chris.”
"Nice to meet you all," you say, trying to smooth down your wrinkled oversized TU t-shirt, feeling the sudden heat of four sets of eyes on you. It’s a bit too much for you to handle. “I-I’m gonna go shower and stuff. Welcome to our apartment and thank you for bringing this in,” you mumble, cheeks growing warmer by the second as you collect your package from the counter.
“You can–” Maya’s words fall to the wind you practically kick up as you escape from the eyes of her friends. Too much too soon after a crying session.
You set the box on the butter-yellow duvet, your fingers trembling slightly as you touch the silk of the bow. Outside, you can hear a muffled burst of laughter—Chris or Jordan’s laughter floating above the rest.
You tune them out. You filter the noise until the only thing left is the sound of your own breathing and the crinkle of the yellow paper.
You don’t just tear it open. You undo the shimmering bow with the same slow, deliberate precision Satoru used to wrap it. Inside, tucked between layers of protective tissue, are the pieces of the life you were forced to leave behind: your favorite bottle of wine, the book you’d only mentioned wanting to read once in passing, and a gift card to a spa your mom pointed out during the drive over.
But at the bottom, beneath the luxury, lies comfort beyond words.
Two sets of pajamas lie at the bottom of the tissue paper. One is a matching silk set, a blue that mirrors the exact, devastating shade of his eyes. The other is a soft, worn-in shirt and a pair of his sweatpants, still heavy with the lingering scent of him.
As you lift the shirt, a photo slips from the folds, fluttering down to land near your feet. It’s in black and white. A dangerous filter that highlights the stark white of his hair, his eyes hidden behind that familiar mask, with the jagged Tokyo skyline looming behind him.
He looks ethereal.
Angelic and precarious.
Like a dream caught in high-definition. He looks like yours.
Two heavy knocks on your bedroom door pulley you away from committing the photo to memory. “Yeah, what’s up?” you call out. Fingers carefully constructing the package back to its original form with the wine bottle and his clothes left out.
Maya pops her head in. Gaze full of worry and concern. “Sugar…I was knocking because I got worried.” Maya’s voice is soft, cautious. “I just wanted to check-in. I know it’s a lot being back here…I think I just wanted to remind you that it’s okay to come out and talk and get to know the people you’ll be attending school with if it helps get your mind off of things.”
You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
She notices.
“I…I know. I’m gonna shower and then come out. I think I just need to wash the sadness off. Oh, my care package has some of my favorite wine from Japan, could you put it in the fridge? And when I get out we can open it,” you suggest, pressing the clothes to your chest and holding the bottle out.
She grabs it with care, “Okay! Okay, yeah. Shower, I’ll order some good food, and we can open this whenever you’re ready.”
Maya carries the bottle into the kitchen, the glass cool against her palms as she navigates the transition from your bedroom door back to the main stage.
The room is still loud. Jordan and Chris are mid-laugh, finishing a story about a party you weren't at, while Chloe and Liz are still teasing Maya about falling off the face of the earth all summer. But as Maya reaches the fridge, the pivot happens. The energy doesn't go silent; it just sharpens, all that scattered summer chatter suddenly narrowing down onto the girl who just disappeared into the hallway with a box that was almost the size of her.
"Yo, Maya," Chris starts, leaning his elbows onto the marble island, his eyes following her every move. "Is she... good? We didn’t mean to intrude and scare her like that…."
Maya doesn't look up yet, focusing on clearing a spot between the organic groceries for the wine. The clink of the glass against the shelf is the only thing that punctuates the sudden barrage of interest.
"And where has she been?" Liz adds, her voice dropping the playful tone as she scans the high-end finishes of the kitchen again. "You've been 'busy' all summer, and now we find out you’re tucked away in a high-rise? I know you said you were working hard to get an off-campus apartment, but girlllll… tell me your ways if your hard work gets you this.”
Maya rolls her eyes, turning her attention back to the circus in front of her—her friends from orientation, the people she met on day one and never let go of. “She’s fine, Chris, thank you for asking. She’ll come out after she showers and stuff.”
She grabs a seltzer water out the fridge, taking her time to decide how much she can share without becoming the narrator of your story. “She’s been in Japan, like I said. For the past two years, and now she’ll be attending CU with us. She’s had it rough these past couple weeks—hell, months—so be nice to my girl or else I’ll kick your ass. I’m looking at you, Jordan.”
Jordan scoffs, hand over his chest in offense, “I’m literally the nicest one out of this god awful bunch…besides I don’t make it a habit to be mean to pretty girls.”
Maya rolls her eyes, “Yeah, well that pretty girl is off limits. She has enough on her plate and the last thing that needs to be added to it is a play boy with a complex.”
“Ouch. Really going for the jugular, huh? Warning received, now be nice to me again and answer Liz’s other question,” he whines, a faux pout on his lips.
“What question–OH!” she gasps, “Y/n has two older brothers and they said they had a friend named Jo helping them…anyways they told me they’d take care of everything when Y/n and I agreed to room together. They’re pretty fucking effiecent aren’t they?”
Chloe nods her head profusely, “I wish my brothers were good for something besides getting on my nerves and getting women pregnant. Are her siblings in Japan too? Because that’s where the package looked like it came from. It was so pretty,” she rambles.
Maya snickers at Chloe’s underhand comment about her brothers. “Girl, both of your brothers are married! Don’t say it like all they do is cheat and repopulate. Anyways, nah, most of her family is in Illinois. It was probably one of her friends, she had a rather robust group she would show me photos of whenever we were on FaceTime calls.”
Maya takes a long sip of her seltzer, watching the group over the rim of the can. She remembers the blurry backgrounds of your calls, the laughter of voices she couldn't place, and the way you’d glow when talking about your life over there. She remembers being torn between wanting to see the side of the world you so vividly painted in your stories and wanting to hear your laughter beyond a screen.
“Robust group of friends and efficient brothers, she’s quite the gal,” Jordan mumbles.
Inside your room, the air has already changed.
You’re standing by the window, the soft cotton of Satoru’s shirt pressed against your face. As you inhale the scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him, the static of the new city, the sirens on State Street, the hum of the central air, the distant laughter of Maya and her friends, simply begins to dissolve.
You remember a rainy Tuesday in Shinjuku when the sensory overload of the city and your thoughts had become a physical weight on your chest. Satoru hadn't said a word; he’d simply tucked your head into the crook of his neck and rested his chin atop your hair.
In that second, the world had gone silent.
“Don’t listen to the city, pretty girl,” he’d whispered, his heartbeat the only rhythm allowed in your ears. “Just listen to me.”
Standing here now, an ocean away from the person who once felt like home, you realize the true luxury isn't the marble island or this twelve-floor sanctuary. Those are just things. The real luxury, the one you've been starving for since the plane wheels left the tarmac in Tokyo, was the silence he could create just by holding you.
You look down at the black-and-white photo again.His eyes are hidden behind that familiar mask. "Three years," you whisper to the quiet room, pressing the fabric of his shirt to your heart. "I just have to get through three years."
When you step out of the hallway, the steam from your shower is still damp along the edges of your hair. You’re practically drowning in the fabric of Satoru’s clothes, the heavy weight of his sweatpants gathered at your waist and the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, but the familiar scent of sandalwood acts like a layer of armor. For the first time since landing in Chicago, the loudness of the city and all its wrongness feel manageable, tethered down by the cotton against your skin.
"Look who’s back," Maya says, her voice bright with relief as she watches you approach. You offer a small, genuine smile, making a conscious effort to smooth the tension from your forehead.
You sink onto the plush yellow carpet, tucking your legs beneath you as you join the circle surrounding the coffee table. "Sorry about the disappearing act," you say, your voice steadying as you look at Jordan and Chris. "It’s been a long day of unpacking and realizing just how much I missed the Chicago humidity."
The group relaxes at your tone, the suspicion in their eyes melting into genuine interest. They ask questions about your time abroad. You ask about their freshman year, and listen as Chris explains the unspoken rules of navigating the CU campus, actually leaning into the conversation. You're putting on your brave face, nodding along and laughing in the right places, doing the work to bridge the gap between the life you left in Japan and the one that’s waiting for you here.
But even as you chat, your fingers keep straying to the hem of Satoru’s shirt. You’re charming, you’re present, and you’re making a hell of an impression, but you’re also intensely aware of the black-and-white photo sitting on your duvet in the other room. You’re building a new world, but you’re doing it while wearing the colors of the one leagues away.
The second the door clicks shut behind the last of them, the high-rise silence rushes back in, heavy and expectant. Maya doesn't even move from her spot by the table before she turns her focus entirely on you, her gaze sweeping over the worn-in fabric of the clothes you’re practically disappearing into.
"Okay, I played it cool while they were here," Maya says, leaning forward on the table. Her big, brown eyes are careful as they look you over. “You alright girlfriend?”
The question is a loaded one. It’s not the first time she’s asked you that since your return, but it hits differently than the rest. It penetrates the brave face, bypasses the scent of Satoru’s cologne, and lands right in your heart.
Tears.
They fall uncontrollably. They wreck you. Stealing the oxygen from your lungs and your ability to see clearly as you break down into sobs. You’re not alright. Far from it.
Maya’s arms are around you the second the first tear falls and is there as the rest of them land on her shoulder like a waterfall. She whispers words of comfort, but they never quite reach your ears.
‘It’s alright. I’m here. We’ll get through this,” her voice cracks. “You’ll get through this. This is just a season, Sugar. It’s going to pass.”
She repeats it like a mantra. An affirmation. As if she’s trying to convince the both of you. While you lost a grandmother, she also lost a figure that treated her like a granddaughter and not some stray, helpless, orphan.
She’s uncertain if it’s her words, or the weight of the day, of life, but as the weight of your head settles firmly on her shoulder, your cries turn to sniffles, and into deep breathing–she exhales a breath of relief.
You’re out cold.
The silence doesn’t last long.
On the marble table, your phone vibrates with a persistence that feels like a physical pulse. The screen lights up, cutting through the dimming light of the living room, and then goes dark, only to roar back to life a minute later. One missed call. Two. Three.
