he liked it more than life itself

mdni, 20 James Potter my beloved

[ddejavvu]

So I’ve just started criminal minds a few days ago, but honestly Spencer and Gideon are the only two characters I really like, pls do not tell me this boy is abt to find this mans body I will cry (I’m at the start of s3)

this ask was sent a year ago

1.) did you finish the show

2.) did they lull you into a false sense of security by never mentioning him again until season 10

[kenntoria-deactivated20250831]

THE NIGHT WE MET

SUMMARY. nanami kento is a widower haunted by memories of you, his late wife—the moments you shared, the love you built, and the dreams you made together before tragedy struck. as he drifts through grief, seven memories replay relentlessly, revealing the depth of a love that still burns, even when you’re gone.

TAGS/WARNINGS. angst, fluff, canonverse, kinda bittersweet ngl, smut, themes of love and loss, grief, domestic moments, sorcerer!reader, hurt/no comfort, established relationship, character death, trauma, exploration of grief and loss, emotional distress, mild blood and injury descriptions, wc: 13,8k

TORI’S NOTES. i know i mostly write fluff for nanami, but this had to happen, i’m sorry😭😭

nanami is a widowed man.

he wakes up every morning beside the empty stretch of bed where you used to sleep, still reaching for you like he hasn’t learned yet. his hand brushes against the cold sheets, and the silence that follows is louder than anything else in the apartment. it’s always like this—quiet, too quiet. not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the kind that feels like a wound left open too long, aching in the background of everything.

you were his wife. his partner. the only person he’d ever truly let in and now that you’re gone, he doesn’t know what to do with the parts of himself you used to hold. the softness, the warmth, the small, vulnerable places he’d only ever shown you. he doesn’t know where to put his hands, his thoughts, his love—because all of it still belongs to you. every bit of it. every bit of him.

he makes coffee in the mornings like he used to when you were alive, still pours two cups out of habit. he doesn’t realize he’s done it until both mugs are sitting on the counter, steam curling from each in that quiet kitchen light. sometimes he drinks both. sometimes he throws one out. most days, he just stands there staring at them, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

grief clings to him like second skin.

he wears it the way he used to wear his suits—carefully, deliberately, like it’s the only thing still keeping him put together. he goes to work. he comes home. he folds laundry and reads the paper and fixes that damn flickering hallway light. he does everything right, everything you’d want him to do, but none of it matters, not really. because you’re not here and no matter how many boxes he checks off, you won’t be here at the end of it.

he doesn’t talk much anymore. not because he’s withdrawn, but because there’s no one left who understood him the way you did. talking feels pointless now. meaningless. when you were alive, you used to finish his sentences. you used to sit across the dinner table and smile at him like you already knew what he was thinking and he used to think, this is what home feels like. now, he eats in silence and the food tastes like paper. he doesn’t bother finishing most meals.

the love is still there. that’s the worst part.

it hasn’t gone anywhere. it’s still sitting in his chest like a fire that won’t die down. a song stuck on repeat. it’s heavy, unwieldy, painful. every bit of affection he used to pour into you—every kiss good morning, every protective glance across a crowded room, every soft hand on your back as you fell asleep—it’s still with him. but it has nowhere to go. it just sits there. it builds. it chokes.

he tries, sometimes, to let it out. he talks to your photograph. he writes you letters in a notebook he never lets anyone see. he lights the incense you used to like and sits by your shrine, waiting for the scent to take him somewhere better. it never does. all it does is remind him of you and he doesn’t know if that’s comfort or punishment anymore.

you were his everything, still are. you made life make sense and made him make sense. and now he walks through the world like a man underwater, slow and directionless, always searching for something he’ll never find again. every time someone says your name, it cuts. every time someone doesn’t, it hurts worse.

he didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much. to lose them and still feel like you belong to them. but that’s what it is, that’s what you are. his forever, even now.

and he doesn’t know how to move forward without you. doesn’t even know if he wants to. all he knows is that this love—this overwhelming, all-consuming, aching love—is still inside him.

and he has nowhere left to put it.

still, he doesn’t cry often.

not because he doesn’t want to; sometimes he feels it, lump in his throat, stinging behind his eyes, itching in his nose, heavy in his chest like something ready to break open, but it’s as if his body doesn’t know how to let it out anymore. the grief has folded itself so tightly into him that there’s no space left for the tears. the weight of it just stays there—dense, immovable—until he’s too tired to even think.

it’s not the loud moments that hurt the most. it’s the quiet ones. the tiny cracks in the day where you used to be.

a short laugh at the back of a café, and for a second he thinks it’s yours. a song you used to hum under your breath while brushing your teeth. the smell of hand cream, just like the one you kept in the nightstand drawer. the mundane, normal parts of life that keep ambushing him with your absence.

and he wants to be angry, sometimes. shouldn’t grief be loud? shouldn’t the world shake with the fact that you’re not in it anymore? but no. the trains still run on time. people still smile at each other in the street. the city still moves forward like nothing’s happened like it doesn’t care that the most beautiful part of his life is gone.

he doesn’t talk about you to anyone, not really, not out loud. people say your name with a careful tone, like you’re glass and they’re afraid you’ll shatter in their mouths and nanami hates that. you weren’t fragile. you were warm, and clever, and kind, and maddeningly stubborn. so so real. not a ghost and not a memory.

he doesn’t want you to be a story someone tells with soft sympathy in their voice. he wants you here. wants to hold your hand again, wants to come home to you brushing your hair in the hallway mirror and talking about what you saw on the news. wants to hear your stupid jokes and your bad singing and the sound of your sleepy breathing when you curled into his side.

he’d give everything just to have one more day. one normal, boring day. not a dramatic farewell, not a flash of cinematic closure. just you, alive. asking him what he wants for dinner, tugging at his tie while calling him a workaholic. kissing him breathless and squealing when he lifts you up with a tight embrace. laughing at your own jokes. just you.

and the truth is—he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop loving you. not in the way people mean when they talk about love that lingers, no, this is different. this love still lives in him. it’s not quiet and it’s not peaceful. it claws at the walls of his chest some days. it feels like missing a step on a stair you’ve walked a thousand times, like forgetting how to breathe.

and what scares him more than anything is the thought that maybe, eventually, your voice in his memory will fade. maybe one day he won’t be able to picture your exact smile, or remember how your fingers used to trace idle shapes on his palm when you were both falling asleep. the idea that he could forget any piece of you—that is what keeps him up some nights, sitting in the dark, hands clenched in the fabric of your old sweater like a lifeline.

because if you fade, if time really does dull everything, then where does that leave him?

he doesn’t want to move on. doesn’t want to be told that healing means letting go. he doesn’t want to let go.

he just wants to love you. wants to keep loving you even if it hurts, even if it ruins him. even if it makes the rest of his life feel like an echo.

because loving you was the only thing that ever truly made sense.

and even now, with everything broken, it still does.

every day, without fail, his mind finds its way back to you.

not always with warning, not always with mercy. sometimes it’s a scent in the air, sometimes it’s the way the late afternoon light hits the floor of the living room. sometimes it’s nothing at all—just silence—and suddenly he’s standing there, unmoving, lost in some soft, unbearable echo of you.

he doesn’t try to stop it anymore.

every day, some part of his brain reaches back to something you said, something you did, something you were. a memory of you laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach, or the way you used to roll your eyes at his serious face, or how you looked first thing in the morning—barely awake, soft with sleep, voice scratchy as you murmured his name. needy, whiny, beautiful, his perfect, sweet soulmate. calling for him to come back to bed so you can be in his arms for a little more.

and it always hurts. even the happy memories hurt now. they bloom warm in his chest only to burn seconds later, because he remembers, again and again, that there will be no new ones. he remembers that these fragments are all he has left. and they never stop coming.

he’ll be walking down a street and suddenly remember the times you linked your arm in his and told him how pretty the sky looked that day. he’ll be folding laundry and see the sweater you loved—worn and faded from use—and remember how you used to wear it with nothing underneath and tease him when he blushed. he’ll be buying groceries and see your favorite snack and just… stand there, staring at it, like he’s forgotten why he’s even there at all.

and it’s not just the big things, it’s the little ones, too.

how you used to hum when you cooked. how you’d squeeze his hand three times for i love you. how you always forgot where you put your keys. how you never let him go to sleep angry, no matter what, coaxing him with apologies if you were in the wrong and making him apologize when he was, even though he was already planning to do so. how you had this laugh that only came out when you weren’t thinking about how loud it was and it was stored in his brain under the name of “his favorite song”.

he lives inside these memories now even though they are inside of him, not because he wants to, but because he has to. it’s the only way to stay close to you. it’s the only way to pretend, even for a second, that you’re still here.

he doesn’t talk about it to anyone. can’t. because how do you explain that you’re haunted by love? that every memory is a knife and a balm at once? that the happiest moments of your life now feel like punishments?

some days, he welcomes it.

he’ll close his eyes and let it come. let the memories pull him under like waves because even if it hurts, even if it breaks him a little more each time, at least it means you’re still with him. in some way, in some form. still part of the air he breathes. still wrapped around his ribs.

so every day, he remembers. without meaning to. without control.

because the love didn’t die when you did.

and now the memories are the only place he can still hold you.

every day, his memories pull him back to you. they rise without permission, sometimes gentle, sometimes ruthless—drifting through his thoughts when he’s tying his tie, walking to the station, waiting for his tea to steep. but no matter where he is or what he’s doing, there are certain memories—seven of them—that come sharper than the rest. louder. clearer. more you.

the first one, the one that always finds him when he least expects it, is the day he finally confessed.

it’s usually triggered by nothing at all. sometimes just a passing glance of the spring sky, or the feeling of warm air against his skin. sometimes just the way someone says his name, softly. and suddenly he’s back there, months and years peeled away, reliving the moment that changed everything.

he remembers how long he waited, how long he wanted. how he watched you laugh with others, how he listened to you talk about life and dreams and nonsense, always with his hands curled into tight fists, anchoring himself in restraint. because he was terrified. he didn’t believe he deserved you. because something that perfect, that real—it felt like a miracle, and he didn’t know how to reach for it without ruining it.

you were so you. so kind, so bright, so infuriatingly unafraid of getting close to him. you flirted without realizing it, touched his arm when you laughed, leaned into his space like it was yours—like he was yours. and he wanted to believe it. god, he wanted to believe you could want him the same way he wanted you.

it had been eating him alive, quietly. silently. he was always careful around you. always measured. but you were chaos wrapped in warmth—you got under his skin without even trying. he couldn’t keep his feelings hidden forever, not with you always looking at him like you knew he was lying.

he remembers the exact moment he broke.

you were walking home from dinner. something casual. something that should’ve just been another friendly meal. the night was warm, the street lamps glowed soft, and you were telling him a story about something ridiculous you saw on the train. he wasn’t even listening—not really. he was too busy watching your mouth move, too busy thinking about how close your hand was to his, how easy it would be to just reach.

and then you looked at him,stopped walking, tilted your head, and said his name in question.

“nanami?”

and something about the way you said it—like you were daring him to speak, like you knew—it cracked something open.

he remembers how stiff he went. how the words trembled behind his teeth, how for one heartbeat, he almost turned and walked away. but instead, he looked at you, into you, and said it, quiet and sharp like the edge of a knife,

“i love you.”

and the silence that followed was the loudest moment of his life.

his heart was pounding. he didn’t breathe, he didn’t move. every cell in his body was bracing for rejection, for your expression to twist, for you to step back and say he’d misunderstood everything. that he’d ruined it. that he’d made it awkward, made it worse, made you uncomfortable.

but you just stood there, eyes wide, lips parted as if you couldn’t quite believe what you’d heard. and then, out of nowhere—you giggled. something sweet and bubbling burst out of you and couldn’t be contained.

“you’re serious?” you asked, voice light, like you couldn’t help yourself.

he nodded once and you—god, you lit up like it was the sun rising behind your eyes.

“finally,” you whispered, before you reached for him with both hands and pulled him in, and kissed him.

he hadn’t expected it, not like that. not so sudden, so soft, so full of joy. he remembers standing still as stone, eyes wide while your lips pressed to his, and how you smiled against his mouth, like you couldn’t help it and you were too happy to stay still. and then he kissed you back.

carefully, reverently, like he’d waited his whole life just for this moment because he had. because nothing had ever felt as natural, as right, as kissing you.

you were so warm, you always were. hands on his jaw, your breath mingling with his, your nose bumping his cheek as you laughed in the middle of the kiss like you couldn’t stop being happy it was spilling out of you, uncontainable.

“i’ve been waiting for you to say it,” you told him, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. “i didn’t want to rush you, but—god, i’m so in love with you, nanami.”

he remembers the way his chest felt too tight for his ribs. the way his hands shook as he reached for you, as he held you close, closer than he’d ever dared to before. the way your forehead pressed to his and you looked at him like he was your whole world.

and in that moment, he believed you.mhe let himself believe in happiness. in having someone. in you. he’s never forgotten that night, not once, not even now, when it hurts the most.

it comes back to him in the strangest moments—when he’s ironing a shirt, when he’s standing in line at the pharmacy, when he’s drifting off to sleep alone in a cold bed. it strikes like lightning. vivid, searing, alive.

and then it’s gone again, leaving only the ache behind.

the memory plays on repeat, always, because it was the beginning of everything. and now, it’s the only place he can still feel your hands on his skin. your laughter in his mouth. your love, whole and unbroken, pressed warm against his chest.

he replays it down to the tiniest details.

the way your eyes flicked up to him when he said it—i love you—like you were searching his face for any sign of hesitation. how your lips parted, stunned at first, then curled into this soft, impossible smile that made his knees feel weak. how the light from the lamppost behind you glowed in your hair, like you were something divine.

he remembers thinking, this can’t be real. this can’t be mine.

you were so full of light, always had been. and for months, he’d been quietly orbiting you, keeping just enough distance to pretend his feelings were manageable. he used to think if he kept it buried, if he could just keep his mouth shut and his face unreadable, it would pass. he thought maybe you’d never notice and maybe the addicting ache in his chest would soften with time.

but it hadn’t. not even close.

it got worse, actually, more unbearable with each day, with each moment you leaned closer and laughed at his dry jokes, each time you brought him little things you thought he’d like—snacks, books, tea. every time you said his name like it meant something to you. it was never just friendly, not to him. never casual. it burned through him like something ancient and sacred and awful, this helpless, growing need to be yours.

and then that night, he snapped because he just couldn’t pretend anymore. couldn’t carry it all inside himself without cracking at the seams. so he let it out. barely above a whisper, like an apology.

but you didn’t flinch and you didn’t fumble. you didn’t even let the silence hang long enough to hurt.

your hands had gone to his face like it was the most natural thing in the world—thumbs pressing gently at the edges of his jaw, fingers threading up into his hair. like you’d been waiting to do it forever. and he froze because something deep inside him fractured under the weight of your joy.

you were smiling so big. you were giddy.

“you’re really saying it,” you said then, almost breathless, like it was a dream. “you really love me.”

he nodded, mute. because what was he supposed to say? that he loved you so much it scared him? that he’d rehearsed it a hundred times but the real thing was still so much harder? that he’d wanted you for so long he didn’t remember what it felt like not to?

but you didn’t need any of that. you never did. you saw straight through him, always.

you kissed him like you were saying it back with every part of you.

and he didn’t want to let go. not ever. he remembers how tightly he held you, afraid it would all vanish if he blinked too long. how your body pressed to his like you already belonged there, like you’d always belonged there. how you whispered to him through soft, giddy laughs—

“i was starting to think you’d never say it,”

“you looked so miserable, i almost said it for you,”

“you’re not allowed to take it back, okay?”

he remembers the way your nose wrinkled when you smiled, how your fingers slid down to link with his, squeezing, grounding him.

and when he walked you home that night, hand in hand, he felt taller. lighter. changed. something inside him had finally clicked into place. the world had cracked open and given him the one thing he never believed he could have and he was truly blessed.

and now?

he still walks past that same street sometimes. the one with the rusted railing and the single orange tree blooming in spring. it’s barely anything, just another corner, but he always slows when he reaches it. always glances up at the lamppost. always stops, just for a moment, just long enough for the memory to wash over him.

sometimes he closes his eyes and pretends he’s still there.

pretends you’re about to turn to him again, smile wide, heart open, and kiss him like it’s the first time all over again.

pretends the air still smells like your perfume. that your hands are still warm in his. that your voice is still in his ear, soft and full of wonder—

“you love me?”

“i love you too.”

god, he remembers it all.

and he always will.

.

.

.

another one always comes to him in the middle of something dull—waiting for the train, stirring sugar into his coffee, standing in front of the mirror adjusting his tie—and then, without fail, the memory slides in. but mostly it comes when he tries to avoid looking at the chessboard on the shelf.

you, sitting across from him, victorious and beaming, the chessboard between you knocked halfway askew because you’d leapt across it to throw your arms around his neck.

he never even got to say checkmate—because you beat him first.

and god, you were so smug about it.

he hadn’t expected it. not really. he’d been teaching you for months, patient and methodical, going over openings and endgames and positional sacrifices. he loved teaching you. even when you got distracted halfway through or kept saying stuff like “why are your hands so big” and “I like this shirt on you” or forgot how en passant worked for the fifth time.

“are you even listening?” he asked once, giving you a flat look across the board.

“i am,” you say, smiling up at him with faux innocence. “but you’re also very distracting, nanami-sensei.”

he sighed, then covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. you always listened. always came back the next day determined to do better. always pouted when he beat you, even when he tried to go easy. you were determined: kept dragging him to the board after dinner, even when you lost in fifteen minutes.

he used to think he enjoyed chess on its own. but no—he enjoyed playing with you.

you would prop your chin on your hand and study the board like it was a life-or-death mission, your brows furrowed in deep concentration, hair falling into your eyes. and he would watch you, amused, mostly charmed and very proud. the way you stuck your tongue out a little when you thought hard. the way you gasped dramatically every time he took one of your pieces. the way you refused to let him give you a free win, even when you were having a rough day.

once, you even managed to get his queen and you clapped your hands like you’ve won the lottery.

“you’re really improving,” he said one night, leaning back after a close game.

you smiled at him, pleased and sleepy in your pajamas. “you’re a good teacher.”

he looked at you for a long moment, then reached across the board to brush his fingers over yours. “you’re good student.”

you started playing all the time.

in the morning, while you sipped coffee and waited for toast. in the afternoon on the weekends, curled up on the floor with the sun coming through the windows. he brought a travel set when you went on trips and played with you on trains, guiding your fingers when you hesitated too long. he never let you win(by your request), but you didn’t mind. you like how thoughtful he got when he played, how seriously he took it even when it’s just with you.

you fell asleep on the couch once after losing a long game, head slumped onto the armrest. you woke up to find a folded blanket over you and a sticky note on your forehead with a little chessboard doodle and the words “you almost had me this time.”

so when the day came—the day—he hadn’t even seen it coming.

it was late, and the apartment was quiet. you were both sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a soft playlist humming from the speaker, and you were playing one of the best games you’d ever played. you hadn’t even realized you were winning—he’d taken your queen, and you’d lost half your pawns.

you shifted your bishop, and then froze.

“…checkmate?”

nanami had stared at the board. blinked. then leaned in, eyes scanning the positions slowly.

you bit your lip. “did i actually…?”

he had exhaled sharply, leaned back, blinking at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“you beat me,” he had said, stunned.

you sat there for a second, then gasped. “i beat you?!”

he had nodded slowly. “you did.”

you squealed and threw yourself across the board at him. he caught you with a soft oof and fell backward onto the floor with you half on top of him, laughing into his chest.

“i did it! i beat you!”

“you did,” he had said again, smiling now, that rare full smile only you got to see. he cupped your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “i’m proud of you.”

you grinned and kissed him back. once, then again. messy and excited and warm. he cradled the back of your head like you were fragile, even when you were vibrating with joy.

“mwah,” you had said between kisses, pressing one to his cheek. “mwah,” one to his nose. “mwah,” one to his jaw.

“you’re going to gloat, aren’t you?” he had murmured, still smiling as you kissed every inch of his face.

“absolutely,” you had said, giggling. “i’m never letting you forget this.”

“i’d be disappointed if you did.”

he had kissed you again, deeper this time. slow and fond and full of the kind of affection he didn’t always put into words.

you had beaten him at chess. and then you were kissing him silly on the carpet with a board full of scattered pieces around you, and he was holding you like you were his greatest victory.

and god, you were so beautiful like that. flushed cheeks, hair mussed from moving too fast, your eyes shining like you’d just won a championship. you weren’t graceful about it, you didn’t even try to be. you were messy and overjoyed and proud of yourself in the most radiant, unrestrained way.

you were looking down at him like he hung the stars. for winning a chess game. like his opinion meant the world to you and this moment—this silly, chaotic, loud little moment—was one of the best in your life.

and it was.

he never reset that board. left the pieces just where they’d fallen. days passed, then weeks. you’d tease him about it every time you saw it, asking if he was keeping it as a crime scene memorial. he kind of was, but mostly he loved looking at the disarray and loved seeing your win frozen in time.

after you died, he kept the board exactly the same.

it’s still there.

in the living room. untouched.

a knight on its side. one pawn missing. your queen front and center, triumphant.

sometimes he sits in front of it and stares for hours. fingers twitching toward the pieces, aching to play again. not because he wants to win. but because he wants to hear you laugh again. wants to watch you bounce in your seat with joy. wants you to leap into his lap again and kiss him breathless and call him a sore loser.

sometimes he lets himself close his eyes and pretends you’re still across from him.

ready to play again. grinning.

“rematch?”

he would give anything to say yes.

.

.

.

whenever his eyes catch the light of the ring glinting under the sun, nanami heartbeat slows down for a couple of seconds. his eyes become useless and his breathing pattern changes because his mind keeps playing with him ruthlessly, replaying one the happiest days of his life.

he would also give anything to say yes to your proposal. that is a memory woven right into his heartbeat. it always comes back to him when he’s fumbling for words. when the right thing gets stuck in his throat. when he feels the shape of something heavy in his chest and can’t seem to let it out.

the day he tried to propose to you—and failed. every damn time.

he had it planned, too. carefully, too carefully. it had taken him weeks to find the ring, longer to find the courage. he told no one because didn’t want advice and didn’t want fuss. it was going to be simple. sincere. just you and him.

he carried the ring in his pocket all day.

you had the whole day off together, just the two of you. a lazy morning, a late breakfast, a walk through the city, a stop at that little café you liked—the one with the uneven tables and the chalkboard menu. he told himself he’d do it sometime after lunch. or before dinner. or maybe at the park, by the fountain you once said looked like a melted sundae.

but he couldn’t do it.

every time he looked at you, sitting across from him, laughing with your whole face, eyes squinting against the sunlight—he choked. you were so beautiful. not just in the way you looked, but in the way you existed. in the way you loved him. in the way you made every second feel like it might be the best one yet.

he would reach into his pocket, feel the small velvet box and the words would slip away.

at the café, you spilled cream on your sleeve. smiled at him sheepishly and wiped it off with a napkin, and he thought, this is it. this tiny, stupid moment, this is love. this is everything. but before he could speak, you were rambling about a pigeon that looked like it had a mustache, and the mood was gone.

in the park, you leaned into him, your hand tucked in his coat pocket alongside his own, and he thought, now. now. but then a kid with a balloon tripped and burst into tears and you— bless your soul— went to help him up, patting his back, offering him a tissue from your purse. and nanami thought—how could anyone ever deserve you?

he tried again at dinner. took you to that tiny rooftop place you loved. the candlelight was perfect. your dress was soft where it brushed his knee. you were talking about the future—about plans, about maybe moving, maybe getting a dog—and his hands trembled under the table.

you looked up at him, smiling, so open, so happy. and he couldn’t do it.

you noticed, of course.

you always noticed. he was never very good at hiding things from you. especially not when they involved you. your eyes kept narrowing at him over your glass. your hand crept over his under the table, squeezing gently.

“you okay?” you asked.

“fine,” he said. “just tired.”

liar.

after dinner, you walked home hand in hand, the city buzzing quietly around you. he was mentally berating himself the whole way, the ring in his pocket digging into his thigh, reminding him of every moment he should’ve done it. every second that slipped through his fingers. he felt like a man dragging his feet behind the most important decision of his life. and for what? fear? nerves?

he loved you. god, he loved you. more than anything. more than he knew how to say. and he wanted to marry you more than he wanted anything else in this world.

so why couldn’t he ask?

you both got home. you took off your shoes with a dramatic sigh, tossing your coat over the back of the chair, turning to him with that soft, fond little look you always gave when the day had been good.

