liah

● ♡ pink, cute, and girly ♡ • 19 •

[veilofsixeyes]

(五条悟 ) —HIS FAVOURITE SECRETARY: volume 102

pairings: president gojo x secretary reader

precis: when you—a brilliant political strategist—take a job as executive secretary to the youngest, most unconventional president in history, you expect chaos—not a marriage proposal thirty seconds after meeting him. president satoru gojo is impulsive, charming, and convinced that you're the one from day one, proposing daily with everything from skywritten declarations to blue roses in the white house rose garden. you're organized, sharp-witted, and determined to maintain professional boundaries despite their undeniable chemistry.

but as ethics investigations, congressional hearings, and media firestorms threaten both their careers, they must answer the impossible question: can love survive when the whole world is watching, and is saying "yes" worth risking everything they've worked for?

. ⋆. ࿔ content warnings (for overall series): work romance, love at first sight, slight age gap (reader is in mid twenties, gojo is in early thirties), politics but not as accurate?, press conferences, slight angst, conflict, terrorism, eventual smut, me being a history freak, tons of dialogue if ur into that, arguments, he's a posessive freak, sexual tension, media being annoying asl wc: 14k

the morning after the skywriting incident, you arrived at the white house at 6:45 am—fifteen minutes earlier than usual—because you'd learned in five weeks that getting ahead of a crisis meant being there before anyone else could panic.

you were too late.

the west wing was already chaos.

you could feel it the moment you badged through security, could see it in the harried expressions of staffers hurrying past with tablets and folders clutched to their chests, could hear it in the urgent voices echoing from offices, could sense it in the very air that seemed to vibrate with barely contained panic.

"—need a statement by eight—"

"—every major outlet is calling—"

"—senator harrison's office just released—"

your heels clicked against the polished floor as you made your way to your office, nodding at people you passed, your face carefully neutral even as your stomach churned with anxiety. you'd barely slept. had spent most of the night lying awake in your apartment, staring at the ceiling, your phone lighting up every few minutes with texts and calls you'd ignored.

your mother had called six times. your college roommate had sent fourteen texts. senator morrison's office had left three voicemails. a reporter from the post had somehow gotten your personal number.

and through it all, one question had circled in your mind like a vulture: what have i done?

you pushed open the door to your office and froze.

press secretary shoko ieiri was sitting in your chair, feet up on your carefully organized desk, a cigarette dangling from her lips even though smoking was absolutely not allowed inside the white house. she looked like she hadn't slept either—her usually sharp blazer was wrinkled, her dark hair escaping from its normally perfect bun, and there were shadows under her eyes that even her makeup couldn't hide.

"you're late," she sighed, not looking up from her phone. "we have a crisis."

"it's 6:45. i'm early." you set your bag down, started unpacking your laptop. "and you can't smoke in here."

"i'm press secretary. i'll smoke where i want." she took a drag, blew smoke toward the ceiling, then finally looked at you. her eyes were bloodshot. "do you have any idea how many media requests i've gotten since yesterday? take a guess."

"i don't need to guess." you hung up your coat, moved to your desk with the kind of calm that came from years of crisis management. "i need you to tell me the damage so i can start strategizing solutions."

"two hundred and thirty-seven." she stood, started pacing, cigarette leaving a trail of smoke. "two hundred and thirty-seven requests for comment, interview, confirmation, denial, background information, exclusive access, and one marriage proposal from a very confused podcaster who thought the skywriting was for him."

despite everything—despite the career-ending investigation looming, despite the media circus, despite the absolute catastrophe of your professional life—you almost laughed. "only in washington."

"CNN wants a sit-down interview. Fox News wants a statement. MSNBC wants to know if this represents a pattern of presidential impulsiveness. the times is running a piece on workplace ethics. the Post is doing a deep dive into your background—yes, they called me, and no, i didn't give them anything, but they're going to find whatever they're looking for anyway because that's what they do."

she stopped pacing, turned to face you, and for the first time since you'd met her—sharp, cynical, unflappable shoko—she looked genuinely worried. "and that's just the media. congress is worse. senator harrison issued a statement at midnight calling for an ethics investigation. representative chen wants hearings. the minority leader is making noise about presidential conduct. your boy has managed to unite both parties, which is impressive since they can't agree on anything else."

"he's not my boy." the automatic response came out sharper than intended.

"isn't he though?" shoko crushed her cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe, then pocketed the butt—at least she wasn't leaving evidence. "because from where i'm sitting, the president of the united states just skywritten a very public marriage proposal to his secretary, and now i have to figure out how to spin that in a way that doesn't make him look like a boss abusing his power or you look like someone sleeping her way to influence."

the words hit like a slap. your hands stilled on your laptop.

"i haven't—we're not—" you stopped. drew breath. found your center. "i know what it looks like. i'm aware of the optics. that's why i told him no. that's why i told him to wait. that's why i've maintained every professional boundary despite his best efforts to demolish them."

"i know." shoko's voice softened slightly. she moved closer, leaned against your desk, her expression shifting from professional crisis manager to something more human, more concerned. "i know you haven't. i know you're not. but that's not how it looks. that's not how it's going to be portrayed. and right now, appearance is everything."

she pulled out her phone, started scrolling. "twitter is having a field day. #presidentproposal is still trending, but now there are think pieces. 'is this romantic or problematic?' 'presidential power and workplace dynamics.' 'when does charm become coercion?' and my personal favorite—" she turned the phone so you could see, "—'the secretary will see you now: a thread on why this is actually about power, not love.'"

you felt sick. your carefully constructed professional reputation—ten years of hard work, of being taken seriously, of proving you belonged in rooms full of powerful men—potentially destroyed by one grand gesture you hadn't even asked for.

"what do i do?" the question came out before you could stop it, and you hated how small it sounded.

shoko sighed, pocketed her phone, and looked at you with sympathy. "honestly? i don't know. this is unprecedented. we don't have a playbook for 'president skywritten proposal to secretary.' i checked. no previous administration has dealt with this specific scenario, shockingly."

she straightened, brushed cigarette ash off her blazer. "there's a senior staff meeting in twenty minutes. press conference at nine. the president wants you there for both, which is either very brave or very stupid. possibly both." she headed for the door, then paused, looking back. "for what it's worth? he's serious about you. i've worked with him for two years—through the campaign, through the election, through six months of this insanity—and i've never seen him like this. so whatever you decide, make sure it's what you actually want, not what you think you're supposed to want."

then she was gone, leaving you alone in your office with the scent of cigarette smoke and the weight of impossible decisions.

you made it exactly three steps into the senior staff meeting before you realized how bad this was going to be.

the roosevelt room was packed—more people than usual, all of them looking grim. chief of staff ijichi stood at the head of the table, his eye already twitching, his tablet clutched so tightly his knuckles were white. national security advisor nanami sat ramrod straight, jaw clenched in that way that meant he was furious but too professional to show it. the various deputies and assistants lined the walls, all of them carefully not looking at you as you entered.

and at the center of it all, president satoru gojo lounged in his chair, feet on the table, scrolling through his phone with an expression that could only be described as utterly unbothered.

"good morning," he chirped cheerfully as you took your usual position against the wall, tablet in hand. "beautiful day. did everyone see the sunrise? very picturesque. almost as good as the skywriting yesterday."

ijichi's eye twitched harder.

"mr. president," he started, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining professionalism, "perhaps we could discuss the... events of yesterday and their implications for—"

"my approval ratings?" satoru interrupted, still looking at his phone. "up three points. apparently people love a romantic president. who knew?"

"that's not—" ijichi pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture you'd seen approximately forty times in the past five weeks. "sir, with all due respect, this isn't about approval ratings. this is about workplace ethics. congressional oversight. the proper conduct of the office of—"

"i followed all proper procedures," satoru said, finally looking up from his phone. his expression was pleasant but his eyes were sharp, focused. "i used private contractors. filed the appropriate paperwork. got clearance from six different agencies. everything was completely legal and above board. i checked. twice."

"legal and appropriate are not the same thing," nanami interjected, his voice cold and precise. "the legality of the skywriting is not in question. the wisdom of it, however—"

"is also not up for debate." satoru's voice hadn't changed—still pleasant, still casual—but something in his tone made everyone in the room go quiet. "i'm the president. i'm allowed to have a personal life. i'm allowed to pursue relationships. and i'm allowed to do so in whatever manner i choose, as long as it's legal. which it was."

he stood, pocketed his phone, and for the first time that morning, looked directly at you. the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch, made you very aware that everyone in the room was now also looking at you.

"what i'm not allowed to do," he continued, his eyes never leaving yours, "is let my staff dictate my personal decisions. so here's how this is going to work: shoko will issue a statement confirming that yes, i did skywrite a proposal. yes, it was to my secretary. no, there is no ethics violation because she has not accepted, and any future relationship would be handled in accordance with all applicable policies and procedures."

he finally looked away from you, scanning the room, his expression daring anyone to argue. "the white house counsel will prepare documentation outlining how any potential relationship would be structured to avoid conflicts of interest. HR will review all relevant policies. and in the meantime, everyone will treat my secretary with the same respect and professionalism they did before yesterday, or they can find employment elsewhere. are we clear?"

absolute silence. the kind of heavy, uncomfortable silence that came when everyone wanted to argue but knew they couldn't.

"good." satoru checked his watch. "i have a press conference in thirty minutes where i'll say essentially the same thing, probably less diplomatically. any other concerns?"

more silence.

"excellent. dismissed." he started for the door, then paused. "oh, and ijichi? your eye is twitching again. you should get that checked."

he left. the room erupted in whispered conversations the moment the door closed behind him.

and you stood there, tablet clutched to your chest, wondering if you'd just witnessed him defending you or digging both your graves deeper.

the press conference was a disaster.

you watched from the side of the press briefing room, your usual position during these events, trying to maintain a neutral expression while reporters shouted questions and satoru answered with his characteristic mix of charm and complete disregard for political norms.

"mr. president! is it true you skywritten a marriage proposal to your secretary?"

"yes. very romantic, i thought. the skywriting company did excellent work. i can give you their contact information if anyone's interested."

a ripple of laughter. shoko, standing next to you, made a sound like she was in pain.

"mr. president, do you believe this represents an appropriate use of—"

"of my personal time and personal resources? yes. next question."

"what about the ethics concerns? the power imbalance inherent in—"

"there's no ethics violation because there's no relationship. yet." he grinned at the cameras, and you wanted to sink through the floor. "but i'm very optimistic about my chances."

more laughter. more shouted questions. shoko lit another cigarette despite the no-smoking policy.

"mr. president, has your secretary responded to the proposal?"

"she asked me to wait a month. which i'm doing. i'm very good at waiting when properly motivated. and she's very motivating."

"oh my god," shoko muttered, smoke curling from her lips. "he's going to get himself impeached over a crush."

"it's not a crush," you whispered loudly, surprising yourself.

she looked at you, one eyebrow raised. "no?"

"no." you watched him field another question, watched him deflect with humor while actually saying nothing of substance, watched him control the room with the same ease he controlled every room he entered. "it's worse than that."

"how much worse?"

you didn't answer. couldn't answer. because the truth was sitting heavy in your chest, impossible to ignore: you were falling for him too.

and that terrified you more than any press conference ever could.

the call came on a tuesday morning, exactly one week after the skywriting incident.

you were in your office, colour-coding the president's schedule for the following month—blue for domestic meetings, red for international calls, green for congressional negotiations, yellow for the personal time he never actually took—when your desk phone rang with the internal line tone that meant someone from within the white house was calling.

"executive secretary's office," you answered automatically, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder so you could keep typing. you had fourteen items to reschedule because the president had decided—without consulting you—to add a last-minute trip to pennsylvania to tour a manufacturing facility. never mind that it completely destroyed tuesday's carefully planned agenda.

"this is jennifer adams from white house counsel." the voice was crisp, professional, female. unfamiliar. "i need you to come to my office at 2 pm today for a meeting."

your fingers stilled on the keyboard. white house counsel. that was never good. that was ethics investigations and legal complications and the kind of meetings that ended careers.

"what's this regarding?" you asked carefully, keeping your voice neutral even as your heart rate picked up, even as your stomach dropped with the certainty that this was about the skywriting, about him, about the impossible situation you'd found yourself in.

"i'd prefer to discuss it in person. conference room c, west wing basement level. 2 pm sharp. please don't be late."

click.

you stared at the phone in your hand for a long moment, listening to the dial tone, your mind racing through possibilities and none of them good.

conference room c was windowless, cramped, and felt like an interrogation room. which, you realized as you walked in at exactly 2 pm, was probably the point.

jennifer adams sat at the head of a small conference table, a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and the kind of sharp, assessing eyes that missed nothing. she wore a navy suit that looked expensive but practical, and her expression was completely neutral—not friendly, not hostile, just professionally blank.

"please, sit." she gestured to the chair across from her. not beside her, not in a collaborative position, but across the table like a witness being questioned. "thank you for being punctual."

you sat, crossing your ankles, folding your hands in your lap, finding the professional mask you'd worn to a thousand meetings and slipping it on like armor. "you said this was important."

"it is." she opened a folder in front of her—thick, full of documents you couldn't see from your angle. "i'm conducting a preliminary inquiry into potential ethics violations related to workplace relationships within the white house staff."

there it was.

"specifically," she continued, her eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you want to squirm but you held still, held professional, held calm, "into the relationship between the president and yourself."

"there is no relationship," you affirmed immediately, automatically, the response you'd prepared in the sleepless hours last night. "the president made a public gesture, yes, but i have not accepted any proposal, we are not dating, we have maintained professional boundaries throughout my employment."

"and yet he skywritten a marriage proposal visible from three states." it wasn't a question. she pulled a document from the folder, slid it across the table. a printout of a news article, the photo showing those letters clear against blue sky: MARRY ME - THE PRESIDENT.

you looked at it without touching it, as if physical contact would make it more real. "that was his decision. not mine. i had no advance knowledge of it and no input into it."

"but you haven't rejected him outright either." she pulled out another document. "according to his press conference—" she adjusted her reading glasses, read from what appeared to be a transcript, "—'she asked me to wait a month. which i'm doing.' is that accurate?"

your throat felt tight. "i told him to prove he was serious. to show that this wasn't just impulsive or a game. i told him to ask me again in thirty days, and if he still wanted to, we could discuss it then."

"so you are considering a relationship with your direct supervisor. the president of the united states. your boss." each sentence was delivered with precision, each word carefully chosen to highlight the ethical minefield you were walking through.

"i'm considering—" you paused, chose your words carefully, "—whether there could be a possibility of something, in the future, if appropriate boundaries and safeguards were put in place. i have not acted on anything. i have not violated any policies. i have maintained complete professionalism."

"have you?" she pulled out more papers, and your stomach sank as you recognized them—your schedule logs, meeting notes, email records. how much had they pulled? how deep had they dug?

"your schedule shows you've been alone with the president in the oval office after hours on fourteen separate occasions in the past five weeks. you've accompanied him to events outside your normal duties. you've been seen in private areas of the residence. multiple staff members have reported what they describe as 'inappropriate familiarity' between you and the president."

she looked up from the papers, her expression still neutral but her eyes sharp. "so i'll ask you again: have you maintained complete professionalism?"

this was the moment. the pivot point. how you handled this would determine everything.

you wanted to defend yourself. wanted to list every legitimate reason you'd been in the oval office—delivering urgent documents, briefing him on schedule changes, managing crises that couldn't wait until morning. wanted to explain that accompanying him to events was part of your job, that the residence meetings were always in public spaces with staff present, that "inappropriate familiarity" could mean anything from him making jokes to you rolling your eyes at his habitual lateness.

but looking at her expression, at the thick folder of evidence in front of her, at the way this entire meeting was structured, you knew: it didn't matter.

they'd already decided you were guilty of something.

you leaned forward slightly, held her gaze, and spoke with the kind of calm certainty that came from knowing you were right.

"i have done my job," you said, each word precise and controlled. "i have done it exceptionally well. the president's schedule runs more smoothly than it has in years. his briefings are organized. his meetings are productive. his approval ratings are up."

you paused, let that land.

"those fourteen after-hours meetings? urgent briefings that couldn't wait. schedule emergencies. crisis management. you're welcome to review the content of each one—i can provide detailed documentation. the president doesn't work nine to five. neither do i. that's the job."

another pause.

"accompanying him to events? part of my job description. ensuring he's prepared, on time, with appropriate materials. check my predecessor's schedules—you'll find similar patterns. and 'inappropriate familiarity'?" you allowed yourself a slight, cold smile. "the president has an informal management style. he's informal with everyone. if that makes people uncomfortable, that's a management issue, not an ethics violation."

you sat back, kept your voice level. "i have given this position everything i have. i have maintained every professional boundary. i have done nothing wrong. if the perception is otherwise, that's unfortunate, but perception isn't evidence."

silence.

adams studied you for a long moment, and you couldn't quite read her expression.

"intentions aren't the issue here." adams leaned forward slightly, her voice not unkind but not sympathetic either. just matter-of-fact. "perception is. and the perception—from congress, from the media, from the public—is that there's an inappropriate relationship between the president and his secretary. that creates complications for this administration. complications we need to address."

she pulled out one more document, slid it across the table. "this is a formal request for your cooperation in this investigation. we'll need to interview you multiple times, review your communications with the president, speak to other staff members about your interactions. the process will take approximately six weeks."

six weeks. six weeks of your life under a microscope. six weeks of every interaction analyzed. six weeks of people looking at you and wondering what you'd done to attract presidential attention.

"and if i refuse to cooperate?" you already knew the answer.

"then we'll note your lack of cooperation in our report. which goes to congress. and the media." she sat back, folded her hands. "i'm not trying to destroy your career. i'm trying to make sure this administration operates within proper ethical boundaries. that's my job."

"and i'm collateral damage in that job."

"that depends entirely on what this investigation finds."

you stared at the document in front of you. official white house letterhead. legal language. your name typed in neat letters requesting your cooperation in an ethics investigation that could end your career before it had barely begun.

"i need to think about this."

"you have until friday to respond formally. but understand—this investigation is happening whether you cooperate or not. the only question is whether you want to be part of shaping the narrative or letting others shape it for you."

she stood, gathering her papers, sliding them back into that damning folder. "i'll need your answer by 5 pm friday. you can respond via email or in person. either way, i suggest you consult with an attorney. this is going to get complicated, and you'll want representation."

she headed for the door, then paused, looking back. her expression softened slightly—just a fraction, just enough to show there was a human being under the professional mask. "for what it's worth? i believe you that nothing has happened. i've reviewed your record, your history, your work here. you're not the type to sleep your way to influence. but belief and proof are different things, and in this city, appearance matters more than truth."

then she was gone, leaving you alone in the windowless conference room with a formal investigation request and the growing certainty that everything was about to get much, much worse.

you didn't go back to your office.

couldn't go back to your office, where people would see you, where they'd know you'd been called to counsel, where the whispers would start and spread like wildfire through the west wing. where concerned colleagues would ask if you were okay and you'd have to lie through your teeth while maintaining professional composure. where your desk was covered with color-coded schedules that suddenly felt irrelevant compared to the fact that your entire career was under investigation.

instead, you found yourself walking without conscious destination, your feet carrying you through hallways you'd memorized over five weeks, past offices and conference rooms and the constant bustle of white house activity. staff members nodded as you passed, but nobody stopped you—you had clearance everywhere, had access to nearly every space except the most classified areas. one of the perks of being the president's secretary: doors opened. literally and figuratively.

though right now, that access felt less like a privilege and more like evidence.

you ended up in a small courtyard garden you'd discovered in week two, tucked away behind the west wing where hardly anyone came. there was a bench—wrought iron, probably historic, definitely uncomfortable—some well-maintained hedges, a small fountain that provided white noise to cover conversations. it was one of the few places in the white house that felt almost peaceful, almost normal, almost like somewhere you could just exist without performing competence.

you sank onto the bench, finally letting your professional mask slip, pressing your hands to your face as the weight of the past hour crashed over you like a wave you'd been holding back through sheer force of will.

an ethics investigation. six weeks of interrogation. your entire career under scrutiny. every decision questioned. every interaction analyzed. every moment alone with him documented and categorized as potential evidence of impropriety.

and for what? for one moment of weakness when you'd told him to wait a month instead of just saying no forever like you should have? for not quitting immediately when he'd proposed marriage in your office doorway? for being good at your job when your boss happened to be interested in you?

"you're hiding."

you jerked your hands away from your face, heart jumping into your throat. satoru stood at the entrance to the courtyard, hands in his pockets, his expression concerned in a way that made your chest tight. he'd shed his suit jacket somewhere between the oval office and here, had his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. he looked like he'd been working, like he'd been busy, like he had a thousand more important things to do than track down his secretary in a hidden garden.

and yet here he was.

"how did you find me?" your voice came out rougher than intended, betraying more emotion than you wanted to show.

"i always know where you are." he said it simply, matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. like of course the president of the united states was tracking his secretary's movements. "i notice when you're not in your office. when you're not in the usual places—the break room, the copy room, that corner by the west wing entrance where you take calls when you need privacy. when something's wrong."

he moved closer, not quite sitting beside you but leaning against the fountain edge, giving you space but staying close enough to talk quietly. the afternoon light caught in his hair, made his eyes look even more impossibly blue. "adams called you in."

it wasn't a question.

"you knew about the investigation." your voice was flat, professionally neutral even as your emotions churned beneath the surface.

"of course i knew. i know everything that happens in my white house. it's my job to know." he ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture that had become familiar over five weeks. "i tried to stop it. told counsel it was unnecessary, that there was nothing to investigate. but adams insisted she needed to do her due diligence, and legally, i can't interfere with ethics investigations even when they're about me. even when they're targeting someone i—" he stopped, adjusted. "someone who works for me."

"she has documents. records. evidence of every time i've been alone with you." you looked up at him, and you knew your expression was probably showing too much—fear, anger, hurt, the exhaustion of maintaining professionalism through an hour of interrogation—but you couldn't maintain the mask anymore. not here. not with him. "staff reports about our interactions. photographs. a timeline. she made it sound like i've been doing something wrong. like being good at my job is somehow suspicious because you happen to be interested in me."

"this is my fault." he said it with a certainty that made you pause, made you look at him more closely. his jaw was clenched, his hands gripping the fountain edge hard enough that his knuckles were white. "i did this. the skywriting, the public proposals, all of it. i put a target on your back because i was too selfish to think about the consequences. too caught up in the gesture to consider what it would cost you."

"satoru—"

"no." he pushed off the fountain, started pacing the small courtyard like a caged animal, energy and frustration evident in every movement. "this is exactly what i didn't want. you being questioned, your integrity being challenged, your career being threatened because i couldn't just—" he made a sharp gesture. "—be normal about this. be subtle. be appropriate. use my words like a functional adult instead of skywriting marriage proposals."

he stopped pacing, turned to face you directly, and the vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. "i can fix this. i'll talk to adams, make it clear that you've done nothing wrong. i'll give a statement taking full responsibility for every interaction. i'll—"

"you'll make it worse." you stood, needing to be on your feet for this conversation, needing the height and the ability to pace yourself if necessary. sitting felt too vulnerable, too exposed. "if you interfere, it proves exactly what they think—that you're using your position inappropriately. that there's favoritism. that i have influence over you that i shouldn't have. that you'll bend rules for me. it confirms every suspicion adams has."

"but you do have influence over me." he said it without hesitation, without shame, with that trademark confidence that usually charmed everyone around him but right now just made this more complicated. "you have more influence than anyone in this building. more than my chief of staff, more than my advisors, more than congress. you make me want to be better. you make me think before i act—usually. sometimes. occasionally when i remember to."

despite everything, you almost smiled. almost.

"but that's not the kind of influence they're worried about," he continued, stepping closer, closing the distance between you with careful deliberation. "they're worried about sex. about impropriety. about scandal. about whether i'm making policy decisions based on personal feelings instead of national interest. and i can categorically state that there's been none of that—the inappropriate influence, not the feelings, i definitely have feelings—because you won't even let me take you on a proper date yet."

"this isn't funny."

"i'm not joking." he was close now, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, close enough that you could smell his cologne and see the worry etched into his expression. "this is serious. you're being investigated because of me. your career is at risk because of me. your reputation is being questioned because i was too impulsive and too public and too—" he stopped, took a breath. "and i need you to know—i will do whatever it takes to protect you. if that means backing off, i'll back off. if that means public statements, i'll make them. if that means ending this before it even starts—"

"stop." you held up a hand, cutting him off before he could finish that sentence, before he could offer to do something noble and self-sacrificing that you weren't sure you wanted him to do. "just stop. you can't fix this. this isn't something you can charm your way out of or delegate to someone else or solve with a grand gesture. this is real. this is my career. my reputation. my entire professional future being scrutinized and documented and analyzed."

you took a breath, forced yourself to say what needed to be said, what had been echoing in your mind since you'd left adams's office. "maybe we should just... stop this. tell them it was all a misunderstanding. that you were joking about the marriage thing, or i was never interested, or whatever narrative makes this investigation go away. i could transfer to a different department—plenty of places could use someone with my skillset. or resign. start over somewhere else where i'm not 'the president's secretary who he skywritten a proposal to.' where i can just be good at my job without it being evidence of something inappropriate."

the silence that followed was heavy, weighted with implications and unspoken things. the fountain burbled behind him. somewhere in the distance, you could hear voices, footsteps, the constant activity of the white house continuing regardless of your personal crisis.

"is that what you want?" his voice was carefully neutral, professionally composed, but his eyes weren't. his eyes were hurt and hopeful and afraid all at once, showing everything his voice was hiding.

"i want—" you paused. what did you want? your career intact? your reputation untarnished? the ability to do your job without being investigated? safety and security and the comfortable certainty of professionalism?

or him? the impossible, impulsive, brilliant man who planted roses and made grand gestures and looked at you like you were the most important thing in his very important world?

"i want this to not be so complicated," you confessed finally, honesty winning out over strategy for once. "i want to be able to figure out what i feel without congress and the media and ethics investigations getting involved. i want to not have to choose between my career and the possibility of something with you. i want to just—" you gestured helplessly. "—have time to think. to decide. without my entire professional life being on the line."

"then don't choose." he reached out, and this time you didn't pull away when his hands found yours, when his fingers laced through yours with practiced ease, warm and steady and grounding in a way that probably should have concerned you.

"let me handle the investigation. let me deal with congress. let me manage the media—i'm good at that, you've seen me. you just... be you. do your job. keep me organized and on schedule and prevent me from causing international incidents through poor impulse control. and in three weeks, on day thirty, i'm going to ask you to dinner. and you can say yes or no based on what you actually want, not on what's politically convenient or professionally appropriate."

"and if the investigation finds something?" you needed to ask. needed to know he'd thought this through beyond the immediate moment. "if they twist everything into something inappropriate? if they recommend termination or transfer or—or criminal charges for misuse of position?"

"then we deal with it." he squeezed your hands, his grip firm and certain. "together. because here's what i know: you're the best thing that's happened to this presidency. to me. you make me better at this impossible job. and i'm not going to let some ethics investigation destroy that because i was too impulsive with a grand gesture."

"it was a very impulsive grand gesture." your voice came out softer than intended, almost fond despite the circumstances.

"i know. it was stupid. it was reckless. it was completely over the top and inappropriate and probably the worst way i could have handled this entire situation." he smiled, small and almost sheepish in a way that was entirely too charming.

"but i don't regret it. because it got your attention. it made you consider the possibility of us. it made you agree to day thirty. and that's worth every investigation, every hearing, every scandal. you're worth it."

you wanted to argue. wanted to point out all the ways this could still go wrong, all the ways both your careers could be destroyed, all the logical, practical reasons why this was a terrible idea that would end badly for everyone involved.

but standing in this hidden courtyard with the fountain burbling behind you and afternoon light filtering through the trees, your hands in his, looking into eyes that saw you—really saw you, not just the competent secretary but the person underneath who was scared and hopeful and tired of being professional every single second—you couldn't make yourself say any of it.

"three weeks," you said instead.

"three weeks," he confirmed, his smile widening like you'd just given him a gift. "and i promise—no more grand gestures. no more public proposals. no more doing anything that makes your life harder or gives adams more ammunition. i'll be so appropriate and professional that ijichi's eye will stop twitching. i'll be a model of presidential decorum."

you raised an eyebrow, summoning your best skeptical expression—the one that usually made junior staffers reconsider their choices. "your track record on promises is questionable at best."

"fair point. very fair. but i'm trying. for you, i'll try." he lifted your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture that was somehow more intimate than anything else he'd done, more personal than skywriting or roses or any of the grand gestures. "now go back to your office. look professional. let them see that you're unfazed by this investigation because you have nothing to hide."

"i have plenty to hide." you pulled your hands free, started gathering your composure, rebuilding the professional mask you'd let slip. "i have feelings for my boss. i'm considering dating the president. i think about you more than is professionally appropriate. i've been counting down to day thirty even though i told myself not to. that's all plenty to hide."

his expression transformed—surprise melting into hope melting into something that looked dangerously like love, his eyes going wide and his smile turning incandescent.

"but they don't need to know that," you continued quickly, your voice returning to its professional crispness, armor sliding back into place. "they need to see competence. professionalism. someone who does their job exceptionally well regardless of personal complications. someone who can manage a presidential schedule and handle crises and maintain boundaries. that's what i'll give them."

"you're incredible," he said, his voice barely audible, full of genuine awe.

"i'm strategic. there's a difference." you straightened your blazer, found your professional mask, slipped it back on like putting on familiar clothes. the competent secretary returning. the consummate professional. "now go. you have a meeting with the joint chiefs in twenty minutes and i need to find an attorney who specializes in white house ethics investigations. someone good. someone who knows how to navigate this kind of scrutiny."

"i can recommend—"

"i'll find my own representation, thank you. one that doesn't have any connection to you or your administration." you started walking toward the west wing entrance, your heels clicking on the stone path with familiar authority.

then you paused, looked back over your shoulder with a slight smile. "and satoru? next time you want to make a grand gesture? run it by me first. i'm excellent at crisis management. i could have told you skywriting was a terrible idea."

"would you have?"

"absolutely. without hesitation. i would have created a comprehensive presentation on why it was a bad idea, complete with charts about media impact and risk assessment. and then i would have suggested something equally romantic but significantly less career-ending. i have range."

his laugh followed you back into the building—warm and genuine and making your chest feel tight in a way you'd analyze later when you weren't in crisis-management mode.

you made it back to your office, nodded to the staffers who'd been hovering nearby, clearly wondering where you'd disappeared to. sat down at your desk with the same composed efficiency you brought to everything. stared at the schedule you'd been color-coding before the world had turned complicated.

your phone buzzed. a text from an unknown number: attorney recommendation: sarah chen. constitutional law specialist. handled ethics cases for three administrations. discreet. brilliant. tell her i sent you. -shoko

you smiled despite yourself. of course shoko was already three steps ahead.

another text, this one from satoru: three weeks. you can do this. you're the strongest person i know.

you didn't respond to either message. just pulled up your contacts, found the number for sarah chen, and started drafting an email that would hopefully keep your career intact long enough to make it to day thirty.

three weeks.

you could survive three weeks of investigation and scrutiny and maintaining professional boundaries while your boss counted down the days until he could officially romance you.

probably.

maybe.

if he kept his promise about no more grand gestures, which—given his track record—was optimistic at best.

but you were nothing if not strategic.

and if there was one thing you were good at, it was managing impossible situations with grace under pressure.

even when the impossible situation involved falling for the president while being investigated for doing exactly that.

you pulled up your schedule, reviewed tomorrow's meetings, and got back to work.

three weeks.

the countdown continued.

your phone buzzed. a text from an unknown number:

this is jennifer adams. i wanted to clarify something from our meeting. the investigation is standard procedure for any potential ethics concerns. it's not personal, and it's not a witch hunt. my job is to find the truth and document it. if there's nothing improper, the investigation will reflect that. you have my word.

you stared at the message for a long moment, then typed a response:

i'll cooperate fully. i have nothing to hide.

her response came quickly:

i believe you. let's prove it.

you set your phone down, picked up your color-coding highlighters, and went back to work.

three weeks until day thirty.

three weeks to survive an investigation.

three weeks to figure out if this impossible thing was worth risking everything for.

the answer, you were increasingly certain, was yes.

but first, you had to prove it.

the senate oversight committee hearing was scheduled for thursday at 10 am, and you'd been dreading it since the moment the summons had been issued three days ago.

not your summons—his.

president satoru gojo had been called to testify before the senate committee on homeland security and governmental affairs regarding "concerns about executive conduct and potential ethics violations." it was political theater at its finest, a chance for his opponents to grandstand and make speeches disguised as questions, to put him on the defensive about the skywriting incident and the ethics investigation and everything else they'd been waiting for an excuse to attack him about.

senator harrison was leading the charge, of course. the senior senator from texas, a man with steel-gray hair and a permanent scowl, who'd opposed every piece of legislation the president had proposed and who'd been calling for investigations since the inauguration. this was his moment, his chance to make the unconventional young president squirm in front of cameras and the american people.

you weren't supposed to be there. you weren't being called to testify. adams had been clear—the ethics investigation was separate from the congressional hearing, and your presence would only complicate things, would only add fuel to the fire of speculation and innuendo.

but you couldn't stay away.

so you'd taken a late lunch, had slipped into the senate gallery wearing sunglasses and a scarf like some kind of spy, had found a seat in the back where you could watch without being noticed. the gallery was packed—reporters, staffers, interested citizens, everyone wanting to witness the spectacle of a president being grilled by hostile senators.

the committee room was imposing—high ceilings, dark wood paneling, the senators seated on an elevated platform that made them literally look down on whoever was testifying. an american flag hung behind them. C-SPAN cameras captured every angle. the air felt heavy with the weight of political consequence.

and there, at the witness table, sat president gojo.

he looked presidential today—navy suit, white shirt, red tie, the uniform of serious occasions. his white hair was neatly styled instead of its usual attractive mess. his expression was composed, professional, every inch the leader of the free world. but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set, the slight tightness around his eyes that meant he was furious but controlling it.

you'd learned to read those signs over six weeks. six weeks of watching him in meetings and briefings and press conferences. six weeks of seeing past the cocky grin and the casual confidence to the man underneath who cared deeply, who worked constantly, who felt every criticism and attack even when he pretended he didn't.

senator harrison banged his gavel, and the room fell silent.

"this hearing will come to order." his voice was gravelly, authoritative, carrying easily through the large chamber. "we're here today to discuss serious concerns about executive conduct, specifically regarding president gojo's recent... display of personal interest in a white house staff member."

he shuffled papers in front of him, making a show of reviewing documents, letting the pause build tension. "mr. president, thank you for appearing before this committee, though i note you fought the subpoena initially."

"i didn't fight it," satoru asserted, his voice calm and clear through the microphone. "my counsel advised me that congressional oversight of personal matters sets a concerning precedent, but i'm here voluntarily to address any legitimate concerns the committee may have."

"how gracious." harrison's tone dripped with sarcasm. "let's start with the basics. on may 15th, you arranged for a private contractor to skywrite a marriage proposal over washington DC, visible from three states, directing said proposal to your executive secretary. is that correct?"

"yes."

"and this secretary—" harrison made a show of checking his notes, "—works directly for you, reports to you, serves at your pleasure, and can be terminated by you at any time?"

"technically, yes. practically speaking, i'd be lost without her, so termination isn't really on the table." a few chuckles from the gallery. harrison's scowl deepened.

"this isn't a joke, mr. president. we're discussing a serious abuse of power."

"i disagree that there's any abuse of power." satoru leaned forward slightly, his posture shifting from defensive to engaged. "i followed all proper procedures for the skywriting. i used personal funds, not government resources. i obtained all necessary clearances. and most importantly, my secretary has not accepted any proposal, we are not in a relationship, and she faces no adverse consequences for declining my interest."

"yet." senator morrison—the junior senator from california, a woman with sharp features and sharper political instincts—spoke up. "she faces no adverse consequences yet. but the power imbalance remains. she works for you. her career, her reputation, her future in politics—all of it depends on your goodwill. how can she freely choose when you hold all the power?"

you watched satoru's jaw clench, watched him take a breath before responding. "senator morrison, with all due respect, you're making assumptions about my secretary that i think she'd find insulting. she's not some helpless victim of presidential attention. she's one of the most competent, intelligent, independent people i've ever met. she's perfectly capable of telling me no—which she has, repeatedly—and suffering no professional consequences for it."

"you say that," harrison interjected, "but we have testimony from white house staff suggesting favoritism, preferential treatment, inappropriate familiarity—"

"you have testimony from staff who are uncomfortable that i don't follow traditional presidential protocols, which has nothing to do with my secretary and everything to do with my management style." satoru's voice had an edge now, the careful control slipping slightly. "i put my feet on furniture. i make jokes during serious meetings. i'm late to things. i'm informal with everyone, not just her. if that makes people uncomfortable, that's something i can address, but it's not evidence of an inappropriate relationship."

"what about the fourteen documented instances of you being alone with her in the oval office after hours?" morrison pulled out what looked like a printed report. "fourteen times in five weeks. that's nearly three times per week you've been alone with a young, attractive female subordinate in a private space. how is that appropriate?"

you felt your cheeks burn even from your hidden position in the gallery. the way she said "young, attractive" made it sound sordid, made it sound like something it wasn't.

"those meetings—" satoru's voice was tight now, anger barely contained, "—were all work-related. urgent briefings that couldn't wait until morning. schedule emergencies. crisis management. my secretary doesn't work nine to five, senator. none of us do. the white house operates twenty-four hours a day, and sometimes that means late-night meetings. if you'd like, i can provide detailed documentation of what was discussed during each of those meetings."

"i'm sure you can provide documentation." harrison's tone suggested he didn't believe any of it. "mr. president, let me be direct: do you understand why the american people might be concerned about a president using his position to pursue a romantic relationship with someone who works for him? someone who, by the nature of the power dynamic, cannot truly consent freely?"

the chamber went quiet. this was the heart of it, the accusation that really mattered: that he was abusing his power, that any relationship would be inherently coercive, that you—sitting in the gallery watching this circus—were being victimized even if you didn't know it.

satoru was very still. when he spoke, his voice was calm but there was steel underneath, a forcefulness you recognized from the moments when he was most serious. "senator harrison, i understand the concern. i do. power dynamics matter. consent matters. the ability to say no without consequences matters. which is exactly why i've been so careful about this."

he leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, eyes moving from senator to senator. "i didn't pursue anything immediately. i didn't make her job contingent on reciprocating my interest. i didn't create a hostile work environment when she said no. i've asked her out, yes. multiple times. in ways that were probably too public and too dramatic. but every single time, she's been free to say no. and she has said no. repeatedly. without any negative consequences."

"until she finally gives in because the pressure becomes too much—" morrison started.

"she won't give in." satoru cut her off, his voice firm. "if—when—she agrees to a date, it will be because she wants to, not because she feels pressured. and i've given her space to make that decision. i've asked her to wait, to take time, to be sure. i've offered to restructure her position to remove the direct reporting relationship. i've done everything i can think of to make sure any future relationship would be as ethical and appropriate as possible given the circumstances."

"and if we don't believe that's possible?" harrison challenged. "if we think any relationship between a president and his secretary is inherently inappropriate?"

"then i'd respectfully disagree, and i'd point out that workplace relationships happen, even in positions of power, and what matters is how they're handled. transparency. appropriate boundaries. clear policies about conflicts of interest. all of which i'm prepared to implement if the situation ever arises." he paused. "but frankly, senator, whether you believe it's possible or not doesn't change the fundamental facts: i'm allowed to have a personal life. i'm allowed to be interested in someone. and as long as i'm not abusing my power—which i'm not—then this is a personal matter, not a matter of congressional oversight."

"everything a president does is a matter of congressional oversight!" harrison's voice rose, his face reddening. "you don't get to separate your personal life from your public responsibilities!"

"actually, i do." satoru's voice was quieter now, but somehow more powerful. "i'm the president, yes. but i'm also a person. a person who happens to have met someone remarkable, someone who challenges me and improves me and makes me want to be better at this impossible job. and i refuse to apologize for that. i refuse to pretend i should live some kind of monastic existence where personal connections are forbidden because they might be politically inconvenient."

the chamber was completely silent now. you could hear the scratch of reporters' pens, the quiet whir of cameras, your own heartbeat loud in your ears.

"i've answered your questions," satoru continued. "i've been transparent about my intentions. i've outlined the steps i'm taking to ensure everything is handled ethically. if you want to investigate, investigate. if you want to pass new ethics rules, pass them. but understand—i'm not going to let this committee, or anyone else, dictate my personal life based on speculation and assumptions about what might happen in a hypothetical future relationship."

he stood, even though he hadn't been dismissed, and the gesture was subtly defiant. "if there are no further questions that actually relate to presidential conduct rather than personal choices, i have a country to run."

harrison's face was purple now. "mr. president, we haven't dismissed you—"

"then I'm dismissing myself. this hearing has ceased to be about legitimate oversight and become a fishing expedition into my private life. i've cooperated. i've answered your questions. i'm done being publicly interrogated about my feelings." he started to turn away, then paused, looking back. "oh, and senator harrison? the next time you want to question whether someone is capable of making their own choices free from my influence, maybe don't do it in a way that completely invalidates her agency and intelligence. she'd probably have some thoughts about that."

then he walked out, his security detail falling in behind him, leaving the committee room in chaos—senators shouting, reporters scrambling, cameras flashing.

and you sat in the gallery, hands pressed to your mouth, heart racing, wondering if you'd just watched him commit political suicide.

for you.

you didn't plan to go to the residence.

you should have gone back to your office, should have buried yourself in work, should have maintained the professional distance that everyone seemed so concerned about.

instead, you found yourself in the private elevator that led to the residence, your white house badge getting you through security, your determination getting you past the secret service agents who looked at you with knowing expressions but didn't stop you.

the residence was quieter than the west wing—carpeted hallways instead of hard floors, artwork on the walls, the feeling of a home rather than an office even though it was still part of the white house. you'd been here before, for official functions, for meetings that required privacy, but never like this. never showing up uninvited to find the president after he'd just walked out of a congressional hearing.

you found him in his private study—a room you'd only seen once before, dark wood and leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. he was standing at the window, still in his suit but with his tie pulled loose, his jacket discarded on a chair, his posture rigid as he stared out at the view of the south lawn.

"you shouldn't be here." his voice was flat, tired. he didn't turn around. "if anyone sees you coming here right after the hearing, it'll make everything worse."

"i don't care." you stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind you. "what you did today—"

"was stupid. impulsive. probably destroyed any chance of getting my healthcare bill through the senate." he finally turned, and the exhaustion on his face made your chest ache. the presidential mask was completely gone, leaving just satoru—tired, frustrated, worried. "i basically told congress to fuck off during a televised hearing. my advisors are probably having a collective aneurysm right now."

"you defended me." the words came out softer than intended. "you could have thrown me under the bus. could have claimed it was all a joke or a misunderstanding. could have let them make me the villain, the ambitious secretary seducing the president. but you didn't."

"of course i didn't." he moved away from the window, ran a hand through his carefully styled hair, completely destroying it. "they were talking about you like you're some kind of victim without agency. like you're incapable of making your own choices. like i'm some predator using my position to coerce you. it was insulting. to both of us."

"it was also politically stupid to walk out."

"probably." he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "add it to the list of politically stupid things i've done. skywriting proposals, interrupting meetings to flirt, telling a senate committee to essentially mind their own business. i'm on a roll."

you moved closer, stopping a few feet away, suddenly uncertain. this was different from the courtyard conversation, different from the stolen moments in hallways and offices. this was private, truly private, just the two of you in his personal space with the door closed and no one watching.

"do you regret it?" you asked. "any of it?"

he looked at you for a long moment, those blue eyes searching your face. then he shook his head slowly. "no. not even a little. i regret that you're being investigated because of me. i regret that you're being scrutinized and questioned and having your integrity challenged. but do i regret making it clear how i feel? do i regret defending you in front of congress and cameras? no."

"you're going to get crucified by the media tomorrow."

"let them crucify me. i've been crucified before. i'll survive." he stepped closer, and suddenly you could smell his cologne, could see the faint stubble on his jaw that suggested he'd been up too early to shave properly, could count the shadows under his eyes. "the question is—can you survive this? the investigation, the attention, the constant speculation about us? because it's only going to get worse before it gets better."

"i don't know," you admitted. honesty felt necessary in this moment, in this space. "i've spent six weeks trying to figure out what i want, what i feel, what's worth risking. and i still don't have good answers."

"that's fair." his hand came up slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving you time to pull away. you didn't. his fingers tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture achingly tender. "for what it's worth, i know what i want. i've known since day one. i'm just waiting for you to catch up."

"that's your problem," you cried, but your voice was shaky. "you always know what you want immediately. you decide things in seconds that take normal people months to figure out."

"is that what you need? more time?"

"i—" you paused. what did you need? more time? more certainty? some kind of guarantee that this wouldn't destroy everything you'd worked for?

"i need to know this is real," you breathed out finally. "not just attraction or novelty or the challenge of someone saying no. i need to know that in six months, in a year, you won't wake up and realize i was just a distraction from the pressure of the job. that i wasn't just the thing you wanted because you couldn't have it."

"look at me." he waited until you met his eyes. "this is the realest thing in my life. everything else—the presidency, the politics, the power—it's all performance. playing a role. being what people expect. but this—you—this is the only thing that feels genuine. you don't treat me like the president. you treat me like a person. a flawed, often frustrating person who needs someone to tell him when he's being an idiot."

his other hand came up to frame your face, both palms warm against your cheeks, thumbs stroking gently. "you want guarantees. you want certainty. but i can't give you that. i can't promise the investigation won't find some technicality. i can't promise congress won't make our lives hell. i can't promise the media won't tear us apart looking for scandal."

he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "but i can promise that i'm serious. that this isn't a game. that i'm not going anywhere. and that however long it takes for you to be sure, i'll wait."

your heart was hammering. your hands had come up without conscious thought, gripping his wrists, holding on because you needed something to anchor to. "two weeks."

"what?"

"two weeks until day thirty. two weeks until you can officially ask me on a date." your voice was shaking but your decision was firm. "if you still want to after all this—after the investigation and the hearing and whatever fresh hell the media creates in the next two weeks—then ask me. and i'll say yes."

his breath caught. his eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation. "you're sure?"

"no. I'm terrified. this could destroy both our careers. but i'm tired of pretending i don't feel this too. i'm tired of fighting it when all i want is—"

you didn't finish the sentence because he was kissing you.

it wasn't gentle. it wasn't tentative. it was six weeks of tension and want and restraint finally breaking, his mouth hungry on yours, his hands sliding from your face into your hair, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kissed him back with equal desperation.

he tasted like coffee and something sweet, like he'd stolen mints from someone's desk. his stubble scraped against your skin, rough and real. one of his hands splayed across your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped at the contact, at feeling every line of his body against yours.

"two weeks," he muttered against your lips, then kissed you again. "i can wait two weeks. i've waited this long."

"satoru—" you pulled back slightly, breathing hard. "we shouldn't—if someone sees—"

"i don't care." but he loosened his grip, let you have space even though his eyes were dark with want. "okay, i do care. you're right. two weeks until we can do this properly."

"properly meaning not in the white house where anyone could walk in?"

"properly meaning on an actual date where i take you somewhere nice and romance you like you deserve instead of mauling you in my study like a teenager." he grinned, and there was his cockiness again, his confidence. "though for the record, you kissed me back."

"you kissed me first."

"semantics." he pressed one more quick kiss to your lips, then stepped back, putting proper distance between you. "go. before i forget about propriety and two-week waiting periods and do something that really does get us both investigated."

you moved toward the door, your lips still tingling, your heart still racing. at the doorway, you looked back. he was watching you with an expression so tender it made your chest ache.

"satoru?"

"yeah?"

"thank you. for today. for defending me. for all of it."

"always," he said simply. "two weeks. and then you're mine."

"we'll see about that."

"i'm very good at waiting when properly motivated. and you—" his smile was devastating, "—are very motivating."

you left before you could do something stupid like run into his arms and kiss him again.

two weeks. fourteen days. you could survive fourteen days. probably.

you should have known something was wrong when satoru asked you to clear his schedule for a "surprise ceremony" in the rose garden.

it was monday morning, one week after the kiss in his study—a kiss you'd replayed approximately seven hundred times in the quiet moments when you should have been working. one week of carefully maintained professional distance in public while your heart raced every time he walked into a room. one week of stolen glances and almost-touches and the slowly building anticipation of day thirty, which was now exactly seven days away.

one week of relative calm.

which should've been your first warning.

"a ceremony?" you repeated, your fingers hovering over your keyboard where you'd been updating his calendar. you were in your office, morning coffee still steaming on your desk, the early sun casting long shadows through your window. "what kind of ceremony? i don't have anything scheduled in the rose garden."