Maya watches the screen from her spot on the floor, her hand never stopping its motion on your head. She sees a blue heart and foreign script flash, accompanied by a string of missed FaceTime notifications. When the phone begins to buzz for the fourth time, the vibration rattling against the stone counter like a frantic heartbeat, Maya finally reaches up.
She doesn't want to wake you, but the urgency coming from that device is undeniable. She swipes the screen to answer, holding the phone away from her face as the connection clicks through.
She’s answered your phone plenty of times throughout middle to high school and even during this transition as some days you went borderline mute.
Before the video even buffers, before his face can manifest in the high-definition light of your living room—his voice tears through the speaker. It’s a low, frantic rasp, stripped of all his usual arrogance and replaced with a raw, jagged edge of panic.
"Baby? Baby, you okay?"
Her eyes widen at the term of endearment ringing through the speaker. Baby? She glances at you and goes back to the phone.
His face finally flickers into the screen. Bright blue eyes and striking white hair. Her mouth drops at the sight of the man who looks like he should be on the cover of GQ. His background looks like an empty office space with multiple cubicles behind him.
He furrows his eyebrows, “Maya? Is she okay?” The usage of her name further shocks her. Unsure of how he knows her name and she has no clue who he is. “Maya?” he repeats with more conviction, the concern bleeds through irrevocably.
“I-uh, who are you?”
He tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing at how this line of questioning answers his own. “Boyfriend. I think she refers to me as Toru when talking to you. Jo to her brothers. She doing okay? She texted me that she was going socialize but that she would call during my break and she never misses a call. So I reiterate, is my girl okay?”
His retort yanks a memory from months ago to the surface, during a phone call the two of you had before the news of your grandmother hit the family and how you said you needed to introduce her to someone named Toru, her boo.
She didn’t anticipate for him to look…quite like this, which further explains why you told her, she had to meet him in person because photos wouldn’t cut it. She just thought you meant he wasn’t cute or didn’t photograph well.
“I-I, uh, she cried herself to sleep,” she confesses, slightly tilting the camera to show him how you have your head buried into her shoulder and your limbs loosely wrapped around her.
Gojo, rijikai ga keiyaku jōken no kakunin o motomete imasu– the board needs you to go over the terms of your contract – a man with dark hair and piercings calls over his shoulder. Gojo doesn’t bother turning his head, his gaze laser focused on the sight before him.
You cried yourself to sleep.
“Maya, I’ll be on a plane in thirty minutes and should be there by 10am at the latest. Keep an eye on her for me until then…and thank you for picking up her phone. I appreciate you being there,” he hangs up before she can respond.
The morning light in the high-rise is soft and hazy, filtering through the windows and catching the dust motes dancing over the marble. You’re still dead to the world, tucked into the butter-yellow duvet where Maya managed to maneuver you sometime around midnight. You’re still wearing his shirt, the fabric wrinkled from sleep, oblivious to the fact that the person you were sobbing for is currently standing on the other side of your front door.
Maya is already up, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and looking like she hasn't fully processed the phone call from the night before. When the knock finally comes, firm and deliberate, she nearly drops her mug. She checks the peep-hole, takes one look at the striking white hair and the sheer height of the man in the hallway, and fumbles with the lock.
As the door swings open, the hallway light frames him. Satoru stands there, looking like he’s stepped straight out of a dream. He’s wearing a pair of lounge pants that look handmade to fit his exact frame and stature and a hoodie that does nothing to hide the expanse of his broad shoulders.
“Is she still sleeping?” he whispers softly, voice thick with fatigue he’s fighting to push past and snippets of his accent.
Maya steps to the side, allowing him into the space. “Yeah, she didn’t move a muscle after I tucked her in bed.”
Satoru exhales a breath of relief; the tension in his shoulders dispel and seem to deflate his entire frame. He moves with cat-like quietness despite his stature. Navigating the space as if he’s been here numerous times, and in a way he has. Over the various blueprints he made the complex fax over to him and through the numerous FaceTime calls he held with your brothers as they walked the space.
He tucks his leather travel bag into the closet, closing the door with a click so soft that it’s almost silent. He’s exhausted, the slight shadows under his blue eyes give him away, but when he looks toward your closed bedroom door, a warm, devastatingly tender smile breaks across his face.
He doesn't head for the bed. Instead, he moves to the kitchen counter, methodically unpacking a high-end laptop, an iPad Pro, and a stack of textbooks so thick they look like they belong in a laboratory. He’s setting up a command center in the middle of your kitchen.
Maya leans against the opposite side of the island, watching him as he opens a spreadsheet. She can't help herself; the protective, nosey, best friend in her is screaming for details.
The man just casually caught a flight to Chicago from Japan in the timespan of less than fifteen hours.
"So," she murmurs, keeping her voice low. "You actually made it. I’m Maya."
"Satoru Gojo, thanks for opening the door," he says, giving her a quick, tired smile before turning his attention back to the various symbols and languages dancing across his screen.
She nods, “No problem…no problem at all…uh–” she clears her throat. “Well, I– she’s mentioned you before, but never quite in depth enough for me to think you guys were official. Well that’s not quite right, she just kept saying you’re someone I have to see and meet in person, and it’s all starting to make sense now,” she mumbles into her cup, coughing on the substance as he removes his glasses.
Over video, the eyes were stunning. In person, they’re earth shattering.
“She has to stop telling people that,” he teases, a smirk playing on his lips. You told your family the same thing, to the point where when they met him they thought he was fake. “She talks a lot about you! So, I feel like I already know you. Like how you grew up and caused mayhem together, up until she left for Japan. She would make sure all of our dates didn’t overlap with your scheduled phone calls too because she didn’t want to lose touch.”
Maya’s heart warms at the sentiment. Those phone calls meant the world to her. It made her feel important and cherished in a way that she carried into the relationships she’s built during her first year at college.
“She’s been having a really hard couple of weeks…” Maya admits, her hands tightening around her mug for dear life. “I think the closer we get to the start of the semester the more intense the onslaught of everything hits her…and that’s not to say it’s all bad! She’s been having some ups, just as much as she’s been having some downs. I just–I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as her or her family thinks it will be when she clearly isn’t sold on being here entirely.”
Satoru’s fingers pause as the weight of Maya’s words process alongside his quantum field theory assignment. He crosses his arms, leaning further back into the counter stool. He closes his eyes momentarily, the brief relief clears up some of his headspace; allowing him to formulate an answer that’s in English and not Japanese, Latin, or Greek.
“ I agree…but I think having you and I in her corner will help her reconcile with that fact. She does want to be here, if she didn’t I would have flown her back the moment the funeral was over,” he pauses blinking hard as if to clear the tiredness by sheer willpower. “She wants to follow in her grandmother’s legacy, she wants the HBCU experience, to join a sorority, to breathe in the air of homecoming; but she also wants me. She wants Japan and the life she started to build there. Our goal, Maya, is to help her balance and experience those two worlds simultaneously and I do think we can achieve that.”
He’s confident. Cocky even, and it bleeds into his words in a way that convinces Maya of that same sentiment. It is indeed possible, and with a man that can hop on a flight at a moment's notice and a best friend who has you mostly figured out, what are the odds of them really failing?
Maya hums in agreement, but there’s a question lingering in the back of her mind stemming from her need to protect you. “So you’ll just catch a flight whenever she has a moment like this? Is that financially sustainable? Or is this—”
“I will and can do just that,” he injects, softly. “ I’ll chat with Y/n when she wakes up to finalize her schedule for the semester, but I do plan on writing these trips into my own schedule to help bring to life what my girl wants. That way it’s not a matter of how long until she sees me, but when.”
Maya stares at him for a moment longer; searching any crack in his code, his assuredness, and when she doesn’t find one she simply nods, before muttering an okay.
The heavy, dreamless sleep finally snaps when the hunger in your stomach becomes impossible to ignore. You stumble out of the bedroom, the door creaking softly behind you. Your eyes are still puffy, practically glued shut from the salt of last night’s tears, and your hair is a wild halo messy, unkept curls. You don’t even look up as you shuffle down the hallway, the floorboards cool despite your fluffy socks.
“Morning,” you grumble, the word comes out half-formed. You don’t bother trying to make sense of the blurry world around you. Your contacts are dry, your throat is dry, and your stomach is practically touching your ribs—the world can wait.
You plop your head down on the island; oblivious to the sight of Toru beside you and Maya watching you with a mix of expectancy and shock. Because how can you not see the six-three man right beside you? “Food?...will do, could fuckupa horse…now,” some of your words blend together and some unintelligible.
“ A horse will have to wait, but breakfast is around six minutes out,”
Your heart stops.
A deep, silky voice that sounds like the gates of heaven have finally taken you into its arms. There’s no audio lag. There’s no screen in front of your eyes or pressed against your ear.
You turn your head to the left, jolting upright as the vision solidifies instead of fizzing out after intense blinking. "Toru?" you whisper, your voice cracking and the weight bearing down your eyes finally disappears. "What... how are you..."
The realization that he’s there; not a digital ghost, not a figment of your imagination, not a dream, but there. Here. Now. Flesh and bones. Your brain short-circuits. The oxygen in the room feels as if it’s disappearing at an alarming rate. The discomfort. The sadness. The adjustment, and grief—slams into you like a bat out of hell and triggers a full-blown panic attack.
Your breath hitches, then hitches again, turning into a series of shallow, frantic gasps. You start to tremble, your hand flying to your chest as if to physically hold and restrain the erratic beating in your ribs.
“Hey, hey—look at me,” Satoru’s voice cuts through the static in your head, but your body lags.
He’s off the stool before Maya can even blink. He catches you just as your knees give out, but he doesn’t stand there and just holds you. He maneuvers himself back onto the counter stool, lifting you effortlessly and settling you onto his lap. He pulls your legs around his waist, caging you in, forcing your frantic body to align with his massive frame.
Maya watches from the sidelines, frozen. She’s seen you cry before, she’s seen you sob, but never has she seen you shatter. She watches in shock as Satoru moves as if he’s seen this scene a thousand times.
“Y/n. Eyes on me. Brown on blue, baby, come on,” he commands, his voice firm but laced with a terrifyingly deep tenderness.