“today was perfect,” you said, stepping into his space, hands looping around his neck.

he nodded, kissing your temple.

“you sure you’re okay?” you asked again. and then, quieter, “you’ve been weird.”

he hesitated as felt the words rising again. will you marry me. so small. so heavy.

but he didn’t speak.

you were quiet for a second, searching his face. then you smiled—slow and knowing—and tilted your head just slightly.

“you planning to propose to me or something?”

his breath hitched. his eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up. wide. caught.

and you laughed, a little gasp of a thing: bright and delighted and giddy.

“holy shit,” you said, your hands sliding to his jaw, framing his face. “you were! you absolute disaster.”

he tried to speak, to explain, to tell you he didn’t want to mess it up, that every moment with you felt too big to hold, that he loved you so much it made his bones ache.

but you kissed him instead and reached into your pocket, pulling out your own ring box.

you held it up with a sheepish grin, your voice warm and shaky as you whispered, “guess we’re both disasters.”

he stared. blinked. he couldn’t believe it. you were going to propose to him? after the day he just spent tripping over his tongue and chickening out over and over?

he couldn’t help it, he laughed! laughed so hard he had to press his face into your shoulder, arms around your waist, heart pounding like it was trying to leap into your hands.

you leaned close, breathless against his ear, and asked—quiet, certain,

“marry me?”

and he whispered back, immediately, before you could even blink,

“yes.”

he said it again and again as he kissed you, said it into your mouth, into your hair, into the soft skin of your neck as he held you close like he’d never let go. said as he slid the ring from the velvety box in his pocket onto your finger. said it as he swallowed your watery laughter.

yes. yes. yes.

he still keeps both rings.

yours sits in the drawer by the bed. his is in box you gave it in. he looks at them sometimes, fingers brushing velvet and gold like he’s hoping they’ll still hum with the memory.

and he remembers how you looked that night, beaming up at him with triumph in your eyes and your whole life in your hands, offered to him without hesitation.

you asked him.

you chose him.

and nothing’s ever meant more.

.

.

.

he is starting to get sick it seems. and nanami hates being sick because now he has to take care of himself, which was so easy to forget since you always insisted on taking care of him.

when he’s feeling just off enough to notice the ache in his bones, or when he stares at the untouched tea on the table, he thinks—if she were here, she’d force me to drink this.

he doesn’t even remember what he came down with, exactly. probably the flu. it hit him fast, knocked him flat. sore throat, pounding head, high fever, the works. he was miserable. weak. annoyed. and more than anything, he hated being seen like that because nanami prided himself on being put-together, dependable, in control, but that day, he was none of those things.

he never liked being vulnerable—not really.

not when he was young, not when he was a salaryman, not even as a sorcerer. the kind of man nanami was… vulnerability never earned him anything but disappointment. it made him feel exposed, soft in ways the world didn’t know how to handle. so he learned to keep everything tightly wrapped, managed and when something went wrong, like falling sick it only reminded him how little control he had over his own body. how quickly the strength he depended on could fail.

and you… you just walked into that space, into the place where his discomfort and shame lived, and made it feel like home.

he didn’t understand it at first. why you weren’t put off by how distant he became when he felt like crap or why you didn’t flinch when he snapped, when the fever made him foggy and sharp. why you didn’t sigh or roll your eyes when he insisted he could take care of himself even though he looked like death.

you never made him feel guilty for not being perfect. you just… loved him.

he remembers how you sat beside him with a little bowl of soup in your hands, coaxing him to eat with the gentlest voice—“just a few spoonfuls, my love. it’s not poison, i promise.” and how, when he groaned in protest, you took a bite yourself to prove it.

“see? edible.”

he gave you the flattest look, but he took the spoon from your hands anyway.

you talked to him the whole time. kept your voice quiet, playful, as you tucked a blanket around his legs and rubbed soothing circles into the back of his neck. he was tense, the fever making his body feel tight and sore, but you didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away when he winced or when he snapped “i said i’m fine” for the third time.

you kissed his cheek and said, “i know. but i still want to take care of you, ‘nami.”

that sentence—it stuck, made him ache more than the sight of the soup you took time to make. more than the tissues you dutifully threw away the more they piled on his bedside table. more than the cold compress you held to his head or the humidifier you dug out of the closet at 2 a.m.

“i still want to take care of you.”

he didn’t know what to do with that kind of love.

so he stopped resisting. slowly, cautiously, like one does stepping into warm water. he let you tuck him in, let you stroke his hair back from his sweaty forehead, let you murmur dumb little stories into his ear while he drifted in and out of sleep, let you see him, soft and unguarded, even if it scared him.

and the next morning, when you woke up sick—snotty, groaning, miserable—he finally understood the depth of what you gave him.

because he watched you shuffle around in his sweatshirt, tissues stuffed in every pocket, dragging your feet and cursing the sun, and he couldn’t stop smiling.

you were just as bad as him. dramatic, whiny, and the opposite of him when he got sick: clingy. you clung to him like a koala, face buried in his chest, muttering that the world was ending because your ears were stuffy.

“you’re such a hypocrite,” he whispered, voice still hoarse.

“shut up and hold me,” you whispered back, eyes already falling closed.

he did.

he held you for hours. fed you soup you’d made for him the day before. watched your favorite movies. rubbed your back when you coughed and kissed your temple when you whined.

and he realized then—this was what you meant.

you didn’t love him because he was strong or stoic or put-together. you loved him because he let you in and he loved you back just the same. especially when you were weak. especially when you needed him.

he thinks about that day more than he can say.

not because of the illness that struck him, not because of how sick you both were, but more so because of the way you kept showing up for him, over and over, in ways that no one ever had. it was one of those small, unremarkable days that ended up meaning everything.

and now, when he gets sick, it’s unbearable.

because no matter how many pillows he stacks behind him or how many blankets he pulls over his lap or how much tea he brews—it’s not you. it’s not your voice humming beside him, not your fingers brushing across his forehead, not your laughter breaking through the fog of his fever.

just silence.

and a ghost of a memory curling around his ribs. warm and aching. keeping him from letting his body succumb to the darkness.

he’d give anything to get sick again, just for one more day of your hands in his hair, telling him he looked pathetic and that you loved him anyway.

you loved him in ways that nanami didn’t know how to brace for.

you loved him quietly, in the corners of his life where no one had ever dared to look before. in the little spaces between his sighs and silences. in the pauses he didn’t think anyone would notice.

you loved him without needing him to be anything more than he already was.

you never asked him to soften, never tried to pry him open with force. you just stayed. consistent. kind. present. you sat with him in silence and never rushed him to speak. you didn’t flinch when his words came out clipped, or when he avoided eye contact because he couldn’t quite bear to be seen. you didn’t take his distance as rejection, you simply waited. you let him be himself, fully, even when that self was quiet, or cold, or deeply tired.

and when he did open up—when he let you into the more fragile, frayed parts of him—you treated them like treasures and never exploited, never overplayed. just… received. gently. like they were sacred.

he never told you this out loud, but it used to terrify him, how easy it was for you to love him.

how you never seemed to be repelled by his exhaustion, his disinterest in small talk that swayed only under your eyes, his grim view of the world. you didn’t look at him and see a project and you didn’t try to fix him.

he would come home, gritted teeth and blood on his knuckles, the weight of the job pressing down on his shoulders, and you’d meet him at the door with a soft kiss and say, “rough day?” just gentle hands that pulled him out of his shoes and into something human.

sometimes he didn’t have anything to give. not a conversation, not a smile, not even his usual restraint. but you never resented him for that. you’d just sit beside him on the couch, leg pressed against his, a hand resting lightly on his thigh, and you’d lean your head on his shoulder without asking anything from him.

you made him feel safe.

safe to love. safe to rest. safe to fail. safe to not be okay.

and the thing that still gets to him, still guts him, is how you never made a show of it.

you loved him in the thousand little things you did without thinking. refilling the kettle because you knew he’d want tea the second he walked in. folding his work shirt just the way he liked it. making space in every corner of your life for him without ever acting like it was a sacrifice.

he remembers how you used to slide your hand into his back pocket when you walked together, a simple action with no flirting or teasing behind it. just because you wanted to be close to him as if that nook under his arm was were you belonged. and you didn’t care how rigid he stood or how stiffly he held your hand at first—because you knew, eventually, he’d relax into you.

and he did. he still wonders how you learned to perceive people so easily.

he loved you more than he thought himself capable of, but more than that, you loved him in a way he didn’t think anyone could. and now that you’re gone, that kind of love feels unreal. it sometimes feels like something he hallucinated. a kindness he didn’t earn.

yet it was real.

and it’s what haunts him most along with the awful silence he is met with every day. the unbearable, impossible beauty of being loved so completely.

and knowing he’ll never feel it again.

.

.

.

it was the way you loved him that made him want to be better and softer and more intentional.

and maybe that’s why that birthday stuck so deeply in his memory—because for once, he got to give something back. something that wasn’t practical or measured or quietly implied. something that wasn’t about efficiency or obligation. it was all about your joy and the way your whole face lit up when you saw it.

he planned it for weeks.

quietly, discreetly, scribbling notes in the margins of reports, texting people when you weren’t looking. he wasn’t good at surprises—never had been—but he wanted to do this right. wanted to give you a day that would live in your chest like a warm light.

you didn’t expect anything big. you never asked for much. and that was part of what hurt him most—how small your expectations were. how easily you seemed to settle for crumbs of kindness. “birthdays aren’t a big deal,” you’d said once, brushing it off with a shrug. “i never really celebrated growing up. doesn’t bother me.”

but it bothered him.

because you deserved to be celebrated. you deserved noise and laughter and people who couldn’t wait to hug you. so he gave you that.

he told you you were just going out to dinner. nothing fancy. told you to wear something nice but comfortable. and you smiled—sweet, unsuspecting—and let him lead you out the door like he wasn’t about to change the way you remembered your birthdays forever.

he booked a small venue. invited the people you loved most. even had gojo help string up decorations (which he immediately regretted, but the damage was minimal). there were streamers and lights and cake and your favorite songs queued up in a playlist. your favorite foods, carefully arranged on little plates. and in the center of it all: a single candle, flickering gold and soft in the dim.

you walked in and froze.

utter silence for two seconds, before—

“surprise!”

your eyes went wide. your hands flew to your mouth. and nanami, standing beside you with a soft smile and his hand on your back, felt the moment land exactly the way he’d hoped.

you turned to look at him like he’d hung the stars.

“you did this?” you whispered.

he nodded. “happy birthday, my love.”

and then you beamed. like your entire body had been set alight from the inside. you jumped into his arms, laughing, holding his face between your palms as you kissed him again and again. messy. smiling too much to do it properly. you whispered thank you so many times he lost count.

he didn’t stop smiling all night.

he watched you twirl with your friends, watched you eat three slices of cake, watched you sing along to old songs with no shame and pull him into pictures he didn’t want to take but would now give anything to have a copy of.

you looked so alive. so happy. it was the kind of happiness that made his chest ache. because he knew—somewhere deep down—that you weren’t used to this and you were still learning what it meant to be loved like this, just like him.

the party ended slowly. people trickled out. the lights dimmed. and he drove you home, your hand clasped in his like a secret. you were quiet, then. not tired. not drunk. just… full. as if the day had overwhelmed you in the best way.

and later, when the apartment was dark and you were curled up in bed beside him, you started to cry.

soft, quiet tears. you pressed your face to his shoulder and whispered, “no one’s ever thrown me a surprise party before.”

he held you tighter. curled around you like he could protect you from every version of your past that made you think you weren’t worth celebrating.

“you deserve all of this,” he said into your hair. “and more.”

you didn’t speak after that, just held onto him, trembling slightly, breathing slow and shaky, like the moment was too big for your chest.

and he held you until you fell asleep.

that memory comes back to him whenever he sees cake. or candles. or the color of the dress you wore that night. and each time, it cuts a little deeper. not just because he misses you—but because he still doesn’t understand how someone like you could’ve ever felt so unseen.

and he hates that he only had so many years to show you otherwise.

it keeps him up some nights along with the coldness of his sheets in the absence of your warm body—long after the world has gone quiet, after the city hums itself to sleep and the walls of your apartment stretch out around him like a hollow. because no matter how much he gave you, no matter how hard he tried to make you feel treasured, it never feels like it was enough.

you deserved decades of birthdays like that. dozens of surprise parties, years of waking up to breakfast in bed, to candles and kisses and arms around your waist. you deserved to grow old with the knowledge that every single year of your life meant something, to someone who never stopped being in awe of you.

he should’ve had more time to keep proving it.

even though you smiled so brightly that night, even though you laughed and kissed him like your heart might burst—there was still that ache in your voice when you whispered “no one’s ever done that for me before.”

still the ghost of every birthday you spent alone.

still the faint sadness that even all his love couldn’t erase overnight.

and that haunts him: that he ran out of time. that he didn’t get to spend the rest of his life loving you the way you always should’ve been loved. fully. loudly. endlessly.

he would’ve done it forever, if the world had let him.

.

.

.

maybe that’s why he thinks of your wedding day so often—because for once, it didn’t feel like he was making up for lost time.

for once, it wasn’t about healing old wounds or trying to undo the hurt left by people who hadn’t loved you the way you deserved.

it was just about you.

you, radiant in a way that made his chest feel too small. you, laughing like you’d been waiting your whole life for this joy to find you. you, looking at him like you already knew every version of him—the tired one, the bitter one, the one who got too quiet when he didn’t know what to say—and still said yes.

he hadn’t expected to cry that day. he really thought he wouldn’t. he’s always been good at managing himself, keeping things tightly wound. and he’d held it together through most of the morning, calm in the face of the chaos around him, stoic even when gojo tried to make him laugh with some idiotic comment about how he was “finally getting shackled.”

it was a simple wedding. small, intimate—just the way you wanted it. nanami had insisted on giving you whatever kind of day you dreamed of, and you, in all your maddening softness, had said you didn’t want grandeur, didn’t want to be paraded around, didn’t need chandeliers or a thousand roses or expensive menus.

you just wanted to marry him. to look him in the eye and promise him everything.

so that’s what you did.

it was held at a quiet little garden venue, tucked away from the city—green, sun-drenched, and fragrant with blooming jasmine. the kind of place you said looked like something out of a storybook. there were white chairs lined up in tidy rows, pale blue ribbons fluttering on the backs of them, and your favorite flowers arranged in clusters along the altar. nanami doesn’t even remember what they were called—he just knows you lit up when you saw them, and so he made sure they were everywhere.

he’d gotten there early, of course. typical of him. early enough to help set up, to check the place twice over, to pace slowly near the altar while trying not to wrinkle his suit. gojo was his best man (regrettably), but he kept his antics to a minimum—mostly because shoko was glaring at him the whole time, for kento’s sake.

nanami looked calm. poised. the very image of a man in control that he wasn’t.

his hands wouldn’t stop twitching. his tie felt too tight. he kept glancing at the entrance, at the path where you’d walk in, where his whole life would change the second he saw you.

and when the music started—soft, slow, the beginning notes of something you’d chosen weeks ago with your head on his shoulder—he thought he might actually fall apart.

because then he saw you and the world shifted.

you weren’t even halfway down the aisle before he realized he was holding his breath. you wore white, yes, but it wasn’t just the dress—it was you. the way you smiled, nervous and glowing. the way your eyes found him and stayed there. the way you walked like you knew exactly who you were walking toward.

and suddenly, the future wasn’t a blurry, far-off thing anymore.

it was real.

it was you.

because there you were. walking toward him, eyes locked with his like there was no one else in the world. your hands shaking just a little. your smile trembling under the weight of the moment. and all at once, it hit him—this is real.

you were marrying him.

and the look on your face as you reached him—it undid him completely. you were nervous, excited, glowing, but more than anything, you looked sure.

like this was always meant to happen and you’d never doubted it for a second.

when you reached him, he took your hand, steadying both of you. you whispered something—he doesn’t even remember what, only that it made him smile through the tightness in his throat.

the ceremony was short. the officiant spoke with warmth and kindness, but nanami barely heard any of it. not because he wasn’t paying attention—he was. god, he was. but all his focus was you. the way your thumb rubbed over his hand. you kept blinking fast to keep from crying too early and he did the same, causing you to snicker with a wobbly breath. you looked at him like he was your whole future wrapped in a neat little suit and tie.

you wrote your own vows.

he remembers yours perfectly.

you told him that you never believed in soulmates—not until him. that he made the world feel safe. that you loved him for the way he listened, for the way he stood still when everything else felt like it was breaking apart. and you promised to choose him every day, even on the ones when he couldn’t choose himself.

he doesn’t cry easily, he never has.

but he cried then.

and when it was his turn, he could barely get the words out. his voice caught in his throat halfway through, but he didn’t look away from you. not once.

he told you that he didn’t believe in fate—but he believed in you. that you were his calm in the storm. that you made life feel like something worth staying in. he told you he didn’t know how to be a perfect man, but that he would spend the rest of his life being yours.

when the rings were on and the kiss came, it wasn’t showy or rushed or too long.

it was tender. quiet while the room waited to erupt in applause and joyful laughter.

a promise sealed in silence, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

afterward, the reception was all soft music and the kind of laughter that lingers in the ribs. everyone danced, even he danced. you pulled him onto the floor with both hands and kissed his cheek when he tried to protest. he let you spin him, tug him, smile up at him and he felt like he was the luckiest man alive.

(which he was.)

you fed each other cake. you had your first dance. someone’s kid spilled juice on the floor. gojo gave a terrible speech that made everyone laugh. and all the while, nanami just kept watching you. trying to memorize every expression. every laugh. every fleeting, radiant moment.

because he knew.

not that he would lose you. not then. not yet.

but he knew—on some deep, unshakable level—that this day would be one of the brightest in his life.

that one day, he might need to return to it.

and now, in the silence of your absence, he does.

over and over and over again.

until he almost convinces himself he’s still standing there, with your hand in his, the rest of the world gently fading away. and nanami, spending the day in a suit you’d helped him pick out, with his heart knocking hard against his ribs, thought to himself—

if i never do anything else right in this life, at least i loved her.

and that was enough.

—

when the reception ended—when the last of the guests had gone and the music had faded and the air was thick with the sweetness of the day—he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

you were still glowing, in that real, tangible way—your cheeks still flushed from dancing, your lips curved in a smile that wouldn’t quite fade, your hair a little mussed from all the embraces and photographs. and your hand… your hand still in his, like you weren’t ready to let go.

neither was he.

the drive to the hotel was quiet, your head resting against his shoulder in the backseat, your fingers loosely laced with his. you looked tired but soft, your eyes catching his in the low light, and there was something in that look—something he couldn’t name without his throat tightening.

and when the door to the suite closed behind you, he just stood there for a moment. watching you, taking you in. the stillness between you felt heavy, charged, warm. you laughed softly, almost shyly, like you didn’t know what to do with the weight of the day either.

he stepped forward.

he took your face in his hands and kissed you—slow, deliberate, nothing like the polite, restrained kiss at the altar. this was deeper and heavier. his thumb brushed your cheek, and he felt the way your breath hitched against his mouth.

“my wife,” he murmured into the kiss.

you smiled into it. “my husband.”

and god, he hadn’t realized until that moment how much he wanted to hear you say it.

the night stretched out from there in soft, lingering pieces—your veil somewhere on the floor, his tie abandoned somewhere near the door, his hands memorizing every inch of you like he was afraid the memory might fade. he touched you with the kind of care that comes from years of restraint finally breaking, his lips tracing reverent paths over your skin.

“my wife,” he whispered again, when you gasped under him, lik he had to remind himself it was real and the words themselves were too precious to let go of.

you’d been together for years, but that night… it was different. there was no rush in him, no sharp edge to his need. it was all deliberate, all slow-burning devotion. the kind of intimacy that came from knowing he had the rest of his life to love you—and still wanting to start now.

he kissed you until your knees went weak, until you were clinging to his shirt, breathing him in like you couldn’t get enough. his hands slid down your back, steady and warm, finding every curve, every line, every familiar place that had somehow become brand new.

when he undressed you, it was with care. not a single piece of fabric torn or tugged impatiently—he wanted to see you, fully, without breaking the spell of the moment. your dress slid down in a slow whisper, pooling at your feet, and his gaze swept over you like he was memorizing the sight.

“beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. then, softer, as if the truth had snuck up on him, “my wife is beautiful.”

you laughed, shy, and cupped his face in your hands. “you’re staring.”

“i have the right,” he said, his voice low, thumb stroking the side of your neck. “you’re mine.”

he kissed you again, deeper this time, his mouth coaxing yours open until your breaths tangled. his hands roamed over your bare skin, slow but sure, mapping you out all over again. every shiver. every sigh.

he laid you back on the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and followed you down. his weight settled over you—protective, grounding, like he couldn’t stand to be even an inch away. his lips trailed down your throat, across your collarbone, lower still, until you were trembling under him.

he touched you like you were fragile porcelain, but kissed you like you were his only lifeline. every movement was careful, reverent, almost unbearably tender.

when he finally slid into you, he stopped—just for a moment—forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on yours.

“you’re my wife,” he whispered, like he needed the confirmation to be spoken out loud and he needed you to know how much the word meant to him.

“i am,” you breathed back.

and only then he moved.

slow, deep strokes that had you arching beneath him, every inch of you pressed to every inch of him. his hands gripped your hips, then cradled your face, then threaded with your fingers, as if he couldn’t decide which part of you he needed to hold most.

he kissed you through every gasp, every moan, his lips catching your whimpers before they could reach the air.

“my wife,” he kept saying, his voice rough, breaking. “mine. i’ll take care of you. always.”

and you believed him—every word—because he was loving you like it was a vow.

his pace stayed unhurried, but there was a weight to it—each slow thrust carrying more than just want. it was him pouring every unspoken thing into you: every promise, every quiet devotion, every moment he’d ever looked at you and thought i don’t deserve her but kept it to himself.

you could feel it in the way he held you—firm enough to ground you, gentle enough to make you feel like you were something precious. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair, while the other slid along your side, tracing the curve of your waist to your thigh like he was trying to memorize you with his palms.

he kept his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes half-lidded but never wandering. every time your breath hitched, his softened; every time your lips parted on a quiet sound, his mouth found yours again.

“look at me,” he whispered, when your lashes fluttered shut. “want to see you.”

so you did—you held his gaze, even when it made your chest ache. it felt like he was seeing every version of you all at once.

“good girl,” he murmured, barely audible, kissing the corner of your mouth. “my wife. my beautiful wife.”

his hips rolled into yours, slow and deep, until your fingers tightened in his hair and your body arched against his. every inch of him stayed pressed to you, like he couldn’t stand the thought of any space between you. his thumb brushed lazy circles against your hip, grounding you in the rhythm, the closeness.

and when you whispered his name—soft, pleading—he answered it with your own, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever spoken.

“i love you,” he said, the words breaking slightly in his throat. “i’ll love you every day, for the rest of my life.”

it wasn’t just something he said. it was something he gave you—with every kiss, every stroke, every careful touch.

and when your body trembled beneath his and you clung to him like you never wanted to let go, he followed you there—breathing hard against your mouth, holding you tighter as if to keep the moment from slipping away.

he stayed inside you afterward, chest pressed to yours, his hand smoothing along your hair, down your back. he didn’t speak for a long while—just breathed you in, the quiet between you steady and warm.

but when he finally did, it was a whisper against your temple.

“sleep, my wife.”

.

.

.

the day began in the kind of silence that felt earned. the morning was almost unnervingly quiet.

not in a tense, foreboding way—at least, not at first. it was the kind of quiet that came when two people had long since learned how to speak without words. the kind of quiet you’d both earned after years of mornings together.

you woke first, though you didn’t move much. you stayed curled into him, cheek pressed to his chest, breathing slow against the steady rhythm of his heart. he was warm, solid, and even in sleep, his arm rested around you like it belonged there.

eventually, he stirred. his breath shifted, deeper for a moment, then steadier. he didn’t open his eyes right away. instead, his fingers began tracing lazy, absent patterns over your hip—like his body knew you before his mind fully caught up.