"that's because it's a surprise." his voice came through your desk phone speaker, slightly tinny but unmistakably pleased with himself. you could practically hear the grin. "i need you to clear everything from 2 to 4 pm. move the budget meeting to tomorrow. push the call with the prime minister to wednesday. tell ijichi i'm unavailable."

"satoru—" you caught yourself, glanced at your open door, lowered your voice. "mr. president, i can't just clear four hours of your schedule without knowing why. the budget meeting has been planned for two weeks. six different department heads will be there. and the prime minister's office coordinated this call three weeks ago because of time zone—"

"i'm the president. i can reschedule things." he sounded entirely too cheerful for 8 am. "just trust me. this is important. official white house business. very presidential. extremely appropriate."

every alarm bell you'd developed over seven weeks started ringing. "what are you planning?"

"a ceremony. in the rose garden. very official. very ceremonial. with flowers and speeches and probably some reporters because the press office thinks everything should have reporters."

"satoru—"

"mr. president," he corrected, and you could hear the teasing edge in his voice. "we're on an official line. very professional. no first names during business hours. those are your rules."

"what. are. you. planning."

"you'll see! 2 pm. rose garden. clear my schedule. i have a meeting with the joint chiefs now, but i'll see you at the morning briefing. wear something nice. not that you don't always look nice, but you know, extra nice. maybe blue?" he hung up before you could respond.

you stared at your phone, dread and anticipation warring in your chest.

he was up to something. something that was definitely going to make your life complicated. again.

by 1:45 pm, you still had no idea what the ceremony was for.

you'd tried asking shoko, who'd just given you a look that suggested she was as in the dark as you were. you'd cornered ijichi, who'd actually flinched when you'd asked him, his eye starting its familiar twitch as he'd muttered something about "not being informed of presidential decisions until after they're made" and "needing a vacation."

the press office had sent out a vague advisory."president to make announcement regarding white house beautification initiative, 2 pm, rose garden." which told you exactly nothing.

and now you were standing at the edge of the rose garden—wearing blue, because apparently you were incapable of not doing what he suggested—watching as staff set up a podium, as reporters assembled with cameras, as chairs were arranged in neat rows facing what looked like a freshly manicured section of the garden that you were certain hadn't looked that perfect yesterday.

the roses were in full bloom, pink and white and red, their perfume heavy in the warm afternoon air. the fountain burbled in the background. the sun shone down from a cloudless sky. it was almost aggressively picturesque, like someone had staged a photo shoot.

which, you were beginning to suspect, was exactly what had happened.

"you look confused."

you turned to find nanami standing beside you, his usual austere expression somehow conveying both resignation and mild amusement. the national security advisor was not known for his sense of humor, which made his presence here—at what was supposedly a "beautification initiative" announcement—even more suspicious.

"i am confused," you admitted. "why are you here? this doesn't seem like a national security matter."

"it's not." he adjusted his glasses, a gesture you'd learned meant he was uncomfortable. "i'm here because the president specifically requested my presence. along with most of the senior staff. for what he described as 'an important symbolic gesture about growth and new beginnings.'"

your stomach dropped. "oh no."

"oh no indeed." nanami's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "i assume you had no advance knowledge of whatever he's about to do?"

"none. he just told me to clear his schedule and wear blue."

"you wore blue."

"i'm apparently very suggestible when it comes to presidential requests." you pressed your fingers to your temples, feeling a headache building. "this is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"

"almost certainly." nanami checked his watch. "two minutes until showtime. i suggest you prepare yourself for whatever comes next. and perhaps update your résumé."

before you could respond to that alarming suggestion, a door opened and president gojo emerged from the colonnade, flanked by secret service agents and looking absolutely delighted with himself.

he'd changed since the morning briefing—now wearing a navy suit that brought out his eyes, a crisp white shirt, no tie because he'd never met a tie he couldn't lose within three hours of putting it on. his white hair was styled perfectly, catching the afternoon sun. he looked like he was about to announce something momentous.

he looked like trouble.

his eyes found yours immediately across the garden, and the smile that spread across his face made your heart stutter and your stomach drop simultaneously.

"oh no," you whispered again.

"indeed," nanami agreed.

satoru took his place at the podium, gripping its edges, waiting for the crowd to settle. cameras focused. reporters readied their notepads. staff members found seats. you stayed standing at the back, ready to flee if necessary.

"good afternoon," he began, his voice carrying easily across the garden. "thank you all for being here on such short notice. i know many of you were expecting a routine announcement about garden maintenance or something equally mundane. and we will talk about gardens. but first, i want to talk about growth."

you felt your chest tighten.

"when i took office seven months ago," he continued, his tone shifting into something more genuine, more personal, "i inherited this incredible space. the rose garden. planted originally by ellen wilson in 1913, redesigned by bunny mellon for jackie kennedy in 1962. a place where presidents have announced supreme court nominees, signed legislation, held state dinners. a place steeped in history and tradition."

he paused, his eyes scanning the crowd but you knew—you knew—he was looking for you.

"but it's also a garden. and gardens, by their nature, grow. they change. they evolve. what was planted a century ago doesn't always thrive in new conditions. what worked for previous gardeners doesn't always work for new ones. and sometimes—" his voice dropped slightly, more intimate, "—you need to plant something new. something that represents growth and possibility and the future."

your hands were clenched at your sides. you could feel eyes starting to turn toward you, could sense people making connections, could feel the weight of realization settling over the assembled staff and press.

"so today," satoru gestured broadly to the garden around him, "i'm announcing a new addition to the white house rose garden. a section dedicated to flowers that represent new beginnings. fresh starts. the courage to try something different."

he nodded to someone off to the side, and several groundskeepers appeared, pulling back a decorative tarp you hadn't noticed before. underneath was a newly planted section of the garden, fresh soil dark and rich, and—

your breath caught.

blue roses. dozens of them. a whole section of blue roses—rare, difficult to cultivate, requiring special care. your favorite flower. the flower you'd mentioned exactly once, in passing, six weeks ago when he'd asked about your college thesis on environmental policy and you'd made some throwaway comment about how your research on rose cultivation for your botany minor had taught you that sometimes the most beautiful things required the most patience.

he'd remembered. of course he'd remembered.

"blue roses," he was saying, his voice warm and full of satisfaction, "represent the mysterious, the impossible, the things we're told can't happen. they're rare. they're difficult. they require dedication and patience and the willingness to try something unconventional."

he finally looked directly at you, and the expression on his face made your heart race—tender and hopeful and completely hopelessly in love for a presidential announcement. "they're also beautiful. worth the effort. worth the wait."

the cameras swiveled toward you. you could feel your face burning, could hear the whispers starting, could see shoko in the front row with her head in her hands.

"this new section of the rose garden," satoru continued, still holding your gaze, "represents this administration's commitment to growth. to taking chances. to believing that sometimes the most meaningful things are the ones everyone says are impossible."

he smiled, and it was his real smile—not the political one, not the cocky grin, but something genuine and vulnerable. "that's all. thank you for being here. i'll take a few questions."

the reporters erupted immediately.

"mr. president! is this about your secretary?"

"are the blue roses a message to someone specific?"

"does this represent—"

"i said a few questions," satoru interrupted cheerfully, pointing to a reporter from the post. "yes, sarah?"

"mr. president, blue roses are traditionally associated with the unattainable or impossible. are you suggesting—"

"i'm suggesting that sometimes things that seem impossible just require patience and the right conditions." he was still looking at you. "next question. tom?"

"the section you've dedicated—who will maintain it? will it be—"

"the white house groundskeeping staff, under my direct supervision. i plan to be very involved in making sure these particular flowers thrive." his grin was absolutely shameless now. "they're special. they deserve special attention."

you needed to leave. you needed to get out of here before the questions became more direct, before someone asked you to comment, before this turned into—

"one more question," satoru concluded, and pointed directly past you. "yes, margaret from CNN?"

"mr. president, your secretary is wearing blue today. same color as the roses you've just planted. is that a coincidence?"

the garden went silent. every eye turned to you. you wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

satoru's expression was pure innocence. "i couldn't possibly comment on my secretary's fashion choices. though i will say—" his eyes met yours across the garden, "—she has excellent taste. in everything."

that was it. you turned and walked away, ignoring the shouts of reporters, the flash of cameras, the chaos erupting behind you. you walked through the colonnade, through the west wing, straight to your office where you closed the door, locked it, and stood with your back against it, breathing hard.

he'd planted blue roses. in the white house rose garden. with cameras present. after you'd specifically told him no more grand gestures.

your phone buzzed. a text from him:

too much?

you stared at the message, torn between fury and something dangerously close to fondness.

we agreed no more grand gestures.

this wasn't a grand gesture. this was presidential gardening. very official. very appropriate. (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

you planted my favorite flowers in the rose garden??

i planted flowers that represent growth and new beginnings. the fact that they're your favorite is just a happy coincidence.

there are no coincidences with you.

fair point. but in my defense, i didn't propose. i didn't skywrite. i didn't do anything except plant some flowers and make a speech about growth. very presidential. very suitable.

the reporters know it was for me.

the reporters speculate about everything. let them speculate. seven more days.

you stared at that message, at those three words that felt like both a promise and a threat.

seven more days until day thirty.

seven more days of managing his chaos and trying to maintain professionalism while blue roses bloomed in the rose garden as a very public declaration that everyone could see and everyone would talk about.

you're impossible, you typed.

you love it.

the worst part was—he was right.

you did.

the knock on your door came twenty minutes later. you'd composed yourself by then, had fixed your makeup, had reviewed seventeen different documents to avoid thinking about blue roses and presidential speeches and the way he'd looked at you across the garden like you were the only person in the world worth looking at.

"come in," you called, expecting ijichi with his twitching eye, or shoko with another cigarette and more crisis management, or possibly a reporter who'd somehow breached security to ask about the symbolism of blue roses.

it was him.

he slipped inside quickly, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed very loud in your quiet office. he'd shed his suit jacket somewhere between the rose garden and here, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and his hair was mussed like he'd been running his hands through it in that way that meant he was either stressed or pleased with himself.

given the cocky smile tugging at his lips—that fox-like grin that suggested he'd just pulled off something brilliant and knew it—you'd bet on the latter.

"you're angry," he observed, leaning against your door with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he knew exactly how attractive he looked doing it and was weaponizing it deliberately.

"i'm—" you paused, set down your pen with deliberate precision, buying yourself time. what were you? angry? touched? furious? charmed despite yourself? all of the above in a confusing cocktail that made rational thought difficult? "—processing. there's a difference."

"processing." he pushed off the door, moved into your office with that easy grace that made expensive suits look effortless. "that's code for angry but trying to be professional about it."

"you said no more grand gestures." you kept your voice level, your expression neutral. you would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to you. you were a professional. you'd survived three years in the senate and two months with him. you could handle this with dignity.

"i said no more grand gestures that made your life harder." he had the audacity to grin wider—that slow, deliberate smile that probably charmed his way through every negotiation, every debate, every situation where he should have been in trouble but somehow wasn't. "this was a garden renovation. very routine. happens all the time. presidents are always updating the grounds. i'm just being environmentally conscious. adding biodiversity. very presidential. actually, i think it might help my approval ratings with the gardening demographic."

"presidents don't usually dedicate garden sections to flowers that clearly reference specific people!" your composure cracked slightly, your voice rising just enough to betray your frustration. "you planted blue roses in the white house rose garden—the actual white house rose garden that's been photographed approximately eight million times—with cameras present and gave a speech about the impossible becoming possible. that's not garden maintenance. that's not biodiversity. that's a declaration. that's you standing in front of the entire press corps and essentially pointing at me with a neon sign."

"can i help it if i have symbolic taste in landscaping?" he moved closer, stopping a few feet away. smart man—he was learning when to give you space, when pushing too far would actually make you snap. "i'm a romantic. i like metaphors. i like beautiful things. sue me."

"don't tempt me. i know excellent lawyers." but you were fighting a smile, couldn't help it when he was looking at you like that—part cocky confidence, part genuine affection, all infuriating. "the media is going to have a field day. again. because of you. again. i'm going to have to manage the fallout. again. do you see a pattern here?"

"the media always has a field day. that's their job—finding things to make into stories. my job is being president and occasionally planting flowers for beautiful, brilliant women who refuse to date me until arbitrary calendar dates that they picked, by the way. i wanted day fifteen. you said thirty. wo really, this is your fault." he tilted his head, studying you with those too-blue eyes that saw way too much. "you're not actually mad."

"i am actually mad."

"you're smiling."

"i'm not—" you realized he was right and quickly schooled your expression back to neutral, pulling out every ounce of the composure that had gotten you through hostile senators and budget hearings. damn him. "you can't just do whatever you want and then charm your way out of consequences."

"i absolutely can. i'm the president. it's literally one of the perks. they put it in the orientation materials. 'presidential privilege includes: executive orders, security clearance, and charming your way out of situations.'" he grinned wider, clearly enjoying this, enjoying you trying to maintain professionalism while he systematically dismantled every defense. "also, you're still smiling. you're trying to hide it behind that very impressive stern face you do, but i can see it. the corners of your mouth are twitching. you like the roses."

"that's irrelevant." you tried to dismiss it with a wave of your hand, tried to redirect the conversation back to safer territory where you had control and he wasn't looking at you like he could see straight through every carefully constructed defense you'd ever built.

"it's completely relevant. it's the whole point." he moved closer, close enough now that you could smell his cologne—that expensive, crisp scent that you'd come to associate with him making decisions that complicated your life in increasingly elaborate ways. "i'm sorry. i should have warned you. but i knew if i told you, you'd tell me not to do it. you'd give me very logical reasons why it was a bad idea. you'd probably create a powerpoint presentation with charts about media impact and investigation complications. and i really wanted to do it."

"so you did it anyway." you crossed your arms, creating a physical barrier even though it was probably useless at this point given that he'd already breached every other barrier you'd tried to construct. "because you're constitutionally incapable of listening to advice."

"i listen to advice. i just don't always follow it. there's a difference." his expression shifted, less cocky, more genuine—the real him beneath the presidential polish. "why do you think i wanted to do it?"

"to torture me. to make my job harder. to give the ethics investigation more ammunition." you ticked off reasons on your fingers with the precision of someone who'd thought about this extensively. "to prove you can't be controlled. to demonstrate that you're above consequences. to—"

"because in seven days, i'm going to ask you on a date." he cut through your list with quiet intensity, his voice dropping to something more serious, more real. "and when i do, when you say yes—" he paused, caught your look, adjusted with that slight smile, "—if you say yes, though we both know you're going to because you love me even if you won't admit it yet, i want there to be something that marks it. something permanent."

he took another step closer, and you let him, which was probably a mistake but you couldn't quite bring yourself to move away.

"something that's not in the news cycle or twitter or gossip columns. something real. those roses will still be there in a year. in five years. in ten. long after the investigation is over and the media has moved on to whatever scandal comes next. they'll bloom every spring as a reminder that we took a chance on something everyone said was impossible."

your throat felt tight. he was too good at this—too good at saying exactly the right thing to make you forget all the logical, practical reasons why this was a terrible idea. too good at making grand gestures seem like reasonable decisions. too good at looking at you like you were worth all the chaos.

"you're very good at romantic speeches," you managed, your voice not quite as steady as you wanted, betraying more than you intended to reveal.

"i'm the president. i'm good at all speeches." that cocky grin was back, sharp and knowing and entirely too pleased with itself. "it's why people elected me. well, that and my hair. people really love the hair. it polls very well. top three presidential attribute, right after 'appears competent' and 'doesn't actively cause disasters.'"

"how modest of you"

"i'm secure in my abilities. it's very attractive, or so i'm told. frequently. by you, specifically, with your eyes even when your mouth is saying no." he was close enough now that you could see the lighter flecks of blue in his irises, could count the faint freckles on his nose that the cameras never caught, could see the exact moment his expression shifted from teasing to something more vulnerable. "too much?"

"what?"

"the roses. the speech. the whole thing. was it too much?" for just a moment the cockiness faltered, revealing something more uncertain underneath, something that actually cared what you thought. "i know you said no grand gestures. i know this probably made your job harder. but i— tell me honestly. too much?"

you thought about it. really thought about it, weighing the complications against the gesture itself.

you thought about the cameras and the media storm that was probably already brewing. about Ijichi's eye twitching into permanent damage. about having to answer more questions from adams about whether the roses were evidence of inappropriate favoritism. about the investigation getting more ammunition, more evidence of the president showing preferential treatment to his secretary.

and then you thought about the fact that he'd remembered a throwaway comment from six weeks ago—one sentence about liking blue roses, mentioned in passing during a scheduling meeting.

that he'd sourced rare blue roses and coordinated a planting and prepared a speech, all because he wanted something permanent to mark this moment.

that he'd done something wildly inappropriate and politically stupid because he was thinking about years from now, about springs to come, about building something that lasted beyond news cycles and scandals and congressional investigations.

"it was too much," you said finally, watching his face carefully, seeing the way hope and disappointment warred in his expression. "it was excessive and dramatic and absolutely the kind of grand gesture i specifically asked you not to make. it complicated my job exponentially. It gave the investigation more material. it's going to dominate the news cycle for at least three days."

his expression started to fall, the cockiness draining away.

"but—" you continued, and watched hope flicker back like a light turning on, "—it was also thoughtful. and beautiful. and probably the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me, even if it was wildly inappropriate and politically stupid and is definitely going to require extensive damage control and at least two crisis management meetings."

"so you're not mad?" he perked up like a kid who'd just gotten away with something, that irrepressible optimism returning full force.

"i'm furious. the media is going to eviscerate us. ijichi is going to have a breakdown. adams is going to add this to her ever-growing list of 'inappropriate conduct' evidence. i'm going to have to draft approximately forty-seven statements about garden renovation policies."

you held up a hand before he could interrupt, before he could turn that smile into a victory lap. "but i also really like blue roses. and i appreciate that you remembered. and i— " you stopped, took a breath, decided to give him this much honesty. "it was sweet. in a completely inappropriate, boundary-violating, career-complicating way. but sweet."

his smile was incandescent, lighting up his entire face. "i knew it."

"don't be smug."

"too late. i'm already smug. i've been smug since the first rose went into the ground." he reached out, slow enough to give you time to pull away, and took your hand in his. his fingers laced through yours with practiced ease, like he'd done it a thousand times before instead of never in any official capacity. "seven days."

"seven days," you repeated, looking down at your joined hands. His hand was warm, solid, real—grounding in a way that probably should have concerned you but instead just felt right. "and you're going to be appropriate for those seven days. professional. no more surprises. no more grand gestures. no more metaphorical declarations via landscaping."

"can i though?" he was grinning, that smile that made him look younger and entirely too pleased with himself. "history suggests no. my track record on being appropriate is pretty abysmal. actually, it's terrible. you've documented it. colour-coded it, probably."

"i have a whole spreadsheet dedicated to your inappropriate behavior. it's quite extensive. it has tabs. multiple tabs. one is just titled 'feet on furniture.'"

"i'm flattered you're paying such close attention." his free hand came up to trace your jaw with feather-light touch, thumb brushing across your cheekbone in a gesture that was far too intimate for your office but you couldn't quite bring yourself to stop. "seven days. i can be appropriate for seven days. mostly. probably not. but i'll try very hard and look very apologetic when i inevitably fail, and you'll forgive me because that's what you do. you manage my chaos. It's your superpower."

"that's not reassuring. also, managing your chaos is not a superpower—it's a full-time job that should come with hazard pay." you tried to give him your flattest look, the one that usually made junior staffers confess immediately and senators reconsider their positions, but it bounced off him completely because he'd somehow become immune to your professional disapproval.

"i'm being honest. transparency in leadership. it's very modern. very refreshing." he leaned down, brushed a strand of hair away from your face with gentle fingers, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead—chaste, sweet, but somehow more intimate than anything else he'd done. "thank you. for not actually killing me. for understanding why i did it. for wearing blue today even though you're going to claim it was coincidence."

"it was coincidence." the lie came out too quickly, too defensively, and you knew the second the words left your mouth that he'd caught it—saw it in the way his eyes lit up with triumph, the way his smile widened just slightly.

"it was fate. the universe wanted you to match my roses." his lips were still against your forehead, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that made your stomach flip and your professional composure crumble. "you wore blue because you wanted to see if I'd notice. and i did. i always notice everything about you. what you wear, how you do your hair, when you're annoyed with me—which is frequently—when you're trying not to smile, when you're thinking about kissing me even though you're pretending you're not."

"that's very creepy." you tried to pull back slightly, to create some distance between you and his presence and the way he was looking at you, but your traitorous body stayed exactly where it was—close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough that you could see the exact moment his eyes darkened with satisfaction because he knew. he absolutely knew that you weren't actually disagreeing with him.

"that's very observant. i'm literally trained to read people. body language, micro-expressions, subtle cues. it's in the job description." he was fully grinning now, enjoying this far too much. "also, you get this look in your eyes right before you're about to tell me i'm being an idiot, and it's my favorite look because it means you care enough to bother correcting me. it's the same look you're giving me right now, actually."

"your ego is unmanageable." you tried to sound stern, tried to inject some professional disapproval into your tone, but it came out softer than intended—almost fond, which was absolutely not the impression you wanted to give him when he was already this pleased with himself.

"my confidence is well-earned. i won the presidency at thirty-four. i can read complex legislation while eating breakfast and texting my mother. i planted blue roses in the white house rose garden and you're trying not to smile about it right now." his thumb traced patterns on your palm, distracting and deliberate. "i'm very accomplished."

"you're very impossible." you tried to pull your hand away but he held on, and you didn't try very hard because—damn it—you didn't actually want him to let go.

"i'm very persistent. there's a difference." he pressed one more quick kiss to your forehead, then—with what looked like genuine reluctance—stepped back, putting proper professional distance between you even though you could see it cost him. "i should go before someone notices i'm in here. professional boundaries and all that. very important. i respect boundaries. mostly. sometimes. when i remember they exist and aren't inconvenient."

"satoru." you tried for stern but couldn't quite manage it when he was grinning at you like that, like he'd just won something important.

he paused at the door, hand on the handle, looking back at you with an expression that was equal parts cocky and genuine. "yeah?"

"the roses really are beautiful." you said it quietly, honestly, giving him that much truth even though it felt like handing over ammunition.

the smile that spread across his face was worth every complication, every scandal, every moment of chaos he'd brought into your carefully organized life.

"seven days," he said, his voice warm with promise and that cocky confidence that suggested he'd already won and was just waiting for you to catch up. "and then i'm taking you somewhere nice and romancing you properly. no cameras, no reporters, no congressional oversight. just you, me, and probably some blue roses because i'm nothing if not consistent with my theming. i'm thinking of making it my signature thing. very presidential. very on-brand."

"no more grand gestures!"

"these weren't grand, they were medium-sized at best. tasteful, even. proportional to my feelings, which are—" he paused dramatically, "—extensive." he ticked off increasingly ridiculous options on his fingers. "grand would have been naming the entire garden after you. or commissioning a statue—life-sized, very flattering angles. or changing the presidential seal to include blue roses. or skywriting again but this time spelling out a sonnet. i showed remarkable restraint. you should be proud of me. i should probably get an award for restraint."

"you showed no restraint. you showed the opposite of restraint. you showed negative restraint."

"i showed strategic romanticism. very presidential. very measured. if anything, i under-gestured." he winked—actually winked, like he was in a romantic comedy instead of creating actual political scandals that real people had to manage. "seven days. try not to miss me too much. i know it'll be hard, but you're strong. you'll manage. you're very capable. it's one of the things i love about you."

you picked up the nearest object—a pen—and threw it at him. he dodged with a laugh, slipping out the door before you could find something heavier to throw, before you could formulate a response to him casually dropping the word "love" like it wasn't a monumental declaration.

the door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in your office with the lingering scent of his cologne and the memory of his hand in yours and the knowledge that in seven days, everything was going to change.

you sank into your desk chair, pulled up your calendar, and stared at the date circled in bright red: day 30.

seven more days.

you could survive seven more days. probably. maybe. If he didn't do anything else wildly inappropriate, which—given his track record—was unlikely at best.

the roses would be beautiful in the spring, you thought, and then immediately told yourself to stop being sentimental about presidential gardening decisions.

but you smiled anyway.

and you were still smiling when shoko knocked on your door twenty minutes later to inform you that the rose garden story was already trending on twitter with approximately eight different conspiracy theories about who the blue roses were for.

"they're just roses," you told her, trying for professional dismissiveness.

"yh-huh." shoko lit a cigarette, studying you with knowing eyes. "and i'm just the press secretary. we're all just doing our jobs here. very normal. nothing significant about specially sourced blue roses planted exactly twenty-three days before day thirty."

"you're counting?"

"everyone's counting. the entire west wing has a betting pool on when you two finally— " she made a vague gesture. "get your act together."

"there's no act. there's nothing to get together."

"sure. and those roses are a coincidence. and you wore blue today by accident. and the president definitely didn't spend twenty minutes on the phone with a specialty nursery in oregon last month asking about the symbolism of different rose colors." shoko blew out a stream of smoke. "seven more days. think you can make it?"

you threw a pen at her too. she dodged, laughing, and left you alone with your calendar and your spreadsheet of presidential inappropriateness and the warm feeling in your chest that you absolutely were not going to acknowledge.

seven more days.

taglist: @undedin @jjkamp @azumiriiri @namjoonhole @sofft123 @ladyhesperus @kitty-yaps @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @torumon @tess3802 @hnnyflkss @solarlovesxyz @mytohruu @lisabelhyhn @faerie-soirxx @vynn30 @horangluvv @gumiiiiezzzz @goonslayerr @izabell008 @themythicalone @luvvlai

[starmapz]

what you know - ch20: underdog || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. self-loathing. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). medical content. minor descriptions of wounds. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 30.1k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

The world seems to tilt on its head in an instant.

Perjury.

Luckily, the world only felt as though it was tilting. Sukuna actually managed to stay upright as the incoming feeling of nausea gradually passes. He clutches the two birth certificates within his hands, his grip tightening as he gets his bearings.

There’s a noticeable shift in the room as the dust (and Sukuna’s stomach) settles on the revelation and the oldest of Jin’s sons regains some sort of sense of self.

He shifts the birth certificates into one hand, his chest feeling lighter than ever as he reaches out with his free hand to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You let out a small surprised gasp as he holds you closely to his chest, his chin resting atop your head. You can feel his heart racing beneath your ear as your arms snake around his waist.

“Fuck,” he breathes, equally as unstable as his last twenty-four hours have been.

You try to shift to get a better view of him, but before you can, his grip strengthens. There’s a subtle tremor to his muscles as they flex under the demand of his embrace of you, but you don’t dare point it out. Not when the world falls away and for a moment it’s just you and him. You give him a reassuring squeeze, content to just exist in his world and help pick up whatever pieces he can’t on his own.

With a final deep breath, he releases you, exhausted crimson eyes flickering across your face. For all the weariness drawn into his features like a sketch, there’s equal parts renewed determination woven between the lines.

With life breathed back into him, he stares down at the birth certificates in his hand and immediately takes action. With Satoru and Toji still seated in his living room and privy to the new information about his court case (lord knows those two nosy men were listening in), they offer their resources as well.

To your surprise, Sukuna accepts it without much fanfare. Well, apart from the huff that you’re certain was that strange dignity of being completely self-sufficient that he clings to leaving his body. Either way, he can’t deny how helpful it is to be able to make use of Satoru’s wide network of connections, even if it comes at the cost of giving Satoru a vague and lazy run-down of the situation he’s going through with his brothers. He does grieve the lack of privacy from the lackadaisical man, but it’s a small price to pay to keep his promise to his brothers.

He has his lawyer on the phone in an instant as well, going over the new evidence as she immediately makes a move to file for an appeal, filing for an expedited process with the evidence of the kids’ very obvious distress in the photos from SXSW. You all lean in to listen as she notes that if the expedited process is accepted, things could go down quickly and they need to move fast.

Where the real issue comes in, you realize quickly, is the money. Sukuna’s pride is so deeply ingrained into him when it comes to money that it’s the one thing he just won’t budge on.

“Is this the latest invoice for the lawyer?” Satoru queries, slipping a sheet of paper out from under Sukuna’s elbow.

He pushes a hand through long pink tresses, his expression hardening. “Yeah.”

“Is it paid?”

Clearly already exasperated, Sukuna brings a hand up to his shoulder, pressing down on the muscles in an effort to ease his own tension. “It’s on a payment plan,” he grumbles, cocking his head to the side as he presses down harder on his muscle.

“Why don’t you have them send the next one to me, and-”

“No.” His hand drops, gaze flashing with something indignant as he fixes Satoru with a stare that could level a mountain.

“Alright, alright,” the white-haired man relents, putting his hands up in defeat. “Look, I’m just trying to-”

“Whatever you’re trying to do, stop.” Sukuna hisses.

You exchange a glance with Satoru, who inhales sharply, scratching at the back of his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep,” he sighs as Sukuna not-so-subtly passes along the reminder that they aren’t friends. Still, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have a point.

Toji, on the same page as Satoru, pipes in. “The hell’re you gonna do, then?” He queries with a blunt tone. “Rent’s overdue n’ lawyers aren’t exactly free.”

“Some are,” Sukuna huffs childishly, ignoring the fact that all three of you are nosy as hell to know his rent’s overdue.

Toji’s jaw slacks, his lip curling in disbelief as he narrows his eyes at the grown man’s child-like response. “Ryomen. Is your fuckin’ lawyer free?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck’re you bringin’ that up for?” He shrugs exaggeratedly.

Sukuna’s silent under the realization of his petty reply. He sits at the kitchen table silently as he contemplates how exactly he can come up with the money before any deadlines roll around. “Just-” he sighs heavily, pressing his thumbs into his temples. “Give me a sec.” Pushing up from the table, he pulls his old engraved lighter from his pocket, throwing a nearby drawer open to grab a box of cigarettes before disappearing out to the balcony.

Leaning on your palm, you let out a breath, exhaling the tension from your body as you slump down on the kitchen table.

The silence is somewhat of a relief after the revelation that there’s hope at last for Sukuna, even if it means throwing your scholarship out the window. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. You can take a year to earn some money, go back later… you’ll figure it out. You can’t be bothered to worry about your scholarship when it’s at the expense of two terrified little boys.

The still air is broken only by Satoru, who’s leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. “You okay? You haven’t been to any of my parties in ages.”

“I’m alright,” you smile gratefully. “There’s just a lot going on,” you chuckle, brushing him off as you cast a glance at Sukuna, leaning over the balcony with smoke trailing skyward from his fingers.

“Did you manage to get your grades up?”

You nod. “Yeah, Kento had a friend in my class who helped with a presentation I missed,” you explain. “They saved my ass.”

“Sweet,” he grins. “Guess life is getting back on track.” He relaxes back into his chair, his arms crossed behind his head as he pushes the chair back to balance precariously on two legs. You can only shoot him a tight-lipped smile and hope he’s right.

With a teeth-grinding screech, the door to the balcony slides open and shut as Sukuna returns, the smell of smoke and rain billowing behind him as he takes a seat again. Running his hands over his face again, he shakes his head to reorient himself. “I’ll ask for an advance at work,” he decides gruffly.

“You know, I can just-” Satoru tries again, only to be fixed with a look that could kill. He cuts himself off again as Toji nudges his foot beneath the table. Biting his tongue, Satoru simply nods. “You think they’ll give it to you? You’ve only been there a couple of months, right?”

Sukuna examines Satoru for a moment before slowly inhaling. He nods, leaning his head to either side to crack his neck. “Yeah, they’re good for that sorta shit. I can pick up some shifts at the-” He pauses, shutting his eyes as he realizes that avenue is closed to him right now given the incident that left him with an unfortunate reminder of his mistake. “Shit,” he mutters, mindlessly reaching up to run a finger up his scar, still fresh from earlier in the week.

“Maybe you can do some overtime? You were off for a bit anyway, right?”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, “I can handle the cash part, though. It’ll be fine.”

You cast him a doubtful look, but he seems confident, and that’s good enough for you. Particularly as he looks up across the table to the list the four of you had managed to compile of people to reach out to, contacts that Satoru was calling in favors from, and strict deadlines for publications hardly forty-eight hours from now.

With plenty for Sukuna to do, Satoru and Toji decide to take their leave, with you shortly behind them.

Sukuna stops you before you can head out the door, catching you at the front entry of his apartment. “Hey.”

Your brow raises as you spin around, tilting your head in that way that makes his heart melt every time. He knows he’s weak when it comes to his brothers, but that little quirk of yours could very well tilt his whole world on its axis.

Hell, it has.

You have.

He runs his tongue across his lower lip as he feels heat rising to the back of his neck. “Thanks.” His voice is low, with a husky timbre that forces you to shuffle in place as you feel your heart palpitate for a moment.

“It’s nothing, really,” you offer him a genuine smile, an air of shyness surrounding you at his earnestness.

“It’s not nothing. I was…” he shakes his head, something between a scoff and a wry laugh parting his lips. “I was a dick.” Tight-lipped, the admission feels familiar to one of the first times you had a similar conversation in this same spot, many months ago. “I wasn’t in a good place and I made some really fuckin’ stupid choices and you-” he waves a hand through the air, motioning to just… you. “So, thanks. For covering for my ass, the birth certificate… I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Just go win.”

It’s not quite a smile that he shoots you, but it’s real, and it’s him.

–

“I think my parents are expecting me to bring someone to their anniversary party,” Shoko sighs, staring at the nutritional facts on the energy drink in her hand. She twists it thoughtfully as though the ingredients aren’t sugar and a lack of sleep.

You move a step forward as the line in the corner store gradually shortens, tilting your head at her in the early afternoon the day following the perjury revelation. “A date?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, her head falling back to stare at the ceiling. “I may have told them I was seeing someone.”

“Shoko!” You laugh, taking another step forward as the poor cashier works as quickly as they can under the dim fluorescent lighting of the dingy store. “Why would you tell them that?”

“They were threatening to set me up with someone! What was I supposed to do?” She insists with a shrug. “Do you think that cute girl from History last semester would say yes if I asked her out?”

“Sho, you can’t bring her to your parents’ house for a first date.”

“Could be a funny story,” she shrugs with a sigh, turning towards the magazine rack. “Oh my god, wait-” she breathes suddenly, leaning forward to pull out a magazine just barely hidden in the second row. Sure enough, within her palms is a copy of some celebrity magazine, plastered with the face of your friend.

How terrifying that it’s hardly been a full day.

Things had moved fast since yesterday, startlingly so, and Sukuna was quickly plastered on every news site. It’s hard to avoid seeing his face everywhere, each interview settling like a stone in your gut as you’re forced to see the public’s reaction. It’s positive more often than not, but it’s hard to avoid those that will defend Noritoshi Kamo to the grave for… some unknown reason.

You try not to let their comments get to you, but… it gets increasingly harder to read grown men defending Noritoshi and Kaori as though they’re some sort of saints.

That’s not to mention the fact that just about everyone on campus knows who Sukuna is. He’s not a man with a reputation for no reason, and the widespread gossip all leads straight to you and your friends. Stray looks at Toji, Uraume, Atsuya, and yourself do you no favors as you cower into the shadows between classes just to avoid the prying eyes. It’s not as if you’re about to divulge the information they seem to be seeking, anyway.

Still, something about seeing the story printed physically hits differently. Sukuna looks good on the cover, better than he has in a long time in the new photo. His eyes shine with determination and although his confidence is shaky at best, he wears an air of fake conviction well. He doesn’t look quite so gaunt anymore and his haircut was long-overdue, although some part of you liked the look of longer hair on him.

Still, you find yourself frowning. There’s no chance in hell that Sukuna let someone near him with makeup, so the photo has to be touched up. It’s not that he looks bad by any means, but he wears the evidence of the past few months more than ever lately.

Sukuna never can just be himself.

He’s always something. The bad boy, the perfect guardian, the underdog of the year.

Never just Sukuna.

But this is better than whatever he’d become, a shell of his former self who couldn’t bear the weight of his negative thoughts, turning to whatever could numb him like a quick dose of novocaine. It’s not ideal, but it’s progress, and you’re grateful for that.

Shoko flips through the magazine as you wait for the line to clear, skimming the contents for any new details outside of the digital article that had circulated quietly across campus, though each article is the same. Heavily mediated by Sukuna’s lawyer and sent for approval before being released, they’re all combed of any details that would make your friend look bad. Which, realistically, is important for a man whose vocabulary consist of ‘fuck’ at least once every three sentences.

“Has the step-monster said anything yet?”

“Not yet,” you shake your head as she sets the magazine back on the rack.

“What about the appeal?”

“I got a text from him like an hour ago that it’s headed to the Appeals Court and the rush request thing was accepted too. He said he won’t be there for the appeal, but if the retrial is accepted, it should be in a week or two if his lawyer gets her way.”

“What a fucking shitshow,” she sighs, placing her energy drink atop the counter finally as she has the cashier grab a box of smokes for her, paying for your drink too, despite your protests before leading the way out the door. “How’s Sukuna handling being on the front page of Twitter?”

It was bound to happen given Noritoshi’s status, but… “I mean, I think he knew he’d go viral for a bit,” you shrug. “I’ll have to see tomorrow at work.”

“Did you see the headline on that one this morning? ‘Scandal in the Kamo Household?!’ That’s so… eugh,” she rolls her eyes. “They’re making it sound like celebrity drama and not a real person’s life.”

You cast a glance back towards the corner store, cocking your head in thought. “I think he only did a few interviews, there’s no way his lawyer allowed that,” you murmur thoughtfully. “They must just be hopping on the train for the sake of clicks.”

“I saw one last night where all the comments were just talking about him being hot when one of the articles had a photo taken from his Instagram,” she grimaces, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the concept. “Imagine focusing on that with all the headlines he’s making right now.”

You can’t manage an answer as your stomach churns, unable to settle between your own disgust and a simmering jealousy that settled within your very marrow when you spotted similar comments.

Your best friend eyes the way you shift, her expression softening. “Hey,” she nudges your shoulder as she rests a cigarette between her lips. “I don’t think you need to compete with people thirst-tweeting after Sukuna.”

“I’m not-” you let out a breath at the realization of how silly it really is. Sukuna may be well-known across your campus for his reputation, but it’s just as surface-level as each of these articles is. He doesn’t care for the attention and he doesn’t let people in.

“Besides, he’d probably scare them off with his RBF if they ever actually met him,” she snorts, pulling out a lighter. 

“Sho.”

“What?” She asks, muffled as she pauses momentarily to light the dart. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she starts, pulling the cigarette from her lips as she exhales smoke over your head. “Did you forget how he ignored you for like three weeks straight when you first met? Or the arguments you were having every other week because he was being a prick?”

“He apologized for all of that!”

“I know, I don’t hold it against him anymore but that’s not the point. The point is that he chose to let you in. You really think he’d care about what anyone outside of his circles thinks?” Ash falls beneath her feet as she swings her hand out dramatically. “He’s pretty cold outside of our group.”

“You’ve got a point,” you murmur, watching your footfalls across the concrete below.

“Yeah yeah, I always do,” she grins, waving you off. “I still can’t believe you found out the step-monster committed perjury. Did Sukuna never think to check?”

You shrug and shake your head at once. “I guess not. Toji grilled him for it, but when he asked Toji when his little cousin’s birthdays were, he could answer the day but not the years either. I guess he just saw the right day and didn’t think about the year.”

“Guess that makes sense. Not like he squeezed them out,” she agrees vulgarly.

You wrinkle your nose at her choice of words. “That’s one way to put it.”

Laughter finds her easily. “Still, pretty risky move to lie on a birth certificate.”

“It almost worked,” you point out.

“Key word ‘almost’.” She casually tilts her head to the side as a crow hops along the ground, investigating a pile of rotting food. “I can tell where Sukuna gets his overconfidence from.”

You crack a smile, following her gaze to the crow picking at scraps. It’s that overconfidence that you find yourself missing lately. It doesn’t look good on Kaori, but when Sukuna cracks a smug grin, a stray strand of hair falling over his forehead? It’s charming, in a very Sukuna sort of way.

If this plays out right, it’ll be good to see that look on him again.

–

As late spring prepares to welcome summer, the sun warms your skin when you hop off the bus and make your way into the office, you find yourself in a relatively cheerful mood. The light beaming through the windows illuminates the office in a golden glow, and it seems that sentiment is alight across the office as a low chatter drones across the open air.

You wonder if the office has been like this for a while and you just haven’t noticed, too caught up in your own stress. Then again, maybe this is just the effect that impending summer vacations has on the office. Shooting a smile at the receptionist, you barely get your bag down on the ground before Maya’s in your office.

“What did you do?” She asks with wide eyes as she bursts into the room in a flurry. You exchange a glance with Yuki, who you haven’t even had the opportunity to greet, as you attempt to decipher your boss’ distress.

Can you have one normal day at work? Or even in general?

“What do you mean?” Yuki speaks up.

“Not you.” Maya directs her attention your way. “You and Sukuna, what happened? What did you do?”

Oh. Oh shit.

You knew there was a chance you’d lose your job on top of your scholarship given Kamo Corp’s involvement in both, but having not heard anything yet, you’d thought you’d gotten lucky.

Sukuna, on the other hand, you had thought was safe given that he didn’t get the job through a scholarship. Sure, Kamo may have involvement of some sort with the publishing house, but you had assumed…

Shit.

“You and Sukuna, my office. Now.”

Your blood runs cold as you look back to Yuki for help, who’s at a complete and utter loss for what’s going on. “What did you do?” She whisper-yells, leaning across her desk. You open your mouth to reply but she’s quick to follow up with another question. “Oh my god, does this have to do with Sukuna being all over magazines?”

“Probably,” you groan, flinging your head back dramatically.

“God,” she breathes, shaking her head. “I can’t believe he was going through all of that. I had no idea. I couldn’t believe it was him when I saw his name everywhere. He’s so quiet, I just figured it had to be a relative or-”

“I gotta go,” you interrupt with a tight-lipped apologetic smile.

“Right! Sorry, good luck!”

As you slip from your office towards Sukuna’s, you knock urgently and slip in before he can say a word. Catching his attention, he looks up from whatever he’s working on and leans back in his chair, the long black sleeves of his button-up rolled up to his elbows. Something you don’t recognize flashes in his eyes, but he wears an otherwise neutral expression.

“Maya asked for us.”

He drops his stylus to his desk, leaning forward on his elbows. “Don’t tell me that fucker owns this place or some shit.”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, worrying your lower lip between your teeth.

The air turns tense as Sukuna huffs out a breath from behind his hands as he palms his face. There’s an uncertainty holed and locked within the small office that he wouldn’t dare show around others, something meant only to be felt by you. “I can’t fuckin’ lose this job right now.”

“You won’t,” you assure him, though through the string that seems to tether you to one another, he feels the way you waver. He knows you need this job to graduate, just as he needs it to regain custody of his siblings.

“Fuck. Fuck!” He hisses lowly, pushing up from his desk in frustration.

His stylus is a victim to his sudden movements, sent flying from the surface of the desk and rattling across the ground. He stands ram-rod straight, completely still as he stares out the window. The tension in the air hangs unmoving, you fear even letting out a breath to disturb the air, when he whirls around suddenly with fire in his veins.

“How the fuck is she still finding ways to fuck me over? What does she get from this?” He rattles off questions with no concrete answers, dragging his hands through his recently cleaned up hair. “What the fuck did I even do to her? It’s not like my fuckin’ dad’s around to know she cheated, I don’t-” He balls his hands into fists at his sides as he seethes at Kaori’s constant involvement in his life. “Why can’t she just fuck off? I thought that was what she wanted in the first place,” he hisses, not searching for answers so much as just an outlet for his aggravation.

There isn’t an answer to any of it, not really. Still, you state what he already knows. “I don’t think it’s you. You’re just in the way of what she wants.”

He scoffs. “Was gonna say she’d probably kill me if it wasn’t illegal, but she’s above the law now, so-” he shrugs dramatically, his hands falling down to his sides with a plop!

“Don’t joke about that.” You fix him with a grimace, your brows drawn together as a crease forms where they stitch.

He sighs, letting his shoulders fall as he quietly observes your reaction. A modicum of his anger fades as he finds solace in your presence, before shaking his head. “Let’s just go talk to Maya,” he mumbles, breezing past you to lead the way to your boss’ office, somewhere he’s been too much lately for comfort.

The older woman’s long black hair is slightly mussed as proof of her running a hand through her hair with the stress of whatever it is that she has to discuss with the both of you. You quietly shut the door behind you, taking a seat in the chair beside Sukuna. His leg is bouncing before the conversation has even begun, though his expression is hardened, frustration pulling the corners of his lips down.

“What did you two do to get on Noritoshi Kamo’s bad side?” Maya begins in a lowered tone. Her eyes flit between the two of you, concern stitched between her brows.

Sukuna leans back, dragging a hand down his chin. “You haven’t heard?” He mutters, not in the most chatty mood.

“Heard?” Maya parrots in bewilderment.

Sighing, Sukuna frowns. “My step-mother took custody of my little brothers from me. I guess she’s married to that fuckin assho-” He bites his tongue, shooting you a scowl when you deliver a swift kick to his shin. “Sorry,” he mutters bitterly. “She’s married to him, and I just filed an appeal. She’s tryin’ to get me fired so that I have no cash if the appeal’s accepted. Looks bad on me to not have a job,” he explains grimly.

“Sukuna,” Maya breathes in empathetic disbelief, leaning back as she subconsciously searches for a photo of her own kids. “That’s what the letter you needed from me was for?”

He nods.

“And you lost them… so that’s why you stopped leaving at three?”

Another, slower, nod.

“And then when you started staying late… God. That explains a lot,” she murmurs. “Listen, the company’s board of directors called me in for an emergency meeting today. Which never happens, so I’m thinking it’s about the incident with Reggie, right?” She starts. You lean in, though you can tell where this is headed. “Well, one of our biggest investors is Kamo Investments, so one of their reps is on the board. He’s gotten it in the rest of the board’s heads that you two are a detriment to the company and need to be fired and I couldn’t figure out why,” she shakes her head, glancing to the side as her gaze finds the photo of her own children again.

“I didn’t even think about that…” you murmur more to yourself than either of your co-workers as you consider the repercussions of Sukuna’s very public attack on Kaori's character. “Um, the reason he thought you might have seen it already is because the news is pretty much everywhere,” you fill her in. “I saw it on the magazine rack in the front of the building.”

Maya takes a moment to internalize the news, her gaze tearing away from the photo. “I’m sorry you’re going through that right now,” she offers condolences. She inhales a slow, steady breath. “Look,” she begins, neatly clasping her hands in front of her. “I let the board know I would handle the issue once I’d spoken to the both of you. I-” she pauses, clearly stressed as she organizes her thoughts.

“I get it,” Sukuna shrugs. “Business comes first.” It comes out more bitterly than he intended, but given that his only other option is to crawl back to his boss at the auto shop, he isn’t exactly thrilled with the outcome.

“No- Hold on,” she holds her hands out in front of her, an intensely concentrated expression donning her features. “We’re not a publicly traded company so we have a lot more leeway when it comes to a moral issue like this. The rest of the board isn’t pleased with the association to Kamo Investments anyway given public perception and another investor is interested in buying out Kamo’s shares if she can. This could actually work in our favor if they agree.”

Sukuna blinks, somewhat taken aback to actually be defended for once, let alone by an employer he’s hardly been with for three months, let alone taking into consideration the issues he’s inadvertently caused. He searches for words, but finds himself at a loss for the whole situation.

“The board won’t have issues with that?” You query, trying to wrap your head around it yourself.

“Kamo Investments doesn’t align with the company’s visions or values. They were our first investor, but they’re not our primary investor anymore. Their rep stepped down from his position as president three years ago and our president hasn’t been happy with them for a while,” she explains, her jaw clenching as she explains the situation. “I think if I explain to the broader board the situation, we can work on a buyout.”

“And if they don’t agree?” You push.

Maya inhales slowly. “Well, we don’t have the legal grounds to force them out of their shares, but I think once I explain the situation to the board, we should have the grounds to make a call to vote them out of their seat on the board for a conflict of interest.”

While business isn’t exactly your area of expertise, it’s a relief to hear that things sound surprisingly like they’re actually in your favor.

“If you can send me whatever relevant information you can to sway the rest of the board, I’ll do everything I can to keep you both here. I can’t say I have any desire to try to replace Sukuna’s position again, and with Reggie gone, Yuki would be overworked without you,” Maya addresses the both of you with a laugh that sings the song of just how stressed she truly is. She’s handling everything you throw at her with grace and a surprising amount of care, but it’s still shocking to have her support in the face of something that could look bad on the company.

“What about the company’s reputation?” You ask, curious about her stance less as a concerned mother and more as a CEO.