He grabs your hands and pins them flat against his chest. Right over his heart. “"Feel that? That’s the only rhythm that matters right now. Match it."
You shake your head, a choked, broken sound escaping your throat. You can't. The world is spinning too fast.
"Yes, you can," he insists, his large hand moving to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your messy hair to hold your forehead against his. "In for four. Do it for me."
He takes a deep, exaggerated breath, his chest expanding under your palms. You try to follow, your chest heaving in a ragged imitation.
"Hold it," he whispers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Now out for six. Slow. Blow it all out."
He repeats the cycle, his own breathing loud and rhythmic in the quiet apartment. He doesn't let go, and he doesn't look away. He stays in your space, his heat radiating through his hoodie and into your skin, literally forcing your nervous system to mirror him.
Maya watches in awe.
She sees the way your trembling slowly starts to subside. She sees the way your gasps turn into shaky, long exhales. Satoru is regulating you with a calm, surgical precision, his gaze never leaving your face as he wipes the snot and tears from your cheeks with the back of his hand, completely unbothered by the mess.
"That's it," he mumbles, his voice vibrating against your forehead as your head finally drops onto his shoulder, your body going limp with exhaustion. "You're okay. You're in Chicago, and I'm in Chicago, and the rest of the world doesn't exist right now. Just us."
He smells of sandalwood and mahogany. It’s all encompassing, comforting, it’s warm. It’s home after a long night. And heavens knows you’ve felt as if daylight was never coming.
You’re breathing rhythmically. Every inhale is full of him and every exhale is a breath waiting to take in his scent once again; to be reminded of what home smells like when it’s attached to a living, breathing, person.
Maya’s face shifts from one of awe to one of pure respect as she takes in the way he deescalates you in a manner so careful that she’s not even sure what just unfolded.
It’s quiet.
The sounds of the city are a distant memory with Satoru acting as your personal blockade. The moment the feeling returns to your limbs, you wrap your arms around Satoru’s neck. Hugging and squeezing him for all he’s worth; and he lets you….He lets you confirm his presence in any way you deem necessary to prove that he is present.
The spell is only broken by the sharp, aggressive buzz of the intercom cutting through the morning air.
The sound makes you flinch, but Satoru’s grip only tightens for a fraction of a second, a silent command to stay still before he slowly exhales. He doesn’t let go, he shifts. He turns his gaze to Maya and gestures his head to the button on the wall.
She nods, putting the pieces together that the food he ordered has officially made its grand arrival. “I’ll take care of that…” she mutters, pulling her robe tighter around her frame and heading to the front door. She opens it before the delivery driver arrives at the front door, her anxious energy getting the best of her as her head still spins with all that has occurred.
“How you feeling, pretty girl?” he whispers softly, his arms constricting tighter ever so slightly.
You nod slowly; your head is heavy, your stomach is empty, and it feels like the weight of the world hit you and left you to deal with the damage. Yet, you feel better, like the water you were drowning in has become a tidal wave instead of a tsunami. “I–I missed you so much. A-and…I’m just so happy you’re here…so I feel better. Damn, I feel so much better, like I can breathe again,” you confess.
He smiles, snaking a hand from your waist and back up to your neck. He guides you to look up at him. Your eyes are puffy, your cheeks are red, and you’re still the prettiest thing he’s ever gotten the privilege to lay his eyes on.
Maya slings into the kitchen, both of her hands full with two large bags. The scent of bacon, maple syrup, and bread engulf the open space. She’s moving with urgency. Setting the spread out across the island, grabbing plates and silverware from the cabinets, and cups and orange juice from the fridge.
“I’m really happy I’m here too, and I’d love to show you just how happy later, but for right now.” He adjusts you in the chair, moving you so that your back is pressed firmly against his chest and your thighs are draped over his. “Now I need my girl to eat her weight in American Breakfast.”
Your eyes widen at the massive amount of food staring back at you. “Did you buy the restaurant out?” you half tease, voice still raspy from the intensity of your cry, but your tone is lighter than it’s been in days.
He chuckles, placing a wet kiss right in the junction of your neck. The sensation makes you shiver and wiggle in his lap, smile still wide on your lips. “ I’m famished, I figured you and Maya would be too,” he states simply, hands already moving to fix both of your plates. “The ratings were also really good for this place, so if you like it I can add it to my rotation of foods to send to you when you need a pick me up.”
You hum, half listening and half willing him to hurry so you can stick your fork into the fluffy pancake.
“It’s a popular campus spot, there’s a lot of students that do study nights there on Thursdays since that’s half off night,” Maya comments, her manicured nails clutching a piece of bacon like a lifeline. Her gaze bounces all around the room, but keeps being drawn back to the man holding you to his chest while navigating between using his apple pencil to write on his ipad, feeding himself, and checking on you.
“It’s good. Taste like something college students would gravitate to,” you mumble before taking a bite of the french toast on Satoru’s plate. It’s a perfect vanillay, custardy, flavor that makes you do a little shimmy. “But that is superb,” the words are barely out your mouth before he’s cutting up pieces and putting them on your plate.
Maya adds one to her plate, a tiny smile on her face as she finally catches glimpses of the girl she’s known for well over a decade. You fall into seamless chatter over breakfast, the conversation ranging from how amazing the food is to what you would and would not order again. Satoru offers small quips every so often, but he mainly allows you to return to baseline and regulate in the presence of himself and Maya.
It’s not until you’ve cleared your plates do you finally find the energy to ask the question that’s been dancing amongst your thoughts. “Toru, what are you doing here?” you tilt your head back, and he looks down. Giving you an unobstructed view of his face. His eyes, despite sparkling, have faint bags underneath them, and a small smile graces his full lips.
“I sensed it in the ether that you needed me,” he mutters softly. He wraps his arm tighter around your waist and brings his other arm to join in holding you close. “Maya…which, again, thank you. I don’t think I can thank you enough truly,” he adds, shooting her an appreciative look before returning his attention to you.
“But, when you missed our call time, I got this sense of dread and it only worsened when you didn’t answer my calls. Luckily, Maya did and one look at you told me everything I needed to know,” he pauses, taking in the way you start to squirm underneath his gaze. You know where this line of questioning is turning. “How bad has it gotten, Y/n?”
You inhale sharply. Turning your gaze to the ceiling instead of his watchful eyes. How bad? Not too bad? Perhaps. Maybe…that’s a lie. It’s gotten to the point where you’ve started to dread waking up, where some days, if you aren’t talking to him, you choose to speak to no one. Bad enough that your dreams have begun to outperform your reality. Where food tastes lifeless, where time feels like a punishment instead of a gift. Where every day closer to the start of the semester is an arrow to the heart and a punch to the gut that leaves you breathless and shaking. Where quiet sobs have turned into moments that have left you unable to move or breathe.
His warm hand tilts your chin downward a little, forcing you to look at him. You swallow roughly, squeezing your eyes shut. “I–I, not…I–uhh…it’s—”
“Baby, I’m not looking to punish, judge, or ridicule you. I’m looking for an answer, so I can see which of my solutions can best be applied to what’s going on. I cannot help if I do not have all of the information, alright?” His voice is soft, free of persecution and full of comfort and geniality.
Your eyes sting at his sincerity. You shake your head slowly, “n-not good, Toru. It’s been not good at all. I-I didn’t want to alarm you. Your contract signing has been coming up and–and your thesis proposal. You’ve already made so many things happen for me. L-like this apartment a-and—the flights to visit you when it was really bad. I-I just couldn’t add another stressor to your plate, especially now, because n-now it’s bad T-toru, I-I’m..fuck…I’m so sorry,” you’re bawling, twisting in his lap to bury yourself in his chest.
His hands slip underneath your shirt, one holds you close and the other runs along your back in gentle touches. “ You never have to apologize for being human…I cannot tell you that it will all be alright at this moment, Baby, but I can promise you that you don’t have to carry everything by yourself. Okay? You are my number one priority. Regardless of the incessant noise, you come first. Always. I apologize if I didn't make that clear while we were finding our way through this new normal,” he rests his head on top of yours, closing his eyes as he allows the weight of the moment to settle.
For the past couple weeks, he had seen you slip up in your attempts to put on your brave face for him. How you would redirect, shut down, or ignore his probing questions to gauge how you were actually doing behind the phone screen and beyond his phone calls. How your voice would crack when he had to hang up the phone for work or classes.
He takes a deep breath himself, before opening his eyes and finding his laptop. He keeps one hand on you and the other to pull the object closer as he logs into your school portal. Then he opens an empty document on his ipad. “Baby, let me tell you what I think we’re going to do going forward and you let me know how this sounds alright?”
You give him a faint nod.
“I’m finalizing the language in my eSports contract and my research fellowship this week. I want you to look at your syllabi, all of them, and identify every deadline, midterms, and every major project. I need to see exactly when your load is the heaviest. I want to know which weeks you’re going to be pulling all-nighters and which weeks the stress is going to peak.”
You raise your head to glance at him through wet lashes, eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty as to what he’s asking exactly.
“Those weeks will be the weeks I fly in. If you have a hell-week in October for mid-terms, that’s a 'Closed Weekend' for me, I’ll be mostly offline and here with you instead. If you have a finals presentation in December, I’m landing at O'Hare the night before,” he explains as if it's the simplest thing in the world.
“I-I, can we, can you do that?” you question softly, uncertain if what he’s talking about is even possible for a student and employee to request on such a scale.
He grins, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “ Your man can do damn near anything for you, pretty girl. Besides, I don't want it to be a surprise. I want you to look at your calendar when you’re feeling overwhelmed and see my name already blocked out in red. I want you to know exactly when I’m coming so you have something to count down to."
He moves you so you’re sideways on his lap. Keeping you in a position that allows him to keep you close, but gives you access to his travel computer and tablet. You eye the five courses staring back at you, almost waiting for the wave of nausea that usually floods your system when you do anything school related.
It doesn’t come.
Not with Satoru holding you.
You exhale slowly, grabbing his apple pencil and clicking on your first class; Black Liberation Psychology. It’s a tedious process, one that you take your time doing as you write down the important dates, cross reference them, and solidify a weekend in the calendar app.