“morning, nana,” you murmured against him, voice soft with sleep.

he hummed, kissing your hair without a word.

you stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the half-light bleeding through the curtains. no alarms. no rush. the city outside was still slow to wake, the hum of it far away, leaving just the faint sound of your breaths syncing.

when he finally did speak, it was barely above a whisper. “what time is the mission?”

you tilted your head up, cheek resting against his chest so you could see his face. “late afternoon. plenty of time.”

he only nodded, but his thumb kept stroking over your skin—slow, deliberate.

you ended up making coffee together, moving through the kitchen like clockwork. him grinding the beans, you setting the mugs. you teased him for being overly precise, he teased you for always adding too much sugar. the kind of easy domestic banter that came naturally after years of loving each other.

breakfast was simple. toast. fruit. he cooked eggs, the way you liked them, and pretended not to notice when you swapped plates halfway through because his looked better. you sat across from each other, bare feet brushing under the table.

it was so ordinary yet nanami loved every second of it.

the kind of ordinary you didn’t realize you were storing away until later—until you could no longer wake to the sound of his steady breathing, or watch his hands cradle a mug in the soft light of morning.

and even though neither of you said it outright, there was a heaviness threaded through the ease of it. a quiet understanding that every mission carried risk, even if you’d both survived countless ones before.

so when you finished breakfast, you didn’t rush to get up. you leaned back in your chair, sipping your coffee, just… looking at him. and he looked back.

the hours between breakfast and the time you had to leave seemed to slip away faster than they should have.

you lingered at home longer than necessary—showering slow, brushing past him in the hallway just to feel his hand catch at your waist, sharing one last cup of coffee you didn’t really need.

when you finally did head out together, the sky was washed in that pale, golden light that makes the whole city feel softer. he walked you to the car, fingers brushing yours in quiet habit, and drove in his usual, steady way. neither of you spoke much: filling the air felt unnecessary.

jujutsu tech was already buzzing when you arrived, well, as much as it could for all of it’s emptiness. the courtyard echoed faintly with voices—students in training, shoko crossing with a cigarette in hand, gojo waving obnoxiously from a distance.

you stepped out of the car and were immediately pulled into the familiar rhythm of the place. your steps carried you toward the mission briefing room, nanami matching your pace. the sun was warmer here, spilling across the old stone walkways, catching in the faint summer-green of the trees.

it smelled faintly of earth and fresh-cut grass—so normal it almost disguised the tension that always hummed beneath the surface in this place.

you greeted shoko with an easy smile, exchanged a few words with yuuji, then felt nanami’s presence settle at your side again. always close enough to reach.

the briefing was short, straightforward on paper—nothing unusual, nothing that sounded like it would become anything more than a line on your growing list of missions. but he still stood beside you, shoulders squared, listening as if the whole thing might hide a trap.

and when it was over, you stepped outside into the fading warmth of the afternoon. the sun had shifted lower, casting long shadows across the training grounds. the hum of cicadas swelled in the background, almost loud enough to fill the quiet between you.

you both had an hour before you needed to leave—enough time to be alone without it feeling like a goodbye, but not enough to pretend the mission wasn’t waiting.

so instead of drifting off into separate tasks, you found yourselves in one of the quieter hallways of the school, away from the echo of training shouts and clattering weapons. sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, painting the floor in soft gold.

you leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely, watching him. there was a small crease between his brows, the one that showed up whenever he was thinking too far ahead.

“you’re doing it again,” you said, tilting your head.

“doing what?”

“overthinking.”

he exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping before it returned to you. “it’s my job to think ahead.”

you stepped closer, close enough that your chest brushed his with each breath. “and it’s mine to get back in one piece.”

he almost smiled. almost.

his hands found your hips without him seeming to notice, thumbs rubbing small, steady circles there. for a few seconds, neither of you spoke. the world outside the hallway seemed to blur, leaving only the faint sound of cicadas and the warm press of him in front of you.

“just—” his voice caught for a fraction of a second. “be careful.”

you reached up, straightening the lapel of his jacket, letting your fingers linger there. “always am.”

he didn’t kiss you, but his hand slid from your hip to your lower back, resting there like an anchor. you placed a small peck on the corner of his mouth. when gojo’s voice called from down the hall, breaking the moment, you didn’t move right away.

you let him hold you for just a few seconds longer, memorizing the weight of it, before you both stepped apart.

and then, together, you walked toward the gates.

.

.

.

how he wished you didn’t.

.

.

.

that evening before the mission—the one memory that he replays the most—had been so deceptively simple.

he thinks about that evening more than he should.

it had been quiet then, too, but in a softer, safer way. the day’s work was behind you, the sun long gone, and the apartment was wrapped in that kind of low, amber light that made the air feel warmer than it really was. dinner dishes were still in the sink, half-forgotten, and the couch had swallowed the both of you whole.

you’d both made it home late, still carrying the weight of the day in your shoulders. he’d cooked, because you were tired, and you’d teased him about his obsessive measuring of ingredients, which led to him teasing you about always trying to sneak bites before the food was done.

dinner had been easy, warm. the kind where the conversation flows without effort, drifting from work to memories to plans you weren’t even sure you’d ever act on.

it started with a joke—something you said between bites about how one day you were going to “kidnap him” from this world entirely and make him live somewhere quiet, far from all the noise and danger.

“and what would i do in this peaceful little exile of yours?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, eyebrow raised.

you grinned, leaning forward like you were letting him in on a conspiracy. “we’d have a baby. maybe two. you’d learn how to relax, and i’d get to see you in those tiny dad glasses, reading bedtime stories.”

he scoffed, shaking his head, but there was no real dismissal in it. “you make it sound so simple.”

“it is simple,” you countered, laughing. “just… leave all the cursed nonsense behind. be boring with me.”

you got up then, moving around the table to sit on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. his hands came to your waist without thinking, steadying you there, tethering you to him.

“you’re ridiculous,” he said, though there was the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

“ridiculously in love with you,” you corrected, poking his chest. “come on, kento. can’t you imagine it? a little us running around, probably bossing you around because they’d definitely take after me.”

he chuckled low in his chest, and you felt it through your palm resting there. “i can imagine it,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

you were giggly, leaning your forehead against his, rambling about baby names and which one of you would be the strict parent. he listened to all of it—every silly, impossible detail—because your voice was lit with joy and your eyes sparkled in a way that made him feel like the luckiest man alive.

and later, when you’d both gone quiet, just sitting there with your arms around his neck, he kissed your temple and murmured, almost to himself—

“i’d give you all of it. the baby. the quiet. the life.”

you just smiled, pressing your lips to his jaw, and said, “we’ve got time.”

he believed you.

.

.

.

in the present, nanami sits at the kitchen table, his untouched mug of coffee cooling by his hand.

his gaze isn’t really on anything—not the faint steam curling from the drink, not the stack of unopened mail beside it. his eyes are fixed on some middle distance, somewhere past the walls, past the quiet apartment, past the here and now entirely.

he’s back there. on the couch with you, your laughter spilling into the dim light, your head resting on his thigh as you paint pictures of a life you’d never get to live together.

his fingers twitch faintly on the table, like they remember the weight of your leg over his, the way you’d absently rub your foot against his calf while you talked.

the memory plays uninvited, in full color, with every small sound and shift in your expression perfectly intact.

and it hurts.

hurts because in that moment, you’d been so alive, so certain, so happy. hurts because he can still feel the way his chest swelled when you said as long as it’s with you. hurts because part of him still, stupidly, waits for you to walk through the door and finish the conversation and start it again.

he blinks slowly, the image of you on that couch lingering behind his eyes even as the real world settles back around him. the silence of the apartment presses in, heavy and unmoving, and his hand finally closes around the mug—more for something to hold than for the coffee itself.

as he stares into the dark liquid, he remembers finding you in the dark.

the mission had gone wrong hours ago—he knew it the moment you got separated. the terrain was uneven, the curses faster than expected, the air heavy with that metallic tang of danger. he’d been calling your name, voice low but sharp, as he moved through the half-ruined streets.

the only answer had been the wind.

his steps were steady, methodical—he couldn’t afford to panic. not until he found you. he told himself you were fine, that you’d handled worse before. he clung to the memory of your smile that morning, the ease of your banter, like a talisman against the creeping thought that maybe you weren’t.

but then he turned a corner, and the world shifted.

you were there, just a few meters ahead, half-hidden in the jagged shadows of collapsed stone and splintered wood. for one breath, his body recognized your outline, your familiar shape—and for that single, impossible second, relief swelled in him.

then he saw the way you were lying.

too still.

too… wrong.

he moved to you fast—faster than he thought his body could. his knees hit the ground beside you, the jolt rattling through him, and his hands were on you before his mind could catch up.

“hey,” he said, low and urgent, the way you speak to someone who’s just on the edge of consciousness. “it’s me. it’s—”

his voice broke when he saw your face.

your eyes were half-lidded, glassy, unfocused. blood stained your mouth, your clothes, your skin. there was so much of it, soaking into the ground beneath you, sticky against his hands.

his breath stuttered, but he tried anyway—tried to check your pulse, tried to press his hand to the worst of the wounds. your chest gave the faintest rise under his palm, shallow and ragged, and for one insane, desperate heartbeat, he thought maybe—maybe—

his mind couldn’t seem to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.

even as his knees dug into the gravel, even as the damp from the blood seeped cold through his trousers, there was some stubborn, fractured part of him waiting for you to move. for your hand to twitch, for your mouth to form his name, for your chest to rise with a fuller breath.

but you didn’t.

your skin was cooling under his touch, your weight slack in his arms. the scent of iron clung to every inhale until it was all he could taste, all he could breathe.

but the damage… god, the damage.

he pressed his palm to the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone like he could coax you back just by being gentle enough. “wake up, my love,” he murmured, voice shaking in a way it hadn’t in years. “please. just… wake up.”

your body was broken in ways that couldn’t be undone. jagged edges of bone where they shouldn’t be, deep, tearing gashes that pulsed weakly before stilling. he’d seen death before, seen it up close, but it was different now—because it was you.

he didn’t cry—not then. it was worse than that. there was no outpouring of grief, no breaking sobs, just a hollow stillness that seemed to dig into his chest and widen with every heartbeat.

because this couldn’t be it. it couldn’t end like this—on a dirty, broken street, under the shadow of some half-fallen wall, with your blood painting the ground around you, painting his suit with cruel strokes.

his eyes drifted over you—over the gashes he couldn’t close, the way your limbs had fallen at wrong angles. his stomach twisted hard, bile burning at the back of his throat, but he couldn’t look away.

these were wounds he should’ve been there to stop.

he should’ve been there with you.

“no. no, no—” the words rasped out, almost soundless. his hands wouldn’t stop moving—pressing here, tilting your chin, shaking lightly as if he could jolt you awake. “stay with me. just—stay with me. please.”

your lips parted, maybe to say something, maybe just on a dying breath. he leaned close, trying to catch whatever sound you had left, but all he heard was the thin, wet rattle in your chest.

and then that, too, faded.

his hands shook as he tried to shift you, to pull you closer to him without making it worse—not that it mattered now. he cradled your head in the crook of his elbow, pressing his forehead to yours like he had on your wedding night, whispering your name just to hear it in the air.

it didn’t echo back.

the world around him stayed silent—eerily so. no curse stirred, no wind broke the stillness. it was just him and you, and the weight of every moment you’d ever shared crashing down on him at once.

and still, he stayed there.

he stayed there, crouched over you, his hands hovering uselessly above the ruin of your body. the night pressed in heavy, the scent of blood thick in the air. ijichi’s voice ringed in his ear through a veil of water, urging him to let go and let gojo warp you back to shoko’s.

the curses were gone now—whether he’d killed them all or they’d simply scattered didn’t matter. nothing mattered.

just you.

just the unbearable weight of your silence.

he didn’t know how long he stayed like that—long enough for your blood to dry tacky on his skin, long enough for the cold to creep in through his suit. he brushed your hair back from your face, smoothed it gently, like you were only sleeping.

but you weren’t.

and there was nothing left for him to do but sit there in the wreckage, holding the body of the only person he’d ever loved like this, the word my heart echoing in his skull until it was all he could hear.

.

.

.

the summer sky above kuantan is so clear in his mind he almost believes it’s real—cloudless, deep blue, the kind of heat that hums in the bones, the kind of light that turns the sea into molten silver. he can hear the hush of waves, taste the faint tang of salt on the breeze.

but here in shibuya, the air is heavy with smoke and metal, each breath shallow. his body is slowing. his blood is warm against the concrete. still, his mind wanders—not to the curses, not to the fight, but to you.

the memory is soft, golden at the edges. it had been one of those late nights when neither of you could sleep, the city’s quiet pressing in through the open window. you were sprawled across the bed on your stomach, cheek resting on your folded arms, eyes fixed on him like he was more interesting than anything the world had to offer.

“if you could go anywhere,” you asked suddenly, voice low in the dark, “where would you go?”

he’d been lying on his back, staring at the faint patterns on the ceiling. “anywhere?”

“anywhere.” you scooted closer, chin now propped on his chest, your legs kicking lazily behind you. “no limits. no missions. just… you and me.”

he thought for a long moment before answering, his gaze still tilted toward the ceiling. “kuantan. malaysia.”

you tilted your head, curious. “have you been?”

he shook his head faintly. “no. i read about it once—white beaches, fishing boats, quiet mornings. the water’s supposed to be so clear you can see your own shadow on the sand beneath it. something about it stuck with me. i’ve always… wanted to see it for myself.”

you smiled at that, soft and sure. “then we’ll go.”

he glanced at you, one brow raising. “just like that?”

“just like that,” you said, without even a beat of hesitation. “i’d go to the edge of the world with you, kento. kuantan’s easy.”

he went still for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then his hand found your cheek, his thumb brushing slowly along your jaw like he was trying to commit every line of you to memory.

“you’re my heart,” he murmured, the words so quiet they almost dissolved into the air.

your smile grew, your fingers catching his wrist to hold his touch there. “yours,” you whispered back.

you stayed like that for a long while—your forehead pressed to his, your breathing slow and steady, the night wrapping around you like a secret you didn’t need to share with anyone else. eventually, your eyes closed, and he lay awake just a little longer, listening to your breathing, memorizing the weight of you against him.

and now—here, in shibuya—he clings to that memory like a lifeline. the noise fades, the pain dulls, and for a moment, he’s back there in that bed with you, the night warm and endless, the promise of kuantan just a thought away.

the sky above him isn’t kuantan’s, but in his mind, it is. it’s summer, and the sea is endless, and you’re beside him, smiling like you always did when you believed in something with your whole heart.

my heart.

he breathes the words again, this time only in his head, and lets them be the last thing he keeps.

[mahowaga]

A COOKBOOK OF QUIET DEVOTIONS | N.K.

SUMMARY: a shared apartment. a quiet kitchen. an overworked man who never asks for anything. and someone who cooks, because love needs somewhere to go.

PAIRING: nanami kento x fem!reader CONTAINS: fluff and comfort, romance, slow-burn, roommates to lovers au, alcohol consumption, honestly just nanami being a gentleman (and a little bit emotionally constipated) NOW PLAYING: infatuated by rangga jones WC: 16.0k WARNINGS: none!

Your apartment always feels like it’s holding its breath.

Not in fear, but in careful, hopeful anticipation–like a heart paused mid-beat, waiting softly for something to change. It’s quiet most nights, filled only with the gentle humming of an old refrigerator, the distant murmur of traffic from the main road two blocks down, and the sound of rain, if the weather is terrible, tapping on the windows, as if politely asking to come in.

You share a third-floor walk-up with Nanami Kento, tucked between a bakery that opens too early and a bookstore that rarely closes. The floors creak with age and memory, the walls are too thin to keep secrets, and the kitchen smells faintly of green onions no matter how often you scrub the stovetop. It’s not perfect, not large, but it holds two lives in parallel–yours and his–carefully balanced like plates in a drying rack. Close, but never quite touching.

You’ve been living together for a while now, a slow accumulation of days into months, forming a routine built more on silent understanding than explicit arrangement. It wasn’t intended to be permanent, this sharing of spaces and bills and quiet evenings–but now, it’s become the only thing you know how to want. The mundane intimacy of shared dish soap, a favorite mug left rinsed and upside down, the way he folds the blanket on the couch after falling asleep under it–all of it lingers.

Nanami Kento is not a loud man. He moves through life with a purpose, his expressions subtle, muted–a quiet storm behind eyes often shadowed by exhaustion. He rises early, showers briskly, ties his tie with measured precision, and slips quietly into the morning fog to become a salaryman whose days blur into overtime evenings. When he returns, often long after twilight has faded into midnight, he carries the weight of the day like a physical burden, one you can see settled squarely between his shoulders, bending him slightly forward, just enough to ache.

He doesn’t talk about his work. You never ask. The rhythm of your cohabitation has become a kind of silent choreography: you cook, he eats. You clean one week, he cleans the other. He brews coffee in the morning, you leave a slice of fruit beside it. He brings home the occasional bakery bag, leaves it on the counter for you to find. Everything is quiet. Everything is delicate.

You never speak about how your heart clenches each time you hear the soft click of the front door, the quiet exhale of a tired breath, the rustling of his jacket being hung by the door. Instead, you’ve learned to say it differently: in the careful adjustments to his shoes lined neatly beside yours; in the way you set out fresh towels for him before dawn; in the subtle shifting of your schedule so you can be awake, somehow, when he comes home. Sometimes you pretend to still be up reading. Sometimes you are.

He eats whatever you cook without complaint, sometimes with low murmurs of appreciation, sometimes with nothing but the scrape of his chopsticks against the bottom of the bowl. He’s not ungrateful. Just quiet. As if he’s still trying to remember how to speak for pleasure instead of obligation.

You often wonder if he even notices these small gestures of yours, these invisible love letters you write without pen or paper. But he is Kento–practical, reserved, gentle in ways that aren’t always visible. And you’re you, someone who’s learned to express love quietly, in ways that don’t always need recognition, only presence. It’s enough, you tell yourself, most nights.

But not always.

Lately, there’s something restless inside of you. A longing you can’t name that simmers below the surface when he brushes past you in the hallway or lingers at the dinner table longer than usual. You find yourself spending more time in the kitchen, choosing ingredients more deliberately, plating things with intention. As if the setting of sauteed scallions might say what you cannot. As if the heat of broth might carry your meaning than your voice ever could.

And so, tonight, as you walk home beneath the gentle sigh of autumn rain, your umbrella dripping, your hands chilled but steady, you decide to try.

Not with words, perhaps, not yet. But with something warmer, softer, richer–something that tastes unmistakably like care. Like yearning. Like a question waiting to be answered.

RICE PORRIDGE WITH PICKLED PLUM AND WHITE PEPPER (let me carry the weight tonight)

The apartment is oddly still when you step inside. Not empty–but still, like it’s biding its time, the hush of late night wrapped around the walls like a blanket. The sound of your key sliding into the lock is quiet, reverent. You toe off your shoes with slow movements, as though even the floorboards might be sleeping. The air smells faintly of worn paper and wool–something like him. Like rain that hasn’t quite touched the skin.

You set your bag down gently by the door and listen, making your way into the living room.

The television is off. The overhead lights are dark. The only illumination comes from the pale glow of his laptop screen, still open on the coffee table. It casts a bluish shimmer across the hardwood floor and the low line of the sofa.

And he’s there, just where you suspected. 

Kento, asleep in the unkind angles of a couch never meant for comfort. His back is curled slightly, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other still draped loosely over a thin stack of documents. His glasses have slipped down his nose. The buttons of his shirt are undone at the collar, his tie tossed carelessly to one side like a flag lowered at half-mast. There’s an exhaustion in him that never seems to sleep, but now–he looks less like a man at war with the clock and more like a boy who forgot how to rest.

The sight squeezes something soft in your chest.

You don’t move toward him. Not yet. There’s an intimacy to watching someone sleep–one you haven’t quite earned the right to claim. Instead, you stand there for a while, quiet as breath, letting your eyes trace the slight twitch of his fingertips against the paper, the slow rise and fall of his chest. You memorize it like scripture.

The silence clicks in your chest like a metronome. You don’t speak. You don’t touch him. You slip into the kitchen without a word.

The hour is late–later than it should be for anyone to be awake, let alone making a meal. But this isn’t about necessity. This is something else entirely. The act itself is a kind of offering, one you don’t have the language to name. You move through the narrow kitchen space on instinct, bare feet whispering against the linoleum. The light above the stove hums softly to life when you flick it on, casting a halo around the counter. You like to imagine it’s your own little sanctuary.

The fridge creaks open, then closes with a muted hush. You rinse the rice in cold water, watching the cloudy starch bloom like breath on glass. The silence around you stretches wide, punctuated only by the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant shiver of rain against the windowpane.

You fill the pot. Set it to boil.

The okayu doesn’t ask much of you–just patience. You stir slowly, spoon scraping gently along the bottom of the pot in a quiet rhythm. You add white pepper. A hint of ginger. You let the rice soften, melt. Let it become something warm and nourishing, something forgiving. It’s a dish meant for the sick, the weary, the lost. You’ve made it before, but never quite like this.

Tonight, you press your heart into it.

You half a pickled plum and place it gently in the center of the bowl when it’s done, like a seal on a letter never written. Something delicate and red, bright against the pale backdrop of the porridge. You stir a little more white pepper into the surface, just the way he prefers–not too strong, just enough for heat to linger on the tongue.

You don’t garnish. You don’t attempt to go above and beyond with the plating. There’s something sacred about this kind of simplicity. A quiet declaration.

You reach for a post-it and the pen you keep in the drawer–you keep these in the kitchen in case you get inspiration for a new recipe. The words come out small.

Eat this when you wake up. You don’t have to do everything.

You place the bowl on the coffee table, just beside his sleeping elbow, and cover it with a small plate to keep it warm. You don’t touch him. You don’t wake him. You just stand there, for a moment. Let your eyes drink in the sight of him–creased shirt, worn lines beneath his eyes, fingers still curled around the life he never seems able to put down.

He looks impossibly breakable. But more than that, he looks lonely.

You wonder what it would feel like to lay a hand on his shoulder, just once. To brush a knuckle down the curve of his cheek and whisper, You don’t have to do this alone. But your love lives in quieter places.

So instead, you turn off the light and let the moon spill silver through the curtains. You leave the bowl behind, steaming softly in the dark, and walk back to your own room with the scent of ginger clinging to your sleeves and a thousand unspoken things tucked beneath your ribs.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. It never does when your heart is too full.

By morning, the bowl is gone. Washed. Dried. Put back in its place. The plate too.

The post-it is missing. You don’t ask. He doesn’t mention it.

But when you come into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you find him already dressed for work–tie straight, shirt crisp, his mug of coffee half-empty. He doesn’t look at you right away, but you notice that the tension in his shoulders has eased. He rolls them once as he stirs in his sugar, then glances your way–just a flick of his eyes. Just for a moment.

But in that glance, there is something. Not gratitude, not quite. Not love, either. But recognition. Something softened.

You hold onto that look all day like warmth cupped in two hands. You don’t need more. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

SCALLION PANCAKES AND SOY SAUCE WITH GARLIC (you still make me laugh)

There’s a different kind of silence in the apartment tonight. Not the soft, comforting kind that folds around two people sharing space in tired harmony–but something sharper, hollower. A silence with too many corners. It buzzes faintly around the edges, like a lightbulb that’s been left on too long.

Kento is home, though you only know that from the sound of the front door closing half an hour ago, followed by the soft rustle of his coat being hung by the entrance. He didn’t say anything when he came in. Not even the customary hum of acknowledgement. Just the steady rhythm of his steps, a brief pause in the kitchen for water, and then the low creak of the couch under his weight.

You glance over from your place at the small dining table. He’s sitting there now, laptop open again, glasses perched low on his nose, brows drawn together like storm clouds that have forgotten how to pass. His hand moves the mouse absently. He scrolls, clicks, scrolls again. Every so often he exhales through his nose–quiet, sharp, almost irritated, but mostly just tired.

You realize you haven’t seen him laugh in weeks. Not that he ever laughed easily. Kento’s smiles were rare, but not impossible. You’ve seen them before–in the corners of his mouth over morning coffee, in the tilt of his shoulders when he finds something mildly amusing. You’ve even seen him chuckle once, low and startled, when you dropped an entire bag of rice and tried to pretend it was performance art.

But lately, even those have vanished. Worn thin by the hours, the weight, the silence he keeps dragging home.

You don’t ask what’s wrong. That’s never been your role in this quaint little world you share. No, instead, you rise from your seat, move into the kitchen, and begin pulling ingredients from the fridge like you’re collecting pieces of something long forgotten.

Scallions. Flour. Oil.

It’s not a fancy dish. It’s not meant to impress. It’s one of those things that carries the memory of laughter inside its layers–crispy and chewy, crackling and golden, green onions seared into soft pockets of dough like secret messages. Something you grew up with. Something you remember eating on slow weekends with grease-stained napkins and fingers you weren’t supposed to lick.

