ヴィカ🎐💗💄

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶ 18 eng/jap/rus

[cinnam-0-ngirl]

POV: Author uploading a new part of a story after months

Me who forgot the whole plot but still happy they updated it

[yvesdoee]

me when @lostfracturess updates s&c🤞🏻

[syberia-so-deactivated20260731]

[strawberrybunnykk]

Do the Irish jig or talk to a guy with a porn blog

[lostfracturess]

symptoms and causes | ch. 17

pairing — professor gojo x med student reader

summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

word count — 11.9 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance and alcohol abuse, dark themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, trauma, medical content and mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood. full trigger warnings available on the masterlist. reader discretion is advised.

previously — you knew going to naoya’s party was a bad idea. now he’s arrested, but it doesn’t feel over. the lawsuit, the stalled research, the exams—they still hang over you. and satoru’s been acting strange. like something’s unraveling, and the real problem never left.

author's note — hello lovelies !! so it's been quite a while. i want to keep this short and say, that i had a lot of problems with this chapter and still have, and i know some of you will hate it but i really cannot continue writing on this chapter for another five months omg, so here it is :')

& a quick heads up: this chapter is heavy on the angst. it touches on themes of deception, death, explicit injuries, and morally grey territory. please take care while reading. see you in the end notes <3

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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How strange it is. 

Not peace. Not rest. Not really. It’s something else entirely—something insidious that seeps into your skull and smothers the noise there, coating your nerves in a lie you swallow.

How strange to sit here, your body sinking inward. Your hands don’t tremble. Your chest doesn’t tear itself open with each breath. Everything’s muted, smoothed over like a grave, freshly filled, the dirt packed tight over the chaos beneath.

You should hate it. You do hate it. 

But there’s something sickeningly sweet about the way it dulls the edges, the way it makes everything stop hurting for once.

You know how it works. It tells your overstimulated neurons to slow down. Enhances GABA at the GABA-A receptors. Dampens activity in the amygdala, in the prefrontal cortex, and in the hippocampus. It quiets these circuits like disturbed water finally going still. And all the panic, the anxiety, and the agonizing sense of dread that paralyzes the mind disappears. Like it was never there.

You’ve heard the warnings a thousand times in lectures, seen the statistics on tolerance, dependence, withdrawal. How the brain rewires itself around the crutch until you need more and more just to feel normal again. You know all this, but you ignored it anyway.

You wonder if this is how Satoru feels every day. How he sees the world. So smoothed out and faded, like a photograph left in the rain until nothing’s left but grey. You wonder how one breathes through this every day. But perhaps breathing’s always been harder for him.

You hid the alprazolam in the glove compartment of your car. Funny, isn’t it? Now you could understand him a little more.

“Hey. You still with us?” Maki’s voice pulled you back to the present.

It was cold. The breeze bit deeper these days, sinking its teeth into your bones. Soon, it would snow, and the season would change for good. It was raining again, as it always seemed to be these days. You pulled your coat tighter around you.

You sat outside the campus cafeteria in the courtyard. Students passed by every now and again, wrapped in scarves and hurrying towards shelter from the wind. 

“Didn’t sleep well,” you lied, and Maki gave you one of her serious looks across the table. She always saw too much.

“No wonder,” Yuta said, poking at his curry that he barely ate. “How do you sleep knowing this was happening all while we’ve just been walking around and—” He trailed off, like finishing the sentence might make it too real.

“Glad he’s caught,” Toge said between sparse spoonfuls of yogurt.

“Yeah, but still…” Yuta dropped his spoon. “I don’t know how to feel about it all.”

“How should anyone feel about that, really.” Maki hadn’t touched her food either. “It’s not every day something like this comes out.”

“What do you think they’ll do with him?” Yuta asked, almost whispering.

“Whatever it is, it won’t be enough,” Maki said.

“Lifelong,” Toge added.

“God, I hope so.” Maki muttered, stabbing at her uneaten food. “You know what pisses me off? He’s in jail, and he’s still suing Dr. Handsome. Like, what the hell? How is that even allowed?”

“Apparently you can sue someone from jail,” Yuta said. “There’s no law against it.”

Maki leaned back on the bench and stared up at the darkening sky. “Feels like it’s going to rain soon.”

“Maybe even snow,” Yuta added, hollowly. “It’s been quite cold lately.” After a beat, he turned to you. “How’d Physiology go?”

You glanced up from your own curry, long gone cold by now. Earlier this morning, you’d retaken Professor Nanami’s exam—the one you’d failed before, the one Satoru had stayed up all night helping you study for until you got everything right.

“It went well,” you said. Half a lie.

You had known the answers. You could still see them, clear as anything. But when the paper hit the desk, your hands wouldn’t move. Fingers stiff like they’d turned to ice. And the words stayed locked in your head, refusing to find the page. Maybe your hands were shaking. Maybe it was something else. Hard to say what went wrong. Maybe everything.

You couldn’t focus. Not really. Not with your thoughts circling back to how strange Satoru had behaved this morning. How it had taken him ten tries to knot his tie before you finally stepped in, hands brushing his as you fixed it. His skin had been hot to the touch, the veins on his hands stood out, pale and tense, and there was blood under his fingernails. Like he’d been clawing at his skin again.

Looking back, the signs were there. Perhaps you just didn’t want to see them. Or maybe you did see them, but denial is a cruel thing. It coils around your heart like thorns and feeds you lies easier to swallow than the brutal truth standing right in front of you.

Something’s wrong. You knew it.

You felt it in the silence between his words, in the pause before he laughs. In the way his smile never quite reached his eyes these days. Could see it in the way he moved, like he was drowning just beneath the surface, trying not to make waves.

Last night, you pretended not to hear him in the bathroom. Pretended to be asleep when he finally came back to bed, his body trembling slightly as he pulled you close. You wanted to ask, wanted to speak the words that hovered on the tip of your tongue, but they caught in your throat before you could say them.

Because deep down, you knew he wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t tell you the truth. And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t ready to hear it anyway. Maybe that was his kindness. Maybe that’s how he was gentle with you.

But kindness turns ugly when it festers, and now the dread clings to you so tightly that it feels like a second skin you can’t peel off. Like something buried beneath your ribs, feeding off you, growing heavier the more it takes.

Something’s different. Something’s wrong.

And every time you try to name it, to give it shape, it slips through your fingers like water, and you’re left holding nothing but this fear in your chest and this awful certainty that something terrible is waiting just beyond what you’re allowed to see.

You tried to ask. Don’t demand answers. But the heavier the feeling becomes, the harder it is to find the words. It’s almost as if you’ve become more afraid of the truth than of not knowing. And somewhere along the way, you became complicit in your own blindness, so careful not to disturb this house of cards of willful ignorance that would collapse with the slightest breath.

So instead, you watch. You wait. You pretend everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t. You smile when he dodges your questions and laugh at his jokes that have lost their bite. And at night, when he thinks you’re asleep, you listen to his uneven breathing and wonder how much longer you can keep pretending not to notice the way he’s coming undone at the seams.

Something’s wrong. You know it. He know it. But neither of you speaks it aloud.

Because maybe if you don’t name it, it won’t exist. Maybe if you just make it through dinner with his parents, everything will go back to normal. Maybe if you love him hard enough, hold him close enough, want it badly enough…

Maybe.

Such a cruel word. But it’s all you have now. That, and the quiet terror that whispers:

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. 

Something. 

Is. 

Wrong.

You watched him struggle with his tie in the mirror this morning, fingers trembling as he undid it for the ninth time. Dog lay curled at your side, his head nuzzling against your leg, while Satoru’s frustration built with each failed attempt.

When his knuckles turned white around the silk and a curse slipped between gritted teeth, you couldn’t take it any longer. You nudged Dog gently aside and walked over to him.

“Let me,” you said.

He dropped his hands without a word, surrendering with a heavy exhale. You took the fabric between your fingers, your hands steady where his weren’t, careful not to brush against his skin that seemed too sensitive, too raw, and hot like he had a fever.

A single bead of sweat trickled down his temple. You watched it trace the curve of his cheekbone, and your stomach dropped. You knew the signs too well by now. 

He was cutting his meds again.

You should be proud he’s trying, should be happy he’s fighting it. You should feel hope, or something that feels close to hope. But instead, a knot tightened in your chest. Why didn’t he tell you? Did Suguru know?

It wasn’t something he did lightly. It took everything in him to taper, to even consider going through the crash again. So if he’s doing it now, something must have happened. Something important enough to make him think the pain was worth it. 

And he hadn’t told you. Probably didn’t want you to know. And that scared you the most.

Your fingertip caught the droplet of sweat before it could fall. He flinched slightly and closed his eyes, as if even that small touch was too much for his frayed nerves.

“You’re not gonna ask?” he said, eyes finding yours, feverish and dulled with pain.

“Are you going to tell me?”

His mouth twitched ever so slightly, and then he pressed you gently back against the wall, his hands trembling as they framed your face, and then his lips were on yours.

You let him. Let him silence the questions with his mouth. Let him bury his secrets in the space between your bodies. Because sometimes a kiss is easier than facing the fear clawing at both your throats. Easier than admitting that you’re both terrified of what comes next.

Your hands came to rest gently at the back of his neck, torn between pulling him closer and being afraid to hold him too tight, to hurt him more than he was already hurting.

He broke the kiss slowly, then rested his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. You placed your hand gently against his chest. His heartbeat stuttered beneath your palm—too fast, too fragile, like it couldn’t decide whether to keep going or give out.

“Maybe you should skip your lecture today,” you whispered. But he gave the smallest shake of his head. Deflecting. Always deflecting. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Good luck on your exam today,” he said. “I love you.”

And you let him walk away. Because stopping him felt like admitting the worst. And you weren’t ready for that. 

Not yet.

“I’m so over this semester. I just want some damn free time again,” Maki said, pulling you back to the present once more. “We should go on a trip, like a weekend getaway or something.”

“Sounds good,” Yuta said. “God knows we need a break.”

“Agree,” Toge added.

“How about Hakone?” Maki offered. “Hot springs, mountain views, good food?”

“Too crowded,” Yuta replied. “What about Kyoto? Sell our souls at a shrine to survive the rest of our exams or something?”

Maki raised an eyebrow. “But Hakone’s too crowded?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Kyoto’s worse.”

“How about Okutama?” you suggested. “It’s only two hours by train and it’s quiet there.”

Maki let out a soft sigh, pulling her windbreaker tighter as a breeze swept through. “Sounds perfect.”

“Let’s go there,” Toge said.

“Agree,” Yuta echoed, finally giving up on his food and pushing his plate aside.

A small group of students walked past your table. One of them glanced at you, then leaned toward the others and whispered something. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. You’d seen that look before.

“They’re just jealous,” Maki said, her gaze following them. “Not a single one of them is even half as brilliant as you, and they know it.”

“It’s okay.” You gave a faint smile. “I don’t care.”

Maki didn’t look convinced. “What’s their problem, anyway? It’s been getting ridiculous this week—”

Soft drops of rain began to fall, light and cold, darkening the pale concrete beneath your shoes, one dot at a time. Maki lifted her hand to feel the drizzle, and nearby, a couple of students gathered already their laptops and headed inside the cafeteria.

“We should go in,” Yuta said, glancing at the wetening sky. “Not like any of us are finishing their food.” He looked around the table. “Want to head home? We’re done with classes anyway.”

“Can’t,” you said, eyes drifting to a nearby plant. Its leaves trembled as water collected on the edges. “I’ve still got something to do for the research project.”

“Today? After your exam?” Maki said. “They really don’t let you rest, huh?”

“It’s fine. It’s… fun, if you…” You trailed off, unable to find the words to describe how you felt about research lately. It used to be fun and fill you with pride. With purpose. Research had made the world feel orderly. Cells lived or died. Reactions triggered. Equations balanced. Things made sense. 

Not like people. Not like Satoru.

You used to walk into the lab and feel certain. Certain of the process, certain of the outcome, certain that if you just followed the steps, the truth would reveal itself. There was always an answer—clean, final, explainable. 

But no matter how many hours you spent in that lab, no matter how long you stared into that petri dish, it never gave you the answer you needed most.

“Anyway,” you said, brushing it off, “I just need to check on something. You guys go ahead. Don’t wait for me.”

“What are you testing?” Yuta asked.

“Oh, um… nothing big. Really.”

“Then do it next week,” Maki said, frowning. “Girl, get some rest. You’re scaring me.”

“She’s right,” Yuta added. “Take the day off.”

“It’s fine, really. It won’t take long. I just want to make sure—”

“Then we’ll come with you,” Yuta said.

“No, that’s not—”

“You know,” Maki cut in, “we are med students too. Maybe we can help, see something you and the other two big brains missed because your high-functioning minds are too advanced to see the obvious.”

“Ouch,” you said, giving her a long look. “But really—”

“You know we won’t take no for an answer,” she said, crossing her arms.

You looked between your friends. Yuta gave you a thin smile and a helpless shrug. They were painfully persistent. And, in their own way, kind.

─── ·✧· ───

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Why? What’s going on?” Yuta asked, brow creasing.

“This… isn’t an official key.” You glanced over your shoulder before sliding it into the lock of Geto’s lab and twisting it. The door gave with a quiet click. You stepped inside and flicked on the lights.

“You made yourself a spare?” Maki asked, following you in.

“Yeah.” You set down your bag and shrugged off your coat. “Geto temporarily took the lab key from me.”

“Is he still mad?” Yuta lingered by the door, glancing down the hallway like someone might catch you and call campus security or something. Eventually, Toge pushed him inside.

“He’s not mad.” But even as you said it, you weren’t sure. You’d hardly spoken since that night at Naoya’s party, and when you did cross paths, Suguru seemed to avoid you. It stung more than you wanted to admit.

“He’s just... concerned I’m overworking myself. He said it’d be best if we all took a step back from the project for a while,” you added. “That’s why he asked me to hand him back the key.”

Maki snorted. “So Professor Geto knows you well enough to confiscate your keys to stop you from continuing to work on the project, but apparently not well enough to realize you’d be crazy enough to make a copy?”

“Hence why we can’t tell anyone.”

Maki flopped into the swivel chair Satoru usually sat in, spinning lazily with her legs stretched out. “Still think he’s being an ass. What happened with the girl wasn’t your fault. So what’s his problem?”

“She’s his patient.” You walked to your usual workstation, hands moving on autopilot. “He was worried about her.”

“Still doesn’t give him permission to make you cry.”

“I didn’t cry.”

Maki’s chair stilled. She looked at you with that flat, unblinking stare she used when calling bullshit without needing to say the word.

“Save your lies for Satoru. He might actually believe them.”

“Maki,” Yuta said with a warning in his voice.

“Sorry. I’m coping with sarcasm.”

“Oh good,” you said. “I thought you were just being a bitch.”

Maki tilted her head, lips twitching. “Not your strongest comeback.”

“Lack of sleep.” A flimsy excuse for why you’d lost your edge.

“So,” Maki continued, leaning back in the chair and spinning half a turn, “what now? What are we doing?”

You didn’t answer her right away. You moved to the drawer, grabbed a pair of gloves, and pulled the culture plates from the incubator. 

The results hadn’t changed. The tumor cells had reduced—that part had worked. But the neuron cultures were dying too, wiped out alongside the targets. Collateral damage, Satoru had called it. But what good was a brain tumor treatment if it turns the brain into mush?

“I think I know what’s wrong,” you said finally, setting the plates down. “It’s too aggressive. The T-cells aren’t getting enough time to distinguish what’s malignant from what’s just brain.”

“So they’re… too fast?” Yuta asked, stepping closer to peer over your shoulder.

“Not exactly fast,” you said. “More like blind.”

All three of them blinked, confused.

“I thought the CAR-Ts were specifically designed to recognize only tumor antigens?” Yuta continued, glancing toward the whiteboard, where the last notes you and Satoru had scribbled were still faintly visible.

“They are. But the neurons near the tumor are expressing similar markers that confuse the T-cells. I think it’s triggering some kind of overprimed immune response.” Your friends still looked lost. You tried again. “It’s like burning down the whole house because you saw one spider.”

That, at least, landed.

“Reasonable reaction, I’d say,” Maki said with a shrug.

“So… how do you fix that?” Yuta asked.

“We wait.”

“Wait?”

“I delay the activation,” you said. “Stagger the incubation—give the neurons time to fully express their markers. That creates a clearer contrast window. The CAR-Ts need to recognize what not to attack before we let them loose.”

“I thought the goal was to speed up trials,” Maki said, leaning forward. “Now you’re slowing things down?”

“Not the timeline,” you clarified. “Just the reaction. If I give the cells a few more minutes of exposure before introducing the CARs, it might enhance their specificity and make them more discerning.”

“…So you’re what, easing them into it?” Maki asked. “Like a pep talk before action?”

“Something like that.”

Yuta scratched the back of his neck. “Sounds like the kind of thing Professor Geto would lecture us not to try.”

“Good thing he’s not here,” you said, turning back to your samples. 

You knew it wasn’t the kind of solution Suguru would approve of, and definitely not what Satoru had in mind. But you knew, you had to make progress. Principal Yaga was waiting. He wanted results—soon. You had a feeling. And if he didn’t get them, he’d start dangling your scholarship over your head again. Of that, you were certain. So when Suguru put the project on pause, you kept going anyway. You couldn’t afford to let the time go to waste.

Before you knew it, hours had passed. Yuta helped you load the pipettes, careful and steady, while Maki double-checked the media, muttering complaints under her breath but never missing a step. You repeated the incubation steps like a mantra—once for them, twice for yourself, and a third time to the cells, whispered softly like they might actually listen and behave for once.

Everything moved slower. Intentionally so. A waiting game.

It was the kind of approach Satoru hated—too still, too quiet. Waiting made him nervous. He always worried the cells would lose viability if they sat too long, convinced that every extra minute pushed them closer to failure. And failure wasn’t something he could easily stomach. So you’d never considered it before. But now, with the lab empty and neither Satoru nor Suguru around, you had space to try.

Still, you wished he was here. Cracking a bad joke. Reminding you to drink water when a migraine started creeping in. But you knew better than to stress him with research right now—not when he was barely holding it together.

But you weren’t alone, were you? Your friends were here. And for once, you didn’t feel like you were carrying it all by yourself.

The timer on the incubator ticked steadily while you waited.

Yuta disappeared for about ten minutes and came back from the cafeteria with a handful of KitKats and Mars bars. He tossed a few onto the table beside Maki, who now had her legs propped up on the desk, lazily scrolling through her phone. Toge had long since dozed off, cheek pressed to the tabletop, soft breaths fogging a patch of glass as rain painted slow streaks down the windows.

“How long will it take?” Yuta asked quietly, careful not to wake him.

“Hard to say.” You stretched your arms overhead. A sharp ache flared in your ribs, and you winced. “Could be anywhere from a few minutes to an hour.”

“You okay?” Yuta asked. “Do the burns still hurt?”

“Just a little. But I’m good.”

Yuta opened on of the Mars bars and took a bite. “How’s your flat, by the way?”

“Oh, um… good. They’re renovating it, and I can probably move back in by the end of the month.”

“But would you? Now that you’re living with Gojo?”

Before you could answer, Maki suddenly sat upright and swung her legs off the desk. “Oh—shit.”

Yuta turned to her. “What?”

“Look,” she said, turning her phone toward you both.

It was a video. A scene from the party. Satoru, kneeling in front of you. His tongue on your skin. Loud music, flashing lights, too many people laughing in the background. It was blurry and shaky, but it didn’t need to be good quality to make the damage clear.

“Fuck,” Yuta said.

“Yeah,” Maki echoed, her tone flat. “Fuck.”

“Who posted it?” Yuta asked. “We need to find them and ask them to delete it.”

“Too late.” Maki swiped to another app. “It’s already everywhere.”

You watched them talk, but your mind had gone somewhere else. You knew better. You’d known better then, even in the moment, but you’d let it happen. Let it go too far. Naive. And so fucking dumb. And now? It all felt pointless.

Games with Satoru never stayed games for long. Sooner or later, something always broke. And this time, it wasn’t just you who got bruised.

Yuta and Maki finally turned to you, their expressions caught somewhere between worry and waiting.

“What do you want to do?” Yuta asked quietly.

Your gaze drifted back to the experiment, to the blinking lights of the incubator and the careful arrangement of plates. Something solid. Something predictable.

“We can’t do anything,” you said at last. “Can we?”

“But if this keeps spreading—” Yuta started.

“It’s already out,” Maki cut in. Her tone wasn’t cruel, just rational. “It’s probably gone viral by now. There’s no way we can contain this anymore.”

Yuta looked like he wanted to argue, but the words deflated with a breath. “Maybe you’re right… but still.” He looked back at you. “You okay?”

Were you? Why should it matter that everyone had seen? They were already talking. Whispering behind your back and staring too long in the hallway. It all faded into background noise when your real fear lived elsewhere.

Before you could answer, Toge stirred. He blinked slowly and pushed himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

“But isn’t it weird?” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“What is?” Yuta asked.

“That no one’s done anything.” Toge looked between you all. “If it’s viral, then it must’ve reached the Principal by now. And, I don’t know—normally, someone would be expelled. Or suspended. At least called in.”

Maki blinked. “Damn, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at once.”

Toge gave a small shrug. “Still weird.”

Yuta frowned, nodding slowly. “He’s right. It’s been, what—four days? Everyone must have seen that video by now. That’s probably why people keep staring at us.”

“And not a word from Yaga,” Maki added, straightening. “Nothing.”

“It’s like they don’t care,” Yuta said.

“But why wouldn’t they?” Maki asked.

You sat back, the realization hitting you like the hush before a storm.

Normally, this would’ve been a scandal—academic misconduct, breach of ethics, inappropriate relationships. You should be in the middle of disciplinary meetings and sitting across from some stern official asking if you understood the consequences of your actions. But instead? Silence. And that silence was starting to feel less like mercy and more like a warning.

Toge was the one to say what no one else did. “It’s like they’re not taking action because someone doesn’t want them to.” And then, the monitor beside you blinked amber.

“Something’s happening,” Yuta said, pointing past your shoulder.

You turned, heart climbing into your throat. Maki and Yuta rushed to your side, leaning in as you clicked through the data. The tumor line on the graph had dipped—steeply. Fast. You opened the live cell readout.

Tumor fluorescence was fading. But the neurons—

96%.

94%.

94%.

Still holding.

Yuta leaned closer, squinting. “Wait… is that—?”

“Yes,” you said.

Success.

─── ·✧· ───

You nearly slipped on the wet asphalt in your haste.

You’d fled the lab without explanation, barely glancing back as you called over your shoulder for the others to lock up after themselves. No one asked why you suddenly had to leave. They already knew.

Strange how it had taken this long. Stranger still how everything fell into place now—like scales lifting from your eyes, sharp and painful in their sudden clarity. Why had it taken so long? And why now, of all moments, did you need to see him so urgently, ask him so urgently… while dreading the answer just as much?

By the time you reached the main building, rain had soaked through every layer of your clothing. You were dripping, breathless, your shoes squeaking with each step down the high, echoing halls.

You turned the corner just as students began to spill from the auditorium, their laughter and chatter too loud against the stone walls. Satoru’s lecture must’ve just ended. You paused, drawing one last breath, knowing the next one would surely hurt.

Inside the hall, students gathered their things and slipped past you one by one. They kept their distance, but their eyes didn’t. You felt their stares, heard the whispers—loud enough not to care if you heard. Hungry for drama.

You stood there, dripping water onto wooden floors, still catching your breath when you saw him.

Satoru looked up from a set of papers on the front desk, as if sensing you before seeing you. His bright blue eyes found yours across the room. He frowned. So subtly most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did. You always noticed. You’d known him long enough. 

He knew something was wrong. And he hated not knowing what it was. You saw that too. It was part of the game.

He didn’t speak until the last student had slipped out behind you.

“Lock the door.”

You turned and did as he asked.

“You want to say something,” he said cautiously, watching you. “But let me check first, yeah?”

He nodded toward the desk. You climbed up without protest.

You knew you had to give him this first—let him take care of you. Let him believe it would help, that this small act of tending could undo everything fraying between you. You gave him the illusion that it might make things better.

Because later, he wouldn’t have the chance. Later, there would be questions neither of you wanted to ask, and answers you feared even more. Later, there would be pain, and silences that stretched too long to ignore, and a distance you weren’t sure either of you would know how to cross.

But right now, you could give him this. A wound he could see. Something his hands could fix with antiseptic and gauze. Something not yet slipping beyond his reach.

And maybe, in some small way, it was the last thing either of you still knew how to do—

To patch what was broken, even if only on the surface. Even if everything underneath was already coming apart.

He moved closer until he was standing directly in front of you and reached for the hem of your sweater. As he pulled it over your head, the motion brought your faces briefly, breathlessly close—his exhale brushing your lips. Then, in silence, he undid the buttons of your blouse.

He pulled his chair closer and slipped on latex gloves, the snap of plastic loud in the hush between you. He wore a dark blue tie with his white dress shirt—the one you’d laid out for him that morning and helped him with. You’d always liked that one best. You weren’t sure why.

Carefully, he pushed aside the fabric of your blouse, revealing the small wound low on your ribcage. One of the burns from the fire had torn open again, somewhere in the chaos of Naoya’s party. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe the adrenaline. You hadn’t even noticed until the next morning. 

You’d tried to hide it. Satoru had found it. He’d been angry. But he’d stitched it anyway. Quietly. Gently. Without a word.

Now, his fingers ghosted over your skin again as he removed the old patch and checked the stitches beneath. A droplet of water slid from your hair and landed on his wrist.

“You’re dripping,” he said, not looking up.

“It’s raining.” Your gaze drifted to the tall windows lining the west wall of the auditorium. Outside, the sky had turned a heavy gray, and rain streaked down the glass in endless sheets.

After a moment, he exhaled slowly, meaning that everything was okay. No infection. No complications. Just a scar now.

You buttoned your blouse again, then pulled your sweater over your head. He rolled his chair back slightly, peeled off the gloves, and tossed them into the wastebasket beside the desk.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He was asking about the phone call from last night. Your mother was taken into a hospital. A care treatment facility somewhere in the mountains. It was best for her, her therapist had said.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“Do you want to visit?” he asked gently, like he’d forgotten the doctors had told you she needed time to adjust. Or maybe you’d never told him. Maybe that was the lie you’d chosen. Because it was easier than admitting the truth. Easier than saying you were scared of looking into her eyes and not recognizing what looked back.

“Sometime,” you said.

He leaned back, studying you. “If you need time… I can talk to the faculty. We could push your exams—”

“Did you see the video?”

His expression didn’t change much, but there was a pause. He saw it.

“Did you tell your friends? About your mother?”

“You know what’s strange?” you said, ignoring his question. “That Yaga hasn’t come after your job yet.”

“You should talk about it.”

“I’m pretty sure he saw it. Everyone has. And I’m also pretty sure he’d love to fire you. But he hasn’t.”

“You can’t keep avoiding this.”

“There’s been nothing,” you went on. “No meetings. No questions. No lectures. It’s like they’ve all decided to pretend none of it happened.” You looked at him. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“What are you getting at?”

“They don’t care, Satoru. They never did. Not about me. Not about rules. Not about ethics. They don’t care because it’s you. Because it’s you that’s fucking a student.”

Silence.

You watched his jaw tighten, but he didn’t speak.

“The ethics committee was ready to sweep it all under the rug. Until Sukuna stepped in, that is.” You watched him carefully. “He’s the problem. Not this. Not us. No one gives a shit about that. Because they can’t afford to lose their star surgeon.”

He stood without a word and turned away. You heard the faint click of a blister pack, then saw the slight tilt of his head as he swallowed whatever it was. You didn’t ask.

“Just ask me already, first-year,” he said finally, still facing away. “Whatever it is you came here to say. No need for pretenses.”

You hesitated, but only for a moment. “Why does Sukuna really hate you?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. For a second, it was like even the air had gone still. He turned, walked back to his chair, and sank into it. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, and rubbed his jaw. He knew you wouldn’t let it go.

“Sukuna was seeing someone back during our second year of residency,” he said eventually. His voice was low, quiet. “They had this fight and broke up. She came to me that night—upset, angry and hurt… and I was—” He paused. “I was high. On something new, and I’d been drinking too and—”

He leaned back, eyes not on you, but on the space near your feet, like he couldn’t bear to look at you and still keep talking.

“I didn’t stop her when she kissed me. Maybe I wanted it, I don’t know. I barely remember any of it.” 

He rubbed a hand over his face. 

“Sukuna found out. He’d gone looking for her to apologize and—fuck—Sukuna doesn’t apologize. I didn’t even think he was capable of it.” A beat. “She and Sukuna fought again. I had a stupid shift at the hospital, so I left. She… she was drunk, but got in the car anyway—or at least, that’s what the police report said.” His voice went flat. “Next thing I know, she’s on my operating table.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. His words landed like cold water down your spine.

His eyes lifted then, met yours across the space. You wished he hadn’t. Wished he’d kept staring at the floor, or the wall, anything other than dragging you into this truth with him. Perhaps he wanted you to look. Perhaps he needed you to. Needed to watch you flinch, to watch you pull away. Maybe that was the final proof he’d been waiting for—that even you couldn’t stay.

“I called the head of neurosurgery. He was supposed to be on that night. But there was a storm and we were short-staffed. He couldn’t make it in time.” A breath. “So it fell on me.”

“She was losing blood fast, and I tried everything I knew. Did damage control, shunts, applied pressure, transfusions. But nothing held and every time I thought I’d stopped it, it started again.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “There was so much blood, I could barely see anymore.”

A pause so long it could have been silence forever.

“She died before the attending even made it to the hospital.”

Your chest seized, like something had reached inside and wrenched your heart out by the roots. A tear burned its way down before you could stop it, and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. You slid off the desk without a word and turned your back to him.

After a moment, you said, “You slept with her.”

“I didn’t. We kissed, and—”

You turned your head slightly, not enough to face him. “But you would have.”

A long pause. “Probably.”

“And you were high.”

“I was.”

“She died.”

He didn’t answer.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

You turned to face him, a deep, trembling breath pulling through your lungs. How could the man standing in front of you wear the same face you love, and still feel like a stranger stitched together from someone else’s bones?

“Do you hate me?” he asked, so softly you almost missed it.

“Isn’t that obvious?”

Maybe you would’ve screamed if it weren’t for the chemical calm flooding your veins. Maybe you’d have fallen apart completely, if not for the weight of the medication holding your limbs hostage, pinning you to the floor of this unbearable moment. You would have cried. Run. Anything to escape this feeling.

How were you supposed to move forward from this? From knowing that the person you loved, the one person whose breath always lived inside your lungs, like you were never fully breathing on your own, had once stood in a room soaked in blood, unable to save the woman dying in front of him because he’d been using?

You couldn’t feel the full weight of it now, but you knew it was waiting. Lurking. It would come later, once the pills had worn off and you were alone.

“I took time off after that,” Satoru continued, his voice breaking the long silence. “Went to rehab.”

“But that wasn’t very successful, was it?”

“No. I left three weeks in. I couldn’t stand the silence in those rooms. And my hands—” he looked down at them, watched them tremble slightly, “they needed to do something. Anything. Other than itch for a pill.”

You closed your eyes, and the tiredness swallowed you whole. “Why do you always make this so hard for me?”

“I know.” His voice was barely there. “I’m sorry.”

But sorry didn’t bring back the dead. Didn’t patch torn arteries. Didn’t bleach out the stain of what he’d done. You wanted to scream that at him. But your body was too tired, too medicated, too full of ache.

“After that, I stopped experimenting,” he said. “I stuck to what I knew I could handle. Doses I could function with—”

“Stable? You think that’s what you are? You were cutting into people’s skulls, people who trusted you—and you were high. That’s not stable, Satoru. That’s criminal.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“But you still did it anyway.” You braced your hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly. “How many? How many times did you cut into someone’s fucking brain while you were high on God knows whatever the pharmacy could throw at you?”

His eyes narrowed. “You want the number?”

“Yeah.” The word came out like a dare.

“Seventy-eight.”

“Seventy-eight?”

“Yeah.”

“What—You kept track?” You scoffed and turned away, your breath catching in your throat. Silence spilled into the auditorium, thick and suffocating, broken only by the steady rhythm of rain against the tall windows.

“I went back afterward,” he continued, “reviewed every fucking surgery I’d ever done. Replayed them in my head, over and over, looking for mistakes. For moments I might have—”

“Don’t.” Your hand lifted without thinking.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to defend yourself.”

He stood up, his voice low but sharp. “Don’t act like this now. You knew.”

“I knew?”

“Yeah. You did. You knew I was using,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “You stood next to me in the OR, knowing I was on drugs.”

“Don’t make me complicit in your story.”

“Oh, come on.” His voice sharpened. “You turned a blind eye, didn’t you? Because you finally got to scrub in again. Got to be inside an OR. You needed that fix just as bad as I did. You needed it more than your ethics, more than your high ground. That’s the part you don’t want to admit. So don’t cry about it now—not when you were so willing to look away.”

And there it was. Irrefutable and damning, the accusation lingered between you like a knife twisting deeper, and you couldn’t help but feel so small in this hall opposite him. 

He sat in front of you, cutting you open, slow and painful, and maybe he wanted it, needed it in that moment, to see the hurt, the pain. Maybe that would finally be enough for you to step back and leave him to himself. Prove he is what he thinks he is.

And right now, sitting there with water falling down your hair, drenched and cold, you weren’t so sure about it either. If you could stay. If this was what love was supposed to be like.

You always thought there was some kind of invisible thread tying you to Satoru. Something that was meant to be, written in the stars and etched into the spine of fate itself—like a wish a child makes with their whole heart, believing the universe is kind enough to listen. 

But that thread was poisoned now. It had rotted and curled slowly from within, until the thread was so fragile you weren’t even sure it was still there.

He stood there, waiting for you to refute it. To deny it. But the words didn’t come. Because deep down, you knew.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you said instead. 

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch. And somehow, that made it worse. Somehow that was the proof.

“You were using me for surgeries, and I let you. Because I fell for you. Because I had those stupid feelings—and still do. Because you made it easy to believe I could be better than I am.” His voice cracked slightly. “And believe me, if I could rewind time, I would. But I can’t. I have to live with this now. And there’s not a single fucking day where I don’t hate myself for what I’ve done.”

You turned away, thoughts spinning too fast to catch, too tangled to voice. There was too much—too much information, too much pain, too much weight pressing down on your chest until breathing became a conscious effort. But instead of panic, you felt strangely hollow. Carved out. Like someone had reached inside and scooped away everything that made you react.

You turned away. “It worked.”

“What?”

“I delayed the process, and now the neurons held. We were too aggressive. But it worked.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he didn’t trust his ears. And then—

“That’s… that’s—” He sank into the his chair again, the breath knocked out of him. “We could start trials. This could actually…” He looked up at you. “This could change everything. We could cure brain tumors.”

But you didn’t answer. Not with the excitement he expected. Not with anything, really.

After a pause, he asked, “Will you come home tonight?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Maybe I’ll stay with Maki.”

“…Okay.”

You didn’t move as he crossed the room. He stopped beside you—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“I kept the files. All seventy-eight cases. Notes, scans, surgical reports. They’re in my office. If you want them, they’re yours.”

You looked up at him. His face was drawn in the pale light, the color drained from his skin, his eyes so painfully blue it hurt to look into them. You could tell he was feeling it too, all that exhaustion from the constant fighting.

“I know you’ll want to look,” he added, and you hated how he always knew that. How he knew you. And he must have guessed your thoughts. “You know me. But I know you too.” And it almost sounded like a threat.

Your throat tightened, but you said nothing. 

He hesitated for just a second more, then added—so softly you almost missed it, “I’ve fucked up a lot in my life. And I know I’m not a good person. But you... you were the only thing I ever got right, and I hate that I dragged you into all of this. And for that, I am sorry.” His hand lifted, fingertips brushing your chin, tilting your face toward his. “If you ever want to use me for the rest of my life, I’d let you. You can have it all—every surgery, every opportunity. I’ll open you every door, and never speak to you again if that’s what you want. You have all of me.”

And with that, he stepped back and left the room.

─── ·✧· ───

It started when you said his name out loud for the first time in hours. Or maybe it started earlier—when Maki opened the door without asking questions and handed you a hoodie that still smelled like laundry detergent and peppermint gum.

You hadn’t meant to talk about him. But the moment you sank into her bed, your head in her lap, everything you’d been swallowing started to claw its way back up.

It came out in pieces. Not in order. Not cleanly. You weren’t even sure it mattered anymore. And Maki didn’t try to stop it. She just sat there, running her fingers through your hair while you told her everything.

About the addiction. How you’d known from the first time you found pills in the glove compartment of his car and told yourself they were old prescriptions, leftover from some surgery, some legitimate pain. How you’d looked the other way because looking directly at it would have meant admitting that the person you were falling for was already in free fall. How you’d become an expert at seeing everything except what you couldn’t bear to see.

About the rehab attempts. About the withdrawal. How one time you found him on his bathroom floor, his pulse so weak you pressed your fingers to his throat again and again, and how you never knew what real terror was until that moment when you thought you were too late.

About Sukuna. About how he looked you in the eye and said you’re the problem—and how part of you still believes it. 

About the accident. About the woman he couldn’t save. About the seventy-eight cases.

You told her about his parents. How he still sometimes flinches when you touch him unexpectedly. His scars. 

And then about your parents. About your father. How much you miss him, how you always wanted to be as good a surgeon as he was. How Satoru stood with you at his grave. How your father would have liked him.

About your mother. How you watch her disappearing a little more each time you visit, how you’re terrified that one day you’ll look into her eyes and see nothing familiar anymore. How grief ate her from the inside out, and how you understand now why Satoru reaches for pills when the pain gets too much.

You told her about the pain. About the resentment. How unfair it feels sometimes, to love someone so much and watch them hurt themselves anyway. How you resent his addiction and your own powerlessness against it, how impossible it becomes to separate the man from the disease, how some days you catch yourself hating him for something that’s killing him too.

You told her how being with him started to feel like drowning—not because he was pulling you under, but because you were holding your breath, afraid that breathing too deeply might somehow make things worse. And how, somehow, being without him feels worse.

You kept going until your throat felt raw, like you’d been screaming with no sound, while Sabrina Carpenter and Billie Eilish played softly in the background. It might’ve been funny, if anything still was.

You told her everything except the part that made you sick to admit. You couldn’t say what Satoru already knew and never spoke about until now—that maybe, at the beginning, you’d wanted what he could give you more than you’d wanted him. You looked the other way because all you wanted was to be in the OR, to finally surface after being underwater for so long. After your father’s death, after watching your mother disappear into grief, after years of drowning in your own mediocrity.

You’d wanted the access Satoru could give you—the validation, the adrenaline rush of complicated surgeries, of holding someone’s life in your hands and knowing you were skilled enough not to drop it. Until—

Until you wanted him. To be seen by him, to be touched by him, to be kissed by him. And only him. Only ever him.

You’d gone from wanting what he could give you to wanting him, completely and irrevocably, addiction and all. And you hate that you still want that—even now, even after finding him unconscious on bathroom tiles, after all those ugly fight and watching him choose pills over you again and again, after realizing that loving him might be slowly killing you both.

You tell yourself you deserve better. But the truth is, you don’t want better. You just want him. But lying there in Maki’s bed, you can’t help but wonder how naive that makes you. How stupid.

And then you told her about the files—the ones that had been waiting on Satoru’s desk like he’d known you were coming for them. Like he’d been expecting you all along. He knew you too well, and sometimes that terrified you. Because there was no version of yourself you could keep hidden from him, even when you tried.

Maybe that’s what broke you more than anything—that he’d still handed you the match and dared you to strike it. 

You hadn’t looked at Maki the whole time. Couldn’t. But she didn’t flinch, didn’t interrupt. She’d just listened until you were finished, your voice drained and raw. You braced yourself for what was coming—the lecture, the judgment, all of it. But Maki only said, “You have really horrible taste in men.” And then she leaned down to hug you.

It was deep into the night when you were reviewing file number forty-three. Maki helped where she could, but most of it didn’t make sense to her. She couldn’t read imaging like you could or rattle off vascular anomalies without flipping to the glossary. 

She sat opposite you, hair tied up messily, sleeves pushed past her elbows, laptop open beside her to Google terms she didn’t know and helped where she could.

Most of the files were routine—craniotomies with clean margins, clean closures. All of them ended with discharge summaries that sounded clinical and bored and safe. Standard procedures with standard outcomes.

He hadn’t made a single mistake. Not a misplaced incision, not an ignored bleed, not a skipped step in sterile protocol.

“He was using during all of these?” Maki asked once.

“Still is,” you said, and kept reading.

You worked through his second year, when he’d moved from assisting to leading his own surgeries. And the more complicated the cases became, the more obsessive his notes grew—like autopsies of his own mind, meticulous dissections of every decision he’d made.

Every file had several different typed reports, then handwritten annotations, then sticky notes and random scraps of paper stapled onto scans. He’d gone over each case multiple times, you could tell by the changes in ink tone, the way some pages were creased down the middle like he’d folded them, reopened them, stared at them long enough to leave fingerprints in the margins.

He’d marked timestamps, tracked OR durations to the minute, cross-referenced medications with motor responses and blood pressure trends. Little arrows connected patient outcomes to dosage half-lives, and he’d circled anomalies in red that weren’t really mistakes, just… variables. Human noise.

You’d never seen anything like it.

It was like he’d turned every file into a courtroom where every suture was evidence, every reading a defense or confession. And he’d judged himself every single time. And yet—

Nothing. No errors. No unexplained bleeds. No outliers. Even the messiest cases showed perfect protocol adherence. You knew how rare that was. Even the best surgeons left behind complications. But Satoru had none. 

He’d been using God knows what. And he’d still been perfect. Somehow, that made it worse. Because he knew what he was risking. Because he knew better. 

The next case had photos that made your stomach turn. It was blunt force trauma. Skull fracture. Massive intracranial bleeding. The damage was already irreversible by the time she arrived. You knew that before you even finished the first page. Her skull had split on impact, the parietal bone shattered in three directions.

You didn’t realize this was her case until you found Satoru’s handwritten note: should've tried harder—crossed out so violently that the pen had nearly torn through the page.

You stared at the words until the they blurred. Satoru had said she was bleeding fast. He hadn’t told you it was this severe. She went into cardiac arrest twice on the way to the hospital. No one could have saved her. Not him. Not anyone.

Maki shifted beside you and gently pulled the file from your hands. Her eyes scanned pages, eyebrows knitting as she tried to make sense of it. She tilted the CT scan toward the light.

You asked her what she saw. Or maybe you just looked at her in a way that meant the same thing.

“I don't know much about this stuff, but… that’s not something you can survive, right?”

“She was thrown through the windshield,” you said quietly.

“My god.” She frowned, holding the scan a little higher. “Look at that—the whole front of her skull is just... gone. No one could’ve fixed that.”

You nodded, even though you’d known the moment you read her arrival vitals. It wasn’t about saving anymore. It was about the story Satoru needed—that it wasn’t hopeless, he just hadn’t tried hard enough. His personal punishment for being human. And that was the most Satoru thing of all.

You asked Maki if it changed anything—that he couldn’t have saved her, that no one could have.

She leaned back on her palms and starred up at the ceiling. She asked if you want it to change anything. And that stopped you more than anything else.

You said you weren’t sure. Because it should. Logically, clinically, it should. Knowing he wasn’t responsible for her death should lift the weight in your chest. But it didn’t.

Because it wasn’t just about the surgery. It wasn’t even about her.  It was about what he’d been willing to risk, how far he’d spiraled before the guilt caught up.

You folded the scan and slid it back into the file.

“You want to know what I think?” Maki began. “He’s not a monster or anything. But he played Russian roulette with people’s lives—and just happened to win.”

You were at loss for words.

“But you always knew that, right? So why is it hitting you now?”

“I don’t know. I knew. I just... didn’t think he’d actually perform sugery while he’s so unstable.”

“He’s an addict. Being unstable is part of the deal.” Maki softened. “Do you want to know what else I think? He told you everything—even the really fucked up stuff, that he didn’t tell anyone else. Only Geto and you know. And now me, I guess.” She paused. “He knows you could blow this up. Get him fired. Maybe even arrested. But he still told you. He trusts you with the worst parts of himself, and I don’t know... that means something, right?”

“Not saying he’s not an asshole,” She went on. “He totally is. And he really has to get clean. He’s been lucky so far, but luck runs out and what happens when it does?”

You didn't answer. Because it was true. And the fact that he’d succeeded didn’t make it any less horrifying. People were alive because he’d gambled with their lives and won—because he got lucky. But he was still the best surgeon in the hospital. And you couldn’t stop wondering, would those patients have died if anyone else had operated on them? High or not, maybe Satoru was their only chance, and that thought made you feel sick.