He watches you work and Maya watches him. How he appears to be a heaven sent angel meant just for you; as he handles you with care and leads you with confidence. It makes sense why she had to meet him in person. He’s unreal.
As you make it over half-way, Satoru changes his focus to Maya. "Maya, let me ask you something. Have you ever helped someone through a panic attack before? Like, a real one?"
Maya pales slightly, glancing at you and then back to him. "No. I mean, I’ve seen her stressed, but last night... and this morning... that was new. I didn’t really know what to do other than just hold her."
Satoru nods slowly, his expression turning somber. He turns his head to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours with a raw honesty.
"I can fly here eight times during the school year, baby, but I can't be here for the Tuesday nights when the 'wrongness' hits at 3:00 AM," he murmurs. "Maya is incredible, but she’s a student too. She shouldn't have to, nor can she be your only physical, immediate support."
He reaches out, cupping your face with his free hand, his thumb catching a stray crumb near your lip. "I think we need to look into getting you some additional support. A therapist here in Chicago—someone who specializes in transitions, grief, and anxiety. I want you to have a safe place to put all this weight when I’m ten thousand miles away. What do you think? Would you be open to that, if I helped find someone who understands the... unique nature of our situation?"
You squirm in Satoru’s lap, the weight of the conversation making you feel small despite the massive presence holding you up. The guilt hits you suddenly, sharper than the courseload.
You look at Maya, your eyes welling up again.
"Maya, I'm so sorry," you whisper, voice thick and shaky. "I didn't mean to dump all of this on you. You came here to go to school, not to be a full-time nurse for my head. I’m sorry you had to deal with me like that last night and to see me like—."
Maya doesn't even let you finish. She reaches across the marble, grabbing your hand and squeezing it so hard her knuckles turn white.
"Y/N, stop. Right now," Maya says, her voice firm and thick with sisterly love. "You have done absolutely nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Not a single thing." She looks at Satoru, then back to you, her expression softening. "I’m sorry I couldn’t do more last night or earlier. I felt so helpless watching you hurt like that, but I’m going to learn. Satoru can show me the breathing stuff, and we’ll figure out the therapist thing together."
She offers a small, watery smile, leaning forward to bridge the gap between you.
"We're navigating this as a team, okay? Me, you, and apparently the epitome of Mr. Make It Happen over here," she teases, nodding toward Satoru. "We’re going to get you, us, through this semester. All three of us."
Satoru’s arm tightens around you, pulling you back against his chest as he watches the exchange with a quiet, satisfied approval. He looks at Maya, acknowledging her with a slow, respectful nod—the official seal of their partnership.
"See?" Satoru murmurs into your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "No more apologies. We’ve got the structure, we’ve got the team, and we’ve got the game plan.”
You take a shaky breath, finally letting the tension drain out of your shoulders. For the first time since leaving Tokyo, the apartment doesn't feel like a high-rise cage. With Satoru’s heartbeat steady against your back and Maya’s hand in yours, it finally starts to feel like a home.
You power through the last two courses, setting the pen down with a satisfying click.
Satoru’s demeanor shifts instantly. He doesn't just look at the dates; he analyzes them. His eyes move with that frighteningly fast, analytical speed you only see when he’s mid-match or deep in his physics proofs. He’s mumbling under his breath, his thumb tapping a rapid-fire rhythm against your waist as he cross-references the dates with a mental calendar.
"Okay," he says, his voice dropping into a focused hum. "Sociology has a major project due the third week of October. Abnormal Psychology has a symposium submission the same Friday. That’s a high-cortisol window. That’s Weekend Three."
He pulls out his own phone, typing a series of rapid-fire messages in Japanese—likely to his manager or his fellowship advisor—dictating terms as if they’re non-negotiable. Because to him, they are.
"Wait, Toru," you protest softly, looking at the screen. "That’s the same week as the eSports Invitational in Seoul. You’ve been practicing for that for months."
He doesn't even pause his typing. "The Invitational has a remote play clause for top-tier seeds. I'll play from that desk in your room or I’ll take a penalty. It doesn't matter." He looks up, his blue eyes piercing and absolute. "The contract matches your heavy weeks, Y/N. Not my easy ones. I’m not coming here when things are simple; I’m coming here when you feel like you’re drowning."
Maya shakes her head, a look of profound respect crossing her face. "You're really out here min-maxing a long-distance relationship."
"I don't play to lose, Maya," Satoru retorts, a flash of his signature cockiness returning to his grin. He turns back to you, his expression melting into something softer as he tucks a stray curl behind your ear. "I need you to promise me something, though. If a professor moves a deadline, or if a project gets added, you tell me immediately. Don't try to 'save' me the trip. My contract is flexible as long as I give them forty-eight hours' notice. You are the priority. The physics, the gaming, the board—they all move around you. Understood?"
You nod, finally feeling a sense of order settle over the chaos of your mind. Your head falls to the side, landing right over the magnetic beat of his heart. “You probably want to hit the gym to burn off extra adrenaline, don’t you?” you inquire, wrapping your arms around his biceps.
He chuckles, “Yeah, I do. Then I want to shower and pass out on your bed holding you. Maya, could you keep her company for a bit? If her head starts to wander too far into the clouds, just remind her that Mr. Make It Happen, has got this thing covered,” he requests, while picking you up and settling you on the couch.
With a final, reassuring kiss to your head, he’s out the door, leaving a sudden, quiet vacuum in the room.
The silence stretches between you and Maya, broken only by the distant hum of Chicago traffic. Maya watches the door for a second before turning her full attention back to you. She doesn't say anything at first; she just maneuvers across the kitchen and joins you at the other end of the couch.
"Y/N," she says softly, her brown eyes searching yours. "Be for real with me. Have you been masking this whole time? Every 'I'm fine' and every 'just tired'... have you just been putting on a show so I wouldn't worry?"
You look down at your hands, picking at a loose thread on Satoru’s sleeve. The truth feels like a physical weight in your chest. "It’s just... the world feels heavy and loud, Maya. It’s been that way since I left Japan. And it only got heavier every day after the funeral. And it’s not your job to carry that load. You’re finally at your dream school, you’re thriving, and I didn't want to be the thing that drags you down."
Maya reaches out, firmly grasping your wrists until you look up at her. Her expression isn't just sympathetic—it’s fierce.
"Don't you dare," she whispers. "You remember middle school? You remember when I was jumping from foster home to foster home, not knowing where I was going to sleep next month? It was your house that carried me. Your mom’s cooking, your bed, your family... you guys carried my load when I couldn't even stand up."
She shakes her head, a stray tear catching in her lashes. "I don't want you to feel like you need to hide how heavy it's gotten. I don't need you to be the 'perfect roommate' or the 'strong friend.' I’m willing to walk alongside you through the heavy times, Sugar. That’s what we do. We don't trade loads; we just walk together."
The knot in your throat tightens, but this time, it's not from panic—it's from the sheer relief of being seen. You nod, leaning your forehead against hers, letting out a breath you feel like you've been holding since you touched down at O'Hare.
Maya pulls back after a moment, wiping her eyes and letting out a shaky, wet laugh to break the tension. She glances at the kitchen counter, where Satoru’s textbooks are still stacked like a fortress.
"And girl..." she says, her voice returning to its usual playful lilt. "I totally get it now. I officially understand why you said I had to meet him in person. Because if you had sent me a photo of a silver-haired, six-foot-three quantum physicist who plays pro-games and carries himself like that? I would have called BS. I would have told you that man was an AI-generated thirst trap."
She gestures wildly toward the door where he left. "FaceTime didn't do him justice. The way he looks at you? That’s a real life man right there. Bruh was staring at you like you give the Earth reason to spin. I thought you were exaggerating about 'Toru,' but no. That is a lot of man to handle from across the ocean."
You burst into laughter, the sound light and airy, cutting through the emotional turmoil of the morning. "You have no idea," you say, shaking your head as you lean back against the counter. "He’s all serious and stuff right now because of... well, everything. But usually? He’s so incredibly unserious and ridiculous. He’s the biggest kid I’ve ever met, but then he’s equally adoring and romantic to the point it’s sickeninggg."
You gesture vaguely at the mountain of breakfast food and the command center he’s built in your kitchen. "Like, how did he even know I needed him!? I tried so hard to sound okay on the phone. I didn't tell him to come. I didn't even ask."
Maya leans back, a knowing, slightly impressed smirk playing on her lips. "Girl, that is not a man that needs a formal invitation. Wouldn’t be surprised if he said he felt your heart rate spike from across the International Date Line. He’s got your ass figured the fuck out, that’s for sure.”
You smile, looking at the empty chair he was sitting on just minutes ago. The "wrongness" hasn't vanished, the grief and the transition are still there, but the weight is different now. It’s shared.
"He really is a lot," you murmur.
"He's a lot," Maya agrees, her eyes twinkling. "But you're a lot too, girlie. You deserve someone who matches your frequency. Even if he does look like he fell off a runway and landed in our kitchen."
You nod in agreement.
You do deserve someone who matches your frequency.
The transition period finally solidified into a rhythmic, hard-won peace. For two and a half years, your life was a delicate balance of airport runs, therapy sessions, and a deep, internal reconciliation. You wrestled with the heavy question of whether this journey was truly your own or a path paved only by the grief of your grandmother’s passing. Slowly, with the help of a therapist and Satoru’s unwavering presence, you realized that joining her sorority and thriving at your HBCU wasn't just a tribute to her—it was a way to weave your life in Japan together with your heritage in Chicago.
The "Closed Weekends" became a sanctuary of privacy. Satoru made sure of it, treating Maya to luxury penthouse stays at five-star resorts whenever he was in town, giving her a well-deserved break and giving you the space to simply be with him. You stopped feeling like a girl caught between two worlds and started feeling like a woman who owned them both.
Part Two
This idea has been in my head for like two months running. In my head, Gojo would be such a provider of a man despite being a jokester and laissez faire.
Any whooo, this is really me just setting the foundation for a Spring Break fanfiction that needed this lore to complete it. My goal is to have that complete in a week, but who knows.