She nods slowly. “We’re a small local startup. This won’t make waves, even if Sukuna’s plastered across every magazine. It also aligns more with our values to remove Kamo Investments from the board and support Sukuna. If anything, this will be seen as a strategic play by clients who align with our values, which is the majority of them.”

You lean back in your chair, equally as shocked as Sukuna seems, if his silent scowl is anything to go off of.

“I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll do what I can,” Maya assures you. She turns to you, addressing you by your name. “What’s going on with your scholarship? Don’t you have a Kamo scholarship?”

You wince at the minute detail you’ve kept from Sukuna over the past few weeks since the revelation of Kaori’s marriage.

Sukuna whips his head towards you, no longer sitting passively as he takes everything in. “What?”

You press your lips into a thin line. “I’ll talk to you about it later,” you keep your voice down as you reply to his barely-contained frustrated query. “I still have it for now. They haven’t said anything.”

“That’s good. Don’t let them pull the rug out from under you.”

You offer a tense smile to your boss, taking note of Sukuna’s knuckles turning white as he grips the armrest of his seat. “Thank you, Maya.”

Sukuna huffs, nodding slowly. “Thanks.” He takes a moment before coming to a realization, rubbing a thumb between his brows in exasperation. “Shit-” he mutters under his breath. You don’t dare nudge him this time now that the tension in his muscles is plain as day, rippling beneath the taut fabric of his shirt. “Is now a bad time to ask for an advance?”

Your boss purses her lips.

“I’m behind on payments to the lawyer,” he mutters, the admittance sending shame to his very core, gripping his bones.

“I-” she struggles to come up with an answer. “I’ll see what I can do, okay? Let me handle the board before I make any promises.”

Sukuna nods before the two of you are dismissed with empathetic well-wishes.

Before you can head back to your office, Sukuna is quickly dragging you back to his with a strong (albeit careful) grip on your wrist. He shuts the door on the way in, dropping your wrist in order to drag his hands over his face. “Your scholarship’s a Kamo one?” It comes out more as a statement than a question.

“It is, but what happens with that isn’t your fault,” you attempt to reassure him. It’s all for naught in the face of his frustration. He’s doing what he can to keep it at bay, but it’s clear that he’s struggling as he drags a hand down his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hisses as he suppresses his frustration to the best of his ability.

“Because I can handle it myself,” you stand your ground, jaw tightening as you face his irritation.

“I got you into this mess, you need to fucking tell me this shit!” he retorts, harshly running a hand through his already-mussed locks.

“I have things under control and you have enough on your plate,” you reply calmly, though your own frustration is woven between your brows as they knit together.

“Under control?” He parrots, wild-eyed as he takes a step forward. “You’re gonna lose your fuckin’ scholarship because of me!”

“That’s not your fault.”

“If you would have just fuckin’ told me in the first place that you had a Kamo scholarship, then I-” he chokes on his words, scowling at a shelf of colorful books lining his office wall as he searches for a solution he’ll never find.

“Sukuna,” you grab his attention, taking a step towards him as his expression loosens from one of anger to concern. “You didn’t know she’s married to him. You couldn’t have done anything, even if you knew.”

His chest rises and falls heavily under the duress of his morning as he helplessly backs up until he’s able to lean his thighs against his desk in something of a half-seated position. “I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in this shit,” he mutters from behind his hands as he tiredly rubs at the dark circles under his eyes.

Exhaling slowly, you take a step to stand in front of him with a sympathetic smile. Your hand finds his forearm, his skin warm to the touch beneath your palm as you soothe small circles into it. “I have support, Ryo. I can figure it out. It’s not the end of the world. I care more that you and your brothers are safe.”

His shoulders fall as sharp crimson irises soften, falling to stare at the point that connects you, where your touch feels like fire on his already-warm arm. His shoulders fall, tension dissipating with the realization that he’s helpless. There’s nothing he can do to protect you from the claws of his step-mother.

Yet, you’re still here. In the face of your own world falling apart, you’re smiling at him.

His gaze rises to examine the little gleam of hope in your eyes, waiting for a response as though he hung the damn moon in the sky, when he’s the one who tore it down. His heart can’t seem to decide whether to wrench in guilt or pound with adoration. That feeling certainly doesn’t subside as he shifts from one foot to another, shamelessly staring at your lips.

He swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as his anger subsides. “‘M sorry,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “You’re right.”

You blink, somewhat surprised that the typically haughty man is giving in so quickly, his entire demeanor slumping into something akin to disappointment. Subconsciously, your thumb ceases its movement as you squeeze his forearm reassuringly. “I know things aren’t going perfectly, but my scholarship, this,” you motion broadly to the publishing house, “is good news. Kaori’s cracking under pressure.”

He nods slowly, his eyes finally rising from your lips, giving your racing pulse a break. “Right.” He lets the thought hang in the air between you, finding comfort in your presence. Letting out a breath, he leans back further on his desk as it creaks beneath his mass. There’s quiet contemplation boldly scrawled across his face, his lips parting as he searches the silence for an answer, only to break it. “Been thinkin’ about something,” he murmurs, his voice low as though he fears the office hearing.

You tilt your head questioningly.

He averts his eyes as his stomach flutters at the sight, keeping his focus on his looming question. “You ever thought about how Cho doesn’t really look like Yuji n’ I?”

You hum affirmatively, catching a glimpse of the twine bracelets still wrapped around Sukuna’s wrist. “I can kinda see a resemblance. He has your scowl,” you offer with a little smirk.

“Ha ha,” he dryly replies with a roll of his eyes before his lips pull down into a frown. “I’ve wondered since I found Kaori cheating when I was a kid…” he trails off, as if the thought is sour on his tongue. “If maybe Cho isn’t my dad’s.”

You squeeze his forearm again, considering the possibility yourself with a dour expression. It’s true that Choso doesn’t look like Jin in the same way that Yuji and Sukuna do, but he bears a very striking resemblance to Kaori and you can’t see a lot of Noritoshi in him either. At most, maybe his hair color could be attributed to Noritoshi given that both Yuji and Sukuna got Jin’s hair genes, but it’s the same color as Kaori’s as well, so it’s not a guarantee that he isn’t Jin’s either.

“Would it matter?” You ask finally.

“Hm?”

“Would it matter? If he wasn’t Jin’s?”

“Kaori could argue that Choso has no relation to me,” he points out grimly.

“I don’t think that would be smart for her. It’d be withheld information, bad faith, would prove she’d been cheating-” you shake your head. “There’s too many arguments in your favor.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“So would it matter to you? If Cho isn’t Jin’s?”

Sukuna doesn’t hesitate for a moment. “No.”

Your heart warms as you slide your hand from his forearm up his bicep as you give the muscle a little pat, keeping things lighthearted. “Then it doesn’t matter. He’s still your brother.”

Your friend scowls, but it’s laced with steely determination as he puts the thought behind him. “I promised him I’d fix this shit.”

“And you will,” you reassure him with a grin. “Kaori won’t know what hit her.”

–

The end of the week is a flurry of good and bad news, but the good vastly outweighs the bad. With each piece of news thrust Sukuna’s way, each text you receive with updates, there are moments where you can see the resilient man you’ve grown so fond of. Little moments of ‘fuck kaori i’m winning this shit’, only to be followed up a few hours later by ‘she better not pull some ridiculous bullshit like last time’.

It fluctuates moment-to-moment, but you’re just happy to be able to see him trying to glue his pieces back together, no matter how little progress he makes.

What matters most though, is that Maya managed to get him an advance, and his lawyer succeeded at the Court of Appeals. Due to the high-profile nature of the case now that Kaori is publicly involved with one of the wealthiest people in the world, a decision was made to have the children stay with Child Protective Services as the case heads back to a full trial. Regardless, his lawyer said there was no reason to worry at this point, and her confidence was doing wonders for Sukuna’s health, both physical and mental.

He was still scatter-brained and often distant, in his own little world more often than not, but with the trial looming over the horizon, he keeps himself as disciplined as he can manage on his tight schedule.

Sunday night prior to the retrial, you find yourself standing outside his building as the late afternoon sun sets, casting a pink glow across the concrete jungle. It’s something of a marvel, even deep within the apartment-heavy neighborhood. You smile to yourself as the sky shifts and changes with the flow of the light breeze and clouds overhead while the buzzer drones as you await Sukuna’s answer, only to find yourself blinking at his clipped reply.

“Fuck off,” comes an irritated grunt before the line cuts out entirely.

With pursed lips, you blink. Given that you’re showing up unannounced, who does he think you are?

You dial his apartment again, and his reply is immediate. “How many times do I need to tell you to-”

“Sukuna?”

“Princess?”

He sounds as shocked as you feel, and you can practically hear him sitting up on the other line as he scrambles through an apology.

“Shit, I swear I didn’t mean it. Thought you were someone else,” he quickly explains before the line cuts out as the door clicks unlocked.

Clutching a small gift bag tightly in your hands, you can’t help but wonder who he’s been telling to fuck off. Maybe Kaori’s been coming around, but you can’t imagine she wants much to do with Sukuna given that his face is already plastered on every street corner and she’ll be seeing plenty of him tomorrow in court.

He swings the door open like he was waiting inside for you, a scowl plastered on his face as he briefly takes in your appearance before searching past you. Perplexed, you follow his gaze, but there’s nothing and no one behind you. His weird behavior doesn’t stop either as he pulls you inside with a firm hand on your shoulder.

With the door shut behind you, his posture relaxes as he directs his attention to you with a mild expression.

Glancing at his hand on your shoulder, you face him with a shake of your head. “Are you okay? Who’s been showing up here?”

His hand slides from your shoulder as he shakes his head. “Some fuckin’ journalist. She saw me walking in on Friday and has been buzzing every few hours,” he explains. “Pain in my ass,” he tacks on in a mutter.

“Really? I know people know who you are now but I didn’t think you’d have anyone following you.” Shaking your head in disbelief, you shiver at the thought that Kaori might have stripped Sukuna of yet another thing he greatly values, his privacy.

What a snake.

He scoffs. “I guess she- or someone- found out about my reputation at the school,” he strains, jaw tightening. “She keeps showing up asking questions that I’m not fucking answering.”

Your nose wrinkles in disgust as a wordless reply.

“I know,” he agrees, sighing as he leads the way further into his apartment. “Didn’t mean to tell you to fuck off.”

“That’s fine,” you brush him off with an understanding smile. “I probably would have done the same.”

He grunts in acknowledgement, gaze downturned to the little gift bag in your hands. Glittery tissue paper pokes out of the top of the black and gold bag that you’re clutching close to yourself as you shuffle in anticipation.

“What’s that about?” He mutters, unintentionally coming across dry.

“It’s um-” you shuffle from one foot to another as Sukuna raises a brow. “- for you.”

He frowns, searching your expression for a reason.

“I just thought with the trial coming up tomorrow that it might be nice to- um-” you shake your head, a laugh bubbling up in your throat as you find yourself unusually nervous. It’s not like you’ve never given him a gift before, either, but Christmas felt different, easier. Like you didn’t need a reason. “I know it’s out of the blue, I just thought maybe it would be like… a good luck charm. Or something,” you explain in a ramble, chancing a glance up at him from under your lashes.

He’s still frowning, feeling undeserving of your kindness as you practically thrust the bag into his hands. He casts a glance at you as he lets out a breath, rustling through the glimmering tissue paper until he pulls out a maroon tie with subtle dark stripes. He swallows hard as his thumb glides easily over the material.

When he doesn’t immediately reply, you pipe in uncertainly to fill the air. “I thought it might go well with your black-on-black suit, and bring out your eyes.”

“Bring out my eyes?” He parrots with a hint of amusement as his scarred brow raises.

“Maybe that’s dumb, I don’t know,” you chuckle nervously more to yourself than him.

“I like it. Thanks, princess,” he assures you, still staring down at the material with something of a contemplative expression. His chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath, his mouth going dry as he fights every instinct to hold you close and not let go.

He finally chances a glance up to you, the happy but nervous gleam in your eye sending his heart into a frenzy within his chest, battering at the cage like an animal let loose. With Satoru’s words from the other day echoing within his mind, it’s a lot easier to see just how stupid he really was to ever doubt that your blossoming friendship was just that- a friendship. You look at him like he shines so bright he could light the whole night sky when he’s done nothing but cause you problems and he thought you were just a really damn good friend.

But maybe that belief you have in him is enough. Maybe it’s that gleam in your eyes that means he can stand alongside you. He doesn’t care if he’s nothing more than a planet in your orbit so long as he can feel your warmth.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, curled up into a smile, shy in nature as you wait for a bigger reaction from him to your sweet little gift. The corner of his lip curls up into a sly smirk. “‘M gonna look like I’m in Green Day.”

You laugh, genuine and full. “I was thinking more like… Avril Lavigne in her Sk8er Boi days.”

“You’re comparing me to Avril Lavigne?” He asks, incredulous.

“Yeah, if I squint liiiiike-” you squint in demonstration to accentuate your point.

“Your eyes are closed,” he states dryly.

“Mhmm!”

Snorting, he shakes his head. “Brat.”

It’s been such a long time since you’ve heard him loosen up in such a way, since he’s so casually and easily joked around like this as he lightly flicks your forehead, that it lights up your whole world. You beam at him, thrilled to see such a reaction from him. It doesn’t matter how dark the circles beneath his eyes are, he looks handsome like this, with an easy smile plastered across his lips.

It makes your heart soar and you don’t bother catching it.

“Thanks, princess. Really.”

“Anytime!”

“You wanna come in?”

You nod brightly, slipping off your shoes as Sukuna heads to the fridge, setting the little gift bag aside. “Why’s this shit so glittery?” He mutters as he pulls his hands back from the bag and tissue paper, disdainful of the way his palms are now sparkling.

“It’s the only paper I had,” you smile innocently.

He grunts, pulling a bottle from the fridge as he hovers at the door. His black shirt is pulled taut with every minute movement of his toned chest when he twists to face you. “Want something?”

Tearing your gaze from his biceps, you nod. “Do you still keep that Iced Tea around that the kids liked?”

Sukuna smirks. “They don’t like it. I bought it for them to try and forgot about it in the fridge.”

Your gaze travels to the fridge where he’s pulling that very same Iced Tea from the back of the otherwise barren appliance. “Why do you keep buying it, then?”

“You like it.”

He says it so simply, like it’s nothing more than teasing banter between friends. His aloof expression returns as he hands you a glass, oblivious to the way your heart leaps into your throat and chokes you. “Thanks,” you whisper.

His gaze narrows slightly at your meekness, but he nods and turns back to his drink, popping the cap off on the edge of the counter. It flies up in the air, clattering in the sink. He doesn’t so much as cast it a glance before directing his attention back to you as he brings the bottle up to his lips.

“You’re drinking?”

The label along the dark bottle gleams under the glow of the kitchen light as Sukuna leads the way to his couch, plopping himself in the corner as he reclines into the cushions. “Just one,” he assures you, the corner of his mouth twitching downwards. “Promise.”

You nod. “Sorry. I don’t- I know you can handle yourself, I just-”

“It’s fine, princess. I know you’re just worried.”

You suck in a breath, nodding as you let the moment pass and take a seat beside him. You nurse the Iced Tea within your hands, the condensation cool against the pads of your fingers. “So, how are you feeling about tomorrow?”

He lets out a long sigh, breathing out whatever stress comes along with it. “If I never see Kaori again, it’ll be too soon,” he grumbles with a quick swig of his drink.

“I mean, it’ll be nice to be on the other end this time. She’s the one in the dark now.”

“Mm.”

Leaning back into the couch, you find yourself sliding closer to Sukuna under the divot of his weight, a warm heat climbing from the back of your neck at his close proximity. Some part of you figured after all of this time that your crush would paddle out, but time is telling a different tale.

“Do you feel ready, at least?”

Another swig. “Yeah. Sorta.” He twists the beer bottle within his hands, staring at the cheaply-made label that’s peeling at the corner. “Now that everything’s public, my lawyer was able to make a request for a background check into the judge panel.”

“Panel?”

He shrugs. “Guess there’s three now. Somethin’ about Noritoshi Kamo and the media being on our asses.”

“That’s good, right? There’s no way it won’t be fair now.”

He hums. “My lawyer seems confident.”

“And you?”

The former history major taps his pointer along the glass of his bottle, nursing the lager. “We called Cho to the stand.” His tone is low, his gaze fixed forward, staring straight ahead in that painfully familiar distant expression.

It doesn’t feel quite real to say he hasn’t seen his brothers in such a long time. Since the day Choso was born, he hasn’t been apart from them for any longer than one, maybe two days. As he got older, Choso loved to take Jin’s phone to text Sukuna during those days. Maybe that’s where the little boy had developed such dry texting habits, from his older brother.

“You don’t sound excited.”

His tongue swipes his lower lip. “I made him a promise to fix things. If I fuck up, the last thing he’ll see of me is…” He trails off. You’re right to assume he’s not all there, the strange sensation of dissociation clinging to his mind like a dog with a ball.

“Is what?” You push softly.

He blinks once, twice, but he’s still zoned out just enough to keep him hanging in the plane of another realm. He doesn’t have an answer to give you anyway. What is he meant to say? He looks nothing like the man he was when Choso promised to be brave and take care of Yuji. He’s pallid, lost some of his bulk, and has a stark and jagged scab extending from his forehead down to his cheek bone, although the latter portion is mostly healed. The mark on his forehead wasn’t quite as kind.

He doesn’t quite look the same. And he fears what his brother will think of that. Choso’s smart, far beyond his age. Forced to grow up too young, and with a keen sense that Sukuna lacks. He’s extremely in tune with the emotions of those around him, and very empathetic to them.

So for Choso to see Sukuna struggling over all of these years has been tough on him, but more than anything, the eldest brother knows that the facade he wears at the court won’t fool his little brother.

There’s layers upon layers of guilt to unpack when it comes to what the twelve-year-old has had to endure of Sukuna’s own tribulations over the years, but that’s not even what he fears most.

His little brother’s been in Kaori’s care for a month now. He’s been kept out of the limelight for the most part and the pink-haired man has concerns that there’s a reason behind the fact that he’s only seen the boys publicly once.

He’s not sure how easily he can face the reality that Choso’s mental health might have plummeted more.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” you murmur when you don’t receive an answer, snapping Sukuna out of his trance. His gaze travels slowly to his right, but he still seems to look right through you. Setting a hand on his calf seems to bring him back to reality as his pupils dilate for a split second before honing in on you. Now that you have his attention, you give his calf a light squeeze. “The ball’s in your court this time, Ryo. You’ve got this.”

He inhales deeply, throwing back more beer. “We’ll see.”

“I believe in you.”

His heart falters as he finds your sweet smile, caressing him in your warmth with only a hand on his leg.

You’re just like that.

How many times has he looked your way and watched you shine as though you’re the very sun? He remembers tripping over his own thoughts as he fought to process the seed planted in his mind that you might be someone that others revolve around. You don’t intend to be, you hardly like being the center of attention, but your gravity is effortless. You’re as bright as the sun and as beautiful as a damn galaxy, providing life and light for not just him, but his brothers too. You make it easier to breathe.

He supposes that’s why he’s found his confidence dwindling around you lately. He remembers how sweet you taste on his tongue with hints of cherry and rose infused into your lip gloss and he yearns so desperately for it. For as sure as he is that Satoru’s right- hell, even Toji agreed- he fears if he takes that leap that his luck might run out.

And he’s never exactly been a lucky guy.

He’s not what you deserve, and he wonders if that’s what falling for you means. Knowing that someone can be better than he can.

So why does it hurt so fucking bad?

He clears his throat, downing the rest of his beer and setting the bottle atop the wooden coffee table by his feet with a hollow knock. Leaning back into the cushions, he throws his arms over the back of the couch. His forearm brushes the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Cold?”

“No! No,” you chuckle. “Just thought of something.”

Sukuna doesn’t question you, letting his eyes close as his head falls against the back of the couch. “What’s up with your friend?”

“Who?”

“Uh… Suguru.”

“What about him?”

The brute’s eyes flicker open. “How the hell does he deal with Satoru all the time?”

“Oh, Suguru loves the drama that Satoru brings,” you laugh.

He eyes you from his peripherals. “We talkin’ about the same guy?”

“Oh yeah. He loves being able to be around the drama without being a part of the drama. He doesn’t really like people aside from us, but he loves knowing what’s up.”

“Mm.” He leans in and you have to swallow to keep his eye contact as carmine irises fix you with casual intrigue. “Guess I can understand that.”

“I know they can be a lot, especially Satoru, but they mean well. Satoru means well.”

He slumps back into the couch. “I appreciate what he did,” he replies simply, still wary of the frat boy.

“Have you at least thought about taking a loan from him?”

“No.” His tone is firm. You shuffle from one thigh to another as tension radiates from him. You can feel it practically burning your skin from how close you are. You attempt to scoot away just enough to leave a comfortable gap between you, but it’s tough when he’s on your cushion and it’s dipping down towards him. “I got the advance from Maya, I don’t need it.”

Although it’s a relief that Maya was able to pull some strings, you still wish he’d realize that accepting help from his community isn’t a sign of weakness. You can’t give him too tough of a time though when he’s come a long way and it’s just money he doesn’t seem to want to budge on. It’s respectable of him to want to provide for his family on his own terms.

“Did you ask any of your friends to come to the trial tomorrow?”

“Nah. Just you,” he replies, loosening up as the air shifts away from the tense question.

You cock your head to get a better view of him. His jaw shifts from side to side as he contemplates your question. “Don’t think I really have the right to ask ‘em to ditch school after everything I’ve put them all through.”

“They want to help, Ryo. Just like I do.”

“Mm, maybe, but you’re the only one who shows up at my door unannounced to ‘help’,” he retorts dryly, making air quotations with the hand that isn’t behind you.

In mock offense, you set your Iced Tea down, bringing a hand to your chest. “Are you saying I annoy you into letting me help you?”

“If the shoe fits,” he replies, eyeing you with a playful glint in his eye.

“Sukuna!”

He chuckles, shifting as he inadvertently leans closer. “Kidding, princess. You are a brat, though.” He chuckles lowly as his gaze warmly catches yours.

“And you’re a dick,” you tease, his laughter contagious despite being somewhat muted and weary.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, the action sliding his arm down until you’re actively being pulled flush to him. His chest rises and falls evenly against your side, calm finding him for the first time since the appeal was accepted. Your presence is steady and grounding, allowing him a moment to breathe before he’s forced to lock in.

And god does he bask in that silence. Hidden within the little piece of heaven you provide, like you can shelter him from the harsh weather of the outdoors.

Not that he needs sheltering, but he’s gotten a taste of your kindness, and he fiends for it now. He can still be the independent person he’s fought tooth and nail to be while enjoying what it means to have someone care for him.

Casual conversation flows easily between you, woven within talks of his arguments for tomorrow morning’s trial. Tension flows from his body as his arm falls to your shoulders until you’re effectively cuddling, and at the end of the night your heart wrenches to pull yourself from that position.

Making the smart decision to leave before your chest threatens to burst, you wriggle out from his arm, only for him to use the mass of it to stop you as he presses your shoulders down. “It’s late, I need to get some sleep before tomorrow morning.” It’s only half of an excuse, at the very least. You’re not about to divulge that your heart is eating you from the inside out.

There’s evidence on your friend, too, that he should make the most of his time to be at his best tomorrow.

“Just sleep here. I can take the couch.”

He unknowingly jabs a dagger deeper into your heart. Subconsciously, you reach up to scratch at your collar in an effort to ease the growing tension in your chest. Every single confusing action sends your sanity further spiralling as you grow less and less certain that his attraction to you is surface-level. “You can’t sleep on the couch. It’s an important night,” you insist, trying to lift his arm from your shoulders.

He presses down with equal force as you. “I’ll be fine. Sleep here.”

“I don’t have any clothes and I can’t wear yours to the court tomorrow.”

“You can go home n’ change before the trial.”

“Sukuna-”

“Stay.”

Your blood run cold as you search for meaning in something that you’ve seen in just about every cheesy rom-com you grew up watching. Maybe that’s what turned you into such a romantic, but right now it feels like your biggest weakness is being played like a violin when you can’t find any certainty behind the gravel in his voice.

Has his tone always been so husky? Are you hearing things?

You swallow hard in an effort to clear your cotton mouth. “Um-” you further hesitate, before meekly nodding. “Okay.”

You hadn’t realized just how tense he was too until you feel his build soften as he sinks back into the couch, pulling his arm back from your shoulders. “You know where everything is.”

You take the opportunity to escape and catch your breath within Sukuna’s room. Puffing out a dramatic sigh, you rub at the corners of your eyes in an effort to avoid scathing your makeup. All this time and every moment his arm brushes yours still feels like inhaling water.

If a brush of his arm sends water into your lungs, then being pressed into his side as he tightly envelops you is enough to drown you.

Physically shaking the thought from your head, you set aside your worries to the best of your ability. Sukuna needs your mind at ease when he’s so clearly wading through fire right now. Turning your attention to his closet, you pull out a Ghostface tee and a pair of shorts, making your way down the hall to change, brush your teeth, and take off the makeup to the best of your ability without makeup remover.

Re-emerging, you find him leaning against the wall partitioning the hallway from the main living area of his apartment. His head is buried in whatever he’s reading on his phone, the muscles of his jaw pulled taut.

“Is everything alright?”

He glances up from his phone, unable to help the way his eyes travel down your form, taking in the way his shirt hangs from your chest. He clears his throat, standing straight. “Yeah. Just… Reading shit.”

“About yourself?”

“Hard not to when it’s fuckin’ everywhere,” he sighs, pushing a hand back through his hair. It’s a relief that it doesn’t fall forward over his face now that he’s finally had a reason to get a hair cut. It’s nice to feel a little more presentable. “I got everything I need from my room. You can go ahead n’ get some sleep.”

“No, no! I’ll take the couch this time,” you insist. “You need sleep.”

“I like the couch.”

“I’m sure you like your bed, too.”

Your retort isn’t met with the roll of his eyes you’re expecting, but rather a huff. “Just take the fucking bed.”

“Please, I promise I really don’t-” you purse your lips as Sukuna takes a step towards you, ducking down at the last moment to lift you like a sack of potatoes over his broad shoulder.

You yelp in surprise, gripping the back of his shirt for purchase. “Sukuna!”

In response, he simply plops you down on his bed. You bounce on the mattress with a small ‘oof’ as he stands over you. “Goodnight.”

“Hey!”

It’s all for naught as he shuts the door behind him, leaving you in the familiar confines of his bedroom. You didn’t get a very good look last time you were in here to grab clothing, but it looks marginally better than when you brought him home intoxicated past the point of rational thought.

Although there’s still clothing piled along his desk and some on the floor, they’re the kind of piles that imply some sort of intention, as though some are dirty and some are clean and simply need to be put away. There’s organization to the chaos, which gives you the confidence to assume that he’s genuinely finding small shards of himself scattered in the mess, gluing them back in place.

Sighing, you sit up and smooth the Ghostface tee before sliding under the covers. Familiar hints of smoke, woodsy cologne and Sukuna hit your nose as your head falls to the pillow. He never can seem to make things easier for you. Between asking you to stay to tucking you into his side- subconsciously or not- and now picking you up and plopping you in his bed, you’ve completely run out of explanations.

The thought makes your heart stutter, but you’ve never taken Sukuna for anything less than blunt or the type to speak his mind, so if he’s interested, he’d say something, wouldn’t he? You sigh, pulling the covers up over your head as though it might block out the surroundings that further your uncertainty.

Maybe, once everything is over and he gets the kids back- this time for sure- you can have a conversation about this. You just need something to explain his behavior, whether it’s acceptance or rejection, you just need closure. You can live with just being friends just as you could last time, but you need to put boundaries in place as you get over him if that’s the case.

Today, though… Tonight… That’s the least of your concerns.

One step at a time, and tonight that step is an impending court date.

–

The living room is still bathed in shadows when Sukuna joins the ranks of the waking world. Sunlight isn’t a thought in the sky just yet, as he pushes up on his elbows to find that it’s barely three in the morning.

He falls back onto the couch as sleep pulls at the marrow of his bones, dragging him back into the comfort of a couch he couldn’t bear to admit he’s spent most of his nights on. He tries to go to sleep in his bed, he really does, but the only way he’s been able to convince his mind of a placebo that he’s not so alone in the apartment every night is to sleep on the couch.

For all the weariness that plagues him, he can’t bear to lay down any longer as his mind leaps into action, or maybe overaction, and he pushes up to open his laptop and do some last-minute preparation work for the trial in the morning.

Hunched tiredly over his laptop is exactly where you find him in the morning, though he now sports a clean and laundered black suit and matching black button-up shirt, while the cerise tie you’d gifted him last night hangs loosely from his collar, slightly askew. He looks undeniably handsome, clean-shaved with his hair gelled into place.

“Morning!” You greet him with a jittery smile as the trial looms quietly over you. Choso and Yuji may not be your family by blood, but if Kaori’s proved anything it’s that blood doesn’t always determine your family.

Sukuna perks up slightly, blinking as though he didn’t hear or see you depart his room. His eyes flicker down to your bare legs, the sight sending electricity straight to all the wrong places before he finds your eyeline once more. “Hey,” he mutters, redirecting his attention to his notes scrawled across the screen to keep himself distracted from the tantalizing sight. “You heading home?”

“Yeah, I’ll just change when I get back,” you shrug. The drive’s not long, anyway. “Sorry, I still have your other shirt and shorts, too. I’ll wash them and get those back to you!”

He looks tired as he casts a glance at the shirt you’re wearing. “Don’t worry about it,” he brushes you off, pushing to his feet to meet you at the door once you’ve finished in the washroom. Given that you had no intention of staying last night, you don’t have much to gather.

Turning back from his door as you slip your shoes on, you face him as he yawns and rubs at his bare chin over his tattoos. You can’t help a little lopsided smile as you admire the way the tie does bring out his eyes, even if it’s tied clumsily.

“Now you really look like Avril Lavigne.”

“You told me this would look good-”

“It does! You just- Hang on.” It’s like second nature as you take a step forward to fix his tie, deftly unraveling it before starting the process of tying it once more. It comes easily to you as the material glides through your fingers.

Sukuna’s lips purse as your fingers brush his chest with each movement. He’s silent as he watches the way your warm and groggy gaze blinks slowly, so hyperfixated on the slender material between your thumbs that you’re completely oblivious to his pounding heart. The movement is so painfully domestic and caring, one might even think…

He furrows his brow into a scowl as he stares down at you. The words pour from his mouth without thinking. “Can I ask ya something?”

“Mhmm!” You hum as you adjust his collar.

“I think I might’ve made a really fuckin’ stupid mistake.” 

Concern paints your gaze as you briefly glance up from your task to him, silent questioning in the way you chew on your lip.

“Last year, I told this woman that kissing her was a mistake.”

Your movements slow before you can tighten the tie, clinging suddenly to the material as the air is sucked straight from your lungs. Your entire body is against you, frozen in place as you’re unable to swallow the sudden lump in your throat. You can’t even bear to look at him when he could send your whole world plummeting down around you before you’d prepared yourself for it.

The conversation needs to happen, you know it does, but you thought you’d have a bit to prepare yourself.

“It wasn’t. I was just a fucking idiot.”

You peer up at him from under your lashes. Clarity swirls within the depths of the crimson pools anxiously examining your reaction, waiting for a sign. A hint of perspiration reflects the morning light off of his brow. When you don’t reply, completely dumbstruck as you cling to the tie you haven’t quite finished with yet, he lets out an uneven breath and continues.

“By the time I realized how stupid I was, I thought I blew it.” He averts his gaze under the pressure of your intense stare. “I shoulda thought this through, fuck-” Wiping the sweat from his palms onto his trousers, he inhales sharply. “Look. She’s the reason I’m here,” he motions loosely to his suit, “and I owe her. Do me a favor and tell her to wait for me after the trial if I’m right and she feels the same, yeah?”

You don’t trust your voice as heat decorates your face from ear to ear. You can only nod, chewing on your lower lip subconsciously as the world tenses. The birds outside the window all lean in, holding their breath for a confession long-awaited.

They’re let down as Sukuna puts on a facade of confidence, his expression hardening. “I’m heading to the courthouse early. See you there?”

You nod again, taking a breath out of necessity as your lungs and knees both threaten to give out in tandem. “Yeah,” you breathe, barely above a whisper. You swallow the lump in your throat, shakily tightening the tie around Sukuna’s collar and tucking the tail in. You take a step back, fighting the shy smile threatening your lips. “See you there, Sukuna.”

Before you leave, you swear you see his steely facade slip for just a moment as a rosy dust settles atop his cheeks.

–

You’re growing to hate this building with all the time you’ve spent here. Every brick seems to hold some sort of gut-wrenching memory within its grit, stained with the blood of so many worlds flipped on their heads.

You turn your attention hopefully to a small sparrow singing overhead, as you suck in a breath. Your heart hasn’t stopped doing backflips in your chest since Sukuna told you to wait for him after the trial, and at this point you can’t figure out whether it’s from the weight of what’s been left unsaid, or the impending trial.

Probably both.

As you cross the parking lot, your eyes go saucer-wide at the sight that greets you. It’s not a massive crowd, not the kind of thing you would see for a movie star or something of the sort, but there’s a sizeable crowd of paparazzi awaiting Sukuna. You purse your lips as you slip past the story-hungry journalists, grateful that they don’t know your relation to the man and opt to flat-out ignore you.

Security is upped with the crowd outside but once you manage to make it through, you’re greeted by familiar tall ceilings, tension hanging static in the air, disturbed only by a few bouncing legs and jittery fingers. You make your way to the reception desk, checking in before being led towards a more secluded courtroom down the hall from the one you were last in.

The clerk leads you to a seat behind Sukuna, whose eye you catch on the way in. The sight of him beside Ms. Harte is familiar. Although you can see the past month’s wear on his body and mind in the way he repeatedly runs a hand through his hair and squeezes the arm of his chair, he looks prepared. If that preparedness is a mask, then he wears it well.

Seated on the opposite end of the room is Kaori, who flashes you a heated glare. It’s then that you notice someone sitting opposite you as well. Noritoshi Kamo, seated straight in the withered wooden chair with an air of confidence practically radiating from him. A shiver runs up your spine at the slimy way he carries himself.

At the entrance to the room decorated in beiges and oak browns, the bailiff rises. “Please rise. The Honorable Justices of the Court are now presiding.”

Stark lightning crackles through the air as Sukuna and Kaori flash one another a glare while three judges walk in. They make their way to the podium, a man with not a single strand of brown hair out of place and sharp features, and two women, one with short black hair and rounded glasses, and one with graying long curls, all pristinely in place. The center judge adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose as she instructs the court to be seated.

There’s momentary silence as the short-haired judge takes in the sight of the court, something of surprise flashing in her eyes as she spots Noritoshi.

You can’t tell if that’s a good or bad sign.

“The court is now in session,” she addresses the room. “We are here to address case 43981, Sukuna versus Itadori, in regards to a retrial following an appeal. I, Judge Cohen, will direct the trial today.”

She takes a breath, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of her nose as she glances down at the paper by her elbows.

“I would like to remind everyone in the room that this is a new hearing. Please present all evidence as such, as we only have the information submitted to the court. You may refer to the previous trial and appeal as further evidence, however please ensure that it has been submitted to the courts as well. There will be no undisclosed evidence accepted at this time. All judgement made by the court will be agreed upon by a majority of the panel and will be solely based on what is presented today.”

She clasps her hands before herself, calmly examining the broader court.

“I would like to remind both parties to please conduct themselves with respect when addressing the court, and one another. For the purpose of this trial and the high-profile nature of this case, all records will be audio and written only. There will be no media or cameras allowed. Counsel, please identify yourselves for the record.”

With Sukuna now taking the role of the applicant, Ms. Harte rises first, offering mostly the same introduction statement as just over a month ago, though she adds to her statement given the new circumstances. “Although I acknowledge that this trial is being treated as a new hearing, it’s necessary to mention that we are back in court due to perjury on Ms. Itadori’s part,” she pauses, emphasizing the crime, “in order to ensure that Choso Itadori would be prevented from testifying. In addition to this, she has prevented Mr. Sukuna from his visitation rights with the children as submitted by the court during the previous hearing.”

Kaori’s lawyer, Mr. Cahn, follows up in a similar manner with their opening statements. In a similar manner to Sukuna’s, Kaori’s opening statement is relatively unchanged as well, aside from details regarding perjury. “On top of this, we acknowledge the claim of perjury, however there was no intention of deceit on the part of my client, nor was there any prior knowledge on her part that a clerical error was made and the birth certificate was fraudulent.”

Sukuna holds back a scoff at yet another blatant lie, frowning as he seethes. The mere sight of Kaori is already one that has his anger at a low boil, but to lie under oath again?

Narrowing his eyes, he heavily scrutinizes each judge. Could one, two, or even all three of them be under Noritoshi’s thumb again for her to so brazenly lie once again?

Is he doomed from the start again?

No. He can’t be. Background checks were done. There’s three judges. They even summoned Choso as a witness. What can Kaori possibly expect him to say in her favor? Sukuna has to put his faith in his little brother, and if it’s not what Choso wants, if maybe the eldest of the three brothers has misunderstood everything… Then he’ll leave them be.

Just the thought has him staring down at his lap, shuffling in order to better sit up.

With the opening statements coming to a close, Judge Cohen who’s taken the lead goes through familiar court rules and guidance on how proceedings will look over the next hour or so. As Sukuna is now the applicant, he’s the first witness called to the stand this time around. He takes an oath to tell the truth, shuffling in place as he greets the judges and gives a broad explanation of his role in the kids’ lives and his responsibilities as their guardian in the same vein as last time. His lawyer then rounds the table to question him.

“I’d like to begin by having you describe to the court what had you push for an expedited process today.”

“Sure. I saw my kid brothers on the front page of a newspaper. They both look scared and I don’t wanna see them go through that. Bein’ a celebrity is hard enough for an adult, but they’re just kids and Choso was already struggling. I made a promise to him that I would make things right.”

“Can you confirm what you intend to do to make things right?”

Sukuna swallows. For how many times he’s considered what it might be like in order to keep the kids out of the spotlight, he never really quite seemed to get the scope of the situation they’re in until he arrived at the courthouse today. He’d seen his face on magazine racks and had some journalist find his home, sure, but a slew of reporters somehow finding the court date and location? He hadn’t realized how deep of a hole had been dug.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll make it happen. He’ll take the shovel out of Kaori’s hands and dig them a ramp out. He’ll do it by hand if he has to, but he’s not fucking losing hope this time. He won’t lose his chance to make things right.

“I’ll do what it takes to make them happy. I’ll give them the privacy they deserve, and I won’t show them off in front of cameras. If that means transferring schools or moving away, then so be it.”

“Thank you. Mr. Sukuna, can you describe to the court your experience trying to get a hold of Kaori following Mr. Itadori’s passing?”

With the first question, the trial begins anew with testimony from Sukuna. Every glance up at the judges instills more confidence as they regard him with unbiased expressions. He doesn’t feel quite so doomed-from-the-start.

He recounts the events of reaching out to Kaori, and explains what it means to him to be the kids’ guardian. He recalls teaching himself to cook and change diapers, before taking a breath as his lawyer pushes for information he hadn’t ever considered sharing.

“Can you confirm the impact this had on you at only eighteen years old?”

He wants to say no, to hold the information close to his heart, but Ms. Harte had advised that they plead psychological damages- both to him and the children- in order to emphasize Kaori’s bad faith and ability to act only in her own personal interests. On top of that, it would allow Sukuna to catch up on bills, though that was information held under lock and key.

“Yeah, uh-” he casts a glance at Kaori, bringing a hand up to massage a kink in his shoulder. “My father, Kaori’s husband, got sick a bit after she left. He died when Yuji was around a year old of Heart Disease. I didn’t hear much from Kaori, but dad- uh-” he pauses, clearing his throat as his voice sputters out, “- Jin always said she was doin’ good and supporting us overseas.”

Sukuna’s brow twitches as he scowls down at the ground. His stomach churns as he divulges information he’d never dare to share in such a way, though he has no other choice. He shuts his eyes briefly in an effort to keep his anger to a low simmer, rather than the rage that threatens to overflow. His jaw tightens as he huffs.

“I watched him die. I heard him ask her to come back during a call a few days before it happened. I didn’t talk to her but I didn’t really care, figured she’d come back for her kids when he died.”

“You refer to ‘her kids’ as though that doesn’t include yourself, does it not?”

He frowns. “No. It never has. She made that pretty obvious even when I was a kid.”

“Thank you. Were you aware your father would pass away?”

Sukuna’s heart clenches, his voice low. “Yes.”

His lawyer nods, waving to him to continue.

“I got Ms. Itadori’s contact from his phone. She didn’t answer.” He shrugs, tilting his head to examine the cold expression on the opposition’s face. She doesn’t waver, staring proudly straight ahead. “Not me, not the lawyers. None of her family answered, either. Jin wanted me to go to school, made me promise to keep goin’ with it, so I got a job and kept studying while taking care of a one-year-old and seven-year-old.”

“How did that affect you, Mr. Sukuna?” Ms. Harte pushes.

He swallows, nodding slowly. He knew the question was coming, but it doesn’t make it easier. “I didn’t sleep much. Still don’t. I put the kids first, so I missed a lot of classes and shifts, which makes work and school tough.” He grimaces, eyes downcast as though the unpatterned floor is more interesting. “I still did alright, though. I-” he pauses, casting a glance back at you, grateful for your supportive smile. “I had help. Made it all manageable, until the trial.”

“How have these proceedings affected you?”

“It tripled my bills. I had to look at options for extra cash and ways to cut down.”

Ms. Harte nods. “How were you able to cut down?”

“I ate less. Called in a lot of favors to have friends look after the kids while I took extra shifts. I also dropped out of college.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sukuna. Did this affect your brothers in any way?”

“Yeah. I wanted to be honest with them. They’re both smart, and Choso, the twelve-year-old,” he pauses, regarding Kaori with narrowed molten embers, “knows who Kaori is. I wanted him to know what was goin’ on. I knew he’d be scared, but he shut down. Just like when our father died, he got real quiet n’ liked to be locked in his room most of the time.”

Ms. Harte evaluates the judges behind her, who continue to listen attentively, before continuing. “Can you attest to how you were able to support Choso at this time?”

He hesitates, feeling the pressure of his own misgivings weighing down on him as he searches his mind for the practiced statement he’d gone over. He clears his throat. “Choso likes to talk through how he’s feeling. He just needs time to talk and work through things, so I gave him the space he needed when he asked and was there when he needed support. I’m not great at talking but I’m a good listener.”

Ms. Harte offers a small smile of encouragement, remaining professional as she smooths the front of her beige suit jacket. “Did this support seem adequate in improving his mental health?”

“Yeah. He’d usually come around after working through his thoughts.”

“Have you had any contact with him since Ms. Itadori took custody of the children?”

“No,” Sukuna’s lip curls in frustration as he recalls the text he received from her. Not shocking, but infuriating nonetheless. “I tried to visit them on the day we’d talked about, but she texted me to let me know it wouldn’t work. When I tried to figure out another day, she didn’t answer. It’s uh-” he shuffles through the paperwork at his elbows, pulling out a screenshot of the exchanged messages. “Here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sukuna.” She hands over the evidence for the Judges’ ease, then proceeds to ask a slew of the same questions as the previous trial. Anything from his work ethic to his thoughts on the effects that often having a babysitter might have had on the kids. She has him tackle topics that the opposition will likely press on, such as his outburst at the Case Conference, before finishing his questioning with one last one.

“Do you wish to be their guardian again?”

“More than anything,” he mutters, vulnerability tearing into his chest and exposing his heart in a way that someone so guarded can hardly bear to express.

Ms. Harte’s lips press into a thin line, concentration playing in her eyes. She turns to address the grander room, her gaze sweeping across the three Justices of the court seated slightly above her eyeline. “No further questions, Your Honors.”

As Ms. Harte takes a seat, Mr. Cahn takes her place. Sukuna once felt unease at the sight of the opposing lawyer, now replaced with cunning rage. Sukuna straightens, purposefully making a show of being proud, and this time, prepared. He towers over the opposing lawyer, keeping a neutral expression to the best of his ability.

“Mr. Sukuna,” he starts, “I want to first begin by acknowledging that my client has nothing but respect for you and thanks you for your time looking after her children.”

Bullshit.

Sukuna has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

Mr. Cahn’s questioning starts word for word the same as last time. “Mr. Sukuna, would you not agree that it’s important for the children to have a motherly figure in their life?”

Sukuna doesn’t back down, refusing to get backed into a corner. He’s prepared for these questions now. “They have good influences in their lives outside of a mother. I grew up without one and turned out fine,” he states plainly.

“Do you not have a vast record of misconduct as submitted to the court in your school records?”

“I do,” Sukuna admits, unwavering. “But I was a kid.” Sukuna pauses only briefly to shift his attention to the judges. “If you look at the date that Ms. Itadori married my father and the dates from the issues at my school, there’s a pattern,” he states somewhat smugly, his nerves settling as Mr. Cahn equally observes the judges.

“Are you stating that Ms. Itadori causes you to lose your temper?”

“Sure, when I was a kid.”

“If this pattern could only be recognized when you were a child, what are we meant to make of the Case Conference incident where you lashed out and were nearly removed from the courthouse?” The lawyer pushes, running a hand thoughtfully through his graying beard.

“Like I said before, that was an emotional time. I didn’t wanna lose the kids,” he states, keeping his anger under wraps and refusing to crack.

“If you believe yourself to be a good influence on the children, can you speak to your smoking addiction?”

“I smoke sometimes, but never near the kids.”

“As stated in my client’s submission of evidence, she witnessed you outside of your apartment smoking while the kids were upstairs last year, do you-”

“Objection, Your Honors,” Ms. Harte jumps in. “My client doesn’t recall this incident and there is no evidence that the children weren’t at a friend’s house or being watched by someone else if this did occur. This evidence should be dismissed as hearsay.”

Judge Cohen glances to either side. The man at her side nods, while the woman with graying curls briefly shoots Noritoshi- not even Kaori- a somewhat nervous look before nodding.

Snake.

Still, two out of three judges not under that asshole’s thumb is enough. Just the fact that the smoking incident Sukuna can’t recall for the life of him has been dismissed is leagues ahead of where he stood during the last trial.

“Objection sustained.”

“Thank you, Your Honors.”

Mr. Cahn re-composes himself, straightening as he rounds back to Kaori’s table to thumb through some files.

“Mr. Sukuna, I’d like to go over your work and school records. You have multiple counts of vandalism, trespassing, and pranks that landed you in the principal’s office.”

Sukuna shrugs a shoulder lazily, keeping his cool. “I was a kid.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Cahn agrees, holding what Sukuna can only assume is that stupid selfie he took with Choso when he was sixteen. “However, this wasn’t that long ago,” he states, handing the photo up to the panel of judges. “This is inappropriate behavior for someone of your age, even for the time. Particularly to involve your little brother.”

Sukuna grimaces, grappling with words in an effort to find an excuse, but everything goes back to him being a dumb kid. If that’s not enough, what is?

His lip twitches into a hint of a snarl. “It’s less inappropriate than leaving two kids with no guardian.”

Mr. Cahn’s jaw ticks in frustration. “Mr. Sukuna. Please keep your inappropriate comments to yourself. As stated in the documents submitted to the court and your lawyer, and mentioned in our opening statements, Ms. Itadori fell very ill and was unable to take care of her children at the time.”

The pink-haired brute barely keeps his frustration below the surface as he sends a glare Kaori’s way. They’d never managed to find any evidence against Kaori’s illness, but he still had no reason to believe her. Opting to keep his mouth shut, he examines the neutral expressions of the panel of Judges. Surely they can see what he does, right? No loving mother would reasonably leave their children to an unknown fate, no matter how ill.

Addressing the broader court, Mr. Cahn turns the tables on Sukuna once more. “As demonstrated here, Mr. Sukuna still has childlike tendencies. He is unable to keep his mouth shut in the case of things not going his way and demonstrates clear lapses in judgement.”

What he wouldn’t give to be able to show one of those ‘lapses in judgement’ now and chew this lawyer out.

Although it seems as though Mr. Cahn is getting the better of Sukuna, you notice that the salmon-haired brute’s straightened posture remains and he doesn’t falter. There’s no minute tremble in his fingers, no desperate glances towards his lawyer. He exudes confidence that he didn’t the last time you found yourself here.

The only evidence that he’s nervous is written in small twitches of his jaw, but he refuses to back down. Not when he’s so close, and not when Choso is in the building.

For once, Sukuna swears to himself that he won’t let his little brother down. Just once he wants to be the person Choso sees him as. He rolls his shoulders back, shaking off his nerves as Mr. Cahn rounds the room to face him again.