“Listen,” Maki said after a long silence. “I can’t tell you what to do. But I don’t want to see you crying over him again. You shouldn’t be so loyal that you forget yourself.”

“What would you do in my position?”

“You already know what you want to do.”

“No. I don’t.”

She tilted her head. “Would you forgive Geto if he pulled the same shit? Or anyone else?”

“I’m not sure.”

“No. You are.”

You watched as she reached toward her nightstand and picked up a spare coin. She held it between her fingers, turning it over. “One side means you forgive him.” She rolled the coin across her knuckles. “Other side means cut him out for good.”

Before you could respond, she flipped it. The coin spun high, catching the light, flashing gold as it turned. Your chest tightened with every rotation. Maki caught it midair and slapped it down on the back of her hand, not looking at it yet. She held it there a second longer, then pulled her hand back.

You didn’t look.

You already knew what you wanted. And that was the problem.

─── ·✧· ───

The fog hadn’t lifted all morning. It hung low and heavy over the city, blurring the edges of buildings and streetlights. Maki drove with the heat turned up too high, the windows slightly fogged at the corners. You watched the world pass by, your eyes unfocused, your heart beating faster than it should have.

You hadn’t worn anything dramatic. A simple black dress borrowed from her, with your coat pulled over it. Your fingers curled inside your sleeves the whole drive. You weren’t sure if it was from the cold or something else.

“We can still turn around, you know,” Maki said, glancing over at you.

“I know. But what would he do without me?”

She let out a soft breath. “God, you two are the worst.”

When you reached for the door, she stopped you with a hand on your arm. “Remember what I said? Don’t be so loyal you forget who you are, okay?”

You leaned in for a quick hug, then stepped out of the car.

Cold autumn air bit at your skin as you stood on the sidewalk outside Satoru’s apartment building. He appeared in a black suit that made him look like he was dressed for a funeral. Maybe he was.

He had one hand on the car door when he saw you. His whole body went still, like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, neither of you moved.

You walked toward him, your footsteps echoing on the empty street. You stopped just short and leaned your side against the car, arms crossed.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he began, cautiously.

“I promised I’d be by your side."

For a second, something in him seemed to give. His shoulders dropped a little. His fingers twitched against the edge of the car door, like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he still had the right.

You studied his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

“You look like shit.”

“You look beautiful.” And the way he said it—fragile and so softly—nearly undid you. But you forced yourself to hold the line, at least for a few more seconds.

“Do you think you could’ve saved her?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know. Maybe.” His hand clenched tighter on the car door. “Even if I couldn’t, I still feel like I should have.”

“Do you blame yourself?” you asked, though you already knew.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” You said it firmly, definitively, knowing how much he blamed himself for everything—how he always turned every failure into something bigger, into proof of his unworthiness. 

His worst enemy wasn’t the pills or his parents or even Sukuna. It was his own mind, and nothing you could say would ever be as cruel as what it had already told him.

“Okay?”

“You don’t need me to make you feel worse. You’ve already done that enough,” you said. “You know me,” you echoed his words, then added, softer, “But I know you too.”

You pushed off the car and took a small step closer. Just one. Your heart ached with how much you still loved him. Hopelessly. Stupidly.

“Promise me something,” you said. “When this is over—when the lawsuit’s done, when we’ve dealt with Naoya—we leave.”

His brow furrowed. “Leave?”

“We don’t have to stay and fight Sukuna forever. We could walk away. There won’t be an ethics committee if we’re not here.”

“We can’t just leave. Everything’s here—your studies, my job—”

“You told me once that if you weren’t afraid, you’d leave it all behind. Find us a little house. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we could be happy.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I can finish school somewhere else,” you added. “Go back to my old university. You could teach anywhere. Just… preferably not where I’m a student again.”

“Yeah, that part didn’t go great.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “But Tokyo’s the best place for you. You know that. You won’t get the same chances anywhere else.”

“I don’t care about chances. I care about you.” You stepped a little closer. “So promise me that we’ll leave when this is over.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his hand still gripping the car door. And then he stepped forward, just enough to close the space between you.

“Okay,” he said at last. He looked like he wanted to say more—maybe touch you, maybe kiss you.

“But this is it, you know. This is our last chance. So, if there’s anything else you want to say to me say it now.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. You saw the fight in his eyes, the words he couldn’t say.

“There’s nothing,” he said, and you knew that was a lie.

“Okay. Then let’s finish this.”

─── ·✧· ───

The driveway to his parents’ house curved through dense forest, the trees crowding in on either side as the light slowly thinned beneath their canopy. It wasn’t until the last bend that the house came into view, rising from the lawn in concrete and glass. Its tall windows caught the overcast sky and the dark silhouettes of pines, reflecting the world back without letting any of it in. Behind it, a lake stretched wide and still.

Satoru guided the car along the circular drive. Gravel shifted under the tires as he eased the car to a halt at the foot of broad concrete steps.

“Home sweet fucking home.”

You looked up at the house, at all the glass and steel and the clean, brutal lines. It was striking, sure, but in the way a museum is striking—beautiful, polished, and built for silence.

“It’s beautiful,” you said.

“It’s cold.”

He shifted the car into park and sat still for a moment. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a pill, and set it on the center console. Then he placed his phone flat over it.

Without a word, he brought his fist down hard. The screen cracked with a sharp sound. You looked away.

A quick sniffle, a wipe of his nose, and then he stepped out of the car. Gravel shifted under his shoes as he rounded the hood. He reached your door and offered his hand. 

There was always something heartbreakingly elegant about the way he did those things—how he held his hand out to you, like muscle memory from years of practiced politeness. And standing in front of this house built of steel and glass and cement, it made sense where he’d learned it. Or was forced to lean it.

He didn’t let go right away. Instead, he held you close, arm resting lightly behind you, your back to the car.

“Thank you,” he said. “For coming with me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“No, I do.”

He leaned down and kissed you, slow and careful. Hesitant in that aching way he always was after a fight, like he wasn’t sure of his place anymore. His lips were soft against yours, still bitter from the opioids. Strange how you had gotten used to that taste. Then, you caught a flicker of movement—a figure in one of the tall windows above the front steps.

His mother. You recognized her.

She was watching. And the moment she realized she’d been seen, she turned and vanished into the house. Satoru must have noticed her too—you felt the faint shift in his posture. 

“You ready?” Satoru asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He guided you forward, his hand resting against the small of your back.

The front door opened before you could knock. Standing there was an older woman with silver hair, her expression softening the moment she saw Satoru. The years seemed to fall from her face, replaced by something almost maternal.

“Young master!” 

Her weathered hands reached for his face, cupping his cheeks and pinching them lightly. Satoru let her fuss over him like a long lost boy coming home. His earlier detachment gave way to something more warm.

“Chiyo. Still putting up with this place?”

“Someone has to.” Her gaze fell on you then, her eyes softening as a smile creased the lines in her face. “And you must be—”

“She’s my girlfriend.” Satoru’s hand found yours. “The only good thing in this house besides you, Chiyo.”

“About time you brought someone around. And such a lovely one, too.”

“Yes, she is,” he said, tugging you a little closer.

“Dinner’s nearly ready,” Chiyo added, already turning back towards the hall. “Your parents are waiting in the dining room.”

You followed Satoru down a hallway lined with tall windows, the dark forest pressing in on both sides. The grey stone floors reflected soft shades of green from the trees outside, everything muted in steel and cement. The house was immaculate—too immaculate. Not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place.

There was no clutter. No photos. No warmth. No scuff marks from children running. No crooked frames capturing birthdays or holidays. No evidence anyone had truly lived here.

It all reminded you more of a hospital than a home. Walls adorned with expensive art pieces that felt more like investments than personal choices. Each vase, each object seems positioned with mathematical precision, as if the entire house is a museum display of wealth rather than a home.

You thought of your mother’s house—the worn spots on the carpet from years of footsteps, the slightly crooked family photos covering nearly every inch of wall space, the collection of colorful mugs in the kitchen cabinet, the magnets cluttering the fridge, the overall comfortable chaos of a place where life had happened. Before it stopped, that is.

Here, it felt like life had been sanitized away. Like someone had gone through with bleach and scrubbed away anything too human. No wonder Satoru hates hospitals so much. He grew up in one.

Satoru’s hand stayed wrapped around yours the whole time, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, like he was reminding himself you’re real. You’re here. 

A long, dark brown table stretched the length of the dining room, its surface untouched except for the exact placement of black porcelain plates and silver utensils. Outside, the forest leaned against the glass, its reflection swallowing the glass as dusk settled over the lake.

“I thought we agreed you’d let me know before bringing guests.”

You turned. His mother stood by the sideboard, a glass of wine resting in one hand. She was striking in some strange intimidating way. Ash-blonde hair, and her charcoal dress fit like it had been tailored around her bones. A diamond flashed on her finger, the only  jewelry she wore.

“Right,” Satoru said, not letting go of your hand. “In case the table gets too crowded.”

“Courtesy, not capacity.”

“I didn’t come for courtesy.”

“No. Clearly not.” Her eyes flicked over you. “Still, you don’t bring guests without notice. We’ve talked about this.”

“We’ve talked about a lot of things. I don’t remember you listening to any of them.”

His mother gave a tight smile. “Is this the same girl from the conference?”

You felt yourself go still. Satoru didn’t.

“She has a name.”

“Forgive me. Is this what you’re doing now? Students?”

“You could try being a little more polite to your future daughter-in-law.”

His mother’s wine glass paused halfway to her lips. “Future—?”

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. A tall man stepped into the room, and everything went still. He didn’t speak right away—he didn’t have to. His presence hit first. You saw the resemblance immediately. Same height, same cutting blue eyes. But where Satoru’s were kind and warm, his father’s were flat and and devoid of any warmth, like frosted glass.

“Mr. Gojo,” Satoru said. No warmth. Like this was a stranger he’d been forced to learn by name.

“You’re late.”

“That’s because I didn’t want to come.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Yeah. Life’s full of disappointments.”

His mother sighed behind her wine glass but said nothing. His father moved to the sideboard, steps quiet on the stone floor. He didn’t look at you once.

“The board's asking about succession,” he said, pouring himself something amber. “They expect a Gojo at the head of the table. It’s time.”

“Of course they do. Can't let the family curse die out.”

“This isn’t a joke. The hospital needs someone capable. Not a surgeon with a God complex and a scandal hanging off his arm.”

You stiffened, but Satoru didn’t even blink.

“Well, lucky for you. I’ve never been much for politics.”

“Unfortunately, that hasn’t stopped you from embarrassing the family.”

Satoru smiled without humor. “You’d have to care about the family to be embarrassed by it.”

“Still so dramatic. When will you finally take responsibility?”

“Responsibility? You mean sitting in boring meetings, pretending I’m important alongside others who think they’re just as important—but really, they’re all quite irrelevant, and most of them can’t even tell a bipolar from a monopolar if their patient’s life depended on it. And we sit there discussing ways to cut costs and starve our personnel. Yeah, well. I’d rather cut my own throat. But then again, you’d probably enjoy watching that, wouldn’t you?”

His father turned then, and the look he gave Satoru could have frozen blood. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing me any other way.”

The silence that followed felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. You could hear your own heartbeat, your own breath. And then you noticed how Satoru’s grip on your hand had tightened.

“Perhaps we should eat before the food gets cold,” Chiyo tried.

“Actually,” Satoru said, turning to you, “I think my wife would love to see the rest of the house first. Everyone loves this beautiful balcony overlooking the lake where I used to plan elaborate murder scenarios, after all.”

Without waiting for an answer, he led you out of the dining room. You caught a glimpse of his mother taking another long drink of wine and Chiyo hovering by the door, her hands clasped together as if in prayer, before she quietly slipped away toward the kitchen.

In the hallway, Satoru let out a breath. “Well, that was fun.”

“That was awful.”

“That was normal.”

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note — sooo i don’t even know where to start ? i know this update took forever, and i’m not super happy with it tbh. i’ve had the feeling that maybe the forgiveness came too soon, and it might’ve been better to let that emotional distance stretch a bit longer. but after five months of fighting with this chapter, i just couldn’t figure it out. so maybe this one’s a bit weaker.

i really struggled with how to deliver what happened between satoru and sukuna. and i know this chapter might divide people but i always stuggle a bit with "what do readers want" and "what i want to write." so believe me, i toned it down already, but in the end i have to stick with what i want to write, even if it means losing readers (but pls don't come at me, okay, this is just a hobby, thank u).

also… sorry for the pure angst. the next chapter’s gonna be heavy too. i do see that we need some fluff again to breathe a little, and i’ll try my best to sneak in some lighter moments between everything.

and yes, i know the story is kinda like: argument → getting back together → argument again, and at this point it’s just… yeah. that’s on me not planning things out more tightly, and then stumbling into all these big reveals that naturally lead into conflict ahhh. but i swear i crave the soft, fluffy times for them too omg.

overall, this chapter was really about choosing compassion over condemnation. i hope that came somehow through, even if it all feels a little rushed. thank you to everyone who’s been patient and still sticking with me, truly <3

ps: i wrote a little about suguru's and satoru's post from suguru's pov. it's called "suguru's memories" if you want to read that too <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !

(not updated, sorryy will do later)

tags — @browrm @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa @wiserion @http-iria

@myahfig4 @rosebluod @bloopsstuff @depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker

@tofumiao @shoruio @s3vtrue @rosso-seta @bnha-free-writing

@chiyokoemilia @bonequinhagojo @janbannan @mikkmmmii @yeiena

@coeqi @faustina @glenkiller338 @yenmrtnz @buni-bunnydoll

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[cupidl0v3rr]

[lostfracturess]

SUGURU'S MEMORIES — PART FOUR

featuring — professor geto and professor gojo

summary — long before it all fell apart, they were just two surgeons leaning on each other to make it through the night. suguru, too tired to keep pretending he was fine; satoru, too reckless to admit he wasn’t. between aneurysms and clipped sutures, they joked like brothers and bled like men who knew the crash was coming. and then she arrived, and nothing between them stayed the same.

word count — 12.8 k

note — this memory flashback is for my ongoing medical AU series. if you've been following "remedies & reasons" and "symptoms & causes," this is a glimpse into the past of our beloved characters from suguru's pov. while it can be read as a standalone, it's best enjoyed as a reader of the main storylines.

warnings — angst, graphic surgical detail, substance use, addiction, smoking, unrequited feelings, guilt, parental neglect, mental health struggles.

author's note — welcome to the last part of suguru's memories ! it's been a lot of fun to write about their past from suguru's point of view. this chapter is more like the beginning of the story when s&c reader enters the picture. hope you enjoy <3

masterlist + playlist + ao3 + support my writing

<- prev chapter | finished <3

I stretched my arms over my head, my spine cracking loud enough to startle the nurse on the other side of the break room.

Twenty hours into a twelve-hour shift yet again, and I was running on caffeine, a stale protein bar I found at the bottom of my bag, and the vague promise of mortality being optional if you just drank enough terrible hospital coffee.

I should really start saying no to these weekend shifts more often. But then some idiot thought it was a good idea to steal a streetlamp, crash into a guardrail, and end up with two broken legs and a mild concussion and somehow it became my problem to fix. God, I hate teenagers.

I checked my phone. A couple texts from her. She was still interested in observing some surgeries next week, undeterred by the last... incident.

But there was something achingly familiar in her persistence. She reminded me of how I used to be before bureaucracy and disappointment burned the joy out of me.

I should probably warn her that Satoru’s leading next week’s surgical block. Maybe tell her to sit this one out. Or tell him not to be an asshole about it. But I guess it’s easier to warn her than telling Satoru to shut his mouth for once. 

Get ahead of the inevitable disaster or so. Satoru misinterpreting her curiosity as arrogance, her calling him a megalomaniac, him calling her insufferable, and me standing between two egos with an open skull bleeding out on the table all while the nurses pretend not to stare, wondering if we’re about to throw punches over the operating field.

In all our years together, I rarely saw anyone get under Satoru’s skin like she did. It was... funny, in a morbid sort of way. Maybe “funny” wasn’t the right word. Fascinating, definitely. Concerning, certainly. Watching her hold her ground against him, watching him actually listen. No one else managed that. No one else ever had.

I made a mental note to reply to her later, when my brain wasn’t functioning on fumes. Running these marathon shifts was killing me, but what else was new?

Suddenly the door to the break room swung open and Satoru walked in. He kicked the chair opposite me out with one foot, and dropped into it with a long sigh.

“You look like shit,” he said.

“Good to see you too.” I didn’t bother to lift my head from my coffee.

“You know, normal people sleep when they’re tired. You should try it sometime.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“At this rate, that’ll be Thursday.”

I shot him a flat look. “Optimistic. I was aiming for Wednesday.”

“Seriously, Suguru. Keep this up and the hospital’s gonna start confusing you for a patient.” He leaned back lazily, arms folding behind his head. “Want me to wheel you into the ER? Get you a nice little ID bracelet?”

“If I collapse, just bury me in the break room. Save everyone the paperwork.”

Satoru laughed and tipped his chair onto two legs like he wanted to be the next head trauma in the ER. “Tempting. Always said you belonged here.”

“Dead?”

“Chained to your job. Same thing, really.”

“You’re more chained to this job than I am.”

“Am I?” He reached over to steal my coffee and took a sip before he made a face and shoved it back at me “God. How do you drink this shit?”

“Years of practice,” I said, reclaiming the cup. “Like tolerating you.”

He laughed at that. A real one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It dragged my attention up from my cup for the first time. 

He looked good, put together, like always, but his eyes gave him away. Dark around the edges, duller than they should’ve been. And there was stubble along his jaw, like he hadn’t bothered pretending he had time for anything as ordinary as shaving. I’d known him too long not to notice.

“How was your last case?” I asked, taking another sip of that out of this world awful coffee.

Satoru groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Teenage boy. Fifth concussion tonight. Decided it was a brilliant idea to skateboard down the parking garage ramp at three a.m.”

“Kids are fucking stupid.”

“Yeah. I hate them,” Satoru agreed, slumping further in his chair. “When I was their age, I at least had the decency to do dumb shit alone and suffer in silence. Not make it my mission to annoy every doctor within a ten kilometer radius.” He huffed out a breath. “And guess what, I let one of the new kids close after a basic craniotomy yesterday and it fucking looked like frankenstein. I had to rip out every stitch and redo the whole damn thing. Took longer than the actual surgery.”

“You’re too hard on them. Remember when you convinced me to break into the anatomy lab so we could practice sutures on the cadavers?”

“And we got caught by Professor Yaga? He was so impressed with my technique he let us off with a warning.”

“He was impressed with my technique. You were butchering that poor dead guy worse than whatever killed him in the first place.”

“Lies and you know it.”

“In your dreams,” I said.

He nudged my chair with a lazy little kick. “Says the guy who can’t tie a one-handed knot to save his life.”

“I did one last week,” I said. “During that carotid repair.”

“Video or it didn’t happen.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was already fighting a smile. 

We were in our thirties now—on paper, respected attendings with research grants and titles and all the shit of adulthood. But at the core? We were still those two idiots from university, trading punches over textbooks and racing each other to finish anatomy labs. Still never letting the other win too easily. Still measuring ourselves by each other’s standards, like we didn’t know how to stop.

We weren’t just friends. We were brothers, shaped by decades of pushing each other, challenging each other, holding each other accountable in ways no one else could. And looking back now, I realize it was this—this stupid, effortless banter in break rooms reeking of bad coffee—that mattered more than anything else.

Because everything else changed. People left. Dreams cracked under the weight of reality. Even we weren’t the same in the end. We’d seen each other at our worst. At our breaking points. And still, somehow, we stayed. 

And maybe I didn’t know how to say it at the time, but I was grateful. Grateful to have something that didn’t shift under my feet. Grateful to have him, exactly as he was.

Even when I wanted to strangle him. Which, let’s be honest, was often.

I was about to throw something appropriately cutting back at him when both our pagers went off at once.

“Ruptured aneurysm. Emergency transfer from Central. ETA ten minutes,” I read aloud, exhaustion shoved aside in an instant.

“Race you to the OR?” Satoru was already on his feet.  “Winner gets to clip.”

“This isn’t a game, Satoru,” I said, even as I stood up too. He knew exactly which buttons to push to get me moving.

“Everything’s a game if you’re good enough at it,” he said, already backing toward the door. “And I’m very, very good.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I muttered, but my feet were moving. “Last one there buys drinks at Joe’s after shift.”

“Deal.” And then he was gone.

I knew he’d take the main corridor, so I cut through Radiology— fifteen years in this place, and I knew every shortcut like the back of my hand. Besides, Satoru couldn’t resist slowing down to flirt with half the staff. His personality always cost him time.

I half-jogged down the hall, dodging a startled tech pushing an EKG machine. I could picture Satoru doing the same on the opposite side, both of us too proud to full-on sprint but pushing the definition of “brisk walking” to its absolute limit.

I rounded the last corner into the surgical wing just as Satoru appeared from the other side. Our eyes met across the hall, both of us pretending we weren’t breathing harder than we should be.

“Nice of you to catch up,” he called, speeding up the second he realized it was going to be close. 

We hit the scrub room door at the same time, shoulders bumping hard as we both tried to squeeze through. Grown men. Respected neurosurgeons. Still acting like fucking kids.

But that’s how it’s always been with us. And maybe, after everything, I was glad we hadn’t changed that much.

Ten minutes later, we were standing side by side at the scrub sink, aggressively soaping up to our elbows, neither of us willing to admit our race had ended in a tie.

“Fifty-eight-year-old male,” Satoru said, his voice shifting from playful to professional. I’d heard these rapid shifts a thousand times before, but somehow, I still can’t quite get used to it. “Previously diagnosed with an unruptured aneurysm in the anterior communicating artery. Opted against preventive surgery last year. Ruptured during his grandson’s baseball game.”

“Classic subarachnoid hemorrhage presentation,” I continued, rinsing my arms under the water. “Sudden onset of the worst headache of his life, nausea, photophobia, brief loss of consciousness. Glasgow Coma Scale 11 on arrival.”

“Could be worse.”

“Could be better.”

Despite the constant back and forth, there was a rhythm to us when we worked. Instinctive, seamless, like speaking a language only we understood. Years of moving in sync, of filling in each other’s gaps without even thinking about it.

“The surgical approach is straightforward,” Satoru said, already slipping into the next step of planning. “Pterional craniotomy for access. Quick entry, minimal retraction. The bleed’s localized—we need to work fast.”

“The real challenge’s the temporary occlusion,” I added, catching his eyes in the mirror. “The clip placement has to be perfect on the first try. No margin for error.”

“Exactly why I should do it,” he said, scrubbing meticulously between each finger. “My hands are steadier.”

“I’ll believe it when you stop tripping over your own arrogance.”

“Says the man who’s been awake for what, twenty-four hours? When’s the last time you actually slept, Suguru?”

The use of my first name caught my attention. He only did that when he dropped the act and let the real concern slip through.

“I got a solid four hours yesterday,” I said, which was only a slight exaggeration. “Besides, I’ve operated on less.”

“Yeah, and I still have nightmares about that corpus callosotomy you nearly botched.”

“I didn’t botch it. The patient had an anomalous venous drainage pattern. Not on the pre-op imaging.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He grinned, but it faded quickly. “For real, though. You good? If you need me to take lead, I will. No gloating. No bullshit.”

For a second, I wanted to be offended, but one look at him told me this wasn’t about ego. It never was, not when it counted. Maybe that’s why we’d made it this far.

“I’m good,” I said. “We’ll follow protocol. First scrubbed gets primary. Second assists. Fair?”

“Fair,” Satoru agreed, nodding once. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’d love that,” he added, almost offhand.

“Who?” I asked, though I already knew. 

His hands slowed under the water for a second. “The first-year.”

“You’re talking an awful lot about her lately.”

“She’s different.” 

“In a good way?”

“I don’t know yet. She irritates me, I guess.” He glanced out through the scrub room window, where the patient was being sedated. His face softened almost imperceptibly. “Talks too much. Wants too much.”

“I thought you liked dedicated students.”

“It’s not the same.” He shook his head slightly. “There’s something about her… I don’t know. She’s the kind of crazy who might actually love this shit.”

“What, aneurysms?” I rinsed the soap from my arms, glancing at him sideways.

“Yeah,” he said. “The blood, the pressure, the stakes. All of it.”

I watched him a beat longer. And it hit me. “Don’t tell me you like her.”

“Huh?” Satoru looked up at me, genuinely startled.

“You don’t like anyone, Satoru,” I said. 

It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen Satoru pursue anything beyond distraction. A warm body, a clever smile—enough to pass the time, never enough to stay. Real connection was messy. Complicated. It asked for things Satoru didn’t know how to give—honesty, vulnerability, the kind of weakness that comes from being seen.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t feel. He just never let anyone close enough to prove he did.

“I like you,” he shot back, smirking.

“You know what I mean.” He did. He just didn’t like hearing it. “You’re not built for... that.”

“For what?”

“Something serious.”

He went quiet, the smirk fading at the edges. And for a moment, I almost felt sorry for saying it. But the truth was, back then, I couldn’t picture him letting anyone close.

I thought about the first-year. Her sharp mind and that steady, unflinching gaze. Stubborn enough to stand her ground against either of us without blinking. Too stubborn for her own good sometimes.

I’d brought her into our research because I saw potential. Not so she could become Satoru’s newest obsession.

“She’s a student,” I added. “And way younger than you. Stay away from her if you can’t control yourself.”

He didn’t say anything. But the slight furrow in his brow told me the warning had struck a chord. Even if I already knew he wouldn’t listen. Satoru never could resist crossing the lines he wasn’t supposed to. Especially when I was the one who drew them.

A nurse stuck her head into the scrub room. “Aneurysm patient’s in OR 3. Prepped and ready. We need you both now.”

I rinsed the last of the soap from my arms and reached for a towel. Satoru was still scrubbing between his fingers, slower than usual.

“Looks like you’re assisting, genius,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but he didn’t argue.

Rules were rules. Even for him. Or at least, I hoped they still were.

We pushed through the double doors into the OR, the conversation shelved for now but not forgotten. The room was already in motion—scrub nurse arranging instruments, anesthesiologist monitoring vitals, residents hovering like satellites around the table and trying to look useful. The familiar chaos of an emergency procedure.

As we moved to our stations and started gowning up, Satoru leaned in. “I don’t like her. For the record.”

“The fact you’re bringing it up again makes me doubt that,” I muttered, sliding my arms into the gown the nurse held open.

“I just wanted to be clear.”

“You’d better be,” I said, as gloves snapped over my wrists. “You know I’m her mentor. You mess with her, you mess with me.”

“I’m not gonna do anything.”

“Good.” I stepped toward the table. “Just try to get along with her without making it weird.” 

He took his place across from me, checking the drapes, scanning the tray like he hadn’t already memorized the layout. Then, casually—too casually—he asked, “Did she say anything about me?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Anything.”

I hesitated, grimacing slightly as I thought back to last week when she came storming into my office, furious after one of Satoru’s lectures. She’d ranted for nearly twenty minutes about his condescending attitude and insufferable teaching methods, and I’d nodded along, pretending to listen, when all I really wanted was to go home and not deal with either of them. It struck me then that they would probably never get along. 

It would have been almost funny, if dealing with the two of them wasn’t already giving me gray hairs. 

I never even considered that he might really do something as stupid as pursuing her. How wrong I was. How wrong we all were, about what would unfold between them.

But there were more pressing matters at hand.

I reached for the first instrument and noticed it immediately—the slightest trembling of my fingers. Not enough for most to see. But enough for me. Enough to matter when you were working millimeters away from catastrophic brain damage.

Satoru saw it too. Our eyes met across the table. We didn’t need to speak. Years of working together had carved that silence between us into something functional.

I made the decision before I could overthink it. 

“Satoru, take the clip.” 

“What?”

“Your hands are steadier today. I was up all night with that trauma case. You lead the clipping. I’ll handle exposure.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I said.

The patient came first. Always. Satoru didn’t argue. For all his showiness and ego, he knew when to shut up and work.

“Alright, friends,” he called out, voice bright and commanding as he turned to the room. “Let’s save a life today.”

****

Hours later, I was slumped in a chair in the surgeon’s lounge, filling out post-op notes with handwriting you’d barely be able to make out the actual words anymore. But the patient would live. He’d go back to watching his grandson’s baseball games. And despite the exhaustion dragging at every cell in my body, despite having to let Satoru take the lead—it still felt like a win.

Second later, Satoru strolled in, dark blue scrub top replacing his usual white coat, carrying two cups from the decent coffee shop across the street. 

“Peace offering.” He sat one down in front of me. “Figured you could use something better than whatever swamp water they brew here.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just one brilliant neurosurgeon appreciating another.”

“Thanks.” I took the cup, sniffed it suspiciously, then took a sip. “And... thanks for earlier. For not being a dick about the clip.”

Satoru dropped into the chair across from me. “Don’t mention it. I would’ve done the same if the positions were reversed.”

“Would you, though?”

He paused, then grinned. “Probably not. I’d have milked it for all it was worth. ‘Remember that time I saved your patient because your decrepit hands were shaky as fuck?’ I’d never let you live it down.”

I tossed my pen at him. He caught it without even blinking.

“But seriously,” he said, tossing the pen back onto the table. “It takes guts to make that call. Not everyone would put the patient ahead of their pride.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just what you’re supposed to do.”

Satoru’s phone lit up then, the screen facing up on the table beside him. I glanced at it—just out of habit—but the name froze me for a second.

Gojo Kenichi. His father.

“You’re not gonna get that?” I asked, nodding toward it.

Satoru didn’t even look. Just reached over and flipped the phone face down. “Nope.”

“That’s, what, the third call today?”

“Fourth. He’s been on my ass about some board seat opening up. Wants me to step in, get involved with the hospital leadership. I told him I’m not interested.”

“He’s not the type to drop something just because you said no,” I said. “You know that.”

Satoru scoffed. “Yeah, well, fuck him.”

I watched the way he pressed his thumb against the side of his phone, not hard enough to crack it, but like he wanted to.

Gojo Kenichi had spent most of Satoru’s life pretending his son didn’t exist. Cold dinners. Missed birthdays. Praise handed out like corporate notes—rare, impersonal, and always transactional. Satoru had grown up in that absence, carving out space for himself in the absence of anything resembling paternal affection. 

And now, when his name opened doors and his reputation meant something, the old man wanted him close. Not out of love. Not even guilt. Just strategy. 

It wasn’t surprising. But that didn’t mean it didn’t cut deep.

Satoru always acted like it didn’t bother him. Like he’d long since written them off, scrubbed them from the list of things that had any power over him. But I’d seen it—the quiet after another award, another publication, another impossible case pulled off with grace—and still no call. No pride. Only silence.

He’d never asked for their approval. But I guess that didn’t mean he hadn’t wondered what it would feel like. But then Satoru shifted the conversation like he always did when it got too real. 

“How’s your mom?”

“She’s good. Still teaching pottery classes twice a week. Says it keeps her young.”

“Sounds like her.” Satoru gave a faint smile. “And Hanami?”

“She’s seeing someone,” I said. “Some guy from her work.” 

It was still strange, seeing my sister as an adult. All independent and such. And yet, some part of me, the part still stuck in big brother mode, didn’t like the idea of anyone getting close enough to hurt her.

“She sounds happy,” I added.

“You met him yet?”

“Not yet. But I will.” And I didn’t have to say the rest. He already knew. If the guy so much as made her cry, we’d both be knocking on his door. Probably without knocking.

Satoru laughed under his breath. “If he hurts her—”

“I know,” I said, smiling despite myself. “We’d both break his face.”

Satoru leaned back, studying me like I was some post-op complication. “If she ever gets married you’d need a plus one, you know?” 

I groaned. “Not this topic again.”

“You still seeing that radiologist?”

“Ended it last week.”

“Oh?” One eyebrow lifted, just enough to be annoying.

“I can’t handle it,” I said. “Working twelve-hour shifts and then going home to talk about work some more. I need a few hours a day where no one says words like ‘subdural hematoma’ without making me want to jump out a window.”

“Poor you.” He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Might want to consider dating someone normal for once. You know. Nine-to-five job. Doesn’t know what a ‘laminectomy’ is.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Hard to meet anyone when you never leave the building.”

“Fair point,” Satoru conceded, sitting up to take a slow sip of his coffee. “When was the last time you went on an actual date? Outside the hospital, I mean?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“That long, huh?” He grinned. “You know they invented this thing called dating apps? Even someone like you could figure it out.”

“And deal with people who want a free diagnosis for their second cousin’s mystery headaches? Yeah, no thanks.”

Satoru laughed. “God, we’re pathetic, aren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself. At least I’m not drooling over a student.”

He blinked, and for a second, he looked like a spoiled brat who’d just been caught in the act. “I’m not drooling over anyone.”

“Right,” I said, drawing the word out deliberately.

“I’m serious, Suguru.”

“So am I.”

I leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with him. “I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re lying. You don’t ask if someone’s said anything about you unless you care.”

“I was making conversation.”

“Twenty-five years, Satoru.” I let out a sigh. “Twenty-five years, and I’ve never once heard you ask about anyone’s opinion for the sake of ‘conversation.’”

He stared into his coffee, suddenly quiet. But then, “Even if I was interested—and I’m not saying I am—nothing’s going to happen.”

“Because you know better, or because you’re afraid?”

His head snapped up. “Since when did you become my therapist?”

“Since your taste in women started threatening both our careers.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Is it? You know what happens when attendings get involved with residents. Now imagine what will happen with a students. Committees. Reviews. Research grants getting jeopardized. You know how it is.”

“Nothing’s happening,” he said firmly, but he couldn’t quite meet my eyes.

“Keep it that way,” I told him. “She’s too good to get dragged into hospital politics. And you’re too good a surgeon to throw your career away over an infatuation.”

“She’s not an infatu—ah, forget it.” He shook his head and pivoted hard. “The patient’s post-op scans looked good. Clean occlusion. No signs of vasospasm.”

“Yeah.” I let him change the subject. “Your clip placement was solid.”

“Our work,” he corrected. “Your exposure was textbook perfect. Couldn’t have done it without that.”

“We’ve always made a good team,” I admitted, “when you’re not being an insufferable ass.”

“And when you’re not being a self-righteous prick,” he countered, but he was smiling now.

We fell into an easy silence, the tension bleeding out. Outside the window, the sky had darkened completely. Another day ending. Another life saved. The rhythm of our existence.

My pager buzzed sharply against my hip, slicing through the quiet. I checked it and sighed. “Trauma coming in. Car accident.”

“Want me to take it?” Satoru asked.

I shook my head. “I’ve got it. You’ve done enough showing off for one day.”

He grinned. “There’s no such thing.”

I grabbed my coffee, heading for the door. Behind me, Satoru called out.

“Suguru.”

I paused, glancing back.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “Just don’t be stupid.”

“No promises.”

And that, I thought as I hurried toward the ER, was what worried me most.

****

Satoru and I never fought over women. It was the one unspoken boundary we never crossed, even through all the rivalries, the challenges, the years of pushing each other to the edge. Until I brought her into our lives. And suddenly, the one line we’d never dared to touch was the one that cracked everything open.

I still remember the moment I realized she wasn’t like the others. 

After calling in more favors than I want to admit, I got her into the university. In the middle of the year, with a full scholarship and a decent apartment within walking distance of campus. You don’t want to know how many board members I had to charm, bribe, or threaten to make that happen. 

But I did it without hesitation. Because she was worth it. I knew it the second I walked her through the university’s halls, through the lab that had taken me years to build from nothing.

Takuma Ino, one of my better postdocs, was hunched over his workstation when we came in, still beating his head over with the same neural interface glitch that had been killing us for weeks. Feedback loops that turned signal clarity into static. A problem so maddening it made you feel dumber every time you looked at it. 

I was halfway through giving her the standard tour when she stopped walking. Eyes narrowed, focused not on me but on the code running across Ino’s screen. Without asking, she crossed the room and leaned over his shoulder.

“Your feedback loop,” she said after a moment, finger hovering above a block of code. “You’re treating synaptic plasticity as a constant, but it isn’t. It follows a logarithmic decay curve, not linear. That’s why your model keeps destabilizing.”

Ino looked up, startled, ready to dismiss her. But then she grabbed a marker and started writing on the whiteboard.

“See?” she said, her tone almost impatient. “If you adjust for the temporal variation here, and introduce a compensatory algorithm along this pathway”—her hand moved swiftly, the calculations appearing almost faster than I could follow—“the feedback stabilizes.”

It was quiet.

Ino stared at the whiteboard, then at his screen, then back again. His mouth opened like he meant to argue, but nothing came out. He punched in her code, line by line, and almost immediately, the system stabilized.

“Holy shit.” Ino turned to her. “How the hell did you even see that?”

It hit me then. She wasn’t just smart. She had that rare kind of brilliance you couldn’t teach, the kind Satoru always had, like it was wired into his bones.

Watching her work felt almost painfully familiar. That restless energy. The refusal to accept limitations just because someone older and supposedly wiser said so. The way her mind jumped three steps ahead because it simply couldn't help itself.

It was like staring at a younger version of Satoru. Before everything. Before the expectations. Before the pressure. Before the drugs and the endless weight of being extraordinary.

I told myself bringing her onto the project was purely practical. Her talent was exactly what we needed. When I introduced her to our team, I thought nothing more of it. She was a student—promising with a sharp mind, an investment in the future of neuroscience, if you want to say so. Nothing else.

But maybe that was part of it too. From the very beginning, there was an ease between us I couldn’t explain. Some unspoken closeness that usually took years to build. Maybe she felt familiar because, in some strange way, she was. Some part of me, the part shaped by decades alongside Satoru, recognized her before I even knew what I was seeing. And by the time I realized how close I’d let her get, it was already too late to pull back.

I wasn’t surprised by how Satoru reacted the first time I brought her into the OR. What surprised me was what happened after—when she answered his question without flinching, no hesitation, none of the nervous stammering his presence usually provoked.

To be fair, I thought he’d hate her. She was exactly the kind of student he couldn’t stand—young, stubborn, brilliant enough to know it, and not afraid to challenge authority. The type who walked into a room already convinced they were the smartest one in it.

Normally, Satoru would’ve chewed someone like that up just to prove a point. Call out their poor logic in front of a full OR, pick apart flawed reasoning until the student couldn’t tell if they were still breathing or not. He hated arrogance in people who hadn’t earned it. Hated it more in students who thought they had.

But she wasn’t like the others. She was smart. Not loud-smart or textbook-smart, but sharp in a way that cut straight to the core of a problem. And beneath the confidence, there was control. Restraint. A precision Satoru usually only found in himself.

I’d expected whiplash. A clash. Maybe even the start of his usual fallout he saved for students who thought they were smarter than they were that usually ended with someone crying in the stairwell. But this time? 

I didn’t see annoyance in his eyes. Or disdain. I saw interest.

That’s when I knew something was off.

Twenty-five years of friendship teaches you how to spot the shift. The tells he didn’t know he had. With Satoru, it always started the same: left eyebrow, not the right—meant he was surprised. Then the tilt of his head, just slightly, like he needed a new angle to understand what he was looking at. Meant he was intrigued. Then came the narrowing of his eyes.

Meant he was interested, and he didn’t like it.

In all our years together, I'd rarely seen Satoru truly impressed by anyone. He was always the smartest person in the room. Always ten steps ahead. Already bored with the conversation before it began. Students, residents, even other attendings—they were predictable variables to him, operating inside a system he'd already solved.

But she wasn't. She was the first unsolved problem he hadn't already dismissed. I could count on one hand the number of times that's happened. 

I knew he hated it and when he repeated her name, I knew we were in uncharted territory. Satoru didn't bother learning names unless they mattered. Unless the person behind them had somehow breached his indifference.

I'd brought her into our world thinking I was nurturing a promising student, advancing our research and all that. I hadn't realized I was introducing Satoru to the one person who might actually be able to reach him—and break him.

Looking back now, I wonder if I would have done anything differently had I known. Probably not. Some chemical reactions are inevitable once you introduce the right elements.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. Satoru getting obsessed with puzzles was nothing new. I figured he’d treat her like any other complex problem—fixate until he cracked the code, then lose interest once the mystery was solved. 

I’d seen this pattern play out countless times. A weird case, a challenging research problem, some theory that didn't fit his understanding—he’d drive himself crazy figuring it out, barely eating or sleeping until he could explain it. Then he’d move on to the next thing, always chasing that hit of solving what nobody else could.

I thought she’d be just another challenge for him, that his intensity would push our research forward, maybe even teach him some humility along the way. God knows his ego could use it. But that wasn't how it turned out in the end, was it?

After the surgery I asked him what he thought of her and he said he hated her. I laughed at the time. Maybe because we were both tired after another long shift, maybe because it was actually funny how easily she could get under his skin.

I’ve known Satoru since we were kids. I’ve seen him flirt with countless women, date casually, charm his way through every social situation without breaking a sweat. But I’d never seen him react to anyone the way he reacted to her. 

I guess I should have paid more attention. Because the signs were there. The way he’d actually show up on time to meetings she attended. The way he’d listen when she spoke instead of cutting in with his usual impatience. The way he’d argue with her for hours, not to prove himself right like he did with everyone else, but because he actually cared what she thought.

By the time I realized what was happening, the chemical reaction was already well underway. Unstoppable. Irreversible. And I had been so focused on protecting her from hospital politics, from career pitfalls, that I completely missed the more obvious danger. 

Satoru Gojo falling for her. 

And maybe worse, her falling for him too.

In the beginning, I told myself it didn’t bother me. I was her mentor. Her professor. And the pride I felt when she cracked a difficult equation or solved a problem I’d spent weeks chewing on was professional. Satisfaction in a promising mind. Nothing more. And for a while, that was almost true.

Those early months were some of the best I can remember. Working with her, working with Satoru—it felt easy in a way nothing had in years. Like back at the pond with Eri. Like how it used to be before the weight of everything twisted us into who we’d become. We balanced each other without needing to name it. Pushed each other without ever pushing too far. A perfect team.

But then I caught myself staying later than I needed to just to keep the conversations with her going and discussions that started with data points and neural algorithms slowly slipped into literature, philosophy, stories I hadn’t told anyone in years. I told myself it was harmless. That it was good she challenged me. That I just appreciated the company.

“You’re working too hard,” I said one night, finding her still in the lab long after the others had left. 

“Not hard enough,” she said. 

I should’ve told her to go home. Told her to rest. Be smarter. Be careful. Instead, I said, “Let me buy you dinner.” 

And that night over two bad vending machine sandwiches in the cafeteria became the first of many. Late meals in the break room. Research papers passed between bites of cold noodles. Debates over sugary energy drinks at the crack of dawn. Somewhere between the lab work, we built something else. Something I pretended was just mentorship.

But something shifted, whether I wanted to see it or not.

The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was reviewing results, like she was holding back a critique she hadn’t finished formulating yet, or the way she tilted her head or tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.

All of it snuck in slow. Quiet. Dangerous in its subtlety. And I was too far in before I realized it.

I’d always taken pride in knowing myself. Even as a kid, when Satoru was burning too bright for his own good, I was the one keeping our feet on the ground. I stayed calm when the system chewed him up. I cleaned the mess after his recklessness left fallout. I was the constant. Predictable. Controlled.

But this... this wasn’t something I could name. Couldn’t put it in a folder and file it away like a case note or a data set. It didn’t behave. It crept in sideways.

I felt it the first time her hands lingered on mine after a surgery that had wrung everything out of me. It had been a long one—some nightmare of a cranial bypass that pushed the team to its limit and left me standing at the scrub sink after, gloves still on, feet numb, mind somewhere stuck on the final suture like it mattered more than the air in my lungs.

I didn’t hear her come in. Didn’t register her presence until her hands reached gently for mine. She peeled the gloves off slowly, carefully, like it mattered that she didn’t rush. Like she knew how tightly I clung to function when everything else started to fray. 

She had handwritten notes with her—probably meant to ask something about the experiment we’d shelved that morning—but she dropped them on the edge of the sink without looking, and the pages slid into the basin. Water bled across them. Ink smeared into nothing. She didn’t notice. Or she did, and didn’t care.

She stepped closer and rose slightly onto her toes to reach the back of my head, fingers tender as they untied the knot of my mask, and for one second, just one, I wanted to pull her close and not let go.

Her chest brushed mine as she leaned forward, barely a breath of space between us as she undid the second knot. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Unbothered by the mess of me. And it hit me then—how close we were. How close I’d let her get.

She pulled the mask away, setting it aside, and finally looked up at me. Not with concern. Not even with pity. Just a tiny smile and that calm attentiveness she always carried, like nothing escaped her notice and none of it scared her. And for a heartbeat, I forgot every reason I wasn’t supposed to feel the way I did.