The dough is warm under your palms, pliant. You roll it flat, sprinkle chopped scallions across the surface like confetti, then roll it again and flatten it back into circles, round and imperfect. The pan sizzles to life under your hand. Oil blooms in little golden pools. You press each pancake down gently, letting the heat coax its shape into crispiness.

The smell creeps through the apartment slowly.

You see him glance up from his screen, barely perceptible, then look back down. His shoulders are still tense, but one knee bounces slightly, tapping against the coffee table. You pretend not to notice.

While the pancakes cool just enough to touch, you make the dipping sauce: soy, garlic, sesame oil, a dash of rice vinegar. Stirred together with care. You drizzle a little over one slice, tuck the rest into a shallow dish beside it.

You plate it all on a small tray–no ceremony, just softness. The kind that says, I noticed you’re hurting, and I can’t fix it, but I can make this. You walk it over, setting it gently on the table beside his laptop. He blinks, then lifts his eyes to yours, slow and slightly startled.

You don’t say anything. Just smile. Not a big one. Just enough to say: I’m still here.

He studies the plate for a moment, then closes the lid of his laptop with a small sigh. The air feels less brittle as he sets it aside.

He takes a bite without much fanfare. The crunch echoes softly in the room. Then he pauses.

His eyes flick toward you again, this time longer. He chews slowly, swallows. You watch his expression shift–just a little. Something about the way his jaw eases. The way his brows smooth. His next bite is quicker. He doesn’t dip it into the sauce this time, just eats it straight, like the memory of the flavor is already stitched into him.

“I haven’t had this since college,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse from disuse.

You don’t respond right away. There’s something delicate in this moment–fragile, like lace, easily torn. You let it settle in the quiet. Then, you purse your lips and say, “It’s not perfect.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just finishes another piece, the grease glossing his fingertips, the corners of his mouth lifting just barely–more like a memory of a smile than the real thing. But it’s enough. It’s something.

He eats everything you’ve given him. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t leave crumbs.

When he finishes, he wipes his hands on a napkin with uncharacteristic slowness, then leans back into the couch. You catch him glancing toward the empty plate once, like he’s surprised it’s gone. Like he wasn’t expecting to enjoy it.

You leave the plate where it is. Go back to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water you don’t drink.

From the corner of your eye, you see him push the laptop farther away. He sits back, exhales, closes his eyes–not in exhaustion, but in something quieter. Not peace, perhaps, but something very near to it.

You don’t need him to laugh. Not really. Just this–this moment where something inside him loosened. Where the weight shifted.

You clean up the oil. Wash the pan. Fold the towel beside the sink with care. It smells like scallions and sesame and a little bit like him somehow, and you find yourself holding it for a second too long before setting it aside.

When you pass behind the couch on your way to your room, you pause. Not for long. Just long enough for him to crack one eye open and say, so softly you almost miss it, “Thank you.”

It’s the first time he’s thanked you for a meal outright.

You carry the sound of it to bed like a treasure. Like the start of something you’re not ready to name–but already know the flavor of it by heart.

SILKEN TOMATO SOUP WITH BASIL AND TOASTED CHEESE SANDWICHES (you don’t have to be alone to be strong)

The rain has come again, steady and mellow, brushing against the windowpanes like fingers drumming a lullaby. The world outside is a blur of deep gray and softened light, and inside, your apartment folds itself smaller, cozier, like it’s trying to offer shelter from something that can’t be seen but can still be felt.

Kento comes home earlier than usual.

Not early by most standards–it’s still past ten–but for him, it’s a rare kindness. You hear the familiar cadence of his footsteps up the stairs, the brief pause before he keys the lock, the small, exhausted breath as he slips inside. His umbrella is slick with rainwater, his coat shoulders damp, a faint halo of wetness darkening the beige fabric. He peels it off with care and drapes it over the hook near the door, then pauses.

You’re already in the kitchen. He doesn’t call out. He never does. His presence enters the space before he does, a quiet gravity that shifts the air.

You stir the soup again, letting the scent of tomatoes and basil warm the room. You made it creamy this time, letting the olive oil blend with soft-roasted garlic and sweet shallots before folding in the crushed San Marzano tomatoes. You stirred in cream slowly, like folding in pardon. It’s smooth now, red as memory, glossy and rich. A little sweet, a little tangy. A comfort food you only ever make when the world feels too sharp.

You don’t turn around when he walks past the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. You just keep stirring.

When he reemerges fifteen minutes later, he’s barefoot and in a soft navy t-shirt you’ve seen before, one of the few things he wears that actually looks comfortable. His hair is damp from a quick shower. He moves more quietly than usual–not like he’s avoiding you, but like he’s trying not to break something in the air between you.

You ladle the soup into two wide bowls. Steam curls upward in gentle spirals. On the side, you’ve already plated two grilled cheese sandwiches, sliced diagonally, the crusts just browned, the cheddar melting slightly at the corners. The scent of butter and toasting bread lingers in the air like nostalgia.

He pauses when he sees it.

“This looks,” he says, and then stops. Blinks once. “Like home.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Not immediately. “It reminds me of rainy days in my grandmother’s kitchen,” he says. “She always insisted soup tasted better when it was made while listening to the rain.”

You don’t smile, but something in your chest melts. “I didn’t know that,” you say.

He hums. “I didn’t think I remembered it until now.”

You place the bowls down on the table. Slide one toward him.

He sits across from you, fingers curling around the spoon in his usual precise way. He stirs the soup once, then tastes it. He doesn’t speak for a while. Just eats.

And you eat too, spoon by spoon, pausing every now and then to wipe your mouth, to breathe, to steal small glances over the rim of your bowl. His eyes are tired, yes, but less tight. His mouth is set in a line, but not a hard one.

Halfway through the bowl, he speaks again.

“This is different from the food you usually make.”

You pause, spoon mid-air. “Bad different?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, just–softer.”

You tilt your head. “I wanted something gentle.”

He nods. Looks down into his soup again.

“Did something happen today?” you ask, not pushing. Just asking.

He hesitates, then sets his spoon down with a quiet clink. His hands fold in front of him. His shoulders shift like he’s trying to figure out how to carry something invisible.

“Nothing unusual,” he says, but his voice is quieter than before. “Just… a long day.”

You nod. That’s enough. You don’t need the details.

“You’re allowed to have those,” you say. “The long ones.”

He looks up at that. His eyes meet yours, and for once, they don’t look away.

“I know,” he murmurs, and after a moment, “You’re always here when I come home.”

You take a bite of your sandwich. It’s warm against your lips, the cheese stretching just enough to remind you of childhood. You chew, swallow, then say, “Of course I am.”

He stares at you.

There’s something about the way he holds your gaze this time. Not searching. Not confused. Just watching. Like he’s looking for something he’s already found but doesn’t know how to name.

The rain outside deepens, drumming lightly against the glass. You shift in your seat. The warmth from the soup is settling into your bones now, melting something slow and aching beneath your ribs.

“You don’t always have to hold everything on your own,” you say, voice soft. “You don’t have to always be the strong one.”

He doesn’t answer, but he finishes his soup.

When he stands to clear the dishes, he does it gently. He takes your bowl, too. You watch his hands as he rinses them in the sink–steady, clean, precise. There’s a reverence to the way he sets them on the drying rack. Like he knows they hold something fragile.

You’re still at the table when he comes back, drying his hands on a cloth. He hesitates for a moment, then leans against the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know how to say thank you in the way this deserves.”

You meet his eyes. “You don’t have to.”

His breath hitches like he’s about to speak again, but instead, he nods once, slow. Thoughtful.

You rise from your chair. Walk to the sink. Wash your hands and your cup. It’s all easy, familiar choreography now–the quiet ritual of two people in a space too full of unspoken things to ever really be quiet.

When you brush past him on the way out, your fingers accidentally graze his.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t say anything.

The brief brush of your fingers is nothing. A whisper. A passing thread. But the contact hums in your skin long after it’s gone. You don’t look at him. You keep walking–slow, steady–to the hallway, to the soft hum of your room, but your heart beats too loudly in your ears, muffling the rain and the quiet and everything else.

Behind you, he doesn’t follow. You hear his breath shift. Not a sigh. Not quite. It’s more private, like the sound one makes when they are standing at the edge of something they’ve never dared to name.

You stop just past the frame of your door, letting your palm rest on the wood. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Maybe you don’t want the moment to end. Maybe part of you wants to turn back, just to see if he’s still watching. You don’t. You let the air between you cool slowly, the way soup does when no one touches it–full of everything it was meant to give, still warm even when it goes still.

Later, after you’ve slipped into your pajamas and lit the small bedside lamp, you hear him moving. Muted, cautious footsteps. The clink of glass, the brush of the kitchen towel against the counter. The lights shut off one by one. The door to his room creaks open, then closed again.

It’s silent after that. Not empty. Not cold. Just… filled. Saturated with something delicate. Like the air has been steeped in understanding, even if no one has said the words.

You settle beneath your covers, and the scent of roasted tomatoes still lingers faintly in your skin. Your fingers curl under the pillow, and you close your eyes with the smallest smile–one no one will see but you.

There was no leftover food tonight. Only the memory of him, eating beside you like he belonged there. Like coming home meant something. Like your presence was a given and not a grace.

It’s not love yet. Not quite. But it’s something. And it’s beginning.

CURRY UDON WITH SOFT-BOILED EGG (let me be the soft place you land)

There are kinds of hunger that have nothing to do with food.

You know them well by now. The ache in the chest when he closes his bedroom door without a word. The subtle hunch of his shoulders when he steps out of his shoes like he’s trying to fold himself small enough not to spill over the edges. The way his voice, when he does speak, sometimes stirs nothing more than air–thin, careful, restrained like a flame trimmed too low.

You watch him from the kitchen, half-shadowed by the cabinets and the low glow of the stove light. It’s late again. But not as late as it could be. The city still hums faintly outside the window, lights flickering in quiet syncopation. Your shared apartment smells like heat and starch and warmth, and your hands are moving on muscle memory now–mincing garlic, slicing scallions, pressing the heel of your palm into the dough of your patience.

You’re making curry udon tonight.

Something thicker. Something that sticks to the ribs, heavy and steady and full of flavor you don’t have to search for. A meal that doesn’t whisper but wraps itself around the bones and holds. You start by blooming the spices in oil–curry powder, grated ginger, the quick hiss of garlic hitting the pan. You let them open slowly, like trust. Then come the onions, caramelizing until soft and golden, like they’ve remembered a sweet memory. The broth follows, poured in carefully, steadily. You stir it all together and watch the steam rise in swirls that look like thoughts you haven’t spoken yet.

A dish like this has a certain honesty about it. Nothing special. No performance. Just deep heat and soft noodles, the kind of food that says, I know the world outside is cold. Come in anyway.

The soft-boiled egg is the final touch–nestled on top, trembling slightly, yolk the color of late afternoon sun. You add scallions, a dash of shichimi. You don’t think too hard about it–actually, you do. You always do.

When Kento walks in, his sleeves are already rolled up, his tie nowhere in sight. His eyes are tired, but not faraway. He’s more grounded tonight, you think–like he didn’t let the day devour him whole this time.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, stopping just short of the table.

“It’s a bit spicy,” you say. “But it’s warm.”

He sits down without prompting. That’s new. You place the bowl in front of him, careful not to let the broth spill over the lip. When you hand him chopsticks, your fingers brush again. This time, neither of you pulls away.

He looks down at the dish. Studies it for a moment, brows faintly raised.

“Is the egg supposed to look like that?” he asks.

You tilt your head, leaning closer to look. “Like what?”

“Like it’s trying to hold itself together but might fall apart if you breathe too close.”

You blink. He blinks back.

Then–just barely–he smiles.

“I guess that’s the point,” he says, quieter now. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Not right away. Your chest, however, warms in a way that has nothing to do with the stove.

You sit across from him and take your own bowl in your hands. The broth is fragrant, the steam curling up against your cheeks like something affectionate. You slurp the noodles, let the spice but your tongue just enough to remind you that you’re still here. Still feeling. Still waiting, in your own way, for something to change.

Across from you, Kento is eating slowly, deliberately. You watch him break the egg, the yolk blooming into the broth, golden and rich, the kind of thing you have to chase with your spoon before it disappears.

“This reminds me of something,” he says between bites, voice low. “A place I used to go during exam season in university. They served this with green tea and never judged if you ordered seconds.”

“Did you?”

He nods. “Every time. Finals made me hungrier than I thought possible.”

You smile, amused. “Were you the kind of student who studied until you passed out?”

“No,” he says. “I studied until I could forget everything else.”

The words are simple, yet they land heavy.

You don’t pry. You never do. Something in your chest folds softly anyways, like dough resting after being worked too hard.

He sets his chopsticks down and takes a sip of water. His fingers are slightly red from the heat of the bowl. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“I like when you cook things like this,” he says eventually. “It’s grounding.”

You glance up from your noodles. “Grounding?”

“Like I’m being told I can stop running. Just for a while.”

Your throat tightens. You look back down at your bowl and pretend to stir the noodles, even though they’ve already loosened, already taken in everything they can.

You wonder if this is what love feels like in a place like this–not fireworks, not declarations, but two bowls of curry udon shared under a single kitchen light, and a man telling you, in his own way, that he trusts you enough to stop pretending he’s not tired.

The silence between you now isn’t empty. It’s warm, filled with the clink of ceramic and the occasional sound of breath. The kind of quiet that comes after something has been understood, not explained.

You finish eating. He does too.

When he stands, he takes both bowls again. Washes them without being asked. He hums under his breath while he rinses the pot–a low, thoughtful sound, like the kind someone makes when the storm in their chest has calmed just enough to notice the raindrops on the windows.

You go to wipe your hands with the towel by the sink, and when you reach for the dishcloth, he hands it to you before you can ask.

Your fingers touch. He doesn’t flinch. You don’t let go right away. And he doesn’t make you.

CHICKEN KATSU CURRY WITH APPLE-HONEY ROUX (you deserve something that tastes like care)

There are some meals you don’t rush.

You start this one before he gets home, long before. You’re slicing onions in your softest shirt, humming beneath your breath, the sleeves pushed up your arms as the pan hisses and steams. You’ve peeled and grated the apples already–one sweet, one tart–and set them beside a small cup of honey, waiting like punctuation at the end of a sentence you haven’t yet spoken aloud.

You let the onions brown until they give in completely, until they become silk, then add the curry paste, coaxing the color darker, richer. It’s not from a box tonight. You made it from scratch. Stirred it gently. Layered it like a confession. A little cinnamon. A little clove. The apples melt when you add them. The honey follows, slow, like a final promise.

It simmers. You let it.

Outside, the streetlights flicker on, and the sky turns the color of cooled tea. The apartment smells like warmth. Like spice and sugar and something waiting to be named.

You fry the katsu last.

The oil crackles, sharp and alive, but you don’t flinch. You know how to handle this heat now. You bread the cutlets with care, dredging them through flour, egg, then panko, listening to the sizzle as they slip into the pan. The golden crispness blooms almost instantly, and you watch it, thinking, This is what it means to want someone gently. To give them something beautiful without needing to be seen.

He comes home just as you’re plating–quiet steps, a faint sigh at the door. You hear the rustle of his jacket, the thunk of his shoes being set side by side. He doesn’t speak right away, but he lingers in the doorway longer than usual.

“You made curry,” he says, soft.

You glance up. “The real kind.”

His eyes scan the kitchen–the golden crust of the chicken, the sheen of the roux, the way you’ve fanned the rice just slightly with the back of a spoon.

He smiles. Just a little. “Special occasion?”

You shrug. “You made it to Friday. I’d call that a miracle.”

He chuckles, low and brief, and moves to wash his hands.

The table is set when he sits down. You’ve even added two bowls of amazake, sweating gently against the wood. He notices. Nods once. No thank you. You see it in the way his posture melts.

He takes the first bite slowly, as he always does. Fork and knife this time–ever precise, ever restrained. The moment the curry hits his tongue, however, he pauses.

You don’t look up. You want him to speak first.

“This is…” he says, then stops. Swallows. “You made the sauce from scratch.”

“Is it too sweet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just unexpected.”

You glance up then. “Good unexpected?”

His mouth quirks at the edge, not quite a smile, but close enough to one. “Yes.”

You eat together like you’ve done a hundred times before. The difference tonight is in the tempo–how he speaks more, how you lean in with your elbow on the table, how the lamplight glows just a bit warmer than usual.

“This was my favorite thing as a kid,” you tell him, breaking the quiet. “Not because it was fancy. Just because my mom only made it when she wasn’t too tired to cook. It meant she had energy left. It meant she thought we were worth that.”

He looks at you, carefully. “She sounds like someone who loved with her hands.”

“She was,” you say. “I think I inherited that part.”

His eyes dip to your plate. Then rise to your mouth–your lips. Then flick away, polite, always polite. But you see it. The way his fingers still on the fork. The way his breathing shifts, barely. The way something he’s been holding back curls against the inside of his ribs and stays there, warm and unspoken.

You set your utensil down. “Kento,” you say, and your voice is softer now. Not bold, but close.

His eyes lift immediately.

“You don’t have to be grateful.”

He blinks.

“For the food,” you add. “For any of it.”

“I know,” he says, after a moment.

“I’m not doing it to get anything back.”

He studies you. Long enough that you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

“I know,” he says again. “But I think I want to.”

You tilt your head, brows furrowed.

“Reciprocate,” he says, and this time his voice is clearer. “Even if I don’t know how.”

You smile. Not teasing. Not pitying. Just soft.

“Start with finishing your curry,” you say.

And he does. He eats every last bite, even sops a little sauce from the edge of the plate with a spoon, something he’s never done in front of you before. He’s unguarded now. Like heat rising from the inside out. Like the way spice lingers even after the dish is long gone.

When the meal is done, you stand to clear the plates, but he stops you.

“I’ll do it,” he says, and you let him.

You sit at the table and sip the rest of your amazake while he rinses the dishes, sleeves rolled, the soft skin of his forearms exposed beneath lamplight. His hands move slower than usual. Not mechanical. Present.

When he turns off the tap and turns back toward you, he leans against the sink and says nothing. The look in his eyes is different now, you notice. Less guarded. Less distant. Like he’s wondering what it would feel like to say more. To reach across the table next time. To taste the next thing not for flavor, but for what it might mean.

“I liked this one,” he says, finally.

You hum. “What did it taste like?”

He’s quiet. Then, “Like someone decided I was worth the effort.”

Your heart stutters. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You don’t look away. And this time, neither does he.

SOY-MARINATED SOFT-BOILED EGGS OVER RICE (i think about you even when i don’t see you)

The light on Saturday mornings is different.

It doesn’t creep–it lingers, patient and golden, curling into the corners of the apartment like it belongs here. You’ve slept in. Not much, but enough that the world feels a little slower, a little softer around the edges. The air is cool. The silence is kind.

You tie your hair up with a loose hand and pad into the kitchen in socks and the soft sweatshirt you forgot you were still wearing. There’s no urgency today. No schedules to brace against. The world is quiet, and so are you.

You start the water boiling, reaching for the eggs with still-sleepy hands. They rest cool against your palm–whole, uncracked, waiting. You lower them gently into the pot, six minutes on the timer. Just long enough for the whites to hold, the yolks to tremble. You’ve made this dish a dozen times before, but today, everything feels a little different.

You think about how he looked at you last night. Not startled. Not confused. Just open.

You think about how his voice sounded when he said he wanted to give something back.

You think about the pause before he let himself say it.

The soy sauce mixture is already made–light and dark shoyu, mirin, a little sugar, the scent sharp and umami-rich. You pour it into the jar and leave the lid off for now. When the eggs are done, you cool them in an ice bath, fingers numb with the cold as you peel the shells away in slow spirals, careful not to tear the softness beneath.

You’re plating rice when he walks in. You don’t hear the door. Just feel him. Like gravity, like a shift in temperature. A presence that folds into the room like it always meant to be there.

His voice is still rough from sleep. “You’re up early.”

You smile without turning. “It’s nearly ten.”

“That’s early for a weekend.”

You hear the sound of his steps, the way he hesitates near the counter. Then, softly, “Do you want help?”

You glance at him.

Kento in a t-shirt and lounge pants is a rarer sight than a solar eclipse. His hair is damp from a shower, pushed back in a way that softens his whole face. He looks peaceful. Or at least trying to be.

“You can plate the rice,” you offer.

He steps closer, and for the first time, you watch him move through the kitchen not as a guest, but like it’s part of him. He finds the rice scoop, opens the container, moves with confidence. Not perfect, not effortless–but sincere.

You halve the eggs carefully, the yolks holding in just barely, golden centers that shiver when touched. He sets the bowls beside you and you place the eggs gently on top, two per bowl. You drizzle the soy marinade over everything. It sinks into the rice slowly, disappearing like breath into snow.

“Looks good,” he says, and you can hear the warmth in his voice.

You both sit at the table, elbows near, bowls steaming between you.

The first bite is silence.

“This tastes like something you think about before you fall asleep,” he says, breaking the thread of hush.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

He’s looking into his bowl, chopsticks paused mid-air. “I mean.” He clears his throat. “It tastes like comfort. But not just that. Intention. Like you planned it.”

“I did,” you reply. “Last night.”

He looks up.

“I woke up wanting you to have something easy,” you continue. “Something that didn’t ask anything of you.”

He’s quiet again, though it isn’t the same kind of quiet he used to carry. This one feels heavy with thought. Like his mouth is full of things he hasn’t yet translated into words.

You don’t press. You just eat beside him, the way you always have, letting the flavors say what you’re not ready to.

The marinade soaks into the rice, salt and sweet, familiar and soft. You wonder, for a moment, if you’ve made yourself too visible. If he can taste your heart tucked into the yolk, bright and fragile. If he’ll pretend not to notice.

Instead, he sets down his bowl and leans back in his chair.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says, and your breath stills.

You glance at him, heart pounding, unsure. “Since when?”

“A while.” He runs a hand through his golden hair. “I didn’t realize how often until you weren’t in the kitchen when I got home last week.”

You remember that day. You were late. You’d left something cold in the fridge with a note that morning.

“I missed hearing you moving around,” he says, quieter now. More introspective. “The sounds. The smells. The light under the door.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t know I’d grown used to it. How much I looked forward to it.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to say. So you eat another bite.

It tastes like morning sun and secrets. Like the first breath after holding it too long. You meet his eyes over your bowl.

“Then I won’t stop.”

“I’m glad,” he says.

He finishes the last of the rice. Picks up a small piece of egg with his chopsticks and looks at it for a moment before eating it. When it’s gone, he sets his chopsticks down and says, “This tastes like being seen.”

You nod. It’s all you need to say.

HOTPOT FOR TWO (WITH NAPA CABBAGE, FISH BALLS AND GLASS NOODLES) (please let me stay)

There is something sacred about preparation.

You’ve always felt it. The peeling, the slicing, the lining up of ingredients in tidy bowls like offerings. The way broth is coaxed into being–not made, but invited. This is not just food, not just dinner. It is ritual. It is a way to say, I see you. I have saved a place for you. Please sit with me a little longer.

It’s colder today. The sky dim, the streets tranquil under a pale hush of wind. You spend the morning setting everything out: napa cabbage, sliced diagonally; tofu cut into perfect rectangles; fish balls, thawed and nestled in a shallow dish. The glass noodles wait in their package, coiled like the slow ache of a heart waiting impatiently to soften.

The electric hotpot sits at the center of the table, patient and unassuming. You tuck everything around it like a halo. Small dipping bowls. A little dish of raw egg to swirl into the broth. Soy, vinegar, sesame oil, chili crisp. The meal doesn’t announce itself–but it waits.

You don’t text him. You don’t call.

But he comes home earlier than usual, as though he’s learned how to read the scent of dinner from the hallway. He opens the door with that familiar quiet, shoulders relaxing almost immediately when he sees the lights low, the table set, steam curling faintly in the kitchen like an invitation.

“You made hotpot,” he says. Not surprised. More like a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

You nod, still at the stove, checking the broth one last time. “I thought it might warm you up.”

“It already does.”

You blink. Look up. He’s hanging his coat on the hook, glancing over his shoulder toward the table with something like wonder in his eyes. It’s the way people look at things they never thought they deserved but were given anyway.

He steps into the kitchen and reaches for the last bowl without being asked.

“What can I help with?”

“You can carry this,” you say, handing him the pot of broth. “Careful. It’s hot.”

He takes it without hesitation, hands steady, arms strong. You follow behind with the ladle and a soft smile you try not to let him see.

When everything is on the table, when the water hums to a near boil, you both sit. Side by side this time, not across. A closeness born of familiarity. Of comfort.