“Mr. Sukuna, you’re familiar with the contents of the house study that took place last month, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re aware that they state that Mr. Choso Itadori appeared to be struggling with his mental health?”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Cahn’s eyes narrow, as though he expected an outburst, a retort, something that might make Sukuna’s stance of a strong and independent guardian waver. This time around, he’s met with stoic confidence over righteous arrogance, and with every crack in his expression, it grows increasingly clear that he’s not sure how to handle the man facing him, who’s had over a month to reflect on every mistake.

Every moment he lashed out, every moment he lacked a response, every mistake brought to light, he’d spent a month simmering in his own stupidity. One month of self-loathing over misdemeanors he hardly remembers. One month of tearing himself to pieces over answers he hadn’t prepared. One month of seeking any kind of relief from the ache that gnawed him to the bone.

Their perjury is the very reason that Sukuna is standing here now, keeping steady even as they tear at his stitches.

He stares down at Mr. Cahn, unwavering as he prepares for the incoming question.

“It’s clear that you struggle with your own emotions, are you unable to provide for the emotional needs of your brother?”

“Choso has the support he needs. He only struggles with his mental health because of this trial.”

Mr. Cahn’s lips part, hesitating before he bounces back. “Can you attest to the manner that you’re able to support Choso?”

Sukuna shifts in place. “Like I mentioned to Ms. Harte, he likes to talk through his thoughts. I know I’m not great with words, but I’m a damn-” he shuts his eyes briefly, “- sorry, Your Honors. I’m a good listener.”

“Mr. Sukuna, you seem to have a habit of swearing. Would that not be inappropriate in front of young and impressionable children?”

Sukuna gathers his thoughts, running his tongue over his lower lip. “I try not to swear around them.” It’s the best he can give without outright lying, and he’s not about to commit perjury.

“You try?” Mr. Cahn parrots, raising his brow. “It seems clear to me that you don’t possess the emotional maturity to provide for such young children.”

Sukuna grimaces, jaw clenched. “No parent is perfect. I’m workin’ on myself,” he admits, the burn of vulnerability searing the back of his throat. It’s sour on his tongue, but he doesn’t shy away from the taste, remaining aloof to the best of his ability.

Visibly shocked by Sukuna's calm and mature reply, the opposing lawyer runs a hand through his graying beard as he composes himself. He examines the half-brother’s expression, seeking a crevice to pry into, but there’s nothing to be found. The ex-history major is well-aware that Choso’s teacher will be brought to the stand and by all accounts it’ll look bad on him. Luckily for Sukuna, it’ll look worse on Kaori when they point out the grade that Choso is in.

Regardless, Mr. Cahn presses on. He likely feels he needs to squeeze as much mileage as he can out of questioning Sukuna given that Kaori’s argument isn’t so airtight anymore. “My client and I both acknowledge Choso’s statement during the house study that he would like to be with Sukuna, however I would advise the court to consider that Choso Itadori is young and has no frame of reference to compare this-”

“He was seven when Kaori left. That’s old enough to remember her,” Sukuna grits.

“Mr. Sukuna,” the bailiff admonishes him for interrupting.

He shuffles from side to side, squeezing his hands into fists.

“As I was saying,” the opposition continues, “Seven is young. I think many of us here can agree that we don’t remember much from those years,” he grins as he shoots the panel of judges a knowing look to win them over. “Choso Itadori wouldn’t have a frame of reference between care from different sources.”

Now that he’s finished speaking, Sukuna is quick to blurt out a retort. “When you’re twelve, seven isn’t that long ago. He remembers Ka- Ms. Itadori well. That’s why he’s been struggling.”

Mr. Cahn seems to know something that Sukuna doesn’t, as he grins, a victorious lilt to his tone. “Your Honors, if Mr. Sukuna feels the need to speak without being spoken to, I would like to submit that we dismiss the witness on the grounds of providing information beyond the scope of the case.”

Straightening, the judge directing the case tilts her head towards her colleague with silver curls, who nods approvingly.

Sukuna’s lips part, the facade cracking as he feels the tremble returning to his fingers, watching in horror as the judges contemplate amongst themselves. While the one that he knows is under Kaori’s thumb is quick to agree, the man on the opposite side doesn’t make a decision quite as easily. Small twitches in his facial expression don’t give much away, either. Finally, he shakes his head.

“Objection overruled. Mr. Sukuna, please be warned to only speak when spoken to, however this is valuable information and not outside of the scope of this case.”

He breathes out a sigh of relief, dipping his head gratefully to Judge Cohen. He doesn’t dare say a word, hoping she understands his silent gratitude.

Mr. Cahn hesitates as he glances down at his paperwork, unsatisfied with what information he pulled from Sukuna, who refuses to buckle under pressure.

“No further questions.”

The room shifts, turning on its head from solemn confidence to brazen arrogance as Kaori and Sukuna’s roles are shifted. She takes her oath before standing straight. No longer confident in her control over the situation, his step-mother is shifty. Her hands, usually clasped before her in silent self-assurance now fidget, her nails picked raw.

You can only wonder what she has to lose. Her kids can’t truly be her concern, otherwise you wouldn’t have seen them at a massive tech conference barely a week after leaving Sukuna. With such little time to adjust, that kind of behavior had to be deemed as poor judgement, in addition to the bad faith she’s already shown when it comes to her motherly instincts, or lack thereof.

So what really has her so nervous?

You cast a glance to your right, giving a once-over of the stoic Noritoshi Kamo. Even seated, he’s tall, with a stature that would suggest he sees himself above everyone here. Neatly-coiffed hair sits atop his upper lip, curled just slightly into a resting frown.

Maybe he’s just using Kaori. Maybe what he truly cares about is the good publicity and without her kids she’s nothing to him. Would he leave her? You wouldn’t put it past him, she’s not his first wife and his track record isn’t the kind you hope for in a partner.

Then again, they must have been together for almost five years at this point, if you’re to assume that the real reason Kaori moved overseas is for him. Would he really use her in such a way for five years? That seems unlikely for a mogul like him.

Could it be… Choso? Is Sukuna right? Is Sukuna’s middle brother not Jin’s at all?

You shake your head, adjusting in your seat as Mr. Cahn is invited to begin questioning Kaori. Her statements are practiced, the sort of thing she rehearsed in the rearview mirror on the way here, probably written on cue cards for the benefit of committing them to memory.

You shift your gaze back to her, scrutinizing every last detail she goes over as she begins a broad statement on her take of what happened and why she couldn’t take the kids after Jin’s death. She touches on Sukuna’s inability to contact her, as well as bringing to attention the wealth disparity between her and her step-son and going through much of the same spiel about his inability to properly look after his brothers. Much like Sukuna’s testimony, hers remains much the same as the first time you heard the ordeal, up until the end.

“I would like to mention the topic of perjury as I know it’ll come up, I had no part in the forgery of any documents. A clerical error has taken place somewhere along the line, and I believe that warrants further investigation.”

Leaning further back in his chair, your friend huffs. It’s all bullshit and anyone can see it. To your relief, the judge who’s been at the helm of the proceedings seems skeptical.

“Ms. Itadori, thank you for your debrief. I’d like to dig into the perjury as well. Can you describe the process you used in order to request this birth certificate, as well as your reason for requesting it?”

“Of course,” she agrees. “I requested both Yuji and Choso’s birth certificates shortly before falling ill. They were requested from the Government’s website, and required me to provide proof of my guardianship over my children. I received them about twenty days later by mail.”

Her lawyer nods. “You’re implying that these reprints were ordered prior to your late husband’s passing. Is this correct?”

“It is.”

“Can you describe to the court why you did such a thing?”

She sighs dramatically, the sound setting Sukuna’s entire body alight with rage. What a fucking liar. So much for swearing an oath.

“Yes, of course. Ryomen and I have never seen eye-to-eye. He made it quite clear as a child that he had no interest in allowing me to take a motherly position in his life and as my late husband Jin prepared for his passing, he planned to send all of the children’s files to me. He was unable to do so due to his illness and instead I opted to have their documents reprinted in order to ensure Mr. Sukuna wouldn’t have prevented it.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow. His pupils are pinpricks as he stares sidelong at his step-mother, his leg shaking beneath the table. Everything about her from her condescending demeanor to her composed arrogance just pisses Sukuna off more. He can’t stand the way he felt completely in control of the trial up until this point, where it feels like all of his sound arguments begin falling apart.

Mr. Cahn presses Kaori for details. “Did Jin Itadori advise you to do such a thing?”

“He did,” she affirms. Sukuna whips his head towards her, his jaw hanging askew. She can lie all she’d like, his father would never do such a thing. “He advised me that Mr. Sukuna had been very emotional since he’d gotten sick and had advised that we begin moving all of his assets over to me. I won’t cause a stir over losing any of our assets and I’m happy that my step-son was able to make use of them, however my biological children are not assets.”

For a woman so adamantly fighting for custody, she sure does treat them like they’re assets.

“Can you confirm what method of communication you used in order for Jin Itadori to express this to you?”

“This was over a phone call on my new number, which I suppose wasn’t saved in his phone. I believe he was in the hospital at the time.”

“Thank you, Ms. Itadori. Your Honors, I’ll have you please look over Ms. Itadori’s medical records.”

All three judges flip a few pages as the sound of paper through the air is all that penetrates the otherwise silent room. There’s an echo to her voice as Judge Cohen acknowledges Mr. Cahn’s request. “Please proceed.”

“As you can see, Ms. Itadori fell ill as well, and was admitted to the hospital shortly after Jin’s passing, therefore causing her flight to need to be cancelled. Records of her flight cancellation are included as well.” He pauses to allow the judges a moment to look over the records. “This was shortly after beginning work at a new company, which required her to change cellular providers. She also moved to be closer to her office, hence the difficulty contacting her. That’s correct, Ms. Itadori?”

“Yes.”

“Please describe how you were able to meet your current husband while ill.”

She casts a glance back at Noritoshi, met with no response even as she clearly seeks his support. “Um-” She hesitates, clearing her throat. “Yes, of course. He recommended me for the position at my new company, and upon falling ill, came to visit me frequently at the hospital. We began dating after he visited multiple times per week, and got married once I was discharged. We eloped, we didn’t want to waste any time while I was feeling well.”

“And how have you been feeling since then?”

“Great, thank you.”

“Do you have any concerns that your health may prevent you from providing the utmost care for the Itadori children?”

“Not at all,” she shakes her head. “I had a particularly bad infection that caused me to experience painful symptoms long after the infection had cleared, however they no longer persist. I see my doctor regularly and have been clear of any issues since my discharge. I have those details here, as well.”

Her lawyer smiles, his self-assurance rising by the second. “Thank you. Please, Your Honors, I’ll have you take a look as well.”

Another pause. Each one has both you and Sukuna holding your breath, as though her argument might unravel within the silence, but the moment never comes.

“Ms. Itadori, do you feel you have provided a safe and nurturing environment for the children since the previous trial?”

“I do.”

“Can you describe how the children have settled in?”

“Absolutely. We recently purchased a nearby house in order to allow the children to be near their friends while they adjust to the changes. We’ll travel back and forth during school breaks, which both of them are very excited about,” she smiles, a flat look in her eyes, “and both children have their own space. Their rooms are side-by-side, they enjoy spending lots of time together.”

A lump forms in Sukuna’s throat as he scowls down at his lap. With each word, the bile in the back of his throat grows more sour.

“Yuji has really started to make his room his own. He enjoys video games and cartoons and we installed a basketball hoop for him. I’m sure he got that interest from Mr. Sukuna,” she offers a faux smile as she cocks her head in Sukuna’s direction. “Choso’s transition has been slower. We’ve enrolled him in a private school, as he was struggling with being bullied. He spends most of his time in his room, but we’re careful to give him the space he needs while always being open to talking. As my step-son mentioned, he benefits a lot from working through his emotions.”

Nausea sends Sukuna’s mind into a tilting sensation. He reaches up to hold his head in an effort to ground himself, taking long slow breaths.

He’d prepared himself for hearing about his brothers and the topic of Choso being bullied, he could face that. Something about imagining the little brown-haired boy alone in a room that isn’t his own with people he doesn’t know makes his chest compress more than he can handle. He leans forward in his chair, rubbing his face and blowing out a breath.

“Mr. Sukuna,” the judge cuts in, addressing him as he lets out a labored gasp, “are you feeling alright? Do you need us to take a small break?”

“No,” he forces out, sitting up as he rests a hand on his stomach in order to settle it.

The male judge quietly says something with a grimace to Judge Cohen, who nods. “I’d like to take a brief break to allow both groups to take a breath. I apologize Ms. Itadori, we’ll return in fifteen minutes and continue where we left off. Please rest assured that this won’t affect our judgement and is a normal procedure within the court.”

The air within the room lightens as Kaori and her lawyer chatter quietly amongst themselves. All three judges take leave at once as you carefully watch Sukuna. He hunches over again, dragging his hands over his face, then back through his hair.

“Go get some water,” Ms. Harte encourages softly with a gentle pat to his shoulder. “There’s a water cooler just down the hall.”

He inhales a long, slow breath and nods, getting to his feet. His gaze finds you, a plea swimming in otherwise stoic crimson irises. You’re up in a moment, trailing just behind him.

Stepping out into the high ceilings of the hall, you purse your lips at what you can only assume is Noritoshi Kamo’s security, two large men in full black suits, while court security lingers around the room as well. It’s hard to put into perspective just how important he (thinks he) is until you see it for yourself.

Sukuna tapers off from the security detail, finding a secluded corner to take a breath. He settles against the wall, leaning his head back on the cool surface as he recenters himself.

“Hey,” you murmur softly, ignoring the way your stomach flutters upon the promise of seeing him after the trial. It’s not the time. “You’ve got this, you know that.”

He peeks his eyes open, examining your expression. “I know,” he agrees hoarsely, reaching a hand up to scratch at his chest as though something is gnawing at it. “‘S just hard hearing about what’s goin’ on.”

You murmur your agreement, brushing your fingers along the backs of his. He cocks his head to the side, eyelids heavy as he watches the way you remain tender with him. Wearily, he lifts a hand to curl his fingers around yours, clasping your hand within his. His gaze lingers on the way your hand fits within his, like a zipper pulled together.

“Can’t believe we called her out for perjury and she’s still fucking lyin’.”

“I just wish there was proof,” you agree.

“The proof will be Choso’s testimony,” he mumbles, keeping his voice low. He leans in to further guarantee the privacy of your conversation. “Even if they bring in his teacher, it won’t matter. Dunno what they expect at this point.”

You brush your thumb along the rough skin of Sukuna’s hand. “I don’t think they ever expected you to get this far, honestly. I think their argument’s falling apart.”

Hope flickers within the depths of his dull eyes. “Y’think?”

You nod, offering an equally optimistic smile.

He inhales deeply, nodding to himself. “Right.”

“Just hang in there. Things will fix themselves because you did everything the right way.”

The corner of his lip downturns just slightly, but he gives your hand a squeeze. “Yeah,” he breathes. He takes a moment to examine the increasingly large security detail surrounding the court, his expression hardening. “Let’s go back inside,” he mutters, erring on the side of caution.

He slips his hand out of yours, letting it rest on your waist as he guides you behind him in an effort to block the possibility of any cameras catching a glimpse of you. Tingles shoot out from where his hand rested like electricity. The feeling is warm, calming your nerves like an embrace with only a guiding touch.

You can only hope your presence grounds him in the same manner.

As the members of the trial returns to their seats, the return of the judges is announced. “Court is now back in session, please resume the examination of the witness.” Judge Cohen waves her hand in Kaori’s direction. Both rise as Mr. Cahn rounds the table, adjusting the tie around his neck as he composes himself.

“Ms. Itadori, I believe we were in the midst of hearing how the children have settled in with you.”

“Of course,” she agrees. “Yuji has settled in just fine. We put up a basketball net for him and both boys have their own spaces. Choso has taken more time to adjust and enjoys time to himself. We’re happy to give him the space he needs,” she smiles, blinking quickly. “They get home-cooked meals three times a day, lots of time to play outdoors, and have been doing well in school. We also limit their screen-time, of course,” she laughs, as though that might be funny.

The silence that meets her shuts her up.

“There’s a park a couple of blocks away from where we live that they really enjoy and we’re planning a trip to take them to a theme park,” she grins as though she’s the picture of a perfect guardian.

The frustration within Sukuna is palpable throughout the room, prickling at his skin as it raises into goosebumps at the sound of how his little brothers are supposedly doing.

He balls his hands into fists, biting down on the inside of his cheek in order to subdue his anxiety, fueling his frustration instead. At least that he can manage that without feeling as though the world is opening up to swallow him whole.

“Can you attest to having the monetary means to support them not only as children, however through their future schooling and adulthood?”

“Of course. Your Honors, my husband and I,” she glances back at Noritoshi with a look that makes you narrow your eyes as nerves make her stammer, “we- um- we own a very successful business and have separated a portion of our earnings to build funds for my boys’ futures. You’ll see those accounts included here,” she hands a sheet of paper to Mr. Cahn to pass along.

For all of Sukuna’s brazen confidence, shame and fear seep through the cracks as he stares down at the submitted evidence that Ms. Harte flips through to follow along. He can’t be sure how much compensation he’d get from Kaori if he wins- if any- and even then he’s not sure he can match that.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, setting the thought aside as he fills his mind with images of the kids on the red carpet. He supposes at the end of the day it’s up to Choso. He’s here. He gets a say. If he chooses Kaori, then so be it.

So be it.

Even if it tears him apart, if it’s what Choso and Yuji want, he’ll let them go.

Mr. Cahn’s steady and authoritative voice rings through Sukuna’s thoughts. “Lastly, are you prepared to raise these children for the rest of your life? Kids are a lifelong responsibility.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“That is all, Your Honors,” he bows, taking a seat beside Kaori.

The judge takes a moment to look over the evidence, nodding once she receives a signal from the remaining panel. “I’d like to invite the applicant’s counsel to cross-examine the witness.”

Ms. Harte adjusts her jacket, rounding the table to now face Kaori.

“Ms. Itadori, what led you to take a position overseas when your youngest son was barely a couple of months old?”

“My late husband and I didn’t earn much at the time and with three boys, we felt it was the right thing to do. My maternity leave was already over at my old job which had poor benefits, and it seemed like the most responsible decision to make for all of their futures,” she explains.

Ms. Harte doesn’t waver, tilting her chin up. “And did you not consider how leaving might affect Choso and Yuji Itadori while both were- and frankly still are- in very important developmental years?”

“I did. That played a big role in my decision, but with Jin having his hands full, it seemed like the right option to take a position that offered more income than both of us working and putting the kids in daycare,” she pauses with a sidelong glance at her step-son. “We considered the option of having Mr. Sukuna help out with watching them, but I didn’t love that idea given how much trouble he was causing.”

Immediately, Sukuna’s mouth opens to retort, but Ms. Harte’s face whips towards him. He shuts up with one stern look from his lawyer. With a harsh wooden creak, he sits back in his chair, his leg bouncing rapidly.

Fucking snake. Jin wouldn’t let Sukuna help. At every turn he refused Sukuna’s help, wanting his eldest son to be able to live his life. The most he would allow of Sukuna was small tasks. Taking Choso out to the skate park or moving Yuji to his carseat was about as much as his father would ever allow him to do, no matter how sick he got. Even when Kaori was around, Jin took it upon himself to do everything.

One could see where Sukuna got his stubbornness from.

The burly man stares holes into the side of Kaori’s head as the cross-examination continues.

“In the same vein, did you consider the children’s well-being when you brought them to the SXSW conference and festival?”

With a tight-lipped smile, Kaori nods slowly. “The boys expressed an interest in wanting to experience it,” she states simply.

Ms. Harte takes a moment to re-center herself before directing her attention to the panel of Justices. “Your Honors, I’d like to direct your attention to the photos and subsequent articles to come from the conference.” There’s a brief pause as the wave of paper fills the air. “The children are clearly very afraid.” She turns to direct her attention to Kaori. “Whether they expressed an interest in being there or not, is it not your responsibility to ensure their safety? That conference boasted over half a million people this year.”

Kaori hesitates, her gaze shifting briefly to the side. Noritoshi subtly straightens, the intensity within his stare growing more unnerving.

“I can understand concern based on these photos, but they adjusted quite quickly.”

“Is that how you would explain the photos of Yuji cowering behind you, taken within the exhibit hall?” Ms. Harte quizzes, pushing for Kaori to crack. She pulls a photo from Sukuna’s table, which he catches a glance at. He doesn’t get a good look at it, but he’d warrant a guess that Choso, facing away from the camera, is doing his best not to cower away, himself, while keeping his promise to Sukuna to look after Yuji.

The lump in Sukuna’s throat catches and a cough rumbles in his chest.

The photo is passed along to the judges while Kaori visibly scrambles for a reply. She takes a breath to remain calm and even, nodding slowly. “The exhibit hall was overwhelming for them,” she admits, “but we immediately took them to the VIP area, which was private, and they loved it.”

Ms. Harte takes a step towards the small podium in which the judges reside. It’s not intended for three judges, based on how closely they’re seated and how small the courtroom is, but the nature of the case dictated special allowances be made in order to ensure fairness and safety.

“I’d like to advise that the court considers the children’s safety at such an event. Not only is Yuji Itadori completely unfamiliar with Ms. Itadori, Choso also hasn’t seen her in five years. They don’t have a trusted adult with them at an extremely high profile event where they are the spotlight surrounded by half a million people. Whether the children enjoyed it or not, this is a large risk to take with young children, particularly in regards to their mental health and safety.”

She turns away from Sukuna’s step-mother as she organizes her thoughts and brings her next question to light.

Composing herself with complete confidence, she continues her cross-examination. “Can you attest to the denial of my client’s visitation rights?”

“Certainly. There was no bad blood intended with Mr. Sukuna, we were simply preparing to take the children to SXSW. I would be more than happy to continue with visitation in the future.”

“The screenshots provided by my client indicate you didn’t reply to multiple messages, did you intend to continue them without court involvement?”

She smiles, faux kindness shot towards her fiery step-son. “Absolutely. His relationship with his brothers is important. I was unable to reply due to travel.”

“For several weeks?”

She laughs, waving a hand through the air dismissively. “I get many texts, they just got buried by the time we returned.”

Facing the liar once more, Ms. Harte finally brings to the table what’s been weighing heavy on the courtroom. “Ms. Itadori,” she begins grimly. “You’re accused of perjury. Can you confirm that you’re aware of the meaning of the term?”

“I am aware, yes.”

“Thank you. As a reminder, perjury is lying under oath. In addition, in this case, the birth certificate would stand as fabricated evidence, uttering forged documents, and fraudulent misrepresentation, as this evidence prevented Mr. Choso Itadori from testifying. Should this be proven, all acts demonstrate bad faith and can warrant jail time, should you be found guilty in a Criminal Court investigation.”

Ms. Harte takes a moment to give pause in order to allow these crimes to settle in. Should the court agree with Sukuna as the applicant, Kaori should by all means be under investigation in a criminal court, as family court isn’t exactly the place for this.

“Were you aware at the time of submission that the birth certificate that you submitted for Choso Itadori was a falsified document?”

She swallows hard. “No.”

“Were you aware at any point during the process that this document was false?”

“No.”

Sukuna lifts a brow. Doubling down? It’s almost impressive. Sure, Noritoshi’s wealth and resources could likely prevent prison time for her, but it’s bold nonetheless. He casts a sidelong glance at Noritoshi. That’s if he isn’t using Kaori in the first place and doesn’t simply toss her aside.

They deserve one another.

“You mentioned that you filed for the document through the government website prior to your late husband’s passing. This would have been close to four years ago, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

Ms. Harte nods, remaining professional as she continues with hands clasped before her. “In the court-ordered record of reprints we requested, this doesn’t appear to be the truth. The last time Choso Itadori’s birth certificate was printed was on his date of birth, twelve years ago. Can you attest to how this may be the case?”

“Objection!” Mr. Cahn steps in, taking a stand. “We didn’t receive such a document during the Document Disclosure phase.”

The judge’s expression remains impartial as she addresses Sukuna’s lawyer. “Was this record shared with the respondent’s counsel?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I included a document in which Mr. Cahn himself signed off on receiving all evidence we have provided today,” she confidently states, passing along a dry-ink signed document stating that it was indeed received.

The judge takes one look at the document, addressing Mr. Cahn once more, who’s in no position to lie as he’ll be under serious investigation should this case not go his way. “Mr. Cahn, is this your signature?”

His lips press into a thin line. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Objection overruled. You may continue, Ms. Harte.”

Tension fills the room as Mr. Cahn takes a seat, allowing Sukuna’s lawyer to continue.

“Ms. Itadori, as I was saying, the records state that the last time Choso Itadori’s birth certificate was printed was on his date of birth, twelve years ago. As Mr. Sukuna was able to submit this as proof of Choso Itadori’s date of birth, can you confirm where you received the falsified document?”

“It must be a clerical error,” she replies, her repose and control beginning to falter as her hackles raise. “I received it through the government website,” she insists again.

“Ms. Itadori, without solid proof, this will not stand in a court of law.”

“No, the…” she trails off, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “The records must be a clerical error.”

Skeptically, Ms. Harte raises her brow. “Are you claiming both the incorrect birth certificate and the court-ordered record of printing to be incorrect?”

“Yes! I haven’t committed any crimes, and I would do no such thing.”

“If you’ll take a look at the document we provided,” Ms. Harte insists with a victorious gleam in her eye as Mr. Cahn does find it in front of him- yet another convenient little misstep in their argument- and presents it to Kaori. “You can see that it was signed off by two parties and officially stamped and sealed. There were extra precautions taken to ensure that this document is certified correct. With this understanding, where did you request the falsified certificate from?”

Kaori’s mouth opens to say something, but the words die in her throat. When her silence grows prolonged, Ms. Harte repeats the question. The silence continues, growing prolonged as Kaori searches for a reply, her eyes flitting desperately around the room. Mr. Cahn’s knuckles go white as he clenches the arm of his chair at her side.

The black-haired judge leading the trial shifts in her seat. “You are required to answer the question truthfully.”

Sukuna’s step-mother’s head flips dramatically to the judge. She clears her throat. “Yes, Your Honor.” Chewing on her lip, she inhales sharply and stands straight again. “I don’t know how that could be possible. I applied for the reprint properly, clearly there was a clerical error and it wasn’t recorded.”

The judges can be heard clearly making notes as Ms. Harte turns to address the broader court. “Your Honors, as you have heard, the witness’ account contradicts evidence that has been provided and I would suggest that their testimony be given no weight.” It’s not a formal request, therefore the judge remains impartial, simply making a note. “No further questions, Your Honors.”

Ms. Harte takes a seat as the proceedings continue. The judge thanks Ms. Harte as the panel adjusts the paperwork before them in preparation for the next witness. “We will now hear from the applicant’s second witness. As this witness is a minor, the court has appointed legal representation for the child. I’d like to remind the counsel for both parties to remain calm and keep all questions and language age-appropriate.” Judge Cohen pauses, adjusting her glasses as she stares down at the paper before her. “The witness has requested to appear in-person, although they were offered other means of testimony. The court has agreed, however the lawyer for the witness will step in should anything be taken too far.”

The bailiff briefly leaves the room to get Choso, and Sukuna swears his heart is beating in his throat. He leans forward, gripping the table for purchase. It shifts under the pressure he places on it just as Choso enters the room.

He can scarcely be seen behind the bailiff and his lawyer as he’s escorted to the side of the room due to the lack of a proper witness’ stand. Both he and his lawyer are offered chairs, and they both take a seat. Choso’s feet don’t touch the ground, kicking a couple of times as he tests the height of the chair.

He looks tired. Fitted in a sweatshirt and a nice pair of slacks, he’s clearly uneasy about the entire ordeal, though he understands the gravity of his testimony. His usually-sunken gaze has an air of genuine fear, accentuated by the way he shifts on the seat. His hair is a bit greasier than usual too, as though he hasn’t had the means or been able to wash it.

Your heart twists in your chest for the little boy.

Finally looking up, he shrinks at the formal setting of the courtroom. Adjusting the hem of his deep purple sweatshirt, he fiddles with his thumbs, visibly trembling as he meets Kaori’s falsely warm gaze. He quickly averts his eyes, searching for the one reason either you or Sukuna would think he requested to be in-person. 

His eyes lock with Sukuna, and Choso rocks forward on the chair as though he longs to lunge forward and hug his brother, unable to. Still, there’s hope. Hope is shared between the two as Choso sees the evidence of the promise his older brother is giving his all to keep.

Sukuna grips his chair hard to ground himself before his little brother, eyes flickering up to the judge as she addresses Choso.

“Hello. Please say your name for the record.”

He clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “Choso Itadori.”

“Choso, do you understand that you’re here to answer questions about things you have seen and heard?”

“Yes.”

The judge nods in approval. “You’ll be asked to tell the truth, no matter how hard that is. Do you know what that means?”

Choso slowly nods, nervously peering back at Sukuna. Sukuna gives him a reassuring nod as he steels himself. No matter how much his stomach lurches, no matter how heavy the weight on his chest, he breathes in long and slow, and remains the pillar of hope that Choso needs.

“Can you respond with your words please, Choso?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry,” he murmurs. “It means that I don’t lie.”

“That’s no problem, Choso. Thank you. Do you promise to tell the truth?”

“I promise.”

The judge then addresses Choso’s lawyer, a man with straight dusty brown hair in a navy suit. “Please feel free to jump in whenever you feel the need.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Counsel for the applicant, please begin the witness examination.”

Ms. Harte stands up, though her demeanor isn’t the imposing one she carries when she examines Kaori. She bears a smile, warmly greeting Choso. “Hi Choso, my name is Ms. Harte. I’m your brother’s lawyer, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” Choso quietly greets her, peering up at the woman as she introduces herself.

“To start, can I have you tell me what it’s been like living with your brother for the past few years?”

Choso nods, chewing on his lip briefly as he organizes his thoughts. “Um- Sukuna works really hard for Yuji and I. He worked two jobs for a long time and the woman across the hall would come over to watch us. She’s really nice and I like her.”

Ms. Harte smiles. “Did you still get to spend lots of time with your older brother, even with school and work?”

“Yeah,” Choso nods, his gaze shifting nervously to Kaori. “He plays games and watches movies with us.” A sliver of happiness flashes within his eyes as he adds, “he taught me how to cook, too.”

“Do you like cooking?”

He nods. “Mhmm. I wanna be a chef.”

“What a fun job! Has your brother mentioned anything about your future?”

“Um…” Choso thinks on the subject briefly. “He said I could go to cooking school if I wanted to.”

“That’s great. You seem excited.”

Choso peers briefly at Sukuna, nodding. “I am.”

Moving along, his lawyer changes the subject. “Did you remember living with your mother before this last month?”

Choso frowns, a little scowl on his face that’s so similar to Sukuna’s that it always warms your heart. “A little. I spent more time with my dad.”

“Even before your mom went overseas?”

The little boy nods again. “Yeah. I talked to her on the phone every week when she left but not for very long. We mostly talked about my grades.”

Ms. Harte herself frowns. Even as a lawyer who knows the situation at hand, it would seem it’s hard not to feel bad when faced with the kid who’s being fought over. “Were you ever very close to your mom?”

The brunette worries his lip between his teeth, already chewed raw as he casts a nervous glance at his mother. He shrinks back in his chair again. “No,” he replies mousily.

Ms. Harte takes a breath. “Did you want to go with your mom when she went overseas?”

He shifts again, the nervous fidgeting of his hands and feet increasing with every mention of his mother. “No. I wanted to be with my dad and brothers.”

“Did you want to go with your mom when she came to pick you and your brother up last month?”

Choso goes rigid, his gaze freezing on his mother. “Um-” he hesitates, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Take all the time you need, Choso,” Ms. Harte quietly encourages him, offering what little comfort she’s able to in this setting.

Shakily inhaling, the little boy struggles to tear his gaze away from Kaori. Although she wears a smile- regardless of the fact that it’s about as real as her evidence- Choso clearly sees something else in her. As you watch the little boy fidget in his chair, you find yourself following suit. Your chair creaks under your weight as you await the little boy’s reply when he’s finally able to rip his gaze away from his mother.

His eyes widen slightly as he blinks, so caught up on his brother and mother in the same room that he hadn’t noticed you sitting behind Sukuna until your chair disturbs the eerie silence. His lips purse before he sucks in a breath. “No,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to.”

Ms. Harte remains a steady presence, doing what she can to keep her questions fair and easy for the poor child. “Has your opinion changed at all over the last month?”

“No,” he answers again, even quieter this time as his timbre wobbles. “I wanna be with my brother.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Choso.” Ms. Harte pushes her hair over her shoulder. “Do you know how Yuji feels about this?”

“We both wanna go back to Sukuna,” he replies without hesitation in a low tone, clinging to the fabric of his sweatshirt.

“Objection,” Mr. Cahn speaks in a calm tone so as not to scare Choso, who’s clearly already under enough stress. “This is hearsay.”

Judge Cohen quietly turns back to the rest of the panel. They keep their voices low, out of earshot of the rest of the court as they discuss the objection. The graying judge clearly disputes the call of the other two, though it doesn’t seem to matter as the lead judge turns back to the court. “Overruled. Choso and Yuji are the subject of this custody battle in the first place, their thoughts and opinions directly affect the case.” She turns to Sukuna’s lawyer. “Please continue.”

“Thank you, Your Honors.” Ms. Harte smiles again at Choso, remaining calm.

Sukuna breathes out a sigh of relief, adjusting in his seat to lean to the right in order to stop his leg from bouncing.

His lawyer continues. “Can you confirm for me that Sukuna helped out when your dad was sick?”

Choso nodded. “Yeah. Um- he drove my dad everywhere and helped out as much as he could, but Dad didn’t let him most of the time.”

“Thank you.” She glances back at her paperwork strewn along the table before Sukuna, moving along. “Did your mother take you and Yuji to the SXSW Convention?”

“Um- is that the red carpet thing?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, she did.”

“What did you think of that?”

He chews on his lip again, glancing over at his mother. His voice is barely above a whisper when he replies. “I didn’t like it.”

“Did your little brother?”

“No. He didn’t like all the yelling.”

“What yelling do you mean?”

He stares down at his lap. “The camera people. They were yelling questions at us.”

“I understand, thank you. I have two more questions, Choso. Is that alright with you?” The little boy hums in affirmation, so Ms. Harte presses on. “When you were with your mother, did anything bad happen?”

The air in the room thickens. The implication behind the question is obvious, even to the little boy. He’s a smart kid, Sukuna’s always said so, and he’s proving it now, too.

“Um-” Choso’s leg bounces, as though the action was transferred from one brother to another as the little boy shrinks into his chair. He chews on his lip again, a deep red visible when he utters another uncertain hum. You want so desperately to be able to reach out and hug him, the poor boy.

“Do you need a moment, Choso?” The judge steps in.

“N-no, I’m okay,” he mumbles, short nails scratching at the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “Everything was okay,” he starts, hesitating as he finds his gaze drawn back to Kaori. Her smile has faded and it’s clear she’s striking fear right through Choso, piercing his heart.

You have half a mind to wonder if she told Choso to lie before Child Services took the children. She must have known that Sukuna would call on the little boy to testify.

“But- um-” he takes a shaky breath, looking back to his older brother. “Kaori wouldn’t let us see Sukuna,” he mumbles, earning a few raised brows at the use of his mom’s first name. “I don’t think Yuji’s been doing good without him.”

“Can you tell me what you mean when you say Yuji hasn’t been doing good?”

Choso shifts again, taking a moment to think before he replies. “He’s been crying a lot. We got our own rooms and Mr. Kamo won’t let us share, but Yuji’s afraid.”

Ms. Harte grimaces, her own heart twisting for the children. “What about you, Choso? How are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, he doesn’t even really seem sure himself. It’s then that you spot that familiar distance that you’ve come to see in Sukuna’s gaze, like he’s not quite all there. He’s only twelve and has been forced to step into the position that Sukuna had to at eighteen, taking his little brother under his wing.

It’s taken a toll on him.

“I’ve been better,” he admits. “I miss Sukuna.”

“Thank you, Choso. One more question, alright?”

Choso simply nods.

“I want you to take into account you, and your brother Yuji. Think about what you want for your futures, what will help you grow, and how you feel right now, okay?”

Choso nods. “Okay.”

Ms. Harte continues to offer a kind smile. “Who do you want to live with?”

Sukuna sucks in a breath and holds it. It doesn’t matter how little praise was sent Kaori’s way, he still finds himself slightly trembling as he awaits an answer.

But Choso doesn’t hesitate. “Sukuna.”

Ms. Harte thanks the young boy, turning to the judges. “No further questions, Your Honors.”

As she takes a seat, the judges acknowledge the end of the examination by Sukuna’s lawyer as the applying party. “Counsel for the respondent, please begin your cross-examination.”

Mr. Cahn rises, his demeanor changing as well to address the young Itadori as he rounds the chair. He leans against the table, letting his guard down and smiling. Still, Choso frowns.

“Choso, I’m Mr. Cahn, I’m your mom’s lawyer.”

He briefly hesitates, his deep brown eyes searching the room for you and Sukuna, before he’s able to meet Mr. Cahn’s gaze. “Hi.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” he offers, though the child’s eyeline keeps shifting to meet Sukuna for silent encouragement. “I have a few questions for you, okay?”

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Straightening his tie, the respondent lawyer begins. “You spent the past month and a bit with your mother, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And you mentioned that you and your little brother got your own rooms as well.”

Choso nods, before remembering to speak. “Yeah.”

“Was it nice having your own space?”

Choso chews on his lip. “Um-” Shuffling in place, he repeatedly scuffs his shoes together. “It was okay.”

“Just okay?” Mr. Cahn pushes.

The young boy carefully looks over at his mother as though one wrong statement lands him back in the very room being discussed. He shies away from her stern look, pushing himself into the chair. “Yeah. Um- Yuji was too scared to be alone at night. Mr. Kamo won’t let us share so I hear him crying a lot.”

Clearly that wasn’t the response Mr. Cahn wanted, making the assumption that Choso would have enjoyed his own space given how he’s acted thus far. He purses his lips briefly before resetting himself. “Right. I’m sorry to hear that, Choso. Aside from that, did you enjoy having your own room?”

The boy blinks slowly. “I guess.”

Given that he’s not getting the testimony he’s hoping for, Mr. Cahn moves along. “Choso, did your mother mention to you all the trips she would like to take you on?”

Choso nods. “Yeah.”

“What trips were those?”

Unraveling his arms from around himself, he fiddles with his fingers thoughtfully. The silence extends as he stares down at his chewed nails. The court awaits his reply, patient with the young witness even as time ticks on, but Choso just shakes his head. “I don’t remember,” he nearly whispers, shooting a fearful glance at his mother.

“You don’t remember?” The lawyer parrots the reply, caught off-guard.

Choso shakes his head, lowering it. “No. I’m sorry.”

Your heart sinks. Is the poor little boy so afraid to face his own trauma that he can’t remember it?

At this point, the lawyer clearly starts realizing he won’t get the replies he’s thinking he’ll get from the little boy, and has to adjust his approach. He takes a moment to gather some notes, and attacks from a different angle.

“Choso, has your older brother ever been bad to you?”

“Um- not on purpose.”

Finding his angle, Mr. Cahn presses the little boy for answers. “But he has been bad to you?”

Sukuna’s shoulders fall. He leans forward on the table, guilt churning within his stomach. His chest clenches as he’s forced to consciously think about each breath he takes in, and each one he breathes out, manually keeping himself neutral.

At the sight of his older brother keeling over, realization comes over the little boy. “N-not on purpose,” he repeats. His voice cracks, uneasiness coming over him as he shakes his head desperately. “He tried his best. It was a long time ago,” he adds, strained. “We were both doing bad after Dad died, he just- he did his best- he-”

The little boy’s chest rises and falls frantically as you see the beginnings of the little boy shutting down. You’ve seen this very same build-up in Sukuna before, though the little Itadori’s always handled things a little differently. With nowhere to go to hide and be with his thoughts, his panic manifests as anxiety.

“That’s enough,” the judge steps in. “Please give Choso a moment. Does he have a support person here?”

Choso’s lawyer turns to face the judge. “Yuji Itadori is outside. Everyone else in Choso’s life is involved in this trial.”

“Choso, would it help to see Yuji?”

He nods, sucking in a breath as he wipes the tears welling in his eyes. “Can I see Sukuna?”

The lead judge frowns, genuine sympathy woven in the crease of her lips. “I’m sorry Choso, but I can’t allow that. Regardless of how this trial plays out, you’ll be allowed to speak with both your brother and mother, okay?”

Choso sniffles, nodding. “Okay. Can I see Yuji, then?”

“Of course. We’ll reconvene in twenty minutes. Court is now in recess,” the judge agrees without any need to discuss the matter with the other judges due to the nature of there being a child in the room. All three take leave through a back door, while Choso’s lawyer leads him out the side door.

Sukuna hasn’t moved, the muscles of his back rising and falling slowly as he regulates his own emotions. It takes a couple of minutes for him to sit upright, rubbing his face harshly with calloused hands. He pauses as a finger runs along his scar, serving as another reminder of his own poor mental health.

Throughout the years, his little brother has never really acknowledged Sukuna’s mistakes. Sukuna’s well-aware that Choso knows. He’s aware that his little brother felt the effects of his negligence when Jin first passed away, but to hear it, even in the form of a vague statement, strikes something deep within him.

He’s not sure if that piece of himself can ever really be repaired, forever destined to be eaten away by guilt.

Yet another tick to add to the list of things Sukuna’s fucked up.

It was already on the list, of course. But now it’s in big, bold lettering. He huffs out a breath, slumping back in the chair that creaks beneath his weight.

“Can I get you some water?” His lawyer queries in a gentle voice.

“That’d be nice,” he agrees.

As she heads out the side door, Sukuna slowly pushes to his feet and makes his way to you.

“You’ve still got this,” you reassure before he even makes it all the way towards you. “There’s no way that changes anything.”

“I know,” he mutters. “Just sucks to hear.” He leans over the railing that separates the two of you, his well-coiffed hair falling out of place with how much he’s wrenched his hand through it.

Shifting forward until you’re barely an arm’s breadth away, you reach up to adjust his hair. He doesn’t protest, his eyes briefly flickering shut as you comb your fingers through his locks. Crimson irises tiredly settle on the floor as you fix his hair, a sigh causing him to shift on his forearms. He stands upright once again, reaching out to give your hand a grateful squeeze.

“Here,” Ms. Harte returns with a small paper cup of water.

“Thanks.”

“That won’t make a difference, Sukuna. She dug her own grave when she committed perjury.”

“Twice,” you add in. His lawyer cracks a smile.

“I know, I know,” he sighs. “It’s just tough.”

The lawyer nods. “I can understand that, but don’t let it get to your head.” She awaits Sukuna’s nod before beckoning him back to the table. “Let’s review closing statements.”

It’s not long before Choso is ushered back into the room along with all three judges. Everyone finds their seats as the proceedings continue. “Court is back in session. Will the counsel for the respondent please continue the cross-examination?”

Once again, Mr. Cahn adjusts his suit and stands before Choso. His eyes are red and cheeks puffy, remnants from twenty minutes ago, though he’s settled now. The dark circles beneath his eyes seem accentuated under the duress of his lowered energy.

“Hi, Choso.”

The little boy briefly looks up, staring back at his lap. “Hi,” he mumbles hoarsely.

“Let’s continue. Has your brother ever been bad to you?”

“He just forgot to make dinner sometimes after Dad died…” he mumbles, his tone pitching as he struggles not to cry again when tears well on his lash line.

“Did that happen often, Choso?”

His jaw hangs open, aware of his promise not to lie. “It h-happened a bit,” he replies, hiccupping. “Um- but his friend came to help us.”

“Thank you, Choso. Do you know what a house study is?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember any house studies being done after your father passed away?”

“Yeah.”

“Did your brother ever have a hard time passing them?”

Choso stares down at his lap, blinking. He opens his mouth a number of times before shaking his head. “I don’t remember,” he mumbles.

Sukuna’s jaw clenches. Does Choso not remember stepping in when he didn’t have answers for the Child Protective Services employee four years ago? It replays in his mind so often that he can picture the very layout of the old house right down to the three forks, two spoons, and knife in the sink.

“That’s alright, Choso. We’ll move on. Does your brother often get angry?”

Choso lifts his head, staring past the lawyer to his older brother. “Not really.”

Sukuna’s brow twitches. Really?

The little boy kicks his foot out, tacking on, “he’s grumpy, but he doesn’t get mad at us.”

As his questions continue to backfire, Mr. Cahn scrambles in a last-ditch effort to save this testimony for his side. “Choso, how’s school?”

The boy’s gaze doesn’t lift from his lap. “Fine.”

“Are the other kids nice to you in school?”

Fear flashes in his eyes. “Um… Mostly.”

“Are some kids not very nice to you, Choso?” The lawyer presses, keeping his tone even despite the nature of the question.

Choso’s gaze searches the room, clambering for some sort of reprieve from the question at hand. The silence in the room presses down around him, salty tears threatening to spill when he isn’t able to find a way out. “I- I don’t-” He shrinks back into his seat, shying away from the lawyer’s question. “Can I please just see my brother?”

“Which brother, Choso?” The judge steps in once more as Sukuna grips the table, leaning forward on his haunches as he has to restrain himself from going to his little brother.

Back when Choso got quiet and often chose to be alone, that was one thing, but this is another, very different kind of fear that Sukuna’s not familiar with. His own heart beats at a rate he can hardly handle, he can’t imagine doing this all while being twelve.

Choso doesn’t say a word, tears now running down his face as he points at Sukuna. The older brother shoots a pleading look to the judge, who presses her lips together in a thin line as she shakes her head. “No Choso, I’m sorry. You can’t see him until the proceedings are over.” She leans back in her chair, briefly speaking with the other judges, who nod, albeit hesitantly in the case of the serpentine judge under Noritoshi’s thumb. “I think we have enough on record. For the sake of the witness’ emotional well-being, the court is choosing to end the testimony. Thank you, Choso. Please wait outside.”

Sukuna’s expression hardens as Choso is ushered out by his lawyer. The little boy flips his head around, sniffling as he locks eyes with his older brother. The pink-haired man nods reassuringly to his little brother, his shoulders falling when he’s no longer in sight.

Rubbing his face with his hands, he steels himself as the proceedings continue and Ms. Donovan gives her testimony.

Over the course of Ms. Donovan’s testimony, whether by nature of having already heard what she has to say, or the fact that he doesn’t want to be put through hearing his misgivings again, he finds himself zoning out. As it stands, he’s already watched his brother fall apart over being asked about being bullied.

It’s hard to feel he’s doing the right thing when both options seem to lead to Choso suffering.

Then again… he needs to remind himself that he can fix his mistakes. He can make up for them. He can be better. For his brothers. For you. For himself.

Kaori won’t change. Choso will never stop looking at her with fear or shying away from her stern gaze. Yuji won’t grow fond of Noritoshi Kamo.

Maybe he’s not perfect, but he’s better. He can be better.

He straightens in his chair as the final witness testimony comes to a close and Ms. Donovan is escorted from the room by the bailiff. Just like the previous trial, there’s a deathly silence to the courtroom. You could hear a pin drop as everyone awaits the closing statements and each party’s submissions to the court.

Ms. Harte stands first, proud and at ease. “Your Honors, over the course of this retrial, the court has both seen and heard the ways in which this ordeal has affected the children, as well as my client himself as a step-son of Ms. Itadori. While Sukuna himself will admit that no guardian is perfect, we have seen compelling evidence today that the children themselves would like to be at his side.”

She takes a pause to let this sink in before continuing.

“Additionally, Ms. Itadori has demonstrated a refusal to admit to perjury that is clear on paper. Not only did this act of perjury affect the court’s ability to make an unbiased decision regarding the trial, it also prevented Choso Itadori from giving a testimony, stripping him of his right to speak in his own custody. This demonstrates bad faith, and has played a vital part in the fear that Choso shows in regards to his own mother.”

She takes a couple of steps towards the Justices at the center of the room.

“Our goal here today is not to decide what is best for Ms. Itadori or Mr. Sukuna, it is to decide what is in the best interest of the children. Choso Itadori himself has made it clear which guardian both him and his brother would like to be with, and Mr. Sukuna has demonstrated not only the means to improve, but the maturity required to do so, as well. My client should be awarded full custody of his brothers in order to provide a safe and familiar environment for them.”

Clasping her hands in front of her, she reaches her final point.

“Ms. Itadori’s inability to settle matters with Mr. Sukuna, in addition to her choice to bar him from seeing his brothers, and the perjury that has brought us back to trial today have caused Mr. Sukuna to burn through savings that would allow him to fund a better future for himself and the children. For this reason, we submit that the court should order the respondent to pay these damages to allow Mr. Sukuna to rebuild his savings for their future. These funds will allow him to seek professional help in order to improve himself given Ms. Itadori’s negligence in his own life, as well.”