I must’ve made it back to my office eventually. I didn’t even remember the walk. A knock stirred me sometime later.

I blinked against the dim light, my neck stiff from where I’d passed out on the office couch. Someone had draped my jacket over me. I didn’t remember doing that.

The door creaked open and a nurse stepped in with a clipboard in hand. “Sorry, Dr. Geto. Post-op reports from the OR.” 

I sat up, muttered a thanks, took the clipboard. She left without waiting for more. I flipped through the pages—scanning vitals, surgical notes, post-op instructions. And then I saw her signature. Tucked at the bottom of the last page. 

She’d taken care of everything.

Post-op orders. Equipment logs. Medication sheets. Follow-ups scheduled, rooms cleared, the whole chain managed in silence while I’d been unconscious and useless in my own office.

She wasn’t authorized to handle most of it. Technically. But when you work under the two neurosurgeons who run half the building, people stop asking questions.

She hadn’t left a note. No message. Just her name on the page. And that’s when I felt it. Not the slow pull I’d been pretending wasn’t there. Not the vague irritation I’d mistaken for protectiveness. This was different. Clearer. Sharper. Unignorable.

I felt something for her.

I didn’t name it then. Didn’t let it bloom into anything that could be spoken aloud. But I knew. I knew it the way you know a fracture by the way the bone holds wrong, the way the body tells the truth before the mind catches up.

It stayed quiet, buried under all the roles we were supposed to play—professor, mentor, colleague. It wasn’t loud. But something had shifted. And I wasn’t the same after that. Not really.

I told myself I could handle it. That it didn’t mean anything. But deep down? I already knew better. But what can you do when you realize your best friend since childhood feels the same?

And worse—when she does too?

I noticed it the first time she laughed, really laughed, at something Satoru said. We were in the lab well past midnight after another failed run, everyone tired and a little on edge. Satoru cracked some stupid ass joke, I guess to lighten the mood or whatever, and everyone laughed in that weird way you do when you're running on four hours of sleep. 

But her laugh was different. It was the kind of sound that didn’t care who was listening. She threw her head back, wiped at her eyes. It wasn’t even that funny what he said, really. But the way her eyes found Satoru’s across the table, like no one else was there—it stuck. And I felt it then. This strange pull in my chest. 

I told myself it was nothing. That I was tired. Overthinking. As if I didn’t know myself better than that. 

But the feeling didn’t go away and I noticed it more and more—in small moments, mostly. Like how her gaze lingered on him when he wasn’t looking, how his attention always found her voice first and how he’d finish her sentence when she stumbled through explaining her thought process, or how she’d quietly slide her notes over for him to see—like it was natural to share everything she was thinking.

None of it was obvious, and maybe that’s what made it worse. It crept in, slow and silent, like a shift in gravity I couldn’t prove but couldn’t unsee either.

One night, when we were supposed to be reviewing data in his office, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“You’ve been staring at that photo for ten minutes,” I said, finally, after watching his eyes drift to the same spot over and over again.

Satoru was slouched across from me, elbow on the desk, gaze flicking toward the framed picture on the shelf. It was our research team—a random picture we took a few weeks ago. But he wasn’t looking at the group. I didn’t need to ask who his eyes kept landing on.

“It’s a good picture,” he said.

“Good picture, or someone good-looking in it?”

“You’re reading too much into it.” And the way he said it told me everything I needed to know. Too quick. Too flat. Dismissive in that way Satoru only got when something did matter, and he didn’t want anyone to see it. “Let’s call it a night.”

Maybe it was those small, fragile feelings I didn’t want to name that made it worse when our research project fell apart. Not just because of the failure itself. But because of everything it dragged up with it.

****

By the time surgery day arrived, it felt like we’d been holding our breath for weeks. Our neural interface project had drawn serious attention—journalists, specialists, the kind of people who only showed up when something was either about to change the field or crash spectacularly. If it worked, it would redefine prosthetic integration. If it didn’t, it would be our greatest failure. 

Very publicly. 

The stakes couldn't have been higher.

That morning, the observation gallery was packed. Doctors. Investors. Even a few camera crews. I’d never seen so many people in one place all pretending they weren’t secretly hoping to witness a train wreck.

We scrubbed in quietly, running through steps we’d memorized a hundred times. She stood next to me, her movements steady as ever but I caught the shift in her breathing, the slightest pause before she pulled on her gloves. Something in the way she adjusted her mask a second time, even though it didn’t need fixing.

“Nervous?” I asked.

She glanced over. “It’s not every day you have an audience like this.”

She was usually the composed one—the calm in any storm, the person who double-checked everything without making it look like she didn’t trust you. Seeing her even a little unsettled did something strange to me. It caught me off guard. Melted something tight and quiet in my chest.

“Remember, they’re here to witness history, but we’re here to make it,” I said, trying to reassure her with a confidence I wasn’t entirely feeling. “We’ve prepared for this. We’re ready.”

She gave a small nod. Nothing flashy, but it was enough. I told myself the words were for her, but I think I needed to hear them just as much.

Just before we entered the OR, I caught her glance up toward the gallery—and I didn’t have to follow her eyes to know who she was looking at. But I did anyway. 

Satoru was there, watching her with this look I’d never seen before. Open. Soft. Proud. Something passed between them I wasn’t meant to witness. I felt it twist in my chest, but I pushed it aside. We had work to do.

The rest... I don’t want to think about too closely anymore. The procedure fell apart—nothing connected the way it should’ve, and all our adjustments failed, one after the other.

Then the seizure started.

She left the room when it happened. I don’t blame her for it. She was still young, still is. Probably too young for all what he dragged her into. 

I can still see her face as she backed away. Guilt, shock, something close to grief. I wanted to go after her, but I couldn’t—not until we stabilized the patient. By the time I could leave, she was already gone.

I was worried about her. I knew how much she carried, how seriously she took our work. How much it meant to her—same as it meant to me. And here’s the fucked up part: I stopped being worried the moment I saw Satoru leave the gallery the second she stepped out of the OR.

I knew he’d find her. Knew he’d care for her. That should’ve made me feel better. And it did. That was the worst part.

Because yeah, I wanted to be the one to reach her. To say the right thing. But I was also... relieved. That she wasn’t alone. That he could give her what I didn’t know how to. It’s a strange thing, envy and relief, sitting in the same breath.

Afterwards, I smoked. A bit. A lot.

I ended up on the hospital’s back balcony—the quiet one, where no one bothers you if you look like you don’t want to be found.

Failure wasn’t new to me. Not really. Not in this line of work, where even your best isn’t always enough. I’d read the papers, heard the lectures, told myself all the right things—about resilience, about learning from mistakes, about how medicine is as much loss as it is progress.

But none of that helped.

I hated this feeling.

Not in the abstract, not in the intellectual sense. I hated the actual texture of it—how it crept in behind your ribs, how it clung to your skin long after the day ended. I hated the silence after it was over, the way no one said what they were really thinking. The way people looked at you—too gently, like you might break.

And worse, the way you started to look at yourself.

There’s a particular kind of helplessness that comes when you do everything right, and it still fails. When you know the procedure, follow every step, and the body still betrays you. When you’re left standing in an operating room full of people, heart pounding, hands steady—but nothing works.

You can be brilliant. Focused. Meticulous. And still lose. 

And that shit rots something deep inside you.

Every time it happens, it chips away at that quiet voice that says you’re good at this. That you’re meant for this. And eventually, you start to wonder if the voice was ever telling the truth.

I lit cigarette after cigarette because I didn’t know what else to do with the failure sitting in my chest, taking up all the space where certainty used to be.

Smoking’s always been my one visible vice. I know exactly what it’s doing to me. But knowledge doesn’t beat habit. And this one’s been with me since forever.

That was always the difference between Satoru and me. He tore himself apart out loud—painkillers, chaos, pushing boundaries until someone noticed. I hid mine in discipline, in routines, in quiet control. But maybe it came from the same place. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.

I was on—I don’t even know what number cigarette—when I heard the door behind me click open. 

Her eyes were red, and I hated that I hadn’t been the one there to wipe her tears. And worse—I hated that it wasn’t really my place to want that in the first place.

I asked if she’d cried. Stupid question, I know. But I asked anyway, hoping maybe she’d say “no, I didn’t cry,” and tell me it was just the cold or lack of sleep, or something other that would make all this feel a little less like failure.

But she didn’t say anything. Just looked down at the cigarette in my hand, then at the pile of crushed butts by my feet. I followed her gaze and realized for the first time how many I’d gone through.

I asked if she wanted one. Another stupid question. Like what I needed right now was to drag someone else into nicotine addiction as well. Still, I would’ve given her one. Might’ve even lit it for her, let my hand brush hers for longer than I should have and stayed that close until everything stopped hurting.

But she told me they weren’t good for me, and I almost laughed. Compared to whatever pharmaceutical Satoru was running on these days, cigarettes felt like fucking herbs.

I lit another one.

Then I asked the real question. The one I hadn’t said yet. If she was going to join him—Satoru, I mean—on his version of the neural interface project. Because I knew he was waiting. Knew he’d never liked my cautious models, never trusted slow progress when reckless innovation could give him a bigger headline. He’d been waiting for a moment like this, and I knew he’d take it.

And I knew she wouldn’t say no to him.

So no, her answer didn’t surprise me. She didn’t say yes—but she didn’t have to. I saw it in her eyes. Eyes say more when you’re trying not to give anything away.

And she wasn’t giving anything away. 

Not to me, anyway.

The days after the failed surgery were quiet in the worst way. I threw myself into work—consults, lectures, anything that let me keep moving, my hands busy and my mind elsewhere. Satoru, meanwhile, wasted no time pushing forward with his own version of the neural interface—an aggressive approach I’d argued against for months. But to my surprise, Yaga approved it. 

And she joined his team. Not a surprise.

I told myself it made sense. She wanted results. He offered results. I was still stuck on protocols and review cycles and playing things safe.

Weeks went by. I pulled back from research altogether, telling myself I needed the distance. That it was temporary. That I'd get back into it once I'd processed the failure—my failure. But if I was honest, I was just avoiding them.

Avoiding the sight of the two of them hunched over the same terminal, finishing each other’s sentences like it was easy. Avoiding the way she smiled at him without thinking. The way his hand would rest on the back of her chair when he leaned in to explain something.

Avoiding the truth I didn’t want to name, if I’m being honest. She’d chosen his approach over mine, his mentorship over mine. His presence in her life over mine.

And yeah, it stung professionally. Of course it did. But that wasn’t the part that kept me up at night. The part I couldn't shake—the part I couldn't say aloud—was that I was jealous. Not of the data, not of the credit, not even of the results.

Of him.

I’d developed feelings for my student. Lines I knew better than to cross had started blurring in my head long before the surgery fell apart. And when she chose him, it wasn’t just my work she stepped away from. It was me.

And feelings like that don’t disappear just because you know you’re not allowed to have them. They sit with you if you want them or not. And the fucking worst was the irony of it all. Becasue for years, I’d been the one reining Satoru in. The one reminding him where the lines were. Pulling him back from the edge every time he veered too close.

Now, I found myself envying his recklessness. His ability to reach for what he wanted, no matter how messy or stupid. While I stood still, choking on restraint.

That was the thing, wasn’t it?

I'd built my whole identity around control. Around being measured, professional, precise—in the OR, in the lab, in life. I was the one who made things work, who kept the foundation from cracking while Satoru thrived on chaos. He didn’t just ignore lines—he redrew them in real time, and somehow people always followed. Professors, patients, students. Her.

And I’d been okay with that, or at least convinced myself I was. I told myself we needed that balance. But lately, I wasn’t so sure anymore. Because control, as it turns out, doesn’t always get you what you want. It gets you stability. It gets you respect. It gets you responsibility and silence and an inbox full of things no one else wants to deal with. And Satoru? 

Satoru got the girl.

And it’s so fucking funny becasue I was the one who reminded him not to cross that line, while I was the one choking on it. Every glance I didn’t hold too long. Every comment I didn’t let slip. Every feeling I folded down into something clinical. I didn’t act on anything. Of course I didn’t.

And yet, he did. Or maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe it was just that he existed so loudly, so brilliantly, she couldn’t help but orbit him.

And I stood still. Careful. Quiet. Watching. 

Always watching.

Yet even as I envied him, I worried for her. Because I knew what came next. I’d seen the pattern before and it always ended the same way. And when they left—or when he left them—he acted like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t let another person see the soft part of him and then pushed them away before they could hurt him.

And I didn’t want her to be his next casualty. Yet I couldn’t say any of it. Because who was I to say anything at all?

So I kept my distance. Watched from the sidelines as they drew closer, while I drifted quietly further away from both of them. Not all at once, not because of some big thing or betrayal, but in the way erosion happens—slow, silent, unremarkable until one day there’s a canyon where there used to be solid ground.

Satoru and I had made it through worse, or at least I thought we had. But something between us shifted during those weeks. It wasn’t just professional disagreement anymore. It was the lack of unspoken understanding—the confidence we used to have in each other’s decisions, the sense that we were always moving in the same direction, even if we took different paths to get there. And maybe that’s where it began to fall apart—

No. 

Stop that.

I’m doing it again, right?

Spiraling into theories won’t change what happened. And this isn’t about rewriting cause and effect like I’m still in the lab trying to model failure from a cleaner angle.

Back then, I didn’t even know what the hell I was feeling. Not really. I shoved it down, put my head down, did the work. Surgeries, lectures, data sets. Keep moving, keep pretending. I told myself that was control. That was maturity.

What a fucking joke.

But it worked. For a while, anyway.

I was fine.

Or close enough to pass.

****

A few weeks later, I was back on my feet like nothing had happened. Same routine, same grind.

The day had started with an emergency craniotomy—unexpected, complicated, and the kind of case that demanded more focus than I had to spare. I got through it. Barely.

No time to breathe afterward, either. I was shuffled straight into a lecture hall full of third-years who couldn’t tell a cerebellum from a cortical shadow. Did my duty. Explained what they should’ve already known. Answered questions that made me question the curriculum, and walked out more drained than I’d been in weeks.

Back in my office, I had a stack of exams to grade. Underwhelming essays, mostly. I’d planned to get through them quickly, head home, maybe eat something that hadn’t come out of a vending machine or been reheated twice.

I was halfway through an agonizing essay in which the student confused the amygdala with the hippocampus when the knock came.

“Come in,” I said, not looking up.

The door opened, and then a voice: “You forgot this.”

I glanced up when Dr. Kimura stepped in, holding my jacket. “You left it behind after your lecture. I figured if I didn’t grab it, one of the students would.”

I blinked, a little disoriented. I hadn’t even realized it was missing.

“Thanks,” I said, rubbing at my face. “Appreciate it.”

Mio Kimura was the new head of pharmacology, sharp in every way that mattered, with a clinical wit and a kind of elegance that didn’t falter under pressure. We’d sat on a few panels together, shared the occasional tired conversation between meetings. Always professional. Always polite.

“Long day?” she asked, as she set the 

“Emergency surgery this morning. Then three hours of students asking if dopamine is a hormone.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Ah, the future of medicine. We’re in such good hands.”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning back. “Just hoping I’m not the one they’re operating on when the time comes.”

“Morbid optimism.”

“After three hours of explaining basic neurochemistry to students who should know these things by now, it’s hard not to be a little pessimistic.”

Kimura smiled and shifted her weight, one foot to the other, then, “You know... that thing with the neural interface—no one blames you.”

“I wasn’t asking for absolution.”

“Didn’t say you were,” she replied. “Just... don’t let one failure rewrite everything that came before it.”

I don’t know what hit me wrong about her words. Maybe it was just that strange effect that sometimes well-meaning words have. 

Recovery had never been my strong suit. Satoru? He failed fast, laughed louder, moved on like gravity never quite reached him. I didn’t bounce. I absorbed. Dissected every error until it calcified into something permanent. Scar tissue, but in my head.

It made me precise, but never light. And lately, never enough.

I knew she wasn’t trying to cut. She was being kind—the same way a few others had been lately. A few too many glances from colleagues. A few too many “you okay?” between passing small talk. I thought I’d been hiding it well. Apparently, not well enough.

“I know,” I said. “But thank you.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Kimura said after a moment. “Would you like to get dinner sometime? There’s a new place downtown I’ve been wanting to try.”

A simple question. Uncomplicated. 

Under different circumstances, I might’ve said yes. She was everything I should’ve wanted—intelligent, respected, and didn’t ask for more than you were willing to give, but offered enough to make you consider giving it anyway. But I hesitated. Maybe if it weren’t for her.

“I’m flattered,” I said carefully. “But I’m not looking for anything serious.” Which was a lie. I just didn’t want anything serious with Kimura.

Her mouth twitched but she covered it quickly with the grace of someone who’d been told no by sharper men than me. 

“It doesn’t have to be serious,” she offered. “Just dinner.”

And I did think about it. Longer than I probably should have. Maybe it would help. A reminder that I could still sit across from someone and talk about things that weren’t broken. A chance to remember what normal human interaction felt like. But even as I entertained the thought, I knew I wouldn’t be able to show up fully. Not with everything else going on around me.

“I don’t think I’d be good company right now,” I admitted, and for once, the honesty felt harder than any excuse would have.

“No need to apologize,” she said. “The offer stands if you change your mind.” 

She made it to the door, paused, and looked back. “For what it’s worth, Geto—most of us still consider you the best surgeon in this hospital. One bad outcome doesn’t change that.” 

With that, she was gone.

And I was left sitting there, staring at the door like it might open again and offer some version of comfort I’d actually know how to accept.

Most of us still consider you the best surgeon in this hospital.

It should have meant something. Probably did. Coming from someone like her, it wasn’t just a kindness. She was not one to bother with empty praise. But I couldn’t believe it. Not really.

Not when all I could see was the seizure. The neural interface spiking red warnings across the monitor. The patient’s body convulsing on the table while I stood there, two seconds too slow. Not when I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eyes after it was over. Not when the patient’s life slipped through my fingers while the gallery watched from above like it was a performance.

Best surgeon in the hospital.

What the hell did that even mean, when it still wasn’t enough?

I rubbed at my temple, trying to silence the noise in my own head, but the thoughts kept circling. What if it wasn’t just one mistake? What if I’d reached my limit and didn’t know it yet? What if all this time, I’d just been good at hiding the cracks?

What if Satoru really was the better one? Not just louder, not just flashier… but braver? Willing to try what I wouldn’t? Willing to ask for what I never let myself want? 

I shoved back from my desk, hard enough that a pen rolled off and clattered to the floor. And then, before I could get a breath—

The door burst open again.

Satoru didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. His shirt clung to him with sweat, hair damp, breathing sharp like like he’d just sprinted across campus. Running clothes, no bag, no effort to clean up before barging in.

He dropped a stack of papers onto my desk without so much as a greeting. “Need your opinion,” he said. “We’re almost ready for the first trial, and Yaga’s on my ass to move faster.”

This was how it had always been. Him crashing through the door like a storm, disrupting whatever I was working on (not that I was working on anything, but that’s beside the point). Once, that energy had been familiar—welcome, even. These days, it felt more like a burden I wasn’t sure I had the energy for.

“You just ran five kilometers to ask me about this?” I said, already reaching for the pages.

“Twenty,” he corrected, pacing across my office like standing still for too long might kill him. “Couldn’t sit still. So? What do you think? Are we ready?”

I scanned the printouts. Protocols, projected success rates, surgical outlines—his typical brilliance, structured just enough to pass inspection, reckless enough that I could already see where the risk lived.

“The approach is strong,” I said slowly, “but there’s still a risk of—”

“Yeah, I know. But we’ve mitigated that with the new algorithm,” he cut in, barely listening. His pacing didn’t stop. “I need to know what you think. Honestly.”

He’d been working out more lately. Not that it was my business but he looked like he hadn’t stopped moving in hours. And he kept flexing his fingers like they couldn’t quite settle, like there was too much electricity in his veins and nowhere for it to go.

“You’ve been working out more,” I said, careful not to make it sound like anything more than an observation.

“Helps clear my head.”

“Clear it of what?”

He froze for a sec. “What do you think? My mind keeps going to her. I try to stop it. I really fucking try. But it doesn’t—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I just can’t.”

That irritated me. Not because I didn’t already know, but because he never said things like that out loud. Not to me. Not to anyone.

“So... cardio,” I offered, dry.

“Yeah. Since the kind of cardio I actually want to do isn’t an option.” He laughed and scrubbed both hands through his damp hair, gripping it at the roots. “And jerking off just makes it worse.”

I winced—the last thing I wanted to think about was him jerking off to the thought of our student. “Jesus, Satoru."

“I know—sorry. But I can’t stop. I don’t even know what the hell she did to me. I don’t get it. I don’t understand it myself.” 

For a second, I thought he might actually have a mental breakdown right there in my office. I didn’t want to feel sympathy. But I did. Because the truth was, I understood. More than he probably realized. That feeling of wanting something you’re not allowed to want.

“Satoru—”

“I know what you’re going to say. And don’t worry. I’m not pursuing her. I swear. I just need… distraction. Something to keep me from doing something stupid.”

He said it like a promise. But it didn’t sound like one.

Satoru had never been great at restraint—especially not when it came to the things he wanted. Arguing with him would’ve been pointless. It always was. You push Satoru directly, and he digs in out of sheer spite. The only way to steer him was sideways.

“Let’s get coffee,” I said, already pulling on my jacket. “You can brief me properly once you stop dripping sweat all over my office.”

Five minutes later, we were parked on one of the benches outside the university cafeteria. Same place we’d always gone, years ago, when we were just two overconfident med students who thought the world would rearrange itself around our brilliance.

Satoru had a coffee and some sugary abomination he probably stole off a children’s menu. I had an espresso and a headache.

I flipped through the research while he watched students pass like he wasn’t seeing any of them. The data was good—annoyingly so. The risks were still there, but minimized. Her handwriting. I knew it. They’d made progress. Real progress. And as much as I wanted to pick it apart, I couldn’t.

“You’re ready,” I said eventually, closing the file. “Your approach is solid. So why the hell are you this nervous? That’s not like you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared into his cup like it might give him the right words. The usual arrogance was gone, or maybe just thinned enough for the truth to bleed through.

“I can’t fuck this up,” he said. “Can’t stand seeing her cry. Not again.”

It wasn’t about the research. It never was. His fingers tightened around the cup.

It was strange seeing him like this. 

The man sitting next to me wasn’t the boy who used to light firecrackers in the faculty lot or argue with professors just to prove he was smarter. He wasn’t even the surgeon who once walked out of a failed procedure and still managed to charm the review board into doubling his grant.

But I'd never seen him like this—so completely, utterly in the grip of something he couldn't control. Not even during the worst of his addiction. And that was saying something.

“You’re really gone for her,” I said. 

Not a question. He didn’t bother pretending otherwise. Instead, he set his coffee down and turned toward me. 

“I never apologized to you.”

“For what?”

“Everything. You’ve always stuck with me, even when I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t mean to steal your research. Or her.” He hesitated, which wasn’t like him either. “I just… I saw a chance to do something right.”

Satoru didn’t apologize. Not with words. His remorse usually came in the form of overcompensation—buying a coffee he’d pretend was for himself, fixing problems he caused without ever acknowledging them aloud. He’d make grand gestures when no one was watching and act like they meant nothing.

But this—this was an apology. Maybe not a clean one. Maybe not even a fair one. But it was as close as he could get. And I didn’t know what to do with it.

“It’s fine,” I said, because that’s what you say when you don’t know what else to say. “Just don’t mess it up.” 

We both knew I wasn’t talking about the research.

“It’s not fine. I know you’re still pissed about your research failing. You don’t show it, but I know you. I know the bug boy’s still in there somewhere, taking notes on all the ways this went wrong.”

“I’m not a bug boy anymore, Satoru.”

“Maybe not. But you’re still you. Still carrying failure like if you punish yourself hard enough, it’ll change the outcome.”

I glanced sideways at him. “Sorry I’m not out there running twenty kilometers like a maniac to sweat out my trauma.”

“Ouch.” He let out a low huff, not quite a laugh. “I’m gonna let that slide because you’re a dumbass. And because I deserve it.” Silence, then he added, softer this time, “We really got old, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We did.”

We sat in silence after that. The sun was warm on our faces, the kind of afternoon that softened everything, if only for a minute. And for a second, it felt like nothing had changed. Like we were still just two idiots with too much ambition, dreaming about the future like it wouldn’t one day burn us alive.

Then Dr. Kimura passed by. She gave me a polite nod—nothing more—and kept walking without so much as a glance at Satoru.

“She’s pissed at you, or what?” he asked once she was out of earshot. Satoru had a knack for reading people, even if he didn’t always know what to do with the information.

“She asked me out,” I said. “I turned her down. Wasn’t very subtle about it.”

“You’re always so serious. Would it kill you to let someone like you?”

And I hated how hard his word hit. Let someone like me? As if I had a choice. As if I hadn’t already let someone in, only to watch her fall for someone else. And not just anyone. Him.

Of course it was easy for him to say that. The woman I could barely admit I wanted was already halfway in love with him, and that thought twisted into something ugly. So I shot back without thinking.

“And you don’t take anything seriously,” I snapped. “She’s not just another number in your phone. She’s our student. You don’t get to screw around with that.” And just like that, we weren’t talking about research anymore.

His expression hardened. “I’m not screwing around.”

“You sure? Because it’s not just you who gets burned when it goes bad.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re reckless. Always have been. I’ve seen how this goes with you. You want something and then you’d run it straight into the ground.”

He stood suddenly, coffee cup crushed halfway in his grip, liquid sloshing over the rim. “She’s not a fucking fling, Suguru.”

“Then prove it,” I said, rising to meet his eyes. “Prove it by walking away.”

Voices around us dropped. A few heads turned, and you could feel the odd shift in a room when something private becomes a little too loud.

Satoru stared at me. “You don’t trust me.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“You think I don’t care? That I haven’t been trying to get this right—” 

His hand suddenly spasmed. The coffee cup slipped, hit the ground with a wet slap, and brown liquid spilled across stone. He didn’t move to clean it up. Just stared at his fingers like they’d betrayed him. The tremor hadn’t stopped.

“How long’s that been happening?”

He didn’t answer.

“How are you, Satoru?” I asked. “Really.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And you can’t lie to me about this. Not again.”

He turned his hand over, watching his own movements strangely detached. “It’s under control.”

“Is it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like resting tremor. So, you’re either in withdrawal again or you’ve built up a tolerance so high your system’s folding under the ceiling effect.”

We’d done this before. Over and over. Same goddamn script, same stubborn deflection, same brick wall I kept slamming into like an idiot expecting it to give. 

“It’s not that,” he said.

“Then what is it? Sleep deprivation? Autonomic dysregulation? Adrenal fatigue? Hyperthyroid crash? Don’t bullshit me, Satoru.”

“You done diagnosing me?”

“No. Not even close,” I snapped, eyes narrowing. “You’re sweating through your shirt, you haven’t blinked in a minute, and your fine motor control’s shot. You’re in fucking freefall.”

He turned away.

“You really think if you pretend hard enough, no one sees it?” I pushed.

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. “No need to worry.”

“You’re not fine,” I bit out. “You’re showing classic signs of parasympathetic failure and you’re leading a surgical trial with a patient load that could bury you—”

His gaze snapped to mine then. “Shut the fuck up, Suguru.”

The air went still.

But I didn’t flinch. I just exhaled slowly, centering myself.

Because for him to snap like that meant I’d hit something raw. A nerve. A weak point. And weak points don’t form without feeling. He really did care for her. More than he wanted to admit.

“Listen to me,” I said. “If you get close to her—and she finds out about this—it’ll destroy her and I won’t stand by and watch that happen.” I saw the hit land. Didn’t stop. “So keep your fucking distance.”

He bent to gather the papers he’d dropped, hands still trembling slightly. “Thanks for the advice. But I have it under control.” His voice was clipped. Dismissive. Final. “You should get some air,” he added as he turned. “Run some laps. Heard it helps.”

And then he walked away.

I watched him go, and something heavy settled in my chest, smoldering like the end of a cigarette left for dead. 

He wouldn’t listen. He never did—not when it came to the things he wanted. And something told me he wanted her more than anything.

In the end, we were both fools. Him, for chasing something he shouldn’t touch. Me, for pretending I wasn’t reaching for the same thing.

I stayed on the bench long after he’d gone, watching the shadows stretch across the courtyard like cracks in something once whole. My coffee had gone cold. Forgotten. My thoughts circled like vultures and beneath it all, a quiet certainty pulsed like a fault line under my ribs—something was going to give.

Satoru, for all his promises, wouldn’t stay away. I knew that. And when the fallout came, because it would, I’d be left to clean up the wreckage. As I always was.

Maybe this was always going to happen. Maybe we’d used up all our luck. 

For years, we walked the tightrope without falling—genius and control, chaos and caution, perfectly calibrated just enough to survive each other. But everything has a cost. And maybe this was ours. Maybe she was the price.

I used to believe we were unshakable. Now I think the crack was always there. Maybe this was the moment it started to give. And maybe the tragedy isn’t that we’re breaking now. Maybe it’s that we thought we never would.

I crushed the empty coffee cup in my hand, tossed it into the bin, and walked away. The courtyard was nearly empty now, all the noise and motion drained away with the light.

Whatever came next, one thing was certain: We couldn’t go back to what we were. And I couldn’t keep pretending I hadn’t already stepped past a line I swore I wouldn’t cross.

There was only forward now.

Into whatever storm waited on the other side.

masterlist + playlist + ao3 + support my writing

<- prev chapter | finished <3

author's note — wooaa it's done !! it always feels so good to wrap something up, now i'm back to the familiar dread of having to continue the actual stories oh my haha (and studying for an exam soon, which this was a very convenient excuse to postpone studying for).

i hope you all enjoyed the sidestories of suguru <3 i loved writing them and can't wait to have more air to continue the main stories. as always, thank you so much for engaging with my writing, your messages always make me the happiest. until next time! <3

tags — @buni-bunnydoll @nariminsstuff @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa @myahfig4

@depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker @paolarox01 @shoruio @rosso-seta

@bnha-free-writing @gojoswaterbottle @sadmonke @ihearttoru @sunflxwerhunny

@momoewn @plixy @yokosandesu @nakariabnrb @fairygardenprincesss

@lymsfm @mylovelessnightmare @wiseearthquakebeliever @sujiroses @sunflxwerhunny

@gojossugarcandy @cosmotoic @syubseokie @wiserion @ziggy0stardust

@roseadleyn @nanasukii28 @jeon-blue @justwannasleep @cosmic-har

@grignardsreagent @browrm @rosebluod @bloopsstuff @tofumiao

@chiyokoemilia @bonequinhagojo @mikkmmmii @sunflxwerhunny @moonlightwriter

@yeiena @coeqi @faustina @glenkiller338 @yenmrtnz

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[girltalk]

Hello, May!

Please be full of beautiful things.

Please be full of trust and clarity.

Please be full of love and positivity.

Please be full of joy and happiness.

Please be full of good vibes and energy.

Please be full of blessings and miracles.

　 　 ˚ . ✧　　 ˚

[lostfracturess]

SUGURU'S MEMORIES — PART THREE

featuring — professor geto and professor gojo

summary — before the accolades, before the titles, before the hospital bent around their names—they were just two residents trying to survive. a quiet perfectionist with steady hands, and a white-haired genius unraveling under the weight of brilliance. they were breaking, burning, becoming legends in a system that didn’t care if it killed them first. this is the story of how they rose together—and how the fault lines had started to form.

word count — 8 k

note — this memory flashback is for my ongoing medical AU series. if you've been following "remedies & reasons" and "symptoms & causes," this is a glimpse into the past of our beloved characters from suguru's pov. while it can be read as a standalone, it's best enjoyed as a reader of the main storylines.

warnings — angst, graphic descriptions of injuries, patient death, grief, substance abuse, addiction, relapse, alcohol use, smoking, mental health struggles, references to blood, death and lots of sad things as always.

author's note — eyy this chapter comes unexpectedly fast because the original chapter is over 19k words at the moment and i really don't want to post such a long chapter so i split it up and here comes the first part. so there will be four chapters in total. hope you enjoy as always <3

masterlist + playlist + ao3 + support my writing

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

I knew it was going to be a shit day the moment I stepped into the hospital and couldn’t feel my toes.

A snowstorm had hit overnight—twelve inches, maybe more—with no signs of stopping. My car hadn’t made it closer than three blocks, so I’d had to trudge the rest on foot. By the time I reached the staff entrance, I was soaked to the knees, freezing, and regretting every life choice that had led me to this point in my life.

“Looking rough, Suguru,” Satoru called from down the hall as I stomped snow off my boots at the entrance to the surgical wing.

Naturally, he looked like he’d just walked off a fucking magazine cover. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle or stray thread in sight on his scrubs. No coffee stains, no sweat, no evidence he even had pores. Just Gojo.

I wanted to punch him.

“Fuck off,” I muttered, running a hand through my damp hair.

They said things would get better after university. That once we were residents, it’d feel like we actually knew what we were doing. Like we’d hit some kind of stride.

Yeah. No.

Turns out, residency just meant screwing up on a bigger stage. Still no sleep, still no answers—just more people calling you doctor while you silently hoped you won’t kill someone by accident.

Satoru, of course, thrived on it. Or at least he made it look that way. Always flashing that damn smile, walking into rooms like he owned them, like nothing could go wrong because he was there to prevent it. Patients loved him for it. I envied it, though I’d never admit it out loud. He’d never let me live it down.

Snow had been falling for three days straight. Everything outside the hospital frozen to a halt, streets swallowed in white, transit shut down, ambulances delayed. And still, the ER was packed. Slips on ice, accidents on barely drivable roads, frostbite, hypothermia. The colder it got, the dumber people seemed to become. And we were the ones patching them back together, one freezing idiot at a time.

It started as another twelve-hour shift. I stayed longer. One hour turned into five, then a full day. I’d stopped counting somewhere past the twenty-eight-hour mark.

Satoru had disappeared into the chaos sometime early on. I hadn’t seen him in what felt like forever, though time stopped making sense hours ago. You stopped thinking in hours and started measuring in caffeine doses and how many times your pager had gone off since the sun came up. Or down. I couldn’t tell anymore.

We were residents. Technically still learning, which was funny, because we were also the ones running trauma intakes, fielding consults, and stitching people back together while barely remembering our own names.

The logic was something like: You’re new. You should probably be supervised. Also, here’s a scalpel. Figure it out.

It was a miracle we didn’t kill someone every shift. Not from incompetence—just from pure, systemic exhaustion. They threw us into the deep end and called it training. Satoru once said if we made it through residency without a god complex or a substance addiction, we were statistical anomalies.

I wasn’t laughing.

Asking for help felt like failure. Making it through a thirty-hour shift without losing a patient felt like a win—until you remembered the next one started in six hours.

I was in my early twenties. Legally an adult, technically a doctor, but I still felt like a kid playing dress-up in scrubs. Too young to rent a car without extra insurance, but apparently old enough to make life-and-death decisions on three hours of sleep and a vending machine diet.

Medicine was supposed to be about care. But all we were learning was how to run on empty, how to compartmentalize, how to keep moving even when you couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten or gone home or seen sunlight.

And somehow, that was the expectation. Not the exception. 

“Dr. Geto, you’re up.” 

A chart landed in my hand. I didn’t even see who gave it to me. Another trauma. Sixty-two-year-old male. Slipped on ice outside his apartment. Skull fracture possible. Definitely concussed.

Great.

I nodded, too tired for words, and pushed myself in that direction. My legs felt like someone had poured concrete into my bones, but stopping wasn’t an option. It never was. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept—twenty hours ago? Perhaps longer.

“You look like hell.”

Satoru appeared beside me like a creepy hallucination, sipping from a paper cup. His eyes were too bright, that usual lazy smile tugging at his lips, like he hadn’t just worked the same hellshift I had. I hated him a little for that.

“Haven’t seen you in twenty hours,” I said, or maybe it was longer. It was hard to tell. “Didn’t miss you.”

“Sure you didn’t.” He took another sip. I could smell it—burnt and bitter, the vending machine’s finest. I snatched it out of his hand and drank. Lukewarm. Disgusting. Better than nothing.

“You’re welcome,” Satoru said, unfazed. The fact that he didn’t even protest told me everything. He was just as exhausted as I was. He was just better at hiding it. 

“Another head trauma?”

“Yeah. Probably the tenth one today.” I shoved the chart under my arm and kept walking. “You’d think people would’ve figured out how ice works by now.”

“You’d think. But if people made smart decisions, we’d be out of a job.”

I snorted. He wasn’t wrong.

“How many surgeries have you done since this shitstorm started?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer would piss me off.

“Lost count after eight,” he said, like it was nothing. “Last one was bad. Multiple fractures. Internal bleeding. Guy tried to make it home from work. Skidded into a telephone pole.”

“Make it?”

“Barely. Touch and go for a while. But you know. I’m just that good.”

He flashed that insufferable grin—but it didn’t last. That was the thing about Satoru. People saw only the arrogance and missed everything underneath. The way he carried every loss like a scar no one else was allowed to see. Like it was his fault for letting them die.

“You’re an ass,” I said and handed him back his coffee.

Before he could come up with a comeback, the trauma bay doors slammed open. Paramedics burst through with a stretcher. The patient—a woman, mid-twenties maybe—was screaming. Blood soaked through the sheets beneath her, pooling dark and fast, trailing behind them as they rushed her in.

“What happened?” I asked, already moving, exhaustion disappearing like it had never been there.

“Multi-car pileup on the highway,” one of the paramedics shouted. “She went through the windshield. Multiple lacerations, probable internal bleeding, definite head trauma.”

Satoru fell into step beside me. “Bay four’s open.”

“Dr. Geto!” Another nurse appeared, her face pale. “The skull fracture in bay three—he’s crashing!”

I caught Satoru’s eye. No words needed. We’d done this a hundred times before.

“I’ve got her,” he said, already steering the stretcher toward the bay. “You take three.”

I nodded once, turned, and sprinted. Behind me, I could hear Satoru’s voice barking orders—calm and authoritative despite the chaos. 

The monitors in bay three were screaming. The patient was seizing on the table, blood pressure plummeting.

“He just started seizing!” the nurse yelled. “BP’s dropping fast.”

“Crash cart—now!” I said, grabbing the patient’s shoulders to keep him from sliding off the bed. “Page neurosurgery. Stat.”

After that, it blurred.

Seizures were just the beginning. An epidural hematoma, ugly and expanding fast. I stabilized him enough to get him to emergency surgery, handed him off to neuro, and before I could exhale, I was pulled into another bay.

Then another.

Then another.

Outside, Tokyo stayed buried in white. Inside, we drowned in red.

Somewhere around hour thirty-one of what had started as a twelve-hour shift, I found myself in OR 2 with a woman in her early thirties. Mother of two, according to the paramedics. She’d been walking home from the train station when a car lost control on the ice, jumped the curb, and pinned her against a wall.

Her injuries were catastrophic. Crushed pelvis. Ruptured spleen. Punctured lung. Multiple internal bleeds that refused to stop, no matter what I did. 

My hands moved on autopilot, my brain locked into survival math. Blood loss rates. Pressure curves. Organ viability. None of it looked good.

“More suction,” I snapped. “I need a better view.”

“BP’s dropping—eighty over forty,” the anesthesiologist called.

“Damn it.” I worked faster. “Get me exposure on the retroperitoneum. I need a vascular tray, now.”

“She’s in V-fib!”

The monitors screamed as her heart began to shudder uselessly.

“Starting compressions,” the intern said, voice tight, barely holding back panic.

“Hold compressions. Charging to 200. Clear.”

Her body jolted. Flatline.

“Again. 300. Clear.”

Nothing.

“Push an amp of epi. Resume compressions.”

We worked her for forty-five minutes. Four shocks. Three rounds of epi. Eight units of blood. Vasopressors cycling through a list I could’ve recited in my sleep. CPR handed off from one trembling set of arms to another.

I felt the shift in the room—the air thinning as everyone began bracing for the moment we’d have to stop. 

Across the drape, the anesthesiologist met my eyes. Grim. “Asystole. No cardiac activity.”

Technically, I should’ve waited for an attending to pronounce. But no one was coming. Not tonight. I glanced up at the clock. 

“Time of death, 2:17 a.m.”

Silence fell.

I stood there for a moment, staring down at her. Blood spattered my gloves, my gown. Someone—maybe the scrub nurse—placed a hand on my shoulder. I shook it off without thinking and walked out.

In the scrub room, I tore off the gloves and gown and slammed them into the biohazard bin. Washed my hands until the water ran pink. Scrubbed until the blood vanished down the drain and only the sting of soap remained.

I couldn’t face another case. Not another one. I needed a minute. One fucking minute.

I ended up in the east stairwell behind radiology—the one no one used unless they wanted to disappear. It was quiet there. No monitors screaming. No trauma teams shouting orders. Just the distant howl of the storm clawing at the windows and the low hum of the heating system fighting a losing battle against the cold.

I sank down onto the steps, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

Somewhere out there, two kids were going to wake up without a mother. 

Because of me.

Because everything I had to give still wasn’t enough.

Then the door creaked open behind me. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Go away, Satoru.”

“No.” He dropped onto the step beside me. “Not happening.”

I finally looked up. He’d changed into a clean set of scrubs. Meanwhile, I was still in the same set I’d been wearing for hours—stiff with dried blood. And yet, the exhaustion clung to him just as visibly. The dark circles under his eyes, that tight, hollow look around his mouth. He looked worse than he usually let anyone see.

“I heard about your patient,” he said.

“Which one? The epidural bleed? The teenager with the femur fracture? Or the mother of two who bled out despite everything I tried?”

“The last one.” He didn't offer any bullshit condolences or false comfort. Just reached into his pocket, pulled out a small glass bottle, and handed it to me without a word. “Hospital contraband. Don't tell anyone.”

I took it without hesitation. Alcohol burned its way down, searing a path through the numbness. For the first time in hours, I actually felt something.

“Neurology said the skull fracture kid pulled through,” Satoru added, leaning back, legs stretched out in front of him. “Your call saved his life.”

“Doesn’t make up for the one I lost.”

“It does to him. And to his family.”

I wanted to believe that. I really did. But sitting there, staring at the snow melting against the stairwell window, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Loss didn’t balance itself out. Wins didn’t erase failures. There’s no ledger, no cosmic math to make it even. Every death stays with you. Every one leaves a hole no amount of success can fill.

Sometimes I wondered if that’s all we were doing—playing the odds against death, pretending like maybe, if we worked hard enough, our occasional victories meant something.

Save a life today, lose three tomorrow. Stop a brain bleed, only to watch them die of cancer five years later. Rebuild a spine, then lose them to a heart attack no one saw coming.

It never added up. It never made sense. And the universe never gave a damn how many nights we stayed awake or how much blood we washed off our hands. Death always won in the end. Always. 

Two kids would grow up without a mother now. And nothing I could do—no number of “saves” or successful surgeries—was ever going to make that okay.

Sometimes, I’d think about all the people I’d lost. All the names I couldn’t forget. We told ourselves we were making a difference. But were we? Or were we just slapping tourniquets on severed arteries, pretending we had control over forces we barely understood?

We told ourselves it meant something. That it mattered. But more and more, it just felt like bleeding out in slow motion. 

I didn’t say any of that out loud. I didn’t have the energy to explain the kind of tired that crawled deeper than muscle and bone. So I just stared out at the snow. Cold and endless, swallowing everything. Falling and falling, like all the lives we couldn’t save, piling up until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.

Like it would never stop.

I lit a cigarette with hands that still smelled faintly of blood and took a long drag, letting the smoke burn its way through the pain in my chest. 

“I haven’t told her family yet. No one’s told them.”

Satoru glanced over, quiet for a beat. “That’s not your job. The attending’s supposed to handle it.”

“He’s still stuck in surgery. God knows when he’ll make it out.”

Another silence stretched between us.

“You don’t have to do it alone, you know,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

I turned my head. No smirk. No smartass comment. Just Satoru—my best friend since childhood—as exhausted as I was, but offering me something he knew I couldn’t ask for. But before I could say anything, the stairwell door creaked again. 

Sukuna stumbled in, looking like death. His surgical cap was pushed sideways, scrubs wrinkled and stained, mask dangling from one ear. He dropped onto the step below us like his knees had given out.

“Figured I’d find you two hiding,” he said, eyeing the bottle beside me. “Please tell me there’s enough left to share.”

I passed it down without a word. He took a long drink, winced like it hurt going down, and handed it back.