He looks at the spread, then at you. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“It’s all about pacing,” you say. “Hotpot’s not about rushing. It’s about waiting. Letting things come together slowly.”

He nods. “Like us.”

You freeze, but he’s already reaching for the cabbage, laying it into the pot like it’s something precious. The tofu goes in next. He glances toward you–silent permission–and then adds the fish balls, one by one. They bob in the broth like lanterns on a dark lake.

You add the noodles last, watching them sink and curl, transparent and slow. Steam lifts gently between you.

And then, like it’s nothing, like he’s always done it, Kento picks up your bowl and begins to serve you. He plucks a piece of tofu, gently presses it to the edge of your bowl to drain the broth, and places it down. Then a slice of cabbage. A fish ball, steaming and soft. The rhythm of it is careful. Intimate.

“Try this one,” he says, setting a piece of enoki mushroom in your bowl next. “It soaked up more flavor.”

You pick it up without a word. Eat. Chew. Swallow. He watches you the whole time.

“You were right,” you murmur. “It tastes like the broth has a memory.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Is that how you describe food?”

“Sometimes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

You look at him. His eyes are warmer than usual. Lit from within.

“I used to eat hotpot with friends,” you tell him, your voice quiet, spoon swirling in your bowl. “But it always felt rushed. Like something you did to fill space. Here, it feels like time is folding.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then he says, “That’s how it feels when I come home.”

You look down. The broth has fogged your spoon.

“I think about that,” he continues, gently. “When I’m at work. Not the meals–well, yes, the meals. But mostly the way it feels here. The quiet. The warmth. The way you look at me like I’m allowed to be tired.”

You’re not sure you’re breathing.

Kento picks up another piece of tofu from the broth and places it in your bowl. Then he adds one to his own. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t speak again right away. Just lets the silence fill with steam and the occasional sound of noodles being slurped, broth being ladled, the low hum of the city through the window.

“I used to think I needed solitude to survive,” he says eventually. “That people–good people–were rare. And being alone was safer than being disappointed.”

You wait.

“But you don’t feel like noise. You feel like relief.”

The words settle like broth in your belly. Hot. Rich. Real.

You set your chopsticks down. Fold your hands in your lap. “I don’t want to be a temporary kindness,” you whisper. “I want to be the place you go when it all gets too loud.”

He turns to you then. Fully. His hand reaches across the table–not to touch, but to set down your dipping bowl, now full. He’s filled it for you without asking. Soy sauce. A little chili. A sprinkle of sesame.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain how much you already are.”

You meet his gaze. There’s no mistaking the way he’s looking at you now. Not with confusion. Not with hesitation. But with clarity. As if this, the two of you here, steam rising between you, mouths tinged with heat and memory–this is what he’s been trying to return to his entire life.

You take the bowl he’s filled. Dip a piece of fish ball. Eat it slowly.

“It’s perfect,” you say.

He nods. “So are you.”

The broth simmers. The window fogs. And between the sound of two hearts slowing just slightly–matching, perhaps, at last–he adds more cabbage to the pot. Not because it’s needed.

But because he wants to stay.

CHICKEN AND CHIVE DUMPLINGS (PAN-FRIED, HAND-WRAPPED) (i love the shape of your silence)

There is something luxurious about the slow hours of a day you didn’t expect to have together.

You wake up late, later than usual, later than him–only to find he hasn’t left.

The apartment is still. But the kind of stillness that feels full, not empty. There’s soft jazz playing from the speaker in the living room, something without words. The floorboards are warm from the sun filtering through the window. You stretch and rise slowly, footsteps light as you pad into the hallways, and there he is–sitting on the couch in a plain black t-shirt, his glasses perched low on his nose, the newspaper open on his lap like a prop from another time.

You blink, bleary. “You’re home.”

He looks up at you and smiles, gentle and real. “I took the day off.”

You pause, frowning. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” he says. “I just… wanted to be here today.”

The words are simple, but they fold something inside you open like warm dough. You nod, pretend your heart isn’t doing a strange, slow somersault, and walk into the kitchen to pour yourself tea.

He joins you a little later, sleeves pushed up, hair just slightly tousled in that way that feels more intimate than a touch. He moves easily today, less like a man trying to disappear and more like someone learning how to stay.

You decide to make dumplings. Not the frozen kind. Not the rushed kind. The slow, handmade, soul-fed kind–filled with chopped chicken, fresh chives, garlic, ginger, soy, a little sesame oil, and a pinch of white pepper, just enough to wake the tongue. You plan it in your head while washing the cutting board, while boiling water for blanching, while cracking your back softly over the sink.

“Could you grab chives for me?” you ask when he appears again, already pulling a clean mug from the cabinet.

He turns to you without hesitation. “Anything else?”

“No,” you say. Then, with a smile, “Unless you see something interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

“Just, I don’t know, what looks good to you.”

He hums, thoughtful. “I’ll do my best.”

He leaves with his keys and wallet, and the kitchen feels like it’s waiting for him to return.

You prepare everything while he’s gone–the dough, the chicken, the seasoning. The chives are the last piece. You roll out the wrappers by hand, flour dusting your fingertips, the counters, even your shirt when you lean too close. It’s a quiet, tactile kind of joy. Your love has always lived in this place–in the space between your palms, the pressure of a fold, the symmetry of something meant to be shared.

When he returns, the door creaks softly open and you hear the rustle of the paper bag.

“I hope I chose correctly,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. “The produce guy said these were the freshest.”

You look at the chives–vivid green, still cool from the fridge section–and nod. “Perfect.”

He leans over your shoulder as you chop. “You’re very precise.”

You smile. “You have to be, with dumplings. They remember everything you do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “They remember?”

“Every fold. Every careless edge. They hold it in the way they cook. A good dumpling always tells the truth.”

He watches you work for a moment longer before speaking again. “Then I’m glad I’m not the one folding them.”

You glance at him. “You could be.”

“Would you trust me?”

You nod, placing the bowl of filling in front of him. “Here’s the test.”

You guide him through the first one–how to hold the wrapper, where to place the filling, how to wet the edge with water and pleat it shut. His first attempt is clumsy, but not hopeless. His second is better. By the third, he’s concentrating, brows furrowed.

You watch him instead of folding your own. The way his fingers move–slow, deliberate. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when the pleats don’t line up. The way he glances at your hands, quietly mimicking your motions.

“I’m better at deconstructing things,” he murmurs. “This is the opposite.”

You shake your head. “You’re building something.”

He looks up, and you feel the warmth in his gaze settle across your chest like a second skin.

You work in tandem after that. Slowly. Not speaking much, but not needing to. The silence is shaped now, not empty–a vessel you both fill with motion, glances, small smiles passed like secret ingredients. You finish the last of the dumplings just as the light begins to slant through the windows, golden and low.

You pan-fry the first batch. He helps you oil the pan. Watches the bottoms crisp to a perfect, golden brown. You add water, cover it with a lid, and steam them until the wrappers turn translucent at the edges.

When you plate them–fifteen dumplings, perfectly imperfect–he carries the dish to the table like something fragile.

You sit side by side again.

He lifts his chopsticks, pauses, and then reaches for one of the dumplings you folded. He dips it lightly into the sauce–black vinegar, soy, chili oil–and takes a bite.

He closes his eyes. Chews slowly. “This tastes like being trusted.”

You look at him, startled.

He sets the dumpling down. “You let me help. You let me make something with you. Even though I’m still learning.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. Then you pick up your own and take a bite. The filling is just right–savory and warm, the chives sharp but softened, the wrapper crisp on the bottom, tender on top. You taste the hours in it. The folding. The togetherness.

“You did good,” you say, your voice quiet.

He hums, and reaches forward again–not for another dumpling, but for your bowl. He lifts a second dumpling with care, turns it so the crisp edge is facing up, and places it gently on your plate.

“Try this one,” he says. “I folded it for you.”

You bite into it. It’s slightly uneven, the seal thick in one corner, but it’s full of intent. Full of trying. Full of him.

“I like it,” you murmur.

He watches your mouth. You see the shift–the glance that lingers. The breath he takes just a second too late. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t need to. The heat of him is already here, pooling in the space between your knees under the table, in the way his thigh brushes yours when he leans forward to grab another dumpling.

“Do you ever miss the days before this?” you ask suddenly.

He looks at you. Tilts his head.

“When it was just… quiet. Separate. When we didn’t touch.”

He considers it. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“I think,” he says, “I’ve been touching you in small ways for longer than you realize.”

Your heart folds in on itself like the wrappers under your thumbs. You reach for another dumpling. This one, you don’t dip. You eat it plain, just to feel the texture–each fold still intact.

Beside you, he doesn’t move away. He leans in. Not enough to close the space between you, but enough to promise he’s not going anywhere.

GARLIC SHRIMP PASTA WITH CHOPPED PARSLEY AND LEMON ZEST (i want to make your life taste better)

There are days when garlic tastes like courage.

It doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t wait. It announces itself with sizzle and perfume, blooming bold and unapologetic in the pan, clinging to fingertips, hair, fabric. It lingers. Leaves evidence. You can’t cook with garlic and pretend it never happened.

You start dinner in the late afternoon. Not out of necessity, but instinct. Something about the way the light spills gold across the countertops makes you want to fill the room with scent and sound. The windows are cracked. The breeze brings in the trace of faraway warmth. It feels like the kind of evening meant to carry new things in.

So you bring out the pasta.

You mince the garlic. Thin, even slices. Let it sit in olive oil while the shrimp defrost on the counter, curled and pale like commas between thoughts. You zest a lemon into a little dish and leave it beside the stove, the rind’s redolence clinging to your knuckles. You’re moving with purpose now, like cooking isn’t just about the food, but about the space it creates–steam rising in spirals, heat humming low in your belly, air thick with promise.

When Kento walks in, he pauses in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to step into something this golden. He’s still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled, tie in his hand. His eyes take in the scene–pan on the burner, the shrimp lined like soldiers on a cutting board, your bare feet on the tile.

He leans against the frame. Watches you.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

“What thing?”

“Cooking like you’re trying to seduce the silence.”

You laugh, startled. “That’s a new one.”

He steps closer, voice warm. “You do. Everything you make fills the room before you say a word.”

You turn back to the pan, hiding the way your lips twitch. “You’re home early,” you say, hoping to change the topic.

“I left early. On purpose.”

You glance over your shoulder.

“I wanted to be here before dinner started,” he says. “I didn’t want to miss it. Or you.”

You swallow and drop the shrimp into the pan. The sizzle rises instantly–sharp, fragrant, alive. It fills the kitchen like a heartbeat. Kento watches you toss them in the oil, garlic clinging to the pink edges as they turn opaque, curling tighter.

“You can sit,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’ll be ready soon.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he walks up beside you and reaches for a clove of garlic from the cutting board. “May I?”

You nod, handing him your paring knife.

He slices carefully, slower than you but no less precise. You finish the shrimp, turn off the heat, and toss the pasta in a bowl with lemon juice and the reserved zest. A dash of chili flakes. Salt, pepper. A few torn basil leaves from the plant on the sill.

When you plate the food, he helps–without being asked.

He brings over the glasses. Opens a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Pours without comment. It’s all easy now. You’ve become a choreography, the two of you. No missed steps.

When you sit down, he pulls his chair a little closer to yours. Not enough to brush knees. But close.

The first bite is gold–garlic and citrus, briny sweetness from the shrimp, heat bloom softly in the back of your mouth. You exhale.

“This is good,” he murmurs, mouth half-full. “Too good.”

You scoff. “It was supposed to be impressive.”

“It is.”

He swirls another forkful and pauses before lifting it. “I had a terrible meeting today,” he says.

You glance at him, surprised.

“Three hours,” he adds. “The kind of meeting where no one listens and everyone speaks. The kind that makes you want to vanish into your own skin.”

“I hate those.”

“I know.”

You eat in quiet for a few minutes. It isn’t distance, just breath. Just room. Then he says, softly, “Sometimes I think I’ve built a life so structured it doesn’t know what to do with softness.”

You look at him. Really look. His profile in the lamplight. The tired slope of his shoulders, loosened now. The curve of his wrist as he sets his fork down.

“I know how to work,” he says. “I know how to survive. But I don’t always know how to make things better.”

You tilt your head. “Better?”

“For someone else.”

You blink.

“I don’t want you to be the only one cooking.”

Your breath catches. He goes on.

“You give so much. Night after night. And I sit here, grateful, but silent. I don’t want that to be the shape of us.”

You set your glass down. Us.

“You never asked me to give,” you say.

“But you do,” he replies. “With every dish. With every detail. And I–” He stops. Looks at you. “I want to give back.”

You don’t speak. Not yet. And so he does something bolder.

He reaches across the table–slow, sure–and brushes a thumb beneath your bottom lip.

You freeze.

“You had lemon,” he murmurs. “Here.”

His skin is warm. His touch is featherlight. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t let it turn into something heavier. But he doesn’t pull away fast either.

When your breath finally returns to you, it’s soft.

“I didn’t notice,” you say.

“I did.”

Your eyes meet. The moment stretches. You let it. You let him.

Eventually, he leans back–only slightly. He finishes his wine. Eats another shrimp. Then he says, “Tomorrow night, I’m cooking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You cook?”

“Not like you do. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

You smile. “What’ll you make?”

He shrugs. “Something edible, I hope.”

You laugh, and his eyes stay on your mouth a moment too long again.

When dinner ends, he helps you clean. He hums while rinsing, shoulders relaxed, gaze gentle. You dry the plates and hang the dish towel side by side with his. When you part for the night, you both linger.

Not at the edge of something, but in the middle of it.

Neither of you says goodnight. You just look. You just know.

This is what it feels like when someone decides they want your life to taste good too.

NAPA CABBAGE AND TOFU STEW (SIMMERED, NOT RUSHED) (made by him: i would wait for you, always)

Weekends aren’t often slow for you. Not like they are for most.

The world doesn’t soften its edges just because it’s Saturday, and your work doesn’t fold itself neatly into weekday boxes. Sometimes it spills over–bleeds into days that should smell like sleep and toast and morning sun. Today is one of those days. Your shoulders ache from standing too long, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lighting still rings faintly behind your ears. The city feels too loud, too fast, too full.

You unlock the door with tired hands, already thinking about what to cook–something simple, something silent. Maybe miso soup. Maybe just cereal. Maybe nothing at all.

The lights in the apartment are dim, low and golden, like someone thought to make it gentle before you returned. Your bag slips from your shoulder to the floor with a soft thud. You toe off your shoes, roll your neck, and listen.

The apartment smells like warmth. Not takeout. Not leftovers. Something savory and honest, something that clings to the air like memory.

You blink. Straighten. Because he’s cooking. You’d almost forgotten. He’d said it yesterday, voice low but sure, “Tomorrow night, I’m cooking.”

You had raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You cook?”

“Not like you do. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

But that was last night, and you’ve learned that despite him being home, his work steals promises sometimes. You’d assumed he’d be too tired. That he’d forget. That he’d eat early, alone. Maybe order something. Maybe fall asleep in front of the TV. You didn’t expect anything waiting for you now–not really.

You walk into the kitchen. And stop.

The counter’s been wiped down, the stovetop clean except for one pot, steaming gently. The table is set–only two bowls, two spoons, water poured, a cloth napkin folded the way you always fold yours.

He’s standing at the stove, back to you, sleeves rolled to the elbows, towel slung over one shoulder like a habit he picked up just for today. His hair’s a little messy. He looks up when he hears you and offers a smile that’s too quiet to be proud but too warm to be unsure.

“I kept it on low,” he says. “So it wouldn’t be cold when you got in.”

Your heart stutters. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. I said I would.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already reaching for the bowls. His movements are slow, deliberate. He ladles the stew out carefully, making sure every bowl gets a little of everything–napa cabbage wilted just enough, soft blocks of tofu steeped in flavor, a few slices of shiitake mushroom, a piece of kombu pushed gently to the side.

“I read your notebook,” he says, almost sheepish. “The one you keep next to the spice rack.”

Your eyes widen, heart jumping in your chest. “You read my–?”

“Only the food parts,” he says quickly. “Not the margins.”

You exhale slowly. The margins. Where you write notes to yourself. Quiet hopes. Stray thoughts.

He clears his throat. “I looked up the recipe. Watched a few videos. Yours still sounded better.”

You sit down, stunned. He sets your bowl in front of you. The aroma is deep–miso, ginger, a whisper of sesame. The kind of smell that says you’re home without needing to say anything at all.

“I know it’s simple,” he says. “But I remembered you made this when I got sick last winter.”

You nod. You remember, too. It was the first time he let you stay near him longer than a moment. The first time he let you see the quiet in his hands. He slept the whole day, and you changed the towel on his forehead every hour, stirring the pot between each breath.

“It tasted like safety,” he murmurs now. “Like someone decided I was still worth something even when I couldn’t do anything back.”

Your fingers tighten around your spoon.

He doesn’t sit just yet. Just stands there, looking at you like the bowl is only half of what he wanted to give.

“I thought maybe,” he says, “if I could make something even half as good, you might know how much I…” He stops. Starts again. “How much I notice.”

You take a bite. The broth is slightly off–he added too much ginger, or not enough miso, maybe let it simmer too long–but none of that matters. It tastes like effort. Like time. Like someone stirring and tasting and waiting. For you.

It tastes like him–a little restrained, a little careful, but open now. Earnest. Hoping.

“It’s good,” you whisper. “It’s really good.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief. Finally, he sits beside you.

You eat in silence for a few minutes. The kind that’s less about not speaking and more about letting the food speak first.

When your bowl is half-empty, you look over at him. His gaze is fixed on his own, but his hand is near yours now. Closer than usual. His pinky brushes your knuckle when he sets down his spoon.

“I didn’t know when you’d get back,” he says softly. “But I wanted this to be warm when you did.”

You stare at him.

“I would’ve waited longer,” he adds. “If I had to.”

Your breath catches. He turns his hand, just slightly, so the backs of your fingers touch.

“You don’t have to always be the one who stays up. Who waits. Who gives.”

“I don’t mind,” you say. “You’re worth it.”

He turns to you fully then. And for the first time in all these quiet nights, all these shared meals and unspoken things, you see it–bare and unhidden.

He reaches for your hand. You let him.

His fingers are warm. Just slightly calloused. He holds your hand like he holds the spoon, like he stirs broth, like he speaks when he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. Gently. Carefully. With all his weight.

“Let me do this more,” he says. “Let me try. Even if I mess it up.”

You nod. You can’t speak. Not with your heart pressing so hard against your ribs.

He smiles, thumb brushing your palm once.

“I’d wait for you,” he says, softer now. “Even if the stew burned. Even if it all went cold. I’d still be here.”

Outside, the night deepens. Inside, the steam curls gently above the pot. You lean your head against his shoulder, just for a moment, and neither of you moves to break it.

There’s still half a bowl left. And you know–he’ll wait until you’re ready to finish it.

STRAWBERRY MILLE-FEUILLE WITH VANILLA CREAM (you’ve made my life sweeter just by being in it)

There are days where sweetness lingers in the air before anything is even said.

It’s in the way the morning light curves through the window, kissing your face while you’re still in bed. It’s in the softness of your spine when you stretch, the way you hear him humming faintly from the kitchen–off-key, barely audible, and strangely endearing.

It’s a Saturday that feels like a Sunday. You don’t have to work today.

When you wander into the kitchen, Kento’s already there, halfway through making tea–not coffee. He looks up as you enter, and you catch a glimpse of the way his mouth softens when he sees you. You’re still wearing sleep in your eyes, a sweatshirt too big for you, and socks that don’t match.

“Morning,” you mumble, voice still tangled in dreams.

“Afternoon, technically,” he says, passing you a mug. “But I’ll allow it.”

You roll your eyes and grin into the rim of your cup.

It’s easy these days. Easy to fall into the rhythm of him. Easy to let your shoulder brush his as you stand beside him at the counter. Easy to let the silence stretch, not because you don’t know what to say, but because it no longer demands to be filled.

You lean into the counter, sipping, and glance sideways.

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

He blinks at you. “That’s random.”

You shrug. “Humor me.”

He thinks about it for a moment, expression softening into something thoughtful. “When I was younger, it was strawberry shortcake. My grandmother used to buy it for me on my birthday. But lately…”

“Lately?”

He looks at you then–really looks at you. “I think I’m starting to like the kind that takes a little more time.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Cryptic.”

He smirks, rare and quiet. “You’re the dessert expert. What do you think that means?”

You try not to blush. Fail a little. “It means you’re going to the grocery store with me.”

He pauses. “Am I?”

“Yes. And you’re carrying the heavy things.”

“That sounds about right.”

He finishes his tea and grabs his coat without protest. You throw on yours, still half-buttoned, and soon you’re both out in the sunlight, the city murmuring around you, alive but not in a rush.

At the market, he follows behind you like he always does–silent, alert, keeping pace. He carries the basket. Refuses to let you hold it.

You hand him heavy things with a sly grin–flour, butter, a carton of cream, a box of fresh strawberries–and watch him accept each item like it’s a love letter sealed in glass.

“Is this a test?" he asks at one point, eyeing the puff pastry sheets with suspicion.

“Absolutely,” you say. “You fail if you complain.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re doing very well so far.”

“That’s because you’re bossy in a way I find oddly reassuring.”

You bump your shoulder into him lightly. He doesn’t move away.

At the checkout line, he reaches for your hand. Just reaches. No hesitation, no pretext. His fingers slide between yours like they were meant to be there. Warm. Calloused. Steady.

You look at him, startled by the casual intimacy of it. He just shrugs, thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“We’ve touched every part of each other’s lives but this,” he murmurs. “Felt overdue.”

You don’t speak. Just squeeze back.

Back home, the kitchen fills with the scent of butter and sugar, of sliced strawberries and warm vanilla. You let him help. He whisks the cream while you lay out the pastry. He’s not good at it–his rhythm too stiff, too precise–but you don’t correct him. You just watch the way his brow furrows, the way his arm tenses, the way he peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, waiting for praise he’ll pretend he doesn’t need.

When you finally assemble the layers–pastry, cream, strawberries, more pastry–you both hover over it like you’ve made something sacred. In a way, you have.

You hand him a knife. “You get the first cut.”

He eyes it. “This is a trap.”

“Maybe.”

But he cuts it anyway, cautiously, and the pastry cracks just enough to remind you that not all beautiful things stay intact.

You plate two slices. He takes his bite first. Chews. Blinks. Brows raised.

“Okay,” he says. “I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“Why you make things that take time.”

You look at him over your fork. “Yeah?”

He nods. “It tastes like someone thought about you all day.”

You pause. Your chest goes soft and heavy and too full all at once. You set your fork down.

He watches you. “What?”

You shake your head, laughing quietly. “You keep saying things like that.”

“Because they’re true.”

“I’m not used to it.”

“I know.”

He reaches across the table, fingers brushing your wrist. “But I want you to be.”

You look down at his hand. The way it settles over yours now like it’s been there forever. Like it belongs.

“I want you to expect it,” he adds. “From me.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He leans in, expression open, unflinching. “Because everything you’ve done has tasted like love. And I don’t want to just consume that. I want to offer it back.”

You breathe in sharply. The kitchen smells like sugar. And strawberries. And something new. Something not afraid.

“You’re really not good at flirting,” you murmur.

He smiles. “Good thing I’m not flirting.”

“No?”

“I’m just telling you,” he says, “what it’s going to be like from now on.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

“Slow,” he continues. “Warm. Sweet. Worth the time.”

Outside, the sky has begun to turn rose gold, clouds edged with light. Inside, your hands are sticky with powdered sugar, and the mille-feuille is leaning to one side on the plate, imperfect but real. Cracking, collapsing a little, but still holding.

You lean over and kiss the corner of his mouth. Not a full kiss. Not yet. Just enough. Just a taste.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his fingers tighten around yours. And that is more than enough. For now.

CREAM STEW WITH ROOT VEGETABLES AND CHICKEN (i want to be what you come home to)

You’ve always measured your days in flavor.

Sweet, when you rise to the scent of something warm, the memory of laughter still clinging to your dreams. Salty, when you let the weight of the world sit on your shoulders for too long without rest. Bitter, when the loneliness creeps in around the edges like smoke from an unattended pan. And savory–deep, grounding, enduring–that’s when someone sits beside you at the table, even if they don’t say a word.

Lately, your days have been savory. Not perfect, but full.

Like a meal with substance. Like something slow-cooked. Like you’re not just feeding someone anymore–you’re building a life in the pauses between bites.