Thanks for reading! Would love to hear your thoughts!
the epic highs and lows of greek life — 06: how many kitchens can you make out in
SYNOPSIS university social media AU where you and jake are in the top frat and sorority but somehow have never met. enter math 104: applied matrix theory and the notoriously difficult class everyone seems to fail. you clash with Jake immediately, put off by his overconfidence and ability to suck up to your professor like his life depends on it. but as you two get closer, lines get blurred, and suddenly you wonder if the most dangerous thing in your life is in fact not math 104, but jake sim's unrelentless mission to turn your life upside down.
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CHAPTER WARNINGS: sexual tension, kissing, denial (mdni)
You roll over in your bed, groaning as the program refuses to compile in front of you. “Are you serious?” You hiss to yourself, annoyed. “You spend one summer relaxing and forget Python?”
You switch between coding languages so much that they’ve started blurring into each other. For example, when you accidentally programmed an object constructor— something that should’ve screamed Java— into a simple Python application that hadn’t needed more than a few loops. Or when you kept forgetting to add semicolons at the end of every statement in C++. And now, you were working on the first real project your computer science teacher had assigned— except you couldn’t focus.
It’s been a week since the horror movie at Jake’s apartment, and yet you can’t forget it. Jake’s words in the kitchen replay in your mind all the time, haunting you every minute of the day. And it’s not like anything has changed— worse, nothing has. Jake went back to normal the day after, acting exactly as he had before that fateful night. It almost pisses you off, how good he is at pretending it didn’t happen. Now you’re left wondering if it even meant anything to him.
You roll back over, getting off the bed. Are you seriously going to sulk in bed, thinking about a man? You might be a romantic at heart, but even you have your limits. You still have your self-respect, gorgeous outfits, and face. It’s not like you need to beg for attention.
Yeah, you tell yourself. If Jake wants to play memory loss, we can do that. You’ll just make sure it comes back to bite him.
“Lia!” You burst into her room excitedly, fueled by spite.
Lia groans, sitting up from where she’s slumped over her own homework. “Do you run on battery acid?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Wanna go shopping?”
She perks up, grabbing her purse from where it’s sitting on her bed. “Thank god you asked.” Honestly, it’s a little funny how much you guys play into the sorority girl stereotype. But whatever— you’re having too much fun to care.
“Yay! Okay, wait— who’s free? Because I know Somi’s in class—”
“Yuna and Hyeju are hanging out with some of their friends right now,” Lia shakes her head. “Let’s go wake up Wonyoung.”
You furrow your brows. “Why is she sleeping? It’s like, three in the afternoon.”
“That girl works in mysterious ways.” Lia pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “Oh, also she was out late last night. Probably with Sunghoon.”
You gasp. “We’re so asking her on the way.”
After about twenty minutes trying to drag Wonyoung out of bed (she’s incredibly strong when she wants to be), the three of you are on the subway, taking the fastest line to the city mall. There’s closer shops, of course, but nothing can match the sheer range of stores at this particular mall; it’s quickly becoming a fan favorite among your friends.
“So,” Wonyoung says casually, twisting to face you. You’re a little jealous— how does she manage to make stumbling in a subway car look elegant? “Not that I don’t love shopping with you, but it feels like there’s a backstory to this.”
You hum, sweet enough to be mistaken for compliance. “If I tell you, you have to tell me what you were doing with Sunghoon last night.”
Wonyoung chokes. Lia watches from your side, amused.
“We were just walking…”
“Scandalous,” You cut in with a smirk.
Wonyoung rolls her eyes like she’s picturing strangling you in her head. “Anyway, we talked for a bit and maybe… kissed…”
You gasp, and Lia’s mouth drops open. “No way, really?”
“My little baby’s growing up,” Lia wipes a fake tear from her eyes.
Wonyoung chooses to ignore her, instead focusing back on you. “Don’t tell everyone, yet, okay? And it’s your turn to spill now, by the way.”
You hesitate. “You know how Jake and I… kinda had a moment last week?”
Wonyoung nods sagely. “Ah, yes, the infamous kitchen scene you won’t tell us about.”
You glare at her, then exhale. “He’s acting exactly how he was before it happened. No acknowledgement, or even a shift in mood. Just the same, happy, could only be interpreted as flirty by a senior citizen, friendship. It’s driving me insane.”
“And shopping is supposed to help that… how?”
“I was getting to that.” You sigh, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “If he wants to be friends, then I’ll give him friendship. I’ll be the greatest friend he’s ever seen until he can’t stop thinking about me.”
Lia looks mildly disturbed. “You really do scare me sometimes.”
“In a good way, right?”
“Not at all, no.”
“But I totally get the plan!” Wonyoung claps excitedly. “Battle gear, right?”
“Mhm,” You nod. “I’m thinking new outfits, lip gloss, jewelry— maybe even some cute sunglasses?”
“You said you were going to get them anyway,” Lia grouses.
“Yeah, but now I have a real excuse. Plus, I need your opinions on which pieces will make him lose his mind the most.”
“What exactly are you thinking? Like sexy?”
You wince. “No, like— I don’t know. Sweet. Pretty. Cute?”
“Isn’t that your style already?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, frowning. “I just want to elevate it a bit more, y’know? Even if it doesn’t work, at least I’ll feel cuter.”
Wonyoung shrugs at Lia, as if to say she’s got a point. The subway doors slide open, and the three of you step into the station, wincing at how loud it is.
You might be a little too addicted to retail therapy. It’s a short walk to the mall, and it feels even shorter since the weather’s beautiful; sun streams down in gentle rays, caressing the planes of your friends’ faces before blinding you momentarily.
Yeah, you could get used to this.
—-
When the three of you finally return home after a long day of shopping, you sink into your bed, setting the bags down by your closet.
Satisfaction settles over you as you carefully arrange your new clothes in your closet, hanging them up delicately to avoid creases. You re-organize your vanity, placing the new lip glosses you bought from Sephora in line with the others, then flop back onto your bed.
“What are you doing?” Somi bursts into your room, not unlike how you’d bothered Lia earlier.
You groan, squinting at her. “I was about to take a nap, why?”
“Please tell me she’s joking,” Hyeju sighs, forcing her way past Somi.
“Oh my god, there’s some stupid Alpha Phi event I forgot, isn’t there?”
“It’s the charity ball!” Wonyoung’s voice filters in from the hallway. “Why did you think we went shopping for dresses today?”
“You don’t need an occasion to shop for dresses!” You call back at her. Then you pause. It’s coming back to you— you’re pretty sure you organized this event. The charity ball? Small-talking with alumni for hours in painful heels?
Your feet are already protesting from the long day, you’re not sure you’ll be able to handle more. “Please, please, please convince Moonbyul and Solar to let me skip?” You look up pleadingly at Hyeju. “I have a really big data systems test tomorrow, and I’m so fucking tired. Also, I think I organized this event a few months back when Solar told Wheein to do it, so she really owes me.”
Hyeju sighs, taking Somi by the arm so they can (hopefully) go tell the heads of Alpha Phi of your plight. “Fine! You know she’s going to make you do extra later, though!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever!” You wave her off, relaxing when you hear the telltale sound of the door slamming shut as your friends leave for the ball. The room goes dark. Alpha Phi is a sorority that prioritizes achievement above all else, which is why Solar is more lenient for school-related issues than most other greek life.
You stand up, but only to close your laptop. You do have a data systems test tomorrow, but you’re also nowhere near focused enough to get anything done. Instead, you throw on one of your new outfits: a pretty off-shoulder cardigan and a lacy cami, paired with a brown pleated skirt and your favorite boots.
One thing you love about your apartment is how close it is to campus. Within a few minutes, you’re walking through the main quad, watching students get back from evening labs. It’s your favorite time of day, when the dusk sets in like fine powder and the setting sun has just disappeared beyond the horizon. Not quite night yet, but getting there.
Eventually, you stop at the fountain on one end of the quad. You’ve passed hours studying here, or sipping on an iced coffee between classes, but at this time of day something feels different. Deeper. Like it’s the type of spot to think about the stars instead of scrolling on Instagram.
Suddenly, there’s an iced coffee in front of your face, and you glance up to see Jake. You blink. “Hey. Is that—?”
“An iced blonde vanilla latte? Yes it is. Want it?”
You grin at him, and he smiles back at you, eyes creasing as he takes the seat next to you on the fountain ledge. He briefly gives you a once-over, and you remember your entire plan with the new outfits. It all seems so useless now; he barely even looked at you. God, you hate how much you like him and his perfect smile. Your shoulder presses to his when you take the cup, a welcome warmth in the slight chill of the night. “So what, you just happened to have my favorite drink?”
He coughs, and the tips of his ears turn slightly pink. “Something like that. I didn’t expect to see you here, though. I remember you sending me a text about a data systems test?”
You frown at him. “And you really thought that meant I was studying?”
He laughs. “Fair enough.”
“Where are your friends?”
His smile dims slightly. “Why do you want to know?”
You tilt your head. “Just curious. They’re my friends, too, y’know.”
He answers, but you’re too busy lingering on the slope of his side-profile to really pay attention. Your thoughts from before come back to you, but this time under the guise of insecurity. Does he not want you? Are you not pretty enough for him?
Why would he say everything that he had in the kitchen if he didn’t mean it? Deep down, you know the answer— you’re just one of the many girls he’s lied to, played for his own amusement. And it stings, because you don’t even hate him for it. Because under all your bitterness, you still light up when he texts you or asks to hang out. Because here, at the fountain, you want to lean closer instead of shoving him away.
Despite everything, you still don’t want to lose him, even if that means he just stays a friend.
And even though you’d been so flippant earlier with Lia and Wonyoung, you don’t have a plan. You don’t know what to do except keep existing in this space he carves out for the two of you.
“Y/n? Are you listening?”
You blink at him, and the corner of his mouth curls in amusement. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“We can just study in my apartment next time, instead of the library. Sunghoon’s visiting his parents and Jay’s flying out for a job interview for the next few days, so it’ll be quieter.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do you even have a desk?”
“Um, what about studying on the floor like a real college student?”
“Right, because that’s conducive to learning about matrices.”
He raises his hands placatingly. “Don’t mock it ‘till you’ve tried it.”