She takes a breath, stepping back towards their table.

“Additionally, if this were a case of two biological parents, Child Support would be required to be paid upon separation of the adults. Given Ms. Itadori’s negligence over the past month, we submit further that this be paid out for the last four years and going forward until each child turns eighteen. This will ensure that both children have the resources to heal and will aid in remedying the damage done to their well-being. That is all, thank you, Your Honors.”

Mr. Cahn doesn’t falter as he takes a stand, remaining confident following Ms. Donovan’s familiar testimony. “Your Honors, we acknowledge that there was a clerical error regarding my client’s submitted evidence. As Ms. Itadori has stated, this is regrettable, but was not done with any poor intentions. My client would never attempt to deny her child the opportunity to speak during this trial.”

He clears his throat, taking steps to the center of the room.

“While I can understand that this may raise some concerns in regards to the validity of Ms. Itadori’s submitted evidence and testimony, I can attest that my client meant no harm. This is a regrettable mistake and should in no way affect the court’s ability to carry out a decision in the best interest of the children.”

Standing straight, he motions to Kaori.

“My client has demonstrated that she has the means required to support the children financially and emotionally for the rest of their lives. She has the necessary emotional maturity and maternal instincts that Mr. Sukuna lacks, and the ability to provide a nurturing and strong motherly presence that they have otherwise missed out on over the course of their lives.”

He returns to his table in order to close his remarks.

“While we acknowledge the important role that Mr. Sukuna plays in their lives, the children’s emotional well-being has been the primary focus of this trial and remains an active question. They will require monitoring that Mr. Sukuna will be unable to provide and with time the children will adjust to the change. For this reason, my client requests that no visitation be allowed at this time to the applicant and full custody be awarded to my client.” He bows to the judges. “Thank you, Your Honors.”

The judges request a moment to allow a discussion given the high-profile nature of the case necessitating a panel, taking ten minutes to discuss the case amongst themselves.

Not a muscle within the courtroom moves, even during the recess. No one can dare to breathe, even to twitch, with the weight of the decision looming ahead of them. Even Kaori’s usual easy condescension has been completely dissolved by the strength of Sukuna’s perjury accusation and Choso’s testimony as a whole.

If the earth itself could breathe, it too would hold its breath.

There’s no indicator on the Justices’ expressions when they face the court as to what decision has been made. They all take their seats, spending a moment longer to organize their notes.

Finally, Judge Cohenl sets her paperwork down and begins speaking, piercing the silence that presses down on the room.

“In the matter of the custody of Choso Itadori, twelve, and Yuji Itadori, five, Sukuna versus Itadori, the panel of Judges has come to a conclusion. We have reviewed all of the evidence presented at this retrial and submitted to the court by both parties, in addition to the witness testimonies.”

She takes a pause, her calculating gaze sweeping the room. Sukuna’s heart damn near beats out of his chest as he grips the arms of the chair so desperately it threatens to splinter under his strength.

“In order to determine what serves the best interest of the children, it’s important to first address Ms. Itadori’s submission of a false birth certificate, in addition to her testimony. The applicant today provided compelling evidence to suggest that both the birth certificate and testimony delivered were intentionally and knowingly false, constituting perjury. This is a serious matter and will require an appearance in criminal court by Ms. Itadori and investigation into the integrity of the respondent’s lawyer. You will receive a summons and are required to be present, Ms. Itadori.”

Sukuna’s lips purse as he shifts to glance at Kaori from his peripherals.

And god is it ever vindicating. Horror is spread across her features, a protest caught in her throat, lost on deaf ears. Her gaze flickers to the judge with gray curls, who shifts uneasily despite her neutral expression.

Of course at least one judge had to be under Kaori’s thumb. She just can't play nice.

“Additionally, this perjury affects our ability to rely on the respondent’s testimony and submitted evidence. For this reasoning, the court assigns no weight to Ms. Itadori’s testimony, and little weight to submitted documentation.”

Slowly but surely, Sukuna feels the weight lifting off of his chest. He may not have an answer to the trial yet, but it doesn’t take a lot to figure out where this is headed.

For the first time in what feels like months, he can breathe. He can feel his heart beat, he can feel the chair under his grip. He feels present, and here, in the moment. It’s a relief he didn’t know he needed so badly.

He doesn’t feel like a passenger behind lock and key within his own mind.

“The minor Choso Itadori’s testimony, although cut short, has concerned the court for his well-being, particularly in regards to the mother in this case, Ms. Itadori. He demonstrates clear distress when questioned about the respondent and the evidence presented from the South by SouthWest conference, known as SXSW, greatly concerns the court.”

Sukuna inhales slowly, letting the air fill his lungs. Shallow breaths don’t suffice anymore, not when he’s no longer straining to make it through each day.

“Mr. Sukuna demonstrates a willingness to grow and the means to learn in order to provide the best future for the children. For this reason, full custody of both children will be awarded to the applicant, Mr. Sukuna, beginning today. Should Ms. Itadori be in possession of any of their belongings, they will be delivered to Child Protective Services for Mr. Sukuna to pick up in one week’s time. Ms. Itadori will not be granted visitation at this time in accordance with her demonstration of bad faith.”

The brute breathes out, the breath sucked from his lungs as his hand finds his chest, emotions he hasn’t felt in months blooming within his chest. He shifts as something flutters in the base of his stomach when he’s reminded why he’s here right now. He doesn’t dare tear his gaze from the Judges, but his heart soars in his chest at the thought that you never gave up. Not on him, not on the kids.

God, he really was stupid to think you didn’t still have feelings for him. How could he not see it, all this time?

“In light of the perjury that brought this matter to a retrial, Ms. Itadori is ordered to pay child support for both children to Mr. Sukuna in accordance with Child Support guidelines. Additionally, the last five years are ordered to be paid out in addition to the full legal costs coinciding with this matter and any associated court fees. Counsel, this will be your responsibility to submit within thirty days, and must be paid subsequently within thirty days of submission.”

Clutching his chest, Sukuna’s eyes go wide in disbelief. This is the sort of decision that haunts him, the one he could have had last month, had he just…

There was no right answer, he was played, and he can accept that now. Still, he damn near pinches himself to make sure this isn’t some cruel nightmare.

“The court reminds both parties that today’s decision is in the best interest of the children. For that reason, Mr. Sukuna will be required to ensure the children receive mental health counselling within thirty days for a minimum of sixty days in order to ensure their well-being.”

He nods solemnly.

“Court is now adjourned.”

Sukuna lets out a breath, flipping his head back to you. You’re barely able to hold back your grin, eyes gleaming with what Sukuna can only assume are happy tears as you practically beam at him.

Meet you outside? He manages to read your lips. He nods, turning back to his lawyer to wrap up the trial, but his mind is elsewhere.

It’s a strange feeling, to be present once more. He’d assumed for the past month that he’d been in and out of dissociation, but he hadn’t realized the severity of it until now, finally present for the first time in months.

And all he can think of is seeing you, and finding his brothers. He knows how much you’ll hate to hear it, but he owes you. A thank you won’t cut it for everything you’ve done for him to help keep his family together.

So caught up in his own thoughts, he doesn’t even hear Kaori practically tearing into her lawyer as Noritoshi Kamo watches with a deadly silence. He barely manages to internalize the steps that Ms. Harte lays out for what the following month needs to look like, but fuck right now he needs to find you.

When at last, Ms. Harte shoots him a sympathetic smile and tells him to go get his brothers, he practically bursts from the courtroom. His head whips frantically up and down the hall, only for his brow to furrow when he spots- “Toji?”

“Ryo!” The Zenin grins, jogging towards his friend to wrap him in a hug. “Heard ya won, congrats man.”

Sukuna hugs his friend back, his confused and concentrated scowl remaining in place. “Thanks. What’re you doing here?”

“The court date was all over the news, we’re all here to support ya,” he grins, his scar pulling taut as he points a thumb behind him.

Sukuna’s crimson gaze flickering around Toji’s face for a moment, before he follows the direction of his thumb. Sure enough, just down the hall in the open waiting area, he can just barely make out a head of white hair in a small group.

Wait.

Two heads of white hair?

“Satoru’s here?” Sukuna queries, perplexed.

“Told ya. We all came. Uraume, Satoru, Kento, Suguru, n’ Shoko.”

Sukuna shakes his head slowly, his mouth going dry. Uraume and Toji he can understand, but Satoru, Suguru, Kento, and Shoko? He doesn’t need to utter the question that rests on the tip of his disbelieving tongue as he stares out at the group, unable to make out anyone from the crowd at a distance besides Uraume and Satoru, who stick out.

“You’re dense as hell, y’know that?” Toji chuckles. “Ya spent the last half a year around ‘em and didn’t think Kento, Shoko, Suguru, n’ Satoru would show?”

His shoulders fall, a sense of guilt clenching in his chest over his treatment of the whole group, though it’s overshadowed by the strange sense of warmth that wills the guilt away.

“Your girl’s over there, too,” Toji’s voice softens, “go get her.” He sets an encouraging hand on Sukuna’s shoulder, giving him a shove in the right direction before slowly trailing behind to meet up with the group.

As Sukuna approaches the group in the corner of the waiting area, he’s able to make out everyone just as Toji had indicated. He pauses in the spot where the hallway meets the large open space made up of seating and high ceilings. The drone of the room is low, an overall somber mood to the dim light of the government building, but that mood doesn’t touch him. He’s high on being alive again, and his heart batters in his ear so loud that it’s all he can hear.

As he comes into sight, Satoru spots him and speaks up, disturbing the otherwise muted feel of the room. “Heyyy congrats, man!” The white-haired man speaks up, grinning. All heads whip around towards him and he’s met with smiles he’s not sure he deserves. That doesn’t stop the fuzzy feeling that spreads through to the tips of his limbs, though.

Maybe he’ll blame the nerves for that one, and not the fact that he’s becoming a gooey mess over just how kind your friends are.

How kind his friends are.

A chorus of congratulations and jovial grins are sent his way, but his attention is elsewhere, scanning the group for one person. Kento, as observant as ever, lets a small smile penetrate his stoicism and steps aside.

You peek out from behind the blonde, unable to hide the flurry of emotions washing over you as you break into a grin at the sight of your friend. His expression is unreadable as he stares at you, his chest rising and falling so fast you would think he ran to find you.

You slip past Kento, shying away from Shoko’s knowing look as you bound towards Sukuna. “I knew you’d win!”

Before you can make it to him, Sukuna comes to a decision he should have made long ago as he takes long strides to meet you. His large hands don’t hesitate to settle on either of your cheeks as he leans down to crash his lips into yours.

Caught off-guard by the sudden movement, Sukuna swallows your gasp. Your hands quickly find his chest, clinging to the taut black dress shirt material hanging from his broad shoulders. Growing more sure of himself, he slides a hand into your hair, tilting your head as he deepens the kiss and the world falls away.

Smoke and mint invade your senses as his lips move against yours. His heart thrums fast and hard beneath your fingers in unison with yours as your whole body tingles and melts into him. It’s needy, affectionate, and desperate all wrapped into one as he pours his emotions into the kiss like you’re the air he breathes.

The chorus of squeals and quiet cheers behind you aren’t lost on you, but you can’t help the smile that breaks your concentration when you hear, “fucking finally.”

“Shut up, Satoru,” Shoko hisses, causing a laugh to bubble in your throat.

Just as you begin to giggle, Sukuna pulls away enough to breathlessly murmur, “ignore them.” He wraps one arm around your waist and spins you both so that his back faces the peanut gallery, his mass effectively blocking their view. He keeps one arm locked around your waist while the other cradles your cheek, putting every last ounce of passion into the kiss like words aren’t enough.

Like they’ll never be enough.

There’s so much to be said, to be shared, so many experiences Sukuna longs for with you, and he can’t possibly begin to imagine where to begin. The pads of his fingers curl into your waist, pulling you flush to his broad chest like he can’t bear to have any space between you. The peaks of valleys of his abs are pressed tightly to your middle, causing a little smile to break through your kiss. You slide your hands up his shoulders as your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck.

He’s forced to pull back for air, blinking as he takes in your appearance. You see the way he lingers on your kiss-swollen lips before meeting your eyes, flickering around as though he’s trying to memorize every minute movement you make while his chest quickly rises and falls.

There’s a little scowl on his face as he holds you close, but the look in his eyes tells you it’s not from anger or frustration, it’s something else.

“What’s-”

“Thanks, princess,” he murmurs before you have a chance to ask what’s on his mind. His lips brush yours, chapped but wet from the passionate kiss you’ve shared.

You can’t help the lopsided smile on your face as you slide your hands forward to cup his face. Your thumbs glide along his clean-shaven jaw, tracing the tattoos that line his chin. “You don’t have to thank me.”

He frowns. “I owe you for all of this.”

You shake your head, your thumb continuously brushing his cheek in reassurance of your adoration. Just as you part your lips to reply, a familiar shrill voice catches your attention.

“Kuna?”

You separate from Sukuna, warmth filling your heart as you turn to face Yuji. You can’t help the tears that well in your eyes as the little boy rips his hand from the Child Services agent to barrel into his older brother at full force, nearly toppling them both over as Sukuna kneels down. Covering your lips, you giggle at the sight, overcome with joy as your friend, if you can even still call him that, smiles genuinely.

“Hey, kid,” Sukuna mumbles, relief coursing through his veins as he hugs his little brother tightly. “You alright?”

Yuji sniffles as he clings to Sukuna. His voice has a croak to it, as though he’s spent more time crying than Sukuna wants to know about. “Please don’t leave us again,” he pleads, clinging to his older brother’s suit as though this could all be ripped out from under him again.

The brute’s heart sinks as he squeezes his brother tighter. He blinks fast in an effort to fight off the tears gathering on his lash line. “I won’t. Promise.” He pulls back just enough to get a good look at Yuji. The little boy’s cheeks are puffy, eyes reddened, but he seems okay otherwise. “Do you know where Cho is?”

“Um-” Yuji spins in Sukuna’s arms as his eldest brother stands up with the child balanced on his hip. He points towards the hallway Sukuna had come from. “He was in there somewhere. Talking to someone.”

Sukuna nods, but before he can take a step, Choso is led by another Child Protective Services caseworker down the hall, coming into sight. His brown eyes go saucer-wide as he spots his brothers, tugging on the suit of the employee he’s with as he points. She gives him some sort of signal to go ahead and he timidly jogs up to Sukuna.

“Thank god,” Sukuna murmurs under his breath, kneeling again and opening his free arm as Choso approaches. “You did great today, Cho.”

Choso slots himself into Sukuna’s embrace, wrapping his short arms around both brothers as silent tears stream down his face. “I cried the whole time I was there,” he mumbles into Sukuna’s suit jacket, clinging tightly to his shirt as his body quietly trembles.

“So? It’s fuckin’ scary and I’m twice your age.”

“It’s scary for you?”

Sukuna nods, soothingly rubbing the boy’s back. “‘Course.”

Choso nods against Sukuna’s chest. The eldest brother doesn’t dare move, lest he accidentally upset the middle brother more, opting to just hold and comfort them both silently. Your eyes crinkle at the corners as you gleefully watch the sweet exchange, fighting to give them their moment before you get to greet the boys.

When Choso finds his footing and his breathing evens out, Sukuna pulls back just enough to see him, examining the way his brother’s already-poor mental health took a toll on him while he was with Kaori. He presses his lips into a thin-line at the sight of Choso’s mussed hair and sunken eyes. “Hey. I told you I’d fix things, right?”

Choso nods. “You kept your promise.”

Something between a smile and scowl twists on the brute’s features. “Yeah. ‘M gonna be better, Cho.”

Choso tilts his head earnestly. “You already are the best,” he murmurs.

Sukuna’s throat tightens and his tears overwhelm him. He pulls Choso and Yuji close, enveloping them both in a tight hug as he actively fights his trembling breathing. He jolts at the feeling of something on his back, relaxing once he feels a soothing touch gently running up and down his spine.

He knows you only mean to comfort him, but the way it makes his heart leap only sends him spiralling further as his tears come faster.

He’s never been a lucky guy. He’ll never win the lottery or bet on the right horse. He’s not even lucky enough to come across much more than a handful of cash on the ground. Everything he’s ever had he’s had to work hard for- lest he lose it- and there’s no exception to that rule when it comes to his family, but for once he doesn’t feel spite towards the world for it. He doesn’t curse whatever god will listen, because he found something worth fighting for, and luck has nothing to do with it.

As his breathing finally evens out, he blinks away his tears, hiding his face from his little brothers as he inhales slowly and stands upright with Yuji still in his arms and one hand resting atop Choso’s head. “Hey, you guys see who’s here with me?”

Sukuna twists to reveal you standing behind him. Yuji gleefully calls your name, reaching one arm out to hug you, though he flat-out refuses to let go of his older brother. You hug him back, wiping the tears from his puffy cheeks. “I missed you, sweetheart.”

“Missed you too!” He cheers through blubbering sniffles, wiping his face on his little red hoodie. “You guys were with me the whole time just like you said,” he adds, holding his wrist proudly out to you where the two woven twine bracelets are tied.

“See, not so scary when Kuna and I are with you, huh?”

He doesn’t even realize it, but Sukuna smiles when you call him that familiar nickname for the first time in a long while.

You can’t hide your proud smile as Yuji leans back into Sukuna, resting his head on his older brother’s shoulder. He must have tired himself out crying, but not enough that he doesn’t notice the group of people staring at him from over Sukuna’s shoulder. “Who’s that?” he points.

Sukuna lifts his hand from Choso’s head to quickly wipe his face before turning to face his friends, slowly heading back towards them as he tells Yuji who they are. Choso watches his older brother carefully for a moment, but once he’s satisfied the eldest doesn’t seem to be going far, he pads into your arms when you kneel. “Thank you,” he murmurs as you tightly envelop him in a hug.

“For what, honey?”

“For helping Kuna.”

You smile, rustling the little boy’s hair as he pulls back. He shakes his head to move the hair from his eyes, brushing as much as he can behind his ears.

“I’m always here for you three, okay?”

Choso quietly nods, staying close to you as you stand straight and lead the way to Sukuna. Each of your friends coos and introduces themselves in turn to the kids, all thrilled to see the other side of the man they once thought of as a delinquent. Toji comes to give a fist-bump to the two boys and Uraume hugs them in turn.

Staring at something past Sukuna, Satoru mutters, “shit, is that them?”

Sukuna’s head whips around to find Kaori sneering at him as she makes her way to the door while Noritoshi remains stoic, though one look at him tells you he’s nothing short of furious. The billionaire mogul hasn’t said a single word throughout the length of the trial, but his thoughts on the loss come across clearly.

Sukuna sets Yuji down, stepping in front of both of the young boys while he pulls you closer by your waist protectively, standing as a blockade as both parties exchange scorching glares. He doesn’t let his guard down until she’s long out of sight, grateful she’s too proud to say anything, particularly in front of the boys.

“Alright!” Satoru claps his hands loudly, making multiple people jump as he gathers the attention of your group, along with a plethora of onlookers. Shoko smacks his arm lightly, irritation crossing her face. Undeterred, he continues. “Ice cream on me? That sound good, kiddos?”

Yuji wipes his tears, excitement immediately replacing whatever worries he’d had. “Yeah! Yeah yeah yeah yeah!!”

“Choso?” Satoru grins, thrilled to be met with a little shy nod.

Sukuna lets out a soft sigh, though he trades in his usual look of disinterest for a relieved, albeit tired smile. “You heard the kids.”

Yuji lifts his hands excitedly. “YAYYYYY!” He cries out. Sukuna can’t even be bothered to shush him despite receiving dirty looks throughout the waiting room. As far as he’s concerned, let them send every disdainful look his way. It doesn’t matter, not when he finally has his family at his side.

He casts a glance at you, his smile widening as he finds you already beaming up at him. He reaches out to pull you into him, kissing the crown of your head as Yuji takes his other hand.

As long as he has the three of you at his side, the world seems a hell of a lot easier to face.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

❦ a/n ; WOW hi it's been a while!! sorry for the delay, i got SUPER sick after my trip (worth it though, mcr was a blast) and could barely sit up let alone write and it lasted for like 10 days 😭 work and sickness really worked against me here but i'm finally back!! i'm hoping for good, i'm super behind on reading and keeping up with my moots and lovely readers but i'm excited to really get back into it <33

i put a lot of research into the trial and i hope i've done it justice <3 legal proceedings are still so confusing but i'm pretty happy with how it turned out and the balance i think (?) i've struck between realism and a more hollywood-style court scene. if you see a mistake... no you didn't :) tysm to all the lovely people who helped with it!!

i thought about splitting this chapter up but ending things right before the trial felt like too much of a tease and i just desperately wanted to write that last scene LOL, i hope it was worth the wait 🫶 i've had that scene in my head since like chapter 5, i never could have imagined that it would take 15 more chapters to get there 😅 i really meant slow when i said slow burn apparently. my friend pointed out that the wc is about to surpass the entire chronicles of narnia which is wild and i never would have believed anyone had they told me how long this would be, but i've really enjoyed the journey and i'm so thrilled with what it's become

i know i've mentioned it here and there but this was supposed to be a oneshot (LOL) so i'm super grateful for the support and really excited to be able to continue to share more wyk with you, especially now that there's a lot of fluff and smut in my fave couple's future 🤭

anyway i'm yapping but thank you sm for all the love and i'd love love love to hear everyone's thoughts on this chapter, i really hope everyone enjoyed 🫶

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.

@yenayaps @kunascutie @aiicpansion @fushitoru @gojoscumslut

@hellish4ever @cuntyji @theonlyhonoredone @catobsessedlady @timetoletmyimaginationfly

@clp-84 @coffee-and-geto @candyluvsboba @favvkiki @gojodickbig

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writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

[junos-chronicles]

Two Souls and Hillsides

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𖤓 Pairings: Cowboy!Gojo x f!reader 𖤓 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, Childhood-friends-to-lovers, light enemies-to-lovers, angst, fluff, slow burn fr, playful banter, lots of staring at hot men, minor language (light swearing), light possessiveness/territorial behavior, small-town charm and shenanigans, crying, long-distance relationship resolution, romantic fluff, emotional reunion, kissing and smooching, happy ending I swear!! 3k words Art by: @/-3aem on X 𖤓 There's a song that I mention in one of the last scenes, you could play it if you'd like...for the vibes...Harvest Moon by Neil Young OR Kiss Me by Sixpence (I might as well make a playlist)

After years of growth, change, and chasing dreams across the ocean, you finally return home — to the ranch that shaped you, the family that’s always been waiting, and the cowboy who never once let you go. It’s the celebration of everything you’ve worked for, the love you’ve carried across every mile, and the sweet, long-awaited reunion that’s been calling you back all along.

The Ride Back

If someone had told you two years ago that you’d be here—halfway across the world, living in a tiny London flat, studying your ass off—you would’ve laughed in their face.

And yet, here you were.

The city pulsed outside your window—all double-decker buses and blaring car horns, the glow of storefronts flickering across damp cobblestones, the endless hum of life moving, moving, moving. 

You sat cross-legged on your narrow little bed, a chipped mug of tea balanced on one knee, your laptop glowing faintly in the dark. Your textbooks were stacked in neat, color-coded piles on the desk. Your coursework calendar was filled to the brim. And yet, for the first time in forever, you were…happy.

Not just surviving. Not just scrambling to keep up. But actually finishing. Actually doing it.

Your program was honestly a bit brutal—early mornings packed with lectures, late nights full of study sessions, projects that made you want to tear your hair out and scream into a pillow, papers that bled you dry of every clever word you had left. 

But you were nearly at the end of it, though—the same one you’d nearly blown to pieces two years ago when you’d been kicked out, arrested, and shipped off to the ranch like a punishment. 

And now? You were passing all of your classes. You’d found your footing. You were figuring yourself out.

No arrests. No academic probation.

Growth.

Sometimes, you caught yourself smiling when you thought about that—about how proud your grandparents sounded on the phone when you called to tell them about your final grades, how Satoru’s voice lit up when he said, “I told you, baby, you’re a genius,” even though you knew he’d never once read any of the essays you’d panicked over.

If Satoru could see you now, he’d be grinning so wide his face would split in two. Hell, he’d probably tease you about going all “city girl” on him again—even though every time you FaceTimed, he made you turn the camera around so he could see the horses’ photos still taped to your wall.

You talked to him nearly every day.

FaceTime calls between classes, watching him from your little kitchen table as his smile filled your entire screen. He wasn’t very tech savvy; sometimes the connection froze halfway through, and you’d laugh at the blurry mess of his face. But you loved it anyway. He’d tell you about the latest ranch mishap or how he’d left you a surprise at the post office—usually a dumb little care package with socks (because you complained about the lack of heat during the winter) or a mixtape burned into a CD like it was 2007. There were blurry selfies sent at midnight (sometimes scandalous ones), voice messages when the time zones didn’t line up, shirtless photos of him in the barn like an idiot.

And every break you had, every long holiday, you flew home. 

And he was there waiting—arms open, grin wide, scooping you up into his chest, planting kisses all over your face like no time had passed at all.

You helped fix fences, brushed down the horses, sat curled in Satoru’s lap by the fire pit while Suguru and Shoko heckled you both for being sickeningly sappy.

You slipped back into the ranch like no time had passed—like you’d never left.

And when you had to fly back to London again? He kissed you like it might be the last time, like he was memorizing the exact shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath, the curve of your cheek under his hand.

It never was the last time, though.

And you both knew it.

But here, in the middle of the city, you were someone else, too.

You’d made new friends—girls from your classes, boys from the flat upstairs, a whole little circle who took you out to pubs and cafés and tiny bookstores on the weekends. Occasionally, you’d stumble drunk through trivia or a karaoke night that ended with you singing way too loudly and eating greasy “chips” on a bench at 2 a.m.

They’d tease you for your accent. (“Say y’all again, it’s so cute!”)

And oh, god—the number of times some essex guy had tried to hit on you at the pubs—charming smiles, lazy winks, leaning way too close over pints—only for you to flash the gold ring on your left hand with a grin and say, “Sorry, boys—I’ve already got a cowboy waiting for me back home. And he’d absolutely fly over here and deck you if he saw you looking at me like that.”

And they’d laugh, roll their eyes, raise their hands in surrender.

Every time, without fail, your friends would hoot with laughter.

Because you weren’t available.

Not even a little.

Not even for a second.

You were his.

Always.

And yet, no matter how far you leaned into the adventure, no matter how much you threw yourself into this new life—a piece of you always tugged quietly toward home.

Because no matter how much you loved the city, the people, the challenge—it wasn’t the ranch.

It wasn’t the dusty smell of hay and leather.

It wasn’t the golden stretch of fields under a wide, cloudless sky.

It wasn’t Jasper’s soft snort against your cheek or your grandma’s voice calling you in for supper.

And it sure as hell wasn’t Satoru.

Some nights, you woke with a soft ache in your chest, half expecting to feel the heavy drape of his arm over your waist, his drooling mouth pressed clumsily into your shoulder. You’d roll over, half-asleep, reaching for him across the empty sheets—only to jolt softly and remind yourself, no, not yet. He’s back home.

You missed him.

God, you missed him.

Sometimes you swore you could still feel the shape of his hands on your waist, the way his laugh rumbled low against your ear, the way he called you princess in that teasing drawl that made your chest ache with longing.

But you were doing this.

You were nearly there.

You were proving—to him, to your parents, to yourself—that you could finish what you started. That you could go out and chase your dreams without losing the pieces of yourself you wanted to come back to.

Your eyes drifted to your phone, sitting face down on the bed.

Satoru had sent you a text earlier. You hadn’t opened it yet.

But you smiled faintly to yourself, heart thudding.

Almost done, you thought. Just a little longer.

And then I’m coming home.

Graduation day arrived faster than you ever expected—

and passed like a blur.

A hectic, sweaty, dazzling, overly photographed blur.

Your parents had flown all the way to London for the ceremony, and you barely remembered flashes. You could recall the heat and stiffness of the graduation gown pulling at your shoulders. The way your cap kept slipping too love over your forehead. The muffled sound of the applause as they called your name and crossed the stage, your heart hammering like it was going to rupture from your chest.

You’d done it.

You’d actually done it.

Your mom was the first to catch you after the ceremony—her arms wrapped around you in a tight, slightly teary hug, her perfume clinging to your gown as she squeezed you over and over, laughing breathlessly, “I knew you could do it, I’m so proud of you!”

David was right behind her, giving you an awkward but firm squeeze on the shoulder, looking a little stiff in his blazer but smiling nonetheless. “Knew you’d pull through, kiddo. Proud of you,” he said in his best awkward-stepdad way, and you felt it, even if he wasn’t the best at showing it.

Your friends were next. 

They swarmed you in a flurry of shrieks. Someone passed you a small bouquet of flowers, pressing them hastily into your hands. Someone else handed you a glass of champagne, pulling you into selfie after selfie, their laughter ringing loud and bright.

“Look at you, Miss Fancy Degree!”

“You’re officially smarter than all of us!”

“We have to get drunk tonight, it's non-negotiable.”

You laughed, dizzy and glowing, letting yourself get pulled into photo after photo, your cheeks sore from smiling. Your mom and David lingered at the edge, amused, a little bewildered, but they didn’t rush you.

Dinner happened almost by accident—someone shouted, “Pub!” and before you knew it, you were crammed into a booth at a corner pub near your flat, pint glasses clinking together, plates of fish and chips passing hands.

David, to his credit, paid the tab without much complaint (even when your friends toasted you again with tequila shots that made him visibly wince). Your mom just laughed, elbowing him and whispering something you didn’t catch, her shoulders relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in years.

It was strange, this blending of worlds—London and New York, ranch and city, old and new. But somehow, it all worked.

It wasn’t home.

But it was a little slice of something you’d built here—your people, your memories, your tiny chaotic corner of London.

And you were proud of it.

You’d carved something new from the mess you’d left behind.

You FaceTimed Satoru when you stumbled back to your flat late that night, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild, tassel still dangling from your cap. He answered on the second ring, looking rumpled and sleepy, wearing an old flannel shirt, hair sticking up in every direction, grin blooming wide the second he saw your face.

“Holy shit,” he said softly, voice thick with pride. “Look at you, all smart and fancy—God, you’re a mess.”

You laughed and flipped him off through the camera, telling him about everything—the ceremony, the photos, the pub, your friends, your parents, the ridiculous speeches, the champagne, the laughter. You tried to cram every detail into the call, breathless, half-giddy. 

He just watched you with that soft, fond look you knew by heart. And when you finally ran out of breath, he said softly, “I knew you’d do it. I never doubted you, baby. Not for one second.” And, “Come home soon, yeah? I’m already counting down the hours.”

After the call ended, you stared at the half-packed suitcases littering your floor. Your gown was draped over a chair. Your diploma case was propped on the desk, alongside empty hangers, and little scraps of your life here—postcards from friends, a stack of well-worn notebooks, a frame photo of you and Satoru, one he’d printed and mailed to you from home.

You folded shirts with careful hands, brushed your thumb over the embroidery on your school sweatshirt, the hem of your favorite jeans. You glanced around the room, feeling the weight of it press in—these walls that had held so many late nights, so much laughter, so many whispered FaceTime calls with Satoru.

Every inch of space mattered.

And it hit you, sharply and suddenly, that this chapter was done.

You were going back.

Not just for a visit. Not just for a break.

But for good.

You exhaled slowly, leaning back on your hands, glancing at the plane ticket tucked into your passport on the nightstand.

Tomorrow, you’d board the plane.

You’d cross the ocean.

You’d land in the arms of the guy you were going to spend the rest of your life with.

Tomorrow, everything you’d worked for—everything you’d dreamed about, fought for, bled yourself dry to achieve—was waiting for you.

And you were ready.

The cab rumbled softly beneath you. The faint hum of tires blended with the muffled sound of the country radio station playing through the driver’s speakers—Harvest Moon by Neil Young—one of Satoru’s favorites. He always told you it reminded him of you. 

The afternoon sun slanted low across the horizon. You pressed your forehead to the window, watching the familiar shapes blur past—the swaying grass of the fields, the crumbling fence lines, the weathered barns leaning tiredly into the sky, rows of crops blending gently under the weight of the summer wind.

It all looked the same.

And yet, somehow, it didn’t.

You smiled faintly to yourself, heart hammering faster with every familiar landmark, fingers tapping nervously against your knee. The long drive up to Ashford stretched ahead, the trees bowing slightly over the narrow road. You could feel the weight of the ring on your finger, the soft ache blooming in your chest. Every twist through the land brought you closer, every mile ticking down like the final stretch of a marathon. 

He was waiting for you.

Your cowboy.

And then—

There it was.

The end of the driveway. That old, familiar stretch of gravel winding up toward the ranch house.

The cab slowed to a stop at the end—the same one you’d been dropped at over two years ago now, dragging a battered suitcase behind you, unsure of what you were even coming back to.

Back then, you’d been angry, messy, lost.

Now?

You were someone new.

Someone who had fought, and learned, and finished what you started.

Someone who knew exactly what you wanted to come home to.

You thanked the driver, heart thudding wildly, fingers tightening around the handle of your suitcase as you climbed out. The gravel crunched beneath your boots, taking in the air that smelled like earth and sunshine, hay and horses. You stood there for a moment as the cab pulled away behind you—suitcase by your side, wind tugging at the hem of your jacket—and then you saw it.

A figure, cresting the far edge of the field.

Ollie’s dark shape moving fast, Jasper trailing behind on a loose lead, ears pricked forward. And atop him—

Satoru.

Grinning, wild, beautiful Satoru. Tall on the saddle, pale white hair glowing bright in the sunshine. 

You let out a breathless laugh, heart leaping, feet shifting nervously on the gravel as you watched him close the distance, watched the way Ollie’s hooves kicked up little clouds of dust, watched the way his grin stretched so wide you could see it even from here.

And the second he spotted you, he yanked the reins sharply, pulling Ollie to an abrupt stop, feet kicking up dust. Before you could even blink, he was off—

Swinging off the saddle (practically throwing himself), nearly tripping over his own feet, sprinting toward you at full speed, covering the last few yards in long, desperate strides. His boots pounded against the earth, face lit up with wild joy. You barely had time to squeak out a laugh before he was on you—

Strong arms scooped you up off the ground, spinning you once, twice, until you were dizzy with laughter, squealing as you clutched at his shoulders. His mouth pressed kisses across your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, his voice breathless between every touch.

“God, I missed you—”

“I missed you so much, baby—”

“Never—never leave me this long again, swear to God—”

You half-sobbed, half-giggled into his shoulder as you clung to him. You buried your face against his skin, threaded your fingers into the soft strands of hair at the back of his neck. You could feel his breath stutter out in warm, shaky exhales. His arms wrapped tighter around you, keeping you impossibly close, broad and firm and solid. His hands splayed wide across your back, like he was afraid you might slip through his grasp.

“You’re here. You’re really here…” he murmured, voice rough, mouth pressed to the curve of your throat. “You’re home.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his flushed cheeks, his shining eyes, the soft, lopsided grin that tugged at his mouth.

And then you kissed him.

Hard and sweet. Making up for every second you’d been apart.

“I missed you, too, stupid.”

For a long, perfect moment, you just stood there, wrapped in each other, breathing each other in—the familiar smell of his cologne, the sun-warmed leather of his jacket, the quiet rasp of his breath brushing the curve of your throat.

Eventually, when you could both pull back without crying (or maybe just pretending you weren’t), he let you slide gently back to the ground, though his arm stayed looped around your waist, letting his thumb stroke over your hip like he couldn’t quite let go.

With a soft, crooked smile, he leaned in, bumping his forehead against yours. “C’mon, princess,” he murmured, voice low and fond, “let me take you home.”

He reached down and hoisted your suitcase onto Jasper’s saddle with practiced ease, then reached for your hand, tugging you toward Ollie. “Ride with me,” he grinned, pulling you flush against him as he swung easily up into the saddle, reaching down to help you up.

And just like that—you were back where it all started. This time, Satoru was behind you, his arms wrapped snug around your wasit, chin tucked on your shoulder. His voice was warm and soft in your ear, “Welcome back,”  he murmured, kissing the side of your neck as the horses started down the long, familiar path toward the house.

“Christ, I’m so glad you’re home.”

You closed your eyes, smiling, feeling the sun on your skin and the easy sway of the horse beneath you, the steady beat of his heart against your back. The wind whipped softly around you both, carrying the scent of dirt and straw. And there, just ahead, like Grandpa promised—the porch lights glowed warm against the falling dusk, waiting to welcome you back.

You thought—as Satoru tipped his head back with a laugh, as his hand found yours over the saddle horn, as the horses carried you both gently, steadily, toward the life waiting ahead—

This was it.

This was the place you’d been riding back to all along.

You were finally home for good.

Author's Note: So I literally already said this last chapter but...SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP. I'm going to miss them so much. Cowboy Gojo is literally my actual husband.

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

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[junos-chronicles]

Two Souls and Hillsides

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𖤓 Pairings: Cowboy!Gojo x f!reader 𖤓 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, Childhood-friends-to-lovers, light enemies-to-lovers, angst, fluff, slow burn fr, playful banter, lots of staring at hot men, minor language (light swearing), light possessiveness/territorial behavior, small-town charm and shenanigans, explicit emotional whiplash, explicit sexual content (consensual, soft, emotional), discussions of life choices / future uncertainty, mild swearing, crying characters, tender moments 11.3k words Art by: @/-3aem on X 𖤓 There's a song I recommend listening to during one of the scenes. Pay attention this these *** little marks. Really set the vibe and sob along with the song Song on the Beach by Arcade Fire & Owen Pallett

The final day of summer arrives, filled with quiet moments, bittersweet goodbyes, and a choice that will shape everything to come. With love pressed into every touch and every word, you hold onto the promise that no matter what happens next, some things—some people—will always be waiting.

Where Your Heart Pulls You

The morning air settled over the ranch like a held breath—quiet, still, almost reluctant to begin. It clung to you like cotton. It was warm, soft, and heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was dread. Or maybe it was the kind of grief that hadn’t found its shape yet.

The sun had only just started to climb above the hills, its light soft as it bled across the fields, washing the ranch in gold. Dew still clung to the grass in silvery beads. The barn stood sturdy against the sky, its roof sun-bleached and familiar. And somewhere out by the tree line, a bird called once, then again, as if it were asking a question, and waiting for an answer. 

You woke to the smell of breakfast and freshly brewed coffee, the clatter of dishes muffled through the old floorboards. Downstairs, your mother’s voice floated in and out—bright and tight, a little too loud for how early it was. She was droning on about flight itineraries and traffic. About how much packing still needed to be done before they hit the road tomorrow morning. 

It was supposed to be your last day here.

So you took your time getting ready. Dragging your feet like it might slow the sun’s rise.

When you finally stepped outside, barefoot with a chipped mug cupped in your hands, the porch was still cool under your toes. 

From this angle, you could see Satoru already out there by the barn, shirt clinging to his back as he hauled feed around. His movements were slower than usual. Not tired, exactly. Just quiet. As if he were moving on autopilot. Like he was afraid that if he rushed, the whole day might slip through his fingers faster. He checked Jasper’s hooves, patting his flank, giving Ollie an affectionate scratch behind the ears. 

Normally, you would have walked out there to join him, teased him about getting up before sunrise again. But today, you stayed where you were.

You stood there and watched for a moment, chin resting against the rim of your mug, trying not to feel like something was fracturing beneath your ribs.

He hadn’t seen you yet. You just stood there and watched for a moment, chin resting against the rim of the mug. And there was something about watching him like this—contemplative, thoughtful—that made it feel like something was fracturing beneath your ribs. You could see it in the curve of his shoulders, the way he held his posture just a little too carefully: he was bracing for it all.

Behind you, the house stirred. The familiar creak of floorboards gave way to the soft clatter of china, the murmur of voices through the kitchen door. Your grandparents were moving with that same slow rhythm they always had, but you could feel the shift. The way your grandma’s voice didn’t hum the same way as she cooked. The way your grandpa’s footfalls lingered in the hallway, stopping to think before each step.

Even the entire house felt off this morning.

Because everyone knew what today meant.

Your parents’ car still sat where it had been parked since they arrived two days ago, clean and polished, utterly out of place beneath the willow tree along the driveway. Not packed, not yet. But waiting for you.

The coffee in your mug had gone cold.

So, you stepped off the porch and started toward the barn.

 When he glanced up and saw you, the corner of his mouth lifted—but it wasn’t his usual grin. It was something smaller. Sadder.

The gravel crunched beneath your boots. When Satoru glanced up and saw you, the corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile—crooked and small. Not quite his usual grin. But something softer. Sadder.

“Hey beautiful,” he said, voice low.

“Hi,” you answered, your breath catching in your throat.

He wiped his hands on the back of his jeans. “Sleep okay?”

You nodded, even though you really didn’t. “You?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t really try.”

You joined him by the fence, resting your elbows beside his. Your arms brushed, and he didn’t pull away. You didn’t either.

“I brushed down Jasper,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the far stall. “Checked his shoes. Fed the chickens. Fixed the latch on the back gate. Your grandpa said it was sticking.”

“You didn’t have to do all that by yourself,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he said. “Just… needed to keep my hands busy. And I don’t mind. Figured you’d have a lot going on today.”

Silence stretched between you again. Not cold. Just heavy with things neither of you wanted to say.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” you admitted after a long moment. “Like everything’s... unraveling or something.”

Satoru looked down, then away, his jaw working. “Yeah,” he said. “Feels like the whole ranch is kinda on edge.”

You glanced at him. “You mad at me?”

That finally made him look at you, full-on. His eyes were tired. Tender. “No,” he said softly. “I’m just... trying not to wish for something you’re not sure you want.”

“I wish I could make it easier…” You whispered.

“I don’t want easy,” he replied. “I just want you. But only if you want this, too.”

You didn’t answer. Because even if this was your last day here, you still couldn’t figure out what you wanted. What you needed.

He looked back out toward the pasture. “I keep thinking about the first time I saw you ride Jasper after you got back. You looked like you belonged here. Like you never left.”

Your throat ached as you swallowed down an uncomfortable lump.

“I used to dream about that,” he added. “About you coming back. But I never thought it’d be real.”

You turned to face him. “And now?”

His eyes met yours. “Now…I don’t really know how to let you go.”

You reached for his hand before you could think twice. Your fingers laced together, the calluses along his palm familiar, grounding.

“I haven’t made my choice yet,” you said quietly. “But I’m still here.”

“For now,” he echoed, like a prayer.

He lifted your joined hands and pressed his mouth gently to your knuckles.

There was no teasing this morning. No smirking and hushed giggles. Just the rustle of hay and the creak of leather and the slow weight of goodbye pressing down on everyone.

You helped him finish with Ollie, then moved on to Jasper, who nudged your shoulder like he knew something was off. Maybe he did. Maybe animals were better at reading people than people were. You stroked his muzzle, whispered something soft, and felt Satoru watching you from the other stall.

It was one of those mornings where everything felt too still. Like the world was holding its breath. Where everyone was pretending that today was just another Saturday. 

You both stood out there for a while longer—watching the land, the horses, the slow, reluctant unfolding of the day. Neither of you reached for the other. Neither of you moved. But your hands stayed linked together. And it felt like something.

Not enough to make the decision easier. But maybe enough to remind you why it all mattered.

The day had passed in pieces.

You and Satoru moved through the hours together like the hands of a clock—steady, quiet, always turning. Neither of you said much, but there was comfort in the rhythm of it: mucking the stalls, refilling water troughs, taking care of Jasper and Ollie side by side. Satoru passed you tools without needing to be asked. You handed him nails before he reached for them. When you swatted at a fly on your neck, he wordlessly offered his bandana.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It just…was. Like the two of you had said all there was to say, and now the only thing left was time. Time to spend, to share, to hold on to before tomorrow came and took it all away.

The sun moved slow and heavy through the sky, casting long shadows across the grass. The air was warm, dust rising in golden spirals around your boots. Somewhere nearby, your grandpa was working on the fence line with his tools clinking against the wire. Your grandma’s humming drifted faintly from the open kitchen window. 

It felt like any other day—if you didn’t think too hard.

Satoru caught your eye once, as you both stood in the field checking the post alignment, sweat glinting on his collarbone beneath the worn collar of his shirt. He didn’t say anything. Just reached over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing lightly against your cheek. It was nothing. 

But it was also everything.

And by late afternoon, the sun dipped low enough to stain the porch railings with amber light. You dusted off your jeans and went inside, boots thudding softly over the threshold as the screen door creaked behind you.

The kitchen was empty.

You paused to wipe your hands on a dishtowel, about to head upstairs, when something caught your ear.

Voices.

They were coming from the living room—low and hushed, not angry, just…tense. Careful. You stepped quietly down the hall, the wood barely creaking beneath your steps. The door to the living room was closed, but not tightly. 

Behind it pulsed the low murmur of voices.

“We’re not saying you need to give it up all at once,” David’s voice caught your attention first, just loud enough to carry through the gap. “But this place—it’s a lot to manage. You're getting older, and that farm boy isn’t going to be here forever.”

“We know that,” your grandmother said. Her voice sounded tired. “We’ve always known.”

“It’s just—this might be the right time,” your mother added, softer. “The market’s good. The land is valuable. And we don’t want to see you both run into the ground trying to hold on to something that doesn’t serve you anymore.”

There was a pause. Heavy and laced with something that made your stomach curdle.

“We’re not trying to take anything away,” David continued. “But we can give you something easier. Simpler. And Y/N… she’s already moving on. You should, too.”

 “…still seems like tearing up roots just when they’re needed most—”

“We’d handle the permits, the contractors—minimal stress to you both—”

“Just think about how difficult winters will be five years from now, Mama…”

Your pulse kicked up, hot and frantic. 

For an irrational beat, you imagined flinging the door open, standing there like a kid caught eavesdropping on grown-up conversation—but you couldn’t bring yourself to. 

Coward, you thought.

Instead, you backed away, breath shallow, feet silent on the worn runner. You didn’t wait to hear what your grandparents said in return.

You turned on your heel and slipped upstairs, boots scuffing the edge of each step on your way. The hallway upstairs was dimmer. You slipped into your bedroom and shut the door with exaggerated care. It was the same as you’d left it that morning—window cracked open to let in the late-summer breeze, the smell of sun-warmed cotton wrapped around you like a memory you weren’t ready to lose. Familiar. Comforting. And suddenly heartbreaking.

You sank onto the edge of your bed, gripping the quilt with both hands. Everything felt smaller now—the walls, the ceiling, the corners papered with old photographs and half-packed memories. A space you’d outgrown, maybe. Or a space you’d grown back into without realizing.

The idea of leaving was one thing. But the idea of them selling the ranch—of this place disappearing altogether—felt like a thread pulling loose in the fabric of your chest. You couldn’t breathe around it. Couldn’t ignore it either.

This place was your past. Your family. Your childhood. Your heart.

And now, maybe, it was at risk of becoming a memory. Again.

Downstairs, a chair scraped faintly on the hardwood floor. Someone’s voice rose and fell, muffled through the floorboards—the same anxious cadence that had been humming under your skin all summer.

You closed your eyes. Let yourself breathe in the hush. Let the ache bloom, raw and unshielded. Soon, you’d have to face them all—your mother’s careful logic, David’s smooth insistence, Satoru’s quiet, patient hope.

But first, you just needed this: one stretch of private silence, where the only voice in the room was your own.

And not even a full minute later, the floorboards creaked softly outside your door — familiar, steady, a sound you’d heard every day of your life growing up.

You already knew exactly who it was.

The knock on your door was light. Not impatient or sharp, just tentative. And still, you flinched at the sound.

“Y/N, sweetheart?” your mom’s voice floated through softly. Was she trying that hard to sound casual?

You dragged in a shaky breath, scrubbing your hands over your face. “Yeah, come in…”

The door creaked open, and she poked her head inside, smiling faintly, trying to keep things light. “Your grandma’s already started dinner. It’ll be ready soon—chicken and dumplings, your favorite. And I think David’s poking around for a wine opener.” She stepped fully into the room, smoothing her hands down the front of her expensive-looking silk blouse. “You’ll come down in a bit, won’t you?”

You nodded quietly, eyes fixed on the floorboards littered with old scuff marks. “Yeah…I’ll be down in a bit.”

She hesitated, her weight shifting between her feet. Then she let out a soft huff, almost a laugh. “This place feels smaller than I remember. God, is that old quilt still on the bed?” She gave a little smile, walking further in. “I swear, your grandma never lets anything go. She’s probably still got your first pair of boots boxed up somewhere in the attic…”

You tried to smile. You really did. But it barely twitched at the corners of your mouth, falling away before it could stick.

Your mom’s brow creased slightly as she perched on the edge of the chair across from you, near her old vanity.

For a moment, she was quiet—smoothing her hands over her knees, glancing toward the window where the sky had started to deepen into dusty pink and gold.