“Lost a sixteen-year-old,” Sukuna said flatly. “Snowboarding accident. Massive head trauma. Brain dead before he even hit the OR, but the parents made us try everything anyway.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Two hours of surgery just so they could say we didn’t give up.”

“Shit,” I muttered, taking another drag from my cigarette.

“Yeah.” Sukuna leaned back against the steps, eyes fixed on nothing. “I hate winter. I hate snow. I hate teenagers who think they’re immortal.” He let out a hollow laugh. “We should move somewhere warm. Beach town or something.”

“Yeah,” Satoru said dryly. “And get stuck with drowning surfers and shark attacks. Sounds like a dream.”

None of us laughed.

We just sat there, passing the vodka bottle like a lifeline nobody wanted to hold for too long.

“We’ve been at this over twenty hours,” Satoru said eventually, voice low. “And judging by the sirens, it’s not slowing down.”

“Three more multi-car pileups in the last hour,” Sukuna confirmed. “ER’s overflowing. Again.”

I took another sip from the bottle. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” I didn’t even bother trying to sound tough about it.

“Remember when we thought residency was going to be the fun part?” Sukuna said, voice faint.

“You’ll finally get to do real medicine,” I said, mimicking one of our professors. “It’s where you learn who you really are.”

“The hard part’s just getting matched,” Satoru added, snorting. “Sure. Real hard part.”

“This first year’s been hell.” I leaned back against the wall, feeling every vertebra protest. “Thirty-hour shifts. Attendings breathing down our necks. Nurses looking at us like we’re walking malpractice suits. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“Don’t forget the notes,” Satoru groaned. “I spend more time writing than I do than actually seeing patients.”

“And the damn quizzes,” Sukuna added. “Yaga grilled me for half an hour yesterday on some obscure nerve branch while I was trying not to pass out.”

“At least in university we could hide in the back,” I said. “Now we’re the ones getting shredded first.”

“We were so damn eager,” Sukuna said. “So ready to be real doctors.”

“Starting to think med school was a scam,” I said. “Should’ve quit while I was ahead. Opened a bar or something.”

“You’d make a terrible bartender,” Satoru replied with a faint smile. “You’d get fired in a week for telling the drunks exactly what you thought of them.”

“Yeah?” I shot back, dry, stamping out my cigarette against the stairs. “You’d drink half the stock before closing.” 

No heat behind it. No fight. Just that particular kind of tired that soaked all the way through and stayed there.

Suddenly, Sukuna’s pager went off, shrill against the silence. For a second, it felt like the thread holding us together snapped. Too thin. Too worn. Pulled tight until it gave way under the weight of the next emergency.

He checked the screen and muttered something under his breath before shoving himself upright, every movement stiff. And I almost felt sympathy for him.

It wasn’t exactly a secret that I hated Sukuna most days—hated the way he broke rules like they didn’t apply to him, hated the way he gambled with outcomes the rest of us were still trying to keep steady. But even I had to admit it was hard to hate someone who sometimes saved your ass when you were two minutes from collapsing in the middle of an OR.

Like the night Satoru collapsed during rounds—forty-eight hours into a shift. Before anyone could notice, Sukuna dragged him into an empty call room and stitched a cover story so clean the attending never suspected a thing.

Or the time I wrote an order for the wrong dosage—double what the patient could tolerate. I was running on two hours of sleep and didn’t catch it. But Sukuna did. He flagged the pharmacist before it went through, rewrote it under my login, and never said a word.

Loyalty wasn’t the word most people used for him. But it was there. Buried somewhere under all his bullshit and bad calls.

You didn’t get to choose who had your back in a place like this. Sometimes the people you trusted least were the ones still standing beside you when everything else went to hell. And I knew he hadn’t had it easy either. Not that he talked about it. Not that any of us really did. Satoru didn’t. I didn’t. We just kept moving.

And that made it harder. Harder to hate him. Harder to forgive him. Harder to draw clean lines in a place that never stopped bleeding. In the end, we were all just surviving. Some of us more messily than others.

I don’t think I ever thanked Sukuna properly. Funny, the things you don’t realize you should hold onto until they’re already slipping through your hands.

“Not immediately urgent,” Sukuna said, pocketing his pager. “But I gotta head back down. Another skull fracture coming in. Sledding accident this time.” He moved slowly, like every step cost him something. “God, I’m so done with this day.”

“Aren’t we all,” I muttered.

Satoru grabbed Sukuna’s sleeve before he could leave. “Hey. You got anything on you? I’m dead on my feet.”

Sukuna reached into his pocket. “Modafinil.”

Satoru took it without a word. “This isn’t gonna hit fast enough.”

Before I could say anything, he dropped the pill onto the step between us and pulled out his hospital ID card. Quick, practiced motion—he crushed it into fine powder like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Seriously?” I said.

“Don’t judge.” He leaned down and snorted the powder through one nostril. Pulled back fast, blinking hard. “Fuck, that burns.”

“You’re gonna destroy your nasal passages.”

“Better than falling asleep during surgery.” He sniffed hard, wiped his nose. “Hits faster this way.”

“Whatever works,” Sukuna muttered, already turning to leave. “Just don’t let an attending walk in and catch you.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Satoru said, voice sharper now. Like someone had flipped a switch behind his eyes.

“That’s what they’re training us for, right?” Sukuna tossed the words over his shoulder as he opened the door. “Try not to get reamed before the shift ends.”

“No promises,” Satoru called back.

The stairwell fell quiet again, save for his sniffling as he tried to clear his nose. I watched him for a long moment. His pupils were already starting to dilate.

“You need to get this shit under control.”

“What shit?”

I nodded toward the powder still dusting the step. “This. The pills.”

He waved a hand like I was overreacting. “It’s just to get through shifts. Everyone does it.”

“Not everyone crushes and snorts prescription meds in a stairwell.”

“It’s modafinil, Suguru. It’s not like I’m doing oxy.”

“It’s not oxy this time. But it’s always something, isn’t it?”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed. “What are you, my mother now?”

“I’m your friend, idiot,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to. “And as your friend, I’m telling you—this is getting out of hand. Half the anesthesia department already thinks Sukuna’s skimming from their supply.”

“He’s just trying to survive. Same as the rest of us.” Satoru ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “This year’s kicking my ass, Suguru. I can’t keep up otherwise.”

“None of us can. That’s the whole point of first year—to break us down and see who’s still standing. But there’s a difference between caffeine pills and snorting goddamn stimulants in a stairwell.”

“I know my limits.”

“Do you?” I asked. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re pushing them further every week. And I’m not exactly eager to drag you back into rehab again.”

His gaze dropped to the floor.  Silence stretched between us. 

Finally, he exhaled. “I’ll be more careful.”

Not an apology. Not really a promise. Just a ceasefire. “But right now,” he added, quieter, “we’ve got patients. And I need to be functional.”

I wanted to push. Wanted to grab him by the collar and shake some sense into him. But before I could say anything, his pager went off again.

“Another head trauma,” he muttered, already moving. “Duty calls.”

He stood, movements quick now, clipped. His pupils still wide, his eyes almost unnaturally bright. “Don’t fall asleep in here,” he called over his shoulder. “Stairs’ll kill your back.”

“I’ll survive.”

Satoru hesitated at the door. If only for a second.

“Think about what I said,” I added.

“Yeah,” he replied—so quiet it was barely a sound—and then he was gone.

I leaned back against the cold concrete wall, feeling the last of the adrenaline bleeding out of my system. Left hollow. Left tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.

What the hell was I doing with my life? Twenty-five years old, and what did I have to show for it? 

A studio apartment I barely stepped foot in. No relationship, no social life to speak of. My only friends were other residents, and half our conversations revolved around patient pathologies or who was getting chewed out by which attending. And now I was watching one of the only people I gave a damn about slip into a pattern I knew would kill him sooner or later.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling mindlessly through notifications I’d been ignoring. Three missed calls from Mom. A handful of texts from Hanami.

[Hanami]: hey dumbass, just checking in. haven’t heard from you in almost two weeks.

[Hanami]: mom’s worried. i told her you're probably just busy saving lives.

[Hanami]: but i’m getting a little worried too. just let me know you're alive?

[Hanami]: i made your favorite mochi this weekend. there's some in the freezer if you ever remember where home is.

The last message was from yesterday. I hadn’t even seen it until now. I stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over her name. Then I hit call.

I didn’t expect her to answer—it was almost three in the morning—but I let it ring anyway. To my surprise, she picked up on the third ring.

“Suguru?” Her voice was thick with sleep. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, though it didn’t feel true. Suddenly, I felt stupid for calling this late. “Sorry. I just saw your messages.”

“At three in the morning?” A rustle—sheets shifting. “Are you just getting off work?”

“Not exactly.” I hesitated. “It’s been a rough shift. There’s a snowstorm, and we’ve been busy with traumas all night.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Are you okay?”

It was such a simple question. Too simple. And somehow it hit harder than anything else had all night.

 Was I okay? I didn’t know anymore.

“I’m just tired,” I said finally. “Really tired.”

“When’s the last time you had a day off?”

I had to think. “Two weeks ago, maybe? Days kind of blur together lately.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Do you ever regret it? Going into medicine?”

Her words echoed what I hadn’t been able to admit to myself.

“Sometimes,” I said. “On nights like this, yeah.”

Silence.

“How’s Mom?” I asked, because it was easier than sitting in it.

“She misses you. We both do.” No guilt in her voice. No judgment. Just the kind of truth that cut deeper because it didn’t try to. “She keeps your photo on the fridge. From your white coat ceremony. Shows it to anyone who visits.”

I closed my eyes. A tightness rose in my throat. “I’ll try to visit soon.”

“Don’t promise what you can’t give,” Hanami said gently. “Just... take care of yourself, okay? We want you back in one piece.”

“I will,” I said. I wasn’t sure if it was a lie or a wish.

“And Suguru?” Her voice softened. “It’s worth it. What you’re doing. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

I didn’t know if I believed that anymore. But hearing her say it still mattered. “Thanks, Hanami.”

“Get some sleep if you can.”

“I’ll try.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hung up and sat there, phone still in my hand, staring at the dark screen. After a few seconds, the screensaver flickered to life—a photo from graduation. Satoru and me, arms thrown around each other, grins too wide, too sure of the future.

We looked so young. So stupidly certain we were going to change the world. Maybe we had changed something. But sitting alone in a freezing stairwell at three in the morning, I couldn’t remember what it was.

I thought about everything I’d left behind for this life. The birthdays missed. The holidays skipped. The family dinners I was always too busy for. All the versions of myself I’d abandoned along the way—the ones who thought sacrifice automatically meant it would be worth it. And now?

Now I had to stand up. Walk back out there. Find a family waiting for good news that wasn’t coming. Had to look a husband and two kids in the eye and tell them their world had just ended. 

And Satoru wasn’t here to do it with me.

I knew it was stupid. Knew it made me sound like a fucking child, but I wished he was. Wished I didn’t have to do it alone. Wished someone else could carry just a piece of it, even for a minute—because I didn’t know how much more weight I could take. But wishing didn’t change anything.

I pushed myself to my feet, every muscle aching like I was twice my age. Shoved the phone into my pocket. Straightened my scrubs with hands that still weren’t entirely steady.

Because that’s what we did. We kept moving. Even when we were falling apart.

The family was waiting in the consultation room. A husband. And I braced myself for the words I didn’t want to say, for the moment when their world would break.

Then I saw him.

Satoru was already there—standing at the far end of the room, voice low and steady, using those careful, practiced tones they taught us but that never made it any easier. He looked tired. Still too bright eyed. But he was there.

I paused in the doorway. 

It shouldn’t have hit me the way it did. But it did. Because even after everything—after the pills, the spirals, the arguments—he still showed up. He still carried the weight I thought I’d be left holding alone.

Same as he always had.

I stayed there a second longer, breathing through the ache in my chest, then crossed the room to stand beside him.

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t need to. We both knew why I was there. Because that’s what we did. We showed up. Even when we were breaking.

Especially then.

****

By second year, the fear had changed.

In the beginning, it was sharp—immediate, paralyzing. Every beep of a monitor could be the one that meant you’d screwed up. Every attending’s question was a trap. Every shift was a battlefield, and you were bleeding confidence from the minute you scrubbed in. Now? 

Now the panic was gone. Replaced by something colder. Slower. Like rust creeping into joints that used to move fast.

We weren’t scared of killing someone outright anymore. That kind of mistake was rare. That was the kind of thing they made case studies about. But what kept you up at night were the quiet failures. The ones that slipped through the cracks because you were too tired, too rushed, too human. Missed lab value. Delayed call. A decision made one hour—or one second—too late.

That’s what second year was. You didn’t break so much as wear down. No more panic. Just pressure. Always there. Always waiting.

But we’d survived long enough to earn certain privileges. No more being paged at two in the morning for basic labs. No more sprinting to place IVs in every crashing ER patient. Those joys belonged to the new interns now—wide-eyed, hopeful, and already three energy drinks deep by noon. They looked at us the way we used to look at the ones above us: like we were gods. Or monsters. Or both.

We passed them the shit work like a rite of passage. Pretended it was about tradition, not cruelty. Midnight blood cultures. Death certificates delivered to the basement. Stool samples at dawn. “Character building,” we said, echoing the same lie our mentors had told us.

The exhaustion was different now, too. First year had been chaos. Sprints down hallways, adrenaline surges, sleepless nights that felt like dissecting your own brain. Second year was quieter. Heavier. Like a lung collapsing slowly over time. You learned to function inside the fatigue. Smile on autopilot. Make critical decisions when your brain was soup.

We weren’t good. But we were efficient. And some days, that was enough. Then I’d catch my reflection in a window and wonder when I stopped looking like myself.

It was hell, to be honest, and I wouldn’t go back if you paid me—not to the fear, the blood, the blur of cases that all started to look the same, like we were treating the same dying patient over and over, just with a different name.

But we had moments. Slivers of something almost real. Laughter that snuck in between codes. Shared silence that said more than words. Nights we got out early and pretended we were still twenty and not broken by the system. It wasn’t enough. But it was something.

And today? Today we were chasing one of those moments. Trying to remember what it felt like to be human again.

The sun was spilling into the horizon, smearing gold across the battered asphalt of the university’s outdoor court. Satoru’s pass hit me square in the chest—harder than necessary.

Classic Satoru. Even his passes carried a challenge.

“Wake up, Suguru,” he called. “Or has all those slow ass surgeries finally killed your reflexes?”

We were back at the university for what the administration liked to call “research integration”—their way of pretending we were still students, even while they worked us to death in the hospital.

Every Tuesday afternoon, we dragged ourselves from the hospital’s tomb to the university’s slightly less depressing labs. Most residents used the time for actual research. We used it to remember what sunlight felt like.

The court still had the same cracks I’d memorized years ago, back when burnout was just a lecture topic and the future still felt like something we could shape. Now the cracks looked different. Less like wear. More like scars. Familiar. Earned. Permanent.

I slipped past Satoru, letting muscle memory do what conscious thought was too tired to bother with. The ball arced clean off my fingertips, kissed the backboard, and dropped through the net with a satisfying snap.

No crowd. No scoreboard. Still felt good.

I didn’t say anything. Just pulled the crumpled pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my gym shorts, and lit one. “Three in a row,” I said, flicking ash onto the pavement. “You might want to schedule a cognitive eval. Early decline’s a liability in neurosurgery.”

We’d been at it for maybe twenty minutes. One-on-one. No scoreboard. No stakes. Just two people too stubborn to admit they missed it—the weight of the ball, the scrape of sneakers on asphalt, the brief silence where no one was bleeding or coding or calling your name.

“Bold words from a guy actively killing his own gray matter with cigarettes,” Satoru said, grinning like the last twelve-hour shift hadn’t hollowed him out too. “Weren’t you the one who couldn’t remember what day it was last week?”

It had been three days since I’d seen him take anything.

Not that I was counting.

Not that I ever really stopped.

He seemed better these days. Calmer. But not in the way that worried me—more like a storm finally bleeding out its violence into rain. It was good to see him like this. He’d either cut back on the pills… or gotten better at hiding it. I chose to believe the former. Looking back, perhaps I was just afraid to look too closely. Afraid I’d find cracks where I wanted to believe there were none.

“You two still pretending this counts as exercise?” Sukuna called, walking toward us with his gym bag slung over one shoulder. “Looks more like rehab for geriatrics.”

“You’re late,” Satoru said, tossing me the ball. “Anatomy lab run long?”

Sukuna grinned. “Something like that.”

“You mean pediatrics nurse?” I asked, taking a slow drag as he approached.

“Her name’s Akari,” Sukuna said, dropping his bag by the court. “And she’s a resident. Not a nurse. Try to keep up.”

“Oh, excuse us,” Satoru said. “How’s the esteemed Dr. Akari? Still willing to put up with you?”

“Better than anyone puts up with you,” Sukuna shot back, stretching with a crack of his shoulders. “Speaking of—what’s your turnover rate these days? Still setting hospital records?”

Satoru shrugged. “What can I say? Variety’s important. Right, Suguru?”

They both turned to me with those stupid ass grins.

“I’m just trying to survive Ogawa’s chart audits,” I said, bouncing the ball once between my legs, slow. “You can run your sociological studies without me.”

“Deflection,” Sukuna said. “Means our boy’s in a drought. How long’s it been, Suguru?”

I didn’t bother answering. Just stepped back and shot. Clean arc. No rim.

“When’s the last time you made a three-pointer?”

Sukuna laughed. “Fuck you.”

We played until the floodlights came on. Some med students joined in halfway through, their eager faces still unscarred by the reality of what they’d signed up for.

The sound of sneakers on asphalt. The hollow thud of the ball. The insults tossed across the court like second nature. 

It all blurred into something that almost felt normal. Like if we kept moving, kept laughing, we could outrun the fracture lines already spidering beneath our feet.

Looking back, I know what that night was. It was the last time the three of us stood side by side, still pretending there was something left to hold onto.

Two months later, Sukuna took a fellowship in Okayama. Said it was for the career. Everyone nodded along, like any of us believed that was the real reason. He didn’t blame him out loud. Never pointed fingers. Didn’t have to. Distance did the talking for him. 

He just packed up and left like the place itself made him sick.

Satoru pretended not to notice. Pretended he could laugh it off, work it off, fuck it off. But guilt has teeth. And it was already chewing through whatever was left of him.

The spiral came fast this time. No buildup. No warning. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse to break.

I think about that night sometimes—the one where he showed up at my apartment at two in the morning, high on God knows what, drenched in sweat and barely coherent. He didn’t knock. Just let himself in with the spare key I’d forgotten I gave him.

Panic attack, I think. Or maybe a bad trip. Maybe both. He kept pacing the length of the room, muttering nonsense, mostly. I don’t think he even knew where he was. Afterward, he crashed on my couch and slept for ten hours straight.

I’d never seen him like that. Not even during the worst of it.

His second stint in rehab didn’t even last a month. Three weeks and two days, to be exact. I kept count, like maybe the number would matter. Like it would mean something.

I never blamed Satoru.

Not really. Not the way I probably should have.

Maybe because we’d been tethered too long, our lives too intertwined together to pull apart without bleeding. Or maybe because I understood, on some level, that addiction makes monsters of us all. It blurred the lines until I couldn’t tell where his mistakes ended and my enabling began. Maybe admitting he’d done something wrong would’ve meant admitting I had too.

Easier to keep the story simple.

When Satoru came back to work after rehab, something in him had changed, and whatever softness he’d carried had been cut out like dead tissue. He would never be helpless again. Never not know exactly what to do. Never hesitate. Never fail.

He didn’t just get better. 

He became the best. Fast. Terrifyingly fast.

While the rest of us stumbled through second year, he moved like he’d already seen the future and found the rest of us obsolete. Running surgical teams with Yaga’s special permission. Attempting procedures that made attendings sweat. Correcting anyone who dared make a mistake in his presence.

Not with anger, but with the detached certainty of someone who’d simply overcome the possibility of being wrong. He’d arrive before dawn to review cases, stay late to perfect new techniques, and his hands never shook anymore. 

I knew better than to believe it was natural. The pills were still there. Just... organized now. Measured doses. Optimized perfectly to maintain the illusion of invincibility. 

No more manic highs. No more crash landings. Just a perfect, steady flatline that looked a hell of a lot like control—if you didn’t know what you were looking at.

He turned that same perfectionism on everyone around him too. Younger residents crumbled under his expectations. Nurses learned to triple-check everything before approaching him. Even some attendings flinched when they saw their names next to his on the OR schedule.

He wasn’t just good.

He was the standard.

And the rest of us? We were noise. Background blur in a story he’d already rewritten without us.

I should’ve been proud. This was my best friend achieving everything we used to dream about. But watching him surgically remove his own humanity felt like witnessing suicide in slow motion. And every award, every breakthrough, every hospital courting him—it all felt like another nail in the coffin of something I hadn’t even realized was dying.

Sukuna fled to the coast after everything fell apart, chasing sunlight and better days. Satoru and I stayed, bound by habit or loyalty or maybe just the inability to imagine ourselves anywhere else. 

We still worked under the same roof, but the space between us grew. Not in some dramatic rupture, no shouting or slammed doors—just the quiet drift of two people evolving into different species.

I became good. Very good, even. 

But Satoru became something else. Perfect, yes. Brilliant, undoubtedly. But also hollow in a way that terrified me if I let myself think about it too long.

He’d carved out every weakness, every trace of vulnerability, scrubbed away every fingerprint of the boy who once stole books for me and told me his fears.

What remained was a machine—flawless, efficient, running on chemicals and the terror of ever being helpless again.

We stayed friends. Of course we did. How could we not? But our friendship evolved into something I didn’t quite recognize. Him, always three steps ahead. Me, always watching for signs of the next collapse. Both of us pretending this was normal. That this was what success supposed to taste like.

The truth was, I’d lost him long before that Tuesday on the basketball court. Lost him to his own obsessive need to never fail again. And the worst part? I couldn’t even blame him for it. Because if it had been me, I might’ve done the same.

The game ended, as all games do. We gathered our things, made the usual empty promises about next week, and returned to the hospital that owned us.

The next time I played on that court, it was with strangers who didn’t understand why I kept passing to empty spaces where my friends used to be.

****

The years blur together when you're too busy becoming someone important to notice time passing.

Residency didn’t end with a celebration. It ended the way most things did in medicine—quietly, on a late shift. New contracts. Research proposals. Teaching schedules. Another nameplate, another set of responsibilities. The natural order of things, I guess. Survive long enough, and they give you the keys to the kingdom—whether you still want them or not.

Satoru and I became attending physicians the way everything in our lives seemed to happen. Him: spectacular. Me: steady.

He took the youngest neurosurgery attending position in the hospital’s history. I accepted a dual post-doctoral fellowship in surgery and research. Because someone had to build things while he set them on fire.

Different paths, same mountain. One we’d started climbing back in university, long before either of us understood what reaching the summit would cost.

The hospital bent around us without needing to be told. We were good—real good—and everyone knew it. Hierarchies adjusted and unwritten rules wrote themselves faster than the ink dried on our contracts.

Satoru handled the impossible cases that needed instinct. I handled the intricate ones that needed a plan.

The nurses knew who to call at three a.m. Residents memorized our preferences like doctrine. Satoru demanded perfection. I demanded understanding. Different tyrannies. Same results.

And within a few years, we were untouchable.

We’d climbed the mountain they said would take decades. Did it in half the time, and made it look effortless. Committees, conferences, citations, keynote lectures—we were everywhere. Hospitals across the globe started citing our protocols. Labs restructured around our models. Junior doctors walked faster when we were on the floor.

Satoru became the youngest chief of neurosurgery in the country’s history—an unprecedented appointment that made headlines and rewrote the department’s power map overnight. I wasn’t far behind, handed the reins of the research division with a budget that made our competitors foam at the mouth.

And twenty years after collecting insects in pond water, I was sketching neural pathways with the same obsessive focus in my own lab. Full circle, I guess. Life has a dark sense of humor if you’re paying attention.

I think the research soothed something in me. Between surgeries and lectures, I could disappear into data sets and tissue samples, lose entire days without noticing. 

It was the opposite of Satoru’s world—if I went a day without seeing him in bloodstained scrubs, it felt like the hospital itself was off balance. He moved from one impossible surgery to the next, dragging people back from the brink with a precision that bordered on violence.

I still loved the OR. Still loved the rush of high stakes. But the lab was different. No one bleeding out. No alarms. Just clean problems waiting to be solved. The cold logic of science I’d always loved even as a kid, I guess, but uncomplicated by grief or panic or human mess.

That’s where I found her work.

Buried in a neuroscience journal. A student paper with no business being that refined. Her methodology was unconventional but flawless. Her conclusions challenged established theories with the kind of precision that only came from someone too young, or too stubborn, to care whose egos she was bruising.

I was at Tohoku University for one of those obligatory lectures they make you give to keep the right letters behind your name. Afterward—no idea what I spoke about. Probably synaptic plasticity or neural circuit mapping. One of those topics you can deliver on autopilot while thinking about lunch—I tracked her down.

Found her bent over a microscope, tucked in the corner of a lab that barely deserved the name. She didn’t hear me come in. Just kept working, completely absorbed in whatever slide she was observing. Sleeves rolled up. Hair barely held by the bun at the nape of her neck.

“Your paper on glioblastoma progression,” I said by way of introduction. “It’s wrong.”

She didn’t startle. Didn’t even look up right away. When she did, her expression held curiosity, not offense. “Which part?”

“The part where a student produces work that makes my postdocs look incompetent.”

A smile flickered across her face. Quick. Almost involuntary. “Perhaps you need better postdocs.”

And something about that casual arrogance of her felt eerily familiar, and for a disorienting moment I was twenty again, listening to Satoru explain to our professors why they were idiots.

“I’m Dr. Suguru Geto,” I said. “I run the neuroscience lab at Tokyo Medical University.”

She blinked up at me with that blank sort of expression, like she wasn’t sure why I was wasting her time.

Yeah. It really felt eerily familiar. 

Either way, she came to Tokyo and joined my team. And nothing was ever quite the same after that.

She was perfect. Satoru’s brilliance with my discipline. His chaotic instincts restrained by my structure. And by the time I realized how much I wanted her around, it was already too late to pretend I didn’t. If it hadn’t been for Satoru.

Perhaps I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve recognized the collision course I set the moment I introduced them. Two supernovas in the same orbit only ever end one way.

They were inevitable—drawn together the way gravity pulls at stars right before they collapse. And I was the one who put them in the same room. Who struck the match. Who stood back and watched the fire catch.

It was the right decision for our research.

And the worst mistake for my own heart.

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author's note — ehmm i don't really have much to say this time, expect i'd love to hear your thoughts as always. next (and last) part will have a lot of satoru x s&c reader content and how suguru views it all. ahhh can't wait to post it but it needs a bit of editiing still and it got so long that i had to cut it. anyway, i have a headache and go take a nap now haha <3

tags — @buni-bunnydoll @nariminsstuff @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa @myahfig4

@depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker @paolarox01 @shoruio @rosso-seta

@bnha-free-writing @gojoswaterbottle @sadmonke @ihearttoru @sunflxwerhunny

@momoewn @plixy @yokosandesu @nakariabnrb @fairygardenprincesss

@lymsfm @mylovelessnightmare @wiseearthquakebeliever @sujiroses @sunflxwerhunny

@gojossugarcandy @cosmotoic @syubseokie @wiserion @ziggy0stardust

@roseadleyn @nanasukii28 @jeon-blue @justwannasleep @cosmic-har

@grignardsreagent @browrm @rosebluod @bloopsstuff @tofumiao

@chiyokoemilia @bonequinhagojo @mikkmmmii @sunflxwerhunny @moonlightwriter

@yeiena @coeqi @faustina @glenkiller338 @yenmrtnz

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[lostfracturess]

SUGURU'S MEMORIES — PART ONE

featuring — professor geto and professor gojo

summary — long before they became the world's best neurosurgeons, before medical journals and rivalries, before everything became so complicated—it was just two boys meeting at a hidden spot. a meticulous bug collector who felt invisible to everyone else and a white-haired genius who couldn't make friends who felt invisible to everyone else. a glimpse into the childhood that shaped two future neurosurgical legends, and the moment that both bound them together and tore them apart.

word count — 11.2 k

note — this memory flashback is for my ongoing medical AU series. if you've been following "remedies & reasons" and "symptoms & causes," this is a glimpse into the childhood of our beloved characters from suguru's pov. while it can be read as a standalone, it's best enjoyed as a reader of the main storylines.

warnings — angst, mentions of controlling parents, childhood trauma, implied child neglect, brief mention of injuries

author's note — hi dears ! hope you're all doing well <3 i've written some short stories and introspections of suguru's memories of his childhood, which will be split into three parts starting with the first one today (this takes place after chapter 5 of r&r and chapter 16 of s&c). a message i got recently inspired me to write more about suguru and satoru's friendship and i hope you enjoy these sidestories as much as i had fun writing them. happy reading ! <3

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next part ->

I never hated many things in my life. 

Hate is such a strong emotion, one I've always tried to keep at a distance, to analyze rather than feel. My mother taught me early that strong emotions cloud judgment, impair reasoning—a lesson I took to heart. People sometimes called me cold, detached even, because of it. Satoru was the only one who truly understood that my restraint wasn't absence of feeling, but discipline over it.

When others ranted about strict professors or impossible  exams, I turned that frustration into additional hours of study. When relationships ended, I dissected what went wrong with clinical precision instead of drowning in heartbreak. And when experiments failed, I meticulously documented errors and adjusted methods instead of succumbing to disappointment. This approach served me well in neurosurgery, where a single moment of emotional clouding could mean death for a patient.

But it wasn't always like this for me. I used to be more open, more curious. But I think I learned to be this way when you're so close to someone like Satoru. Perhaps I subconsciously balanced us out, becoming the steady hand when his would always tremble.

So no, I never hated many things in life.

But lately, I've begun to hate certain things. Medicine, I guess, is one of them. Ironic, I know, for someone who has devoted his whole life to it. Medicine has failed me repeatedly without explanation, without giving me any chance to interfere. And what's the point of all those years of training, all those sleepless nights, all those sacrifices, if in the end, I cannot save the one person who matters most?

All that knowledge, all those treatments and protocols. In the end, they're only words on paper, meaningless abstractions that crumble when confronted with the reality of a failing body. I've started to wonder if medicine is merely an elaborate game we play to convince ourselves we possess some measure of control over the inevitable. We memorize pathways, perfect techniques, master terminology, and for what? To occasionally win against death while knowing we'll ultimately lose?

Satoru's latest test results lie spread across my desk, each page more damning than the last. Liver enzymes elevated to critical levels. Kidney function at less than thirty percent of normal. Cardiac markers indicating significant damage. The clinical language that once provided comfort in its objectivity now reads like a death sentence written in numbers and abbreviations.

Impersonal—in a way, but I wasn't sure how they should look like otherwise. How does one personalize the systematic shutdown of your best friend's body? How can clinical data possibly reflect twenty-five years of friendship?

The figures blur before my eyes after hours of analysis. Failed. Every single test result—failed. Just like my approach to the neural interface. Just like so many other things.

There was a pattern I couldn't ignore anymore. A string of failures that seemed to be defining my career lately. The neural interface surgery stands as my most public failure—a patient lost under my hands while a gallery of observers watched in horrified silence. But there were others before that. The gene therapy protocol that showed such promise in the lab but caused severe immune reactions in animal trials. The paper on cerebellar stimulation techniques rejected by three journals for "methodological inconsistencies". The grant proposal for pioneering work in neuroregenerative medicine passed over in favor of Satoru's more innovative approach.

Each failure meticulously documented in my private records. Each one analyzed, dissected, learned from—yet somehow, I keep finding new ways to fall short. I've always prided myself on being thorough, careful, methodical. But what good is meticulous planning if the results kept ending in failure?

I lean back in my chair, watching cigarette smoke curl toward the ceiling of my office. It's well past midnight, but I can't bring myself to return to an empty apartment where these thoughts would only follow me anyway. At least here in the hospital, the failure feels professional rather than personal.

I glanced at the framed certificates on my wall—awards, recognitions from years when success seemed to come more easily. When my cautious approach was praised rather than seen as limiting. When Satoru and I complemented each other instead of competing. They mocked me now, reminders of potential unfulfilled, of a trajectory that once pointed ever upward but now seemed to be spiraling down.

The red pen in my hand has left marks on my fingertips, like blood. Appropriate, given how this project of saving my best friend is bleeding out right in front of me.

I should call Satoru. He might notice patterns in the data that I'm missing. We used to do that for each other, before everything became so complicated. Before she came between us—though that's not entirely fair. She didn't come between us. We put her there, both of us, with our inability to maintain professional boundaries around our hearts.

Satoru and I. The inseparable duo. The prodigy and the perfectionist. How many years has it been now? Twenty-two? Almost twenty-five since that day at the pond, when everything started.

Funny how life circles back on itself. Here I am again, obsessing over minute details others would overlook, sinking into the complexities of problems most wouldn't comprehend. Just like that little boy at the pond, meticulously cataloging insects while other children played baseball or video games.

****

I always was a weird kid, I guess. The other children in our town played soccer at the park or rode bikes around the shopping district, but I liked being alone, looking for bugs and plants where the houses ended and the trees began. I couldn't explain why I loved being outside so much back then. Perhaps it was an early stirring of scientific curiosity, or maybe it was just my way of escaping my parents' constant arguments that filled our house.

Our small town in Kyoto prefecture wasn't exactly rural, but it wasn't urban either. We had convenience stores and a train station, but also wooded hills that rose behind our residential district, and beyond them, rice paddies stretching eastward where some families still farmed and small streams crisscrossed the landscape. I spent my afternoons exploring  these places, collecting specimens and observing behaviors. Even at eight, I was methodical—filling notebook after notebook with carefully labeled drawings and observations.

It was during one of these expeditions that I made my greatest discovery. I was following an interesting beetle with iridescent wing covers when I pushed through a thick stand of bamboo and found myself in a clearing I'd never seen before. There, nestled in a forgotten hollow where the forest grew dense, was a pond.

The water was clear enough to see the bottom in the shallows, rippling gently as dragonflies skimmed its surface. I liked it there immediately. It was quiet and peaceful, and no one was around to tell me to clean up my bug collection or stop bringing "disgusting creatures" into the house. That's what my sister Hanami always said when I tried to show her the things I'd found. She's two years younger than me but thinks she knows everything.

So from that day on, it became my sanctuary, my own secret place. You had to know the narrow dirt path that wound through the underbrush to find it, which meant almost nobody else ever came there.

One Tuesday after school, I raced home to drop off my backpack and grab my gear to catch frogs. Mom was in the kitchen rolling out dough for gyoza. 

"Suguru! Are you hungry? I have some snacks ready," she called out as I burst through the door.

"No time, Mom! I'm going to the pond!" I shouted back, already halfway up the stairs.

"Be back before dark! And don't ruin another pair of pants!"

I grabbed my collection jar, notebook, and the new magnifying glass Dad had sent me from his latest business trip to Osaka. He travels a lot for work, sometimes gone for weeks. He always brings back presents, like he's trying to make up for not being around. I think that's why Mom and Dad fight so much. The magnifying glass was pretty cool though—it had a real glass lens, not plastic like my old one, and a cool wooden handle.

As I stuffed everything into my backpack, Hanami appeared in my doorway, still in her elementary school uniform but with colorful clips in her hair that she wasn't allowed to wear at school. "Can I come with you this time? Pleeeease?" she asked, following me into my room. "I'm bored and I want to see the frogs too!"

"No! It's boys only," I said, trying to close my door, but she stuck her foot in the way.

"That's not fair! You never let me come! I can help catch frogs too," she whined, grabbing onto my sleeve.

I pried her fingers off. "You said frogs were gross last time. And you screamed and scared everything away."

"I won't scream this time, I promise!"

"Nope. Boys only secret place."

"Ugh! You're so mean!"

That's how it always was with Hanami. She'd beg to come with me, and the few times I'd given in, she'd get bored after ten minutes. "It's hot," she'd whine. "There's bugs everywhere!" "How much longer?" "This is boring!" But the very next day, she'd forget all that and beg to come along again. It was like she had the memory of a goldfish.

I raced back downstairs, grabbing the rice balls Mom had left out for me despite saying I wasn't hungry. She knows me too well. 

"Thanks, Mom! See you later!" I called, already halfway out the door.

"Remember, before dark!" she shouted back.

The pond wasn't actually that far from our house—just down the hill, past old man Ishikawa's vegetable garden, and through a small patch of woods. But it felt like a different world. The trees grew thicker there, and it was always a few degrees cooler and smelled of wet earth and algae.

Nobody else from school ever came here—they were all too busy with video games or bullying others or whatever normal kids did. But I wasn't really a normal kid, at least that's what my Dad always said. "Suguru has a scientific mind," he would tell visitors proudly, like it explained why I was always covered in dirt and had no friends.

When I reached the pond, I immediately dropped to my knees at the edge, setting my backpack beside me. The water was clear today, and I could see tiny minnows darting through the submerged plants. But I was after bigger things.

It didn't take long to spot one, a green frog with really cool patterns on its back. I'd been keeping track of the different species in my notebook, trying to identify them all. This one looked like it might be a Japanese tree frog, which was weird because they usually prefer to be up in, well, trees.

I pulled out my jar and slowly, carefully approached. You had to be quiet with frogs because they could sense the tiniest vibration. I'd gotten pretty good at catching them, though. It was all about patience, which Mom says I only have when it comes to my "critters."

With a quick lunge, I scooped the frog into my jar, capping it with the special lid I'd made that had air holes poked in it. The frog jumped around a bit before settling down. 

"Gotcha!" 

I pulled out my notebook and started writing down observations. I'd seen this kind before, but this one had different spots. I tried to sketch it, but the drawing looked more like a lumpy potato with legs than a frog.

"Why do you always catch them?"

Suddenly a voice came from behind me, making me jump so hard I almost knocked over my jar. I whipped around to see a girl standing there, holding a sketchbook of her own. It was that quiet girl from class—Eri Tachibana. She always sat in the back corner and never really talked to anyone. I'd sometimes catch her drawing during lunch instead of eating.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, annoyed. "And I catch them to study them. I let them go after."

She tilted her head. "You could study them without catching them."

"No, I can't. I need to see them up close." I turned back to my frog, hoping she'd take the hint and leave.

Instead, she walked over and knelt down beside me, peering into the jar. "He looks scared."

"She," I corrected. "It's a female. See the size? Males are smaller."

Eri didn't respond to that. Instead, she looked at my notebook. "You're drawing it all wrong."

"What?" I bristled, immediately defensive. "I'm not trying to make it pretty or whatever. This is scientific."

"Science can be pretty," she said. "And your drawing doesn't look like the frog. How is that scientific?"

I didn't have a good answer for that.

"You're trying to draw the whole frog at once," she continued, not waiting for me to respond. "That's why it looks like a blob with legs."

Drawing wasn't really my thing. I liked stuff that had right answers, like science and math. Art was just... weird. I wasn't very interested in it, But still got defensive. Mom says I always get grumpy when someone points out something I'm not good at, even if I don't care about it. Dad just laughs and says it's because I'm "competitive about smart things." Looking back now, I think I just didn't know how to act around other kids my age.

"Why do you always draw anyway?" I asked, trying to make her stop looking at my little frog drawing. "Isn't it kinda lame? Don't you have anything better to do?"

As soon as I said it, I felt really bad. That's what the mean boys in our class always said to me about my bug collection. "Who cares about stupid bugs, weirdo?" It hurt a lot when they said it, and I could tell from Eri's face it hurt her too. But instead of getting mad, she just scrunched up her nose and looked at me like I was being a total dummy. 

"Is catching frogs lame?" she asked. "Is anything that makes you happy lame?"

I didn't know what to say to that either.

She sat down fully now, crossing her legs and opening her sketchbook. 

"I like drawing 'cause I get to really look at stuff," she said, getting quieter like she was telling me a secret. "Like, not just see it, but really see it, y'know?" She flipped through pages full of birds and trees and even some bugs that were way cooler than my dumb drawings.

"Lemme show you." She grabbed my notebook before I could protest. She scribbled super fast with her pencil. "It's easy if you do it like this. First you make a circle, then another circle, then you connect them. See? Frog!"

I watched her make a frog appear like magic. It wasn't fancy or anything, but it actually looked like a real frog instead of the weird blob monster I'd drawn.

"Whoa," I said before I could stop my mouth.

She grinned and pushed my notebook back at me. "Your turn!"

"I can't do that..."

"Yeah you can! Just make a big oval. That's the body. Super easy!"

I felt stupid, but I really wanted to try. I made some wobbly circles and tried to stick them together. It still looked pretty bad, but you could kinda tell it was supposed to be a frog, at least.

"Way better!" she said. "Keep practicing."

"Whatever." I grabbed my notebook back. "I don't need to draw good. I just need to write down what bugs do and stuff."

"But don't you wanna remember what they looked like? Like, when you're super old, like twenty or something?"

"Maybe," I mumbled.

I'd never really thought about that before. All I cared about was catching the coolest bugs and watching what they did when nobody was bothering them. The idea of looking back at my notes when I was a grown-up seemed silly—being an adult was like a million years away.

When you're a kid, time is weird. Summers feel like they last forever, especially those long afternoons when the cicadas are so loud you can barely think. A week waiting for your birthday feels like years, but somehow the time between finding a really cool beetle and coming back the next day to see if there are more just disappears in a blink. I wasn't thinking about growing up or becoming a doctor or any of that stuff at that time. Tomorrow and the next day were all that mattered. Twenty years might as well have been a million—impossible to even imagine. I just wanted to catch that frog I saw yesterday or find out what was under that big rock by the stream.

Maybe that's what made being a kid so great. Every discovery felt like the most important thing in the whole world. Every day was its own adventure. I wasn't worrying about what these bug collections would mean in the future or if I was wasting my time. I wasn't thinking about college applications or career paths. Just me, my notebooks, and all those amazing little creatures that nobody else seemed to care about.

Eri stood up and wiped her dirty hands on her shorts. "I come here to draw all the time," she said. "Nobody bugs me here, and the sun makes everything pretty."

"I was here first," I said right away. "I come here to catch frogs and look at pond bugs and stuff."

"We could share, you know. I won't scare your frogs if you don't mess up my drawings."

I didn't know what to say. This pond was my special place where nobody bothered me. But Eri wasn't like the other kids. She didn't call me "bug boy" or say my frogs were gross.

"Fine," I said. "But I get this rock." I pointed to my special sitting rock that was perfect for bug watching.

She smiled. "Okay. I like sitting under the tree better anyway."

We both got quiet. I didn't know what to say next. I wasn't used to talking to other kids for this long without them getting bored or making fun of me.

"Wanna see my bug collection?" I blurted out, surprising myself. I never showed my specimens to anyone except Mom (who pretended to be interested) and Dad (when he was actually home).

"For real? Yeah!"

I opened my backpack and pulled out my special bug box that Dad got me from his work trip. Inside were all my best bugs stuck to the cork with pins, all neat and organized by type.

"This one's a rhinoceros beetle I caught last summer," I said, pointing to the biggest one. "And this one's a giant water bug. It can bite you super hard! I had to wear my mom's gardening gloves to catch it."

"They're so cool!"

"Really?" I asked, surprised.

She nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Look at those cool patterns and shapes! I could draw them like superhero bugs with capes and masks and stuff!"

"Well," I said, closing the box and putting it carefully back in my bag, "if you want to, you could come back tomorrow. I'm going to be looking for water striders. They can walk on water because of surface tension. It's super cool."

"I could bring my crayons tomorrow! I got a super big pack with like fifty colors for my birthday. Wanna see?"

"Maybe," I said, trying to sound like I didn't care even though I was already wondering how she made her drawings look so real. "If I'm not too busy doing important research and stuff."

She grinned at me like she knew I was faking. "Okay, science boy. See you tomorrow!"

As she walked away, I looked at my frog in the jar. "Did you hear that?" I whispered to it. "I think I just made a friend. A weird one, but still."

The frog just blinked at me, probably wishing I would hurry up and release it back into the pond. Which I did, after trying to draw it one more time using Eri's circle trick. It still looked kinda funny, but now you could tell it was a frog and not some alien blob monster from outer space.

I packed up all my stuff and started walking home, already thinking about how I was gonna catch water bugs tomorrow. For the first time ever, I was actually excited about sharing my special place with somebody else.

When I got home, my little sister Hanami was sitting on the floor coloring and making up songs like she always does. She saw me and yelled, "Mom! Suguru's got mud all over his shoes again!"

I stuck my tongue out at her but kicked off my shoes anyway. The whole house smelled super good—Mom was making curry, the spicy kind I love that makes your nose run.

"I'm home!" I yelled, running to the kitchen.