You give up. “Yeah, that’s fine.” There’s a brief moment of silence, but you hate the quiet too much to let it last. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“I was walking back from the gym, decided to take the long way.” He shrugs casually. “Nothing more to it.”
You light up. “The gym? Can I come with you next time?”
He stiffens, jaw tensing. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why? I had fun last time.”
“I didn’t,” He mutters, just quiet enough for you to miss it.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “The guys there are too interested for their own good.”
What is that supposed to mean? You don’t really have it in you right now to analyze his words, so you don’t spend any more time on them. “I guess.” As you sip on the coffee, vanilla bursts on your tongue, sharp and sweet. “I love this fountain. Back in freshman year, I would come here all the time. Whenever I failed a test, or felt lost, or when Minseok—”
You cut yourself off, but Jake’s already stiffening, turning towards you. Your eyes widen in panic. Fuck. You hadn’t meant to say that much.
But instead of voicing the assumptions you know he has, he just asks, “When Minseok…?”
For a second, you consider lying to him. Playing it off, keeping this steady peace between the two of you. But like your friends said, he was going to find out eventually.
“I dated Minseok for a while last year.” You say, fixing your eyes on the sky. “It was… rough.”
Jake looks at you like he could tell you were keeping something important from him. But that part of the story was too raw, too painful to bring up yet. So you lead him away from the truth. “We both just weren’t right for each other. It was for the best that we ended things.”
He leans back. “So that’s why you were weird when I texted you about him.”
“I wasn’t weird!” You protest. He gives you a look. “I was… being mysterious.”
“Right, because you’re definitely mysterious.”
You squint at him. “I am!”
He smirks at you, unfairly attractive in the now fading dusk. “Really? What are you hiding from me?”
“Hm… let me think—”
“That’s dangerous.”
You squawk, shoving him even though he barely moves under your palms. “Hello? My secret is obviously that I’m going to drop out of my degree and do Etsy dropshipping for the rest of my life.”
Jake barely reacts. “Yeah, I call bullshit.”
You lower your hands to scowl at him. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I can’t see you ever dropping out. You’re just so… passionate about everything. There’s something about you that lights up the room every time you walk in. Even when you talk, it’s like everyone leans closer just to hear what you’ll say.”
You still, heart in your throat. No one has ever said anything like that to you before. Minseok told you to tone it down before meeting his high school friends, and he hated whenever you laughed too much. You’d never thought about being too energetic as a… good thing.
Jake clears his throat, looking away. “Sorry, that was weird—”
You blink. “No– no, I… I think I needed to hear that.” You smile softly at him. “Thank you.”
You can’t tell for sure, but there might be a subtle flush on his cheeks as he glances back at you. For a moment, you realize that the two of you are way too close to be casual. His face is barely two inches from yours, and the noise from the rest of the quad practically fades into the background as you stare at him. But before you can say anything, he’s reaching up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as his fingers brush your cheekbones. Your eyes flutter, leaning into the touch. Warmth blossoms in its wake.
“Minseok was a fucking idiot,” Jake breathes out, barely audible. You don’t say a word, too afraid to break the moment. “He was a fucking idiot for having the entire world and giving you up.”
You can’t fucking breathe. Your entire world shrinks down to Jake and the look in his eyes, the one that says he would do anything for you, climb every mountain, pass every test—
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, breaking you both out of your stupor. Almost on cue, the two of you jerk backwards, awkwardly trying to save the conversation.
“I should— I should go?” You half-question yourself, wincing.
“I’ll walk you back,” Jake stands up, extending his hand like it’s second nature. Maybe it is, You tell yourself viciously. Maybe he just holds hands with any girl.
But you still take it and start walking, so the joke is still on you. It’s not lost on you that he still hasn’t brought up what happened in his kitchen last week. For a second, you thought things might actually change. That this might spill past friendship into… whatever it is you’ve been feeling.
You glance at Jake out of the corner of your eye. He’s texting Sunghoon about something. You sigh. At least walking back, your hand in his, you can pretend something has changed.
The two of you stop outside your apartment, and you can tell he’s about to spit the same script: have a nice night, text me later, see you tomorrow— that he usually does when he walks you back. So instead you summon a lick of courage and blurt out: “Wanna come inside?”
He freezes, like he didn’t expect you to say that. You stare at him, eyes wide, unsure if you should try to run away and save yourself the embarrassment or just wait it out.
“Sure, yeah,” He manages eventually, more hesitant than you’re used to hearing. “Lead the way.”
You lead him into the kitchen, which is small but not cramped, decorated with marble countertops and oak cabinet doors. Alpha Phi had too many pledges to fit in the house anyway, so the five of you split this apartment, surprisingly cheap for how big it was. The previous owners had taken good care of it, and it was spacious and clean, well-suited to a college student’s needs.
You fill up a glass of water and hand it to Jake, leaning against one side of the ledge while he leans on the opposite side in the narrow space between the island and the counter. Your legs brush against each other when you shift, and you cross your arms over your chest, unsure how to navigate this unfamiliar territory.
“So…” You start, intending to bring up the weather or class or your group project— something safe and nowhere near what you’re thinking. Instead, you go: “My friends liked that movie night we did.”
But he barely reacts. “Yeah? We could do it again. Or go out somewhere.”
Fuck it. You think. If he doesn’t want to confront what he did, then you will. “Really? I thought you didn’t enjoy it.”
His brows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
You lean forward in the already narrow space. “I don’t know, you spent a lot of time in your kitchen and didn’t say anything about it.”
That gets him. His eyes dilate and narrow all at once, and muscle in his jaw feathers. “And now we’re in another kitchen. So that’s your move, isn’t it?”
Your breath leaves you all at once, escaping into the tense air. But his stare doesn’t leave you, low and heated and filled with all the words you won’t say. One second passes, his words drifting into the space between you, before you reach forward and kiss him.
In a second, he’s on you, kissing back just as furiously, his lips warm and soft and pressing against yours with the kind of fervor you used to dream about. He presses you back into the counter, groaning against your mouth. Your fingers reach up, threading through his hair and tugging him deeper into you.
Suddenly, he breaks off, panting, and attaches his lips to your neck, making you whimper.
“You're so fucking pretty,” He whispers into your ear, low and rough. "You like that?"
You can’t even summon the awareness to do anything but nod in agreement before he’s on you again, sucking a trail of marks from your jaw to your collarbone. Your grip tightens in his hair, and he groans. “Fuck, I can’t believe you’re real.”
But you’re an impatient woman, so before long you’re tugging him back up to your lips, barely paying attention when he lifts you onto the counter without breaking the kiss. It’s all fire and passion, a heat so consuming you don’t know where you end and he begins. Like everything else has faded away except for the feeling of his lips on yours, a feeling you’ve been thinking about since that bodyshot three weeks ago—
“Y/n? Are you home?” Somi’s voice calls out from the entryway, and reality slams back into you in an instant. You shove Jake away, wide-eyed.
“Oh my god,” You whisper, panicked. “Hide somewhere!”
But he just smirks lazily, hair mussed enough and lips swollen enough that it’s quite obvious what you were doing. You’re sure you look even worse. “Feeling shy— ow!”
You smack him in the shoulder, glaring at him. “I’m serious!” If the rest of your friends find out that you were making out with Jake in their kitchen, they might actually evict you. “My room’s down the hall on the left.”
Jake takes his sweet time getting to your room and closing the door— not without a salacious wink— but thankfully by the time the girls pile into the kitchen, he’s out of sight. Wonyoung strides in first, heading straight for the fridge when she sees you and stops in her tracks. Too late, you forgot to look in a mirror.
“Oh my god.” She raises her eyebrows.
You lift your hands pleadingly. “Please, don’t—”
“What the hell happened to you?” Lia asks, stunned, and the rest of your friends echo the sentiment as they stare at you.
You choke. “Um… I got into a situation…?”
Hyeju rolls her eyes. “Bitch, we all know you were just making out with someone. Messy hair, red lips, weird post-sex-but-in-this-case-post-kissing glow.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Yuna gives you a look. “Yeah, alright, spit it out babe. Who was it? Jaehyun?”
“Wasn’t he just flirting with Wonyoung?”
“Maybe Eunwoo? Or Yejun, you were texting him too, right?”
You scowl at them. “You guys are very misinformed.”
Two texts buzz on your phone in quick succession. You glance down and groan.
Jake
who the hell is eunwoo?
and yejun?
You type out a quick reply.
stop listening, fucker
You definitely don’t have enough sleep to deal with all of this. “Listen guys, I promise I will tell you who it is if you wait until tomorrow morning when I have less of a headache. Deal?”
They sulk off, disappointed about not having any new gossip, and you take a moment to brace yourself against the kitchen counter.
Now, you have to figure out how the hell you’re going to sneak Jake out of an apartment where you guys go to sleep at 5am on average.
NOTES: CHAPTER 6 YAY ik this took genuinely forever um... so I actually am still incredibly busy but I will still be updating. TYSM to everyone who likes and reblogs I love all of u sm <3
summary: a college party starts like any other—loud, crowded, easy to get lost in—but shifts when two people keep finding themselves in quieter spaces than the rest of the night. what begins as routine turns into something harder to ignore, even if neither of them says it out loud.
word count: ~4,238
authors note: soso i really really like this one and i hope you guys do too & im going to start writing for hollis very very soon btw, as always, feedback is always welcome and actually needed so don’t be shy but nonetheless profitez bien, mes angels.
you pace around the living room for the third time in ten minutes.
it’s already set up.
lights strung across the ceiling, bottles lined up on the counter, speakers tested twice, pong table ready—everything exactly how delta gamma parties are supposed to look.
loud. easy. full.
you told your president you’d host tonight.
now you kind of wish you didn’t.
your eyes flick back to the bottles.
then to your bag sitting half-zipped on the counter.
you hesitate for a second.
how much of your supply are you actually about to let random people touch… for free?
you exhale, quick, shaking the thought off like it doesn’t matter.
it’ll work itself out.
it always does.