Finally, she said softly, “I thought you’d be a little more excited, honestly. About coming home. About school. About the city—your friends, and getting into that really great program. I thought you’d be bouncing off the walls by now, ready to pack your bags. Maybe counting the minutes until we headed home.”

Your chest tightened, and the words sat heavy on your tongue, waiting.

You thought—for just a split second—of Satoru, outside somewhere. His easy smile. The way his shoulders curved when he thought you weren’t watching. You wanted to run to him now, wanted to press your face into his chest and let him remind you how to breathe. But you couldn’t. Not yet.

So, you swallowed hard, hands twisting in your lap. You weren’t sure how to say it, how to start. But the words slipped out anyway, quiet and raw:

“…Mom,” you spoke carefully, “can I ask you something?”

She turned fully, eyes softening. “Of course, baby.”

“Why are you and David so…set on me leaving? On making them sell the ranch? I just—” Your voice caught. You exhaled shakily. “I need to understand.”

The room went still.

Your mother blinked, the small smile faltering just slightly at the edges. “Honey, that’s not—”

“It is,” you pressed, voice shaking with frustration. “You want me to go back. You want me to go back to school, back to New York. And you want Grandma and Grandpa to sell everything they’ve built here. So why? Why does it feel like you’re trying so hard to pull us away from this place?”

For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked toward the window again, following the sway of the willow branches. Her lips pressed together, then parted—then pressed again.

You could feel her weighing her own words.

Then, she got up and crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of your bed like she used to when you were little, hands fidgeting in her lap just like yours.

And finally, she sighed. “I guess I haven’t done a great job explaining, have I?” She gave a quiet laugh, sad at the edges. “I’ve just been pushing, pushing, pushing. Hoping you’d see it the way I do, without realizing maybe…maybe you needed to hear why first.”

You stayed quiet, urging her without words to just give you some semblance of the truth or an explanation.

She folded her hands in her lap, smoothing over her wedding ring with her thumb. “When your dad died,” she began softly, “I stopped knowing who I was…I felt like the ground was pulled right out from under me. This place—the ranch—it was where we built everything together. Where we raised you. Where we planned our whole lives with each other. And when he…when he left…it stopped feeling like home. It started feeling like a weight I couldn’t carry.”

Your throat thickened.

She gave a watery smile, blinking fast. “I tried, sweetheart, I really did. I tried to keep everything the same. To hold it all together. But…I didn’t know how to stay here. I didn’t know how to be here without him. And David—” she paused, voice hitching just slightly, “David came into my life at a time when I was drowning. He offered something stable, something that looked like a way forward. And I clung to it. Maybe harder than I should have.”

You saw the faint glint of tears at the corners of her eyes, the way she blinked fast to keep them at bay.

“I know he’s not your father—he never tried to be. But...he was a place I could set down my grief for a little while. He was steady when everything else inside me felt like it was breaking.”

You pressed your palms together, hard, like you could squeeze the harrowing ache out of your chest.

“I think,” she continued slowly, “that I’ve been pushing you toward New York not because I wanted to control you, but because I was terrified you’d stay here and get stuck. That you’d get swallowed up by the grief, the way I almost did. I wanted you to move. To dream bigger, to chase the kind of life I couldn’t.”

She reached over, brushing your hair back like she used to when you were small, when you’d fall and scrape your knees, and she’d whisper that everything would be alright.

“Leaving the ranch wasn’t about escaping your dad or your grandparents. It was about trying to survive, baby. And I’m sorry,” she whispered, meeting your eyes once more. “I should have told you sooner. I should have asked what you wanted—really wanted—instead of assuming you’d want the same things I did.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The air hung heavy between you, the room smaller than ever, pressing in with the weight of all the years you’d been orbiting each other, missing the truth in the middle.

Then—softly, hesitantly—your mom’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “You know,” she murmured, “he reminds me of your dad a bit.”

“Who does?”

She gave a small, knowing laugh. “Satoru, you goof. He’s got that same stubborn streak. The way he carries himself—kind, grounded, reliable. Loyal. The way he’d probably work himself to the bone just to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of you two together, and it’s a little uncanny.” She wiped the corner of her eye. 

The tears came faster, slipping hot down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“And the way he looks at you…?” She shook her head fondly. “That’s not nothing, sweetheart. That’s something real. That’s the kind of love that doesn’t come along every day.”

“I don’t know what to do mom…” You whispered. “I feel like no matter what I choose, I’m disappointing someone. You, Grandma and Grandpa, Satoru...myself.”

She took your hands, both of them, cradling them in hers. Her thumbs stroked over your knuckles, grounding you.

“Listen to me, baby.” Her voice sounded firm and soft all at once. “I don't want you to make a decision because you think it’s what we might want. Or what your grandparents want. Or even what Satoru wants. I want you to make a choice that’s going to let you wake up every morning and feel like you’re living some that’s yours.”

“And if that life is here,” she continued, smiling through her own watery eyes, “then you stay. If it’s in New York, then you go back. But whatever you do...you walk toward it because you want to. Not because you’re afraid of disappointing anyone. And no matter what, I will always be proud of you.”

You crumpled forward slightly, and she caught you — arms wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you into her chest, holding you tight. You buried your face there, breath shuddering, and for a moment, all you could think about was that night after your dad’s funeral—the way you’d watched her from the stairs, curled in on herself, breaking in a way you didn’t know mothers could. And now here she was, years later, holding you while you broke too.

And maybe you weren’t as alone in this decision as you thought.

After a while, she pulled away and gave your hand one last squeeze, “Dinner’ll be ready soon,” she murmured softly, her voice carrying the faintest tremble. “Come down when you’re ready, okay?”

You only nodded back and watched her step towards the door. 

But before she left, she paused. Turned back.

“I love you, baby. No matter where you are.”

The door closed quietly behind her.

And you sat there on the edge of the bed, heart swollen and aching, knowing that love didn’t always look like an agreement or easy choices.

Sometimes it looked like this:

Two people trying, failing, trying again.

Still reaching.

Still loving.

Still here.

Dinner had passed in a blur.

You remembered the smell of rosemary and roasted chicken, the glint of candlelight flickering across the old wooden table that was dressed in its best linen runner—the one with hand-stitched edges your grandma only brought out for holidays or important guests.

The way your grandma bustled from kitchen to dining room and back again, her hands busy even as her eyes softened every time they landed on you.

They’d gone all out. And you knew why.

You remembered how your grandpa raised his glass in a quiet toast—“Your grandma and I… well, we just wanted to say thank you,” voice rough like the gravel path to the barn. “This old place’s run quieter the last few years than it should’ve. We’ve been slower. Things fall behind. But having you here these past few months...it brought the ranch back to life a little. And no matter what you do, the door’s always open.”

You nodded once, too full for words. Your gaze had searched across the table and met your mom’s. She didn’t speak, but she gave you a small smile. Not a push. Not a plea. Just an expression touched with something sad, as if she’d already accepted the goodbye you hadn’t even spoken yet.

David cracked an idiotic joke about airline food. Surprisingly, Grandma laughed too, loud like she needed the noise to fill the space. Grandpa patted your shoulder as he passed the plate of cornbread, murmuring how proud he was of all the help you’d been this summer.

And through it all, there was Satoru—warm and solid beside you, his hand under the table finding yours without even looking, his thumb moving slow over your skin, like he was memorizing the shape of you. He leaned in once, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered, I love you.

You felt it hit the center of your chest, sharp and sweet, curling there, something you wanted to hold onto forever.

For a little while, you let yourself just be here, existing in this bittersweet moment.

You let yourself laugh at David’s awful jokes, and listen to your grandma’s stories about watching you grow up, and feel the squeeze of Satoru’s hand when your knee bumped his under the table.

You let yourself be a daughter, a granddaughter, a girlfriend.

But underneath it—underneath the clink of cutlery and the warmth of candlelight, and the last breath of summer, was the ever-present knowledge that this was it.

That tonight was the last night you could pretend you weren’t standing on the edge of a choice.

That tomorrow, you’d have to decide.

Stay. Or go.

You thought you’d feel clearer by now. You thought maybe the summer would have shaped the answer for you, like the land itself would tell you where you really belonged.

But here you were—surrounded by everyone you loved, holding everything you thought you wanted—and still, your heart pulled in two directions, stretched thin between the life you’d built back in New York and the life you never saw coming here.

By the time dessert came, you’d smiled until your cheeks hurt from grinning. You’d laughed until your throat ached. And when you stood quietly from the table, murmuring something about needing a little fresh air, no one stopped you. No one even tried.

It was like they all knew you needed this moment alone.

You stepped out onto the porch, the old screen door creaking shut behind you, and the cool evening air kissed your cheeks, sharp against the warmth you’d been holding in. Above you, the sky stretched wide and orange, faintly scattered with stars making an appearance, the evening humming softly with the rustle of trees and the far-off chirp of crickets.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, rocking back slightly on your heels, and let yourself breathe.

Tomorrow, you would have to make a choice.

No more stalling.

No more waiting.

No more hiding in the quiet spaces between.

Your gaze drifted out across the fields surrounding the ranch—past the barn, past the fence lines, past the swaying outline of the old oak tree at the edge of the property.

You knew where you needed to go.

You knew who you were hoping would find you there.

And when you stepped off the porch and headed for the barn, you felt the decision tugging at you, unyielding and steady, waiting to be heard. Waiting to be said.

The barn smelled of hay and leather and dusk.

You moved through it slowly, one hand trailing along the worn wooden stalls, fingertips brushing the old, familiar grooves. Jasper gave a soft snort to greet you before you even reached his stall, his dark eyes blinking patiently, his ears flicking forward like he already knew. The sound tugged something sweet in your heart.

“Hey, buddy,” you murmured, pressing your forehead briefly to his, closing your eyes. His breath huffed warm against your cheek. “One more ride, okay?” He leaned into your touch, just slightly, like he already knew. Like he could feel the way your heart was thrumming too fast, the way your thoughts were spiraling out past the fences, the way you weren’t quite sure if you’d come back through this barn the same way again.

You worked by instinct, muscle memory carrying you through the motions—bridle, saddle, buckles, straps. Your hands didn’t shake, but your heart beat louder with every cinch, every pull, every click of metal on leather. By the time you led him out into the open, with the barn door creaking behind you, the sky had deepened into a dusky lavender, that in-between blue just before the stars fully claimed it. The horizon blushed faintly pink, the last whisper of day folding itself gently away.

You swung into the saddle, gathering the reins with practiced ease, and nudged Jasper forward, his hooves clopping softly over the packed dirt. The ranch stretched out wide on either side—the fence lines casting long shadows, the barn sinking deeper into silhouette, the porch light flickering to life behind you.

You rode slowly at first, letting the quiet seep in. Letting the evening style over your shoulders like a blanket. Letting the weight of the day slip away, little by little, into the earth beneath Jasper gentle stride beneath you.

The ranch stretched out in gold and shadow, the grass bending low in the soft wind, the fences tracing the land like the edges of an old map. You breathed in the smell of dry earth and fading sunlight, the way the breeze kissed your skin as you rode.

This was what home sounded like. What it smelled like. What it felt like, deep in your ribs, where it ached the most.

You rode without thinking, letting Jasper carry you to the edge of the property—the old oak waiting like it always did, gnarled and sprawling, its wide canopy dark against the glowing sky. You’d known this tree your whole life. You’d played beneath it as a child, picnicked there with your grandparents and friends on lazy afternoons, leaned against its bark to watch the sunsets you always swore you’d remember.

You dismounted slowly, boots sinking and crunching softly in the grass. Jasper snorted, nuzzling your shoulder, before lowering his head to graze nearby. You let him drift, your hand brushing his mane once, twice, like a thank you, and a see you soon. Your hands ran over the carved initials on the bark—yours and Satoru’s—messy and uneven, with a little heart crookedly between them. You felt the grooves, the small ridges where the wood had weathered. And it was almost like touching something sacred. Something both impossibly small and infinitely huge.

You eventually settled on the blanket you’d stuffed into your saddlebag. The world stretched quietly around you, only the whisper of wind through the leaves and the distant hum of cicadas. You pulled your knees to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, and tipped your head back to watch the stars blink into being, one by one.

You let the hush settle in your bones, let the ache stretch and ease, let the pull of the future tug softly at the edges of your heart.

Tonight.

You’d make your choice tonight.

But for now, you just wanted to sit here. 

You wanted to think about your grandparents. You wanted to think about your mom and your dad. About Satoru. About everything you were afraid of losing. About everything you weren’t sure you could walk away from. 

To let the weight of the summer press against you softly—not like a burden, but like a reminder of everything you’d been handed, everything you stood to lose, everything you still didn’t know how to live without.

You closed your eyes and breathed in slowly. Deep. Letting the quiet wrap around you like a second skin, trying to imagine what it would feel like to walk away. To pack your things, board the plane, go back to the city, the noise, the rush. You could picture it—you’d done it before.

And when you opened them again, you weren’t surprised to see the shape of a rider approaching across the field.

Ollie’s silhouette emerged first—broad-shouldered and sure-footed—and then Satoru, astride him, his figure outlined in the faint, silver wash of moonlight.

He came without words, just like you’d known he would.

Because some things didn’t need to be said.

Some things were written in the way he rode straight to you, in the way he swung down from the saddle and walked across the grass, in the way his smile tilted soft and small when his eyes met yours.

“Hey, pretty girl. I figured I’d find you here,” Satoru murmured, voice low, almost a laugh, as he dropped onto the blanket beside you, settling down with a soft, contented sigh.

You leaned into him slightly, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His arm came up, winding around you, fingers curling at your side, holding you like he meant it. Like he didn’t want to let go.

For a long moment, you just breathed in the scent of him—soap, sweat, and something that reminded you of rain. Your forehead nuzzled lightly into the curve of his neck, feeling the stable, reassuring beat of his pulse there. His other hand found yours without looking, lacing your fingers together, his thumb stroking slow circles over your knuckles, over and over, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You exhaled, slow and shaky. “I don’t know.”

He gave a quiet laugh, not teasing. Just understanding. “Yeah. Me neither.”

His arm stayed wrapped around you, fingers stroking gently along your waist, warm. You both watched the soft sway of the trees and the faint glitter of stars starting to dust the darkening sky. The dark outline of Jasper still grazing quietly nearby, Ollie’s tail flicking in the distance.

The breeze stirred the leaves overhead, rustling quiet and low like a hush. You thought that maybe you could sit here forever—pressed close to him under this old tree, letting his thumb stroke absent-mindedly along your ribs. Neither of you spoke for a while. And maybe that was why you could feel the words settling in your chest—the ones you’d been avoiding, shoving down, twisting away from for weeks now.

You shifted slightly, sitting up enough to glance at him, your breath catching at the soft look he gave you—like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He gave you a crooked smile, not fully reaching his eyes. And his voice, when it finally came, was soft. Careful. “I’m not…gonna make you choose me, you know.”

You flinched slightly, blinking fast as you turned toward him. “Satoru—”

“I mean it.” He let out a faint, shaky laugh, looking down at his hands. “God, I want to. I wanna beg you to stay so bad it’s making my whole body hurt.” His jaw worked slightly, biting down on the words. “But that’s not fair to you. You have dreams. Big ones. And you deserve the chance to chase every single one of them, even if it’s not with me. I’ll be okay.”

You pressed your lips together hard, heart thudding painfully like it might shatter then and there.

Because you knew he was right. Because you knew—you knew, deep down, that you didn’t deserve him. That you’d been tearing yourself apart for weeks, trying to balance every version of yourself—daughter, granddaughter, girlfriend, student—and you still hadn’t let yourself really answer the one question that mattered most:

What do you want?

It wasn’t just about choosing between the ranch and New York anymore. It was about choosing who you wanted to be—the girl you had been, or the woman you were still figuring out how to become.

You wanted him.

But you also wanted to go.

Not to run away, not to leave this behind forever—but to finish what you’d started and failed the last time. To explore, to chase the pieces of yourself you hadn’t fully figured out yet. To live boldly and not wonder, years down the line, what you’d missed.

You thought about your grandparents, their quiet strength and the love that had stitched this land into your blood.

You thought about your mom, the way she’d survived her own heartbreak and carved out a new life, even when it terrified her.

You thought about your dad, about David, about Satoru, about all the people who saw different versions of your future—all of them hoping, waiting, and loving you in their own way.

And then you thought about yourself.

Who you were.

Who you wanted to be.

What you were still brave enough to try for.

You drew in a slow, shuddering breath, resting your forehead briefly against Satoru’s jacket. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, holding you there like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

When you spoke, your voice was quiet—but sure. “I think…I need to go.”

He stilled. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

“I want to finish school,” you continued, barely above a whisper, swallowing hard. “I want to go to London, take the program. Try. Just to see if I can do it—if I can make something of myself out there. I’m young, I have the time. I might as well take advantage of that, right?”

He let out a slow breath, looking down at his lap. His fingers picked at a stray thread on the blanket.

Your chest twisted in guilt and heartache. “But this—” You reached out, pressing your hand over his. “You. This place. My family. It’s still home to me. And when I’m done…when I finish and make something of myself…I want to come back. Here. To you.”

His jaw clenched softly, but he lifted his gaze to yours, blue eyes shining faintly under the stars. “You want to come back?”

“Of course I want to come back,” you said, firm this time, your voice gaining some strength for once. “I don’t want this to be the end. I don’t want Grandma and Grandpa to sell. I want to visit every summer, every break, and help them keep the ranch going. I just…I can’t shake the feeling that I’m supposed to finish what I started first.”

He laughed quietly under his breath—soft, aching. A rough, watery sound. “God, princess,” he murmured, dragging his hand over his face. “You’re killing me here. Breaking my heart in two, aren’t you?”

You turned slightly, reaching for him, cupping his cheek in your palm. His eyes were wet, the faintest shimmer catching in the corners, but his smile—soft and crooked and real—was everything. “I love you, Satoru. I love you so much it hurts.”

He closed his eyes at that, leaning into your touch like he wanted to melt into you. His hand came up, wrapping gently around your wrist, holding you there.

When he spoke again, his voice barely trembled, “I don’t want to hold you back. You hear me? You are the most incredible, brave, stubborn woman I’ve ever met. And if you need to go out there and conquer the world first—then baby, I’ll wait. I’d wait forever for you.”

He shifted, moving carefully, almost shyly, as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

You froze.

Because you recognized the shape of it.

The small, worn velvet box you’d seen once before—back when he’d first asked, too early, too fast, too full of love.

He opened it again, thumb brushing over the simple gold ring, his voice low and a little shaky. “You never gave me an answer back then,” he said quietly. “Didn’t blame you for it. We were still figuring it all out. I’ve been carrying this around for weeks now. Didn’t know if I’d get to actually give it to you again.”

You let out a quivering breath, eyes stinging.

“I’m not asking you to marry me right now,” he murmured, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours, raw and bright. “But I want you to take this. For real this time. So you remember—that no matter how far you go, no matter how long you’re gone, you’re still mine.”

Your heart squeezed, too full, too much.

“And when you come back…” He huffed a soft, shaky laugh, blinking fast. “When you come back, I’m gonna marry the hell out of you. Got it?”

You let out a shaky laugh, tears slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them, as you nodded, pressing forward to kiss him hard—a breathless, desperate kiss, one that tasted like love and longing and promise that you couldn’t put into words. His arms wrapped tight around you, pulling you flush against his chest, hands fisting gently in the fabric at your back like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go.

The kiss deepened—slow, lingering, lips moving together like you were memorizing the shape of each other, like you were trying to pour all the words you couldn’t say into this single, fevered touch. His fingers slid up into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while yours tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

When you pulled back, gasping softly, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard, tangled up in each other under the dark spread of the oak branches, noses brushing together. His thumb traced the damp track of your tears.

“You’re everything to me,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, his mouth tipping into a smile even as his eyes glistened. “You’re everything to me too.”

“We still have tonight…”

“Yeah,” his voice sounded rough with want. “We do.”

And when he kissed you again, it was slower this time—reverent, full of all the promises you weren’t ready to speak but couldn’t help but feel. Love. Pure and simple.

He eased you gently down onto the blanket, letting his mouth trail along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and you let your body arch into his, let your hands map the familiar, beloved lines of him, let the hush of the night wrap around you like a secret.

And as his fingers slid beneath your shirt, as his name spilled breathless and aching from your lips, you thought—

This is ours.

This will always be ours.

The blanket rustled beneath you as Satoru’s weight eased you gently into the earth, his hands mapping you like they’d been waiting for this—aching for this—with a patience that trembled just beneath the surface.

You let out a soft gasp, fingers threading into his hair, feeling the silky strands slip between your hands as he kissed along the delicate edge of your ribs, the heat of his mouth branding promises into your skin. His palms slid beneath your shirt, broad and warm, thumbs tracing reverent paths along the dip of your waist, up the soft curve of your stomach, along the underside of your breasts.

“I miss you,” he murmured, voice rough and breaking, the words catching like a splinter in his throat. “I know you’re right here, but god, I miss you already…”

You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up until his eyes met yours—stormy blue, shining under the faint spill of moonlight. You kissed him slowly, deeply, tasting the salt of his quiet, unspoken grief, everything he was too afraid to say out loud.

And when he kissed you back, it wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t frantic. It was slow and deliberate, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, trying to stitch the memory of you beneath his skin so he could carry you with him when you were gone.

His hands skimmed upward, fingertips dancing lightly along your sides, making you shiver. He peeled your shirt away slowly, savoring every new inch of skin revealed — like he wasn’t sure when he’d get to touch you like this again. You let out a soft gasp as his mouth followed, pressing tender, open-mouthed kisses along your waist, up your sternum, pausing only to murmur against your skin, “Let me take care of you tonight, okay?”

You nodded, threading your fingers through his hair again.

His mouth found yours, his tongue stroking gently past your lips, coaxing a soft, helpless sound from deep in your throat. His hands slid lower, deftly unbuttoning your jeans, pushing them down over your hips, baring you to the cool night air inch by inch.

You arched into him, pulling him closer, desperate to feel all of him, to etch the weight of him onto your body, your bones, your memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough and uneven. His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and you turned to kiss the pad of it, soft and desperate, pulse roaring in your ears and beneath your ribs.

“Satoru,” you breathed, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Take this off.”

He gave a soft, breathless laugh, his mouth brushing your jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”

The fabric came away easily, tossed somewhere into the grass, leaving you chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin. Clothes fell away in slow, aching pieces—the faint rustle of denim, the hush of cotton slipping off, the cool night air kissing every newly bared inch. His hands were everywhere: stroking along the sensitive inner seam of your thighs, curling under your knees to guide you closer, cradling your face as if he was afraid you’d disappear beneath him.

And when he finally slid inside you—slow, careful, the breath catching sharply in his throat—you both stilled, eyes locking, everything tightening sweet and unbearable between you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, burying his face against your shoulder, his voice tight with restraint. “You feel too good…always do… I love you. I love you so much…”

It was almost cute how pathetically down bad for you he really was.

Your hands scrambled over his back, pulling him impossibly closer, urging him deeper, your breath stuttering as you moved together, slow and deep and sure. It was more than just physical—it was the raw, messy, desperate act of keeping each other, of pouring every last bit of love and longing and fear into a touch, into a kiss, into the way your bodies fit together. Every drawn out, languid roll of his hips sent sparks dancing along your spine, your nerves alight with the rawness of it, the sweetness, the ache.

And then—

He shifted, rising slightly, his weight bracing on one elbow as his hand fumbled for something tucked beneath the blanket.

You blinked up at him, confused, dazed. “Satoru…?”

He gave you the softest, most devastating smile—eyes glimmering, hips never pausing as he stayed buried inside you, moving slow and deep. “Let me put it on you,” he whispered hoarsely, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “Please, baby. Let me put it on you.”

He pulled the little velvet box free. “I want you wearing it when you go. I want you to remember you’re mine, no matter how far you go.”

You let out a choked, shivery breath, nodding quickly, your chest burning with emotion as he pulled the delicate gold ring free. His thumb brushed lightly over the band before he took your left hand, kissed your knuckles, and slid it onto your finger.

“There,” he breathed, “Fits perfect. Knew it would.”

You moaned softly,  your hips rolling up to meet his as you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him back down.

And when you came—soft and shattered beneath him, your body arching, your fingers clutching tight around his shoulders—his name fell from your lips like a prayer, a promise, a goodbye you weren’t ready to give.

He followed you soon after. His body shuddered, his breath broke apart in your ear, his face buried against your shoulder, spilling hot and desperate inside of you. He held you there, like he could tether you to this moment with him forever.

Afterward, the only sounds were the slow settling of your breaths mingling, the rustle of the grass, the hush of the night.

He kissed you softly, again and again, his mouth brushing along your temple, your hairline, your jaw, murmuring promises you couldn’t quite catch, his fingers tracing lightly along the gold band now circling your finger.

You clung to each other like you had all the time in the world.

The ring glinted faintly on your finger, a delicate circle of gold catching the faint light.

A promise. A reminder. A vow.

You were his. And you always would be.

You didn’t know how long you laid there. You didn’t really care.

Because in that moment, with the stars spread above you and the grass cool beneath the blanket, and Satoru’s body wrapped tight around yours—you knew that no matter where you went, no matter how long you were gone, this would always be home.

And when you came back, you’d find your way right here again.

To him.

To this.

To everything you were always meant to have.

You rode home slowly together, side by side under the deep velvet sky.

The night wrapped around you like a soft quilt—the edges of the world had blurred into quiet shadow. The moon rose higher as each minute passed, pale and silver, casting long, stretches shadows over the fields. It was the only light, besides the house ahead with its faint, glowing porch lamp. Jasper’s ears flicked lazily as he plodded forward, and the familiar scent of grass and earth curling up with each step.

You could feel the warmth, the weight of Satoru’s presence at your side. He rode just close enough that every so often, his knees would brush against yours as Ollie kept pace beside you. Neither of you spoke much. You just listened to the rural hush surrounding you. The leather of the saddle creaked, the horses’ hooves whispered faintly in the dirt, and occasionally, a cricket would chirp, hidden in the grass along the path.

You wanted to remember it all. The shape of the horizon at night. The way the wind smelled faintly of hay and earth and his cologne. The comforting, warm bulk of Jasper beneath you.

When the ranch house came fully into view, glowing soft and gold against the dark, your chest twisted so tightly you had to close your eyes for a second just to find your breath.

You both worked in quiet rhythm as you reached the barn, moving around without needing to break the silence. You brushed down the horses once more, Satoru helped you with the tack. His hands brushed over yours, letting them liner a little longer than necessary when he passed you a strap or a buckle. You pressed a kiss to Jasper’s muzzle when you finished. Your fingers stroked soothingly over his nose as you whispered a soft thanks into his mane. He nuzzled your palm, letting the warmth of each other sink in, like he knew this was goodbye for now.

You caught Satoru watching you more than once. His eyes had looked a little glassy,  his mouth was pulled into a tired, bittersweet smile. He didn’t interrupt. He just let you take your time.

Inside the house, everything was dimmed and still. Everyone had probably tucked away in their rooms and settled into bed for the night. You could still smell dinner lingering faintly in the air, mixing with the old wood of the floorboards. Satoru’s boots sounded heavy on the steps behind you. His fingers brushed the small of your back when you paused outside of your bedroom door. You didn’t want him to leave, you wanted to soak up every last bit of time you still had with him before morning came.

You hesitated, then turned, voice low, just above a whisper: “Stay?”

You didn’t have to explain. And he didn’t need you to.

He just smiled back faintly—something sad, or shy that you weren’t used to with him—and nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course I will.”

Packing had been a trillion times harder than you expected. You sat cross-legged on the floor by your suitcase that was pulled from the closet. You moved slowly, folding shirts and jeans one by one, trying your best to keep your hands steady even though your heart ached with every soft rustle of fabric. It felt like you were packing away pieces of yourself. And you could feel Satoru watching from the edge of the bed. His elbows were braced on his knees, his fingers were laced loosely together, and his head tilted as he watched you work.

You glanced up every now and then, and his eyes kept flicking away too quickly, like he’d been caught. But you’d already seen the shine there—the way his lashes were starting to look damp, the way his jaw had clenched tight, the faint hitch in his throat when you paused and just…looked at him.

You got up crossed the room without thinking, dropping to your knees between his legs, letting your forehead press against his chest. His heart beat quickly beneath your cheek—thump, thump, thump. “Hey,” he said softly. You looked up and swallowed hard. His eyes were red-rimmed, glistening faintly in the low light, though he smiled as best he could for you. “C’mere…”

You let him pull you into his chest, felt the way his arms wrapped snug around your shoulders, how he tucked his face the crook of your neck to hide whatever he was feeling. Though, you felt the tremble there, the way his breath caught just slightly, the way his hold on you tightened like he was afraid if he let go, you’d disappear on him.

You held him back just as fiercely.

“Hey,” you murmured back, trying with a watery smile. “You’re not allowed to cry before me. That’s not fair.”

He huffed, and his shoulders shook just once. “Not crying,” he mumbled thickly. “Not yet, anyway…”

At least he was trying. You smiled back faintly, feeling the edge of your own tears rising as you pressed somehow closer, tucking yourself against him like you wanted to crawl under his skin, like you wanted to hold onto this exact shape of you and him for just a little while longer.

Eventually, you were able to coax him under the blankets with you. You laid facing each other, pulling the warm quilt over both of you. His hand slid carefully over your waist to bring you closer, letting his thumb trace small, absent circles at your hipbone. Your bodies slotted together like you had done it a thousand times before over the past few months. You let your forehead press lightly against his. Your hands rested against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his shirt and your palms.

Neither of you rushed the silence. You let it settle. Let yourselves breathe together, hushed and tangled, soaking up the last few hours, pressing them deep into memory.

You whispered, “Are you okay?” and he gave a shaky little laugh, kissed your nose, and murmured back, “Not even close.”

His fingers slid up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, letting them linger and trace over your cheeks in the dim light.

“Tell me something good,” you whispered softly in the dark.

He pressed a long, lingering kiss just below your ear, his voice a low murmur: “You’re mine. That’s the best thing I’ve got.”

Your chest twisted painfully as you turned into him, kissing him slow, tasting tears, tasting grief, tasting the wordless, bone-deep promise you’d tucked between you.

And when his eyes finally fluttered closed, his breath was gentle and warm against your cheek. His arm draped heavy over the soft curve of your waist, letting your breath mingle in the dark. You stayed awake a while longer, watching the faint glow of moonlight trace the edge of his jaw. Your thumb brushed along the ring now resting on your finger, seeing it catch faintly in the light.

You thought of tomorrow. Of saying goodbye. Of coming back. Of your love you carried for him.

You sighed and pressed your face to his chest, letting yourself breathe him in. Let yourself pretend, just for tonight, that the world outside this room could wait a little longer.

Your decision to leave wasn’t an easy one. You knew the road ahead would be a tangled, challenging mess. But it had finally settled comfortably somewhere, because you knew, without question, that no matter how far you went, no matter how long you were gone, this would all still be waiting for you.

This boy. This bed. This house.

And one day, when the time was right—you’d find your way back home again.

You woke up slowly the next morning, eyes fluttering open to a slant of soft gold spilling through the curtains.

The first thing you felt was the heavy weight of Satoru draped over you. His chest was pressed against your back, arm slung heavy over your waist, breath warm in the crook of your neck. He was snoring. Loudly. Uneven, a little wheezy, and blissfully unaware. And the next thing you felt—drool. Oh god, the drool…A damp little patch had bloomed on your shoulder where his mouth had slipped open sometime in the night. 

You let out a small, fond huff of laughter.

God, what an idiot.

What a beautiful, ridiculous, perfect idiot.

Your fiancé.

It was still sinking in. You left New York for three months, and now you’re engaged.

You wiggled your left hand up where you could see it, the delicate gold band catching in the morning light. It shimmered faintly, a soft little glint, as if winking at you. Your heart squeezed painfully tight.

Yeah. This was yours.

You were leaving today—chasing something new, something brave and scary—but this was yours. Always.

You leaned back just slightly, kissing his jaw, his cheek, the edge of his messy hairline. He let out a snort and groaned softly, blinking one eye open, still half-asleep. “Mmm… five more minutes…”

“Gross,” you whispered, laughing quietly. “You’re drooling on me, you freak.”

“Worth it,” he mumbled, a sleepy grin tugging at his mouth as he tightened his arm around you, burying his face in your neck. “So worth it…”

You smiled. God, you loved him so much it killed you.

The morning had moved like syrup—slow and heavy, thick with too much feeling.

Breakfast was a quiet, bustling affair. Your grandma had pulled out all the stops: biscuits, eggs, fresh jam, hot coffee with cream. She moved briskly through the kitchen, humming softly under her breath as she flipped sizzling pieces of bacon in the pan. Her lips twitched into faint smile when you reached past her to grab a plate.

Grandpa sat at the table, polishing an old pair of boots, occasionally glancing toward the doorway where your bags were stacked neatly by the door. “You’re still our girl, you know that?” he murmured as you took a seat next to him.

Your mom stood nearby, half-distractedly scrolling through her phone, murmuring to David about flight confirmations, airport traffic, and timing. She seemed almost flustered as she double-checked the tickets. But when she passed through the kitchen, she paused. Her eyes landed on you. She didn’t say anything, but you could see that knowing, sad but proud smile that said enough.

Satoru shuffled in behind you, yawning and raking a hand through his mess of hair, looking delightfully rumpled in one of his old t-shirts. He pressed a kiss to your temple, murmuring, “You hungry, princess?” before plopping himself into a chair and immediately stealing one of your biscuits off your plate. You shot him a mock-glare back, but it almost instantly softened when you caught the tired smile he gave back, eyes sparkling. Under the table, his knee grazed against yours, and he reached over to brush faint circles across your knuckles.

You were going to miss this.

By the time breakfast was cleared away, the house had settled into a strange, restless kind of quiet.

The bags were fully packed and loaded into the car, stacked neatly in the trunk, the finality of it making your stomach start to feel queasy. The sun had warmed the porch, casting golden stripes over the wooden railing. You hovered near the driveway, arms folded loosely over your chest as you watched your grandpa adjust a strap on the backseat while your grandma murmured quietly beside him.

Satoru’s hand settled at the small of your back, grounding you to these final moments. His fingers stroked there, reminding you he was still here, and that it’d all be okay.

You drew in a shaky breath—and then a voice called out:

“Well, well, well—look who’s about to be an international city girl.”

You turned at the sound of Suguru’s voice, a wry grin tugging at your mouth. He strolled up the driveway with Shoko at his side, the two of them dressed casually, like they’d rolled straight out of bed. 

“You came!” you grinned, heart lifting a little at the sight of them.

“Duh,” Shoko smirked. “Had to see if the rumors were true.” Her sharp gaze flicked down—right to your left hand. “Well, well,” she drawled “That’s new.”

You flushed slightly, glancing down at the ring.

Satoru was quick to walk up behind you, immediately wrapping his arm around your shoulders, chin dropping to rest on top of your head. “Damn right it’s new,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Got her locked in now.”

“Oh, so it’s official official,” Suguru teased, nudging Satoru with his elbow. “Didn’t think you had it in you, man.”

Shoko smirked. “He probably cried like a baby.”

“Shut up,” Satoru muttered, cheeks tinged faintly pink as he reached instinctively for your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours.

“Oh, he absolutelyd did,” you chimed in, giggling as Satoru groaned into your hair.

“You guys suck,” Satoru grumbled, but he was laughing too, pulling you tighter into his chest.

*** The goodbyes came in waves.

The first was with your grandparents.

They both pulled you into long, fierce hugs—grandma’s was so tight that you thought you might snap in half. She had surprising strength for someone pushing 70. Her voice shook softly in you ear, fingers smoothing down your hair as she murmured, “You’ve made us so proud sweetheart. You go chase your dreams. And remember, this door’s always open for you. Always.”

Grandpa’s hug was a little rougher, gruffer, but you could feel the tremble in his arms, see him blinking fast as cleared his throat and said, “We love you kiddo. We’ll keep the porch light on just for you.”

You swallowed hard, squeezing them back. You couldn’t cry, not yet. But you breathed in the smell of them—old woodsmoke and warm linen. Home. Safety. Everything you’d grown up with.

The second goodbyes were from your friends.

Suguru pulled you into a quick, slightly awkward hug, mumbling something about taking care of yourself, his hand ruffled through your hair fondly before he let you go. Shoko had hugged you surprisingly tight, smiling softly as she said, “You’re going to be great. And you better call and text us. If you dont, I will fly over there and kick your ass.”

“I will,” you promised, voice thick as you held onto her too.

And then finally—

Satoru.

You knew that this would hurt the most.

You’d been prepping for it for weeks, telling yourself you’d be strong, that you could hold it together. But now that it was actually happening, now that you stood just a few feet apart in the pale morning light, you felt something in your chest start to crack.

Break.

Crumble apart, piece by aching piece.

He stood a little off to the side, his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets, shoulders hunched like he didn’t trust himself to stand upright. His mouth twisted into a crooked, familiar smile—one you knew like the back of your hand—but his eyes…

His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, blinking too fast like he could hold the tears back if he just kept moving.

You stepped toward him slowly, feeling the pull in your chest stretch tighter and tighter, like a thread fraying at the ends.

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching for him.

“Hey, princess,” he murmured, catching your hands, pulling you close until his forehead touched yours. His breath shuddered out, uneven. “You sure about this?”

You nodded, even though it felt like you were peeling your own heart out of your chest.

“Yeah…” you whispered back, barely holding it together.

The moment those words left your mouth, his arms wrapped around you, yanking you flush against him, his face burying in the crook of your neck. You felt him shake—just once, just enough for you to realize how hard he was working to stay standing, to keep breathing, to let you go. His breath shuddered, rattling unevenly. His hold tightened, like if he could just pull you closer, you wouldn’t slip away.

“I love you,” you choked out against his chest, voice cracking, tears blurring everything.

“I love you too,” he whispered fiercely, his voice wrecked, his mouth brushing your hair, your temple, your cheek, like he couldn’t stop touching you. “So goddamn much. So much it hurts.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hands to his back, feeling the tremor in his shoulders, the desperate thud of his heartbeat against yours.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you wanted to be the one to let go first.

When you finally, reluctantly, pulled back just a little, you cupped his face between your shaking palms, brushing away the hot tears streaking down his cheeks. His eyes shone raw and open, his mouth tugging into a trembling, bittersweet smile.

“You’re gonna come back to me, right?” he whispered, his voice breaking right at the edges, his thumb stroking faintly over your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you.

You surged forward, kissed him hard, soft, desperate—tasting every promise, every ache, every ounce of love you’d ever poured into each other.

“I will,” you breathed against his lips. “I promise.”

He let out a shaky, wet laugh, pulling you in one last time, squeezing you so tight you could barely breathe, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your forehead.

“I’m gonna wait for you,” he whispered, voice thick and trembling. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

You couldn’t say more.

But he didn’t need you to, because neither could he.

If you said anything else, you might never leave.

He let out a shaky laugh, squeezing you hard one last time before finally—finally—pulling away. His fingers tangled briefly with yours, reluctant to let go, slipping free only when your mom called gently, “Honey, we need to go…”

He nodded, and with reluctance, you slipped towards the waiting car. Your mom was already there, waiting. Her eyes were warm when you turned to her, desperately blinking the tears away rapidly. She cupped your face briefly in her hands, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “I know this is hard. But you’re doing an amazing thing. And I’m so proud of you.”

You smiled through the tears slipping freely as you hugged her, feeling David’s hand squeeze your shoulder quick before climbing into the driver’s seat.

And then—

You turned back for one last glance at Satoru—standing by the willow tree, hands shoved into his pockets again, shoulders hunched, head tilted just slightly as he gave you the softest, most heartbreaking, gutwrenching smile you’d ever seen.

You waved, breathless.

He lifted his hand slowly, like it physically pained him to let it rise, and gave you the smallest, aching wave back.

You could see his lips shape the words:

I love you.

And with that, you slipped into the car.

The door shut.

The engine rumbled to life.

The gravel began to crunch softly beneath the tires.

The ranch blurred slowly past the window, golden and familiar and heartbreakingly beautiful in the rising sun.

You pressed your hand to the glass, watching Satoru’s figure growing smaller, smaller, until it was just the faint glint of your ring catching the light that reminded you:

This wasn’t the end.

This was just the beginning.

You’d be back.

This was only goodbye for now.

Author's Note: Hi guys...so literally screaming, crying, throwing up writing this. I hope it doesn't feel super rushed! I was originally going to split up the ending into two parts--like a choose your own ending scenario, but I thought one long chapter would better suffice. Miss girl deserves her man, but also a chance to choose things she wants

And don't worry...we'll see more of y'all and Cowboy Satoru soon...pinky promise.

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

If you're interested in reading other fics of mine, I currently have to more series going that I just updated yesterday. Half of Me, a gojo x f!reader fic where he's the messy babydaddy. And The End Came Quietly, a gojo x f!reader fic that is a zombie apocalypse au 👀

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[junos-chronicles]

Half of Me

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☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, emotional turmoil, gojo has a girlfriend at first, mutual but poorly communicated feelings, reader has a cat, lots of feelings, mentions of pregnancy-related physical symptoms (fatigue, nausea, body changes), emotionally distant relationship dynamics, implied sex scene (not graphic), infidelity themes (emotional conflict & cheating implications), emotional stress / anxiety, toxic family pressure, mild body image insecurity Art by: @mmsks_ on X

Things aren’t as simple as they used to be. As routines shift and emotions deepen, you and Satoru both find yourselves navigating new territory—quiet moments, blurred lines, and the weight of decisions that no longer feel theoretical. But outside pressures are starting to creep in. Work grows more difficult. Expectations tighten. And as the distance between what’s real and what’s right begins to blur, something has to give.

Step Nine: Learn to Live in the In-Between

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no big shift, no dramatic montage of realizations and heart-to-hearts. No single conversation that changed everything. No bold declarations. No cinematic turning point where it all clicked into place. Just a quiet rearranging. A slow, steady slide from unfamiliar to routine. A trickle of change that crept into the corners of your life until one day, you noticed things were different.

From him and you, to something almost like a “we.”

Your apartment didn’t feel quite so empty anymore.

Sometimes, there were grocery bags on your counter that you didn’t remember buying. Dishes you didn’t wash. A jacket that wasn’t yours draped over the back of your cheap dining chair. You still lived alone, technically—but the air felt less still. Less quiet.

Satoru started coming by more. Not every day, but often enough that Bear didn’t even shoot him a glare when he walked through the front door. Sometimes he brought takeout, sometimes soup he swore he made himself. Other times, he’d just show up with the excuse of “I was already nearby.” And as always, he came bearing gifts: vitamins, an armful of pre-washed fruit you didn’t ask for, boxes of your favorite tea. You told him it wasn’t necessary. He’d ignored you and throw on the kettle anyway, humming under his breath like he belonged there.

And at some point, you stopped protesting altogether.

He never pushed.

But he didn’t exactly stay in his lane either.

He lingered after dinner more now—sitting sideways on your couch, long legs draped across the floor like he owned the space. You’d catch him dozing off there some evenings, one arm slung over his face like he was trying to block out everything except the sound of the TV. He’d slip off his shoes and sigh dramatically like he’d had a long day at the office, even when all he did was pick up your prescriptions and wipe down your countertops after cooking.

There was an extra toothbrush in your bathroom, a small stack of parenting books on your coffee table that you definitely didn’t buy yourself. A crumpled grocery list in Satoru’s handwriting still stuck to your fridge with a magnet, right beside your appointment schedule and a black-and-white ultrasound printout that neither of you had acknowledged since the day he brought it over in a cute little frame.

His work bag would stay zipped shut through dinner. How his phone buzzed against the table—again and again—and he’d silence it without looking, sliding it screen-down beside his plate like it didn’t matter. Sometimes, he’d stay an hour longer than he meant to, blinking down at his watch like it betrayed him. “Shit, I was supposed to take a call at six,” he muttered once, not moving to leave. Just kept drying the plate you’d handed him, hands steady but quiet.

You didn’t ask what the call was for.

Things were…strange. Soft. Confusing. Good, sometimes. Awful, others.

You still worked. Still stocked shelves and filled drink orders and came home smelling like burnt espresso beans. But the nausea hadn’t gone away completely, and the exhaustion was worse now. Satoru noticed. He always noticed. He told you to rest. To eat more. To let him pay for stuff so you wouldn’t even have to work.

And you always said no. 

You liked being independent. You always had been—no, you’d always had to be. You weren’t rich like him, weren’t born lucky or spoiled with a trust fund. You worked your ass off just to keep your head above water most days.

But sometimes, when he wasn’t looking, you let yourself enjoy the way he fussed over you. The way he stayed late. The way he fell asleep with his head against your thigh. You didn’t dare move for nearly an hour. Not because you were tired, but because you didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile thing was blooming quietly between you.

It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t easy.

But you were learning to exist like this.

Together, but not. Connected, but not sure how. Preparing for something bigger than both of you, without knowing exactly what that meant. Everything was shifting. Stretching. Softening.

And yet, none of it had a name.

Not what this thing was. Not who he was to you. Not who you were to him.

And he still hadn’t told Hana.

You knew that. Felt it like a bruise every time you got too comfortable. Every time you leaned into him on the couch, or caught him smiling at your belly when he thought you weren’t looking. Every time he stirred honey into your tea without asking and nudged it toward you with that little look, like: drink this or I’ll make you.

Because he cared. That much was clear.

He cared in the way he left folded laundry on your bed when you were too nauseous to move. In the way he read articles about the first trimester and repeated facts you already knew, just to feel useful. In the way he brushed a hand over the small curve of your stomach when you were half-asleep, the gesture so gentle it made your throat ache and heart.

The baby—according to the app you checked daily—had fingernails. They could stretch. Swallow. Make tiny fists. They were still the size of a plum, but somehow that made it feel even more impossible.

And you were showing now, three or so months along.

Not enough for strangers to notice. But enough for your clothes to start fitting differently. Enough for you to feel self-conscious everytime you saw your reflection. Your body was changing—slower than expected, but still. Your jeans didn’t button. Your bras didn’t fit. Your skin broke out in places it never had before.

And when you stood in front of the mirror one night, pressing your fingers to your bloated looking stomach and said, “I think my boobs are growing,” Satoru had blinked, then grinned like a dumb teenager and said, “Yeah, I’m definitely not complaining.”

You threw a pillow at him.

But when he helped you climb into bed an hour later, before he’d leave to drive back home, his hands lingered just a little longer than they used to. And neither of you said a word about it.

That was the hardest part: the not-knowing.

The not-knowing what came next. The not-knowing what this was becoming. The way everything felt fragile—sweet, but temporary. Like if you reached too far, leaned too hard, it would all collapse beneath you.

Because you weren’t together.

Not officially.

Not even close.

But some nights—when the city was quiet and the lights from the street painted soft shapes on your ceiling—you let yourself imagine it anyway.

You imagined him in the nursery you didn’t have. You imagined him holding a tiny hand. You imagined the way he looked at you now, but softer. Sleepier. Happier.

And it scared you. Terrified you.

Because this wasn’t a love story. At least…it wasn’t supposed to be.

You had made a decision. A big one. And you’d made it together.

But decisions didn’t erase doubt. They didn’t fix history.

And no matter how many times he showed up with fresh fruit and stupid jokes and a forehead kiss when he thought you were sleeping, part of you still wondered—

What happens when he finally tells Hana?

What happens when she tells his parents?

What happens when the version of his life that fits you starts falling apart?

You didn’t have answers for any of that yet.

So instead, you just let the days pass. Quietly. Gently.

You let yourself enjoy the things that felt good.

The texts from him that said stupid things like: did you know that the babies fingers and toes aren’t webbed anymore? Or our kid has taste buds now. That’s wild.

The way he pointed at tiny onesies in shop windows and gushed about how cute and tiny they were.

The way your stomach fluttered sometimes when he touched it.

Even though it was probably just gas.

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close.

But it was happening.

And for now, that had to be enough.

You were already late.

The subway had stalled between stations for nearly fifteen minutes, and by the time you made it to the shop, your manager had that look on her face—the one where her lips thinned out and her eyebrows lifted just enough to make her disappointment feel personal.

“Clock in and restock the syrups,” she said without so much as a hello. “And clean the spill by the back counter. You missed morning prep.”

You didn’t bother explaining. She wouldn’t care.

Your feet already ached as you pulled on your apron. The knot settled heavily at your lower back, right where the tension had started building over the past couple of days. You were only three months along, but you felt it. The stiffness in your hips. The tightness in your thighs. Your bra didn’t quite fit right anymore, and no matter how many times you adjusted the straps, the underwire still pressed uncomfortably into your ribs.

“Hey,” your coworker greeted softly from behind the espresso machine. “You okay?”

You nodded and lied. “Yeah, just tired.”