"Perfect timing," Mom said, stirring a big pot. "Go wash those dirty hands and help set the table."

"I found three different kind of frogs today," I told her while I scrubbed mud off my hands. "And this girl from my class named Eri was there drawing stuff, and she showed me how to make science drawings that don't look completely stupid."

Mom raised her eyebrows, a smile playing on her lips. "A girl, hmm?"

"Not like that," I said quickly, feeling my face get hot. "She's just... she doesn't think my frogs are gross or boring."

"Well, that's nice," Mom said, ruffling my hair as I passed her to grab plates from the cabinet. "It's good to find people who appreciate the things you love."

I thought about that while I put forks on the table. Maybe that's why I liked my pond so much—it never told me to be quieter or stop asking so many questions or quit being weird. And maybe Eri was kinda like the pond.

"Oh! And guess what?" Mom said. "Your dad called. He's coming home this weekend."

"Really?" I almost dropped all the cups. Dad had been gone for almost three weeks this time.

"Yes, and he said he has a surprise for you. Something about a special microscope he found?"

I grinned so hard my face hurt. Dad always knew exactly what I wanted, even when he was super far away. "Awesome! I can show him my new specimens!"

"Just don't put them on the table when we're eating," Hanami said, sneaking into the kitchen and stealing a carrot. "Last time Dad was home we had to eat dinner around your dead bug collection."

"They're specimens, not just dead bugs," I said. "And they were already dead when I found them!"

"Still gross," she said, but she wasn't really mad. She was just as excited about Dad coming home as me—she just pretended not to be. She always acted like Dad being gone didn't bother her, but sometimes at night I'd hear her crying in her room. I'd sneak in with my flashlight and show her pictures in her favorite book until she fell asleep. I never told Mom or Dad about it. 

That was our secret.

****

It was late July, and the pond was extra awesome that day. The water was super clear, and I could see all kinds of tiny creatures swimming around underneath. I'd been coming here almost every day since school let out for summer break.

I'm ten now. Not a little kid anymore. At least that's what I thought at the time, but things were different for me now. Ever since Eri had shown me how to draw better, I'd started bringing my colored pencils along with my specimen jars. She came to the pond sometimes, but not every day. Her family had taken her to Tokyo for two weeks to visit her aunt, which meant I had my special place all to myself again.

But that was okay. I wasn't as shy as I used to be. Last semester, I'd joined the science club at school, and even made a few friends who didn't think my bug collection was gross. Hiroshi even asked me to help him start a small collection of his own. And Kenji would actually listen when I talked about the new frogs I found.

My mom said I was "coming out of my shell," whatever that meant. All I knew was that I didn't eat lunch alone anymore, and sometimes kids actually asked me to explain stuff during science class and play basketball with them.

That day, I'd caught a really cool salamander with bright orange spots. I was sitting on my favorite rock, carefully drawing it in my notebook, when I heard someone crashing through the bushes behind me. I quickly put the lid back on my jar and looked up, expecting to see maybe Eri back from her trip early, or one of the high school kids who sometimes came to the pond to skip class.

But it wasn't any of them. It was that weird kid from the fancy house by the lake. Satoru Gojo.

Everyone knew who Satoru was, even though he went to the expensive private school instead of our regular one. His family was super rich and important. My mom always pointed out their big house whenever we drove past it, like it was some kind of attraction.

I'd never actually talked to him before, but I'd heard plenty of stories. The adults were always saying things like, "That Gojo boy is a real genius" or "Did you hear he got the highest score in the prefecture on the national exam?" My math teacher once told my mom that if I worked harder, I could be like "that brilliant Gojo boy" someday, when I got a B on a test. 

I hated him already and we'd never even met.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, looking surprised to see me. He had really white hair that stuck up all over the place and bright blue eyes that looked like they could see right through you. He was carrying a huge backpack that looked way too heavy for a kid our age.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, feeling weirdly territorial.

His surprised look quickly changed to something more annoyed. "What am I doing here? This is my secret spot!"

"No, it's not," I argued back. "I've been coming here for months."

"Well, I've been coming here for years," he countered, dropping his heavy backpack on the ground with a thud that made the salamander in my jar jump. "But whatever. Just don't bother me."

Before I could say anything else, he plopped down on a fallen log across from me, pulled out the biggest book I'd ever seen a kid reading, and completely ignored me. Like I wasn't even there.

I thought about leaving. I really did. This was turning into the worst day ever. First this rich jerk invades my special place, then he acts like I'm the one who doesn't belong here? But then I remembered what my Dad always says: "Never let anyone chase you away from something that matters to you." 

Which was weird, considering he was never even home.

Nevertheless, I stayed put and went back to drawing my salamander. I tried to pretend Satoru wasn't there, but I couldn't help stealing glances at him every few minutes.

He was totally focused on his book, not fidgeting or looking around like most kids do. His eyes moved super fast across the pages, and sometimes he'd mutter something to himself or nod like he was having a conversation with the book. Every now and then, he'd pull out a notebook and write something down in handwriting so messy I could barely make out the words. 

After what felt like forever (but was probably only ten minutes), my curiosity got the better of me.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

He looked up, blinking like he'd forgotten I was there. Then he held up the book so I could see the cover. It said "Gray's Anatomy" in fancy gold letters.

"It's a medical textbook," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world for a sixth grader to be reading.

"Like... human anatomy? Why?" I asked, genuinely confused. That book looked harder than the ones my teachers used.

"Because it's interesting." He shrugged. "I'm going to be the greatest doctor ever, even better than my father."

"Your dad's a doctor?"

Something changed in his face then. It was subtle, but I noticed because I'm good at observing things (all those hours watching bugs, I guess). His eyes got a little harder, and his mouth tightened just a bit at the corners.

"Yeah. He's chief of surgery at Kyoto University Hospital."

"That's cool," I said, actually impressed. No wonder Satoru was so smart.

"He's not around much," Satoru continued, his voice a little quieter. "And when he is, he's super strict. But he's an amazing doctor. Everyone says so."

The way he said it was weird. Like he was proud but also something else I couldn't quite figure out. I kind of understood though. My dad was often away too, always on business trips. Sometimes I wouldn't see him for weeks, but when he did come home, he was a good dad, I guess. Present, attentive, making time for me. But I wasn't sure if those moments were enough and I wondered if Satoru felt the same way I did when I heard other kids talk about playing catch with their dads or going fishing on weekends.

"My dad travels a lot for work too," I said quietly. "It kinda sucks sometimes."

Satoru looked at me for a second, like he was surprised I understood. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to my jar.

"A salamander. Japanese fire-bellied newt."

"Can I see it?"

I hesitated. Most kids just wanted to poke at my specimens or make fun of my "weird hobby." But Satoru seemed genuinely curious.

"Sure," I said, passing him the jar. "Just be careful. They're sensitive to temperature changes."

Satoru took the jar carefully, turning it slowly to look at the salamander from different angles. He didn't tap the glass or shake it like other kids would.

"So cool," he murmured. "The orange spots are a warning to predators, right? Aposematic coloration?"

I stared at him, shocked. "Yeah, exactly! They produce tetrodotoxin—that's the same poison that's in pufferfish. It makes them taste bad and can paralyze whatever tries to eat them."

"The patterns are pretty cool," he said, still examining the salamander. Then his eyes fell on my open notebook. "Did you draw this?"

I felt my face get hot. My drawing wasn't bad—Eri had taught me a lot—but it still wasn't great.

"Um, yeah," I mumbled. "I like to keep records of what I find."

"It's really good," Satoru said, sounding genuinely impressed. "Like, really good. You got all the details right. The spots are in the exact same pattern as the real thing."

"Thanks," I said, surprised by the compliment. "I'm still learning."

"You should show your work to my art teacher," he said. "She's always looking for students who can draw nature accurately. Says most kids just make things up instead of observing properly."

"I'm not that good," I protested. "Besides, I don't go to your school."

"Oh, right," he said, like he'd forgotten that not everyone went to his fancy private academy. "Well, whatever. It's still good."

He handed the jar back to me, then picked up his book again. But instead of ignoring me like before, he kept talking. "What else have you found here? Any rare species?"

And just like that, we started talking. I told him about the different frogs and insects I'd cataloged, and he asked surprisingly smart questions. He knew all these scientific names and concepts that most kids our age wouldn't understand. But he never made me feel stupid when I didn't know something. After a while, I got brave enough to ask about his book.

"So why do you want to be a doctor?" I asked.

Satoru closed his book, using his finger to mark his place. "Because it's the most challenging thing I can think of," he said. "The human body is like this amazing machine with millions of parts all working together. When something goes wrong, figuring out how to fix it is like the a really hard puzzle."

The way his eyes lit up when he talked about medicine reminded me of how I felt about my bugs and frogs. It was nice to meet someone else who got that excited about learning stuff. 

"Do the other kids at your school like the same things you do?"

Satoru snorted. "No way. They're all boring. All they care about is video games and sports and who has the coolest clothes." He rolled his eyes. "I tried explaining how blood circulation works to this kid in my class, and he said it was 'gross' and 'who cares?'"

I laughed. "Yeah, I get that a lot too. My sister runs away screaming whenever I try to show her a new bug."

"Exactly!" Satoru said, slamming his book shut. "That's why I come here. No one bothers me or tells me I'm weird for reading medical books."

"That's why I come here too," I admitted. "Well, that and all the cool specimens."

We looked at each other, and for a second, I felt like maybe we understood each other.

"At least you have friends at school, right?" Satoru asked. "I've seen you with those boys from the science club around town."

I was surprised he knew that. "Yeah, I guess. We eat lunch together and stuff," I said, not sure if I'd call the boys from science club actual friends. Real friends were people you told secrets to, who'd notice if you didn't show up one day. I wasn't convinced they'd even realize I was gone. "What about you?"

Satoru shrugged, looking away. "Not really. The kids at my school are all about who has the most expensive stuff or whose parents are more important. It's stupid."

"But you're so smart," I said. "I hear teachers talking about you all the time."

"Yeah, that doesn't exactly make you popular," he said with a small pout. "Being the teacher's pet just makes everyone jealous. And the teachers only like me because I make them look good. 'Oh, look at Satoru's test scores! What a great teacher I must be!'" He mimicked an adult voice, making me laugh.

"My teachers are always saying I need to be more like you," I told him. "My math teacher kind of idolizes you, and she's never even met you."

Satoru groaned. "That's the worst! Being held up as an example. Like we're not even real people, just scores on a paper."

It was weird. Here was this kid who seemed to have everything—brains, money, a famous doctor dad—and he was just as lonely as I had been. Maybe even more so.

"Well," I said after a moment, "I won't tell anyone I saw you here if you don't tell anyone you saw me."

"Deal," Satoru said with a grin. Then he did something unexpected—he scooted over on his log and patted the spot next to him. "Want to see something cool?"

I moved over to sit beside him, and he opened his book to a page with detailed drawings of the human brain. They were way more complicated than anything I could draw, with all these colorful sections, squiggly lines, and tiny labels pointing to different parts.

"See this?" he said, pointing to a wrinkly part at the back of the brain. "This is the cerebellum. It controls all your coordination and balance. And this part up front is the frontal lobe—that's where all your decision-making happens."

I leaned in, genuinely interested. "So different parts control different things?"

"Yeah," Satoru said, his face lighting up. "The brain is like the control center. Everything you do, everything you feel, everything you are—it all comes from this three-pound blob of tissue." He tapped the page excitedly. "And neurosurgeons get to work on it. They're like, the astronauts of doctors. Only the best get to do it."

"So you want to be a neurosurgeon?"

"Yep!" he said proudly. "My dad says it's the hardest specialty, but I don't care. I'm going to be the best neurosurgeon ever."

For the next hour, Satoru showed me different parts of his book, explaining things in a way that actually made sense. And I showed him my specimen collection, telling him about the habits of different insects and amphibians.

It was strange. At school, I was finally forming connections and joining clubs, while Satoru—the genius everyone admired—was all alone with his advanced books and big words. I'd always thought the smart kids had it easy, but maybe being too smart could be just as isolating as being the weird bug kid.

As the sun started to set, casting long shadows across the pond, I realized I needed to head home before my mom started worrying.

"I should probably go," I said, packing up my stuff.

Satoru nodded, sliding his massive book back into his backpack. "Yeah, me too. The housekeeper gets upset if I'm late for dinner."

"Housekeeper?" My parents were not poor but not as rich to afford a housekeeper.

"Yeah, my parents are both really busy with work."

"So... will you be here tomorrow?" I asked, trying to sound like I didn't care too much about the answer.

Satoru shrugged. "Probably. I come here most days during summer break. My tutor doesn't come on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"You have a tutor? During summer break?" That sounded like the worst thing ever.

"Yeah, my father says I need to stay focused. It's so boring though. The tutor can't even keep up with me half the time."

As we walked to the path that led out of the woods, I had a weird thought. Maybe Satoru Gojo wasn't the perfect genius everyone made him out to be. Maybe he was just a kid like me, trying to figure stuff out and find a place where he fit in.

"See you tomorrow, then," I said as we reached the point where our paths home split.

"Yeah, see you," Satoru said. Then he added, "Bring that salamander again if you still have it. I want to look at its spots more carefully."

"Sure," I agreed. 

As I walked home, I thought about how strange life was sometimes. I'd gone to the pond expecting to be alone, and instead, I'd met the kid I was supposed to be jealous of. And it turned out, in some ways, I might actually have it better than him.

I had my parents who supported my interests, even if they sometimes got grossed out by my specimens. I had Eri who taught me to draw, and my the boys from science club. I had teachers who might not think I was a genius, but who still helped me learn at my own pace.

Satoru had his big house at the lake and his brain full of medical facts, but he ate dinner with the housekeeper instead of his family, and he had no friends to share his excitement about the things he loved.

For the first time ever, I didn't feel jealous when I thought about "that brilliant Gojo boy." Instead, I kind of felt sorry for him. But I was also looking forward to seeing him at the pond tomorrow. 

Maybe we could both be a little less alone.

****

Satoru and I had been hanging out at the pond almost every day for like two weeks. I'd never had a friend quite like him before. He was super annoying sometimes with his "I know everything" thing, but he was also really interesting to talk to. He never got bored when I went on and on about different frog species or insect larvae, which was pretty cool.

Eri joined us sometimes too. At first, Satoru was weird about it. Kept asking why a girl needed to be there. But after Eri showed him her drawings of the pond animals, even he had to admit she was pretty talented. 

The three of us had a good system going: I'd catch the specimens, Satoru would identify their scientific features with his big brain, and Eri would draw them. We were like our own little science team.

But then Eri's dad got a new job in Tokyo. The day before she left, we all met at the pond to say goodbye. She gave me a sketchbook full of drawings of all the creatures we'd found together. She gave Satoru a drawing of the human brain she'd copied from his medical book. He actually looked sad when she handed it to him, which was the first time I'd seen him drop his act.

"Don't forget to practice," she told me, pointing at the sketchbook. "You're getting really good."

"I will," I promised, but I already knew I probably wouldn't. Drawing was Eri's thing that she'd shared with me. Without her around, it wouldn't be the same. 

After Eri left, it was just Satoru and me again.

It felt quieter without her there. I kinda missed how she'd ask questions about every bug we found, even the gross ones.

For three whole days after Eri left, Satoru didn't show up at the pond. That was weird since we'd been meeting there every single day. I was starting to think maybe he was bored of me now that Eri was gone. It made my stomach feel all knotty to think about.

Before I met Satoru and Eri, I didn't really have friends. Sure the boys at the science club were nice to me. But the other kids at school thought I was weird with my bug collection and science notebooks. They'd invite each other to birthday parties and play soccer at recess, but I was always just watching from the side or looking for beetles in the grass. I got used to being alone, I guess.

But having friends at the pond changed everything. For once, I wasn't the weirdo bug kid. I was just Suguru, the one who knew all about pond animals. And now Eri was gone, and Satoru wasn't showing up anymore either.

Each day I went to the pond by myself, I kept thinking maybe this was it. Maybe Satoru realized he was too smart to hang out with me. Maybe without Eri around to keep things fun, he figured out I was actually boring. Or maybe his parents found out he was hanging out with a normal kid instead of studying or whatever rich genius kids are supposed to do.

By the third day, I was trying to tell myself it didn't matter. I was fine being alone before, I could be fine again. But the pond didn't feel like my special place anymore. It felt lonely.

I was sitting on my special rock, poking at some pond scum with a stick when I finally heard someone crashing through the bushes. Only Satoru made that much noise—for a super smart kid, he was really bad at walking quietly.

"Where have you been?" I asked, trying not to sound like I'd been waiting for him or anything.

Satoru came into the clearing with his backpack hugged against his chest instead of slung over his shoulder like normal. His hair was messier than usual, and he had this weird look on his face—like he was trying not to smile but couldn't help it.

"Had to wait till my dad went away," he said, putting his backpack down super careful on the ground. "He's at some boring doctor thing in Osaka till tomorrow night."

"So? Why couldn't you come to the pond?" I asked, watching him unzip his backpack really slowly.

"Because of this, dummy." Satoru pulled out something wrapped in this fancy blue paper. He was being so careful with it, like it might break if he breathed on it too hard. "I got you something. Close your eyes and hold out your hands."

"Why?"

"Just do it!"

I rolled my eyes but did what he said. Something heavy landed in my hands. It felt like a book, but way heavier than my school books.

"Okay, you can look now."

When I opened my eyes, I was holding the coolest book I'd ever seen in my whole life. It had this dark green leather cover with gold writing that said "Illustrated Encyclopedia of Japanese Entomology." There was a golden beetle on the front that looked so real I almost thought it would crawl off the book.

"Whoa," was all I could say.

"It's the best bug book ever made," Satoru said. "They only made 500 of them, like, a million years ago. It has everything about every bug in Japan. All the pictures were painted by this guy Tanaka who spent his whole life studying bugs."

My hands were shaking a little as I opened it. Inside were the most amazing bug drawings I'd ever seen—way better than anything in my science books at school, even better than Eri's drawings (though I'd never tell her that). The colors were so bright, and you could see every tiny detail on the insects' bodies.

"Satoru, this looks super expensive."

"It is," he said with a shrug, but he wouldn't look me in the eye. "My dad keeps it in his study with all his other fancy books that he never reads. He just has them to look smart when important people come over."

Then it hit me. "Wait... you stole this from your dad?"

"Borrowed," Satoru said super quick. "He won't even notice it's gone. He has like a billion books, and this one was all dusty behind some boring medical stuff. He probably doesn't even remember he has it."

"But if he finds out—"

"He won't. Anyway, what's the point of a cool bug book sitting on a shelf where nobody looks at it? You'll actually use it for your science stuff."

The way he said it made me feel weird and happy at the same time. Nobody had ever thought my bug collecting was important enough for something this special.

"Look at this page," Satoru said, flipping through the book to page 94. "It's your favorite."

And there it was—the Japanese fire-bellied newt, the same salamander I'd shown him when we first met. The picture was amazing. It showed the salamander and all the plants it liked to hide in, plus little diagrams of its insides and stuff.

"This book has information nobody else knows," Satoru whispered like he was telling me a super big secret. "Tanaka spent like 40 years finding all these bugs. Some of them are so rare nobody's seen them since he drew them."

I ran my finger over the salamander picture, being super careful not to smudge it. This was better than any birthday present I'd ever gotten. 

"Can I really have it? Like, take it home with me?" I asked, hardly believing Satoru would trust me with something so valuable.

"Of course, dummy. That's why I brought it."

"I'll protect it with my life," I promised with a bright smile and hugged the book against my chest. I already knew exactly where I'd hide it from my little sister who couldn't keep her nose out of my stuff for even one day. 

We spent the whole afternoon looking through the encyclopedia, finding all the bugs we recognized and making a list of ones we wanted to catch. Satoru asked me tons of questions, and for once, I was the one who knew more than him, which felt pretty cool.

When the sun started to go down, I carefully wrapped the book back in the fancy paper Satoru had brought it in. I held it close the whole walk home. I couldn't stop thinking about all the cool bugs inside it and all the things I was going to learn. As we reached the fork in the path where we needed to go different ways, Satoru paused. 

"My dad would kill me if he knew I took this," he said quietly, looking at the book in my arms.

"Then why'd you do it?"

He kicked at the dirt with his shoe and didn't say anything for a minute. "Because..." he finally said, "because you're the only person I know who would actually care about what's in it. And because your face when you saw that salamander page was totally worth getting in trouble for."

I didn't know what to say. Nobody had ever risked getting in big trouble just to make me happy before.

"Thanks," I mumbled, feeling my face get hot.

"Whatever," Satoru said, but he was smiling. "Just don't tell anyone, okay?"

"I promise," I said, and I meant it more than any promise I'd ever made. "This is our secret."

That night, after Mom checked on me and turned out the lights, I waited like ten whole minutes to make sure she wasn't coming back. Then I pulled out my flashlight from under my pillow, grabbed the book from its hiding spot under my bed, and slipped under my blanket.

For hours, I just looked at page after page of the most amazing bugs I'd ever seen. Some of them I recognized from around our town, but others looked like they came from alien planets with their weird shapes and crazy colors. I kept finding new favorites, whispering "whoa" to myself over and over again.

I don't know what time I finally fell asleep, but I woke up with the book open on my chest and drool on my pillow. I quickly hid it back under my bed before anyone could see it.

At breakfast, Mom kept asking why I looked so tired, but I just said I was thinking about science stuff. I couldn't stop smiling though, thinking about how I had the coolest secret ever hidden in my room—and the coolest friend ever who gave it to me.

Every night, I'd study different pages with my flashlight, and the next day I'd go to the pond to find the insects it showed. Satoru would come too, and I'd teach him what I'd learned. Sometimes he'd read the scientific names out loud in this fancy professor voice that made me laugh so hard I'd almost fall off my rock.

It was cool having a friend. Someone who risked getting in huge trouble just because he knew it would make me happy. And he never acted like my interests were stupid or boring, even though he was supposed to be this genius who only cared about medical stuff.

For the first time ever, I didn't feel like the weird bug kid with no friends. I had Satoru, and even though he was annoying sometimes, he got me in a way nobody else did. 

Perhaps that's why it hurt so much later when he didn't want to be my friend anymore. 

****

One day it was super hot, even for August. The air felt like a wet blanket, and sweat was dripping down my back even though I was sitting in the shade. I was trying to sketch a water strider I'd caught, but the bugs kept sticking to my arm, and my pencil kept slipping in my sweaty fingers.

"I'm sooooo bored," Satoru groaned, slamming his giant brain book shut. He'd been extra fidgety all afternoon. "Let's do something fun."

I looked up from my drawing, kind of annoyed. "I am doing something fun."

"No, something real fun." He jumped up from his log. "Something exciting!"

"Like what?" I asked, not moving. It was way too hot to get excited about anything.

Satoru scanned the clearing, his eyes landing on the big meadow at the edge of the pond. It was the tallest tree around, its branches stretching out wide over the water.

"Let's climb that!" Satoru said, pointing at it with a huge grin on his face.

I frowned. "Why would we want to do that?"

"Because it's there!" he said, like that was the most obvious reason in the world. "Come on, don't be such a baby."

"I'm not a baby." I felt my cheeks get hot. "I just don't see why we should climb a tree when it's a million degrees out."

"It'll be cooler up high," Satoru argued. "And we'll be able to see everything. Maybe even your house!"

I doubted that, but Satoru already had that look in his eyes that I was slowly starting to recognize—the one that meant he wasn't going to let something go.

"Unless you're scared?" he added with a smirk.

That did it.

"I'm not scared," I said, putting my notebook down. "I climb trees all the time to catch beetles." That was kind of a lie. I'd climbed a few small trees, but nothing like the massive meadow. But no way was I going to admit that to Satoru.

"Great!" He clapped his hands together. "Race you to the top!"

Before I could say a word, he was off, sprinting toward the tree with his arms pumping. I sighed and followed him, wondering why I was friends with such a crazy person. By the time I reached the trunk, Satoru was already scrambling up the lower branches, his skinny arms pulling him up with surprising strength.

"Come on, slowpoke!" he called down. "Last one to the top is a rotten egg!"

I grabbed the lowest branch and started climbing, trying to be careful about where I put my feet. My mom would kill me if I ripped another pair of pants. Satoru, on the other hand, was climbing like a monkey on a sugar rush, grabbing branches without even testing them first. He was already halfway up the tree, his white hair flashing between the leaves.

"Careful," I called up. "Some of those branches might not hold you!"

"What?" he shouted back, his voice faint from how high he'd climbed. "I can't hear you over the sound of me winning!"

I rolled my eyes but kept climbing steadily. The bark was rough under my hands, and little bits kept getting stuck under my fingernails. But I had to admit, it was kind of fun. The higher I went, the cooler the breeze felt, and I could see more and more of the pond below.

I was about ten feet up when I heard a sharp crack from above.

My heart jumped into my throat as I looked up just in time to see Satoru reaching for a branch that was way too small for him. It bent under his weight, and then—

Snap!

The branch broke clean off, and Satoru's boyish smile turned into a look of total surprise. For a second, he seemed to hang in the air, his arms windmilling wildly.

Then he fell.

It happened so fast. One second he was there, the next he was crashing through branches on his way down, leaves and twigs flying everywhere. I heard him yell, then a series of thuds, and finally a sickening thump as he hit the ground.

"Satoru!" I scrambled down as fast as I could. Nearly fell myself in my hurry, scraping my hands and knees on the rough bark. But I didn't care. All I could think was that Satoru was hurt—or worse.

When I finally jumped the last few feet to the ground, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. Satoru was lying on his back, not moving, his eyes closed. For one horrible moment, I thought he was dead. Then he groaned and blinked his eyes open. 

"Ow," he said weakly.

Relief washed over me like a wave. "Don't move!" I kneeled beside him. "You fell really far. You might have broken something!"

Satoru tried to sit up, wincing in pain. "I'm okay," he said, but his face was super pale, and he was holding his arm weird. "Just give me a second."

"We need to get help. I'll go get your mom—"

"No!" Satoru's eyes suddenly went wide. He grabbed my arm with his good hand, squeezing so tight it hurt. "Don't call my parents. Please."

"But you're hurt," I said, confused by how freaked out he looked. "You need a doctor."

"I'm fine," he insisted, even though he was definitely not fine. "My wrist hurts a little, but nothing's broken. I know what broken bones feel like." The way he said it was strange, like he had way too much experience with that.

"At least let me get your mom to come pick you up."

"My mother's not home," he said quickly. "She's... she's at a conference. I'll just call our housekeeper."

I watched as Satoru fumbled in his pocket with his good hand, pulling out a sleek cell phone that looked super expensive. None of the kids in my school had phones like that. 

He dialed a number and put on this weird fake cheerful voice when someone answered. "Hi, Mei! Could you come pick me up at the pond? ... No, everything's fine, I just... yeah, I think I sprained my wrist. ... No, don't worry, I'm with a friend. ... Okay, see you soon."

When he hung up, he looked at me with serious eyes. "Listen, when she gets here, we're gonna say I fell off my bike, okay? You too, if anyone asks."

"Why would we lie about it?" I was completely confused. "It was just an accident."

"Because my parents will freak out if they know I was climbing trees. If my dad finds out I risked damaging my hands—He will... he will be really mad."

The way he said "really mad" made my stomach feel weird. I didn't understand why his parents would be so upset about a normal kid thing like climbing a tree, but the look on Satoru's face made me not want to argue.

"Okay," I agreed. "We fell off our bikes on the gravel path."

While we waited for his housekeeper, I helped Satoru over to a fallen log where he could sit more comfortably. I got him some water from my water bottle and even offered him the granola bar my mom had packed for me, but he said he wasn't hungry.

"Does it hurt a lot?" I asked, looking at his wrist, which was starting to swell.

"Nah," he said, but I could tell he was lying. "I've had worse."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just sat with him, occasionally swatting away mosquitoes that were trying to bite us. After about ten minutes, we heard a car pulling up on the path that led to the pond. Satoru stood up, wincing a little but trying to look normal.

"Remember, bike accident," he whispered to me.

A woman in a neat uniform hurried down the path toward us. She had a kind face but looked super worried when she saw Satoru's arm.

"Young master!" she exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Bike accident," Satoru said smoothly. "We hit a bad patch of gravel. This is my friend Suguru. He was helping me out."

I felt something weird in my chest when he said "my friend." It was the first time Satoru had actually called me that out loud. We'd been hanging out for weeks, but he always just called me by my name. Hearing him say "friend" made me feel both happy and extra guilty about lying to his housekeeper.

The housekeeper—Mei, I guess—looked me over quickly, her eyes darting around the clearing. I could tell she was looking for our bikes, which of course weren't there. Her eyebrows pulled together in a way that showed she didn't quite believe our story, but she didn't say anything about it. Instead, she turned her attention back to Satoru. 

"Let me see your arm." Mei gently took his wrist. Satoru tried not to flinch, but I saw the pain flash across his face. "We should get this looked at. It might need an X-ray."

"It's fine," Satoru said. "Just a sprain. Let's not bother my father at work for something so small."

Mei looked doubtful but didn't argue. "Let's at least get you home and put some ice on it. Thank you for staying with him," she added to me.

"No problem," I said, feeling weird about the whole situation. "Feel better, Satoru."

"See you tomorrow?" Satoru asked as Mei led him away.

"Yeah, sure," I said, waving. "Same time."

But Satoru didn't come to the pond the next day. Or the day after that. When school started again the following week, I saw him around town a few times, but he always seemed to be in a hurry, barely waving before scurrying off.

One day, I spotted him at the convenience store with his arm in a real cast. So it had been broken after all. I tried to catch up to him to sign it, but he ducked into a fancy car before I could reach him. I noticed other things too. A dark bruise on his cheek that couldn't have come from the fall or how he always wore long sleeves, even on hot days.

I tried to talk to him about it once, cornering him outside the public library. "Are you okay?" I asked. "I haven't seen you at the pond in ages."

"I'm fine." He did not meet my eyes. "Just busy with school stuff. My father has me on this advanced study program now."

"What about your arm? The fall broke it, didn't it?"

"Yeah, but it's healing. No big deal. Look, I gotta go. My driver's waiting."

And just like that, he was gone again.

It wasn't until years later, that I found out the truth. I ran into Mei, Satoru's housekeeper, at the market. She recognized me and we talked for a bit. That's when she told me what really happened after the tree accident. Satoru's father had been furious. He'd forbidden Satoru from seeing me ever again, calling me a bad influence. Apparently, surgeons' hands were sacred or something, and Satoru was destined to be a surgeon whether he wanted to or not.

It was weird to finally understand after all those years. Part of me felt better knowing Satoru hadn't just gotten bored of me, but another part felt even worse. If his dad could make him drop his only friend just like that, what kind of control did he have over the rest of Satoru's life? I thought about reaching out after learning the truth, but by then we were such different people, living in completely different worlds. Some bridges, once broken, are too hard to rebuild, I guess.

By the time we started seventh grade, we hardly spoke anymore. Satoru had changed. I'd heard rumors about him at his school. Apparently, he'd gotten louder, more disruptive—always showing off and making trouble. The teachers still loved him because he got perfect scores on everything, but word was that the other kids thought he was kind of a jerk. Our paths just didn't cross much anymore, but his reputation seemed to follow him everywhere.

I changed too. Seventh grade was way harder than sixth. I had to study all the time just to keep my grades up, and I joined the basketball team because Dad said it would look good on high school applications. Between homework, basketball practice, and cram school, I hardly had time for bug collecting anymore.

My specimen boxes gathered dust under my bed. My colored pencils dried out from not being used. The last time Eri visited our town to see her grandmother, she asked me to come draw at the pond like we used to. I made up an excuse about studying for a math exam instead. She left for Tokyo the next day.

I felt bad about it sometimes. Guilty, even. But it wasn't the same anymore. That childish wonder and excitement had faded, replaced by something more complicated. I told myself I'd outgrown those things, that I had more important things to focus on now.

Sometimes, I'd see Satoru around town, surrounded by a group of loud boys from his private school, the white hair unmistakable among them. He always acted like he didn't see me, and after a while, I stopped trying to catch his eye.

By high school, the pond felt like a distant memory. I was focused on exams and college applications. I'd given up bugs for biology class, where we dissected frogs instead of watching them jump. My old notebooks full of amateur drawings were packed away in a box in the attic, I guess. I don’t know really.

But I kept that book hidden under my bed for years, even after we grew apart. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the one proof I had that Satoru Gojo had once been my friend.

One day during my first year of high school, I was walking home from cram school when a sudden rainstorm hit. I ducked under the awning of a coffee shop to stay dry. When the rain stopped, I walked home and found myself thinking about that sixth grade summer. The salamanders and frogs. Eri teaching me to draw. Satoru showing me diagrams of the brain. But the memories were so strangely blurry now. Like our whole summer of catching bugs and laughing together never happened.

Sometimes I wondered what had happened to that kid who spent hours meticulously documenting different species of water insects. Who felt a thrill when capturing the perfect detail in a drawing. It was like looking back at a different person—someone younger, more curious, less concerned with test scores and college applications.

I wondered what Eri was up to now in Tokyo. We don't really keep in touch anymore—just the occasional birthday message or holiday greeting. Our conversations became shorter and less frequent until they eventually stopped altogether. It was another casualty of growing up, I suppose, of changing priorities and diverging paths.

And I wondered about Satoru too. What had happened in that big house by the lake? Why had a simple fall from a tree caused such fear in his eyes? Maybe if things had been different, if we hadn't drifted apart after the accident, I might have found out.

But instead, we became strangers. He turned into the arrogant genius everyone either admired or hated, and I became just another stressed student trying to secure my future.

The pond was probably still there, hidden behind those bamboo trees at the edge of the town. But I couldn't remember the last time I'd visited it. Couldn't recall when exactly I'd stopped caring about the creatures that lived there, or when my notebooks had shifted from containing drawings of frogs to containing nothing but school notes.

Growing up was weird like that. Things that seemed so important suddenly didn't matter anymore. People who were once your friends became strangers. And before you knew it, you could hardly recognize yourself.

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next part ->

author's note — welcome back !! i hope you enjoyed this little glimpse into suguru's memories of growing up. the next part will be about high school and university and how suguru and satoru became close again and inseperable. and don't worry, i've already written the next part and just need a few edits, so the wait won't be long :))

and as for the main stories, i am really working on them from time to time, but i need to be in the right headspace to write them because i don't want to do them dirty and with my graduation coming up, i'm a bit over my head at the moment. so i hope these little side stories from their past will make up for the long wait for the main stories.

& huge thanks to everyone for reading and supporting ! your comments and messages seriously brighten my day. so excited to see what you think of the next part of suguru's memories, they get a little sad and might break your heart i'm sorry :'))

anywayy, always love hearing your thoughts on the story. wishing you all an amazing weekend ! & happy easter if you celebrate <3

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© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[justiceforkira]

*Me giving gojo BACKSHOTS*

gojo: w-wait.. not in front of people-!

Me: "shhh, it's okay, let them watch... 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞..."

[elysian-chaos]

reblog and put your first fictional crush in the tags

[toadtoru-deactivated20260517]

[yvesdoee]

[lostfracturess]

THE MAN ACROSS THE STREET — SATORU GOJO

pairing — neighbour!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary — when you inherited your grandparents' victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. what you weren't prepared for was satoru gojo—your insufferably perfect neighbour with his perfect smiles and unexpected talent for home repairs. but maybe, just maybe, he's exactly the kind of renovation partner you need. because four seasons might not be enough to fix a century-old house, but it might be just enough time to fall in love—moment by moment, season by season.

word count — 14 k

genre/tags — home renovation AU, neighbours to lovers, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn, domestic fluff, idiots in love, misunderstandings, found family, tension, happy ending, gentle romance, cozy vibes

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, small renovation accident, references to past family deaths (grandparents)

author's note — would you believe this fic has been sitting in my drafts since last year haha. but i finally finished it after months of adding scenes and expanding seasons. i wanted to keep it shorter but well, now it is what it is lol. hope you enjoy <3

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When you inherited your grandparents' old Victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. The sagging porch, the outdated wiring, the kitchen that hadn't been updated since the 1970s — these were all problems you could tackle with enough time, money, and YouTube tutorials.

What you hadn't counted on was Satoru Gojo.

Your new neighbor lived in the equally grand house across the street, though his was perfectly maintained with its pristine white paint and perfectly tended rose bushes. You'd noticed him the day you moved in, impossible not to really, with that white hair and those eyes in the colour of summer skies that seemed to find you no matter where you were. 

It was frustrating, to say the least. 

You'd first noticed him through your kitchen window one morning, still half asleep and clutching your teacup. He was at his mailbox, and for a disorienting moment, you thought you were still dreaming. No shirt. Sweatpants low on his hips. It was really way too early for someone to look that good. It felt almost unfair, frankly. But then he turned, caught you staring and flashed you a smile that could belong in a stupid toothpaste commercial. 

You'd ducked under the counter so quickly you'd spilled tea all over yourself. It was ridiculous, really—hiding in your own kitchen.

Your first actual meeting came three days later, when you were balanced precariously on a ladder, trying to clear the gutters of last autumn's soggy birch leaves. You were reaching for a stubborn clump when a voice drifted up from below.

"You might want to secure that ladder before it slides." 

You looked down. Satoru stood there, one hand casually steadying the ladder, the other holding a steaming mug. His white hair caught the spring sunlight, shimmering like spun moonlight, and his eyes were the kind of blue that made you grateful you were already holding onto something.

“It’s fine, really” you said, even as the ladder wobbled slightly.

“Famous last words.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “But humor me? I’d hate to call an ambulance before I know my new neighbor’s name.” 

That had set the tone for everything that followed. 

He had an uncanny ability to appear whenever you were struggling—or perhaps he was stalking you. Either way, he had a way of offering help in a way that somehow never felt condescending. It was subtle at first—the way he'd bring over coffee when he saw you starting an early morning project, or how he seemed to have an endless supply of useful tools that were "just gathering dust anyway", as he always said.

He never pushed, never overwhelmed, but he was always there, across the street and you found yourself looking over to his house more often than you'd care to admit.

You told yourself it was just practical. He knew the neighborhood, understood old houses, and happened to be surprisingly knowledgeable about house renovation. The fact that he had a smile that made your chest tight, or that he looked unfairly good in everything he wore was entirely irrelevant. He's just a neighbour, you told yourself, even as heat rose in your cheeks. A ridiculously attractive neighbour—unfortunately.

But as spring melted into summer, and summer faded into autumn, you started to realize two very inconvenient truths: One, restoring this house was going to take far longer than you'd planned. And two, Satoru Gojo was becoming a much more relevant aspect of this restoration than you'd wished.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It all began with the pipes in spring. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Spring was supposed to be about fresh starts and birdsong or whatever stupid idyllic nonsense romance movies peddled. Your old Victorian home, however, had other ideas. Because on one peaceful Sunday morning, the pipe under your kitchen sink decided it had had enough of gravity and time.

You were making coffee when you heard it—a suspicious gurgle, followed by a crack that could only mean trouble. And suddenly, your cabinet was a fountain. Lovely, really, if it didn’t threaten to turn your kitchen into an indoor pool. You managed to shut off the water and were now flat on your back under the sink, surrounded by tools, muttering curses at the rusted pipe, when a knock sounded.

“Having fun down there?”

You jumped in surprise and, naturally, hit your head on the cabinet. Of course it was him. Of course your ridiculously, unfairly attractive neighbor would appear right when you were sprawled on the kitchen floor, soaked and probably looking like a drowned rat.

“Ha ha,” you called dryly, not bothering to move. “I’ve got this.”

“That’s why there’s water running down your driveway?”

You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. “Don’t you have your own house to maintain?”

“Much less entertaining over there.” A rustle of movement, and then Satoru was crouching beside you. His white hair fell forward as he tilted his head, those stupidly handsome blue eyes assessing the situation. “You’re using the wrong wrench.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” He reached past you, picking up a different wrench. “Pipe wrench, not adjustable. Unless you’re aiming for an indoor pool, in which case, carry on.”

You glared at him, which was significantly less effective from your position on the floor. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"

"On a Saturday morning? Please." He settled onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in to examine the pipe. "Besides, this is a two person job. One to hold the pipe, one to remove the fitting. Unless you've grown extra arms?"

You hadn’t. Hence the problem. You'd spent the last hour trying to manage it alone and had only succeeded in getting thoroughly soaked and increasingly frustrated.

"Fine," you sighed, scooting over to make room. "But if you make one more smart comment—"

"Would I do that?" He gave you an exaggeratedly innocent look that almost made you smile.

Working together, it took only minutes to remove the damaged section of pipe. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms, the sleeves bunching just below his elbows. You tried not to notice how he smelled faintly of sandalwood, or how his presence made your kitchen feel suddenly so much smaller.

"You'll need to replace this whole section," he said, examining the corroded pipe. "The hardware store opens in an hour."

"I know that." You definitely hadn't known that.

"Of course you did." His smile made you want to punch him. "Just like you knew about using the pipe wrench?"

"I will set your house on fire."

He laughed, the sound filling the small space. “No, you won’t. You like having someone around who knows a pipe wrench from an adjustable one.”

A strange warmth spread through you, followed by a healthy dose of suspicion. Was he…flirting? 

No. Impossible. Satoru Gojo didn't flirt. Or better said, he flirted with everyone—the barista at the coffee shop, the elderly woman selling tomatoes at the market, even the hardware store clerk he’d charmed into giving you a discount the other day. It was just his way. 

Still it did make the small space feel a little warmer. And the worst part was, he wasn't entirely wrong. You did appreciate his help. But you'd rather deal with a thousand broken pipes on your own than admit that and witness his self-satisfied grin.

“Don’t you have your own projects?” you asked, pushing yourself up, feigning a nonchalance you absolutely did not feel.

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, looking far too comfortable sprawled on your kitchen floor. “My house is perfect. Which leaves me free to watch you struggle with yours. Better than Netflix.” 

You grabbed a dish towel and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, because of course he did.

"Come on." He stood in one fluid motion that had no right to look that graceful. "I'll drive you to the hardware store. Unless you want water running down your driveway all day?”

You looked between him and your ruined cabinet, weighing your options. Pride demanded you handle this alone. Practicality pointed out that he actually seemed to know what he was doing, and you really did need that pipe fixed today.

"Fine." You sighed. "But I'm buying my own supplies." You blurted it out, remembering how he’d somehow paid the entire bill before you’d even reached for your wallet last time you'd run into him in the hardware store.

"Whatever you say." He was already heading for the door, keys jingling in his hand. "Though you might want to change first. Not that the wet look isn't working for you, but—"

You looked down at your soaked clothes, then back at him. Your white shirt clung to you like a second skin and was practically see through. Heat rushed to your face.

Why was he only mentioning this now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

After the Saturday sink incident, you'd sworn to handle the rest of the plumbing yourself. You weren’t entirely sure why—maybe it was pride, maybe it was the way he’d teased you endlessly about it, or maybe it was the strange flutter in your chest whenever he was near.

Whatever the reason, you’d plotted your renovation schedule around his presumed absences, binged YouTube tutorials until your eyes blurred, and even took your coffee breaks in the backyard, convinced he couldn’t possibly find you there. 

But somehow, Satoru Gojo kept appearing anyway.

"That pipe threading looks wrong," he'd say, appearing beside you like some stupid house ghost. Or, "Those measurements seem off," right when you were about to make a cut. Or worst of all, saying nothing at all. He’d simply stand there with that look until you finally snapped and asked for help.

On one stupid cursed Monday afternoon, the bathroom pipes were your breaking point. You'd been at it for hours, surrounded by copper fittings and pipe dope, when his shadow fell across your work. You really needed to start locking the door.

“Don’t,” you warned without looking up.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loud enough.”

“I was just admiring your work.” His voice held that familiar amusement that made your skin prickle. “Though if you’re planning on running water anytime soon—”

Your wrench clattered to the floor. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”

“Would you believe me if I said everything?”

But the most infuriating part wasn’t just that he was right. It was the way he showed you. His large hands moving gently as he demonstrated the proper technique, his voice low and soft as he explained what you were doing wrong with such patience that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him.

By the time the bathroom was finished, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t need his help. By the time you tackled the upstairs pipes, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t want it.

It became a routine. You’d start a project, he’d appear with some tedious fact about old houses, and together you’d work until the sun dipped below the horizon. He never pushed, never took over, just quietly adjusted your grip on a tool or handed you the right fitting before you even asked.

“You know,” you said one evening, both of you tired and dusted with grime, “for someone with a perfect house, you spend a lot of time in my disaster zone.”

He was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, his voice, when it came, was different—softer, the usual teasing edge gone. “Maybe I like watching something beautiful come back to life.” 

You looked up, a question forming on your lips, but he was already focused on the pipe in his hands again, his expression shadowed in the fading light. 