—
your room is quieter.
music low, something soft playing off your speaker while you sit at your vanity, fixing your makeup like it’s any other night.
it almost feels normal.
almost.
the door opens without a knock.
you glance up in the mirror.
nate.
he lingers in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be there.
which—he kind of isn’t.
but he always shows up anyway.
you’ve known him for a while now.
statistics class. a few rows ahead. always answering questions no one else understands.
quiet. smart. keeps to himself.
the first time he talked to you was at a sigma nu party—voice low, awkward, asking if what he heard was true.
that you sold.
he could barely get the words out.
you remember laughing a little.
not in a mean way. just—
he didn’t look like someone who’d be asking you that.
but he came back.
again and again.
always the same thing.
always quick. quiet. no small talk unless you start it.
—
he shifts slightly in the doorway now, like he’s debating stepping in or not.
someone must’ve let him up.
your sisters all think he’s your boyfriend.
you’ve never corrected them.
well maybe once or twice
it’s easier that way.
you turn in your chair, giving him a quick once-over.
gray zip-up hoodie. unzipped just enough to show there’s nothing underneath.
jeans. simple.
he looks like he threw it on without thinking.
his hair falls into his face while he rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to you for a second before dropping again.
you lean back against your vanity, arms loosely crossed.
“you’re early,” you say.
he shrugs a little.
“you said before it starts.”
his voice is low. careful.
like he doesn’t want anyone else hearing, even though it’s just you.
you watch him for a second.
he still hasn’t fully stepped into the room.
“door’s not gonna bite you,” you add.
that gets him to move, finally stepping inside and closing it behind him.
quiet again.
“i’m here for my usual,” he says, glancing at you like you might say no. “you said i could swing by.”
you tilt your head slightly, studying him.
he looks the same as always.
a little tense.
a little out of place.
but still here.
you push off the vanity slowly.
“yeah,” you say. “i remember.
you walk toward him, close enough to notice the way he shifts slightly, like he’s not used to being that close to you.
or maybe he is.
he just acts like he isn’t.
you stop just a little too close to him.
not enough to be obvious.
just enough that he notices.
he straightens slightly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
you do.
you notice everything.
“your usual,” you repeat, like you’re thinking about it.
“you ever switch it up or…?”
he huffs quietly, almost defensive. “it works.”
you glance up at him, a small smile pulling at your lips.
“right. wouldn’t wanna take risks.”
he shifts again, rubbing the back of his neck.
“i mean—no, i just—”
he stops, like he hears himself.
you let the silence sit for a second.
just to make it worse.
“you just what?” you press, softer now.
his eyes flick to yours for half a second, then away.
“nothing.”
you hum like you don’t believe him.
“you’re bad at this, you know that?”
that gets a reaction.
his brows pull slightly. “at what?”
you tilt your head, stepping around him slowly, like you’re circling the conversation instead of answering it.
“talking to me.”
he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh but not really.
“i’m talking to you right now.”
“barely,” you say.
you walk back.
you reach your vanity again, opening a drawer like you’re not paying attention anymore—even though you are.
he watches you.
you can feel it.
“you only talk when you need something.”
you glance at him through the mirror.
“kinda rude.”
he shakes his head slightly. “that’s not—”
he stops again.
you wait.
he doesn’t finish.
you smile to yourself, pulling something out but not turning around yet.
“so you do talk more?” you say, casual. “or is this all i get?”
he exhales, this time actually letting out a small laugh.
“you’re doing that on purpose.”
you turn now, leaning back against the vanity again.
“doing what?”
he looks at you like you already know.
you do.
he hesitates, then—
“making it weird.”
you grin slightly. “i think you’re doing that yourself.”
that lands.
he looks down for a second, shaking his head under his breath.
“i’m just here to—”
“get your usual,” you finish for him.
he nods, relieved you didn’t drag that out longer.
you take a step closer again, holding it out—but not giving it to him yet.
“you know,” you say, quieter now, “you’re a lot less nervous than the first time.”
his eyes flick up.
“i wasn’t nervous.”
you raise a brow.
he pauses.
“…okay, maybe a little.”
you let out a soft laugh.
“you could barely look at me.”
“you were talking loud,” he mutters. “about prices.”
“ohh,” you nod slowly. “so that’s what it was.”
he doesn’t answer.
he just looks at you like he knows you’re not gonna let it go.
he notices that too.
of course he does.
“you’re still kinda bad at eye contact, though,” you add lightly.
he scoffs under his breath, but there’s a hint of a smile now.
“i’m fine.”
“yeah?” you lean in just slightly. “look at me then.”
he does.
for a second.
two.
then looks away again.
you smile, satisfied.
“thought so.”
—
you let the silence sit for a second.
not awkward.
just… stretched.
he’s still holding your gaze for half a beat longer this time before it drops again, like he caught himself.
you don’t say anything about it.
just watch him.
then you glance down at what’s still in your hand.
“you always this impatient?” you ask lightly.
he looks at it, then back at you. “you’re the one holding it.”
“yeah,” you shrug. “and you’re still here.”
that almost gets a smile out of him.
almost.
you step a little closer again, closing the space just enough to make it noticeable.
this time you don’t pull it back.
you hold it out.
he reaches for it, slower than before.
like he’s thinking about it now.
your fingers brush his —soft, quick—
but you don’t let go right away.
just a second too long.
long enough for him to notice.
long enough for him to hesitate.
then you let go.
he clears his throat quietly, looking down at it for a second like he needs something to focus on.
“thanks,” he mutters.
“mhm.”
he tucks it away, movements a little more careful than they need to be.
like he’s buying himself time.
you tilt your head slightly.
“you gonna leave right after?” you ask.
he pauses.
just for a second.
“i mean… i don’t have to.”
you nod slowly, like you expected that answer.
“there’s a party,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward downstairs. “in case you didn’t notice.”
he huffs a quiet breath. “kinda hard not to.”
“you could stay,” you add, casual. “if you want.”
you don’t look at him right away when you say it.
like it doesn’t matter.
like you’re just throwing it out there.
it hangs for a second.
he shifts his weight slightly.
“i don’t really—” he starts, then stops.
you glance at him. “don’t really what?”
“parties,” he says. “not really my thing.”
you nod once, like you get it.
you do.
but still—
“you came to one when you met me.”
he looks at you again.
“…yeah.”
“and you survived,” you add.
that pulls a small smile from him, quick but real
“you don’t have to stay long,” you say. “just… don’t disappear right away.”
the wording is light.
but it lands heavier than that.
he notices.
you can tell.
there’s a pause.
then he nods once.
“i’ll stay. for a bit.”
you smile, small.
like that’s enough.
“good.”
from downstairs, the music gets louder.
voices starting to build.
the party’s actually starting now.
you glance toward the door, then back at him.
“try not to look so out of place,” you add, teasing again.
he shakes his head, a quiet laugh slipping out.
“no promises.”
“figured.”
you move past him toward the door, brushing his shoulder lightly as you go.
you don’t look back.
but you know he’s still standing there for a second before following.
—
by the time you get downstairs, the party’s already started.
not slow, not easing into it—
just loud.
music heavy, bass shaking through the floor, people packed into the living room like it’s been going for hours already.
you barely pause.
this part is easy for you.
someone grabs your arm the second you step off the last stair.
“you finally came down,” one of your sisters laughs, already a little gone, red cup in hand.
you smile, quick, slipping right into it.
“had to make an entrance.”
she laughs again, pulling you into a quick side hug before getting distracted by something else.
you’re already moving.
talking, smiling, grabbing a drink without really thinking about it.
it’s automatic.
like you never left.
—
nate doesn’t follow as easily.
he lingers near the bottom of the stairs at first, taking everything in like it’s too much all at once.
which it probably is.
people brush past him without noticing, music too loud for anything to feel grounded.
he stays off to the side.
hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense.
watching.
mostly watching you.
—
you catch it eventually.
not right away.
but after a few minutes—mid-conversation, laughing at something someone says—you glance across the room and there he is.
exactly where you left him.
you excuse yourself without thinking too hard about it.
slipping through people, past bodies and noise, until you’re standing in front of him again.
“you look uncomfortable,” you say.
he lets out a quiet breath, like he’s been holding it.
“i told you this wasn’t my thing.”
“yeah,” you nod.
he glances at you.
“…yeah.”
you tilt your head slightly, studying him.
“c’mon,” you say, grabbing his wrist before he can react.
he stiffens for half a second—just surprised—but doesn’t pull away.
you lead him further into the room.
“you can’t just stand in the corner all night. that’s weird.”
“this is already weird,” he mutters.
you laugh lightly.
“you’ll be fine.”
—
it doesn’t take long for people to notice.
it never does.
especially when you’re the one pulling him through the crowd.
a couple of your sisters glance over, exchanging looks you don’t miss.
one of them leans toward another, whispering something with a small smile.
you ignore it.
mostly.
until—
“wait,” someone says as you pass. “is that your boyfriend?”
you don’t stop walking.
“no.”
too quick.
too easy.
but it doesn’t matter.
they’re already smiling like they don’t believe you.
—
you finally stop near the kitchen, letting go of his wrist.
he looks at you.
then at the people around you.
then back at you.
“they think i’m your boyfriend,” he says.
you shrug, reaching for a drink on the counter.
“they think a lot of things.”
he watches you for a second.
“do you correct them?”
you take a sip, then glance at him.
“sometimes.”
there’s a beat.
you just set your cup down, leaning back against the counter like this is nothing.
like this is normal.
he shifts slightly closer, still not fully relaxed but less stiff than before.
“you do this every weekend?” he asks.
“pretty much.”
he nods slowly, taking it in again—but this time it’s different.
less overwhelmed.
more… curious.
his eyes flick back to you.
“you look like you belong here.”
you raise a brow.
“i do.”
he nods again.
“…yeah.”
there’s something in the way he says it.
not teasing.
not awkward.
just honest.
and it sits there for a second longer than anything else has tonight.
it doesn’t take long for it to get too much.
the music gets louder.
people closer.
you get pulled into conversations, handed another drink, then another—laughing, moving, slipping further into it like it’s second nature.
nate doesn’t.
he stays near you at first.
then a little behind.
then off to the side again.
you don’t notice right away.
—
until you turn to say something and he’s not there.
you scan the room once.
twice.
then you spot him near the hallway, shoulders tight, already halfway out of the crowd like he’s been trying to leave without making it obvious.
you sigh quietly to yourself, setting your cup down.