The shift dragged like wet laundry. Every task felt heavier—wiping counters, stacking cups, bending to refill the creamers. The back storage room felt too hot, the cafe too cold. You didn’t really know what you needed, but it wasn’t this.

The worst part? People stared now.

Not everyone. Just a few customers—quick glances, polite but curious. Their eyes flicked down to your stomach and then back up like they hadn’t just clocked the way your shirt clung a little tighter there than it used to. The shape of it hadn’t really changed, not in the way most people would see. You had only gained a few pounds, really, but you could see it. You could feel it. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but there.

You caught your reflection in the pastry case once and nearly looked away. Your cheeks were a little rounder. Your hair didn’t sit quite right. You felt puffy and off and weird in your own skin.

You didn’t look bad, but you didn’t look like you. Didn’t really feel like you either.

There was something…in between. Like your body was a stranger you were still getting to know. Like you were slipping into something else and weren’t sure if you liked how it fit.

You turned away before you could stare too long.

By noon, your back was screaming. You leaned against the counter when no one was looking and pressed a hand just beneath your ribs, trying to will the ache away. And your shift was already half over when the manager called you to the back.

“We’re cutting hours starting next week,” she said, not bothering to meet your eyes. “Tight budget. Nothing personal.”

Right.

You nodded once. Swallowed twice.

“Also, can you try to move faster during peak? You’ve been a little slow on drinks lately.”

“I’ve been doing my best—” you started.

“I’m just letting you know,” she said, her voice clipped. “We all have to carry our weight.”

You said nothing after that. Just gave a tight smile and turned back to the sink, where the dishes were stacked higher than they’d been all morning.

It wasn’t the worst thing she could’ve said. But it sat in your stomach like a rock anyway.

You didn’t blame her—not really. You knew what it looked like from the outside. You’d been coming in late more often than you wanted to. You needed more breaks than usual. You’d had to step away twice last week just to deal with the nausea in the employee bathroom for fifteen minutes.

Still, something about the way she said it—“carry our weight”—made your chest go tight. Because hadn’t you been doing that your whole life anyway? And now with this baby, you were carrying the weight of it all for two.

The rest of your shift passed in slow motion. You kept your head down. Took orders. Frothed milk. Wiped counters until your wrists ached. Your feet were still killing you, even in your softest sneakers that you owned. Your lower back pulsed with dull heat, and your uniform felt tighter than it had the week before, pressing awkwardly at your waist.

And by the end of the day of the work day, your tips were shit. Your manager had left without saying goodbye. The register drawer stuck again. And the train ride home was packed and humid and smelled like old takeout and body spray.

You stood the whole way. Apparently, people forgot that there were manners and courtesy to let pregnant women sit once in a while.

When you finally got home, Bear was waiting at the door, winding around your ankles. You didn’t even change. Just dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes, and sank onto the couch like your bones were filled with lead.

You cried, as embarrassing and pathetic as that was.

Not because of one bad shift. Not because your manager was mean, or your feet hurt, or your reflection made you insecure now.

But because this was only going to get harder.

And even though you weren’t doing it alone anymore, some days still felt like you were.

Eventually, the tears slowed. You sniffled once, wiped your face with the sleeve of your work shirt, and reached blindly for your phone.

It lit up automatically in your hand. No missed calls. A few unread texts from the group chat you never checked anymore with your friends. One message from Satoru, sent earlier that afternoon:

Satoru [3:26pm] did you eat something yet? (also i left bananas on your doorstep. don’t let bear get to them first.)

You stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen.

You could call him.

Tell him about your shift. The way your manager had looked at you and treated you like you were a burden. The way your body didn’t feel like your own today. You could ask him to come over, to hold you, maybe even lie to yourself and pretend it would make everything better.

But then you thought about Hana. That look of disgust on her face. The way she said it—stay away from my boyfriend—like it was a warning, and not a request.

And even though you knew he was trying, even though you knew he cared...he still hadn’t told her. Still hadn’t told his parents. Still hadn’t dismantled the life that wasn’t built with you in mind.

So you didn’t call.

Instead, you typed something small. Simple.

made it through the day. just tired. probably going to bed early. thanks for the bananas.

You stared at the message for a second, then hit send.

No stupid emoji. No explanation. Just that.

Then you set the phone face down on the coffee table, leaned your head back against the cushion, and let the silence wrap around you again.

Because even if he was trying, even if he meant everything he said—

You still weren’t sure how much room there was for you in the rest of his life.

And that uncertainty?

It settled in your chest like gravity. Heavy. Quiet. Constant.

Satoru stared down at the marble table, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down the side of his untouched glass of water. A drop clung to the rim before sliding free, leaving a faint, curving trail in its wake. It was the most interesting thing in the room by a mile.

“…and the equity clause in section 14b is still being reviewed. We’ll need a revised breakdown by Monday at the latest.”

His father’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation like a scalpel—sharp, controlled, impossible to ignore. Satoru blinked. Sat up straighter in his chair. Nodded vaguely like he’d been listening. He hadn’t.

The conference room smelled like fresh ink, expensive cologne, and ego. His father sat at the head of the table in one of his tailored suits, surrounded by their legal team, four junior associates, and a client or two whose names Satoru had already forgotten twice. Across the table, Yuna—his assistant—shot him a quick, knowing look over the edge of her tablet. A don’t-you-dare-fall-asleep look.

The hum of the air conditioning buzzed in his ears, the sound and his father’s voice droning on competed with the dull throb just behind his temple. There was some part of him that registered this was an important meeting. The clients were speaking too—probably adding something about numbers, contracts, and projections.

But Satoru couldn’t bring himself to focus. Not at the moment.

His father’s voice was sharp and assured as he continued, “If we close before the quarter ends, we’ll have a margin stronger than last year’s.”

Satoru nodded again like he was actually paying attention. Pen poised above a notepad. Tie just a little too tight at the collar.

But under the table, his phone buzzed. Once.

His hand drifted towards his lap, seeing it blink awake.

A message from you.

He checked it in the same movement when he crossed his legs, angling the screen toward his lap like muscle memory.

Y/N [7:43pm] made it through the day. just tired. probably going to bed early. thanks for the bananas.

He read it twice. Then once over again.

It wasn’t a long message. Wasn’t anything dramatic or urgent. But he could feel something underneath the words—like you were purposely trying not to say too much. Like you didn’t want to come off as a burden, but you still wanted him to know, to stay in the loop.

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the screen like he could read between the lines if he held still long enough. But the warmth that settled in his chest made it hard to pay attention to whatever contract clause they were dissecting next.

His father’s voice cut through again—cool, clipped, unimpressed. “Satoru.”

He looked up, startled. “Sorry—what?”

“I asked if you’d reviewed the supplementary breakdown on the acquisition targets. You were the one who said you’d follow up personally.”

Ah. That.

Yuna glanced at him from across the table again. A breath, half-pitied.

“I did,” he lied smoothly. “There were some inconsistencies in the secondary ledger, but I flagged them for review.”

His father’s expression didn’t shift. Not a twitch. “Put the phone away, Satoru. We’ll talk later.”

Of course they would.

He clenched his jaw and did as his father asked, letting it slip back into the pocket of his slacks.

His thoughts remained distracted though.

They were still on you—on the way your voice sounded last night when you asked if he’d still be there for the appointment next week. On the way you looked when you opened the door after work, shoulders heavy, face drawn. On how you tried to smile anyway, like you were afraid he might not stay if you weren’t in a good enough mood.

He’d been trying. He really fucking had. Leaving work early when he could. Bringing groceries and meals over. Falling asleep on your couch more nights than not lately. But this? The firm. His father. His entire curated, generational life plan—it all felt like a massive chain around his neck.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur—graphs, numbers, words that felt like empty placeholders. He took notes out of habit, even though none of it stuck. 

God, he hated this place.

And that chain yanked harder once the meeting ended.

“Office. Now,” his father barked before anyone else even stood up.

Satoru gave a curt nod and followed in silence.

His father’s office was even nicer than his, though inside, the walls of glass and leather felt colder than usual. His mother was already seated beside the window, tablet in hand, her posture rigid. His father stood behind the desk, arms crossed.

“Where have you been?”

Satoru blinked. “What do you mean? At work?”

“Don’t be a smartass. You’ve been off for weeks,” his father started. “And I’m not the only one noticing.”

Satoru slouched slightly into the nearest armchair. “I’m still getting my work done.”

“Barely. Late meetings. Missed reviews. This morning you were fifteen minutes behind. And now you’re checking your phone in a client meeting?” His father’s voice didn’t rise. He never needed to. The disappointment came sharp enough without it. “You’ve been unfocused. You leave early. You’ve been avoiding the press events. The partner review board are asking questions now.”

Satoru exhaled slowly through his nose. “I’ve had some personal stuff going on.”

“That much is obvious,” his mother added, arms folded neatly as she leaned against the bookshelf behind the desk. She wasn’t part of the firm. She didn’t need to be. Her influence was felt regardless. “Hana called me this morning.”

Of course she did.

“She says you’ve been distant,” his mother continued. “That you barely come home before ten. That you don’t answer her calls anymore.”

Satoru’s jaw twitched. “We’ve both been busy, I guess. I’ve been working—”

“She said you didn’t answer her messages for an entire weekend.”

He didn’t respond, because maybe that had been true…

His mother sighed with frustration. “We’ve worked too hard building this for you to squander it. If you’re distracted, fine. Take a week off. Clear your head. But don’t be sloppy. From where we’re standing, it looks like you’re about to throw away everything we’ve built just to act like a rebellious teenager again.”

“I’m not a teenager,” Satoru said tightly.

“Then stop acting like one,” his father snapped. “Is there something we should know about? You’re not getting into trouble again, are you? Do anything stupid?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m not.”

They stared at him. Weighing. Judging.

Silence bloomed in the space between them. The kind that didn’t invite a response. The kind that suffocated any attempt to defend yourself.

“I’m not screwing anything up,” Satoru said finally, quieter now. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve got it under control, alright? I’m just tired lately.”

It wasn’t a complete lie.

But it wasn’t the truth, either.

Because tired didn’t cover the way his thoughts spun every night when he left your apartment. Tired didn’t explain why he hated leaving you there alone. Why his chest ached when he saw you trying to keep it all together. Why he still hadn’t told Hana, or his parents, or anyone who mattered about the baby—because deep down, he didn’t know how to blow up his life without blowing you up in the process too.

They dismissed him eventually. Told him to straighten up. Be better. Get some sleep.

He didn’t respond. Just stood, smoothing the sleeves of his blazer with practiced ease, and walked out of the room before he said something that would actually get him cut out of the will.

So he went home.

Satoru let himself into the penthouse with a soft click of the lock, loosening his tie as he stepped out of his shoes. His body felt sore, like stress had physically calcified in his spine.

And the lights were already on. Soft and golden, spilling across polished floors and granite countertops. The air smelled like expensive candles and imported roses, faintly perfumed with the hint of wine. The sliding glass doors to the balcony were open just a crack, letting in the muffled hum of traffic below and the wet edge of rain still clinging to the night.

Hana sat curled up on the corner of his black leather sectional, legs crossed neatly beneath her, a half-full glass of red wine balanced elegantly between two manicured fingers. The television played some quiet luxury travel special in the background, but she wasn’t watching it. Her gaze was fixed on him the moment he walked in.

“Long day?” she asked, her tone light but firm. Measured.

Satoru blinked, surprised to see her already here. He shrugged off his blazer, “Didn’t know you’d be over tonight.”

She hummed, noncommittal. “You weren’t answering your phone. I called.”

“I saw.”

“And didn’t answer.”

“I was in a meeting, Hana. I’m sorry, work just ran late, alright?”

Her eyes flicked to him, sharp and cool, her nails tapped against the crystal stem, “It always does lately.”

There was a pause—thin and deliberate. She studied him for a second too long, eyes tracing his posture like she was assessing for damage, trying to decide which version of him she’d be getting tonight. She looked beautiful, of course. She always did. Draped in one of his oversized button-downs, only half-buttoned to frame her collarbones and cleavage like an afterthought. Her hair was twisted into something loose and artful, the kind of effortless style that took real effort. Her makeup was immaculate. Sharp. Every line exactly where it was supposed to be.

But the smile she gave him didn’t quite reach her eyes. It looked too smooth, like glass held just before it cracked.

He crossed to the fridge, grabbed a glass, and poured himself some water—slowly, deliberately. The silence pressed against his back like a weight, but he kept his focus on the sound of liquid hitting glass, the coolness of it in his palm. He took a long sip, not because he was thirsty, but because it gave his hands something to do. Something that wasn’t meeting Hana’s eyes, which tracked his every move like a hawk, calm but calculating.

“So,” she said, after a beat. “Your mother called.”

Shit.

Satoru winced inwardly, but tried not to let it show. “Did she?”

“She said you’ve been off. Distracted. Missing meetings and deadlines.” Hana tilted her head. “Anything you want to tell me?”

His grip tightened faintly around the glass. “Nope.”

Her mouth twisted into something like a smile—but not quite. “Right.”

Okay—he knew he should’ve told her by now. Knew it was cruel—fucked up, even—to keep something this huge from her, and from his parents. But he kept pushing it off anyway. Because part of him liked the illusion. The little world he’d built with you, held together by shared appointments and warm takeout containers. In that bubble, everything made sense. It was quiet. It was his. There was no pressure to define it, no legacy to uphold. Just you. And the baby. And a version of himself he didn’t hate.

The silence stretched between them.

He watched as she took another slow sip of wine, then rose from the couch. Her movements were graceful, precise—the kind of elegance that came with practice and pride. Bare feet whispered against the tile as she closed the space between them. Her fingers found the collar of his shirt, tugged gently, coaxing him closer with a soft murmur: “You’ve been off lately. Tense. Even now.”

“It’s been a long week. I’m just tired,” he said, voice quiet. The same excuse he gave everyone. Except you.

Her lips brushed along his jaw—light, practiced, deliberate—while her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, nails grazing just barely against his skin. Everything about it was familiar. Familiar and flawless and perfectly composed. She smelled like jasmine and cashmere and something expensive.

But the knot in his chest cinched tighter, like a string pulling from the inside.

“Hana,” he murmured, soft but strained. A quiet warning threaded through the syllables. He didn’t move, but his body tensed—just enough to shift the air between them.

And she felt it. Of course she did.

Still, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she pressed closer, breath warm against his neck, voice silky and precise: “Let me take care of you. You’ve been so distant lately... I miss you. I miss us.”

Then, with a soft smirk curling at the corner of her lips:

“I miss when you used to look at me like you were starving.”

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t emotional. Hana didn’t do messy—not unless it was on purpose. No, this was deliberate. A performance of intimacy, wrapped in silk and red wine. It was the same rhythm they always fell into: her fingers in his collar, her mouth brushing his with mechanical ease. Muscle memory. Elegance. Control.

And he didn’t stop her.

Because she was his girlfriend and this was what they did. What they’d always done.

A perfectly chilled bottle of cabernet, a slow kiss on the mouth, and then a gradual unraveling into something that almost felt like closeness. He let her kiss him like it still meant something. Let his hands settle on her waist, fingers gliding over skin he’d touched a hundred times. The shape of her body was familiar. Sculpted. Predictable.

She kissed him like she needed to prove something. Like she was reminding him—without saying a word—that she was still here. Still beautiful. Still his.

And he let her. Because it was easier than pushing her away.

Because his body responded faster than his guilt.

Because he did care about her, in a way. Because she was safe and polished and approved by everyone who ever told him who he was supposed to be.

Because he wanted to feel normal, and was so, so tired of disappointing people.

And maybe—just maybe—if he kissed her hard enough, held her tightly enough, pretended well enough, he could still be that version of himself. The version who lived in penthouses, wore custom suits, smiled for photographs, and planned to marry the girl in designer heels at his side.

But deep down, he knew better.

Because the moment her hands slipped beneath his shirt, the moment her perfume filled his lungs—his brain short-circuited.

And all he could think about was you.

The shape of your mouth when you smiled at him, half-asleep. The curve of your stomach, soft and growing, and how he couldn’t stop staring. The way your fingers brushed his and lingered. The way you laughed when he tripped over your cat. The way he didn’t have to pretend around you.

It hit him in the chest like a punch.

Sharp. Real. Want.

Not for this.

Not for the girl in his bed.

But for the one who wasn’t.

They moved toward the bedroom in practiced silence—quiet steps, half-unbuttoned shirts, kisses that followed familiar patterns but lacked the spark they used to. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t fire, either. Just a flicker. Just habit.

She pulled him down onto his king-sized bed with a soft, suggestive smile, sheets rumpling beneath them like a whisper of routine. When she climbed over him, graceful and composed, he didn’t stop her. His hands found her waist like they always had. His body responded out of instinct. Out of muscle memory. Out of obligation. Something like loyalty.

But his mind… drifted.

It happened gradually. Like a dimmer switch turning, not a light flipped off.

One minute, he was looking up at Hana—her hair falling over one shoulder, hips rolling against his with that same practiced rhythm she’d always had, eyes half-lidded like she knew exactly what buttons to press. 

Then halfway through, he slipped.

Not with his body. Not aloud.

Just in his head.

Your face. Soft and sleepy.

The way you blinked at him when you first woke up, hair tangled, hoodie too big. The was your nose crinkled when you tried not to laugh at one of his dumb jokes. Your sleepy eyes in the morning. The way your eyes softened when he handed you a cup of tea without asking. The quiet sound you made when you stretched on the couch. 

The image hit him like a car crash. Sudden. Violent. Terribly, terribly intimate in a way that made his chest seize with guilt.

Because it wasn’t Hana who made his breath catch. It wasn’t her that made his throat close and his heart twist.

It was you.

You and the warmth of your apartment. You and the way you looked at him like he wasn’t a legacy or an heir, but an actual person. You and your stupid cat. You and your ridiculous collection of mugs. You and your half-formed, squishy baby. You and your tired eyes and soft laughter and steadying presence—

Fuck.

Even when he came—his hands tightening on her hips, breath shuddering out of him in a low groan—it felt hollow. Distant. His body moved, but it wasn’t her name that bloomed in his chest when he reached the edge.

And that fucking terrified him more than anything.

Hana rolled off of him a minute later, her breath slowing as she settled beside him. Her skin was warm, slick with steam and sweat, and she curled against his chest. Her nails traced light, idle circles against his sternum.

But it didn’t feel comforting.

It felt like pressure. Like penance. Like he’d folded himself into a mold that didn’t quite fit anymore, and the corners of it were starting to scrape raw. Guilt settling deep into the cracks of his soul.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she murmured, brushing her lips across his collarbone like punctuation. “Don’t fall asleep without me.”

“Mm,” he hummed, barely audible, already lost in thought.

She slipped out of bed, slow and deliberate, wrapping his robe around her frame with practiced ease. The bathroom door clicked shut behind her, and steam began to curl beneath the threshold almost instantly.

Satoru stayed where he was—sheets tangled at his hips, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who just had sex. Like he had just run a 5k marathon. He stared up at the ceiling, willing his thoughts to still, to quiet, to just fucking stop for five seconds.

They didn’t.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. Sat up. Reached for his phone like it was a reflex, not a choice.

He shouldn’t.

He really fucking shouldn’t.

But the moment his screen lit up, he tapped into the thread with your name. His chest pulled tight at the sight of it.

You didn’t send him any new messages.

But he still thought of you. Wondered if your back was still sore. If you’d made dinner or just passed out on the couch again eating a sleeve of crackers. If Bear had curled up beside you, or if you’d cried again when no one was watching.

He hesitated for all of three seconds, letting his thumb hover above the screen. But then he just tapped your name and hit call before he could stop himself.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

He almost pulled back, almost hung up, but then—

“Hey…”

Your voice was soft. Drowsy. Scratchy with sleep in the way that made his chest ease for no reason at all. So cute. So unfair…

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

You yawned, and he could hear the rustle of fabric as you shifted. “No, it’s fine. I was already kind of awake.”

“Yeah?”

“Couldn’t get comfortable, I guess.”

He closed his eyes. “Rough day?”

You didn’t answer immediately. When you did, it was quiet. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just dealt with a lot.”

His throat ached. “I should’ve checked in sooner.”

“It’s fine. You’re busy.”

“I still should’ve.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just gentle and weighted. Close.

“I’m glad you called,” you said finally.

His heart thudded once. “Yeah. Me too.”

A beat passed. Then he exhaled. “...I hate that you’re doing this all by yourself.”

“It’s fine, Satoru. You’re here when you can be.”

Your response had only made his heart ache. “I know,” he whispered.”Still doesn’t feel like enough, though.”

Another beat of silence stretched between you—thick with something he didn’t have a name for.

You didn’t argue.

He didn’t push.

“I just wanted to hear your voice…”

He wanted to say more. To ask how your feet felt. If you’d eaten anything. If Bear had finally stopped attacking your socks lying on the floor. But the water shut off in the bathroom. Footsteps padded softly across tile.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll let you sleep. Just…text me when you’re up tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” you replied, gentle again. “Goodnight, Satoru.”

“Night.”

He hung up and sat with the phone still pressed to his ear for a second longer than he should’ve. When he finally set it down on the nightstand, the screen didn’t lock fast enough.

The call log glowed bright in the dark.

Y/N [3 min, 42 sec]

He reached for it too late.

The door opened behind him.

Hana stood in the doorway, hair wrapped in a towel, robe cinched tight at the waist. The scent of his body wash drifted into the room—earthy and expensive.

Her eyes flicked to the glowing phone screen.

She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t need to.

Her expression didn’t change. Not much. Just a slight shift at the corner of her mouth, the faintest twitch in her brow. She crossed the room slowly and slid into bed beside him, turned off the lamp, and curled into his side like nothing had happened.

“Who was that?” she asked casually, eyes already closed.

He hesitated. “Just work…”

She hummed. Noncommittal. And that was the end of it. Her fingers curled around his wrist as she slipped fully under the sheets. Warm. Anchoring. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched the ceiling, counting cracks that weren’t there, trying not to think about how far he’d already fallen.”

But beside her, in the dark, Satoru stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just counted the faint cracks, trying not to think about how far he’d fallen—heart twisting in his chest, throat tight.

Because it wasn’t just guilt anymore.

It was something worse.

Something that felt like longing. Like gravity.

Something that tasted like the beginning of the end.

Author's Note: Hi. I'm back from my brief hiatus. And okay, LISTEN guys. LISTEN. I KNOW that Satoru is fucked up delulu in the head, and it is a TERRIBLE thing that he's mentally checked out of his relationship with Hana. BUT, he isn't a perfect person. And neither is Reader, nor Hana, nor his parents, and literally everyone else. I feel like there are some who aren't enjoying how the story is going, which is totally okay! But I'm trying to show how messy people can be. Flawed, and selfish, and imperfect creatures. So just bear with me. Things will start to change soon!

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

And I have a new series out! A gojo x f!reader zombie apocalypse au here!

[junos-chronicles]

Half of Me

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☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, emotional turmoil, gojo has a girlfriend at first, mutual but poorly communicated feelings, bad decisions at 2am, reader has a cat, lots of feelings, first ultrasound, baby angst, awkward softness, they’re trying okay, nervous dad in the making, trying to communicate, they are so bad at feelings, adoption discussion, post ultrasound fallout, almost something but not quite Art by: @mmsks_ on X

In the aftermath of a difficult decision, tension lingers between what’s said and what’s still left unspoken. But sometimes clarity doesn’t come all at once—it arrives slowly, in the rain, with the quiet realization that some choices matter more than fear.

Chapter Eight: Change Your Mind

Satoru’s apartment smelled like citrus and expensive linen.

The sun had already dipped below the skyline by the time he got back home. 

The city outside his windows pulsed in golden streaks and brake lights, a low hum of life that never quite went quiet. The windows had been left cracked open before he left, and the breeze that drifted in smelled faintly of rain and car exhaust. He dropped his keys in the dish by the door, loosened his collar with a sigh, and ran a hand through his hair. The leftover scent of espresso clung faintly to his shirt—his lunch with you still lingering in ways he didn’t want to name. You hadn’t touched his hand again after the café. But you hadn’t pulled away either.

He was still trying to figure out how to breathe around that.

He didn’t notice the knock at the front door until it came again—sharper this time, impatient.

He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, yeah, hold on…”

He wasn’t expecting anyone. And was it pathetic that part of him hoped he’d see your face on the other side?

But unfortunately, when he pulled the door open, it was in fact not you, but her.

“Hana?”

She stood in the hallway, perfectly styled as always—cream coat belted at the waist, hair swept back into something that looked effortless but wasn’t. Her lips were glossed. Her eyes sharp. She looked beautiful. She always did. But something in her expression made his stomach turn. Something furious there. 

She didn’t wait for him to invite her in.

Satoru just blinked. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” she said as she stepped past him, heels echoing faintly on the hardwood.

She moved through his penthouse like it was hers—like she belonged there, which she did. In theory. She’d spent enough nights sleeping in this apartment, enough mornings fixing her makeup in his bathroom mirror. Her perfume already lived in the hallway. There was a toothbrush in his drawer. A spare hoodie hanging off the back of one of his dining chairs.

But tonight, something felt different.

“I just got back,” he replied, shutting the door behind her. “Wasn’t checking it.”

She turned to look at him. “From where?”

“Lunch.”

She raised an eyebrow. “With who?”

“A friend,” he replied, probably a little too quickly. “Why?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she crossed the living room, set her purse down on the side table, and tossed her coat onto the arm of the couch, surveying the space like she was trying to memorize it. Or maybe measure it.

Her arms crossed over her chest. “I had lunch with your mother today,” she said finally.

Ah. There it is.

“She said you’ve been off lately. That you’re behind at the office. That you’ve been slacking,” Her gaze narrowed. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Of course she did.

Satoru exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “I’ve just been tired. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Hana said, voice rising slightly. “I’ve barely heard from you all week. You don’t answer my texts. You cancel plans. And now your dad’s yelling at the firm like you’ve forgotten how to do your job.”

He looked away, jaw flexing. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” she snapped. “You’re distracted.”

“I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Like what?” she asked, crossing the space toward him, arms still folded. “Work? Family? Or something you don’t want to tell me about?”

He stared at her.

Her heels clicked against the tiled floor as she stepped closer, tension crackling beneath the surface. Her expression softened—just slightly. Barely. “Satoru,” she said, quieter now, “I’m your girlfriend. You’re supposed to talk to me. You’ve been so cold with me for days, what am I supposed to think?”

“I know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just…haven’t really known how to talk about anything lately. I’m stressed. I have shit going on that I haven’t figured out how to explain yet.”

“Well,” she said tightly, “maybe you should start figuring it out.”

He didn’t answer, again. 

She sighed—dramatic, sharp, the way she always did when she was losing her patience with him, but didn’t want to scream. Not yet, anyway. 

“I’m not here to fight,” she said after a beat, her voice smoothing back into something softer. “I’m here because I care about you. Because I’ve been worried.”

She stepped closer, touching the edge of his sleeve. “You haven’t let me in lately. Not even a little.”

He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t move closer either.

Something flickered behind her eyes. Worry? Jealousy? That sharp instinct of hers that always knew when he was hiding something.

She forced a smile. “Come sit down. You look like shit.”

He laughed under his breath, grateful for the shift in tone. They walked to the couch. Hana curled against him like always—legs draped over his, head resting against his shoulder. He let it happen. Let himself fall into the rhythm of their closeness. This was familiar. This was easy.

And he still cared about her.

He did.

She was smart, beautiful, poised. They had history. And she’d been there—at the dinners, the events, and holidays. She fit perfectly into the space his parents had carved out for him, even if he’d never been the one holding the chisel.

But there was something different now. Off. Like he was sleepwalking through life lately.

Her fingers brushed his knee. “We could go away next weekend,” she offered. “Just the two of us. You’ve been so wound up. It might help with your stress.”

He nodded absently. “Yeah. Maybe…”

She smiled against his shoulder.

“I’ll make us tea,” he murmured eventually, slipping out from under her and stretching as he moved toward the kitchen. He disappeared before she could even say “Okay,” voice light but flat. He disappeared around the corner, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet. While the kettle hissed on the stove, he went to pull his phone out to check the time. Only, it wasn’t in his pocket.

A soft chime from the living room.

He froze. Realized it a second too late.

He left it on the coffee table—screen up, face unlocked.

She didn’t mean to read.

But she was never one for resisting temptation.

And when her fingers lifted the phone, the screen was still glowing—lit up with your name. A message thread. No previews, no emojis. Just a name she didn’t like. A name she’d always been suspicious of. A name that used to make her stomach churn during college and still did now.

She stared at it for a long moment, thumb twitching like it might press anyway. Like she could feel something rotten bubbling up under her skin.

So, she read.

The messages weren’t romantic. Not explicitly.

But they didn’t have to be.

She scrolled through the most recent ones:

are you awake? want to get food or something today? i’ll grab us a table. see you soon.

She scrolled faster. Her heart beat rapidly like a drum in her chest.

Your name—again and again and again. 

The one she’d always hated. The one she always knew Satoru had history with. The one his mother never liked to mention, always with a clipped tone or dismissive wave. The one she’d seen at parties once or twice, always at the edge of things, but too close for comfort.

You.

Her lips parted slowly, breath catching in her throat.

He hadn’t deleted anything.

He hadn’t hidden it. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him that she might find it.

And that—somehow—was worse.

She stared at one of the messages:

thanks for coming yesterday. it meant a lot.

She locked the phone. Set it back face-down again on the coffee table with trembling hands. So he couldn't make time for her, but he could for you?

She didn’t say anything when he came back into the room ten minutes later, two steaming mugs in his hands. Her smile was brittle when he handed her the tea. He didn’t notice. She just kissed his cheek. Laughed at whatever joke he made about her watching trash TV while he was gone.

But something inside her was already cracking. Unraveling.

She wouldn’t confront him. Not tonight. Not yet.

But she would wait.

And she would find out exactly what was going on.

Because if he was hiding something…

If he was lying to her…

If he was cheating—on her, of all people?

It wouldn’t stay secret for long.

Not if she had anything to do with it.

Your apartment was quiet that morning.

The sun hadn’t fully broken through the clouds yet—just streaks of pale gray muted light spilled across the hardwood floor in pale ribbons, the soft hum of the fridge the only sound filling the silence. The city was still waking up—faint sirens in the distance, a neighbor yelling into their phone three floors down, the occasional bark of a dog on the street.

You sat cross-legged on the edge of your bed, old hoodie sleeves pulled over your fingers, phone pressed to your ear. The ultrasound photo still lay where you left it the night before: tucked beneath a book on your nightstand, barely peeking out from the pages. 

You made the call before breakfast.

You’d been researching this particular agency all week, scrolling through their website at two a.m. when the nausea kept you awake. You knew what you wanted to ask. You’d rehearsed your voice in the mirror as soon as you woke up. 

The woman on the other end of the line was calm. Kind. She spoke in that patient, overly warm tone people used when they didn’t know what kind of crisis you were calling about.

You gave her your name. Your email. Answered her questions with clipped replies, like if you didn’t say too much, it might not feel so real.

The appointment was scheduled for Friday.

A consultation. Just to talk.

Not a commitment.

She thanked you again, and you thanked her back. She said she looked forward to meeting you and “the little one”.

When you hung up, you stared at the phone for a long time—thumb hovering over Satoru’s name in your list of contacts. But you didn’t call him. Didn’t even text him. Not because you didn’t want to. But because…you weren’t sure what you wanted him to say. And you weren’t sure you could handle it if he said the wrong thing. Again.

Not after everything.

Not now, when things between you still seemed so fragile.

So you got dressed instead. Pulled on your uniform, grateful that your manager texted you earlier, asking if you could pick up an extra shift. 

Honestly? You could used the distraction. You needed something to do with your hands. Something to get your mind off of appointments, and babies, and him. 

And by 9 o’clock, the café was already a blur of a morning rush when you arrived. 

The line curled past the pastry case. The espresso machine hissed and sputtered. A soft jazz playlist buzzed from the overhead speakers, barely audible beneath the din of clinking mugs, the rush of milk steam, and the overlapping hum of voices. You stood behind the counter, apron tied loosely around your waist, hair pulled back in a way that felt more like survival than style. 

And you jumped right in—pulling shots, pouring lattes, trying not to think about that appointment on Friday or the grainy photos still tucked away, sitting on your nightstand. Your body didn’t make it easy, though. You still felt nauseous. You were still exhausted. Every breath you took seemed too shallow, as if your ribs were refusing to expand all the way. It didn’t help that the smell of syrup and sweat lingered in the air. Too sweet, too sharp, too much.

Eventually though, the morning rush had bled into the early afternoon crowd: freelancers with laptops, tourists with maps, a couple on a date sharing a croissant way too slowly. You kept your head down and powered through—took orders, handed off receipts, smiled when you remembered.

But by 3:15, your stomach was doing that slow, awful turn it always did before the nausea got worse.

You braced your hands on the edge of the counter and took a deep breath.

Then the door chimed.

“Hi,” a familiar voice rang out, sweet and sharp all at once.

Your fingers froze against the countertop.

And you recognized her immediately.

Hana.

She looked wildly out of place here—heels too sharp, bag too expensive, coat too pristine. Her makeup was perfect, lips painted a shade just shy of what looked like blood, threatening. She stood in line for maybe half a minute before stepping right up to the front, bypassing everyone else.

“Hana…hi. I, uh, didn’t know you liked coming here,” you said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. Polite. Careful.

“I don’t normally,” she replied, tucking her hair behind her ear with deliberate grace. “A bit too…dingy for my taste. But I heard you worked here, so…” She trailed off, like that was explanation enough.

You said nothing at first. Just nodded, fingers hovering over the register screen. The silence lingered heavy more than you would have liked.

But you managed to plaster on a tight smile. “So, what can I get you?”

“One iced americano. One vanilla latte. Both to go,” she added, straightening her purse strap over her shoulder. “Thanks so much.”

“For… you and Satoru?”

She tilted her head. “That a problem?”

“No! Not a problem.” You keyed in the order, avoiding her eyes. “Got it.”

She hummed and leaned one elbow against the counter, pulling a credit card from her ugly designer wallet to throw it down in front of you. That entitled bitch. “So. How’ve you been?”

You just blinked in response. Why was she trying to make small talk? Better yet, why was she here to see you at all? You weren't exactly friends. Barely acquaintances. “Uh…fine?”

She smiled again—wider this time. Scarier. “Yeah? I bet. Must be nice, getting all that…attention, hm?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t really know how to.

She tilted her head slightly, her diamond earrings (probably a gift from Satoru) catching the light from the windows. “You know, it’s funny. Satoru’s been really distracted lately. Distant. And I just couldn’t figure out why. But now, I think I’m starting to put the pieces together.”

Your throat tightened. “Hana…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she cut in smoothly, voice soft. “I’m not here to make a scene. That’s not really my style.” She reached across the counter to snatch her card back, tucking it safely away. You didn’t miss the way she rubbed her palms down her coat, like you were some sort of disease on legs she didn’t want to catch.

“I just thought it would be nice to drop by. You know. Woman to woman. And—to maybe remind you of something.”

“Remind me of what..?”

“That he’s my boyfriend. And whatever you think is going on in your head, it’s temporary.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t know what kind of story you’re trying to write for yourself here, Y/N, but I suggest you find a better ending. One that doesn’t involve Satoru.”

You nodded stiffly, hands shaking slightly as handed her the drinks. The register beeped too loud. The receipt printed like it was screaming.

Then, like she hadn’t just gutted you with her words and that cynical smile, she pulled back and adjusted her coat. “Have a great shift. And you look a little pale. Hope you’re not coming down with something.”

And with that, she turned and walked out—heels clicking neatly across the tile, her two iced coffees in hand.

You stood frozen until the door closed behind her.

Then the nausea hit you like a semi.

With the bile already rising in your throat, you mumbled something to your coworker about needing a break and rushed to the bathroom. The metal handle felt too cold beneath your palm. The stall door clicked shut behind you. You knelt beside the toilet and threw up quietly, hand braced against the wall.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too sharp.

Your pulse wouldn’t settle. Your chest felt tight, like you were breathing through a straw. And the air in the bathroom was stale, smelling faintly of bleach and old coffee beans.

You stayed crouched on the tile, arms wrapped around your middle until your knees stopped shaking. Until the nausea passed.

But the panic didn’t.

She didn’t know. 

Right?

She couldn’t have known—unless Satoru had finally told her and just…failed to mention that to you.

But she was close. She knew something was off. 

And Hana wasn’t the kind of girl who just let things slide. She didn’t ask questions she didn’t already know the answers to. 

“One that doesn’t involve Satoru.” The words echoed in your skull, over and over, stuck on a cruel loop. Maybe she was right. Maybe it would be easier for everyone if you just stayed away from him completely. He had a girlfriend. A real one. A life. A future and a successful career. And you had dropped a bomb onto all of it. 

You didn’t mean to, but you had.

And now you were the problem. The reason things were unraveling.

Were you ruining everything for him?

Your head dropped forward until your forehead touched the cool wall of the stall.

It grounded you—barely.

But the questions wouldn’t leave you alone.

What if Hana found out?

What if she already had?

What if she did something—said something—that made this worse?

What if he picked her in the end?

You swallowed down another wave of nausea. Not from the pregnancy this time, just from the sheer weight of it all pressing down on you.

When you finally made it back behind the counter, your coworker gave you a side glance over the espresso machine.

“You okay?” she asked, not unkindly.

You wiped your hands on your apron. Tried to breathe like your lungs hadn’t forgotten how. “Yeah, just…pregnancy stuff,” you said. Your voice came out thin. Scraped raw.

She nodded. Didn’t press. Just went back to steaming milk like she hadn’t just watched you vanish into the bathroom a pale and shaking mess.

You made it through the rest of your shift on autopilot. Hands moving on muscle memory. Smile glued on like it was part of the uniform. The noise of the café faded into background static—cups clinking, orders shouted, doors swinging open and closed.

But your body felt hollow. Like your mind had left it behind.

And by the time you got home, the sky had already gone dark.

You shut the door behind you, dropped your keys into the bowl, and didn’t bother turning on the light. Just walked straight to your room, muscles aching from the weight of a day you couldn’t fully name, Bear trailing behind you, tail flicking with annoyance that you hadn’t greeted him yet.

You sat on the edge of your bed, coat still on, your phone in your hand.

No missed calls. Just one unread message.

[Confirmation: Your consultation with Everhart Family Services is scheduled for Friday at 3:00 PM.]

You stared at it.

The screen glowed cold against your face.

You thought about not saying anything. About keeping it to yourself. Just in case.

Because you didn’t know if you could handle his silence again. His rejection. Because it was easier not to hope for too much.

But eventually, you opened the text thread with Satoru.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for too long.

You typed. Deleted. Rewrote it again.

I scheduled the consultation. It’s Friday. 3pm. You don’t have to come with me. But you can if you want to see what it’s like.

Your finger hesitated over the send button.

Then—tap.

It was out there now. Too late to take it back.

You set the phone down face-first on the blanket beside you. Like hiding the screen might put off whatever came next.

And then you just…sat there.

Listening to the hum of the fan.

The muffled street noise outside your window.

The echo of Hana’s voice still stuck in the back of your mind.

And waited.

The rain had started about twenty minutes ago—light at first, then heavier, pooling in little rivers across the curb just outside the glass doors of the adoption agency.

You sat stiffly in the waiting area, hands folded tightly in your lap, a clipboard of intake forms untouched beside you. The lighting overhead was soft but a little too yellow, like the place was trying too hard to feel comforting. And the room itself was warm but sterile, designed to feel gentle—light green walls, soft beige carpet, chairs with rounded corners, a potted fern in the corner, and smiling stock-photo families framed on the walls. There were also children’s drawings—sunshine faces and wonky houses.

It felt less like a space for life-altering decisions and more like a waiting room for something you weren’t entirely sure you were ready for. You couldn’t breathe right. Your skin prickled with anxiety under your sweater, your fingers twitching every time the entrance chimed open.

Satoru was late.

Your eyes flicked to the door again. Nothing. Not him, anyway. 

The receptionist offered you a kind smile as she stood. “Y/N?” she called. “You can come on back to sign in.”

“Yeah—sorry, yeah.” Your legs moved, but your mind didn’t. You rose slowly, spine straightening with every step as your stomach twisted itself into knots. You glanced at the door one last time, hopeful and already disappointed.

He’s not coming.

Maybe he and Hana had talked. Maybe she found out, and this was his way of handling it—quiet distance. Cut clean, with no confrontation. Maybe he’d woken up this morning and remembered who he was—who he was supposed to be. And realized this wasn’t part of the plan. That you weren’t part of the plan.

The idea lodged in your chest like splintered glass.

“Just need you to sign here,” the receptionist said gently, sliding a clipboard across the counter.

You nodded, took the pen. Your name. The form. The clock ticking steadily above the receptionist’s desk. It all blurred together.

But you signed anyway. 

You scrawled your name halfway through the signature line, pen trembling in your grip. And still, no sign of him. Not even a text.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment he decided he couldn’t keep doing this—whatever this even was.

And just as the receptionist turned to call back the consultant, the bell above the door rang—loud and abrupt, and the doors flew open behind you.

A gust of wind and rain followed, and you turned just in time to see him stumble inside, breathless and damp from the storm outside. His white button-up clung to his chest in places, wet from the rain. His tie was loose, hair plastered slightly to his forehead, cheeks flushed from running.  He looked like he hadn’t even stopped to think to grab an umbrella.

“Shit, I’m here,” he panted, pushing a hand through his dripping bangs. “I’m sorry—I got caught in a client meeting, and the subway was—” he cut himself off when he saw your face. “I’m here,” he said again, softer this time. “Sorry I’m late.”

Rain still clung to the ends of his hair, droplets tracing along the slope of his jaw before falling to the carpet. He was flushed, breathing hard, shirt plastered to his skin in places—but his eyes were only on you.

You didn’t say anything, just stared at him for a moment, your lungs suddenly remembering how to breathe.

The receptionist blinked, then smiled. “We can go ahead and start now. Right this way, please.”

You moved first, Satoru trailing behind you, still catching his breath.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” you spoke softly as you moved through the hushed halls.

“I almost didn’t make it,” he admitted. “But I wanted to. I meant it, when I said I want to be here.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

So instead, you just nodded.

The consultation room was small, cozy. Two upholstered chairs facing a desk, a soft rug underfoot, a box of tissues on the low table between them. There were pamphlets everywhere—folders labeled “Open Adoption,” “Private Agencies,” “Post-Placement Counseling.” On one wall hung a canvas painting of a quiet lake. 

A woman in her mid-forties stood to greet you. She wore glasses and a navy cardigan, her dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Her voice was calm. Unhurried. “Hi, I’m Eleanor. I’ll be speaking with you both today. Thank you for coming in.” She motioned for you both to sit. 

You took one armchair. Satoru the other, giving her a tight smile. “Thanks for having us.”

Eleanor eased into her seat across from you, folding her hands gently in her lap. “So, this is just an initial consultation. There’s no pressure, no commitments. This is your time to ask questions and talk through how you’re feeling. We’re here to support whatever decision is best for you.”

You nodded once, hands twisting in your lap.

She glanced between both of you with a warm smile, “So, what brought you both in today?

The question landed like a pebble dropped into water—small, but the ripples reached far.

You opened your mouth, but it was Satoru who spoke first.

“We found out about the pregnancy a little over a month ago,” he said, voice low but steady. “It wasn’t planned. We’re not…together. Not really. But we’re trying to figure out what the best option is.”

You stared down at your hands, picking at a hangnail.

Eleanor nodded gently. “Thank you for being honest. That’s more common than you think.” Her gaze turned to you this time. “And how have you been feeling about things so far?”

You hesitated. “Overwhelmed. A little detached, I guess. I’m just trying to stay realistic.”

“And what does realistic look like to you right now?”

“I work part-time. I live alone. I don’t come from a big family. I barely have a savings account,” you said, the words tumbling faster than you expected them to. “I don’t know if I can give a baby everything they need. I don’t know if I can give them anything, really.”

Satoru turned slightly, just enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye. His jaw twitched. But he didn’t speak.

Eleanor nodded. “That’s a completely valid fear. Many expectant parents considering adoption feel that way. Can I ask—what kind of outcome are you hoping for?”

There was a long pause.

“I want the baby to have a good life,” You said eventually. “I don’t want them to grow up feeling like a mistake or something…And I want to do the right thing. Whatever that means. Even if it’s not what I imagined.”

She let that hang in the air a moment, and then leaned forward slightly. “Are you both on the same page, do you think? About what comes next?”

You hesitated once more.

Satoru did too.

“I think…we’re trying to be,” he said, carefully.

You finally looked over at him then. For real. Your eyes searched his.

“I don’t want to decide something this big based on guilt,” you spoke up. “Or pressure. Or what feels easier in the moment.”

He held your gaze. “Neither do I.”

Eleanor nodded once more. “That’s good. It’s okay not to have a clear answer yet. That’s what consultations are for. There are options we can walk through today, and others you can consider later. No doors are closing right now.”

And for the first time today, you felt your shoulders ease—not much, just slightly. Like the air wasn’t pressing quite so hard on your chest.

You still didn’t know what you were doing. What the right path was. But at least you weren’t pretending anymore.

And Satoru?

He was still here.

Her voice remained calm, like she’d done this a thousand times before. “This can be a really emotional process. And like I said before, there’s no pressure to make any decisions today.”

You swallowed hard. “I just…wanted to understand how it works. I’ve never—this isn’t something I ever thought I’d be doing.”

“That’s okay,” she said kindly. “Most people don’t.”

Satoru shifted beside you, elbows on his knees. “What exactly happens, if…if we decide to go through with it?”

“Well,” she said, flipping a folder open. “There are a few paths. We work with both closed and open adoptions. Some birth parents choose to stay in contact with the adoptive family—others don’t. We can match you with potential parents based on your preferences, or you can go through a facilitated agency match.”

Her words were calm, practiced.

But all you could think about was that little blob on the screen.

That heartbeat that echoed in the room.

That flicker.

You stared down at your hands again, fingers twisting the hem of your sweater sleeve.

Satoru’s voice broke the silence. “And what happens after? What’s…our role?”

“You’d work closely with a caseworker,” Eleanor said gently. “There’s counseling offered for both of you throughout. You wouldn’t be alone.”

He nodded slowly. But he didn’t say anything else. He looked nervous. Uncertain. Like he was still trying to convince himself this was the right thing.

You weren’t sure it was, either.

But you were trying.

“Is there…a deadline?” you asked quietly. “For making a decision?”

“No,” Eleanor said softly. “But the sooner you start the process, the more options you’ll have. And if you decide not to go through with adoption, that’s okay too.”

Your eyes burned, but you blinked hard. You didn’t want this random woman to see just how lost you were. And you didn’t want Satoru to see either, see the mess that was your life lately. 

He leaned back in his chair. “What if we don’t know what we want yet?”

Eleanor smiled. “That’s what today is for.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not cold. But thick with things unsaid.

After about an hour, when the meeting ended, she handed you a pamphlet and a small stack of resources. Satoru took one too, even if his hands looked clumsy holding it.

You still weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, staring at the pamphlets about open vs. closed adoption, when all you could remember was the sound of your baby’s heartbeat—loud and alive and still echoing in your ears.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, sealing off the warmth of the clinic and the sterile calm of the consultation room—replacing it with the muted hush of steady rain and the pulse of the city beyond.

The sky had dulled into storm-gray, water dripping steadily from the awning above your heads. IIt offered just enough shelter to keep your shoulders dry, but the rain still kissed the tips of your shoes. The sidewalk shimmered beneath the city lights, and puddles glowed like oil slicks, reflecting traffic and storefronts. Rain painted streaks down the glass windows. You stood just outside the building, shoulder to shoulder beneath the small canopy. Close, but not quite touching. 

The silence buzzed between you like static. Unmoving.

You could hear it all too clearly though—the sound of cars swishing through wet streets, the quiet huff of Satoru’s breath beside you, the muffled thrum of your own heart refusing to settle in your chest.

It felt final. Like some invisible door had shut somewhere.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying not to shiver, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the weight of what had just happened. He was a little hunched forward, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. His hair was still slightly damp from earlier, strands falling over his forehead, sticking to his temples. His jaw moved like he was grinding his teeth. Thinking. Fighting himself.

Then finally, he exhaled. Sharp. Barely audible over the rain.

“I don’t want to do this,” he said.

You looked at him, startled, unsure if you heard him right. “What?”

He turned his head toward you—slow, deliberate. His eyes were steady, even as his voice wavered. “I mean—I don’t want to go through with the adoption. I don’t think I can.”

The words dropped between you like a stone in water—heavy, immediate.

Your heart stopped. Then slammed hard against your ribs like a car crashing. You could feel your throat tightening, “Satoru…”

“I know,” he cut in, quickly. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know I said—” He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated, breath catching, “I told myself it made sense. But it doesn’t anymore.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t bring yourself to. 