The last pipe was replaced on a cool evening in late spring. You both stood in the basement and looked at your work.

“Guess you’ll have to find someone else to annoy now,” you said, trying for a light tone, though a strange heaviness settled in your chest.

“Your electrical panel looks pretty old.”

“Satoru—”

“And those windows definitely need reglazing before summer.”

“You don’t have to—”

“And don’t even get me started on that porch roof.”

You stared at him. “You’re not going to let me do any of this alone, are you?”

He smiled. “Now you’re getting it.” 

And standing there in your basement, covered in dust and sweat, you finally admitted what you'd been fighting all spring—maybe you didn't want to do this alone after all. 

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Summer arrived like a slow exhale, bringing humid days and the kind of heat that made everything a sweltering ordeal. 

The porch was your next project so that you could reclaim the space before the season completely slipped away. You envisioned lazy afternoons spent sipping iced tea in the shade, reading a book or simply napping. But looking at the porch now, with its peeling paint, crumbling railings, and warped floorboards, that vision felt miles away.

It had become normal to find Satoru on your porch in the mornings, armed with iced coffee and opinions about latest movies. You'd stopped questioning how he always seemed to know your schedule, or why he willingly sacrificed his free time to help you strip old paint from equally old wood.

“This is bad,” he said one stifling morning, poking a section of railing that crumbled at his touch. “How did it get this neglected?”

You swiped at the sweat trickling down your forehead, probably smearing paint stripper across your cheek. “Ask that my grandparents’ bank. Two years of bureaucratic hell before I could even touch the place.”

“I’m more concerned about what you’re doing there. You’re taking off more wood than paint.” His hands hovered for a moment before gently adjusting your grip. “Like this. Gentle but firm. Let the stripper do the work.”

Months ago, the correction would have annoyed you. Now you just moved your hands and noticed how the work immediately became easier. But the warmth of his breath on your neck and the familiar scent of sandalwood still sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, ignoring the flutter in your stomach. "Not all of us have a natural talent for restoring historic houses."

"No, some of us just inherited beautiful old houses and decided to learn through trial and error." His voice carried that warm amusement that had become familiar. "Mostly error."

You turned to glare at him, but he was already moving on to the next section, the muscles in his arms flexing as he worked. Not that you were staring. You definitely weren't staring. And if you were, it was purely to study his scraping technique.

So the days fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for demolition—tearing out rotten planks and stripping paint before the heat truly settled in. Afternoons were for repairs, matching new wood to old, rebuilding piece by piece as sweat dripped down your backs.

"My grandmother used to bring us lemonade out here when we were kids," you said one afternoon, both of you sprawled in the shade of the half-finished porch, and as you said it, you could almost smell the lemon, tart and sweet. Hear the clinking of the ice in the heavy glasses. "She had this really pretty set of vintage glasses."

Satoru lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes against the sun. “Let me guess—they’re still in the attic somewhere?"

“Along with about a hundred years’ worth of other stuff.” You took a long sip from your water bottle. “I’m almost afraid to look.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, the movement pulling his damp t-shirt tighter across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his abs and the curve of his bicep. A few stray beads of sweat trickled down his temple, catching the sunlight. "We should check it out. After the porch is done."

"We?"

"Unless you're planning to handle whatever horror show is up there alone?" He smiled. “Besides, I’m invested in this house’s resurrection story now.”

"Is that what this is?"

"Isn't it?" He gestured at the porch around you. “Old becoming new. Though hopefully with better plumbing this time.”

You threw a paint chip at him, which he dodged easily. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never.” He stood and offered you a hand. "It's too good a story.”

You took his hand, and for a moment, you simply looked at him. It struck you then how familiar his presence had become—the easy banter, the shared work, the comfortable silences. It felt like you’d known him forever.

“Alright, let’s get back to it,” he said, his hand still holding yours. “This porch isn’t going to rebuild itself. Unless you’re planning on serving me lemonade on a pile of rotted wood?”

“Who says I’m making you lemonade?”

He tugged you closer, just a little, until you were almost toe to toe. You tilted your head, your gaze locked with his, and something playful flashed in those sky blue eyes of his. “Aren’t I entitled to a little refreshment after all this hard work?”

“You have quite the ideas.”

“Hmh. I have another one.” He released your hand. “You should have a party here when it’s finished. Lemonade and those vintage glasses of your grandmother’s.”

“To celebrate what?”

He glanced over his shoulder, something soft in his expression. “That good things are worth the work.”

You looked away first and focused back on your own section of railing. If your cheeks were warm, it was definitely just the summer heat.

The porch took two more weeks to finish. Every board was carefully replaced or restored, every detail attended to with a gentle care that would have made your grandmother proud. You spent the final evening painting together, working in silence as the sun set.

“It’s beautiful.” You stepped back to admire your work. The fresh white paint glowed in the twilight, making the whole house seem to breathe easier.

“It is.” But when you glanced over, Satoru wasn’t looking at the porch. His gaze was on you.

You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in cleaning your paintbrush. "So, about that attic..."

His smile, when you dared to look back, was warm and genuine. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," you echoed, trying to ignore the way your heart quickened at the way he said it—like a promise, like there would always be another project, another reason to spend these long summer days together. 

And it felt… good.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The attic turned out to be exactly the treasure trove you'd hoped but also feared it to be—a cavernous space choked with dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering through grimy windows. Air hung thick and still with the scent of dried wood and dust. Piles of furniture shrouded in white sheets were scattered among stacks of old books with brittle pages and dusty hatboxes tied with faded ribbons.

It was chaotic, let's just say that. 

But it was also so familiar it tugged at the edges of your memory, a feeling of coming home to a place you hadn't seen in years. 

The attic had started as a simple weekend project, mostly to fix the insulation before autumn. But each box you opened was like a time capsule of memories. You'd find yourself lost in old photo albums or mesmerised by your grandmother's book collection, renovation plans long forgotten as you sifted through the memories of their lives—and yours. And what you'd initially considered a "weekend project" had clearly been a wildly optimistic estimate.

You were so absorbed in sorting through another box that you didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until Satoru's head popped through the access panel.

"Your door was unlocked," he said, as that would explain why he always appeared out of nowhere is your house. "I brought lunch."

"Normal people call first," you replied, not looking up from the box in your hands.

"Normal is boring." He pulled himself up without any effort, which was almost offensive considering how you'd stumbled up here earlier. "Besides, you skipped breakfast again. I heard your stomach growling from across the street."

"That's not even possible." But the gnawing in your stomach told a different story. You were hungry, but you hadn't even noticed between the years and years of memories coming back to life.

"And yet." He settled beside you, closer than strictly necessary in the cramped space, and peered into the box. "What's caught your attention this time?"

You held up a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. "I think they're my grandparents' love letters."

His eyebrows rose. "From the war?"

"Maybe?" You were surprised for a second, not expecting him to remember the little detail you had told him one lazy afternoon in the sun—that your grandfather had served in the army and had been separated from your grandmother for some time. You untied the ribbon, handling the aged paper like it might crumble. The first envelope was postmarked 1943. "Oh. They are."

Satoru leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as you pulled out the first letter. His body was warm in the cool attic air next to yours, and you caught a subtle hint of sandalwood—a scent that had become inseparable from these shared afternoons.

"My dearest heart," you read aloud, then paused, suddenly feeling like you were intruding on something private. But it’s been over half a century, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t mind, surely. After all, they left all this to you. You continued, "The cherry trees are blooming here, and all I can think about is how we walked through the park last spring. Do you remember? You were wearing that blue dress, the one that matches the sky, and I knew right then I would marry you—"

"Your grandfather was a romantic," Satoru commented, a soft smile in his voice.

"Shh." You elbowed him lightly. "I carry your picture with me everywhere. The other men tease me about it, but I don't care. When things get dark over here, I just look at your smile and remember what I'm fighting for..." Your voice caught unexpectedly at the written words of your grandfather.

Satoru shifted closer and whispered, "Let me.” His chest brushed against your shoulder and his fingers slid over yours as he took the paper, the touch lingering for a moment longer.

“Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I'm back home with you," he continued, lips close enough to your temple that you could feel the words as much as hear them. His usual playful tone was gone, replaced by something that made your heart melt. "Sitting on that porch swing, watching the sunset. Nothing grand or fancy, just you and me and the quiet. That's what keeps me going, the thought of coming home to you."

Satoru stood up, brefting you of his warmth and sat down on a dusty stack of boxes near the small window opposite you to get a better view of the letters. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his white hair, making them glimmer like starlight. He looked younger, almost boyish in the soft light as he continued to read the letter. You watched him, struck by this unfamiliar sight.

"There are dozens more," you said after he finished, gesturing to the box. "Looks like they wrote to each other every week."

"Different time.” His startlingly blue eyes met yours, and for once there was no trace of his usual teasing smile. "People knew how to love back then. They took their time with it."

"You don't think people know how to love now?"

"I think we've forgotten how to do it slowly. How to let it build, letter by letter, moment by moment."

Your heart fluttered strangely, like a trapped bird. It was like glimpsing a part of him he usually kept hidden, a hint of the man beneath the playful nonchalance. Before you could process the feeling, before you could even form a coherent thought, he picked up another letter, breaking the moment with a small, almost apologetic smile. 

“My darling," he read, "Today Mrs. Henderson's cat got stuck in our rosebushes again, and all I could think was how you would have laughed..."

You smiled and settled back against the old boxes as he read, his warm voice washing over you like a soothing dream. The afternoon light caught dust motes dancing in the air, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

August arrived with a heatwave so oppressive, even the cicadas seemed to fall silent. You suggested starting at dawn, hoping to get some work done before the worst of the heat set in, and to your surprise Satoru had no objection, even though you knew he hated early starts and loved sleeping in.

And you were even more surprised when Satoru showed up right on time and you didn't even have to wake him up, armed with paintbrushes and a concerningly large supply of water bottles.

"You really don't have to help with this," you’d told him. "I can do it on my own, really. It’s not complicated or something.”

He arched a brow. "When has that ever stopped me?"

The house was a dull greenish colour. It had originally been a soft sage green, but it had faded over time. It was a colour your grandmother had loved, a shade that reminded her of the rolling hills of her childhood home. So you decided to paint it sage again. But by midday the heat had become almost unbearable, pressing down on you. Air thick and shimmering.

"You need to take a break," Satoru said, watching you sway slightly on the ladder. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," you insisted, even as your head throbbed. "We're almost done with this section."

"The paint will still be here in a few hours." He was already taking the painbrush from your hands. "Go rest before you fall off that ladder and give me a heart attack."

You wanted to argue, but the world was starting to spin in a way that suggested he might have a point. "Just for an hour.”

"Whatever you say." His hand steadied you as you climbed down the ladder, swaying slightly. "Go. Sleep. I've got this."

You wanted to lie down for a moment, just until the throbbing in your head subsided. Instead, you woke to the first gentle breeze of early evening, carrying the distant hum of a lawnmower from a neighboring garden. You stumbled outside, still groggy, and stopped dead.

The house. 

It was finished. 

Every inch of peeling paint had been replaced with perfect sage green and the trim was crisp white. It looked like a completely different house, restored to its former beauty. 

Satoru was putting away the last of the brushes, his white hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his clothes splattered with green. He looked exhausted, but a genuine smile touched his lips when he spotted you. 

"You did all that?" you asked, still not quite believing it.

He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned stomach with sharply defined abs that you quickly looked away from. He must have seen your reaction, but for once, he didn’t comment. When you looked back, his shirt was down.

“You needed the rest. And I had the time.” 

"Satoru, this would have taken days—"

“A few hours with the right motivation.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Besides, couldn’t leave it half finished. Would have ruined the aesthetic of the street."

You knew that wasn’t the real reason. Just like you knew he didn't spend every free moment helping you with this house because he was concerned about the aesthetic of the street.

It was absurd. He was Satoru, infuriatingly charming, impossibly handsome Satoru. There was no way he could—no, it couldn't be. But the evidence piled up. It was the way his eyes lingered on yours, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way his presence filled every corner of your attention. It was a ridiculous notion, a phantom feeling that had no place in reality. He was a neighbour, a friend, someone who was simply helpful. 

That's all. 

The setting sun painted everything in shades of gold, catching in the wet paint and making your house shimmer like a scene from a fairytale. Satoru was still putting away brushes, his movements slower now, betraying his weariness even as he tried to play it off.

"You didn't have to do this," you said. "Any of it, really. The pipes, the porch, and now this."

He glanced at you, then back at the house. “I wanted to.”

"But why?" The question that had been burning in your throat all summer, since spring, since the first leaky pipe, finally escaped. "You have your own perfect house. Your own life. Why spend every free moment helping me with mine?"

“Would you believe me if I said I just like restoring things?”

"Not really," you said, trying to ignore the way your heart picked up speed when he moved closer. 

He reached out to brush something from your cheek. "You have a little…paint.” His thumb lingered against your skin, sun-warm and gentle. "Right here."

Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching like honey in the golden light. You could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the fine lines at the corners, the way his hair curled at his temples from sweat, and the small smudge of sage green along his jaw. He was so close. Too close.

"Satoru," you breathed, not sure if it was a question or a warning.

"Besides, watching you love this house back to life, even without knowing anything about renovations—" He paused, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. "It's unexpectedly cute."

You could feel his breath against your lips, could see the question in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer. His other hand came up to cradle your face, and you found yourself swaying towards him, drawn in by the gravity of this moment you'd both been circling since spring.

But then a car door slammed somewhere down the street and broke the spell. You both stepped back. 

Had that…had that almost just happened? You blinked, trying to clear the lingering warmth from your face. It must have been the heat. Or the paint smell. There was no way—

"I should—" He gestured vaguely at the remaining equipment.

"Right. Yeah. Sure" You were babbling, your heart racing like you'd been running. You desperately tried to convince yourself that you’d imagined the whole thing, that the almost kiss was just a figment of your overheated imagination. 

He turned to gather his things, nearly dropping his water bottle twice. You watched him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound desperate or awkward, but your mind was stuck on the phantom feeling of his thumb against your cheek.

At the garden gate, he paused, turning back with that smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Try not to break anything else before tomorrow?"

You smiled. "No promises."

He lingered for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something else, but then just nodded and stepped out onto the street. Just before he reached his door, you found yourself moving, yanking open your garden gate without thinking. "Satoru!"

He turned.

"Thank you!" you called out, hoping he could hear everything else you couldn't say in those two words. Thank you for helping. For caring. For almost kissing me.

His smile softened into something genuine, something that made your heart stumble in your chest. "Anytime!”

You stood there long after he'd disappeared into his house, your fingers absently touching the spot on your cheek where his hand had been, wondering how you were supposed to go back to normal after almost kissing your irritatingly perfect neighbour.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You'd never felt more ridiculous than when you found yourself standing on Satoru Gojo's immaculate porch, holding a slightly lopsided stawberry cake in your hand. After three attempts to ring the doorbell without letting the cake fall to the ground, you were seriously considering just leaving it on his doorstep with a note and running back across the street. But before you could execute your escape plan, the door swung open, and suddenly all coherent thought left your brain.

Satoru stood there in low-slung sweatpants and a fitted dark blue shirt that clung slightly to his still damp skin. A towel was draped around his neck, and his white hair was darker with moisture, falling into his eyes in a way that should be illegal. Droplets of water traced down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. 

Not that you were staring, of course.

His eyes widened and a stupid, handsome smile lit up his face. "Don’t tell me your kitchen is underwater again?”

"No, no…no emergencies today.” You thrust the cake forward like it’s something hot. "I made this. To say thank you. For all the help." The words tumbled out in a rush. "It's stawberry. Though now I'm realizing you might not even like stawberries, which would be really inconvenient, and—"

"I love them," he interrupted your rambling and took the cake out of your hands. "Did you make this just for me?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Come in. It’s too hot to stand out here."

You hesitated at the threshold. In all these months of him appearing at your house, you'd never actually been inside his. It felt like crossing some invisible line you hadn't even realized existed.

"Unless you're scared," he added with that familiar teasing note in his voice.

You groaned and stepped inside. Where your house was still a work in progress, his was... perfect. Somehow both modern and classic, with original hardwood floors that gleamed and a fireplace in the centre of the living room. The furniture was clearly expensive but comfortable, and large windows filled the space with natural light.

"This is—"

"Not what you expected?" He walked past you towards what you assumed was the kitchen, and you caught another whiff of his shower fresh scent.

"I was expecting more mirrors, actually. You know, so you could admire yourself from every angle."

He laughed. "Those are all in the bedroom."

You felt heat creep up your spine at his words and tried very hard not to think about Satoru and bedrooms in the same sentence. You followed him into his kitchen that was equally perfect like the rest of his house. Without thinking, you hopped up onto the wooden island and watched him move around the room.

"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for mugs.

“Please.” Your legs swung idly as you watched him slice the cake. "Though I should warn you, I don’t bake often.”

“Should I be afraid?" 

"I take it back. No cake for you."

"Too late." He slid a plate across the counter. He leaned against the island opposite you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his. "So, I was thinking about your kitchen.”

"What about it?"

"You need new countertops. And fresh paint." He took a bite of cake, his eyebrows rising. "This is actually good."

"Don't sound so shocked." 

You tried not to focus on how silly domestic this all felt—you on his kitchen island, sharing cake and talking about future projects like you were some kind of … couple.

"I was thinking," he continued, "we could start on that next week? I know a good carpenter who makes really cool wooded countertops that would match the original—"

Your gaze wandered as he spoke, taking in the space. That's when you saw it—a framed photo on the windowsill above the sink. Satoru, looking unfairly handsome in what appeared to be a suit, and a stunning woman with pale hair pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

They looked intimate. 

Happy. 

Like an actual couple.

Your stomach dropped.

"—and the marble could be saved if we—" He paused, noticing your distraction. "What's wrong?"

"Actually." You set down your cake, sliding off the counter, "I just remembered I have this... thing. I need to go."

"Now? But we haven't even finished—"

"It's important." You were already heading for the door, trying to ignore how low his sweatpants hung, revealing a bit of his perfect abs, how at home he looked in this perfect kitchen with its perfect photos of him and his perfect girlfriend. "Thanks for the coffee. And, um, good luck with... everything."

"Wait, what about your kitchen?" He followed you into the hallway. "Shouldn’t we talk about it first, before—"

"I'll figure it out," you said quickly, nearly stumbling in your haste to reach the door. "You probably have other plans anyway. With... people. Important people. I'll just YouTube it or something."

"Other plans? What are you—"

"Bye!" 

You practically fled down his porch steps, not daring to look back at his bewildered expression. You made it across the street with lightning speed, slamming your front door behind you and sliding down against it.

"Stupid," you muttered to yourself, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone that hansome, that charming, that annoyingly perfect—how could he not? And here you were, bringing him cake like some lovesick teenager, reading too much into things.

He was just being polite, probably feeling sorry for the disaster of a neighbour who couldn't even fix a leaky pipe without flooding her kitchen and you were making a complete fool of yourself. You wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

You could never face him again. How were you supposed to look him in the eye knowing you'd been almost kissing him in your backyard while his gorgeous girlfriend smiled at him from picture frames in his perfect kitchen? How could you ever stand on your porch again without remembering how you'd practically fled from his house like a guilty teenager?

Your kitchen tabletops would just have to stay ugly forever. You'd learn to love them. You pressed your forehead against your knees and groaned. 

And now you'd just have to avoid him for... oh, the rest of your life. 

Easy.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Summer melted into autumn with surprising speed, the maple trees lining your street turning from green to orange and crimson. As the days grew shorter, your grandmother's herb garden was dotted with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. Even the air felt different—crisper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of colder days to come.

And you threw yourself into the next project—the kitchen, armed with nothing but YouTube tutorials, sheer stubbornness and the grudging advice of the grumpy guy at the hardware store (who, you were convinced, hid whenever he saw you approaching).

Things weren't exactly going smoothly. You'd managed to miscalculate the measurements for the new cupboards (twice), and you were pretty sure you'd cracked the new sink while trying to install the tap. But it was your mess, your project, and you were determined to see it through, even if it meant several trips to the hardware store and more withering stares from grumpy guy. 

"Back again?" he'd grumble. "What'd you break this time?"

"Nothing's broken," you'd insist, even as you clutched a piece of pipe that was definitely not supposed to bend that way. "I just need... clarification."

Your kitchen was slowly, painfully coming together. Sure, the subway tiles weren't perfectly aligned, and maybe one cupboard door hung a little lower than its neighbours, but it was yours. Every imperfect angle and slightly wobbly shelf represented hours of YouTube research and grumpy guy's reluctant advice.

If sometimes, late at night, you found yourself staring at your uneven grout lines and remembering how easily Satoru had fixed your sink that first day—well, that was between you and your slightly tipsy reflection in the new (only somewhat streaky) backsplash.

You'd gotten good at avoiding him. Early morning hardware store runs, late evening painting sessions with your curtains drawn. You'd even mapped out his routine—when he left for work, when he usually arrived home, which days he typically did yard work. All so you could time your own activities to minimize any chance of running into his blue eyes.

This was all totally normal, of course. Perfectly reasonable behavior for an normal adult obviously.

Some days were harder than others. Like when you could hear him on his porch in the evenings, chatting with Miss Tanaka about the weather and whether he wanted to go out with her granddaughter. She's so pretty and can cook such good beef stew, she'd say. As if Satoru didn't already have a girlfriend. A perfect girlfriend who could for sure cook a fantastic, wonderful, amazing beef stew. While you ate burned toast.

But you were managing. Mostly. The kitchen was... well, "finished" might be a strong word, but it was functional. Sort of. If you didn't mind that one burner that heated unevenly, or the fact that the new faucet made a strange gurgling sound when you ran hot water.

Even grumpy guy had stopped wincing visibly when you showed him your progress photos, which you counted as a win. "Could be worse," he'd said last week, which was basically a compliment coming from him.

You told yourself it was better this way. Better to have a slightly crooked kitchen than to face the mortification of asking for help from your impossibly perfect neighbour with his impossibly perfect girlfriend. Besides, character was important in old houses. That's what all the renovation shows said. And your kitchen certainly had... character.

It happened on one of those perfect late autumn evenings, when the sky turned deep purple and the air smelled like pine and fallen leaves. You were trying to hang a lamp in your dining room—the sort of task that would definitely require two people, but stubbornness had convinced you otherwise.

The ladder seemed stable enough. The wiring looked mostly right. You stretched, straining to connect the final wire, when you heard it. A soft groan from above, followed by the distinct sound of old plaster giving way. Everything happened at once. The ceiling cracked, raining down decades of dust and debris. The lamp slipped from your fingers, and your balance followed.

You hit the hardwood floor hard, the light crashing beside you in a shower of glass and plaster. For a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the hole in your ceiling and questioning every life decision that had led to this moment.

The sound of your front door bursting open echoed through the house, followed by rapid footsteps.

"Hey! Are you—" Satoru’s voice trailed off as he appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—you sprawled on the floor, surrounded by debris, the ladder tipped against the wall, and the sad remains of what was supposed to be your new dining room light.

"Don't say it.”

"Say what?" He crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside you. "That trying to hang a lamp by yourself is stupid? Or that you're lucky you didn't break your neck?"

"Both. Neither." You winced as you tried to sit up. "How did you even get in here?"

"Your door was unlocked. I was on my porch, heard you scream." His hands hovered near your shoulders, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to help. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine.” 

You tried to push yourself up, but your ankle protested.

"Don’t be stupid." He moved closer, dust from your ceiling clinging to his dark sweater. "Let me see."

"It's nothing—"

"Let me take care of you.” His usual teasing smile was gone, replaced with genuine concern that made your chest tight. "Please?"

The 'please' did you in. You nodded weakly, and before you could process what was happening, Satoru slid one arm behind your shoulders and the other under your knees. He lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all.

"What are you—" you started, your hands automatically gripping his sweater.

"Kitchen has better light.”  He carried you through the doorway, nudging it open with his shoulder. He set you down gently on the counter, careful of your ankle. His hands were warm where they rested at your waist, steadying you.

For a moment, he stayed close, closer than he had any right to be, and you found yourself level with those sky blue eyes that always made you weak.

"Stay," he whispered, finally stepping back. "Let me take care of this."

You wanted to protest, to maintain even a little bit of distance. But your ankle really hurt and you were really tired. So you sat there, perched on your counter (which was definitely not as level as you'd claimed to grumpy guy) and watched Satoru move around your kitchen.

He found a clean dish towel in the second drawer he tried and wrapped some ice in it. His movements were precise, practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before. Probably for his girlfriend, you thought.

"Your cabinet organization is creative,” he said.

"It's a new system I'm trying out."

"Is that what we're calling chaos these days?" He returned, ice pack in hand. The counter put you at perfect height for him to—no. My god. Stop that train of thought immediately. 

He carefully lifted your ankle, his touch impossibly gentle as he pressed the ice against it. The cold made you flinch, and his other hand came to rest just above your knee.

"Too cold?"

“No, it’s…” You swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand through your jeans. “It’s fine.”

He hummed, his attention focused on your ankle. He slowly rotated it, checking for damage. You studied his face—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his hair fell across his forehead, begging to be brushed back.

“Doesn’t seem broken,” he finally said, looking up at you. “But you should stay off it for a few days.”

“I have renovations to finish.”

“The renovations can wait.”

“Says the man with the perfect house.”

He frowned. "You know, for someone so smart, you can be surprisingly dense about—"

A phone buzzed loudly, making you both jump. His phone, you realized, as he pulled it from his back pocket with his free hand, the other still holding the ice pack against your ankle. Probably his girlfriend wondering where he was. 

You pulled your leg back, ignoring the pain. "I should let you go," you said, trying to figure out how to get down the counter without falling on your face. "I'm sure you have... plans."

“No wait.” He kept you were you sat with his hand on your leg. He spoke briefly to the caller, then said, “Just work,” and silenced the phone. His hand returned to your ankle, adjusting the ice pack.

"Oh." You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart hammering. "I thought... maybe it was your girlfriend." The words came out small, hesitant. "I wouldn't want to keep you. From her, I mean. She probably wouldn't want you touching other women's ankles and all that..." You were rambling now, a nervous habit you'd never quite kicked. "Not that you're really touching my ankle, I mean you are, but medically, like a doctor, not that you're a doctor—"

"What girlfriend?"

“The one in the picture? In your kitchen? Pretty. Blonde. Kissing you?”

To your surprise, Satoru started to laugh.  "That's my sister. From her wedding. Is that why you've been avoiding me the last few weeks? Because you thought I had a girlfriend?"

"Your... sister?"

"She'd kill me if she heard you thought we were dating."

"But you're so..." Your mind scrambled for words that weren't 'anyoingly attractive' or 'unfairly perfect.' Like, for real, how can he still be single?

"I'm so...?" He was definitely teasing now, thumb stroking your skin just above your ankle in a way that made it very hard to think straight.

"Annoying," you finally managed, which only made his smile widen.

"Annoying enough that you made me cake, then ran away?" He moved closer, until he was standing between your legs, still holding the ice pack but now definitely invading your personal space. "Annoying enough that you've been avoiding me for weeks because you thought I was taken?"

"I wasn't avoiding you," you said. "I was very busy. With renovations."

"Mhm." His free hand came up to brush some plaster dust from your cheek. "Is that why you tried to hang a lamp by yourself?" His fingers traced your jaw and you swayed towards him despite yourself, your heart pounding.

"You're insufferable."

"Some of us," he murmured, now close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "believe good things are worth waiting for. Worth doing slowly, properly." His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "Letter by letter, moment by moment. Remember?"

Before you could respond, he stepped back. "Your ankle should be fine in a few days. Try to stay off it. And maybe..." He paused at your kitchen door. "Maybe next time you need help with something, ask your annoying neighbour instead of risking you life?"

You managed a nod, your mind still reeling.

"Oh, and by the way?" He looked back at you, his smile softening. "I really like stawberry cakes. In case you feel like baking again."

With that, he was gone, leaving you perched on your counter with a rapidly melting ice pack and the strange feeling that renovating this house wasn't the only project that was going to take time to get right.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Autumn fully arrived, bringing crimson leaves, cloudy skies, and more of Satoru's overbearing everything. Your renovation plans resumed, though now with significantly less chance of bodily harm as Satoru was helping you again. He'd show up at your door with brownies and supplies, his teasing somehow both more and less bearable now that you both knew why you'd been avoiding him.

The universe, however, had a sense of humour. It was on a warm Saturday afternoon, while you were both covered in paint from freshening up your living room panelling, that his sister showed up unannounced. She burst into your house, barely containing her glee at finally meeting the neighbour who had mistaken her for her brother's girlfriend.

You wanted to sink into the floor as she told you cheerfully how hard she'd laughed when Satoru called to tell her about the misunderstanding. Her amusement only grew as she took in the sight of the two of you, splattered with paint and clearly at ease in each other's company. She left you with her phone number and the promise of embarrassing childhood photos of her brother, while Satoru tried and failed to get her out before she could do any more damage.

The rest of autumn rushed swiftly into the frozen stillness of winter as the lines between your lives began to blur more and more—his tools mixed with yours in the garage, his coffee mug claimed permanent residence in your cabinet, and his presence became as much a part of your home as the creaky floorboards and old doorknobs. 

It felt…natural in a way.

Natural that he'd show up at your house in the morning with fresh pastries and you'd make coffee for the two of you, and natural that you'd work on your house and do something fun at the weekends. Even the way your heart stuttered whenever he was near felt strangely normal, a natural rhythm in this new, unexpected something—something you never named. And yet, amidst the rush, there were moments when time seemed to slow, stretching out like taffy, each shy glance, each lingering touch, each shared laugh becoming a precious memory.

One of those moments was at the pumpkin patch. You'd been wandering through the rows of pumpkins, Satoru trailing behind you, searching for the perfect ones to decorate your house for Halloween. It was a tradition you loved since childhood, bringing back memories of visiting the local patch with your grandfather. You could almost feel the scratchy wool of his sweater against your cheek as he hoisted you onto his shoulders, hear his happy laughter, and feel the warmth of his hand in yours.

"Wait!" you called out, stopping so suddenly that Satoru almost bumped into you. "Look at that one!"

Off to the side sat perhaps the largest pumpkin you'd ever seen. It was definitely lopsided, one side bulging more than the other, and its stem curved at an odd angle.

"That's...quite a pumpkin." Satoru tilted his head. "Though maybe something a bit more manageable would—"

"It's perfect." You already tried to figure out how to lift it. The thing had to weigh at least twenty kilos.

"Perfect might be a stretch." His lips quirked up at the corners as he watched you circle the massive thing. "It's practically your size. And that's definitely not its best side."

You shot him a look. "Not everything needs to be perfect to be beautiful." Your hands settled on your hips as you studied your chosen pumpkin. "Sometimes the imperfect things are the best things."

"Like your crooked kitchen cabinets?”

You ignored his comment and attempted to lift the pumpkin, managing to get it about two centimeters off the ground before setting it back down. "It’s called character."

“Character?” He watched your continued attempts with clear amusement. "It's a safety hazard."

“Are you going to help me or just stand there looking pretty?”

“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?”

“Shut up and help me with this pumpkin.”

“As my lady commands.” 

He stepped forward, effortlessly lifting the massive pumpkin like it weighed nothing. Show-off, you thought. Was there anything he wasn’t good at? Renovations, apparently, and now this.

Back home, he carried the pumpkin to your porch, the orange leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You carved the pumpkins on your newly renovated porch as neighbours raked leaves, the crisp autumn air carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Later, his pumpkin looked like some stupid sculpture out of a museum. Of course. Because apparently, Satoru Gojo was good at literally everything. Yours? Well, yours was…cute. You’d call it ugly. Satoru insisted it was cute, and you almost, almost, believed him.

“Why are you so good at everything?” you sighed, more to yourself than him, leaning back and gazing upwards. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, actually.” Your cheeks flushed as you quickly sat up, a nervous stumble sending you straight into his face, as he leaned in too. “Oh, I didn’t mean—” 

Something flickered in his expression, a subtle twitch of his brow as his gaze flickered down to your lips. For a heartbeat, you thought he might—but then a single leaf drifted down and the moment shattered. He cleared his throat and turned back to his pumpkin.

"So, where do you want to place them?" he asked.

You let him return to safer topics, frustration washing over you, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingled where his leg had brushed against yours. This had become your new normal—these almost-moments, these near-misses that were driving you absolutely mad. Were you imagining things? Reading too much into every look, every touch? Or was he intentionally playing some game, dangling the possibility of something more, only to snatch it away at the last moment? It was agonizing, a slow torture that was getting harder and harder to endure.

You placed the pumpkins on your porch. Satoru excused himself, saying he had some work to do. Apparently, he was working on something international, fielding calls from overseas offices at ridiculous hours. 

"I've got that conference call at two," he said, already backing towards his house. "Dinner later? I'm trying out a new recipe."

It wasn't the first time he'd invited you over—these casual dinners had become a natural part of your... whatever this was. But was it just natural? Or was it something more? You'd thought, with every invitation, every lingering look, every almost-kiss—and at this point, with almost-kiss number 3000, you were starting to lose count—that this time would be different. But maybe, just maybe, it was all in your head. Maybe you were reading too much into everything, again.

"What time?" you asked.

"Seven? Bring wine. And maybe that stawberry cake recipe you've been perfecting?"

"You just want me for my baking."

"Among other things." Before you could respond, he was already heading back to his house, calling over his shoulder, "Don't be late!"

You watched him go, your heart stuttering, wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Dinner at Satoru's had become a natural part of your week, but something felt different that evening. Perhaps it was the early autumn darkness pressing against the windows, or the intimate warmth of the kitchen under the amber pendant lamps. Or maybe it was just how he moved around you in his kitchen, always somehow managing to brush past even though there was plenty of space.

 He'd outdone himself with dinner, though you'd never tell him that—his ego was big enough already. But he was, you had to admit, a surprisingly excellent cook. Watching him plate the food with the same careful attention he gave to everything, you had to admit he had a talent for this too. Of course he did. It was starting to seem like there wasn't anything Satoru Gojo couldn't do perfectly.

The wine you'd brought paired perfectly with his cooking, because of course it did. He'd probably somehow predicted exactly what you'd choose and planned the meal around it. You wouldn't put it past him, not with how he seemed to anticipate your every move these days. Conversations flowed easily between you. He shared work stories, you gave updates on your projects, and somehow, your feet ended up on his lap beneath the table. He massaged them absently, after you complained about standing all day.

When he suggested a movie afterward, it felt natural to say yes. You watched him make popcorn on the stove and then moved to the couch. The movie was something neither of you really paid attention to, both too aware of how close you sat on his ridiculously comfortable couch. Every time you reached for the popcorn bowl between you, your hands would brush, sending little sparks up your arm. You caught him watching you more than the screen, but whenever you turned to catch him at it, his eyes were innocently focused forward.

As the evening wore on, the warmth of the wine and his presence made your eyelids heavy. You tried to stay awake, but when he gently draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, resistance melted away. You drifted off against his shoulder, the last thing you remember is the soft brush of his lips against your hair as sleep pulled you under.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

November deepened into December, and the air grew cold with the promise of winter. One morning, the first snow fell, lightly covering your porch and making everything look like a Christmas card. The holiday market downtown was in full swing by mid-December, stalls lined with evergreen boughs and twinkling lights that reflected off fresh snow. You'd been surprised when Satoru suggested you both go, casually mentioning it while helping you install new crown molding in your dining room.

"They've set up an ice rink this year," he'd said, measuring tape in hand, not looking at you directly. "Thought it might be fun."

Which is how you found yourself wandering between market stalls on a Saturday afternoon, your breath clouding in the cold air as Satoru walked beside you, unfairly handsome in a charcoal peacoat and blue scarf that matched his eyes.

"Have you tried the hot chocolate?" Satoru asked, nodding towards a stall where steam rose from copper pots. "I've heard they make it with real Belgian chocolate."

"Are you trying to fatten me up for winter?" But you were already moving.

He followed, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just trying to keep you warm. Can't have you catching a cold before we finish that bathroom tilework."

The hot chocolate was rich and velvety with a hint of cinnamon, the warmth spreading through your chest as you continued to wander the market. Your fingers grew numb despite your gloves, and Satoru must have noticed because he suddenly handed you his cup.

"Hold this a second." Before you could question him, he removed his own gloves—expensive-looking leather ones—and handed them to you. "These are better insulated. Trade me."

"I can't take your gloves."

"You can and you will." His tone left no room for argument. "Besides, my hands run hot."

You reluctantly made the exchange, noticing how his gloves swallowed your hands but feeling instantly warmer. Something about wearing his gloves made your heart do a strange flutter. As it always seemed when you were near him. 

As afternoon stretched into early evening, the market lights came on, making everything look magical. That's when you spotted it—the ice rink, lit up with fairy lights, skaters gliding in circles across the surface.

"Ready to try?" Satoru asked, following your gaze.

"I haven't skated since I was a kid."

"Perfect time to remember then. I'll make sure you don't fall."

Ten minutes later, you stood at the edge of the rink, wobbling precariously on thin blades while Satoru waited patiently beside you. He'd stepped onto the ice with infuriating grace, as if skating were as natural to him as breathing.

"How are you already good at this?" you said, clutching the railing.

"Can’t help it," he replied, like that would explain it. "Come on. I've got you."

Taking a deep breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, as he pulled you onto the ice. Your legs immediately threatened to slide in opposite directions, but Satoru kept you upright.

"Small steps." His other hand came to rest at your elbow for support. "Don't think about it too much. Let your body remember."

You focused on not falling, even though all you could focus on was his hand in yours, his presence beside you as you slowly made your way around the edge of the rink. Other skaters whizzed past, some holding hands, others chatting to their friends. 

After one cautious lap, you began to find your balance. Your death grip on Satoru's hand loosened slightly, though you weren't about to let go completely.

"See? You're a natural," he said, his voice warm.

"I wouldn't go that far. You're doing most of the work."

He smiled, adjusting his pace to match yours. "We make a good team."

The way he said it—so casually, so confidently—sent your thoughts spiraling. Did you make a good team? The evidence was certainly there—the beautifully restored porch, the new plumbing that never leaked, the kitchen with its even countertops that you'd finally finished together. But was that all this was? A renovation partnership?

Because holding his hand like this, skating side by side under twinkling lights with Christmas music playing softly in the background—it felt like more. It felt like a date. 

Like something couples did.

Your mind raced as you made another lap around the rink. When had Satoru Gojo become more than just your annoying neighbour? When had his smug smile started making your heart race instead of your blood pressure? And why, despite all the lingering touches and loaded glances over the past months, had he never once tried to kiss you?

"You're thinking too hard again," Satoru said, interrupting your thoughts. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

"Just trying not to fall."

"Relax. I've got you." He squeezed your hand reassuringly, and you couldn't help but wonder if he meant it beyond the ice rink.

Was it possible you were imagining the whole thing? Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe this outing was purely neighborly. Maybe he wasn't interested in you that way at all. Or worse—what if he was gay? No, that couldn't be it. You'd met his ex-girlfriend when she stopped by to drop off some mail that had been mistakenly delivered to her place. Besides, no straight man looked at a woman the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

So what was it then? Was something wrong with you? Were you not his type?

"Ready to try without the railing?" Satoru asked, pulling you from your spiral.

"Um, I don't think—"

"Trust me," he said softly, and despite your better judgment, you did.

He guided you towards the center of the rink, one hand still firmly clasping yours, the other now resting lightly at your waist. The contact, even through layers of winter clothing, sent a jolt through you.

"You're doing great," he said as you wobbled slightly. "Just find your balance."

"Easy for you to say. You're apparently good at everything."

He laughed. "Not everything." 

You didn’t believe him for a second.

Your right skate hit a rough patch of ice, and suddenly you were pitching forward, arms flailing. Time seemed to slow as you prepared for the inevitable crash onto hard ice. But instead of cold pain, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, catching you. Satoru pulled you against his chest, steadying you both.

You found yourself pressed against him, your hands clutching his coat, faces inches apart. His blue eyes were wide, a few strands of white hair falling across his forehead. You could feel his heart racing—or was that yours?

"Are you okay?" he asked, breath warm against your cheek.

You nodded, unable to speak, certain that this was it—the moment he would finally close the distance between you. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there as one of his hands moved up to brush a strand of hair from your face. Your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, heart hammering against your ribs.

"You know," Satoru said, amusement colouring his tone, "for someone who managed to restore an entire Victorian house, you're surprisingly bad at staying upright on a little ice."

Your eyes snapped open to find him grinning down at you and the moment shattered. He set you back on your feet, though he kept one arm loosely around your waist for support.

"I think I need a break," you said, trying to hide your frustration. "My ankles are killing me."

"Of course." He led you to the exit, his hand returning to yours like it belonged there. "Hot cider? My treat."

As you made your way off the ice, you couldn't help but think that for someone so skilled at fixing things, Satoru Gojo seemed determined to leave whatever was between you two beautifully, frustratingly unresolved.

Despite your disappointment at the almost kiss, the rest of the evening at the market had been pleasant enough. You'd shared warm cider at a wooden table, watching children chase each other through the snow while Satoru told stories about his own childhood winters. He'd insisted on buying you a knitted scarf when he'd caught you admiring it, and wrapped it around your neck himself with aching tenderness. And it made you want to die that he didn't kiss you while he wrapped the scarf around you.

By the time you'd explored every stall, your earlier frustration had mellowed into a dull ache of confusion. Satoru seemed completely at ease, carrying your purchases and guiding you through the crowd with a gentle hand on your lower back—another gesture that felt so intimate, yet so casually offered.

The drive home was quiet, snowflakes dancing in the headlights as Satoru navigated the slippery roads. You stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of your neighbourhood change under the touch of winter, your mind replaying that moment on the ice over and over again. Why hadn't he kissed you?

He must have felt it—that perfect alignment of circumstances, that electric current running between you. For months now, you'd been dancing around this thing, this unspoken whatever it was.

"You're quiet," Satoru said, his voice breaking through your thoughts as the car came to a stop in front of your house. The snow was falling harder now, collecting on the windshield.

"Just tired." You forced a smile. "Thank you for today. It was fun."

"Are you sure that's all it is?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Before he could answer, you gathered your bags and pushed open the car door. "Goodnight, Satoru."

You hurried up the now perfectly restored steps of your front porch, fumbling with your keys as snowflakes clung to your hair and eyelashes, desperate to bury all those confusing feelings deep down, underneath a lot of chocolate and trashy romance Christmas movies. But then the sound of a car door closing behind you made you stop.

"Hey," Satoru called, his footsteps crunching through fresh snow. "Wait a second."

You took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was standing at the bottom of your porch steps, snowflakes catching in his white hair, his forehead furrowed. "Something's wrong. I can tell."

"It's nothing. Really, I'm just tired."

"After all these months, I'd hope you'd know you can't lie to me." He climbed the steps slowly until he was standing in front of you. "Did I do something? Say something?"

You shook your head. "It's not about what you did."

"Then what?" He took another step closer, and you could see the genuine confusion in his eyes. “What is going on?”

"It's about what you don't do, Satoru." The words escaped before you could stop them, tumbling out in a rush of frustration and longing. "What you never do."

He blinked. "What I don't do?"

You gestured helplessly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. You fix my pipes and paint my house and take me ice skating. You look at me sometimes like—" You paused. "But then nothing. You never... you never try to..."

"You think I don't want to kiss you," he said.

"Well, what am I supposed to think? You spend every waking moment at my house, you bring me coffee every stupid day, you watch movies with me and like, you buy me cute little scarves and, I mean—who does that?” 

You were pacing now, your frustration building as months of confusion spilled out. Snowflakes swirled around you as you moved, melting against your flushed cheeks.

"Do you have any idea how confusing that is? One minute you're touching my face like you can't help yourself, the next you're acting like we're just neighbours working on a house together. Am I imagining things? Are you just being nice? Is there something wrong with me—"

Your rant was suddenly cut short as Satoru closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His hands came up to frame your face and before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours. His mouth was warm despite the cold, his lips soft but insistent against yours, effectively shutting down every coherent thought.

You stood frozen for a split second before your body caught up with reality. Then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his coat, pulling him closer as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours as one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, little clouds forming in the cold air between you, his hands still cupping your face.

"For the record," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than you'd ever heard it, "I've wanted to do that since the moment I steadied your ladder that first day. Every time I've been in a room with you. Every time you've chewed your lip while concentrating on something. Every damn time you've worn my chequered shirt".

You blinked up at him, still dazed from the kiss. "Then why didn't you?"

"Because I was trying to be a gentleman." His thumb traced your lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "Because I didn't want to complicate things when you were already dealing with so much. Because I wanted to be sure you felt the same way." A small, self-ironic smile touched his lips. "And because every time I worked up the courage, I'd get lost in those eyes of yours and forget how words work."