You think about this as you stir the roux, wooden spoon tracing a circle through butter and flour. A thickening. A deepening. You add the milk in slow streams, letting the texture bloom creamy and golden. You season it without thought now. A pinch of salt. A crack of pepper. A single bay leaf, just because you like the way it makes the kitchen smell like someone is waiting for you.

Even if, tonight, you’re the one waiting.

Kento’s running late.

You don’t mind. Or rather–you try not to. You don’t worry. Not like you used to. Now, the space he leaves behind in the apartment isn’t emptiness. It’s anticipation. It’s steam rising from the stovetop. It’s your body moving through the kitchen like someone building a place for him to return to.

You set the chicken to simmer–tender, thigh pieces, browned and seasoned, now swimming in a stew of potatoes, carrots and onion, all softened to something comforting. Something that doesn’t ask to be chewed, only understood.

When he walks in, you don’t turn around. You hear the door open. The gentle click. The exhale. The way his footsteps shift when he sees you–slower, warmer.

“Smells like a promise in here,” he says.

You glance back, smiling. “The edible kind.”

He drops his bag by the door, rolls up his sleeves, and walks toward you like it’s instinct. You’re standing by the stove. He comes up behind you. Places his hand–just one–on your waist.

You freeze. Not because you’re scared, but because something in your chest flutters like fresh herbs being dropped into hot broth.

“You didn’t text,” you murmur.

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he replies, and then presses a kiss–soft, brief–to your temple.

He’s been doing that lately. Little touches. Little claims. A hand at your back. A brush of his fingers along yours when he passes you the soy sauce. Knees that knock beneath the table and don’t pull away. And that kiss last week–his thumb brushing your knuckles, your mouth grazing the corner of his like you were still learning the weight of your own bravery.

Tonight, though, it feels different. Like the air is thickening again, like a gravy left uncovered. Like something is about to spill over.

You hand him a bowl. He takes it with both hands, reverent. You both sit. Side by side, again. Always.

You eat together in a quiet so warm it could be mistaken for music. Then he says, “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

You look at him. “What did I say?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “That you’re always here when I come home.”

You don’t speak. Your throat is full of chicken and cream and longing.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” he continues. “Not just the words. The way you said them. Like you weren’t sure you were allowed to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You are.”

He sets his spoon down. You do the same.

The kitchen smells like warmth. Like something full of body and heart. Like food that would keep through a winter storm. All you can feel, however, is the way his knee is brushing yours now, insistently. All you can hear is the sound of his breath, close and certain.

“You’ve fed me so many things,” he says. “Meals, yes. But also, patience. Time. Space. Safety.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Your hands tremble, just slightly, under the table.

“I want to feed you, too,” he says.

You blink.

“I don’t just mean food.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“I want to be the thing that warms you. The thing you come home to. The reason the apartment smells like something worth staying for.”

You don’t think. You just reach across the table and take his hand in yours. And this time, he brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them. Slowly. Softly.

He stands. You look up at him.

“Come here,” he says.

You do. You round the table, heart in your throat, mouth already tingling. When you reach him, he cups your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazing the skin just beneath your eye.

“You kissed me first,” he says. “But I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a very long time.”

You smile. “So kiss me properly.”

And he does.

It’s not a whisper. It’s not a question. It’s an answer. He kisses you like the first bite of something long-simmered. Like the taste of butter melting on the back of the tongue. Like something learned, not rushed. Familiar, and brand new.

He pulls back only when breath becomes necessary, and when he rests his forehead against yours, you close your eyes.

“I don’t want to leave this kitchen,” he says.

“Then don’t.”

You’re both still holding each other. The stew on the table is going cold. Neither of you care.

“I like the way your food tastes,” he murmurs. “But I like the way your life tastes more.”

You laugh, shaking your head against his chest. “That was corny.”

“I’ve been spending too much time around you.”

“I hope so.”

You stay there, arms around each other, the scent of cream and chicken and thyme wrapping around you like a second skin.

Later, when you reheat the stew and eat the rest of it curled into one another on the couch, you know–this isn’t the last dish, but it’s the first meal you finish not as roommates, not as friends, not even as two people who almost loved each other–but as something else.

Something with seasoning. With heat. Something simmered. And kept warm.

LEMON BUTTER SALMON WITH HERB RICE AND A SINGLE GLASS OF WHITE WINE (i love you. i always have)

The kitchen is no longer just yours.

There are two aprons hanging on the back of the pantry door now–one you’ve always worn, and one he bought last week, simple and navy blue, with a tiny oil stain already blooming near the pocket. The fridge has doubled its collection of post-it notes–your handwriting still the majority, but his are now peppered between them like little bites of citrus: “Out of ginger.” “You looked beautiful this morning.” “Don’t forget to eat.”

He’s in the kitchen with you now, barefoot, hair slightly damp from a shower, with that look he’s been wearing lately–soft eyes, sleeves rolled, mouth already tilted toward a smile. He moves through the space like he belongs in it, because he does. Because he learned it slowly, respectfully, over the course of several months, endless dishes and one unwavering heart.

He’s watching you slice lemons when you turn to him with a grin.

“You’re on prep duty.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Again?”

“You’re the one who said you wanted to know how to make the salmon.”

“I also said I’d rather kiss the cook.”

“You can do both,” you agree. “But write this down first.”

You hand him a little notebook from the drawer–your notebook–the one you’ve scribbled recipes in for years and love letters in the margins, pages stained with oil and sugar and emotion. You flip it to a blank one, and he takes it like it’s holy. He uncaps the pen and settles at the table, eyes up and waiting.

“Ready?” you ask without looking.

“Ready.”

“Two fillets of salmon,” you begin, “skin-on, pat them dry.”

He writes it down, word for word.

“A pinch of salt and pepper–don’t be stingy. Garlic powder, just a little. And lemon zest, fine, not thick.”

He glances up. “Do I write down that you zest it with your eyes closed and your mouth moving like you’re talking to the fish?”

You smirk. “Yes. That’s the most important part.”

He chuckles, scribbles it in. You keep going, step by step, and he writes it all–meticulous, dutiful, like he’s learning the structure of you.

Outside, the sky is the color of old gold. It’s quiet in the city. A Friday evening with nothing to chase. The only thing rising is the scent of rice on the stove, infused with herbs–dill, parsley, a bit of thyme. You’d tossed in a bay leaf too, just because. You always do.

When the salmon hits the pan, it sings. The butter melts around it, foaming golden and fragrant, and Kento stands behind you, hands warm on your hips.

“You’re crowding me,” you murmur.

“I’m admiring.”

“You’re distracting.”

“I’m in love.”

You flip the salmon, the skin crisp, the flesh pink and barely touched by heat. He leans in and kisses the back of your neck.

“You keep doing that,” you say, cheeks flushed.

“I keep wanting to.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth this time. You tilt your head, chasing him, catching him full this time–soft, slow, inevitable.

You finish the salmon together. Plate it over the herbed rice, a wedge of lemon on each side. He only pours one glass of wine, and gives it to you.

“I’ll steal sips,” he says, and you believe him.

At the table, you both eat slowly. He closes his eyes after the first bite. “This is stupid good.”

You beam. “Stupid good?”

“I’m trying to speak your language.”

“You’ve always spoken it,” you say, cutting into your fillet. “You just didn’t know.”

He hums. “Tell me something.”

“Mm?”

“Do you remember the scallion pancakes?”

You look up at him. “I do.”

He smiles, soft, a dulled edge. “You were tired. I could see it. You didn’t say anything. But you still made something that cracked when I bit into it. And I remember thinking–someone is trying to remind me what it feels like to smile. To laugh.”

You set your fork down.

“I think I fell for you then,” he says. “Maybe earlier. Maybe it was the porridge.”

“You didn’t even eat that one hot.”

“But I read the note.”

You take a breath. It comes out slow. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know how,” he admits. “You gave me everything in bowls and plates and spoons. And I just–ate. Because I was starving, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

Your eyes sting, but it’s not sadness. It’s fullness. It’s years of hunger answered.

“And now?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

He reaches across the table and takes your hand. “Now I want to feed you,” he replies. “In every way.”

You lean in. So does he.

There are no fireworks, no orchestral swells, no grand epiphanies–just his thumb brushing the back of your hand, and the warm weight of his knee against yours, and the memory of all the dishes you’ve made curled up between your bodies like a language you both learned by accident and never stopped speaking.

You eat the rest of the meal in quiet, but not silence. There are soft jokes. A few shared bites. His fingers brushing your jaw when he reaches for your glass. Your toes pressing his under the table. His laugh, easier now, effortless.

And when the plates are empty, and you stand to clean, he wraps his arms around you from behind.

“Leave it,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Stay here with me.”

“I am here.”

“No,” he says. “I mean here. Like this.”

You turn. Look up at him. He cups your face like it’s the last dish he’ll ever learn to make. Like it’s delicate. Like it’s worth every burnt pan and failed fold and oversalted soup that came before it.

“I love you,” he says. “And I’m going to keep saying it. Over and over. Until you believe I’ve known it since the beginning.”

“I already believe it,” you say, voice shaking.

He kisses you again, and it’s not a question. It’s the answer to every one you never asked out loud.

That night, you fall asleep with your back to his chest and his arm curled around your stomach. His breath is warm on your neck. His fingers are tucked between yours.

In the kitchen, the wine glass is still half full. The stove is cool. The plates are clean. And in your notebook–under a page titled Lemon Butter Salmon–is a line he added just before bed:

The first meal we made after we stopped pretending.

MISO SOUP WITH ASPARAGUS AND ENOKI MUSHROOMS (made by him)

You wake up to the scent of toasting rice. Not sharp, not burnt–just golden. Soft. A little nutty. The kind of scent that makes you smile into your pillow before you even open your eyes.

The bedroom is warm with late morning light, your limbs slow, your mind still fogged with sleep. You stretch. Blink. Reach over. The other side of the bed is empty, but only just. The sheet is still warm.

You hear him in the kitchen–quiet movement, the click of a stove knob, the low scrape of something wooden on metal. You smile again, push the blanket off your legs, and shuffle toward the doorway barefoot.

He’s muttering to himself. You stand there for a moment, half-hidden by the frame, watching him.

Kento is shirtless, still in his pajamas, blond hair rumpled from sleep. He’s squinting at the notebook on the counter–your notebook, which has now been converted into ours, the pages gradually filling with his neat handwriting alongside your sprawling, chaotic notes. He has a pencil tucked behind one ear and smudge of miso paste on his wrist.

He’s stirring a pot like it contains the answer to something. Talking under his breath as he moves.

“Simmer, not boil,” he mutters. “Simmer. Don’t break the tofu again, idiot.”

You press a knuckle to your mouth to muffle your laugh. He glances up. Sees you. Smiles.

“Morning.”

“You’re cooking again?” you ask, stepping in.

He kisses you before you can say anything else. One hand on your hip, the other cupping your face. Slow. Unhurried. Like you’re part of the recipe.

“I said I would,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You sigh into him, then nuzzle your face into his shoulder, catching the faint scent of sesame oil clinging to his skin. He rests his chin on your head for a moment before pulling away just enough to gesture toward the stove.

“I’m making miso soup.”

“I can tell.”

“With enoki mushrooms and asparagus.”

“Gourmet,” you tease.

“And a little tofu,” he says. “If I don’t ruin it.”

You move closer to peek into the pot. “You’re doing fine.”

“I watched three videos last night while you were asleep.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips twitching. “You could’ve just asked me.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

Your chest folds softly around the warmth blooming there.

“And,” he adds, lifting the spoon toward you, “I wanted to make something that would sit in your stomach all day and remind you that you’re loved.”

You taste it. You close your eyes.

“Okay,” you say. “You win.”

He smirks, steps aside, and begins ladling the soup into bowls. “Sit,” he tells you. “I’ll do everything.”

“Even pour the tea?”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You laugh softly and settle at the table as he finishes plating. He sets down your bowl with reverence. Sits beside you with his own. You both pick up your chopsticks. There’s no ceremony. No need. Just the quiet clink of bowls. The scent of dashi and ginger. A comforting rhythm of eating that feels more like breath than routine.

“You didn’t burn anything this time,” you say.

He chews, swallows. “Progress.”

“You didn’t break the tofu.”

“A miracle.”

“You didn’t start a small fire like you did with the curry.”

“That was one time.”

You grin. “It was charred.”

“I thought you liked smoky flavors.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it, laughing. And God–he laughs more now. Real laughter. Not polite exhalations. Not sharp little scoffs. Full, genuine joy. You live for it. You live with it.

“Work’s been awful,” he says after a while. “My boss keeps suggesting we pivot toward client-facing strategy development.”

You raise a brow, lost. “That sounds like gibberish.”

“It is.”

“Do you have to?”

He shakes his head. “Not if I pretend not to understand.”

You reach for him, run your fingers over his wrist, feel the tension there. “You’re too good at pretending.”

“Not anymore,” he says. “At least not at home.”

You both eat in silence for a while after that. Comfortable. Close. He tucks his foot around yours beneath the table. You let your knee rest against his.

Eventually, he stands. Rinses the bowls. You move to help. He swats your hand away with a dishtowel. “Sit.”

“You can’t stop me from loving you,” you say.

“I would never try.”

He places the bowls in the drying rack. You rise anyway, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, tucking your face between his shoulder blades. He leans into you.

“I’m writing down the recipe,” he says softly. “It’s not perfect. But I think it says what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns in your arms. Faces you. “I mean,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “that you’ve always fed me. In every way. And I want to feed you back.”

You look at him, heart thudding gently. “You already do.”

“Not enough.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“I know.” He smiles. “It’s just a meal, yes. But I want to make sure you stay full every time.”

You kiss him. He pulls you closer.

Outside, the morning has shifted into noon. The light is bright now, spilling across the kitchen floor, warming your toes. There’s nothing urgent waiting. No deadlines. Just the quiet steam rising from the pot, and the scent of broth in the air, and the feel of his hands splayed over your lower back like he never wants to let go.

He doesn’t. He won’t.

Later, you find your notebook open on the table, turned to a new page in his handwriting.

NANAMI’S MISO SOUP (FOR HER) dashi stock (enough to comfort) enoke enoki mushrooms (delicate like her laugh) tofu (firm but gentle, like her hands and her) asparagus (for bite–she likes it a little sharp) white miso (two heaping spoonfuls of everything I never learned to say) a little sesame oil (for warmth that lingers) simmer until it tastes like safety serve with love

You don’t say anything when you find it. You just trace the ink with your finger, the way you once stirred soup in silence and hoped he’d taste the message. Now the message writes itself.

Just beneath his last word–love–you add a line in your own script, smaller, slanted, like a secret you no longer need to keep:

I’ve never gone hungry since you came home.

And you close the book–not as an end, but as a pause. A breath between bites. A space between courses.

In the kitchen, the air still smells faintly of broth. The sun turns the sink, always glinting silver, into gold. Somewhere between the soft boil and the stir of your two spoons in two bowls, you built something you can stay inside. A place made of cracked egg yolks and congee steam, scallion oil and stolen glances, dumplings with uneven folds and kisses with shaky hands. A home with no doors. Just warmth. Just flavor. Just him.

And you.

Two lovers at the stove.

A thousand meals ahead.

No longer asking–only offering.

No longer waiting–only full.

NOTE: thank you so much for reading! i wrote this fic in a haze over the span of two days. there's just something about domesticity with nanami kento that gets my brain worms acting up (and no, i am not a chef by any professional standards so if one of these dishes doesn't make sense, we can fight in the parking lot of a dennys /j). (art by riritzu on X)

[luveline]

Gah, your Peter Parker leaves me sighing in the best way every time! If you feel like it, could you write a little blurb of him melting from fondness when reader gets bashful following him doing/saying something soft? It’s so sweet, seeing two people mutually melt around and because of each other. Even when it’s the smallest thing, it means so much more when it’s from one of YOUR important people.

ty for your request! <3 fem

Fuck, Peter Parker thinks, jogging up the steps to your apartment building, this is the life. It’s a hot day in New York City but there are cold drinks to be had and that electric fan in your bedroom is calling his name. There’s genuinely no better place to be than laying on your sheets in pyjamas you wash with that apple blossom laundry softener he loves, knowing you keep using it ‘cos you love it, and knowing you wash his pyjamas because you love him. 

Spidering is going well, he saved a kid today who nearly got crushed by a ten tonner, so he’s feeling pretty good about himself, or at least feeling good about his decisions. He made Aunt May lunch and took it down to the hospital, he flirted gently with the older nurses, and now he’s gunning up the stairs to your apartment, every step a crinkle. 

Your door is wide open (awful) but you have good reason —the floors and the countertops shine. The windows are open, and the room is fragrant with your oil diffuser. You’re on your knees by the TV wiping down the table with a damp rag in loose-fitting clothes, sleeves pushed up, brows puckered. 

“Hey, baby,” he says. 

“Peter, I’m not talking to you today.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“You know how many pairs of your socks I found when I was cleaning today?” 

He grimaces. “Two?” 

“Nine pairs of socks, Peter.” 

He puts the flowers he’s brought you down on the coffee table and his back on the floor. He’d been hoping to do a grand unveiling of the bouquet to surprise you, but he feels terrible. “I don’t even know how that happens,” he mumbles dejectedly, kneeling down behind you, his arms threading in front of your tummy to give you a backwards squeeze. “They just disappear.” 

“They don’t, evidently.” 

“I’m really sorry.” He kisses your cheek. “I’m genuinely really sorry. That’s sloppy. I’m not a kid.” 

“No, you’re not… I’m not that mad though, you don’t have to sound so serious.” 

He holds the place just under your breastbone in his hands. “Oh, you’re not?” He tugs you to his front to stop you from moving prematurely and reaches blindly behind him for the flowers. You laugh as he tips back, taking you with him, the sound vibrating through you and into him. “That’s good. Don’t need these then, do we?” 

He twirls the bouquet, pressing it carefully to your chest. 

You immediately relax in his arms. He treasures that feeling, your weight leaning against him, your cheek listing down into his arm. You raise a hand, his arm trapped in the crook of your elbow as you examine the lilac petal of a sweetpea. “I love these ones.” 

“I know.” 

You take more time than anyone else would sifting through the flowers of the bouquet, breath the only evidence of your delight. You breathe out slowly whenever one of the flowers is particularly beautiful, and then you hug the bunch to your nose for a mild sniff. 

“Thank you.” 

Peter kisses your cheek. He savours the feeling of it, your skin under his lips, being that close to you, his hair on your forehead and your eyebrow tickling him as he hugs you just that little bit closer. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs, affection in every word, and a little drop of shyness too, “I was thinking of you, and they looked healthy for once, considering they’re off of the corner by Mandy’s.” 

“They’re so pretty,” you mumble, turning into him as much as you can. He lets up his tight hold. 

“Like you.” 

You brush your forehead against his chin. Peter actually gets goosebumps, letting the flowers fall to the floor by your leg so he can hold you. “I feel bad for caring about the socks now,” you mumble. 

He laughs with lips still closed and offers you a soft kiss. 

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

seven | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The whiplash of last night's dinner seems rectified at breakfast. Marlene arrives an hour after you wake up with a basket of farmer’s market produce, glass bottles of fresh juice, a dozen eggs still dirty with a baby feather nestled between shells. She brings cuts of bacon so fat it’s practically pork belly, and all manner of greens for the omelettes. “Gotta keep these working men fed,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’d quite like to know why Sirius Black can’t make his own breakfast.” 

Sirius falls in barely half an hour later, all hardness gone, dressed in slacks and a brown leather jacket, his loose curls pinned away from his face. “I’m thinking of growing a moustache,” he says when he spots you on the sofa. “What do you think? I don’t have much space for one, really, but it would look rather refined.”

James shows up soon enough. You worry he’s angry with you after his quick departure last night, but he says, “Princess, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Mum said she saw a photo of us together in the paper. She’s having it framed.” 

Things between James and Sirius are frosty for all of half a day. 

So for a while everyone pretends the conversation about Baron Riddle never happened. Things go back to normal, driving lessons, self defence, clothes shopping. You keep attending your university classes at the local college upon Remus’ assistance —Sirius will find a way to have them transfer your credits, he says, so long as you finish this year. Two more terms and you can take a break. 

You pretend that everything is okay, and permanent. 

“It’ll be Christmas soon,” James says.

You tilt your head to him but keep your eyes on the burning white of the computer screen, scribbling the last words of a sentence down for your next assignment. Researching isn’t fun, and getting James special permission to enter the college building hadn’t been easy, but he makes your long afternoons bearable. “Do you celebrate?” you ask. 

“I do.” 

“Your mum will be happy to have you home.”

“I’m not going home this year.” 

Your beginning smile is stopped, fading fast. “‘Cos of me?” 

“Because this is the job,” he says easily. “It’s alright. I’ll still speak to her. She’s used to not seeing me. I’ve spent more time away from her than with her, for years.” 

You close your textbook, tracing its softening edges in an avoidance of his gaze. “Well. Well, I don’t really need you, James.” 

“No?” 

You meet his eyes. Careful not to spook yourself. He’s looking at you with little emotion, impossible to infer his mood from expression alone. You don’t know what he means to ask you here. 

“Missing out on time with your family for me, when nobody even knows who I am–”

“That’s not true, is it? You get a fair few stares.” 

“Not because they really know who I am,” you whisper. “It’s like seeing someone you’re sure you’ve met before, but really you’ve seen them on TV. I’m like an odd memory or something.” 

“An odd memory.” 

You turn back to your computer and flick through the journal you’re reading for want of something to do. James twists in his chair with a hand fallen between your shoulders. Your skin tingles under his touch. “I just don’t think it’s good of me to have you when I’m fine.” 

“Do you have me, Princess?” James says, his voice turning soft slow as a taffy pull. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Yes, I do.” James’ hand comes to rest on the desk beside yours, not touching you, not moving a millimetre. He can be so still, but it’s a stillness that came with practice. He’s as at ease here as he would be at home, trusting his abilities. Nothing that can get you here scares him, not for a second. “I’m afraid I’m yours for the foreseeable future.” 

You fight down a shiver. “It’s not fair for you to miss out on Christmas. I’ll be fine by myself. I would stay home, I promise, you could lock me in and set me free a week later.” 

“I won’t do that,” he says. 

“But you could, and then you won’t miss Christmas or your mum, and–” You realise you’re talking too loudly and tone it down. “And I’ll be fine on my own.” 

“You said, yeah…” 

You stare at the cover of your textbook. “Right.” 

James checks his watch. In his ‘bum bag’ as he calls it, the radio he’d been carrying around on his shoulder when you met makes a concealed crackle. He pulls it out and brings it to his mouth. “Say again?” he orders. 

“We’re waiting outside,” Sirius says, to your surprise. 

“Pads, you’ve actually done something I asked,” James says in amazement. 

“Not really. It’s Remus’ radio, you know I won’t carry them around. It’s ridiculous. I would’ve liked to have called you but you never answer, even if it’s life or death!” 

“It’s never life or death with you.” 

“Cruel. Tell the Princess to hurry her work, she promised we’d go to the cinema and it’s getting on.” 

“She’s done when she’s done,” James says. 

“I’m finished,” you say. 

“She’s finished,” James says. 

“Oh, good. Has she picked what movie she wants to see?” 

“Sirius, can’t we have this conversation in two minutes, when we’re in the same car.” 

“What’s the fun in that?” 

You pack away your things and log out of your account on the library computer. James offers to take your bag, grumbling when you insist on carrying it yourself, and rebelling against you as you descend the stairs into the college’s entrance atrium by holding open every stairwell door. 

“What movie does he want to see?” you ask James. 

“Never mind him,” James says, stilling at the shock of cold that ebbs from the main doors. “Button your coat, lovely.” 

You thought perhaps James would get to know you more and he’d stop using ‘lovely’. There isn’t all that much about you worth such a nice word, but he still says it. He calls Marlene gorgeous practically every morning when she makes his coffee, Lily sweetness or angel or —really, he’s quite fond of Lily. You don’t see her too often; she’s here to take care of diplomatic matters directly involving you, and so she pops in every now and then to gather your signatures or ask an opinion, busy at the embassy. You get this uncomfortable feeling when you see them together, too complicated to name, like fingers curled tight around your heart, squeezing until you’re squeamish and pounding behind the ears. And Sirius makes these jokes you’re too afraid to ask about, little snippy things aimed to make fun of James in a brotherly manner. Our Prongs likes a redhead. I considered going ginger for a bit, but I don’t have the complexion for it. You have no choice but to sit there still and silent until they change the subject. It must be the not knowing them well that makes it hard. 

Just outside of the college, Remus and Sirius wait in the front seats of a rather nice car. 