“hold on,” you say to no one in particular, already moving.
—
you catch up to him just as he reaches the back door.
“you’re disappearing already?” you say.
he glances at you, a little caught.
“i was just—getting some air.”
“mm,” you hum, not fully buying it.
you push the door open before he can say anything else.
cool air hits instantly.
quieter out here. not silent, but enough that you can actually think.
you step onto the porch, leaning lightly against the railing.
he follows, closing the door behind him.
for a second, neither of you says anything.
you can still hear the music through the walls, muffled now, distant.
he exhales, running a hand through his hair.
“sorry,” he mutters. “it’s just a lot.”
you glance at him.
he looks more like himself out here.
less tense. less… out of place.
“you don’t have to apologize,” you say. “i dragged you into it.”
“you didn’t drag me,” he says. “i said i’d stay.”
“yeah,” you tilt your head slightly. “you did.”
a small pause.
you watch him for a second.
then, like it just crosses your mind—
“you haven’t paid me yet.”
he looks at you, blinking once.
“…seriously?”
you shrug, lips curving slightly.
“what? business is business.”
he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“you waited this long to say that?”
“i was busy,” you say. “hosting.”
he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
“how much was it again?”
you don’t answer right away.
just watch him for a second longer than necessary.
“you don’t remember?” you ask.
he pauses, glancing up at you.
“…i do. i just wanted to make sure you didn’t change it.”
you smile a little at that.
“i don’t do that.”
“you literally just said ‘business is business,’” he points out.
“yeah,” you nod. “not bad business.”
that gets another small laugh out of him.
quieter this time.
he looks back down at his phone, unlocking it.
you push off the railing slightly, stepping closer—not all the way, just enough.
“it’s the same,” you say finally.
he nods, typing it in.
you watch the screen light reflect off his face for a second before your phone buzzes in your hand.
you don’t check it right away.
just look at him.
“you always this serious about it?” he asks.
“about getting paid?” you say. “yeah.”
he glances up again.
“figured.”
you check your phone now. the payment’s there.
“good,” you say, slipping it back into your pocket.
another pause.
but this one feels different.
less transactional.
more… lingering.
you lean back against the railing again.
“you okay now?” you ask.
he nods once. “yeah. it’s better out here.”
you look toward the door, then back at him.
“you don’t have to go back in,” you say.
he studies your face for a second.
“you do,” he says.
you shrug slightly. “i always do.”
that sits between you.
quiet.
the music thumps faintly behind the door.
people, noise, everything waiting on the other side.
but neither of you moves yet.
the door swings open behind you.
music spills out louder for a second, voices overlapping.
“there you are,” one of your sisters says, already halfway through a sentence before she even fully sees who you’re with.
her eyes flick between you and nate.
pause.
a small smile.
“oh,” she says, dragging it out slightly. “my bad.”
you don’t move away from him.
don’t explain.
she looks between you again, clearly reading into it.
“we need you inside,” she adds, like she suddenly remembers. “someone’s asking for you. like—really asking.”
you sigh softly, glancing toward the door, then back at nate.
the moment’s gone now.
or at least… paused.
“of course i'll be in soon,” you say.
she just grins and slips back inside, leaving the door half open before it swings shut again.
quieter.
but not the same as before.
you look back at him.
you glance at nate.
“give me a minute,” you say, already stepping back.
he nods. “yeah.”
you pause mid-step, looking at him again.
“don’t disappear.”
he huffs out a quiet laugh this time, shaking his head.
“i won’t.”
“okay. good.”
you hold his gaze for a second.
then turn, pushing the door open and stepping back into the noise.
it takes longer than a second.
of course it does.
someone stops you the second you walk in.
then someone else.
music louder again, lights too bright, everything pulling you back into it like you never left.
you move through it automatically—talking, nodding, laughing when you’re supposed to—
but your attention isn’t fully there anymore.
not really.
—
when you finally slip back outside, the air feels different.
quieter again.
you spot him right away.
same place.
exactly where you left him.
you walk back over, slower this time.
“see,” you say lightly, “you didn’t disappear.”
he glances at you.
“told you.”
you lean back against the railing again, closer this time without thinking about it.
“you doing okay out here on your own?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says. “it’s better.”
you nod, watching him for a second longer than necessary.
then—
“you don’t act like this with everyone, right?” he asks.
you tilt your head. “like what?”
he gestures vaguely between you. “this.”
you smile slightly.
“you don’t act like this with everyone either.”
that shuts him up for a second.
you both know it’s true.
the space between you feels smaller now.
not physically.
just… different.
like something’s about to happen or be said.
he shifts slightly closer without realizing it.
“you’re kinda—” he starts.
and then stops.
you wait.
he doesn’t finish.
“kinda what?” you ask, softer.
he shakes his head, looking away again. “nothing.”
you smile a little.
“you do that a lot.”
“yeah,” he mutters. “i know.”
another pause.
longer this time.
you could say something.
you don’t.
neither does he.
and it just—
hangs there.
right on the edge of something.
you look at him for a second longer.
then exhale, glancing away.
“you wanna just—”
you stop, like you’re deciding how to say it.
“we could go upstairs,” you add, more casual now. “it’s quieter.”
a small pause.
you nod toward the house. “my room.”
he looks at you.
really looks this time.
like he knows that’s not just about it being quieter.
“…yeah,” he says.
not hesitant.
just… quieter than before.
you nod once, like that settles it.
“okay.”
you push off the railing, brushing past him lightly as you reach for the door.
“c’mon.”
you push the door open, the noise hitting you again for a split second before you slip back inside.
he’s right next to you this time.
closer than before.
you don’t stop in the living room.
don’t get pulled into anything.
you just move.
past people, past voices calling your name, past hands reaching out—
“wait—where are you going?” someone laughs, grabbing at your arm for a second.
“upstairs,” you say, already pulling away. “i’ll be back.”
you don’t wait for a response.
you can feel him keeping up next to you, not saying anything, just following.
—
your room is the same as before.
quiet.
dim.
like the party doesn’t exist.
you shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a second like you’re letting the silence settle.
he lingers a few steps in.
same spot as earlier.
like he hasn’t decided what to do with himself yet.
you glance at him, a small smile pulling at your lips.
“you can sit,” you say.
he nods slightly, moving this time—sitting at the edge of your bed, hands resting loosely like he’s trying not to touch anything.
you push off the door, crossing the room.
sitting back at your vanity.
“relax,” you add. “it’s not that serious.”
“i am relaxed,” he says.
you raise a brow.
he exhales, glancing away.
“…i’m trying to be.”
that makes you smile a little more.
you sit up and move around your room like it’s routine—because it is.
drawer. bag. lighter.
everything where you left it.
he watches you.
again.
you can feel it without looking.
“you always this quiet?” you ask, not turning around yet.
“you always ask that many questions?” he shoots back.
you glance at him over your shoulder, a hint of a grin.
“only when people don’t talk.”
he shakes his head slightly, but there’s something softer in it now.
less tense.
you finally turn fully, stepping closer.
“you don’t have to act weird in here,” you say. “it’s just me.”
he looks at you.
“i’m not acting weird.”
“you are,” you say simply.
a small pause.
then—
“…okay, maybe a little.”
you laugh under your breath.
“thought so.”
you sit down beside him, not too close at first.
just enough.
“better than outside?” you ask.
he nods once.
“yeah.”
his voice is quieter again.
not shut off.
just… lower.
like he doesn’t feel the need to compete with anything in here.
you lean back slightly on your hands, looking at him instead of the room now.
“you almost left,” you say.
he glances at you.
“…i didn’t.”
“mm,” you hum. “but you were going to.”
he doesn’t answer right away.
then—
“it was a lot,” he says.
you nod.
“i know.”
a small pause.
“you didn’t have to stay,” you add.
he looks at you again.
“…i wanted to.”
that lands.
you don’t react right away.
just hold his gaze for a second longer than usual.
“yeah?” you say, quieter now.
he nods.
“yeah.”
the room feels smaller again.
like outside.
but different.
more contained.
you shift slightly closer without really thinking about it.
“you’re not as boring as i thought,” you say.
he lets out a quiet laugh. “you thought i was boring?”
“you sit in the front of a stats class,” you shrug. “what was i supposed to think?”
“that i’m smart,” he says.
you smile a little. “that too.”
he shakes his head, looking down for a second.
then back at you.
“you’re not what i thought either.”
you tilt your head.
“what did you think?”
he hesitates.
of course he does.
you wait.
“…different,” he says finally.
you smile slightly.
“that’s not an answer.”
you watch him.
it’s the only one i’ve got.”
—
silence settles again.
but it’s not empty.
it’s full in a way that makes everything feel slower.
you shift slightly closer again without really meaning to.
or maybe you do.
it’s hard to tell anymore.
his gaze drops for a second—just briefly—then comes back up.
like he noticed something he wasn’t supposed to.
you don’t move away.
you don’t move at all, actually.
“you’re doing that thing again,” you say quietly.
“what thing?”
your voice softens a little.
“thinking too much.”
that gets something out of him—not a laugh, not exactly—but a small breath that almost is.
he leans in a fraction.
not enough to be obvious.
enough that it changes the air between you.
you notice it immediately.
you don’t stop it.
he doesn’t either.
for a second, neither of you speaks.
just the space closing slowly, like it was always going to.
his eyes flick to your mouth.
just once.
then back up.
you notice that too.
and for a second—just a second you think he might actually—
laughter. footsteps. someone calling your name.
the moment snaps in half almost immediately.
you both pull back slightly at the same time without acknowledging it.
like nothing happened.
like it wasn’t there.
a beat passes.
he looks away first.
you stand up slowly.
“i should go check that,” you say, like your voice didn’t just change. “i’ll be right back.”
he nods once.
“yeah.”
another pause.
he stays seated.
you don’t look back too long.
but you can feel it still sitting there when you leave the room.
he stays seated after the door closes.
quiet settles back in, but it doesn’t feel the same anymore.
he exhales through his nose, almost a laugh.
rubs his palms once against his jeans.
“…yes.”
his hand tightens into a fist for a second before relaxing again.