"So instead you taught me about crown molding?"

"I'm better with my hands than with words," he admitted, then immediately looked chagrined at the unintended innuendo. "That's not what I—"

This time, you cut him off, rising on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you slightly so you fit perfectly against him as snowflakes continued to fall around you.

"For future reference," you said as you broke the kiss, "I'd much rather you kiss me than explain proper grouting techniques."

"Noted." 

Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, one hand supporting your back, the other beneath your knees, and carried you towards your front door with the same effortless strength he'd shown lifting drywall and moving furniture.

"The door," you reminded him, fumbling with your keys.

"I've got it." He somehow managed to balance you perfectly while taking the keys and unlocking the door. "I'm very good with my hands, remember?"

Satoru carried you over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. Snowflakes melted in his white hair as he set you down in the dim entryway, but he didn't step back, holding you between his body and the wall.

"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." His hands slid up your sides as his mouth claimed yours once more. "How many nights I've lain awake across the street, thinking about you in this house."

And you nearly fainted as you imagined him in his house across the stress, thinking about you, his hand down his pants and—

"Every room in this house," he said, his voice rough as he pushed your coat from your shoulders. "I've thought about having you in every single one."

"We did renovate them all." Your voice faltered as his lips found your neck, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot where it met your shoulder. "Seems only fair we should... test our work."

"I think I’d like that." His hands slid beneath your sweater, warm against your chilled skin as they traced up your sides. Your own fingers tangled in his snow dampened hair, pulling him back to your mouth for a kiss that quickly burned away any remaining cold.

"Bedroom?"

"Too far," you breathed, already tugging at his sweater. "Besides, we just redid the living room couch."

He smiled. In one fluid motion, he lifted you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you towards the living room. The last snowflakes in his hair melted as he lowered you onto the couch you'd spent three weekends reupholstering together. His body covered yours perfectly, like he belonged there, had always belonged there.

And as the snow continued to fall outside, covering your Victorian home in a pristine blanket of white, Satoru Gojo finally showed you exactly what his hands were capable of—proving once and for all that some things were worth the wait.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Spring arrived with a gentle persistence, coaxing crocuses from the soil and washing away the last traces of winter. Your Victorian house looked lovely in the morning light, its sage green paint gleaming, and its porch ready for the warmer days ahead.

The sound of knocking preceded Satoru's arrival, followed by a short pause and his usual sigh when he'd remembered he had keys, before his familiar footsteps echoed across the parquet floors you'd refinished together. You were in the kitchen, still in your pyjamas, going over the plans for the sunroom you'd decided to add to the back of the house.

"Morning," Satoru called, appearing in the doorway with his usual—two coffee cups balanced in one hand, a small paper bag of pastries in the other. His white hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he'd rushed out without taking the time to comb it properly.

"You know you don't have to knock anymore," you said as he handed you the coffee. "You have a key."

"Force of habit." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the chair next to you. "Besides, what if you were up to something scandalous?"

"At seven in the morning?"

"I distinctly remember yesterday morning getting pretty scandalous. And the day before that—”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as memories flooded back of the way he'd pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other explored your body with agonizing slowness. The way he'd whispered in your ear exactly what he was planning to do to you, his voice dropping to that low register that always made you shiver. The way he'd taken his time, so thorough in his attention that you'd been reduced to breathless pleas before he finally gave you what you needed and—okay, stop. Not now.

Three months into your relationship, and he still made you blush like a stupid teenager—among other things.

"Those were special circumstances," you said, trying not to smile.

"Oh yeah? What kind of special circumstances?"

"You brought croissants." You peeked into today's bag, ignoring his teasing. "Are these the chocolate ones from that bakery downtown?"

"Maybe." He smiled, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip. "I had an early video call with our research partners about the new pharmaceutical trial. Thought I'd pick up breakfast on the way back."

You paused, coffee halfway to your lips. "Wait, you already had your meeting? I thought that wasn't until nine."

"Started at five." He shrugged, stealing a piece of your pastry. "The Munich lab had some promising results they wanted to discuss right away. Worked out, though—wanted to catch you before you got too deep into those sunroom plans."

Warmth blossomed in your chest. In the months since that snowy night on your porch, Satoru had slowly woven himself into every aspect of your life. He still brought you coffee every morning, still helped with renovations, still looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The only difference was that he now often spent the night, his clothes gradually migrating into your wardrobe, and his shower gel suddenly appeared one day in your bathroom. Even his microbiology textbooks and research papers had found their way onto your coffee table, his lab notes sometimes mixed in with your renovation plans.

"Speaking of the sunroom," he continued, "I think the windows we recently found in the attic would look great in there. The original glass has that slight waviness that would catch the light beautifully."

"I was thinking the same thing." You slid the blueprints towards him. "I've been playing with the dimensions to make sure they'd fit."

He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. "This looks perfect. Though we might need to adjust the framing here to account for the original hardware."

You smiled at his use of “we”—so natural now, so right. Every project had become a shared undertaking, every decision made together.

"By the way," he began, "I've been thinking—"

"A dangerous pastime for you."

"I'm serious." He took a breath, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. "The house is looking amazing. We've fixed almost everything that needed fixing."

"Except that creaky step on the back stairs," you reminded him.

"And the slight warp in the pantry door," he added.

"And the—"

"Okay, so there's still a list." He laughed. "But my point is, we've done so much work here. Together."

"We have," you agreed, wondering where he was going with this.

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Meanwhile, my house is just sitting there. I'm barely even there anymore except to grab clothes or check if anyone's stolen my mail."

Your heart began to beat faster as you caught his meaning. "Satoru Gojo, are you trying to say something specific?"

“What if we just... you know, focused on one house instead of two?" His eyes met yours, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. "Maybe focusing on just one house instead of maintaining two?"

"Are you asking to move in together?" You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face.

"Well, technically I'm asking which house we want to live in. Though I'm kind of partial to this one. We've put so much of ourselves into it."

You twisted in your chair to face him fully. "You'd leave your perfect house with its perfect kitchen and perfect view?"

"My perfect house feels empty without you in it." The simple honesty in his voice made your throat tight with emotion. "Besides, this house has better bones."

"Yes," you said, sliding your arms around his neck. "Yes to consolidating our renovation efforts. Yes to deciding which house. Yes to all of it."

"You sure? I know you like your space and I don't want to, like, suffocate you or—"

You cut him off with a kiss, soft and sweet and tasting of chocolate pastries. "Satoru, you've been in my space since the day you showed up to fix my stupid leaky pipe. At this point, it doesn't feel like my space without you in it."

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a moment. When he looked at you again, there was that softness, that tenderness that still made your heart flip.

"I love you," he said simply. "In case that wasn't clear."

"I figured that out somewhere between you painting my entire house during that insane heatwave."

He laughed, the sound echoing in the kitchen you'd rebuilt together. "And here I thought it was my extensive knowledge of old pipes that won you over."

"That helped," you admitted, fingers playing with his hair. "Though it was really your hands that sealed the deal."

"My hands, huh?"

"Mmhmm." You pressed closer, coffee and blueprints momentarily forgotten. "Very skilled hands."

"Well" he murmured, those hands already finding their way under your pajama top, "some things deserve special attention to detail.”

"Are we seriously still doing renovation metaphors?"

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your neck. "Some traditions are worth keeping."

Later, as sunlight streamed through your kitchen windows—windows he'd helped you restore months ago when you were still pretending to be just neighbours—you lay tangled together on the kitchen floor.

"You know," you said, tracing patterns on his chest, "your house does have that amazing bathtub."

"True." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But this house has you."

You smiled against his skin. “We could always redo the bathroom here. Get an even better tub."

"I like how you think." His arms tightened around you. "Though we'd need to check the floor supports first, maybe upgrade the plumbing—"

You propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him, at this impossible man who'd somehow become your everything.

"I love you," you said simply. "Even when you're being a total renovation nerd."

His smile was soft, genuine, the smile he saved just for you. "Especially then?"

"Especially then."

Outside, spring painted the neighborhood with fresh green. But inside, in this house you'd brought back to life together, you'd found something even better—a future you were building together, room by room, day by day, one cup of morning coffee at a time.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — omggg, we made it through all four seasons and a complete house renovation ! kept thinking while writing that the most unrealistic thing about this story is not satoru gojo being a perfect neighbour and fixing leaky pipes for us, but owning a house in this economy lol.

anyway, thank you so much for reading this silly little story and i hope it brought you as much joy as it did me while writing it. until next time ! <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu @90s-belladonna

@fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy @wiserion

@moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss @raendarkfaerie

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[gojover]

stardust

summary: raised in a village on the kingdom’s outskirts, you’ve always dreamed of seeing the annual lantern festival in the capital. when you unwittingly help a thief on the run—gojo satoru—he agrees to take you there as repayment. what starts off as a simple deal soon pulls you into a conspiracy that ties back to the crown—and to satoru’s past.

⇢ pairing: thief/flynn rider!gojo satoru x fem!reader ⇢ contains: romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, loss of virginity), slowburn, action, tangled au, debatable attempts at comedy, profanity, inaccurate depictions of horse-riding, mentions of poison and murder, violence that comes with daggers/swords/frying pans—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 31k ⇢ playlist: “you broke my smolder” ⇢ art credit: _3aem | read on ao3 here.

It turns out that blackmailing a wanted criminal is much harder than it seems.

For one, he does not take you seriously. Not even a little.

“Oh no,” Satoru says, eyes wide with feigned horror. “You’re going to turn me in? Me? The helpless victim in all of this?” He clutches his chest, staggering back as if he’s been struck. “What a cruel, coldhearted thing to do to the man whose life you just heroically saved.”

“You’re only saying that because you know I have the upper hand,” you deadpan.

“Details, details,” he says, waving a hand. “But let’s be real here, sweetheart. If you were really going to call the guards—after you rescued me from the aforementioned guards—you’d have done it by now.”

You stiffen. He grins, slow and knowing. “Ah,” he says, tapping his temple. “See, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re bluffing.”

“I am not bluffing,” you insist, even as your grip tightens around your satchel.

Satoru’s grin only grows. He takes a step closer, like a cat toying with its prey. “Oh?”

You plant your feet firmly, refusing to back down. “Oh, indeed.”

Then—so fast you almost don’t register it—he lunges. With a startled yelp, you whirl away, narrowly dodging his grasp as he reaches for the satchel. Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Not bad,” he muses. “You’ve got quick reflexes.”

You clutch the satchel to your chest. “You’re just predictable.”

Satoru places a hand over his chest and gasps. “Predictable? Me?” He scoffs. “Sweetheart, I am many things—charming, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—but predictable is not one of them.”

“Fine.” You roll your eyes. “If you want the crown back so badly, then take it,” you say, and before he can react, you pivot on your heel and sprint. 

“Whoa, hey—”

You dart through the trees, leaping over gnarly roots and weaving through the underbrush, legs burning as you push forward. The satchel bounces against your side. The village is close—if you can just make it past the ridge, maybe you can—

A hand catches your wrist. You’re being spun; the world tilts, and your back slams into something solid. Your breath is knocked out of your lungs with a sharp gasp.

Gojo Satoru—the most wanted man in the entire kingdom—looms over you. His palm is pressed flat against the trunk of the tree behind your head, trapping you in place. He’s not even out of breath. His hair is a mess of white strands, a few falling over his forehead, and his eyes—those ridiculous, celestial blue eyes—are twinkling with delight.

“Well,” he drawls, “that was fun.”

You glare up at him. “Let go.”

“Mm.” Satoru taps his chin, considering. “Nah.”

“Gojo.”

“Say please.”

You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. At all. He’s all lean muscle beneath his clothes, far sturdier than his lanky frame would suggest. You grit your teeth. “You are the worst.”

“And you,” he says, patting the tip of your nose, “are terrible at making threats.”

You open your mouth to retort, only to clamp it shut immediately after. Hoofbeats. Both of you freeze. They’re distant at first, then grow louder, thundering against the dirt path. Your stomach twists. The guards are back.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. One second he’s in front of you; the next, he’s sweeping you into his arms like you weigh nothing and hauling you away from the side of the path, diving into the thick of the trees.

“What—? Put me—”

“Shhh.” He claps a hand over your mouth, pressing you against the trunk of an enormous oak, both of you half-hidden behind the tree. Your heart pounds. You can see the riders now, their armour glinting under the early morning sun. Their voices carry over the rustling of the leaves, and you hold your breath.

Satoru does too, though you doubt it’s out of fear. No, he looks entirely at ease, a smirk tugging on his lips as he watches the guards ride past, none the wiser. Just as quickly as they arrived, they’re gone. The silence stretches.

Finally, Satoru leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re welcome.”

You bite his hand.

“Yowza!” He jerks back, cradling his hand like you’ve just inflicted a mortal wound upon the limb. “Did you just—”

“Yes,” you say primly, straightening out your tunic. “And I’ll do it again if I must.”

Satoru gapes at you, then lets out a laugh, wild and unrestrained. “Oh,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Oh, I like you.”

“Great,” you say. “So you’ll take me to the capital?”

His laughter dies. You smile sweetly at him. 

Satoru groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, mostly to himself. His head tips back against the tree, and for a moment, he just stands there with his eyes closed, as though he’s bargaining with the gods to give him the virtue of patience which he so clearly lacks. “I just saved your life.”

“I saved yours first.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

“I—” Your cheeks burn despite yourself.

“Not that lucky, though,” he interrupts, dropping his hand and fixing you with an almost pitying look. “Because if you think I’m actually going to drag you with me all the way to the capital just because you swiped a little trinket from me, you’re out of your mind.”

Your momentary victory screeches to a halt. “What?”

“You heard me.” He straightens, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m not taking you anywhere.”

“But you just said—”

“I just humoured you. Big difference.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. You ball your hands into fists at your sides. “You promised.”

“I lied.”

“Gojo!”

He grins, wholly unrepentant, and takes a step back. “C’mon, sweetheart. You didn’t actually think that was going to work, did you?” He tuts, shaking his head. “Cute and naïve. What a dangerous combination.”

Frustration coils in your chest. You take a deep breath. “Alright,” you say, almost calm. “Then I’ll just go to the guards right now, and—”

“No, you won’t,” Satoru says, raising a single finger.

Your nostrils flare. “And why won’t I?”

“Because I just saved your life,” he says, enunciating each word as though you’re a particularly slow barn animal. “Which means, at the very least, I deserve some gratitude.”

Your jaw drops. “Gratitude?”

“That’s right.”

“We’re even!” you sputter. “I saved you first!”

“Semantics. Point is, I was heroic, you were impressed, and now you can return my crown to me and we can go our separate ways.” He winks. “Sounds good?” 

“That—” You stare at him, incredulous. “That is the exact opposite of good.”

“Hm. Sounds like a you problem.”

Your grip on the satchel tightens. “Fine,” you say through gritted teeth. “Then I’ll—”

Before you can finish, he’s already moving. Fast—too fast. You barely register the blur of motion before his hand is dipping into the satchel, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the crown. Panic flares. You react without thinking.

Your hands snap out, grabbing his wrist before he can pull away. He pauses, blinking down at you, startled—because somehow, despite his speed, despite the way he should’ve been able to snatch the crown before you noticed and vanish into the trees—he hadn’t accounted for you actually stopping him. 

Both of you freeze. Then, in an utterly ridiculous, ungraceful tangle of limbs you both go crashing to the ground. The satchel slips from your grasp, tumbling into the dirt. The crown spills out, gleaming in the morning light. It’s a glittering band of gold inlaid with the sort of precious stones and gems you’ve only ever heard about. A string of words, written in a curling handwriting, are etched into the inside of the crown’s band. You blink against the glare. Satoru lands half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the earth.

Satoru is heavy. Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that you’re acutely aware of every point of contact; the solid warmth of his torso against yours, the way his arm is braced beside your head, keeping his weight from crushing you fully.

And, unfortunately, he seems just as aware. A slow, amused smile curls at the edges of his lips as he props himself up on his elbows, peering down at you with those ocean-bright eyes. “My, oh, my,” he muses, low and amused. “How terribly forward of you.”

Your face heats up. “Get. Off.”

He doesn’t. Instead, his gaze flickers to the crown lying in the dirt beside you, just out of reach. His smile widens. You see the moment he decides to go for it. Unfortunately for him, you’ve already decided first.

With a grunt, you knee him in the stomach. Satoru wheezes. You wriggle out from beneath him just as he recoils, scrambling for the crown. Your fingers barely skim against the metal—but before you can grab it, the thief lunges forward and tackles you again. There is no grace to it this time. You wrestle in the dirt like two absolute idiots, rolling, kicking, twisting in a desperate scramble for control. He’s stronger, but you’re determined, and maybe just a little feral at this point. 

“Would you quit it?” Satoru grunts, narrowly dodging an elbow to the ribs. 

“Not until you help me!”

“I told you—”

You shove your palm against his face. Satoru lets out an indignant noise, muffled by your hand. You take advantage of his momentary distraction and reach out—only for Satoru to grab your wrist and twist, sending you both tumbling again, until—

Somehow—somehow—he ends up pinned beneath you, and this time, you have the crown.

Your fingers tighten around it as you scramble off him and glare down at Satoru. He’s sprawled in the dirt, a mess of leaves clinging to his wind-ruffled hair, and a streak of dirt is smeared across his chin. You’re certain you’re in no better shape; you pull a stray twig out of your hair, and rub away the mud on your cheeks with the back of your hand. He props himself up on his elbows, surveying you.

“Tragic,” he sighs. “I almost had it.”

You twirl the crown between your fingers, letting the jewels catch the light, and let your lips turn upwards in a saccharine smile. “It’s called a hustle, sweetheart.”

The marketplace is settling into a quieter rhythm at this time of the day, the golden light of mid-afternoon casting long shadows upon the cobbled streets. Satoru trudges beside you, his usual confidence replaced with something closer to reluctant resignation. 

He looks utterly put upon, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, lips set in a pout. Every few steps, he kicks at loose pebbles on the road, sending them skittering ahead of him. You’d almost feel bad for him—almost. But then, you remember that this is a man who stole a crown, got caught, and is now bitter because someone played him at his own game. 

The smell of freshly baked bread drifts through the air, warm and inviting, mingling with the sharp scent of spices from a nearby stall. You stop in front of a small bakery, the wooden sign above it swaying slightly in the breeze. Through the open windows, trays of steaming loaves sit behind the counter, their crusts golden brown and crisp.

Satoru watches as you peer through the display, an unimpressed look on his face. “Wonderful,” he says. “I get blackmailed into helping you, and now we have to go grocery shopping. Truly, this is my lucky day.”

“We need supplies if we’re going to travel.” You glance at him, and roll your eyes. “Or do you plan on surviving on pure arrogance alone?”

He sighs dramatically, tossing his head back. “I’ve survived on worse. Once, I survived an entire week on nothing but stolen fruit and the will to be a menace to the commander of the Royal Guard.”

“That explains so much.” Ignoring his indignant huff, you step forward and exchange a few coins for a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. The baker, a kindly old woman, gives you a small smile as she wraps it in cloth. You thank her and tuck the bundle into your bag. 

Satoru watches this process with the dismay of a man being forced to endure unimaginable hardship. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he straightens. “Speaking of which,” he says, tilting his head towards you, “where exactly is my crown?”

“Safe.”

“Where?”

“Hidden,” you say, and flash him a too-sweet smile.

Satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re crazy. First, you rob me. Then, you blackmail me. And now, you’ve hidden my prized possession like some kind of—” He gestures vaguely at you, searching for the right words. “Some kind of tiny, feral leprechaun.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Think of it as collateral.”

“Oh, sure,” he mutters dryly. “Because trusting the person who stole from me is such a fantastic idea.”

“You stole it first.”

“So you’ve said. The point is, I need that crown.”

“Why?” you ask, raising a brow.

He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, before flashing you his usual grin—teasing and entirely insincere. “Because it’s mine?”

You snort. “Try again.”

Satoru leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing some grand secret. “What if I told you it holds great sentimental value?”

“I’d tell you to stop lying to my face.”

“Wow,” he says, and then says your name, dragging out the last syllable. “So distrustful.”

You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your satchel. “If you do what you promised, I’ll give it back.”

He studies you, gaze flickering briefly to your satchel, as if he’s considering whether he could swipe it and make a run for it. (Not that it would be of any use, anyway, since you’ve hidden it underneath your mattress in your tiny little cottage.) Instead, he sighs, slouching forward like the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders, and mutters, “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Not my fault you lost,” you sing-song.

“I almost had it,” he whines, but his lips twitch.

“But you didn’t.”

“What do you want to go to the capital for so badly, anyway?” He squints at you. “You’re dragging me halfway across the kingdom, blackmailing me with my own stolen goods, and for what? What could possibly be so important that you’d go through all this trouble?”

You hesitate. It’s not that you’re unwilling to tell him—it’s more that you know exactly how he’ll react. Still, you suppose there’s no avoiding it now. You clear your throat, keeping your gaze ahead as you walk. “I want to see the lantern festival.”

A beat, and then, Satoru stops dead in his tracks. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You heard me,” you grit out, already regretting having said anything.

The thief blinks at you, disbelieving, then throws his head back and laughs. It’s far too loud and obnoxious for your liking.

You whirl on him, scowling. “Stop that!”

“Oh, this is rich.” He wipes at his eye theatrically. “You mean to tell me that all this—” he gestures between the two of you— “was because you want to see some floating lights.”

“They’re not just floating lights,” you snap, folding your arms. “They’re magical.”

Satoru snickers. “Sure they are.”

“They do it in honour of the late queen. And not just anywhere—only in the capital. People travel from all over to see them.”

“Yes, and most people would travel from all over to avoid me, but here you are. Seriously, sweetheart, I thought you were on some grand, noble quest. Some life-or-death mission. But no. You just want to watch some fancy fireworks.”

“Forget it,” you huff, pushing past him. “I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

Satoru falls easily into step with you, still chortling to himself. “No, no, I think this is fantastic. Here I was, thinking you had some deep, tragic backstory—maybe an old lover waiting for you, a family secret, a kingdom to reclaim—but no. You just want to see a festival.”

“I happen to like beautiful things,” you tell him.

He hums. “So you do.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your steps falter, but when you glance back at him, his expression is unreadable. You quickly recover, jabbing a finger into his chest. “And don’t act like this is entirely my fault. You’re the one who stole the crown. If you weren’t a criminal, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“That’s a very unfair accusation. I am an entrepreneur.”

“You’re a thief.”

“A businessman.”

“An annoyance.”

He grins. “A charming gentleman.”

You groan, picking up your pace. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”

“Oh, please.” He slings an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the way you stiffen. “We’re partners now, aren’t we? Off to see the lanterns, hand in hand, like something out of a fairy tale—”

You shrug him off and march forward, squaring your shoulders. Gojo Satoru is unbearable, but if he’s your only ticket out of this boring, provincial life, then you have no choice but to grit your teeth and stick it out. The cost will be worth the reward. 

The road stretches long and unbroken before you, a dirt path winding between fields and sparse woodland. You’ve seen this road before—when traders arrived at the village, when hunters returned from the mountains—but you’ve never set foot beyond it. 

Now, after years of watching others leave, you are the one walking away. You should feel relieved. Excited, even. 

Instead, you feel like an imposter. Like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.

Even your clothes don’t feel like your own. You’re used to sturdy village garments—worn tunics and skirts, softened by years of washing, familiar and comfortable. But now, you’re dressed for travel, and it feels unfamiliar. A dark green cloak, belted at the waist, drapes over your shoulders, its hem brushing against your ankles. Beneath it, you’ve chosen a linen shirt and brown trousers instead of a skirt—more practical, but strange. The boots on your feet are a size too big, borrowed from the village blacksmith, and though well-worn, they still rub uncomfortably against your heels.

Beside you, Satoru moves as if he owns the world, his long strides lazy. His clothes, though practical, have the distinct look of someone who wants to be looked at—worn leather boots, dark pants, a white tunic half-buttoned beneath a navy vest cinched at the waist. The coat hanging off his shoulders is long, lined with faded embroidery at the edges, the kind of detail that once belonged to something expensive before time and travel wore it down.

Unlike you, he looks completely at ease. As if he’s done this a thousand times before—which, of course, he has.

“I was expecting a little more enthusiasm,” Satoru comments. “Most people would kill for a trip to the capital with someone like me.”

You adjust the strap of your bag. “Most people would just kill you.”

“Ouch. That one actually hurt.”

“If only,” you mutter.

He chuckles, undeterred, and kicks a stray pebble along the path. You’ve been walking for over an hour, and he hasn’t stopped talking the entire time. It’s mostly been nonsense—complaints about the lack of decent taverns in your village, dramatic sighs about the state of his boots, and a running commentary on the tragedy of being forced to travel with someone so determinedly unfriendly.

“What exactly is your plan once we get there?” he asks. “Because I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but the capital isn’t as great as they make it sound.”

“I don’t need a plan,” you mumble. Truthfully, you have no idea, but you’re certain the answer will come to you. Somehow.

“Right, because winging it always works out well,” he says, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to react. He gets no such satisfaction—your eyes are fixed firmly on the road—and so, he ploughs on, “You know, it’s adorable how much faith you have in your ability to not get robbed, lost, or, I don’t know, arrested for trespassing.”

You let out a slow breath. “If I do get arrested, I’ll make sure to tell them where to find you.”

“Ah, but that would require you to know where I am. And I am a famously difficult person to pin down.”

You make a noise of irritation in the back of your throat, adjusting the strap of your bag. At this rate, you’re starting to think that letting him get caught might have been the better option.

By the time the sun has dipped below the horizon, the two of you reach the edge of the woods. The thick canopy overhead swallows the last of the daylight, leaving only streaks of violet and deepening blue through the gaps in the leaves. The path ahead is narrow and winding, the scent of damp earth and pine filling the air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls.

“This is it,” Satoru announces, dropping his bag on the ground. “Our humble abode for the night.”

“We could walk a little further,” you say, frowning.

“And risk running into something with fangs?” He plops onto the ground, resting back on his elbows. “No thanks.”

You sigh but don’t argue further, shrugging off your pack and kneeling down to clear a space for the fire. If you wait for Gojo Satoru to be useful, you’ll be waiting until your bones turn to dust. To your surprise, he doesn’t interfere. He simply sprawls out on the grass, watching as you gather dry leaves and kindling. 

“Watching you work feels kind of nice,” Satoru says, tapping a finger against his knee. “It’s like having a personal servant.”

You shoot him a glare. “Do you want to get stabbed?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, and guffaws to himself.

Rolling your eyes, you focus on the fire, striking flint against steel until sparks catch in the dry grass. Slowly, the flames flicker to life, casting an amber glow over the clearing. Shadows stretch long and uneven, the trees shifting in the fire’s light. 

The thief sits up, brushing stray grass from his vest. “Alright. Time to find some food.”

“We have food,” you point out, nodding at your pack.

He makes a face. “We have bread. I, for one, refuse to live like a peasant.”

“You are a peasant,” you say, raising your eyebrows.

“Wrong,” he corrects. “I am a distinguished criminal.”

“Go starve in the woods, then.”

“Fine,” he huffs, standing up and dusting himself off, “but if I don’t come back, you have to live with the guilt.”

“I think I’ll manage.”

He mumbles something under his breath, but disappears into the trees anyway. You take the opportunity to sit back against your pack, stretching your sore legs and letting the warmth of the fire seep into your bones. Five minutes later, Satoru returns—only, he’s not alone. He sprints back into the clearing like a man being personally hunted by death itself, arms flailing as a blur of fur and claws barrels after him.

“What the—” You barely have time to sit up before Satoru dives behind you, using you as a human shield.

“Get it away from me,” he hisses, gripping your shoulders like his life depends on it.

Your eyes whip back to the so-called menace: A small, scruffy-looking cat with patchy grey fur, green eyes, and one torn ear. It stands by the edge of the firelight with its tail puffed up like a bottlebrush.

You blink. “Did… Did you just get chased by a cat?”

Satoru glares at you, panting. “That thing is deranged.”

The cat lets out a shrill mrrow and lunges. Satoru yelps, scrambling further behind you, but the little creature stops just short of pouncing and instead sits daintily by the fire, licking its paw like nothing happened. You stare at it. Then back at Satoru. Then back at the cat.

“Wow,” you say slowly, turning around to face the grown man cowering behind you. “You, the great Gojo Satoru, feared thief and most wanted man in the entire kingdom, are afraid of a stray cat?”

He scoffs, straightening up as though he hadn’t just used you to hide from a cat. “Afraid? As if. I just didn’t expect it to be so… fast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It ambushed me.”

You glance at the cat, which is now lying on its side and stretching out luxuriously. It is, unarguably, the most harmless thing you’ve ever seen. You smirk. “I think I’ll keep him.”

Satoru gapes at you. “What? No! That thing has a personal vendetta against me.”

The cat looks up, makes direct eye contact with him, and flicks its tail in a deliberate motion. “Yeah,” you say, grinning, “I like him.”

Your companion groans, rubbing his face. “What are you going to name him?”

You tilt your head, considering. The cat gives an unimpressed meow and swipes a paw at your ankle, before it pads over to you, climbs onto your lap and turns around in a circle. It kneads your thigh before settling down. 

“Megumi,” you decide.

“Oh, come on.” Satoru lets out a strangled noise. “That thing is definitely not a blessing.”

Ignoring him, you scratch behind Megumi’s ears absentmindedly, reaching behind with your free hand and grabbing your pack. You undo the drawstring and pull out the loaf of bread; tearing out a chunk, you pop it into your mouth. The cat purrs in satisfaction, settling deeper into your lap.

Satoru watches this betrayal unfold with a deeply wounded expression. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “Two minutes ago, it was out for blood. Now it’s purring like it pays rent.”

You snort, tossing him a piece of bread. He catches it with ease but doesn’t eat it right away, instead tearing at the crust in distracted motions. The fire crackles between you, throwing warm golden light over his features, softening the sharp angles of his face.

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking. “Tell me a story.”

Satoru quirks a brow. “What, like a bedtime story?”

“No, idiot.” You roll your eyes. “Tell me about the capital. I’ve never been past my village.”

“...The capital, hm?” He shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands, and tilts his head skywards. For a moment, he’s quiet. The fire pops, and its glow dances over his cheekbones. Somewhere in the trees above you, an owl hoots. Then, he starts speaking.

“The capital is loud,” he says, “but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of noise that reminds you that you’re alive. The streets smell like roasted chestnuts, chocolate, and something sweet that I’ve never been able to place. No matter where you go, you’ll always be able to hear something—someone haggling in the market, children playing hopscotch, lovers whispering sweet nothings under balconies.”

His voice lowers, almost like he’s letting you in on a secret. “There’s this place, just past the main square. A bookshop, tucked between an apothecary and a tailor. You wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t looking. It’s small—cramped, really—but it smells like ink and old paper, and the owner never minds if you stay too long. When I was younger, I used to sit there for hours, reading about places I’d never been. I’d tell myself I’d see them all someday.”

“And then there’s the bridge,” he continues. “It stretches over the whole river, wide enough for carriages to pass, but if you go at the right time, just before dawn, it’s empty. You can stand in the middle and watch the whole city wake up—lamps flickering out, shutters creaking open, the sky turning from grey to pink to gold. It makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, just for a little while.”

Satoru exhales, and there’s something wistful about the sound. When he looks at you again, there’s a lopsided smile playing on his lips. “Not bad for a bedtime story, huh?”

You blink, caught between the warmth of the fire and the warmth in his voice. “...Tell me more.”

He laughs, bright and careless. “You’re greedy.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, suppressing a smile.

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” he says, leaning back fully and folding his hands behind his head. “If I tell you too much, you might decide you don’t need to see the capital for yourself, and I’d never get my crown back.”

You glance down at Megumi, still nestled comfortably in your lap, tail flicking lazily. Perhaps it’s the way the thief spoke about it, or maybe it’s the way you’ve always yearned for this, but the thought comes quietly, unbidden: I already want to see it more than ever.

Morning creeps up on you slowly, quietly, peacefully. The fire has burned down to embers, the air is crisp, and the forest hums with the comings-and-goings of woodland creatures. You are warm, bundled in your cloak, Megumi purring against your chest, and for once, Gojo Satoru is quiet.

It’s perfect. Until something snorts directly at your face.

Your eyes snap open just in time to see a giant, pinkish nose inches from your own. Then— Snort. A blast of hot air right into your face. You yelp, scrambling back, only to trip over Satoru’s arm and land hard on your side. The movement startles Megumi, who lets out an indignant yowl and bolts straight onto Satoru’s face, claws out.

“What the Hell—” The man jerks upright with a strangled sound, flailing as Megumi uses him as a launchpad and disappears into the trees. His vest is askew, his hair is sticking up at odd angles, and he looks utterly lost. “What—where—why does my face hurt— Who is attacking me?”

“That!” You point wildly at the culprit.

Standing at the edge of your makeshift campsite, staring you both down like a disappointed parent, is a massive white horse. At first, you’re confused—horses don’t live in the woods, you’re pretty sure. Then you see the crest of the royal family hanging off of its neck, and you grimace. His reins are hanging off the sides of his saddle; he seems like a runaway royal horse. He paws at the dirt, ears pinned back, looking every bit a soldier preparing to arrest a pair of criminals. 

Satoru blinks at him. Then at you. Then back at the horse. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

The horse huffs like he can’t believe he has to deal with this nonsense. Then, before either of you can react, he lunges straight for the thief.

“SUKUNA, NO!”

You barely manage to scramble out of the way as Satoru lets out an undignified squawk and rolls out of the way, narrowly avoiding being stomped. He barely has time to get to his feet before Sukuna lunges again, snapping at his cloak.

“What is your problem?!” Satoru screeches, holding his arms up defensively. “I didn’t even do anything—oh, my God—Stop—”

Sukuna does not stop. Instead, he clamps his teeth onto Satoru’s sleeve and drags him sideways.

“He’s arresting me!” Satoru howls, flailing as his feet skid in the dirt. “I’m being detained! Help!”

You double over in laughter. “I—think—he recognises you—”

“Oh, what gave it away? The way he’s dragging me to my demise?”

Sukuna whinnies like he’s insulted by the accusation. As if to prove a point, he yanks even harder—ripping Satoru clean off his feet. He lands on his back with a thud, groaning. Sukuna looms over him, nostrils flaring, clearly debating his next move. 

“Okay, okay. I surrender,” Satoru wheezes. “I hereby admit to all my crimes—past, present, and future. Just let me live.”

Sukuna snorts. Satisfied, he steps on Satoru’s stomach for good measure before backing off. You wipe tears from your eyes, your own stomach hurting from laughing too hard. “I think he hates you.”

Satoru groans, draping an arm over his face. “I think I have internal bleeding.”

Megumi, now safely perched atop a tree branch, lets out an approving meow. Sukuna steps back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. His ears flick forward, and he turns to you, huffing expectantly.

You tilt your head. “Oh. I think he likes me.”

“Oh, great,” Satoru says, lifting his head weakly from the ground. “Betrayed by my own travel companion.”

You ignore him, cautiously stepping forward and holding out a hand. Sukuna eyes you warily but doesn’t move away. “You just don’t like him, do you?” you murmur, glancing down at Satoru, who’s still groaning in the dirt.

Sukuna snorts. Satoru lifts a finger from where he’s lying. “That was unnecessary.”

“I think it was perfectly necessary,” you reply sweetly before turning back to Sukuna. He’s still watching you closely, but he doesn’t seem hostile. If anything, his tail flicks once, like he’s waiting for something. Slowly, carefully, you raise a hand to his nose. “You’re not so bad, are you?”

Sukuna leans in, taking a few experimental sniffs before—much to your delight—nudging your palm with his nose. Satoru lifts his head again, gaping at the scene unfolding in front of him. “What the Hell,” he says flatly. “I used to feed you when I was in the palace, you ungrateful beast.”

The horse flicks an ear, unimpressed. Then, as if to drive the point home, he lifts a hoof and kicks dirt in his direction. 

You barely stifle a laugh. “I don’t think he remembers you very fondly.”

Satoru groans. “This is what I get for trying to be a good person.”

“You’re a thief.”

“Details.”

You scratch gently at Sukuna’s muzzle, feeling the warm puff of his breath against your fingers. He allows the touch, nuzzling further into your palm. The royal crest on his bridle—the golden emblem of a sun against a dark blue background, the visage of light always conquering darkness—glints in the morning sun. It feels like a reminder of where exactly he’s from.

A warhorse. Loyal to the palace. Loyal to—

You glance at Satoru. He’s watching Sukuna with an expression you can’t quite place. Something distant. Something nostalgic.

“You’re from the palace, then?” you ask softly.

His usual bravado doesn’t come immediately. He props himself up on his elbows, staring at Sukuna like the horse is a relic from a past life—one he hadn’t expected to come face to face with again. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says. “Wouldn’t lie about that.”

Sukuna snorts, stepping closer to you. He’s massive, all muscle and barely-contained energy, and yet he stands still beneath your touch. 

“Did you ride him?”

“He wouldn’t let me.” Satoru scowls. “Little bastard always tried to bite me when I got near him.”

The horse huffs, as if to confirm this. You stroke his mane absently, and say, “He seems different now.”

“Yes, well—” Satoru finally gets to his feet, dusting himself off with a wince. “Guess we both are.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you think he’s not telling you the whole truth. You decide not to push him further, curious though you may be. You let the silence settle between you both, the rustling of leaves filling the space where conversation might have been.

Finally, Satoru sighs. “Since he’s so smitten with you, does this mean we get a free ride to civilisation?”

“Maybe.” You glance at Sukuna.

“Wonderful!” Satoru says, clapping his hands. “Because I refuse to walk another ten miles while my organs are busy rearranging themselves from being trampled.”

“Let’s see if he’ll let us.” You pat Sukuna’s side reassuringly before turning towards the remnants of your campsite. 

The fire has long since dwindled into ash and embers, and your packs are haphazardly strewn about—likely due to your frantic wake-up earlier. Your bag is slumped against the base of a tree, close to where you’d left it. Satoru’s bag is nearby, though considerably messier. One of the straps is half-ripped, and the flap is barely secured. You pick it up, brushing off dirt and leaves.

“You live like this?” you ask, tossing it to him.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Satoru says. He fumbles but manages to catch it, just barely.

“You were cribbing about bread last night,” you remind him, slinging your own pack over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t begging. I was demanding my basic human right to a proper meal.”

Megumi, who had disappeared into the trees during Sukuna’s rampage, reappears, gracefully leaping down from a low-hanging branch. He lands neatly on the ground, flicks his tail, and gives you both what can only be described as the feline equivalent of the stink eye.

Satoru looks at him warily. “Are you sure he isn’t plotting revenge on us?”

“He likes me,” you say, crouching to scratch behind Megumi’s ears. The cat lets out a quiet purr, rubbing his head against your hand in approval.

“Of course, he does.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

Satoru mutters something under his breath that you couldn’t be bothered to listen to properly. You gently pick up Megumi and settle him into the crook of your arm. He doesn’t resist, curling up as if he’d rather not exert the effort to protest. Sukuna, who has been watching this entire exchange with the unimpressed air of a soldier waiting for incompetent recruits to finish fumbling, lets out a sharp huff and stomps his hoof.

You turn to him. “Okay, okay. I’m ready.”

“You know how to ride a horse, right?” Satoru asks, raising an eyebrow.

You pause. “...How hard can it be?”

“That’s not an answer—”

Satoru’s warning goes unheeded; you’re already marching towards Sukuna with the kind of confidence only possessed by someone who has no idea what they’re doing. You place a careful hand on the saddle and hoist yourself up. Or, well, you try to. Your foot barely catches on the stirrup before you wobble, losing balance. The next thing you know, you’re slipping straight off the other side. 

Satoru catches you before you can hit the ground, his hands firm around your waist. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You scowl, pushing yourself upright, but he doesn’t let go right away. You’re close enough to see the way the morning light catches in his eyes, the sharp blue softened by gold. His hands are warm where they steady you. You swallow thickly, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Megumi, disgruntled from the movement, lets out a miffed meow. The spell breaks.

“Alright,” Satoru says. “Let’s try something else before you end up with a concussion.”

You glare at him, dusting off your sleeves as he turns to grab your packs. He ties them securely to the saddle, double-checking the knots before giving Sukuna an approving pat on the neck. The horse swishes his tail but remains otherwise still. Satisfied, Satoru turns back to you, hands on his hips. “Okay, up you go.”

Begrudgingly, you step closer, adjusting your hold on Megumi before reaching for the saddle. Satoru moves before you can think to protest, hands steady around your waist once more as he lifts you effortlessly onto the seat. You let out a startled breath, barely managing to swing your leg over the saddle before scrambling to adjust yourself. Your fingers grip the front of the saddle so tightly, the hard leather digs into your palms. Megumi, situated against your chest and in between your arms, flicks his tail against your face.

Sukuna shifts beneath you, muscles rippling underneath his sleek coat. You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. You’ve never ridden a horse before.

The thought doesn’t sink in until you’re actually up here, perched atop a beast far larger and stronger than you, with only a few flimsy leather straps keeping you from falling to the ground. For all the bravado you’ve shown so far, you have to admit that you’re terrified.

“See?” Satoru drawls, stepping back. “Much better. Was that so scary?”

“No,” you lie.

The thief studies you for a moment, and then comments, “You’re a terrible liar.”

You give him a withering look, but he’s already moving—grabbing the front of the saddle and swinging himself up behind you in one smooth motion. 

“Satoru—!”

Your protest is cut short when he settles in, his chest pressing flush against your back. He’s warm—too warm (or is that you?)—and suddenly, all your attention is split between the solid, sturdy weight of him behind you, and the hands that reach around you, easily taking the reins. 

“Relax,” he says, voice lower than usual. “I’ll steer.”

Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you don’t think it has anything to do with the horse anymore. “I wasn’t scared,” you mutter, but there is no conviction in your voice, even to your own ears. 

Satoru leans in just slightly, breath ghosting against the side of your face. He chuckles, the sound reverberating against your back, and says, “I’m sure you weren’t.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you stay quiet, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of Sukuna’s steps once he starts moving—and despite your determination to remain oblivious to Gojo Satoru and his presence, you can’t ignore the way his arms remain loosely draped around you, or the way he shifts ever so slightly when the horse moves, keeping you steady without saying a word. It’s natural, the way he adjusts to you, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like he doesn’t even need to think about it.

The woods stretch ahead, quiet and endless, but all you can focus on is the sound of your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

“Tell me more about the palace.”

The rhythmic sway of Sukuna beneath you is oddly soothing, each hoofbeat settling into a steady, lulling cadence. You tilt your head back slightly, feeling the warmth of Satoru’s chest where he sits behind you. His arms are still lightly caged around you, as he guides the reins like it’s second nature to him. Megumi, no longer content with being curled up against your chest, perches himself on the base of the horse’s neck, swiping lazily at Sukuna’s mane every now and then. The horse flicks his ears in annoyance but does not stop him.

Satoru hums, considering your request. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, eyes drifting upwards, towards the slivers of blue sky beneath the trees. “What was it like?”

“Well, it’s exactly what you’d expect,” he says. “Tall, grand, and filled with old men who love to hear themselves talk.”

You huff out a silent laugh. “Sounds charming.”

“Oh, it’s a real dream. The walls are lined with marble, the kind that catches the light just right in the mornings, almost as if the whole place is glowing. The halls stretch wider than some villages, with paintings hanging on the walls that tell stories older than anyone can remember. And the ceilings—” He shakes his head, his chin brushing against the back of yours. “So high it feels like you could reach the sky if you just climbed a little higher.”

There’s something distant in his voice, something wistful and melancholic and fond. “You make it sound very beautiful,” you say quietly.

“Because it is. It’s meant to be. A symbol of power—of control. A kingdom that shines so brightly, no one knows about the shadows it casts.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, but his expression is stony. That easy drawl of his is still there, but beneath it, something festers—and it makes you hesitate before you press further.

“And you?” you ask. “Where did you belong in all of that?”

Satoru exhales through his nose, a slow, measured sound. “Wherever they needed me.”

It’s not an answer, but it tells you enough. You let the silence stretch, waiting to see if he will offer more. He does.

“The training grounds were always my favourite.” His voice drops slightly, thoughtful. “They were tucked away behind the east wing, away from all the silk and the gold. You could hear the clash of swords from sunrise to sundown.” He pauses, then adds, almost to himself, “You never forget the sound.”

A soldier, you think. Or something close to it. It makes sense—the way he carries himself; the way he moves, like he’s always aware of every possible escape route; the way he knows so much about the kingdom and the capital.

You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you ask, “Did you like it?”