“Where did you get this?” James asks, stopped too far in the road. 

“Bought it.” 

“Why?” James asks. 

“You said I couldn’t get a bike.” 

“I said you couldn’t get a bike,” Remus corrects. “James said he wouldn’t get on the bike, or sit by your bedside if you drove it into a wall.” 

“You like it?” Sirius asks. 

James gives you a smug, fond smile. “Do we?” he asks. 

“It’s pretty,” you say. 

“She’s gorgeous, Princess! Don’t downplay it like that! Now, are you getting in? Remus has picked tonight’s movie–”

“Get out,” James says. 

“You are not driving my baby,” Sirius says, “I’ve only had her an hour.” 

“I don’t care how long you’ve had the car, if the Princess is riding in it, I’ll be the one driving it. You know the rules.”

“Yes, but you’re the one who makes the rules, and they’re stupid rules, so I suppose this time you’ll be letting me drive, won’t you?” Sirius asks. 

—

“My own car,” Sirius mutters to himself beside you, “can’t even drive my own bloody car. This is worse than the summer I saved for an electric guitar and my mother smashed it into smithereens in the foyer. At least Walburga let me play a couple of songs first.” 

“Walburga?” you ask, grinning. 

“Patron Saint of hydrophones,” Sirius says offhandedly. ”And cunts. It’s why I hate water so much, see, I’m worried mum’s going to deprive me of protection.” 

“Sorry, Princess, Sirius is having one of his days,” Remus says from the passenger seat. 

“I’m being serious,” Sirius says. “Unsurprisingly.” 

“Don’t let me tell Effy who you’ve just called mum,” James quips. 

“Euphemia,” Sirius says quickly, “name of a well-spoken woman. And she is well-spoken, James’ mum, she’s well everything. Well dressed, well kind,” —he puts his hand on your arm and rubs gently, enough affection for the woman in question running through him that it pours into you instead— “she would just love you to death, Your Gorgeousness.” 

“You are having one of those days,” you say. 

“Not sure I know what you mean.” Sirius grins at you, dark hair in his eyes, his irises a pale grey that catches you. “Alright there?” he asks. 

“Your eyes are grey.” 

“If you fancy me–”

“I thought they were brown, is all, like James’,” you say, voice taking a sharp turn into loudness in a poor attempt to move away from what you’ve said. 

“We can’t all have that dreamy mocha brown,” Sirius says. His grin has changed, morphed into a mischief you aren’t yet familiar with. “We all have grey eyes, the Black’s. My mother and father too. Makes sense they would, what with their… similar heritage.” 

Sirius doesn’t volunteer information about his family often, and as he does he squirms. You wonder if he’d tripped into saying it on automatic. You know intimately how that feels. “Don’t worry about it,” you say, “I spent the last twenty years thinking my mum was a drunk and my father an idea. Of course, I know more about my dad now.” 

“Not about your mum?” 

“Oh, no. She’s dead, I think,” you say. 

“You don’t know?” 

Your turn to squirm. “Not really, no.” 

Sirius frowns. His lips part, a concerned platitude no doubt on his lips, but James’ strong voice cuts in, “You can share mine,” he says, “god knows she’s always trying to find another of my friends to parent. She even tried to baby Regulus when they first met.”

“Your brother?” you ask Sirius, remembering some tidbit of conversation. 

“He isn’t exactly versed in accepting affection,” Sirius says. 

“Neither were you!” James doesn’t look away from the road ahead as his arm reaches back. He points ineffectually. “And now look at you!” 

“Get me out of this car,” Sirius says. 

Remus, grey at the gills, murmurs, “I was just thinking the same thing.” 

Remus wars with migraine–motion sickness nausea on the corner of the street. James, having parked and locked the car once you all emerged, stands straight beside you, worry flashing across his face. Sirius has it all covered, patting the space between Remus’ shoulders slowly as Remus says, “Stop smothering me, or I’ll be sick on your shoes.” 

“Finally return the favour, then,” Sirius says. 

Remus groans, bending further toward the ground. 

“Is he okay?” you ask. 

James doesn’t answer for a while. He sweeps his gaze around the streets, cataloguing people and squinting against the lowering sun as it shuttles behind buildings. The evening cold is setting in, lights of the cinema blue-bright white and buzzing just ahead. “Remus will be alright,” he says, sounding like he believes it wholeheartedly. “Just gets sick sometimes ‘cos of the headaches.” 

It really bothers him, all the same. He doesn’t hide it well, the twitch of his fingers to go help, his furtive glances. He looks up and down the road, behind the cars, around you, and always back at Remus and Sirius. 

“How old were you when you first went away to boarding school?” you ask. 

“We were eleven. Why?” 

“I’m just wondering. You’ve been friends for a really long time, then.” 

“Not too long, now, Princess. I’m only in my twenties.” 

“Right,” you laugh, “of course.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing! It didn’t mean anything.” 

He gets a Sirius brand of smile, then. No, not Sirius at all, just a James you haven’t met before, cheeky and funny at once. “Sure it didn’t,” he teases. “You think I’m old. Do I look old to you? I’ll have you know I’m in perfect athletic shape. My mile time is six minutes on the dot.”

“Very impressive,” you say. 

He rolls his shoulders. “Yes, it is.” 

A couple of feet away, Remus has stood tall, a hand covering his eyes. Sirius covers that hand with his own, his laugh carrying across the street. “You’re a mess, Lupin, but you’re nothing I can’t handle, obviously. Get over yourself.” 

“All I said was ‘fuck’s sake’,” Remus says.

“It was teeming with self loathing.” 

“It‘s like I’m stuck together with shit PVA or something, I feel ridiculous.” 

“You’re fine. You are. You’ve never looked so fine, Moony old chap.” 

“Can you stop?” Remus asks, sounding like he doesn’t mind it either way. 

“Sure,” Sirius says anyways, softer now by a thread. “I’m done.” 

“James, should we–”

James goes down with a quiet thump. Your hearing flats out, no sound of him as his arms curl outward and his back rolls —he’s too smart to let his head smack the pavement. 

You aren’t smart enough to move out of the line of fire. 

A weight like a log forced itself into your stomach, slamming your back to a chest. You thrust your head back hard and cry out as a stab of pain rushes through your head, stumbling as best you can away from it, but the arm doesn’t let you go. 

Sudden, there’s another cry of pain, male this time, and the arm is letting you go. You bound two steps forward and spin in time to see James in a fist fight with a masked assailant, punches popped faster than you can track: you see clearly only points of contact, James taking a hit to the chest, to the head, his face snapped sideways as his knee comes up. He puts all of his weight into the motion and kicks, putting some much needed space between the two of them. 

You glance back for Sirius and Remus in a tizzy and come face to face with another black mask. 

You aren’t sure why you do it. Perhaps James’ sense of urgency rubs off on you, all his echoes of why you don’t want to let an attacker take you away from the public eye if you can help it, or maybe it’s knowing James is locked into his own fight and he might not win against another, caught off guard like that. You can’t confess to thinking, only swinging, the power of your entire upper body thrust into a punch that shatters you with pain. 

Before you can see if the punch had any effect, someone is stepping in front of you and hitting him again. Twice, a third time, James hits the masked man until he’s incapacitated on the ground. 

He swings back to you with a harsh breath. Your ears pop. “What the fuck!” someone’s saying, not James, his lips unmoving as he looks you over. 

“…You okay?” he says finally, stepping into your space to hold you by the arms. “You’re not hurt?” 

You flinch as his hand slips down to yours. 

“My hand!” you yelp, pressing it to your chest.

“What about your hand?” 

“I punched that guy!” 

“Did you tuck your thumb into your hand?” 

“Yes!”

“I told you not to do that!” James exclaims, breathless and vaguely pained as he puts his hands out again to take your injured one. “You tuck your thumbnail against the curl of your index finger!” 

“Is it broken?” Sirius asks seriously, stepping over one of your attackers in his rush to be next to you. “Are you okay? Fuck, it looked like a good one, though!” 

“I didn’t think properly,” you say, biting back a whimper as James rolls down your sleeve, your hand shaking terribly in his grasp, “I was just scared–”

“No, I know, it’s not your fault,” James says in a run on, sounding far outside the realm of a professional as he pokes near your pinky fingers knuckle. Your whine of pain makes it worse. “Sorry, lovely. I think you have a fracture. Fuck, you didn’t have to do that, I had it handled.”

“He was gonna grab me!” 

“I know.” He rubs his brow. “Shit, I’m so sorry.” James raises his gaze to Sirius as though he’s going to ask for something, but he pauses. “Where’s Remus?” 

“Turned into a migraine pretty much the second before those guys turned up, I had to sit him down.” 

James holds your arm with both hands. His eyes are browner than anything as he levels your gaze. “I’m gonna fix this, okay? I just need to make sure they aren’t getting up.” 

“Okay.” The pain in your hand gets worse by the second.  

“Okay?” he asks. 

It hurts so badly that tears form, one dribbling hot and fat down your cheek. “Okay,” you say again, wobbling. 

His lips go flat, but he turns away to start cleaning up. Sirius takes his place, wrapping an arm behind your back with a comforting murmur that you don’t quite hear. 

—

James is gone for hours. Sirius and Mikkelson take you home, and waiting for you is a team of doctors and nurses that seem unperturbed to be treating a princess in her rinky dink living room. The craziest part about it all isn’t that you’ve been attacked, or that the two doctors and three nurses are smiley, unhurried but not uncaring, and it’s not that you wish James was there so sorely it has you unsettled despite the rapid pain relief, no. The craziest part is the portable x-ray machine. 

“We could’ve gone to the hospital,” you tell Sirius, leaning back in your kitchen chair as a sweet-faced nurse slips a brace carefully over your injured hand. 

“No, we couldn’t have.” 

“I don’t understand why not.” 

“Yes, you do.” Sirius points at the plate of biscuits by your cup insistently. “Go on.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Just something quick for your blood sugar. Or pressure? One of them. Would you rather have a sandwich?” 

“No.” 

“Princess, please,” he says, giving you a frown you're unused to, like you’re pissing him off and he expects it. 

You grab a biscuit to appease him. 

Remus is wrapped in a throw blanket in your bed, likely sleeping, or perhaps still furious that Sirius had asked one of the nurses to give him a good look. Her diagnosis wasn’t anything new; Remus is suffering in the third stage of a migraine. It’s best he be left alone for a little while to rest. He’s going to be very tired when he comes out of it. 

James hasn’t returned yet. When they first stuffed you to the brim with painkillers, you’d thought morosely that you‘d needed him there, but now you just wonder what’s taking him so long. Who were those men? One of them had grabbed you tightly with intent to drag you away, so where were you going? 

Your flat is growing more crowded by the second. Marlene is in the living room trying to take dinner orders from extremely happy doctors and bodyguards alike, and with her is a stranger, a woman with dark skin and darker hair, black curls piled away from her face. You haven’t asked about her yet. Perhaps Marlene needs help catering for the sheer amount of people. 

“This isn’t exactly incognito,” you say, “all these people.” 

“Yes, well, James wants you to move anyways. And maybe that’s for the best. It’s rather cramped in here.” 

“It wasn’t,” you say. 

He assesses you quietly. 

“What?” 

“It’s alright if you don’t want to move, but you must know you’re a sitting duck here.” 

“I must?” 

“You are not a normal person, and you never will be. James won’t tell you about the things you should be scared of even if he’s honest about the risk, and I was at the mercy of his wrath last time, but I don’t care,” he says honestly. “I don’t. I need you to know that you’re not safe and it’s not because of some invisible maybe, there are real forces at play here. The sooner you move, the better. I know,” —he lowers his voice— “it’s a massive change, and you haven’t had time to catch your breath, but you can’t get comfortable now. And hey, you can keep the flat, yeah? You don’t have to give it away, but things aren’t safe here.” 

“But why not?” 

“It’s the Baron,” Sirius says, serious, quick, glancing at the door, “he’s not just cruel, he’s evil. He’s done things you’d never think he’d get away with, not now. It’s like the dark ages in his courts, the pure bloods–”

“Sirius, what the fuck?” Marlene says, pushing the door until it hits the wall. “Enough. She fucking broke her hand.” 

“And I’m telling her why.” 

“She broke it because she punched someone the wrong way,” the unknown woman says, warm but disapproving at once. “Who taught you to fight?” 

“Uh, it’s self defense,” you say uselessly. 

“James,” she tuts. 

Marlene appraises the nurse where she’s lingering at the counter, putting away her things. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asks, which is mostly sincere, just a tad pushy. 

The nurse says, “No, thank you,” and makes herself scarce. 

“This is Dorcas,” Marlene introduces as the door closes. No explanation to who she is follows as they settle against the counter tops. 

“Hi,” you say softly. 

“Hello.” Dorcas smiles, all signs of her disapproval wiped clean. “How’s the hand?” 

“Hurting.” 

“It’s nothing some rigatoni arrabbiata won’t fix, I’m sure.” 

“Sorry, Dorcas, but why the fuck are you here?” Sirius asks pleasantly. 

“Why do you think?” she asks sweetly back. 

“Usually to fuck me off.” 

“Enough,” Marlene says. “If you’re going to argue, you have two options. You can do it while pulling the tendons from these chicken fillets, or you can do it outside.” 

“Pass,” Sirius says. “I’ll go on as usual, as long as the snake stays quiet.” 

“You’re as bad as.” Dorcas crosses her arms over her chest. 

Sirius doesn’t rise to the bait, despite himself, and Marlene opens your fridge to begin cooking. He doesn’t mention the evil forces in play again, leaving you in your agony to brush it away. You’ll think of it later, or never, whichever comes first. 

“You can go to bed, if you like.” 

“Remus is in there.” 

“He won’t care. Pretty sure he had one of us in bed with him from first year to last,” Sirius says, taking one of your biscuits and eating it in two quick bites. 

You remember your own and put it down next to your cup of tea. Tea is fine, but these boys are constantly plying you with it and you’ve had enough to last a while. And the biscuits —who thought you could ever be sick of biscuits? 

“I’m not tired,” you say. “Maybe I’ll… finish some school work.” 

“Sure. Gonna be okay typing without your hand?” 

You wince. “Fuck. It’s my dominant hand, too.” 

“You’ll be out of commission for a while. Sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.” You look down at your twinging hand, a slice of shadow banding across it under the table. “I’d rather have a broken hand than be dead.” 

“No one was going to kill you. Is that what Sirius has been telling you?” Marlene asks, glaring at Sirius from over her shoulder, her eyes like blue fire. 

“No,” you say. “He didn’t have to say anything about it to me for me to know I was in danger.” 

Marlene isn’t chastened. “You’re okay. James protected you, and he will again. You don’t need to worry about it, about any of that stuff.” 

“That’s willfully ignorant,” Dorcas says. 

Sirius takes another biscuit. “I actually agree.” 

They’re friendly from then on. You don’t have it in you to be surprised. 

—

James cannot stand London much longer. The police officers are knobs, the roads are shit, and now you’re getting attacked by freaks outside of the loneliest cinema he could find. He’s spent three hours in an interrogation room with a prick and one of the guys who tried to attack you, asking their intentions, who they work for, who they are, and it hasn’t mattered, when he could’ve been making sure you were alright. He gave strict instructions on how you were supposed to be treated and by who, but Sirius doesn’t always listen. What James realised somewhere between leaving you on the side of the road and the police station, is that he has sorely underestimated what needs to be done here to keep you safe. Dorcas might go a ways of helping that along, but he needs advice. 

He needs Mary. Maybe Lily and Emmeline full time. He needs anyone willing to help him. Dearborn, the twins. Reinforcements are necessary. 

He needs to breathe. He can’t believe you broke your hand doing something he should’ve done first. 

“Fucking winded me,” he says to himself, rolling his sore shoulder as he takes the stairs to your flat two at a time. “Wanker.” 

“Kiss your mum with that mouth?” Remus asks lightly. 

He’s sitting at the end of the hallway away from your flat with the window wide open, a cigarette wobbling between his lips. It’s not lit yet. 

“You should stay in bed,” James says, crossing the hall to stand by him. He finds a zippo lighter in Remus’ pocket and flicks it open, holding the flame to the cig, letting the end smoulder. “How is it?” 

“It’s not that bad. Didn’t make me sick.” 

“Wobbly?” James asks, closing the zippo to tuck away in his own pocket. 

Remus takes a deep inhale, hand on the window ledge to steady himself. “Only when I breathe,” he says on the exhale. 

They stand together for a bit. James sort of wants to smoke, it’s not like he didn’t do his fair share in school, but he was lucky it never caught him like Remus and Sirius, who both consider themselves casual smokers. I smoke to celebrate, Sirius said once, and to commiserate. So that’s a few a day, at least. 

Remus is less inclined. James can’t blame him either way. Isn’t he owed a vice while his head rears to implode? 

“How is the princess?” James asks eventually. 

“I can’t confess to seeing much of her,” Remus says, voice light enough to imply that you’re fine. “But she’s spent the afternoon with a fracture and Sirius. I dare say she’s miserable.” 

“Her hand is broken?” 

“Yep. But it’s a boxer’s fracture, it’ll heal in a month.” Remus gets about halfway down his cigarette before he squints at James with suspicion. “You were in a rush.” 

“Just checking you’re okay.” 

“Mm.” He takes another drag before pulling the cigarette from his mouth, flicking a tall line of ash out of the window. “She’s not upset with you.” 

“She should be.” 

“James, you’re such a martyr.”  

He shrugs. “I’m here to protect her and at the very first hurdle I’ve let her down. Actually, the second hurdle, because I’ve already hit her once, so hard she could barely keep her eyes open.” 

“You didn’t hit her, don’t say that.” 

“I did hit her.” 

“With a door.” 

“Yes, with a heavy object.” 

“By accident!” Remus laughs and snuffs his cigarette on the wall outside the window, drawing the butt inside a curled fist. It makes James wince. “You’re alright. Truthfully I think she just wants to see you ‘cos you’re nice to her.” 

“You’re nice to her.” 

“Yes, but I’m not in the best working order right now.” He smiles. “And I’m not like you, I won’t put my arm around her.” 

“Please don’t.” 

“I won’t. I would if she was upset, but she doesn’t seem upset. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” 

“Don’t say it like that!” 

Remus laughs again. “Like what? Stop making me laugh, my head is throbbing.”  

Sirius once made Remus laugh so hard it prompted a migraine, or at least it was conveniently timed. He swore off jokes and being witty for a good two weeks. “Shall I never joke again?” James asks. 

He sounds tired, even to himself. 

“It’s a start,” Remus says. 

“Time is it?” 

“Time to stop being a coward, I think. Little after seven. You’re done?” 

“Done. Too tired to make better decisions.” 

“You know that song by the Rolling Stones, Miss You?” Remus presses his hand to an eye. “Stuck in my head.” 

James loves how much Remus loves to talk to him. It’s stupid. “Guess I’m lying to myself, it’s just you and no one else,” James sing-songs quietly, with an eyebrow wiggle.

“I like your voice more than his.” 

“Charmer.”

They follow one another down the hall to your door, where Mikkelson couldn’t look more bored keeping guard. Poor Mickey with the shit jobs and no company. At least he’s well paid. In the living room, there’s little evidence of the work he’s thought would be done here. No medical waste or mess, each pillow cleanly placed and each trinket of yours where you left it. There’s not much sound, but James cocks a trained ear and listens for everything. A rustle in the bathroom. A breath taken in the kitchen, then another. There’s definitely kissing, he thinks, heaving a horrendous sigh to let the lovebirds know they have company. 

Could’ve been you and Sirius, but he can’t see it happening. 

Marlene appears around the kitchen doorway, ever so slightly pink. “Hullo. Dinner?” 

“Yeah, please.” 

“Sure. Remus, you want something? Chicken soup?” 

Marlene will make chicken soup as most Genovian would, with pastina or acini de pepe, fresh rosemary, thyme, and Parmesan rind shredded over the top. It’s no less delicious than any other dish in her arsenal, but it’s so, so homely that Remus sighs wistfully and James can’t not ask, “Soup for me, too?” 

“Sure. It’s what I made for the princess, poor girl.” 

“She’s in the bathroom?” 

“For a while.” Marlene has the decency to smile apologetically. “You boys like red pepper, yeah?” 

“And Sirius?”

“I don’t know, James, I’m not a psychic.” 

“Right. Hi, Dorcas, how are you?” 

Dorcas appears in the door. James might think she was reluctant if he didn’t know better; Dorcas doesn’t ever do anything she doesn’t want to do. Her smile says something unreadable. “Fine,” she says concisely. 

James trudges away. In the bedroom, Sirius is curled up on your bed asleep. He shakes his head in wonderment and carries on to the bathroom. There’s water running behind the door, accompanied by the soft sounds of under-the-breath cursing. 

“Angel,” he says before he can stop himself, “are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

“James?” 

“Yeah, are you okay?”

“James, I… have a long sleeve top on, and it’s hurting more than I thought with the cast. Can you… do you think Marlene would come help me?”

He shouldn’t — “I can help, angel. Is it hurting? You’re stuck, aren’t you?” 

“Just a bit.” 

Your hesitant voice echoing off the walls makes him chuckle. “I can get Marlene,” he says. 

He’s already turning when you say, “Uh, no, that’s fine. Can you get me out?” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I want it to be you,” you say quietly. 

James doesn’t know what to do with that. He opens the bathroom door and finds you uncomfortably twisted. You’ve tried to take off the sleeve on your injured arm first and ended up with the back of your shirt pulled away from you, pulled up, tight against your neck, a little gap between your chest and the fabric. You aren’t scandalous, barely undressed, but James knows you’re shy about how you look from fittings and intuition alike. He quickly encourages your uninjured hand into the air to loosen the band of fabric from behind your neck, and then easily tugs the entirety of it up your arms and off of you, more careful at your dominant hand. The moment you’re released, he takes the soft sleep shirt you’ve put on the laundry basket and ruches the sleeves. He sews your injured hand tentatively though one sleeve, then the other, before slipping it over your head and pulling it down. His knuckles skim your naked back, and he’s careful not to touch bare skin again. When he’s neatened you up, he holds your side in one hand. “Are you alright?” he asks, frowning. 

“I know it’s just a fracture, but I feel like I can’t use it. Hurts.” 

“There’s no such thing as just a fracture,” he says. “Fractures hurt. Your hand is broken, it’s alright if you can’t move it. Do you need any more help?” 

You shake your head. “I managed the trousers by myself, thankfully.” 

James looks you over and finds himself softening swiftly. He does feel sorry for you. He thinks you’re allowed an allotment of pity. But he also just likes you, and doesn’t want to see you in pain. His colossal guilt doesn’t help. 

The darkness from outside is creeping in. You’ve a shadow on your cheek, another stretching out to your side. Your pajamas are worn —well-loved— a simple black t-shirt with a teddy bear on the chest and blue pajama trousers to match the teddy’s bow tie. You’ve the appearance of somebody who cried for a good hour or two, not so much splotchy or sore looking as simply coloured by the after effects of distress, a tiredness to your eyes that has nothing to do with sleep. You look small, but not in the sense of proportions. Just small. 

“How’s your pain?” he asks you quietly. 

“It’s not bad if I don’t move it.” 

“Try not to, then.” 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. 

“It’s all fine. I don’t have any more answers for you. Please, forgive me.” 

He knows a grudge hasn't crossed your mind. Still, he’s surprised again by your endless goodness, whether you might see it that way or not, your propensity for leniency and how it can be a brave, kind thing, “It wasn’t your fault, it just happened. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if you weren’t there… Well, I can imagine. I can. And it really scares me.” You press your splinted hand to your abdomen. “Thank you for keeping me safe, James.” 

I didn’t keep you safe, I barely got to you in time, he thinks. He’s in over his head. He’s practically drowning in shame and responsibility and self-obsessed inner turmoil. 

He wants to be his best, for you. He wants to do this well. 

James has no idea how he’s going to do this. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, hiding everything but a stitch of breathlessness from his tone. 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

In over his head. Drowning, maybe. “No. Did you?” 

“I don’t have much appetite.” 

“Marl’s made chicken soup with little pasta stars,” he says, nodding toward the door. “You’ll love it. Promise.”

“You’ll eat too?” you ask. 

James feels a tightening in his stomach that he wisely ignores. Without answering aloud, he encourages you out of the bathroom to the kitchen, and you both eat.

He’s helping Marlene clear the plates away when you hesitate by the door. Sirius has unceremoniously tumbled from your bed to the sofa when Remus tried to rouse him, begging tiredly to be allowed to stay. You’d said yes without problem. You trust Sirius, and if you didn’t, James thinks you might trust him enough to know who you can be left alone with. Remus and Dorcas have been ferried back to the accommodation by one of the others. Marlene and James are set to leave together as soon as the kitchen is squared. 