“I didn’t think I wanted to be a dad,” he admitted. “I mean, I didn’t. I was scared shitless. Still am. But now—after today—” He shook his head, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. “After hearing you talk about it in there. After seeing you try so hard to stay strong, like you always do…something changed. I don’t know how to explain it. I just…I don’t think I can let this go.”

You stared at him, frozen. Rain misted just beyond your feet, tiny droplets dancing along the sidewalk. The city roared in the distance, uncaring.

“I know it’s crazy, it’s not practical,” he said it quickly, like he needed to beat you to the part where you say no. “I know it’s messy and we’re not together and we don’t have a plan and your job is shit and mine is barely hanging on by a thread. It’s not perfect. And you have every right to say no…But I want this, Y/N. I want the baby. And I want to be there, with you. For both of you.”

Your heart felt like it was beating somewhere in your throat now. Fast and irregular and barely contained.

You blinked hard. “You don’t understand, Satoru. It’s not that simple. I’m not just scared, I’m fucking terrified. I can’t even afford a crib! I can’t take time off work. I cry brushing my teeth. My hormones are a mess and I haven’t eaten a real meal in two days—I dont know what I’m doing. I can’t even take care of myself, how am I supposed to give a baby the life they deserve?”

“That’s why I want to be here. So you don’t have to do it alone. And I know I can’t fix everything, I can’t make your life perfect, but fuck, I want to try.”

“But I don’t need saving,” you snapped, voice cracking. “I’m not asking you to be some hero or something.”

“I’m not trying to be,” he said, his own voice breaking now. “I just…I want to take care of you. Both of you. Because I care. Because I’m already in this whether I meant to be or not.”

Your hands trembled, curled into fists at your sides.

“I can help,” he said, stepping closer. “Let me help.”

“It’s not just about money,” you whispered. “It’s about everything. What if I’m not good at this? What if we fail? What if we fuck it up?” 

He reached out, hesitating before his fingers brushed your wrist—just barely. “Then we fuck it up together. But we try. Because I can’t stop thinking about it. And I think I’d regret it if we just walked away from this.”

The rain fell harder around you now, misting across your cheeks like a quiet baptism. You looked down at his hand—warm, steady, grounding.

You were scared.

But he was too. And he was still here.

“You don’t have to love me,” he added, softer. “And I know this doesn’t fix everything. But I want this. I want to have this baby with you. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s messy.”

A silence pressed between you again—but it wasn’t the kind from before. It wasn’t avoidance or fear. It was full of things that had no names yet.

You swallowed. Blinked droplets from your lashes. “You’re serious.”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You stared at him for a long moment. The wind kicked up again. Mist brushed your ankles, cold and sharp, but you didn’t move.

Then, slowly—hesitantly—you nodded.

“Okay,” you said. Voice hoarse. “Okay.”

His shoulders slumped like he’d been holding his breath for hours. A shaky laugh escaped him—relief or disbelief, you weren’t sure.

But when he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you—warm, gentle, steady—you let yourself melt into him.

You stood like two idiots under the tiny awning, hearts racing, skin damp, breathing too hard.

 Not as a couple. Not as a clean answer. But as something.

A promise.

And for now, that felt like enough for you.

Author's Note: OPE. So...I think it's time for Satoru to get one of those tshirts that says 'World's Hottest Dilf' or something like that. AND, Hana is catching up. Yikes.

And if I started a draft about a zombie apocalypse au…what would your thoughts be..? 👀

Edit: I did in fact start the zombie apocalypse au., featuring, of course, gojo x f!reader. And if anyone is interested, I'll link the fic here. I think the first chapter should be out sometime tonight!

[tocara]

A reader, who doesn't believe in love and then they met Satoru.

Part 10. Probably the last, but we'll see.

It hadn’t snowed when you first arrived in Japan—just the biting cold of winter that seeped into your coat and numbed your fingers. But you didn’t complain. You loved it. He could tell.

Your days were filled with food trips and wandering aimlessly through unfamiliar streets, pausing at glowing windows and vending machines, sharing bites and small talk. It was easy. Surprisingly easy.

It was your last night, you were walking back to the hotel, hands buried in your coat pockets, shoulders occasionally brushing with his. The cold didn’t seem to bother him much, but he glanced at you from time to time—you didn’t mind it either. In fact, you felt like you belonged in it. Like the chill had carved a place for you.

And then it happened.

Snow.

The first flake drifted down lazily in front of you, catching the light of a nearby lamppost. Then another.

But it wasn’t the snow that took his breath away.

It was you.

You had stopped in your tracks, your face tilted toward the sky, arms slightly raised like you wanted to catch it all. Your eyes were wide, shimmering with childlike wonder. And then you smiled—really smiled.

Not a polite curve of the lips. Not the faint smirk you wore when you were amused but didn’t want to show it. No, this one was wide, real, unguarded.

And God, you were beautiful at that moment.

It wasn’t about how you looked. It was what he saw. Your joy. Your softness. The walls you usually hid behind—gone.

Something in him cracked open.

That smile—your smile—hit him harder than he expected. A knot formed in his chest, a rush of emotion so sharp it almost hurt. He didn’t even think. He just stepped closer.

His hand lifted, almost instinctively, to brush a stray snowflake from your cheek.

He didn’t ask for permission.

He just leaned in and kissed you.

Soft at first. Gentle, like testing a fragile thread between you. But it wasn’t hesitation—it was reverence. Like he knew what he was holding in that moment could slip away if he rushed it.

When he pulled back, you stared at him. Stunned. Blushing. Your mouth parted slightly in disbelief, and your usual cool, unreadable expression was nowhere to be found. You looked exposed. Flushed. Beautifully human. And he had never wanted to kiss you more than in that moment.

"Why would you do tha—" you began, voice half breath, half protest.

But he didn’t let you finish.

He kissed you again.

This time deeper with more certainty. Like he knew what he wanted—and it was you.  Your vulnerable moment had cracked something open in him, and he couldn’t look away from it. Couldn’t help but reach for it again.

You didn’t resist. Your hands found his shoulders, clutching like you needed something to hold on to. You melted into him—tentatively at first, then all at once. Tiptoes, lips soft against his, breath hitching. His hands slipped to your hips, pulling you gently to him, like he was afraid you might disappear with the snowfall.

You didn’t care who passed by. Didn’t care that snow was dusting your hair or that your breaths came out in visible clouds between kisses.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were panting softly, your foreheads almost touching.

You pouted, pink and flustered, avoiding his gaze. “Damn you,” you muttered, barely above a whisper. Like you wanted to be angry. Like you should be. But you weren’t. Not really.

He laughed, low and warm, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest.

“I like you,” he said quietly against your hair. “I’m sure of it.”

He leaned back slightly to meet your eyes again.

“Go out with me.”

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9.

[junos-chronicles]

Two Souls and Hillsides

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𖤓 Pairings: Cowboy!Gojo x f!reader 𖤓 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, Childhood-friends-to-lovers, light enemies-to-lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, slow burn fr, flirting, jealousy, playful banter, lots of staring at hot men, minor language (light swearing), light possessiveness/territorial behavior, small-town charm and shenanigans, explicit emotional whiplash, tense family dinner, grandma's wisdom saves lives, they're in love your honor! 4.5k words Art by: @/-3aem on X

As summer nears its end, tension returns to the ranch. With unexpected visitors, difficult conversations, and the weight of the future pressing down, you find yourself caught between two worlds. But in the quiet moments that follow, a little guidance—and a lot of love—remind you that some answers can’t be rushed.

More Than One Way Home

The next stretch of days wrapped around you like soft cotton—warm, hazy, and gentle. Easy in a way life hadn’t been in years.

Satoru started showing up earlier than usual, even when he didn’t need to. He said it was to help your grandpa patch the south field fence before it gave way completely, but you caught the way he lingered on the porch before knocking, like he didn’t want to waste a second of the time he still had with you.

You woke up most mornings to the smell of percolating coffee, the chatter of birds just outside your window, and the low murmur of your grandpa’s radio humming through the kitchen walls. By the time you padded barefoot into the kitchen, Satoru was already there—elbows on the table, legs stretched out under it like he owned the place, talking easy with your grandparents like he'd always belonged there. He looked up when he saw you, that crooked little grin tugging at his mouth.

“Sleepin’ in again, princess?”

You always rolled your eyes. And you always smiled anyway.

You spent those mornings side by side, sharing quiet breakfasts at the kitchen table. Your grandma always made too many biscuits and too much jam. Satoru would steal the one you buttered for yourself just to watch you glare at him, even as your lips twitched to hide the smile. Your grandpa grumbled about having an extra mouth to feed, but you saw the soft glint in his eyes every time Satoru laughed like that, full-bodied and bright.

You didn’t go anywhere. Neither of you needed to. There was nowhere else to be that mattered more than the quiet sanctuary of the ranch, the people within it, the sunlight pooling on wooden floors, the scent of old books, of fresh laundry, of the earth itself. You stayed home. You stayed together.

Afternoons became rituals—time measured in fence posts and saddle polish, in the warmth of fresh tomatoes sliced onto sandwiches and the clink of ice cubes dropped into tea glasses. You and Satoru rode out sometimes after lunch, him on Ollie, you on Jasper. Not always to go anywhere in particular. Sometimes just to ride, to feel the breeze cut through the heat and your shoulders brush as you talked about everything and nothing. Sometimes you didn’t speak at all—just let the sounds of summer carry the silence: cicadas droning in the trees, the wind teasing the tall grass, the soft rustle of Jasper’s mane between your fingers.

You helped him oil the saddle straps one evening, your legs folded under you on the tack room floor, the scent of leather and dust heavy in the air. His fingers were steady, confident, but he kept glancing at you as you worked, eyes tracking the little grease smudge that had found its way onto your cheek. You didn’t notice until much later, when you leaned in to kiss him and he wiped it away with a grin and a thumb grazing your skin a little longer than necessary. He littered your face with more after, until he got you to giggle and squirm beneath his arms.

There were dinners on the porch with your grandparents, sweet corn and slow laughter. Nights by the firepit when Suguru and Shoko dropped by, bringing cheap beer and new gossip from town. Shoko teased Satoru about going soft, and he took it in stride, flicking bottle caps at her head while Suguru grinned and handed you a paper plate of peach cobbler. You laughed until your ribs ached, until Shoko snorted wine through her nose, and Satoru tucked his arm around your waist and whispered that your laugh was his favorite sound in the world. You leaned into him, your head against his shoulder, the smoke curling around you both like a memory you didn’t want to let go of.

But the best moments—ones you hoarded quietly in the back of your heart—were the ones where it was just you and him.

At night, you sat on the porch swing together, creaking faintly under your combined weight. Some nights you didn’t talk at all—just rocked gently, his hand resting over yours, the stars wheeling slow and distant above you. Other nights he told you about his childhood, about the dog he’d loved and lost, the first time he’d kissed someone at a school dance in high school, how he never thought someone like you would love him back. You listened, held onto every word, even the ones that scared you a little, because they were his and that made them sacred.

You brought him to the attic—not to dig through boxes or clean, but just to show him. The old photo albums, the baby clothes packed away, the drawing you’d made when you were seven of your family, still pinned to a corkboard. You sat with your backs against the wall, sunlight slicing through the slats in long golden lines. You held up a photo of you on Jasper’s back in a pink helmet, gap-toothed and beaming.

“She was something,” he’d said, tilting his head, “Little Miss Rodeo.”

“She got kicked off the horse five minutes later,” you replied, and he laughed, almost spilling the lemonade you brought up.

Later, when you kissed him in that attic space filled with dust and light and history, it wasn’t urgent or wild. It was slow, reverent. Like pressing your mouth to the past and promising it a future.

And you swore—even just for a second—that you could live in that moment forever.

But time was moving, whether you wanted it to or not. And you felt it in the quiet spaces between: the way your grandma folded the same tea towel twice in a row, distracted. The way your grandpa asked if you needed boxes from the shed. The way Satoru sometimes fell silent when you mentioned New York, his thumb brushing against your knuckles like he didn’t want to let go.

Still, you held onto each day with both hands, squeezing every drop of joy out of the time you had. You watched the sunrises together. You kissed behind the barn and giggled like teenagers, even though you weren’t anymore.

You were something more. Something older and deeper and steadier.

Something that felt a lot like home.

And on one of the last few nights that you had together, when the sky was inked in navy, just past twilight, Satoru tugged you out into the yard barefoot, fingers laced with yours and a mischievous look on his face.

“Satoru,” you laughed, dragging your heels a little. “What could you possibly be up to now?”

“Just trust me!” he said, guiding you to the stretch of soft grass beyond the porch. Fireflies blinked lazily at the edges of the field. The crickets were in full symphony. Somewhere in the distance, a cow lowed sleepily.

And then—

He let go of your hand just long enough to fiddle with something resting on the porch railing—the old, portable radio your grandpa usually kept tucked in the mudroom.

There was static, a twist of the dial, a bit of fiddling, and smacking his hand against the top. Then—music.

That first gentle piano note was enough to make your heart skip. You knew the song before the lyrics even began, knew it from the way the wind shifted and your breath caught in your throat.

It was your song.

The same one that played at your birthday party. The one that the two of you had slow-danced to under the string lights in the yard. When he’d whispered ‘I love you’ for the very first time, and you whispered it back.

You blinked fast, looking over at him, but he was already offering his hand out.

“I know we already danced to this once,” he said, voice low, “but I wanted to dance to it with just you this time. No one else around.”

Your throat was too tight to speak. So you stepped closer and took his hand.

He pulled you in gently, your other hand resting against his chest, right where his heart was thudding steadily and sure. You swayed together beneath the open sky, the grass cool under your feet, the stars blinking awake above you like they knew the secret too.

The music washed over you, wrapping around your shoulders like something sacred.

You closed your eyes. Pressed your cheek to his shoulder. Let yourself feel every word this time. Every step that had led you here—every detour, every heartbreak, every mistake—had been worth it. Because they brought you back to this moment. Back to him.

He held you like he never wanted to let go. And in that moment, beneath the stars and the song that had once started it all, he didn’t have to.

The morning they arrived again was too bright.

The sky was cloudless, the sun already high enough to cast sharp angles off the porch railings, burning white on chrome as the sleek black car nosed its way up the long gravel drive. It didn’t belong here. Not just in the way expensive things didn’t belong on a ranch, but in the way a lie doesn’t belong in a place built on truth.

You heard the tires crunching long before you saw them, the low hum of that too-quiet engine breaking through the peaceful hush of the morning. Satoru stepped beside you on the porch before you even realized he was there. He didn’t say anything. Just stood close enough that your arm brushed his when you crossed them over your chest.

The car stopped with a hiss of brakes. Your mother was the first out. She stepped from the passenger side with her hair pulled into a low bun, sunglasses perched on her head, and her heels clicking against the gravel like punctuation marks. She looked crisp, clean, like she hadn’t so much as sweated once in her entire life. Behind her, David climbed out slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt like this was a business meeting instead of a family visit. Phone in hand, already frowning at a signal he couldn’t find.

They looked like a stock photo against the backdrop of the barn and open field—two people who had always belonged to a different world.

Your mom spotted you and waved, all tight smile and polite warmth.

“There’s my girl,” she called, her voice too bright for the dull sky overhead.

You started walking, slow steps kicking up dust. Satoru kept pace beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. Your heartbeat roared in your ears.

“Hi, Mom,” you said once you reached them.

You let her hug you. Let her hold your shoulders and pull back to study your face like she was searching for damage. And you smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You look tan,” she commented, brushing a piece of hay off your shirt like it offended her. “Rustic suits you.”

David stepped up next, reaching out a hand and clapping it gently on your back like a boss greeting a hesitant intern. “Hey there, kiddo. You look well,” he said, as if it were a surprise. “Better than we expected, given…the circumstances.”

You bristled at the nickname. You were twenty-one now. Grown. Making your own choices—or trying to. But you smiled again. You had the practice now. “The fresh air does wonders.”

“I see the ranch is still…standing,” David added, eyes flicking toward the house like he was already taking inventory.

“It always was,” Satoru said from beside you, his tone light, but edged. He didn’t smile.

And then—because you could feel their gazes flicking past your shoulder—you reached back. Curled your fingers around Satoru’s.

He stepped forward without hesitation, slotting himself half a step closer, his hand warm and certain in yours. His presence grounding. He nodded once, polite but distant.

Your mom’s eyes locked on him.

You saw the exact moment she recognized him—not just as the guy from the ranch, but as the boy you used to chase through fields barefoot, the boy who sat next to you at your dad’s funeral and held you close, the boy she had once looked down on as just another small-town distraction.

“Satoru,” she said. Careful. Measured. “It’s…been a while.”

“Sure has,” he said. He didn’t smile, but his tone was polite. “Good to see you again, ma’am.”

David’s brow furrowed slightly. “Right. The ranch hand.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in a little closer to Satoru. Let your voice be soft, but firm. “My boyfriend.”

Your mom’s face didn’t move, but you felt the shift in the air.

“Oh,” she said, after a beat too long. “I see…well, thank you for keeping an eye on things out here.” Her smile tightened. “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”

Your body tensed, but Satoru didn’t rise to it. He just glanced at you, his thumb brushing against your hand in a small, secret motion.

“Let’s get inside,” your mom said, already stepping toward the porch. “We have a lot to talk about.”

You looked at Satoru once they’d gone ahead—David reaching to hold open the screen door, your mother already fussing about her shoes in the dust.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You weren’t sure. But you nodded anyway.

“No matter what they say in there,” he said gently, “you don’t have to decide anything today.”

You nodded again.

But you weren’t sure how long that would be true.

The dining room felt smaller than usual.

The table was crowded with extra bodies squeezed around and mismatched dishes—platters of roast chicken, mashed potatoes slick with gravy, sweet corn sliced from the cob. The smell of butter and garlic hung heavy in the air, but it did little to settle your stomach. Even the clink of cutlery felt too loud, too sharp.

Your grandparents sat at either end, just like always. Grandpa’s jaw was tight as he passed the bowl of green beans to your mother, who offered a clipped “thank you” without looking up. Your grandma's hands were folded in her lap, her eyes flicking from person to person like she was waiting for the storm to hit.

Satoru sat beside you of course, his leg pressed gently against yours under the table, grounding you. His plate was barely touched.

You felt the warmth of the food cooling fast, the condensation on your iced tea dripping down to soak the edge of your napkin. The air was thick and still, save for the whirr of the ceiling fan overhead, which barely stirred anything.

“This is delicious, Mama,” she said brightly, slicing into her roast chicken. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

Grandma gave a tight smile. “Still got two good hands. For now.”

The tension curled low beneath the warmth of roasted vegetables and cornbread. Grandpa hadn’t said much since grace, chewing slowly, eyes flicking toward David every few bites like he was waiting for him to speak.

Your step-dad cleared his throat. “We’ve actually been meaning to talk to you both,” he said, gesturing toward your grandparents with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Now that Y/N’s had a chance to reconnect with the ranch, we thought it might be a good time to revisit our offer.”

Grandpa didn’t even bother to look up. “Still not for sale.”

David chuckled politely, like he hadn’t heard him. “Just think about it. We’re not saying you’d have to give everything up—just lighten the load a little. You’re not as young as you used to be, and this land, as beautiful as it is, requires upkeep. Maintenance. Resources.”

Your mom jumped in quickly. “It’s not just about the ranch. It’s about you two. You deserve comfort. Retirement. A home with less burden and more ease.”

“We have everything we need right here,” Grandma said evenly, lifting her glass of iced tea. “This home’s been in our family three generations. We’re not about to hand it over to some developer who thinks it’ll make a nice parking lot.”

“It wouldn’t be like that,” David said, defensive now. “There’s a lot of potential here. Community housing. Boutique shops. A café, maybe—”

“This isn’t New York,” Grandpa said gruffly. “It’s a ranch.”

You looked down at your plate. The butter on your cornbread had gone cold and hard. You hadn’t even touched it.

Then, your mother turned to you. “Speaking of New York—Y/N, we got a follow-up call from the fast-track program director. They’re saving you a spot. All you need to do is say yes and enroll before the fall term begins. David and I have already spoken with the dean and your advisor.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just reached for your glass, fingers tightening around the sweating condensation. “I thought we agreed I had the summer to think about it…”

David jumped in smoothly, slicing into his chicken like this was any other polite dinner conversation. “And summer’s nearly over. It’s time to stop playing ranch hand and think about your future. What your life is actually supposed to look like.”

You swallowed hard, hearing the unspoken words behind his smile: not here.

Your grandpa set down his fork. “Her life isn’t your decision.”

David offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’re just trying to help her make the right one.”

You opened your mouth—then closed it. The words tasted too bitter to swallow.

“I haven’t decided yet,” you said finally. Quiet. Honest. “I don’t know what I want.”

Your mother’s brows lifted. “You don’t know? Honey, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. You’ll be studying abroad, networking with alumni, doing the work you always talked about. The kind of future we always imagined for you.”

David nodded. “That kind of door doesn’t open twice.”

“She said she doesn’t know,” your grandpa snapped before you could reply, his voice sharp enough to cut. “She’ll figure it out in her own time.”

David leaned back in his chair, sighing like he was the adult in a room full of children. “With all due respect, this place is holding her back. She needs to think long term.”

“This place,” your grandma said, voice calm but steely, “is her home.”

“No,” your mom cut in—soft, but firm. “It was. It stopped being that a long time ago.”

You blinked, stunned into silence. The weight of that sentence settled into your chest like a stone.

Satoru shifted beside you, his fingers brushing your thigh under the table. A silent are you okay?

You weren’t sure. You didn’t feel okay. You felt like a rope being pulled in two directions, tighter and tighter, waiting to snap.

“Maybe that’s why I don’t know what to do,” you said, voice shaking. “Because part of me still thinks it is home. And part of me doesn’t know if that’s enough.”

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. You could feel the sweat gathering at the nape of your neck, the hem of your dress sticking to the back of your knees. The room had grown impossibly small, the air still.

“You’re letting your judgment get clouded,” your mom said slowly. “You’ve always been smart, but this—this is fear talking.”

No. This is exhaustion talking. This is grief. This is heartbreak. This is wanting two things that can’t exist at the same time.

“No,” you replied, voice laced with frustration, “this is me trying to make a decision that’s mine for once. Not yours. Not David’s. Mine.”

Satoru’s hand slid from your thigh to your hand, curling over your fingers. His grip was steady. Yours trembled.

“But what are you going to do here?” David asked. “Play house on a ranch until it falls apart under you?”

“That’s enough,” Grandpa said, sharper now. “Don’t talk about our home like it’s a shack.”

“I’m just trying to be realistic—”

“Realistic doesn’t mean gutting our land and paving over history,” Grandma said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean through the room.

Your throat was burning. Your fingers clenched under the tablecloth.

You were tired of being the project. The pawn. The girl with a future so neatly drawn that no one ever asked if she wanted it.

You stood abruptly, your chair scraping behind you with a screech of wood on hardwood.

“I’m not ready to decide yet,” you said, chest tight. “But I know I’m not doing it tonight.”

And then you turned—just in time to catch a final glance.

Your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. David adjusting his cuffs like this was still salvageable. Satoru half-rising out of his seat, a hand reaching toward you but not quite making contact. The table, full of food no one would finish. Full of words no one knew how to take back.

You walked toward the kitchen, heart hammering, the walls closing in. You just needed to catch your breath.

And after a few seconds, you heard Grandma excuse herself gently and follow.

You stood with your back to the counter, palms pressed against its edge like you needed the cold laminate to keep you grounded. The voices from the dining room were muffled now, just the low thrum of tension hanging in the air. Your chest rose and fell too fast, each breath catching at the edge of something sharp, like the words from before had gotten caught somewhere just beneath your ribs and refused to move.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. But your eyes burned, and the back of your throat felt raw.

Grandma didn’t say anything at first. She just stepped inside with that kind of gentle quiet that made you ache. Like she didn’t want to startle whatever was already unraveling.

She moved through the kitchen with the same easy rhythm she always did—collecting plates, stacking them gently in the sink, wiping the counter with a damp rag like muscle memory. She didn’t look rushed. She didn’t look angry. She just looked...present.

“You alright, baby?” she asked, not pushing—just asking, like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear it in your voice anyway.

You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on the grain of counters. “Not really…”

She hummed, a quiet sound, like she’d expected that too. “That was a lot back there…you want some tea?” she asked, voice low, calm. Like it was just another evening. Like you hadn’t just been blindsided at her dinner table.

You nodded, wordless. That was all you could manage.

Grandma moved with practiced ease, pulling down the tin of loose leaves from the shelf near the stove, filling the kettle with water, her motions smooth and familiar. You watched her the way you might watch a storm rolling over a distant field—slow, powerful, inevitable.

“I always find things feel less heavy with a warm drink,” she said, not looking at you, but her voice was laced with something more than habit. “Doesn’t fix everything. But it helps you hold it for a little while longer.”

You exhaled through your nose, a humorless breath.“I didn’t think it’d feel like this,” you said eventually.“Like I’m being ripped in half or something.”

Grandma nodded, her hands cradled around the empty mug. “Sweetheart, it’s okay not to know. It’s okay to be confused. This is your life, not theirs.”

“They think I’m throwing everything away if I stay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “That I’m wasting potential.”

“And what do you think?” she asked gently. “Deep down.”

You looked away, jaw tight. “I think…I’m tired of trying to be who they want. And I’m scared that if I don’t go back, I’ll regret it forever. But I’m also scared that if I do…I’ll lose this. Him. All of it.”

The kettle began to rumble on the stove. “That’s how you know it matters.”

You blinked. “What?”

“When it’s an easy choice, it usually means it don’t mean much. But this—this is big. It’s your future. That’s why it hurts.” She took a slow sip. “That’s why it’s scary.”

“I just... I don’t know what the right answer is.”

“There ain’t always one,” she said gently. “Not in the way folks like to think. There’s just what you can live with. What you’ll be proud of five years from now. Ten. What makes you feel like yourself.”

Your throat tightened.

Grandma looked at you then—really looked at you—and her expression softened.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” she said after a beat. “But I can tell you this—regret doesn’t come from choosing the wrong path. It comes from not choosing for the right reasons.”

You blinked, the tears welling before you could stop them. “And what if both reasons feel right? What if I’m just not strong enough to make either one?”

Grandma stepped forward, wiping her hands on the towel before placing them gently on your arms. Her grip was firm, grounding.

“Then you wait,” she said. “You wait until the noise quiets down, and you can hear your own voice again.”

The whistle of the kettle broke through the silence. She moved to take it off the burner, pouring hot water over the leaves in two chipped mugs.

As the tea steeped, she slid one toward you.

“You remind me a little of myself when I was your age,” she said with a soft smile. “Back then, I didn’t know if I wanted to marry your grandpa. He wasn’t always part of the plan, but I knew I loved him. I was just scared. Of the work. Of the small town. Of getting it wrong. I was gonna go to school. Had a scholarship and everything. Thought I’d become a nurse and move to the coast. But then I met him... and the plan didn’t matter as much anymore.”

You stared at her, blinking. “But you did it anyway.”

She nodded. “And there are days I still wonder what might’ve happened if I didn’t. If I’d chosen easy instead of good.” She reached across and touched your hand. “But not once have I ever regretted choosing love.”

You swallowed hard.

“Don’t let anyone tell you that staying here would be giving up. It’s a kind of bravery too—choosing to stay. To build something with your hands instead of chasing something glittery out there in a city. And it doesn’t mean you have to stay,” she added. “It just means…if you do, it’s enough.”

You didn’t say anything for a long moment. You just breathed. Let the warmth of the room and the quiet of her words settle into your chest.

“I love him,” you said finally. “Satoru. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like this before.”

“I know you do,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “And he loves you right back. That boy’s got your name stitched into his heart like it’s the only thing keeping it together.”

“Grandma…What would you do? If you were me?”

She shook her head. “I’d tell myself to be honest. With him. With yourself. And then I’d give myself permission to want things. Both of them, if that’s what you desire. There’s more than one way to live a good life.”

You sipped the tea. It burned a little down your throat, but it helped.

“I’ll be proud of you no matter what you pick,” she said. “But I hope you choose the life that makes you feel most like you.”

And just like that, the pressure inside your chest loosened a little. Not gone. But easier to carry.

Grandma didn’t press you for more. Just sat beside you at the table, two women in the kitchen, carrying the weight of choices that only they could make.

And outside, past the windows, the ranch waited under the bruised blue sky, the fields swaying in time with the wind—quiet, patient, and still very much yours.

If you wanted it.

Author's Note: This took way too long to post, I'M SORRY.

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated!!

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[junos-chronicles]

Two Souls and Hillsides

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𖤓 Pairings: Cowboy!Gojo x f!reader 𖤓 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, Childhood-friends-to-lovers, light enemies-to-lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, slow burn fr, Flirting, jealousy, playful banter, lots of staring at hot men, Minor language (light swearing), Light possessiveness/territorial behavior, Small-town charm and shenanigans Art by: @/-3aem on X

Your first day at the farmer’s market brings more than just fresh air and sunshine—you were just supposed to help sell eggs. Instead, you caught yourself eyeing every fine man in town, accidentally flirting with a bakery owner, and maybe (definitely) making someone jealous. Small-town life might be a lot more complicated (and a lot more fun) than you thought.

Chapter Three: A Harvest of Firsts

You never thought you’d get used to it—the early mornings, the dirt under your fingernails, the way the sun could bake the back of your neck until it felt raw.

You never thought you'd want to get used to it.

But somewhere between scrubbing out water troughs and learning which stalls creaked the loudest at night, you stopped counting down the days until you could leave. Somewhere along the way, Ashford stopped feeling like a punishment after a few weeks of living there. 

It started feeling a little like... home.

There were the slow mornings with Grandma, who always set a second mug of coffee out for you without asking, even when you shuffled into the kitchen half-dead from exhaustion, bags incredibly prominent under your eyes.

The afternoons spent hauling feed buckets, boots slipping in the mud, Gojo laughing himself stupid every time you nearly wiped out.

The quiet evenings on the porch with Grandpa, who taught you how to whittle wood and told you stories about the ranch like it was a living, breathing thing that needed loving just like a person would.

And somewhere in there, somehow, Gojo went from being a thorn in your side to... something else entirely.

There’d be the dumb contests he always started—who could stack hay bales faster, who could catch a loose chicken first. (Spoiler: he cheated.)

There were the long, lazy rides out into the fields, where he'd tip his hat low and glance at you like he was thinking something he wasn’t brave enough to say.

There was the way he'd toss you an apple from the barrel by the barn, a crooked grin on his face, daring you to catch it one-handed. (You missed. Every time.)

You were still clumsy, still slower than the others, still the occasional butt of a joke—but it didn’t sting the way it used to. It just made you try harder.

And some mornings, when the sun rose soft and gold over the fields, you even thought—you could maybe be happy here.

If you let yourself.

You woke up to the crow of the rooster you still hadn't forgiven for existing, the scent of fresh coffee from grandma sneaking through the cracks in your door.

Another day. Another chance to embarrass yourself on the ranch.

You dragged yourself out of bed with a stretch, going through the motions of your new morning routine: Brush your teeth, rub the exhaustion from your eyes, stand at the front of your closet for way too long trying to decide what cute outfit to wear (even though your nice clothes from home were slowly getting ruined every time you worked). You always just ended up in the same thing—some denim shorts and that old green flannel you never used to touch.

By the time you stumbled outside, sneakers half-laced and hair barely wrangled into a ponytail, Gojo was already there—leaning against the fence like he'd been posing for a Western catalog, one boot kicked up on the bottom rail, hat tipped low to shield his eyes from the morning sun.

You squinted at him, yawning a little under your breath, "Do you ever actually work or just stand around lookin’ pretty?"

"Princess," he drawled, grinning slow and wide, "some of us are blessed enough to do both."

You muttered something rude under your breath and made a beeline for the feed shed. You barely got the door open before you heard boots crunching behind you, followed by a suspiciously innocent, "Need a hand?"

You turned to glare at him—and immediately got whacked in the chest with a bag of grain. You staggered back a step, barely catching it before it hit the dirt.

"Oh, fuck!" you gasped, wrestling the bag into your arms.

"Training your reflexes," Gojo said, the picture of smugness as he loaded another bag onto his own shoulder like it weighed absolutely nothing. Smug bastard.

"Training to murder you, maybe."

He winked. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

Despite your grumbling, you followed him back out into the yard, the morning already warm against your skin. You worked side-by-side, him tossing bales of hay like they were toys, you dragging yours with a determined scowl. Every once in a while, when you thought he wasn’t looking, you caught yourself sneaking glances—at the way his sleeves stretched around his biceps tightly, the way he squinted into the sun, the way he laughed, low and warm, at his own bad jokes.

Unfortunately, Gojo always caught you looking.

"You're staring," he said, voice all singsong and smug.

"You're imagining things," you snapped, feeling your ears burn.

He only smirked and went back to work, whistling off-key as he moved.

You hated that you smiled.

By the time mid-morning rolled around, you were sweaty, sore, and a little sun-dazed—but you didn’t mind it as much as you used to. You’d gotten used to the rhythm of it—the work, the quiet hum of the ranch, and Gojo's constant, irritating presence. And at lunch, when you sat down with your grandparents on the porch, your grandpa shot you a look over his coffee mug. The kind of look that said he knew exactly what you were pretending not to feel for his certain ranchhand.

"Y'know," he said casually, "I always thought you two’d make a good team."

You nearly choked on your sweet tea. Gojo just grinned wider and kicked his boot against yours under the table.

"She's still got a lot to learn," he said, tone teasing but eyes warm, lingering on you a little too long.

"Yeah," your grandma said with a sly little smile, "but luckily she's got a good teacher."

You ducked your head, cheeks burning, pretending to be very interested in the pattern of the wood floor as you chewed on a piece of toast with homemade jam. Gojo just laughed under his breath, low and rough, like he'd won something you hadn't realized you were playing for.

And despite yourself—despite everything—you smiled too.

You were still smiling into your sweet tea when Grandma set her cup down with a soft clink.

"I was thinking," she said, smoothing her hand over the tablecloth like she was trying to play it casual. "About setting up a booth at the farmers market this afternoon. Sell some of the extra eggs and jam, and veggies we’ve got piled up."

You looked up, brushing a crumb off your shorts. "The farmers market?"

"Mm-hm." She smiled at you, a little sly. "Thought you might like to come with me. Help out. Meet some folks."

You hesitated—only for a second—but surprisingly, the idea didn't make your stomach twist the way it might have a few weeks ago. You could picture it already: sunlight filtering through the old oaks in the town square, tables full of fresh produce and baked goods, people milling around with shopping bags and mason jars of lemonade.

"Yeah, I’d like that," you said, surprising yourself with how much you actually meant it.

Grandpa gave a grunt that sounded suspiciously like approval. Gojo just leaned back in his chair with a lazy stretch, grinning at you over the rim of his coffee cup.

"I suppose I can hold down the fort here, princess," he drawled. "Try not to miss me too much."

You rolled your eyes, tossing a crumpled napkin at him that made your grandparents share knowing glances with each other, but the truth was—you kind of already did.

Later that afternoon, after a quick rinse and a change of clothes, you found yourself wedged into the bench seat of Grandpa’s old pickup, rumbling down the road toward town with baskets and crates rattling in the truck bed.

Grandpa whistled low under his breath, hands steady on the wheel, a battered Stetson tipped low on his brow. "You girls got everything?" he asked, glancing over at the two of you.

Grandma patted the tote at her feet, crammed full of jars and bundles of herbs. "Eggs, jam, preserves, and all the cucumbers we grew too many of," she said, shooting him a teasing look.

"You’ll thank me come pickle season," Grandpa grumbled good-naturedly, making you smile.

Ashford’s downtown unfolded in front of you, all red brick and white-painted storefronts, an old barbershop pole spinning lazily in the breeze—a few blocks of brick buildings with faded awnings, an old courthouse with a clock that hadn't worked in years, a diner that smelled like fried bacon even from the sidewalk. But it had a kind of charm that stuck to your ribs, all sweet and stubborn, like the town itself refused to grow up.

The farmers market stretched across the town square, a handful of colorful tents and tables sprouting like wildflowers between the oaks. Bunting fluttered from the lampposts, and the air buzzed with the hum of conversation, the strum of a banjo from somewhere near the fountain, the air thick with the scent of kettle corn and cut grass.

Grandpa found a spot to park right along the curb, then hopped down with a grunt. He helped you unload the heavy crates, stacking them neatly beneath the folding table that already had a wooden sign swinging proudly from it: Sundown Ranch Goods. Hand-painted in faded blue letters, with a little horse silhouette carved into the corner.

"Looks good, don’t it?" Grandpa said, stepping back to admire your little setup, hands braced on his hips.

"It’s perfect," you replied, brushing a smudge of dirt off the corner of the sign.

Grandma beamed, arranging jars of jam and shiny bell peppers with practiced hands while you filled small baskets with cucumbers and tomatoes and snapped peas. Grandpa stayed long enough to fuss over the egg cartons—making sure they were packed safe—before tipping his hat at you both.

"I’ll come fetch ya when you’re ready," he said. "Don’t let your grandma sell you for a jar of pickled green beans now. And holler if y'all need anythin’.”

Grandma laughed and swatted his arm, though the gesture was filled with love. “Go on, get now. Them horses need tending to.”

You laughed as he ambled back to the truck, engine sputtering to life as he pulled away with a wave out the window.

Left alone, you and Grandma fell into an easy rhythm, arranging your goods just so, the late afternoon sun slanting warm across the table. The market bustled around you, alive with the low murmur of conversation and the distant twang of a banjo from near the courthouse steps.

Ashford’s town square had a charm to it—the kind that couldn’t be built, only grown. Little boutiques lined the street alongside a diner with a neon sign that buzzed faintly, a hardware store with creaky floors, and a bakery that made the whole block smell like cinnamon and fresh bread. Kids darted between booths with paper snow cones dripping down their fingers, dogs strained at leashes to sniff everything in sight.

People wandered past your booth in slow, easy currents. Some just nodded politely, but a few stopped—a woman with silver hair and a woven basket, who bought a jar of blackberry jam and complimented Grandma's canning; a wiry old man in suspenders who teased you about city girls not knowing a tomato from an apple (you rolled your eyes but still smiled); a young mom chasing two toddlers, who asked if you'd have more eggs next week.

It wasn’t perfect—you still caught the occasional curious glance, a few whispered comments—but it wasn’t mean, either.

It was... cautious.

Interested.

Like maybe the town wasn’t sure what to make of you just yet. But maybe, just maybe, they were willing to find out.

You let yourself breathe, finally, under the easy buzz of it all, feeling the slow and steady beat of something you hadn’t realized you’d missed—belonging.

By late afternoon, the market had settled into a lazy hum, the early rush tapering off into a comfortable trickle. The sun hung low over the rooftops, painting everything gold, and the jars of jam on your table gleamed like little jewels in the light.

You were just brushing crumbs off the tablecloth when Grandma leaned over and patted your hand. "You're doing good, honey," she said warmly. "Why don't you take a little walk, stretch your legs? I can hold down the fort for a while."

You hesitated, but when she smiled at you—soft, encouraging—you relented, slipping a few dollars into your pocket just in case something caught your eye.

You wandered through the booths, taking your time, soaking it all in: the clatter of horseshoes over pavement, the faint buzz of cicadas in the trees, the buttery smell of something baking from the other side of the market. A trio of kids dashed past you with sticks of cotton candy, and someone strummed a guitar lazily from the corner near the old general store.

It was… nice. Quaint. Warm in a way the city never had been.

You were smiling to yourself when you saw him.

Gojo.

Leaning against a lamppost like he owned the damn thing, with all the casual arrogance of someone who knew he looked good doing it, laughing at something a guy beside him said. And not just any guy—tall, with long black hair pulled back in a low, messy tie, a sleepy, wicked sort of smile stretching across his face like he knew secrets you didn’t.

You slowed instinctively, ducking behind a nearby booth, peeking without meaning to.

First of all, rude that Gojo looked even hotter off the ranch. His white t-shirt clung in all the right places, sleeves stretched over the kind of arms you didn’t want to admit you stared at sometimes (all the time). His jeans rode low on his hips, accentuating that sweet ass of his that never quit, and your gaze treacherously dipped lower before you yanked it back up.

The guy next to him was no slouch either—just another unfairly attractive man standing in your direct line of sight.

Your stomach flipped once, awkward and unwanted.

Was there some kind of water around here that just grew fine men like crops?

Because it wasn’t normal how every single one of them looked like they could grace the cover of some country-living magazine and ruin your life at the same time.

You might’ve been able to ignore it—could’ve told yourself you didn’t care—until you spotted them.

Two girls, standing a little too close, batting their lashes, twirling their hair. They were pretty in that easy, sun-kissed way that only girls who grew up in towns like this seemed to manage. One of them playfully smacked Gojo’s arm; the other leaned into the dark-haired guy, laughing.

You tore your eyes away, busying yourself by pretending to admire a booth near your own selling beeswax candles. Grandma must have wandered off because she was no longer standing there in her cute little sunhat. You could hear Gojo’s stupid laugh floating through the air behind you, low and bright. It made your blood heat in a way you didn’t want to think about.

You scowled and huffed, determinedly turning away—and nearly collided with someone standing at your booth.

"Excuse me," a voice said politely, low and even.

You blinked up—and into another gorgeous face.

Different from Gojo’s bright, arrogant handsomeness.

Different from the other guy’s lazy danger.

This man was... solid. Golden-skinned and serious, with messy blond hair pushed back from his forehead, warm brown eyes, and a steady kind of strength that wrapped around him like armor. His shirt sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing flour-dusted forearms that made your brain short-circuit for a half-second.

Marrying this man within a month would honestly not be the craziest decision you could ever make.

He offered a small smile, polite but not unfriendly.

"Are you the one selling eggs?" he asked.

You scrambled to pull yourself together. "Uh—yeah! Yes. We sell eggs. Or my grandma does, anyway. We’ve still got a few dozen left."

He nodded, pulling a canvas tote higher on his shoulder. "I’ll take two, please. I run the bakery down the street."

Right. That explained the flour. (And possibly the unfairly attractive, husband-material energy.)

You busied yourself packing up the eggs, slipping them carefully into a cardboard flat. The man watched you with patient interest, like you were something worth paying attention to, which only made your hands fumble more.

"I’m Nanami," he said as you handed the carton over. "Kento Nanami."

You gave him your name, cheeks warming under the weight of his calm, unreadable gaze. His fingers brushed yours as he passed you the money, and you were so thrown off by it you barely managed to stammer out a "thank you."

Nanami dipped his head in a small nod, tucking the eggs into his bag like he actually cared not to crush them.

And maybe it was petty—maybe—but when you flicked a glance over to where Gojo was still laughing it up with his pretty little groupies, you felt a very particular kind of satisfaction bloom in your chest.

Because when you caught Gojo's eye—because of course you did—you saw it.

The sharp little glance at Nanami.

The narrowing of those stupidly bright blue eyes.

The faint tilt of his head, as if to say, Oh?

You turned your back, smiling sweetly as Nanami asked, "Would you happen to know if the strawberries here are fresh?"

God help you—you were about to flirt back.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling braver than you had in weeks. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the golden glow of the market. Maybe it was just the way Nanami looked at you—steady, warm, intent.

"They're fresh," you said, smiling up at him, "Picked just a couple days ago."

Nanami gave a small, appreciative nod. "Good. I'd hate to disappoint my customers."

"So, you run the bakery down the street?" you asked, leaning your elbows onto the booth a little, casual but undeniably flirty. "My grandma absolutely raves about your pastries."

A faint smile curved his mouth, something almost shy in the way he glanced down before meeting your eyes again. "I'm glad. I do most of the baking myself. Fresh ingredients make all the difference."

You hummed thoughtfully, "I might have to come by sometime. You know, for... quality assurance."

Nanami chuckled lowly, a rich sound that made something flip in your stomach.

"I'd welcome the feedback," he said, voice smooth as honey.

You were so caught up in the moment—basking in the way Nanami seemed genuinely interested, feeling that rare rush of being seen—that you didn’t even notice the approaching footsteps.

Not until a familiar voice, way too loud and way too casual, cut through the air.

"There you are, princess," Gojo drawled, leaning against the booth casually, one hand braced on the table, the other resting at the small of your back, way too familiar, like he had every right to touch you.

Your skin prickled under the heat of it.

Possessive little shit.

Nanami simply regarded him with polite curiosity, like a customer inspecting a product before buying. "Gojo," Nanami said, polite but clipped. "It's been a while."

Gojo grinned, all teeth, knowing exactly what he was doing. "Yeah, been a minute. Bakery keepin’ you busy, Nanamin?"

"It does," he replied simply, glancing at you before back to Gojo.

Gojo noticed. Oh, he noticed. And he leaned in just slightly, like he couldn't help but crowd your space, tipping his hat back with one hand so he could squint down at you with that slow, lazy smirk you hated for how much it made your heart stutter.

"Princess here’s new in town," he said easily, though his thumb brushed once, deliberately, against the fabric of your shirt. "Gotta make sure she don’t get led astray by all these smooth-talking country boys."

Nanami only arched a brow. "I think she can handle herself."

You bit your cheek, hiding a smile.

God, this was better than a soap opera.

Nanami, unbothered, glanced between the two of you, clearly filing something away in that sharp mind of his.

"Well," he said eventually, offering you a final, faintly amused smile, "It was a pleasure meeting you. I'll see you at the bakery sometime?"

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the way he phrased it like a promise.

You nodded—maybe a little too quickly—and Nanami dipped his head politely before strolling off into the crowd, the late afternoon sun catching in his hair like a halo.

You watched him go for a second too long.

Gojo leaned closer, voice dropping into something lower, rougher.

"Didn't know you were into the whole 'nice guy' thing," he teased, nudging your arm with his elbow. "Kinda boring, don’t you think?"

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

"He wasn’t boring, he was incredibly nice," you shot back. "Better than arrogant and annoying."

Gojo smirked—slow, lazy, dangerous.

"And smooth-talking country boys?" you echoed, eyebrow arching high. "You grew up here, too, stupid."

Gojo just grinned wider, like your irritation was his favorite thing.

You huffed, trying—failing—not to stare at the line of his throat, the stupid stretch of his biceps under his rolled sleeves that looked so, so, strong.

"You’re unbelievable," you muttered, half under your breath.

Gojo leaned even closer, voice dropping to something rough and velvet-soft, meant for you alone.

“And how was your first farmer’s market experience?”

You barely had a chance to recover from the way he said it, all low and teasing, before Gojo reached across the table and plucked a strawberry right out of one of the cartons.

"Hey!" you protested, smacking at his hand half-heartedly.

He just popped the berry into his mouth with a wicked grin, biting into it like he had all the right in the world, juice slipping down the corner of his mouth before he licked it away. Slowly. Purposefully.

Your brain fizzed like soda in the heat.

Before you could summon a single coherent thought, Grandma reappeared, bustling up behind the booth, arms full of fresh flyers she’d gathered from a nearby stall.

She took one look at the two of you—at Gojo standing way too close, at you practically vibrating with frustration (or something suspiciously close to it)—and just laughed, rich and knowing.

"Go on now, Satoru," she said, swatting at him lightly with the flyers. "Quit harassin' Y/N before she up and decks you good."

Gojo grinned, completely unbothered. "Wouldn't be the first time," he said, winking at you as he backed away, slow and lazy.

You huffed, crossing your arms, pretending your heart wasn’t trying to climb up your throat.

As he sauntered off into the crowd, whistling some tune you didn’t recognize, Grandma set her flyers down and leaned in close, conspiratorial.

"You be careful with that one, honey," she said, voice low and fond. "He’s always been trouble. Cute trouble, but still trouble."

Your face burned hot enough to fry an egg.

"I’m not—" you started, but she just patted your hand, eyes twinkling.

"I was young once, too, you know," she said, before turning to straighten the tablecloth like the conversation hadn’t even happened.

You stood there, flustered beyond all measure, watching Gojo’s stupid broad shoulders disappear into the crowd—and wondering how on earth you were supposed to survive a whole summer of this.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to realize this town had a whole lot more to offer than you thought.

Author's Note: Am I pumping these chapters out too fast?? If you wanna be added to the taglist, let me know in the notes below! Also, I think I mention Gojo's juicy ass too much. Bet let a girl have hobbies and interests.

Taglist: @indiewritesxoxo @vina21 @sweetwonieee @billiondollarworth @fati27ma 

[vixonal]

handbags <3

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kali uchis and jt for their new song “muñekita” coming out friday 8.4.23

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[vixonal]

cause after the storm is when the flowers bloom - kali uchis <3

[pastel-hazey-dreams]

[softestaura]

Kali Uchis for ‘I Wish You Roses’ Music Video

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pretty summer vibes part 3 🌸

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