And yet you hesitate. 

Haunting the door, James recognises the way one hand flutters, almost squeezes the air, wanting to wring the other but unable.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, trying to use his body as a wall to offer you some privacy.

“Nothing.”

“You can go to bed if you need to, you don’t have to wait for us.” He manages a smirk. “You want me to change the sheets, don’t you? That Sirius Black character is a real heathen, isn't he? I don’t think a day went by when we were kids where his bed wasn’t inundated with crumbs.” 

“He ate in bed?” you ask. 

“Small rebellions.” 

“Remus says you guys shared a lot.” 

“We did. I don’t really know why. I know boys aren’t ‘supposed’ to love each other like that, but we never grew out of it.” James lonely without his mum and dad’s bed to climb into, Sirius realising he could have comfort whenever he wanted, even if he didn’t need it, and Remus, usually unwilling, occasionally doing the work himself if it was what was necessary to sleep again after a bad dream. (And the other, who didn’t often share, but leaves a bad taste in James’ mouth to recall.) 

“And it helped?” 

“Sometimes.” 

You squirm on the spot, but you force it out. “James, will you stay?” You’re apologetic. “I don’t think I can sleep if you go. I’m not scared, I promise, but…” 

James’ voice gets caught behind his teeth. 

“You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine. But if you don’t mind, you can stay, you can have my bed, if you want, I’d just feel better if it was you.” 

“Of course I’ll stay.” 

You smile. 

“It’s my job to look after you. If you feel better knowing I’m out here on the sofa, then I’ll stay.” He offers a smile usually saved for his friends.

“Okay.” Something in you has gone slack. You’re warmed from the inside out, and so suddenly tired. “You won’t go in the bed?” 

“I won’t take it from you, no. I quite like how you make the sofa up, I’ll just shove Sirius over. I want the pillowcase with flowers and the blanket with fleece underneath, please.” 

You leave to get his provisions. He follows your gaze. It’s why he knows you look back at him as you cross the threshold to your room. 

[yourstrulymary]

URGENT HELP SAVE THE LIFE OF MY CHILD

Dear humanity,

Please Help Me – My Son May Die at Any Moment.

I'm Amal, a mother of three children, living under the weight of the genocide taking place in Gaza. 🍉

My son is suffering from a severe and life-threatening injury after being shot by Israeli drones. He urgently needs medical treatment outside Gaza.

Time is running out, and we are facing a critical situation. I am asking for your generosity to help us save him either through a donation or by sharing this urgent plea with others

I beg you, i kiss your feet, to help my son. My son may die at any moment

I lost most of my family. I'm afraid to lose my son too 🥺

Mohammed deserves to live a happy and healthy life, just like every other child on this earth.

So I humbly ask you to donate even a little or at least reblog this appeal.

Please Donate now:👇.

https://gofund.me/2f20a398

Ddonate Via Paypal 👇.

https://www.paypal.com/donate

People still need your help.

[cuprohastes]

About ten, fifteen years ago I wrote a story about a guy living in a Capitalist dystopia. His walls, furniture, and tableware are all covered in smart displays. Basically animated wallpaper. It's sold as being able to turn your room or objects into anything - A nice forest view, outer space, a fantasy realm... but the companies that run this stuff keep sneaking ads in.

It gets so bad he's always being woken up by adverts that offer insomnia cures and better bedding that play when he tries to sleep.

So he buys the ad-free tier, and it's great... for a few months. And then he starts getting adverts from 'premium partners'. So he goes up a level... and the same thing happens.

So he jailbreaks his wallpaper and sends all the ad servers to 0.0.0.0 and voila... he can sleep.

Until this SWAT team blows his door off and drag him off to jail. The Ad companies are suing him for loss of revenue for the products he' notionally have bought if he'd watched their adverts, based on some weird 'The average consumer buys X products with an average value of Y' calculation.

The judge is like 'well I dun wanna annoy the sponsors' so he RICO's this guy's house and possessions and sends him to jail.

... which is a nice relaxed non-volent offender jail for the corporately disenfranchised. But because these people have no money... there's no ads and now he's happy because the only place he's free... is in prison.

Which at the time was a bit much and now it's like: Called it.

Elon's suing companies for not advertising because he's losing revenue. He's also cranking the price of Ad Free Twitter. Disney and Amazon play adverts on their paid service when services used to be free because of the adverts... and now you have to pay to watch the adverts or go up a couple of tiers.

And google's going around freaking out about ad-blockers.

[alexaloraetheris]

OP did it hurt when Apollo's dodgeball hit you and made you write that story?

[nucleosynthetic-deactivated2021]

why is bob short for robert

[myutsuumoved-deactivated2014052]

how does one get ‘billy’ out of ‘william’?

[wivernryder]

How in hell do you get “Dick” from “Richard”?

[myutsuumoved-deactivated2014052]

you ask him nicely

[aimozz]

you ask him nicely

[tinyemobitch]

i have been waiting for yEARS FOR THIS POST TO COME BACK YOU DONT UNDERSTAND

[ryanashle-deactivated20151211]

There’s a kid in my class named Richard Hunter

[stormfire710]

Dick Hunter

[oh-hey-its-harry-the-ghostie-boi]

aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[world-heritage-posts]

world heritage post

[zzombiehoundd]

I had a teacher in high school named Richard Butcher…

[stunningpicture]

Moving out of the apartment

[cecilyjeanne]

This is, without a doubt, the saddest photo I have ever seen in my ENTIRE LIFE.

[synebluetoo]

STORY TIME!

So in undergrad, my bestie lived in a true shithole of an apartment. When he moved in, he threw a housewarming party and brought out a bunch of washable markers and let us all draw on the walls. Being a tribe of feral assholes, we started competing to see who could draw the most obnoxious/offensive things. IIRC, there was George Bush frenching Ronald Regan, a skeleton with tits, some very rude portraits of the pope, etc etc.

now one of our friends who I hope to god has gone to therapy since then shut himself up in the walk in closet and painted the entire back of the door. He wouldn’t let anyone see it til he was done, and guys, I had nightmares about it. He’d driven a lovecraftian monster like you wouldn’t believe. It had eyes where it shouldn’t have eyes, teeth where it shouldn’t have teeth, and no matter where you stood it looked at you. We were all suitably impressed and horrified.

Anyway four years later bestie moves out and repaints the entire apartment.

Years and years later, I was talking to him and brought up the closet door monster. he visibly paled and confessed “oh god, I forgot to paint the inside of the door”

[inactivebbb-deactivated20230816]

That is an entire episode of the magnus archives right there

[arachine]

genuinely can't even read anything on here anymore bc of how ooc some people (putting it generously) are writing my favs. it's actually tiring. it was bad before, but it's even worse now. everyone uses the same character-type mold for male characters, and it's very reminiscent of those cringy romance books with the half-naked men plastered on the front. and don't even get me started on ao3, they ruined that too. i want better for us. bring back real fics.

[luveline]

because I just binged read all the office frenemies au James, can we pleaseeee have like them interacting after they've been on the coffee date, or just them dating in general? and maybe r teasing James instead of James teasing r? tqqq

—James begs for a kiss, and you’re almost caught. fem, 1.2k

You thought your life was over the second you kissed James Potter. You kissed him, you went first; the second you lifted your chin, you were giving him power over you he didn’t have before. You were confessing that all your arguments and quipping had turned from real annoyance to fondness. 

You thought he’d hold it against you. You didn’t really consider that he might enjoy being kissed by you. 

“Oh, please,” he says, pushing across his sofa to hold your arm, “please, don’t be angry with me. I’m sick of you frowning, and I usually love it when you frown.” 

“I’m not kissing you,” you say. 

“Please,” he says, dark strands of hair falling across his forehead. You can see your face in his glasses if you concentrate, but his eyes distract you, their pupils brown as the slick bark of a sycamore. 

“The last time you brought me here, James, you laid me out on the sofa like a– like we were in some sort of dirty movie, and Sirius nearly caught us. You know he and Remus are already suspicious of us.” 

“They aren’t, they aren’t,” he insists, his hand spreading warmly across your stomach, “I told them we’re just friends now.” 

“And they didn’t believe it.” 

“Well, no, but that’s because everyone’s under the impression you might kill me one day.” 

“How do they know you’re not gonna try and kill me?” you ask, enjoying the feeling of his pinky skirting adoringly under your ribs. “You’re the boy.”

“Don’t be sexist.” 

“Don’t be obtuse.” 

James is an aching sort of pretty. If you think about it, frenemies or otherwise, you never for a moment thought he’d want you. He’s made his jokes, but he’s said things with sincerity that are too much to ignore. You can be so lovely. 

You find that you want him to think it again. 

He looks down at your stomach, teasing the creases of your t-shirt between his fingers. 

“Okay,” you say quietly, raising your hand to his ear. You draw a line down the shell of it and catch the lobe under your index finger. “Let’s kiss, then.” 

“Seriously?” he asks. His head comes up fast with enthusiasm. 

“Yeah, I think so. Just don’t push me over again.” 

“Don’t say it like that, I didn’t push you, I just laid on top of you,” he says, bringing his hand to your cheek, where he holds you with all the tenderness of a practised lover, like he’s known you for years, “and you seemed to like it, I’ll have you know.” 

“James,” you whisper, thinking, if he’s gonna play it that way, “I–” You enthuse your tone with a timid sort of longing, which isn’t hard to procure. “I liked it, of course I did, I’ve never felt like this before, I just don’t want…”

He rubs your cheek gently. His eyes fill with a sorriness that nearly makes you feel bad for messing with him. “We’re being careful, yeah? Sirius won’t find out. No one will until we want them to.”

“Who says I want them to?” 

He doesn’t fill with anger nor annoyance; his eyes light with delight at your regular tone. “You’re such a devious, wicked girl,” he says, brushing a line up your cheek with his thumb. “You had me, then.” 

“Don’t I always?” 

He gives a self-deprecating scoff. “I’d rather you didn’t think so, but yes.” 

“I really don’t want Sirius to find out.” 

“He’s not home for hours,” James says easily. “Knowing that, would you like to have a kiss now?” 

“I already asked for one.” 

He hums his agreement against your lips. You squeeze your eyes closed at the sudden connection, relaxing as his hand works behind you to hook you in. “Sorry for the delay,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, the very bottom of your chin, and your neck, twice, before returning to your lips. They part under his, and the kiss turns to much more than softness you’d shared on the steps outside the office. This is hot, and inviting, and searching for something as he leans his weight against you. He doesn’t push. You knew he wouldn’t. 

You hold his shirt as he kisses you. Things are so new between you that you aren’t always sure what he wants you to do, where he needs your hands, but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t make it feel like a big deal. His hand roves from your back to your hand on his chest and guides it behind him. “Alright?” he asks between kisses, nose pressed to yours. 

“Mm,” you say. 

“Yeah? You sure?” 

“I’m fine, I’m– I’m great.” 

“You’re brilliant,” he says warmly, nudging your nose up with his to press your lips together loosely. Just loose, nothing kisses, your heart like a bruise deep in your chest as he draws you nearer. 

You decide to be lovely as he’d thought of you and hold him with both arms. Your fingers flirt with the edge of his shirt, fingertips finding a slip of bare skin. 

“You’re so handsome,” you whisper. 

You can’t see him, but you can hear how he takes it. “You– fucking hell. Fucking hell, you’re beautiful.” He tips your head back. You have the feeling he wants you to open your eyes, but you keep them closed, and eventually he leans in to kiss the soft spot under your jaw. 

You let out a sigh. Somehow, James’ kiss gets even gentler. 

He’s kissed down to the collar of your shirt when a clattering sound echoes down the hall, the weight of the front door hitting a radiator as two giggles follow. “Remus!” Sirius hisses, “you’ll take it off the wall!”

“Sorry!” Remus says. 

You and James spring apart so hard it makes the sofa squeak. 

“James?” Remus calls. 

“We’re in here!” James calls back. 

You widen your eyes. James is far less shocked, neatening your shirt and throwing a blanket from the back of the sofa over your legs. He shuffles across the seats and grabs the remote just in time to click play on the TV. The door opens, and James quickly straightens his glasses, the lenses smudged with skin. 

“Hello,” Remus says happily, Sirius poking his head in behind him. 

“Hi,” Sirius says, giving you both a far more suspicious look. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?” 

You know instantly that whatever you say will be better believed than James. “James bragged about having that new Quiet Place movie on the telly, and I knew he didn’t, so now we’re watching– what?” 

“Uh, antiques roadshow,” James says. 

You roll your eyes. “We’re watching antiques roadshow.” 

“Right,” Sirius says. 

“I thought you had the DVD?” Remus asks. 

“I did! I just don’t know where it is!” James cries. 

Remus raises his eyebrows. “Wanna get some dinner, then?” 

James deflates in relief, sending you a completely unsubtle smile. “You hungry, shorts?” 

You can’t believe you just let him kiss you. That you keep letting him. He’s never gonna be able to keep your secret from his friends. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

—

office frenemies au

[yourstrulymary]

Hi

[cyborgsmanifesto]

dealing with the worst case scenario

your condom breaks

you feel a lump on your breast

your friends are ignoring you

you’re stranded on an island 

you got rejected by a crush

you get into a car accident

you got stung by a bee/wasp

you got fired from your job

you’re in an earthquake

your tattoo gets infected

your house is on fire

you’re lost in the woods

you get arrested abroad

you get robbed

your partner cheated on you

you’re on a ship that’s sinking

you fall into ice

you’re stuck in an elevator

you hit a deer with your car

you have food poisoning

your pet passed away

you fall off of a horse

you or your friend has alcohol poisoning

you have toxic shock syndrome

your house has a gas leak

[4velitta4]

I feel like this could be useful in my future

[astrologypixies-deactivated2016]

REBLOG THIS. I CANNOT STRESS HOW IMPORTANT THIS GUIDES ARE, BOOST THIS SHIT

[gxtitobxby]

7.20 a.m with James Potter- getting the kids ready for school <3

-💌

language of flowers celebration

𝟕:𝟐𝟎𝐀𝐌 — 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

“coming in hot, everyone watch your hands!” 

it’s a monday morning in the potter household, and like always, you’re already running late. your son, who now reaches with greedy hands for the bacon you just set on the table, refuses to change out of his spiderman suit, insisting he has to wear it to school because you never know when crime will strike!

across from him, your daughter chews thoughtfully on some eggs while your husband wrestles her wild curls into little pigtails. the man has bobby pins sticking out between his lips, his face drawn into a focused pinch as he wrangles the messy locks into a practiced hairstyle. he does this every morning, insisting it’s his time for him and his little princess to bond. your daughter doesn't mind it, though she does grumble and shoot you a look whenever her dad comes up with a new style to try out.

“tada! look at you!” your daughter is not as impressed as james, it's much too early for that, but it doesn't dim the excited gleam in his eyes. you’re pretty sure nothing ever could. 

he plants a kiss on the top of her head, fidgeting one last time with the purple elastic before pulling away and rounding the table, hand mindlessly patting at your hip as he reaches around you to snatch a piece of bacon off the plate. he hums, “thank you, angel. tastes amazing.”

you shake your head with an easy smile at his affection. you’ve been married for what feels like a lifetime, and he’s yet to ever slack on making you feel loved and appreciated. your lip twitches thinking of your friends who always complain about how lucky you got. they’re not wrong.

you don’t even think about thanking him for doing your daughter’s hair, having learned quickly after the last time you did and he got so upset he sulked for the whole weekend. she’s my kid, of course i’ll do her hair. i’m not some deadbeat dad.

it took a lot of kisses and letting him eat you out until you almost passed out to make up for it.

“daddy, tell mummy i have to wear my suit,” your son says around a mouthful of bacon. you wipe his mouth with a napkin, warning don’t speak with your mouth full, please. he listens, pausing and finishing chewing before he swallows, shooting you a cheeky grin before turning back to his dad. “she doesn’t get it.”

james scoffs, eyes wide as he places a big hand on his little head and tilts it back so it rests against his stomach and he can stare down at him in faux shock. “are you crazy? of course she does! she’s a pro at this hero stuff.”

you sip at your coffee and hide a smile. god, you love him.

“you should listen to her, can’t go flaunting your true identity around, buddy.” his son is listening intently, nodding seriously as his dad drones on. “get into your normal clothes and we’ll put the suit in your backpack for when you need it. gotta keep it a secret, yeah?”

the little boy nods thoughtfully, “you’re right.” he jumps to his feet, taking his plate to the sink like the well mannered boy you both raised, and then turns towards the door before stopping in his tracks and running over to you, little arms wrapped tight around your middle. “thanks mummy,” he says in a rush against your stomach. “sorry for not believing you.” and then he’s darting down the hall. 

by now james has dropped down in the now vacant chair, smiling gratefully when you hand him a hot cup of coffee. you brush dark curls out of his face while he sips, “you’re such a good dad, y’know?” you scratch at his scalp, sappy smile on your face. “i love watching you with them.”

the tips of his ears redden and his cheeks get hot, but he still shoots you a cheeky grin and a wink—an almost mirror image of the little boy who once sat where he’s sitting—before reaching out and pulling you down on his lap. “you and your flattery, angel. you know what it does to me.”

you do, and you can also feel it as you wiggle around on his lap.

“mo’e!” the little squeal comes from across the table, chubby little arm reaching eagerly for the bacon in the middle of the table. “mo’e mummy, pwease.”

you both giggle, as you rip the bacon into little bits and bring them to your baby’s mouth, the pair of you watching with hearts in your eyes as she gobbles them up. 

it’s a monday morning in the potter household, and you decide that it's okay that you’re running late. just this once.

[yourstrulymary]

Forever happy that i requested this

[luveline]

hiiii if you’re still looking for remus centered requests, i rly liked your best friend steve giving reader a hickey and couldn’t help but think of Remus too! like him helping a shy reader not feel insecure about being the ‘inexperienced’ one of their friend group… by giving her some experience 👀💞? love ya lots!

love u thank u for requesting<3

—Remus gives you your first kiss, and then a little more than that. You know, between friends. fem, 1.2k

“Will anyone kiss me tonight, or shall I go unkissed, like some leper?” 

You laugh at Sirius’ drama. “It’s not so terrible,” you say, coming up the hallway behind him and James, your face bitten by the cold. 

“I know, my lovely little blueberry muffin,” Sirius croons, leaning back and prodding at your cheeks, the smell of cider stuck to him like a cloud, “how you remain unkissed is a mystery to me. Shall we fix that now?” 

Sirius is your friend, he doesn’t poke fun, but you flush nervously at his question. James grabs Sirius by the shoulders and yanks him away from you toward the kitchen, “Stop teasing!” 

“I’m not teasing! I would love to kiss you, sweetheart, just as soon as I can figure out which one of you is the real one,” Sirius says. 

Remus laughs and closes the front door, the last one in. He wraps his hand around your shoulders. “He’d be so lucky,” he says loudly, sending a sulking, pouting Sirius in the opposite direction, James on his tail in giggles promising to feed him some unbuttered toast if he doesn’t chill out. 

Remus’ arm falls behind your back. “Why does he act like that? Four drinks and he’s in love with everyone. He gets so urgent.” 

You confess slowly, “I can’t say I blame him. Sometimes… I wish someone would kiss me quite urgently, and I don’t even need to get drunk.”

“You do?” 

“Just because I’ve never had one doesn’t mean I don’t want one,” you say, “it’s really weird being the only one who doesn’t– who isn’t dating anyone.” You fluster at your confession, worried it’s too much to share, even while his thumb rubs affectionately into your shoulder. 

“I’m not dating anyone,” Remus says. 

“No, but, going for hookups and stuff–”

You falter as he laughs. “You want one night stands?” 

“No,” you say honestly, “but still. You’ve all done that stuff and I’m like, a twenty something loser.” 

“You listen to Sirius too much. You have an entire life to find someone to kiss you.” 

“I sort of want it now, though,” you say meekly. 

Remus laughs again, his arm wrapping tightly behind your back. You’ve both had a drink too, not tipsy like Sirius but the buzz of it perhaps the cause of your loosened tongue, and his easy touching, his teasing. He smiles down at you kindly, “You want a kiss, is that it?” he asks, “Sirius has upset you and a kiss will make it better?” 

You find you love the feeling of his chest pressed to yours, “I don’t know. It would be nice to have one just so he can stop talking about it.” 

He pulls you right into him and angles his face against yours like he’s going to kiss you, his laughing a soft warmth on the tip of your nose. “You want it right now?” he asks, his hand rubbing sweetly into your back. Layers of fabric feel useless; it’s like he’s caressing naked skin. 

“You can’t kiss me,” you say. 

“Why not?” 

“We’re friends.” 

“What’s a good kiss between friends?” He’s following your eyes, he knows all your tones, Remus wouldn’t play with you like this if he thought it wasn’t what you wanted.

“I won’t know how to do it,” you warn in a whisper, you’re reluctance clearly fading.  

“Well, you’re very pretty, so any bad kissing cancels out.” 

You bend into him as his arm pulls you up, your noses nearly touching, closing your eyes as he leans in. 

“You sure?” he asks. 

“Mm,” you hum, though he doesn’t kiss you until you nod. 

Your noses press together most of all, the strongest sensation, but then there’s heat as his lips part so slightly and press into yours. He kisses upward and you have the sense to keep pressing down, letting his soft kisses move you with him, like an ebbing wave. You take an instinctive step back and he pauses, until you attempt to kiss him again and prompt him into movement —he takes the lead. His hands grasp at your back like you’re water slipping through his fingers, letting a sound of pleasure filter from his lips into yours. 

It’s so peculiar. It’s like fireworks, like all the books and movies say, but it’s more. It’s so warm, and his lips are soft even as his kissing turns rougher, as he tilts his head to the side and his lips come apart against yours. Your hand climbs hesitantly against his side, then up, then stuck at the place just above his ribs. 

“Touch me,” he says gently, breaking the kiss as your breath comes fast, “wrap your arm around me, it’s alright.” 

“Am I hopeless?” you ask, placing your arm behind his shoulder and tipping back to see his face. 

He shakes his head, frowning, why is he frowning? “Hopeless?” he repeats. His hand comes up to your face, and that’s almost as bad as the kiss, the heat of his palm on your face and his thumb stroking over the slope of your cheek. He uses that movement to turn your head, and when he ducks in for another kiss, he murmurs, “No, I wouldn’t say hopeless,” the end of it lost on your lips. 

This kiss is rougher again. Your heart beats so loudly you can hear the thump of it in your ears as your eyes close and you attempt to fit a hundred wanted kisses into one. He just squeezes you close and returns your enthusiasm, until you can’t breathe, forced to hang your head over his shoulder as you pant for air. 

Remus kisses your neck. It’s a shock: you squirm at the sensation but let your head fall to the side as he does it again, not nearly as insistent as his lips had been on yours but something unsaid in the trail of his nose as it runs back up your neck and he kisses the skin below your ear. He slows, and slows, until he’s pulling away to stare at you. 

You lift yourself up, nonplussed. “I didn’t know it felt like that.” 

Remus shifts his hand from the side of your neck to the front, wiping at the marks of his kissing with his thumb where it wets your skin. “It doesn’t always.” He smiles at you with just a hint of smugness in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you want to know what a love bite feels like?” 

“Oi!” James calls from the kitchen. “What are you two doing?” 

You pull apart slowly from one another. You think he might’ve forgotten where you were, as did you. 

James catches the fall of Remus’ hand where it had been on your cheek and squints suspiciously. “What are you guys doing? I made toast.” 

You can’t look at him. Remus saves the day. “We’re looking for her earring.” 

“You won’t find it with the lights off.” He glares again with suspicion before turning back to the kitchen. “I didn’t even know she wore earrings,” he mutters. 

Remus gives you a sideways look. “Maybe I can show you what it feels like after?” he suggests, voice measured. 

“Between friends?” you ask. 

“No.” He puts his hand to the small of your back and gives you a gentle nudge down the hallway. “Not between friends.” 

[gxtitobxby]

the images coming out of rafah today are really punching me in the gut. to see the mangled body of a child, no legs no head, being held by by their parent… and to then scroll to see an IDF soldier doing a grwm… idk how we ever heal from this. how is there so much evil walking so easily among us?? these are PEOPLE doing all this injustifiable harm onto other PEOPLE.

governments, universities, have all let us down. and in twenty years, when they lecture us about reconciliation and the “errors of the past” i’m going to spit right in their dirty genocidal white supremacist faces because i will not forget.

[11thsense]