“I liked knowing what was expected of me.” A beat of silence, and then, “But I was never very good at following orders.”

A soft breeze cuts through the trees, rustling the leaves and cooling the warmth of the sun against your skin. “Is that why you left?” you ask carefully.

Satoru chuckles, but there’s no real humour to the sound. “Oh, I didn’t leave.” His fingers tighten around the reins, just a little. “I was sent away.”

The words are heavy. You don’t push. Sukuna continues forward, steady and unbothered, the sound of his hooves filling the silence that follows. You focus on the road ahead, on the sunlight filtering through the trees, on Satoru’s warmth behind you.

When he finally speaks again, voice lighter, teasing, you let him steer the conversation away. Somehow, you get the sense that when he’s ready, he’ll tell you the rest.

The afternoon sun begins to dip, casting long shadows through the trees. The road ahead winds towards the hills, where a small village is nestled between the slopes. You’ll have to pass through it to get to the capital, according to Satoru. Smoke rises lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood and roasting meat carrying faintly on the breeze.

Satoru shifts slightly. “Looks like we’ve made it before sundown.”

Megumi meows, flicking his tail before settling back down; you reach forward and scratch in between his ears, absent-mindedly. The thought of a warm meal and a real bed makes your shoulders sag with relief. The past few nights have been spent beneath open skies, wrapped up in your cloak that barely keeps the chill away.

“You think we’ll find an inn?” you ask, glancing behind.

“Unless it’s run by a hermit who hates money, yeah,” Satoru says. “Though I wouldn’t count on a royal welcome.”

That much is obvious. Travellers are rare in villages like these—strangers even more so. Your presence will not go unnoticed.

As you pass the first row of wooden houses, heads begin to turn. A blacksmith, hammer paused mid-swing, watches you warily from his forge. A woman gathering water casts a cautious glance before whispering something to the child at her side. Even the baker, hands dusted in flour, spares you a lingering look.

Satoru doesn’t seem fazed. “Friendly place.”

“Maybe they’d be friendlier if you weren’t grinning like you had a bounty on your head,” you mutter.

“I think we both know they wouldn’t be wrong about that.”

That sends a sharp prickle down your spine. You don’t respond.

The village square is small, paved with uneven stone and lined with merchant stalls. Most are already closed for the day, wooden shutters drawn and lanterns lit. Near the far edge, tucked between a tailor’s shop and a grain store, stands an inn. The wooden beams are weathered with age, but the sign above the entrance is freshly painted—The Fuzzy Duckling, it reads, complete with a crude drawing of a yellow duck underneath. The scent of stew and ale wafts through the open doorway.

Satoru nudges Sukuna to the stable. “We’ll rest here.”

You dismount first, stretching your legs as Satoru swings down beside you. Megumi jumps off the horse’s back and lands gracefully on the thief’s shoulder. 

The inn is dimly lit, the glow of lanterns casting flickering silhouettes. The scent of firewood, damp earth, and something vaguely sweet lingers in the air. It’s fairly empty, though you suspect that’s just because of the early hour. Wooden tables and stools lay barren, with empty tin jugs placed on each table. Behind the counter, a man leans lazily against the wall, watching you both with sharp, hooded eyes. His dark hair is slicked back, and there’s a faint scar on his jawline. He doesn’t say anything as he steps forward.

“Hey, hey, look who it is!” Satoru grins, though, by now, you’ve spent enough time with him to know it’s fake. “If it isn’t my favourite innkeeper, Shiu. Did’ya finally get rid of all the mould growing in your wine cellar? I don’t know if it was the mould or the age, but it sure tasted weird the last time I was here.”

Shiu smirks. “Been wonderin’ when you’d show up again, Gojo.”

You look between them, sensing familiarity, though not necessarily the friendly kind. “We need a room,” Satoru says, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Think you can manage that, old man?”

“Call me that again,” Shiu says, “and I’ll leave you to sleep outside with the horse. The lady will get a room for free, of course.”

You tense at his words, not enjoying the way the man’s gaze rakes over your body before settling back to Satoru. You get the feeling the thief notices too, because he moves closer to you, shoulder brushing against yours. “Ah, well,” he says. “I’m afraid that’s not negotiable.”

“Relax,” the innkeeper says. “I’m not a skirt-chaser. You can keep your woman with you. Room’s at the end of the hall. Payment upfront.”

Satoru flicks a coin onto the counter. Shiu catches it easily, giving it a quick once-over before pocketing it. As Satoru turns towards the stairs, something catches your eye near the entrance—sheets of parchment tacked to a wooden board. Your eyes snag on one in particular. 

A wanted poster.

The ink is bold despite the crumpled paper. The sketch is rough but unmistakable—wild white hair, sharp features, a grin that barely conceals its arrogance.

WANTED—DEAD OR ALIVEREWARD: 100 GOLD COINS

Your stomach twists. Satoru follows your gaze and sighs. “Damn. They just can’t get my nose right.”

“This isn’t funny,” you whisper.

“It’s a little funny.” Satoru’s grin widens, but you don’t miss the tautness in his shoulders. He nudges you gently towards the stairs. “Come on, let’s get some rest.”

Shiu watches you both go, smiling, but his gaze follows too long for comfort. Your chest constricts. The room at the end of the hall is small but serviceable—one bed, a rickety wooden chair, and a window with a view of the village square outside. The floor creaks under your boots as you step inside. Megumi jumps onto the bed immediately, curling up near the pillows, flicking his tail once before settling.

Satoru stretches with a groan, rolling his shoulders. “Cozy.”

You sigh, pressing your forehead against the cool windowpane. The village outside is quiet, bathed in early moonlight, but the unease gnawing at your stomach refuses to fade. “I don’t like this,” you murmur. “The way Shiu looked at you—”

“He always looks at me like that,” the thief says, sounding far too chipper than he probably should.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “We won’t stay long. You can take the bed. I’ll use the chair.”

The exhaustion from days on the road pulls at your limbs. You don’t bother arguing; sleep finds you much faster than expected.

You wake to the sound of boots in the hallway. Your breath catches. This isn’t the usual creak of old wood settling—this is deliberate. Heavy. Purposeful.

Your eyes dart to Satoru. He’s already awake, sitting rigid on the chair, blue eyes alert even in the darkness. His hand moves instinctively to his belt, where he’d shown you his dagger rests a day back, hidden.

A knock echoes against the door.

“Room service,” Shiu’s oily voice drawls from the other side.

Your blood runs cold. Satoru doesn’t answer. He tilts his head, listening. You strain your ears too, heart hammering—there’s a faint shift of fabric. The sound of leather gloves flexing. Someone adjusting their grip on a sheathed blade.

Satoru curses under his breath. “Son of a—”

The crash comes a second later.

The door splinters inward, sending shards of wood flying. You barely manage to roll off the bed before a knife thuds into the headboard where you had just been lying. A figure stands in the ruined doorway: Tall, broad, dressed in black. A jagged scar cuts across the side of his mouth.

You don’t recognise him, but Satoru does. His entire posture shifts—his usual cocky, easygoing stance sharpens, muscles tensing. A slow, tight exhale leaves him as he pushes himself to his feet.

The man in the doorway tilts his head, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. You can just make out a jagged scar cutting across his mouth. “Been a while, Gojo,” he says.

Satoru’s lips press together in a thin line. “Not long enough.”

You glance between them, a creeping unease settling in your bones. Whoever this man is, Satoru knows him—and he doesn’t like him. The stranger takes a lazy step forward, boots crunching over the splintered wood. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flick to you for a moment before settling back on Satoru. “Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to walk back in here, with a beautiful lady by your side and a bounty on your head, too. Guess you really wanted to see me again.”

“Trust me, Fushiguro—” Satoru’s jaw ticks— “I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

Fushiguro. The name means nothing to you, but the way Satoru spits it out like a curse sends a prickle of warning down your spine. The man clicks his tongue, his smirk widening. He twirls another dagger in his fingers, casual, lazy. “Did I wake you? Sorry to have disturbed your evening, but—”

Satoru moves faster than breath, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back towards the window just as another blade whizzes past his ear, missing him by an inch. Megumi hisses, darting into your arms and scrabbling onto your shoulder. You don’t even feel the pain where his claws dig into your skin.

Fushiguro lets out a low, amused chuckle. “Running already? C’mon now, Gojo. You’re making this too easy.”

Satoru kicks the window open. “Hold onto me.”

“What—”

And then he jumps.

The wind rushes past as the two of you and the cat drop down, the world blurring around you. You barely register the impact—Satoru lands with a practiced roll, keeping you close, his arms tight around you as he shifts the force of the landing onto himself. Your pulse is roaring in your ears.

Above, Fushiguro leans lazily out of the open window, tilting his head condescendingly. “You’re just making this more fun.”

Satoru doesn’t wait. He grabs your wrist and runs. The streets are quiet, the village mostly asleep, but your footfalls pound against the dirt. Behind you, you hear the faint creak of wood—Fushiguro dropping down from the second story without a sound, graceful as a damn cat.

The thief yanks you towards the stables. “Get Sukuna. Now.”

You don’t argue. The stable doors slam open as you shove inside. Sukuna snorts, stomping his hooves in agitation. You fumble for the reins. “What about—”

Satoru turns just as Fushiguro appears in the doorway. Everything slows.

The light from the lanterns flickers against his dark silhouette. He’s alone, not a single other mercenary in sight. But somehow, that makes it worse. In the darkness, it feels like he’s pressing down on the space, filling every corner, every shadow.

“You didn’t bring backup?” Satoru taunts. “I’m insulted.”

“Didn’t need any,” the bounty hunter grunts.

He moves—a flash of steel—and Satoru shoves you back. The blade slices through the air where his throat had been a second before. He ducks low, twisting away, and kicks. His foot slams against Fushiguro’s side, sending him skidding back a step—but Fushiguro barely reacts, barely blinks, like he had been expecting it.

He strikes again. You barely see the knife coming before Satoru dodges, his movements sharp and fluid. The stable door splinters as the blade embeds itself in the wood.

Satoru grits his teeth. “Go!”

But you—curse your damn cowardice—hesitate. Fushiguro notices. His foot pivots—he lunges for you. A flash of fear tightens in your chest—

But Satoru is there. He grabs Fushiguro’s wrist mid-strike, twisting it brutally. Fushiguro growls as Satoru hurls him backwards, sending him crashing into a pile of hay bales.

“Get on the damn horse,” Satoru orders, breathless. He swings himself onto Sukuna’s back, pulling you up after him, Megumi leaping onto the horse in time with you. 

You barely have time to wrap your arms around his waist before he kicks off. Sukuna surges forward, hooves pounding against the dirt road as you tear through the village, leaving the inn—and the very pissed-off bounty hunter—behind.

Behind you, there’s a sound—something sharp, fast—whistling through the air. Satoru jerks the reins, pulling sharply to the side. A blade embeds itself into the wooden post just ahead of you, still quivering from the force of impact.

“Shit,” the thief breathes. “He’s not giving up.”

You don’t look back. You don’t dare to. The village gate is just ahead. If you can get past it, you might have a chance of losing him. Megumi wails, digging his claws into your cloak, ears flat against his head.

Satoru leans forward. “Come on, come on—”

Sukuna bursts out of the gates. Fushiguro curses loudly behind you, but it sounds far away, swallowed down by the horse’s thunderous galloping. You tighten your grasp around Satoru and squeeze your eyes shut. (You might be imagining it, but you swear you feel one of his hands cover your own, a gentle brush of his palm against the back of yours.)

The fire crackles weakly, providing warmth against the cold night air. Sukuna, exhausted from his earlier run, tucks his legs underneath himself and settles down near it. Megumi curls up next to him and begins washing himself. The stream nearby gurgles and bubbles merrily.

The fight is over, the adrenaline long faded, but still, the stress of it all loiters like a phantom pressing against your ribs. Your shoulder throbs now, where the cat had dug his claws into the skin, but thankfully, it isn’t bleeding. Your hands are shaking. You dig your fingers into the earth, trying to steady yourself. 

Satoru stands a few feet away, pacing, his boots crushing twigs and dried leaves. His breath comes fast and hard, back rigid with frustration. His coat is torn at the shoulder, and there’s a thin line of blood trailing down his forearm.

You should say something. Thank him, maybe. Apologise. But the words stay stuck in your throat.

“What the fuck what that?”

You flinch, but his voice keeps coming, sharp and cutting.

“You froze—I told you to move, and you just stood there.” His hands come up, then drop to his sides. “You could’ve died.”

You bite your lip, shame curling hot beneath your skin, but his anger makes something inside you snap. “I was caught off-guard—”

“No shit!” he bites out. “You don’t get to be caught off-guard, not in the middle of a fight!”

“I didn’t ask to be in a fight!” you snap. “I’m not—” You exhale sharply, hands curling into fists. “I’m not like you, Gojo. I’m not a fucking thief who’s used to running for my life every other night.”

His jaw tightens. “So it’s my fault now?”

“Isn’t it?” You throw your arms out. “If you weren’t on the face of every damn wanted poster from here to the mountains, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

Satoru lets out a bitter, humourless laugh. “Right. Because I’m the one who dragged us into this.”

“You are—”

“No,” he cuts in, eyes flashing. “If it wasn’t for your stupid, fucking dream, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

The words slam into you like a fist to the gut. A cold wind rustles through the leaves, stirring the dying fire. Sukuna neighs lowly from where he’s sat near the flames, but you barely hear him over the ringing in your ears.  

Your stupid, fucking dream. The dream you’d held onto for years, the one that had kept you going, had pushed you forward through every hardship. Your throat tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, it’s not fair? You had no idea what you were asking for when you dragged me along on this little adventure of yours. Now, we’re running for our lives in the middle of nowhere, because you had to see some damn lanterns.”

The way he says it—like your dream is nothing more than a childish whim—makes something ugly twist inside you. “You know what, Gojo?” Your voice shakes, but not from fear. “At least I have a dream.”

His expression darkens.

“At least I want something, something that isn’t just running and stealing and barely surviving,” you press on, chest heaving. “But you? What do you want, Satoru? Huh?” You step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Do you even have an answer, or are you just going to keep laughing everything off like you always do?”

His lips part, but no words come out. For the first time since you’ve met him, Gojo Satoru is speechless. But it only lasts a second. His gaze flickers, something unreadable flashing through his eyes before his mask slams back into place. He lets out a sharp breath, his expression twisting into something cruel.

“You think you’re better than me?” He steps forward now, and you don’t back away. “You think just because you’ve got some dream, you’re any different?” His voice lowers, turning razor-sharp. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart—dreams don’t mean shit when you’re dead.”

Your breath hitches.

“Out here, it’s about surviving. That’s it.” He gestures between you. “And the only reason you’re still breathing is because I’ve been watching your back.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you froze. You hate that, for all your fighting words, you hadn’t been able to do anything when it mattered most. Perhaps worst of all, you hate that he saw.

Satoru exhales, shaking his head. “Forget it,” he says. “I’m going to get food.”

He turns and stalks off into the woods. You don’t call after him, because you don’t trust your voice not to break. The moment Satoru disappears into the trees, the night feels oppressive, like the darkness is closing in on you. 

You stand there for a long time, fists clenched at your sides, staring at the spot where he walked off. Sukuna shifts in his sleep. Megumi’s breathing is slow and even. You should rest. You should scrounge through whatever leftover supplies you have from your village and find something to eat.

But your chest feels tight, like there’s a rope around your ribs, pulling, pulling— With a shuddering inhale, you turn and walk towards the stream.

The water is cold when you dip your fingers in, crouching beside it. The icy surface reflects the moon’s pale light. You stare at your own reflection, at the way your lips tremble, at the redness creeping into your eyes. You squeeze them shut. It’s fine. You’re fine.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, willing the burning away. But the second you take a shaky breath, it hits you all at once—the fear, the frustration, the exhaustion weighing on your bones. A choked sound leaves your throat before you can stop it.

You shouldn’t be crying. You don’t want to cry, but the argument replays in your mind over and over—Satoru’s voice laced with anger, the way he threw your dream back in your face like it was nothing. 

He doesn’t understand, you think. But is he right?

What were you thinking? That you could drag a thief to the capital and expect everything to go smoothly? That the world would just let you chase your dream, no consequences, no danger? Maybe your dream really is foolish. Maybe you are naïve for believing that you could just waltz into the capital and see the lantern festival without any repercussions. Maybe—just maybe—Gojo Satoru regrets ever having met you.

The thought makes something inside you crack, the pressure behind your eyes spilling over. A broken sob escapes, and then another, your shoulders shaking as you press a hand against your mouth, desperate to smother the sounds.

A hand lands on your shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, jerking away, heart racing—

“It’s just me.” The voice is quiet but unmistakable.

Your breath stutters. Satoru crouches beside you. His presence is warm despite the chill in the air, and you realise now how cold you’ve gotten, how your legs have gone numb from sitting in the same position for too long.

You quickly wipe at your eyes, turning away. “Go away, Satoru.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he sighs heavily and shifts so he’s sitting right next to you, close enough that his knee bumps against yours. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I was a dick.”

You blink.

“I mean, I’m usually a dick,” he continues, gazing at the water, resting his elbows on his knees. “But that was… excessive. I didn’t mean—” He stops. Tries again. “Your dream isn’t stupid.”

Your voice is small when you ask, “Then why did you say that?”

“I just… When you froze back there—” His voice is quieter now, almost hoarse. “I thought you were gonna die.”

You swallow hard. He murmurs, “I’ve seen people freeze like that before. And they didn’t walk away from it.”

“I did walk away,” you whisper, not sure if it’s the right thing to say.

“Yeah.” He turns his head, meeting your eyes properly for the first time since the fight. “You did.”

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time. Or, maybe, like he’s seeing too much. You don’t know who moves first, but his hand is covering yours, warm and solid. His grip is hesitant at first, but when you don’t pull away, his fingers tighten around yours. You squeeze his hand back. Neither of you speak.

The fire crackles behind you. The water rushes softly. The moon watches from above.

Gojo Satoru, you think, is an enigma wrapped in glib promises and endless grins. You wonder if it’s his coping mechanism. He’s intelligent, quick-witted and silver-tongued. He’s good at fighting. You want to ask him why they sent him away from the palace, but you don’t think you have the right to. He always seems torn about it, when he’s spoken to you about it before—like it’s a bittersweet part of his life that he’s not very keen on revisiting.

He must have been something before turning to thievery. You stare at him like he’s a particularly intriguing puzzle, walking next to him. He guides Sukuna loosely by the reins; only Megumi is perched on his back, you and Satoru having favoured your own two feet instead of the back aches and leaden legs that come with extended periods of horseback riding.

“If you wanted to stare at my face so badly, I could’ve nicked the wanted poster back at Shiu’s inn,” Satoru says, not bothering to look at you.

Your cheeks prickle with heat. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble.

The night air is cool against your skin; the wind carries the scent of damp earth and distant firewood, the kind of smell that reminds you of home—though, truthfully, you’re not sure what home even is to you anymore. Maybe it’s the road beneath your feet, the anticipation and uncertainty that comes with weeks of travel. Maybe it’s this: Walking beside a thief who used to be something more, who still is something more, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise.

Satoru doesn’t say anything for a long time, but his arm brushes against the side of yours, familiar in a way that’s almost comforting. The dirt path winds through the trees. The occasional torch flickers in the distance, marking the outskirts of the city. Sukuna snorts softly, and Megumi’s ears twitch as he scans the darkness ahead.

Eventually, Satoru speaks again. “It’s rude to stare and not share your thoughts.”

“I was just thinking,” you huff.

“Dangerous pastime.”

You kick a loose pebble from the path. “I was thinking about you.”

He makes a low, amused sound in his throat. “How nice of you. I knew you liked me, but I didn’t think I occupied your thoughts so thoroughly.”

You don’t rise to the bait this time. “I was thinking,” you say, “about what you were before this. You told me once you were from the palace, but you never really told me why they sent you away.”

Satoru is quiet for a moment. The leaves rustle around you, and you tug your cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“They trained me to be a soldier,” he says, finally, softly. “Me and—” He stops, swallowing the words like they taste bitter.

“And…?” You prompt. Your steps slow.

His grip tightens around the reins. “And someone else,” he finishes. “My best friend.”

The way he says it makes your chest ache. Satoru clears his throat and continues, “They trained us young. Said we had a gift for it. A gift for war, for strategy and battle.” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “But a soldier only has value if he follows orders. And I wasn’t very good at that.”

You don’t push him to say more, though questions press against the tip of your tongue. The capital looms closer, the distant glow of lanterns casting an orange hue against the horizon. The trees begin to thin, giving way to rolling hills and farmland. In the distance, you can just make out the towering walls that guard the city, their stone surfaces illuminated by torches.

As you near the outer gates, the sleepiness of the countryside fades into the vibrant pulse of the capital. Even at this late hour, the city is alive, breathing, stretching its limbs in the form of flickering lights and distant laughter. You can hear the clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the occasional shout of a merchant still trying to haggle his wares, raucous debates from the inside of taverns. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, of damp stone and burning oil. It’s overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your chest tighten with something too big to name.

The capital. Your dream.

Satoru slows Sukuna to a halt just before the stone walls of the capital, guiding him off the main road and into the cover of a surrounding thicket. You follow, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. The trail here is narrow and overgrown, winding through the roots of old trees. Sukuna moves easily, his hooves barely making a sound against the packed dirt. When the city walls finally loom ahead, Satoru pulls on the reins, bringing the stallion to a stop beneath the shadows of an ancient oak.

“This is where we part ways,” the thief says, patting lightly on Sukuna’s saddle.

Megumi’s dark ears twitch, catching every sound, his green eyes narrowing at the imposing walls. The cat hops off the horse’s back. He’s been tense since you approached the capital; he doesn’t like unfamiliar places, and the sprawling city is anything but. 

Satoru tugs the reins over Sukuna’s head and leads him to a sturdy tree, securing him with deft hands. He runs a palm along the stallion’s neck in reassurance before crouching to do the same with Megumi. The cat lets out a mrow but doesn’t resist when Satoru scratches him behind his torn ear.

“You stay here and watch Sukuna, yeah? Be good,” he says, tapping him once on the head before straightening and unhooking your weather-beaten packs tied to Sukuna’s saddle and tossing them over his shoulder.

“You’re leaving them here?” you ask, glancing between the horse and the cat. It feels strange to abandon them at the outskirts, but you suppose it would be impossible to smuggle a massive stallion and a stray cat through the streets of the capital.

“Not leaving,” Satoru explains. “Just letting them sit this one out. Sukuna’s too big, and Megumi doesn’t care for crowds.”

You hesitate. Satoru doesn’t give you time to dwell on it, already striding ahead. You follow him through a break in the trees, slipping past the walls through a hidden opening you never would’ve noticed on your own. The dirt beneath your feet slowly gives way to stone and lamp-light. 

By the time you emerge into the streets, the towering stone walls are behind you, replaced by the overwhelming grandeur of the inner city.

You barely notice the way your breath catches in your throat, too preoccupied with taking it all in. The streets are narrower here, winding and twisting, labyrinth-like. The buildings loom taller than any you’ve ever seen, their façades adorned with intricate carvings and delicate ivy creeping up the sides. Ornate balconies overlook the streets, their silk curtains swaying with the breeze, and the warm glow of candlelight flickers in every window.

A vendor still lingers at his stall, selling roasted chestnuts wrapped in parchment, the rich scent making your stomach grumble faintly. A group of masked performers twirls in the city square, their laughter bright and musical. A nobleman in embroidered silks strides past with a pretty woman on his arm, their voices hushed as they slip into a gilded carriage.

It’s stupendous.

You don’t realise how close you’ve pressed to Satoru, your shoulder pressing into his arm. He notices, of course—he notices everything—but he doesn’t comment. He simply keeps moving, weaving through the crowd with the sort of confidence that only comes with someone who has walked these streets their entire life.

“Stick close,” Satoru tells you. “It’s easy to get lost if you don’t know your way around.”

The deeper into the city you go, the grander the architecture becomes. The modest stone buildings give way to towering structures of marble, their columns wrapped in flowering vines, their streets lined with lush greenery and carved statues. The roads widen, no longer cramped and twisting, but sprawling and lined with golden lanterns. Then—

Your breath stutters as you step into an open courtyard, and there, standing tall and regal under the silver glow of the moon, is the palace.

It’s massive, far grander than you ever could have imagined. White stone gleams under the warm lights, intricate carvings adorning every arch and column. The banners of the royal family ripple in the cool night breeze, deep blue with the yellow royal sigil against the ivory walls. The golden spires reach towards the heavens, their tips catching the light of the stars, as if they themselves are part of the sky.

Awe roots you to the spot. For years, you’ve dreamed of this place; of seeing it with your own eyes. Now that you’re here, it doesn’t feel real.

Satoru stops beside you, watching you quietly, blue eyes twinkling. With a smile curling at his lips, the thief tilts his head towards you and murmurs, “Well, sweetheart. Welcome to the capital.”

Satoru says he knows a place where both of you can spend the next three days until the lantern festival commences. You don’t believe him, especially after what happened the last time with Shiu and the bounty hunter. He had glared at you, deeply affronted, said, “Your lack of faith in me is appalling,” and then proceeded to lead you back towards the inner city.

“Remember that bookshop I was telling you about?” he asks, rounding a corner. 

“I remember,” you say.

“The former owner’s son runs it now,” Satoru says. “He’ll let us stay there.”

You don’t deign to reply, still drinking in everything—the towering buildings, the banners hanging from balconies, the cobblestone streets that shine under the flickering lights. Shopfronts boast their trinkets and fine silks, while street vendors call out to passersby, offering skewers of sizzling meat and honey-dipped pastries. 

It’s strange. The world you have known until now has always been smaller. Quieter. Even in the busiest towns, even in the places where merchants and travelers gathered, there was never anything like this. The capital, you think, is a city that never sleeps; a city that belongs to people like Satoru—people who thrive in movement, in laughter, in places where the streets are never empty and there’s always something new waiting around the corner.

You tune out the thief talking beside you. He’s rambling about something, making some quip about your starry-eyed expression. The city is so alive, so rich with colour and movement, that it fills every space in your mind.

A sharp tug at your wrist yanks you back just as a carriage rushes past, wheels rattling violently against the stones where you’d been standing a second ago. The force of it stirs your cloak, wind whistling against your cheek. The shock of it doesn’t register right away. You stumble, your body pulled by something—someone—solid and hard.

Satoru’s arm is firm around your waist, his fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist where he pulled you. The warmth of him is undeniable, even through layers of fabric. He holds you against him, close enough that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your breath is stuck somewhere in your throat, heart pounding against your ribs. You hadn’t even noticed you’d stepped into the carriage’s path, hadn’t realised how dangerously close you’d come to being trampled beneath its wheels.

Satoru exhales slowly above you, his grip tightening for a brief second before relaxing. “Gawking at the scenery is nice and all, but I’d rather not have to scrape you off the road.”

“I wasn’t gawking,” you mumble, more out of reflex than actual protest. Your stomach flips, though whether it’s from embarrassment or something else entirely, you’re not sure.

“You were,” he murmurs, but the teasing lilt in his voice is absent. His fingers, still wrapped around your wrist, loosen just slightly—but he doesn’t let go.

Instead, his grip shifts. His fingers slide down, intertwining with yours, palm pressing firmly against your own. He’s holding your hand. A warmth unfurls inside your chest, one that you don’t quite know how to name.

The two of you weave through the crowd like that, his fingers still tangled with yours, warmth bleeding into your skin with every step.

Satoru doesn’t let go until you round the next corner. The streets narrow, becoming quieter. The clamour of the main road fades behind you, replaced by the occasional murmur of voices from dimly-lit taverns and the sound of the wind rustling through laundry lines strung between buildings. The air smells of damp stone, faintly sweet and petrichor-like.

You clear your throat, trying to ignore the persisting warmth of Satoru’s touch even after he lets go. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he continues ahead. You wonder how often he’s taken this path—how many times he’s disappeared into the quiet corners of the city, both as a thief and as a soldier-in-training.

Eventually, he stops in front of a small, weathered shop tucked between a tailor’s boutique and an apothecary. The wooden sign above the door sways slightly in the breeze, the faint, worn lettering just barely readable. Nanami’s Books.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside. The wooden shutters are drawn, the paint on the door slightly chipped, but there’s something sturdy about it—something dependable, like it’s been here for years, and will remain standing for years to come. A single candle flickers behind the window, casting a warm glow through the glass.

Satoru raps his knuckles against the door. “Nanami,” he calls, sing-song.

The door creaks open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair, wearing a crisp, white tunic, and an expression so unimpressed, one would think Satoru had just asked to rob the place. “No.”

“Nanami,” Satoru coos, grinning.

“No,” Nanami repeats, firmer this time, as if sheer repetition will make him disappear.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

Nanami sighs wearily, bringing up a hand and rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “You’re going to ask if you can stay here.”

Satoru places a hand over his chest, wounded. “What, no warm welcome? No, ‘Satoru, my dear friend, I’ve missed you’?”

“I’ve never said that to you in my life.”

“The lack of hospitality here is astounding.”

Nanami does not dignify that with a response. Instead, his gaze shifts to you. His scrutiny is wary but not unkind, expression flickering with mild curiosity. You shift slightly under his gaze, unsure of what he’s looking for.

“You’re new,” he says.

You nod. “First time in the capital.”

“And what trouble has Gojo dragged you into?”

The corners of your mouth lift up in a smile; Nanami seems like someone you can get along with—a kindred spirit in the art of pushing Gojo Satoru’s buttons. The thief, of course, doesn’t share the same sentiment. He gasps, offended, and says, “Why do you assume it’s trouble?”

“Are you really asking me that?” the bookshop owner asks dryly. He sighs, visibly considering whether allowing Satoru into his home is worth the inevitable headache. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, a gesture that suggests this is not the first time he’s found himself in this exact situation. “How long do you plan on staying here?”

“Two nights,” Satoru answers. “Just until the festival.”

“Fine.” Nanami’s shoulders slump as he reluctantly steps aside. “But if you so much as breathe near my ledger—”

“You’re the best.” Satoru claps a hand on his shoulder before he can finish, flashing a triumphant grin. Nanami, on the other hand, looks like he instantly regrets his decision.

Inside, the bookshop is lit by candlelight, the scent of parchment and ink thick in the air. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, packed with books that look well-loved and well-worn. The floorboards creak softly underfoot, and a single lamp flickers on the counter beside an open ledger, its pages filled with neath, meticulous handwriting.

“The loft is upstairs,” Nanami says, rubbing his temples. “Try not to destroy anything.”

“No promises,” Satoru says cheerfully.

You follow him up the narrow staircase, stepping into the small loft above the shop. The space is simple—two mattresses perpendicular to each other, pushed against the wall, a low table, and a window overlooking the street below. Dust lingers in the corners, the scent of old parchment soaked into the very walls. There’s no extravagance here, nothing grand or gilded, but it’s warm and lived-in.

Satoru throws himself onto a mattress with no ceremony, arms spread as he sighs dramatically. “See?” he says, peering up at you. “Told you I knew a place.”

You roll your eyes, but despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips.

You wake up to the sounds of an argument in the shop below. The mattress is lumpy and a little hard, but it beats sleeping on the forest floor with nothing but your cloak separating you from the cold earth. Satoru’s mattress looks the same as it did last night—the covers placed meticulously and tucked into the sides, the pillow not creased, as though he hadn’t slept at all. A quick glance around the loft leads you to find a wooden basin filled with water. You pad over to it and splash your face once, twice. The water is cool against your skin. You rub the gunk out of your eyes.

It seems the argument isn’t going to abate anytime soon. Nanami’s voice rises, and, cautiously, you make your way out of the door and pad over to the top of the staircase so you can hear better. 

“You’re a fool,” the bookshop owner says. “I told you that months ago, and yet here you are. Again.”

Satoru sounds almost amused when he replies, “Well, hello. What happened to good morning?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

A beat. You shift onto the first step, careful to keep your steps light.

“I appreciate the concern, Nanami,” Satoru says. “Really. But you should know by now that I’m impossible to kill.”

“That isn’t the point.” There’s the sound of something hitting the counter—a book, maybe, or Nanami’s palm pressing against the wood as he fights for patience. “You’re still chasing this—this ridiculous theory? After everything?”

Your fingers tighten around the bannister. “It isn’t ridiculous,” the thief says, quieter this time.

Nanami scoffs, dry and unimpressed. “You’re gambling with your life for a theory you can’t even prove.”

“That’s the point, Nanami,” Satoru counters, sharp. “I have to prove it.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Nanami says, and there’s something frayed at the edges of his voice, something that sounds a lot like concern buried under layers of irritation. “You could leave this alone. Walk away before—”

“Before what?”

“You know what.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. The words sit heavy in the air, thick enough that you almost feel them pressing against your skin. Nanami exhales. “And even if you’re determined to be a reckless idiot,” he says, voice cooler now, “what gives you the right to drag someone else into this?”

You stiffen at the mention of yourself. Satoru clicks his tongue. “Oh, come on. I didn’t drag her into anything.”

“She’s here, isn’t she?”

“She dragged me here. She made that choice herself.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s choosing,” Nanami snaps. “Tell me, Gojo, did you bother explaining anything, or did you simply try to charm her skirts off and decide that was enough?”

“I can be persuasive if I want, you know.”

“Insane. You’re insane, and I want nothing more than to—”

You’re not sure what compels you to move, but you step down the stairs, making your way towards them before the argument can escalate any further. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s annoyance, maybe it’s the simple fact that you’re irked at being talked about like you aren’t standing just a few feet away. At the sound of your footsteps, both men turn.

Nanami regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze. Satoru runs a hand through his hair, but grins at you. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he greets. “Enjoy your beauty rest?”

You give him a withering look before turning to Nanami. “What’s going on?”

“That,” he says, lips pressed into a thin line, “is exactly what I’d like to know.”

“It’s too early in the morning for us to be concerned with all this serious talk,” Satoru cuts in, clapping his hands. He glances at you. “Nanami, does Utahime’s shop open this early?”

“Yes,” he replies. “But I don’t think she’ll be very receptive to you barging in and ruining her morning.”

“Nonsense! Utahime loves me.”

Nanami sighs. “I’ll warn her first.”

“There’s no need for that.” Satoru waves a hand in the air dismissively, placing his other one on the small of your back and gently steering you out of Nanami’s bookshop. You bite your tongue, curious to know what they were arguing about, but unsure if it’s in your place to pry. 

“Where are we going?” you ask instead.

The thief grins, letting the door to the bookshop swing shut behind him. “To get you some new clothes.”

“What’s wrong with—” You don’t bother finishing the question, as Satoru leads you through the winding streets of the capital. The city is slowly waking—merchants setting up their stalls, children darting between their parents, the scent of roses and bread wafting from nearby bakeries and flower shops. You can hear the clang of a blacksmith hammering metal in the distance, the occasional neigh of a horse, and people haggling over the fresh produce that’s just arrived from the surrounding countryside.

You clutch your cloak around you a little tighter, feeling a little out of place. It’s different, now, in the daylight, when the darkness doesn’t obscure your vision and those of others. You glance down at yourself, taking in the well-worn fabric of your cloak, the practical cut of your tunic and trousers. It’s not like you’re dressed in rags, but compared to the finery you’ve seen nobles wearing in the streets, you suppose you do stick out rather like a sore thumb. (So does Satoru, your mind offers helpfully, but unlike you, he moves as if he owns the very streets he walks on, as if the world itself bends to his whims.)

“Is this really necessary?” you ask hesitantly.

“Absolutely.”

You narrow your eyes. “I feel like you’re just looking for an excuse to spend money that isn’t yours.”

“I would never—” he begins, but you give him a flat look, and his lips curl up into an utterly unrepentant grin. “Alright, maybe I would. But in this case, it’s a matter of principle. Don’t you want to look all nice and pretty at the lantern festival?”

You roll your eyes but let him drag you long, weaving your way through the bustling market district. Eventually, he stops in front of a charming little boutique, its windows lined with displays of elegant dresses, rich fabrics draped across headless mannequins. A little brass bell jingles as Satoru pushes open the door. The interior of the shop is warm, bathed in the golden light filtering through the windows. Shelves upon shelves of neatly arranged fabrics line the walls, bolts of silk and brocade in every shade imaginable. The air smells of lavender and fresh linen, with the faintest hint of parchment from the stack of ledgers resting on the counter.

Behind that counter, a woman with dark hair pulled into a loose bun looks up from where she’s inspecting a sheet of shimmering fabric. Her sharp eyes land on Satoru, and whatever semblance of peace she had this morning is immediately shattered. “Oh,” she says, “not you.”

“Utahime!” Satoru places a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“You deserve it.”

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he simpers.

Utahime arches a brow. “You are not my friend.”

Satoru wags a finger at her. “Business associate, then?”

“Barely.”

You shift uncomfortably, not entirely sure how to insert yourself into this conversation. The two of them clearly have some sort of shared history, similar to Nanami and Satoru. Curiosity prickles in your stomach; you want to know more about them, about Satoru’s life before he became a wanted man.

Utahime exhales through her nose, then finally turns her attention to you. Her expression softens slightly, the corners of her lips quirking upwards. “And you are?”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling very out of place surrounded by all this luxury. “Um—”

“She’s my new travelling companion,” Satoru interrupts, slinging a hand around your shoulders as if that explains everything. “Which is why I’ve so graciously brought her here—to make sure she looks the part.”

Utahime stares at him, then at you. Slowly, her grin turns amused. “You mean, to make sure you don’t look like a pauper standing next to her.”

You choke back a laugh. Satoru splutters, “I—how dare you—”

“You look like you’ve been sleeping in ditches, Gojo,” the tailor says.

“That is not true.”

“You have leaves in your hair.”

Satoru blinks, reaches up, and, sure enough, pulls a small, dried leaf from his messy white locks. He flicks it away with a muttered curse.

“I can’t stand someone as pretty as her walking around with a man who looks like he lost a fight with a laundry line. Come,” Utahime says, addressing you and already pulling a gown off a nearby rack. “Let’s get you sorted before I throw him out.”

You follow her shyly deeper into the boutique, leaving Satoru to sulk near the counter. The further in you go, the more extravagant the fabrics become—rich velvets, shining silks, intricate embroidery, lacy tulle. You hesitate, again, feeling out of place among such luxury, but Utahime does not seem to care for your reservations. She studies you with a critical eye, holding up various fabrics against your skin.

You shift awkwardly under her scrutiny. “I don’t need anything too fancy,” you say quickly.

Utahime gives you an unimpressed jerk of her chin. “You think he is going to let you walk around in something plain?”

You glance over your shoulder at Satoru, who is currently inspecting a mannequin in the corner, tilting his head. He doesn’t even pretend to be paying attention. You sigh. “Probably not.”

“Exactly.” Utahime flicks through a row of dresses before pulling one out. “Try this.”

The fabric is smooth beneath your fingertips, a deep blue that shimmers like water under the sunlight. The embroidery along the neckline is delicate, intricate swirls of silver thread that catch the light. It’s beautiful—far more beautiful than anything you’ve ever worn before.

“I—I don’t know if I should,” you admit.

“Why not?”

“I mean, I—” You falter. The words sound silly even in your own head. I’m not used to things like this. Things this nice.

But Utahime merely shakes her head and shoves the dress into your arms, though not unkindly. “You should, because you can.” She gestures to a dressing screen next to you. “Go. Try it on.”

You nod, uncertain, before stepping behind the screen, fingers tracing over the soft fabric. It takes a moment to undo the laces of your old clothes and slip into the new dress. The material drapes over you fluidly, the fit surprisingly perfect. The bodice is snug but comfortable, cinching at your waist before flowing down in gentle folds. The sleeves are light, sheer fabric brushing against your skin like a caress.

When you step out, Utahime nods in approval. “Better.”

You look down at yourself, smoothing your hands over the fabric. It’s strange, wearing something so fine, something that makes you feel seen. You’re so used to blending into the background, to preferring practicality over beauty. But now—

A low whistle interrupts your thoughts.

You glance up to see Satoru leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips. “Damn,” he muses. “I always knew you were cute, but this is something else.”

Your face heats. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious!” He pushes off the counter, walking over to circle you, inspecting you from every angle. “You’re going to have every noble in the capital turning their heads.”

“Which means you can’t go around looking like that,” Utahime interjects, shooting Satoru a pointed glare.

He blinks. “Like what?”

“Like a half-drowned stray,” she says, and before he can protest, she shoves a bundle of clothes into his arms. “Go change. I refuse to let someone as beautiful as her be seen with an absolute pauper like you.”

You laugh, and Satoru pouts at you. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Extremely,” you agree.

Grumbling under his breath, he disappears behind another dressing screen, leaving you and Utahime in silence. After a beat, she turns to you. “You’re travelling with him willingly?”

“It’s…” You chew on your lip. “Complicated.”

She hums, as if she’d expected nothing else. “Be careful.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you simply nod. A moment later, Satoru emerges, now dressed in something far more refined than his usual attire. The loose, tattered shirt underneath his vest has been replaced with a fitted tunic of dark navy, the high collar emphasising the sharp angles of his jaw. The long coat draped over his shoulders is a deep charcoal, lined with silver embroidery. Even his boots look newer, shinier.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Well?”

Utahime clicks her tongue. “It’s an improvement. Barely.”

Satoru ignores her and turns to you. “What do you think?”

“You look… less like a thief,” you say.

“I’ll take that as a win.”

Utahime rolls her eyes, thrusting a pair of slippers that match the colour of your dress at you, along with an ivory comb to pin your hair back in place. “Take these and get out of my shop.”

So you do.

The capital, you’ve come to realise, is a place of contradictions—grand stone buildings adorned with ivy, shadowed alleyways where whispers slip through the cracks, noblewomen in embroidered shawls brushing shoulders with street performers balancing on stilts. 

Satoru weaves between crowds easily, pausing only when something catches his interest: A vendor selling sugared fruits, a fortune teller shuffling tarot cards at a makeshift stall, a pair of children chasing each other with wooden swords, their giggles ringing bright in the late morning hour. He lingers just long enough to soak in the moment before moving on, as if the city itself is nothing more than an elaborate game designed for his amusement. You try not to stare, but the way he carries himself is captivating—like he’s seen it all before and yet, still finds a way to be charmed by it.

“See?” He nudges your arm lightly with his elbow. “Told you you’d fit right in.”

You press your lips together and say nothing. The fabric of your new dress sways as you walk, softer and finer than anything you’ve ever owned. It feels unfamiliar against your skin, but not unpleasant. It makes you feel different, somehow, like you’ve stepped into a role that doesn’t quite belong to you. People glance at you differently now; not with suspicion or wariness, but with curiosity.

“So, what now?” you ask instead.

Satoru grins, wild, his blue eyes shining with mirth and excitement. “Now? Now, we explore.”

And explore you do.

He leads you through the winding streets, pointing out interesting stalls and dodging carts and carriages. He stops at a street performer juggling knives and dramatically gasps at every toss, leaning in as if he’s witnessing a royal duel. You shake your head, but his antics coax a quiet smile out of you. When he catches it, his smile softens just a little.

A hidden alleyway tucked between two bustling shops reveals an old woman sitting behind a small table, delicate glass trinkets laid out in neat rows. The figures catch the light, shimmering like captured stardust. Satoru crouches, fingers hovering over a tiny glass cat, its tail curled in mid-motion. His white hair falls into his eyes as he studies it, the briefest flicker of something thoughtful passing over his features.

“D’you think Megumi and Sukuna are getting lonely?” he murmurs, turning the figurine over in his hands before placing it back, offering the woman a charming wink as he tosses her a coin for her time.

“You didn’t buy it,” you observe. The two of you step back onto the main street.

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just wanted to look.”

You make your way towards the bustling heart of the market, where stalls overflow with bright fabrics, glinting trinkets, and fresh produce. The scent of roasted chestnuts curls around you, warm and nutty. Satoru pauses, his gaze flicking to a vendor skillfully tossing chestnuts in a wire pan over an open flame. The chestnuts pop and crackle in the heat. Without a word, he steps forward, tossing a few coins onto the counter. The vendor barely has time to acknowledge him before Satoru is already handing you a small paper pouch, its warmth seeping into your fingers.

“Try one,” he says, grinning.

You peel open the shell of a chestnut, the scent much richer up close. When you take a bite, it’s soft and sweet, the kind of warmth that settles deep in your chest.

Satoru watches you expectantly. “Well?”

“They’re good,” you admit.

“Of course they are,” he boasts. “I have impeccable taste.”

You huff a small laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t pull away when he reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your face that escaped the confines of Utahime’s comb. His fingertips barely ghost over your skin fleetingly, but you feel it like an ember catching flame. It stretches between you like a thread being pulled taut—and then he clears his throat and looks away.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of another street. “There’s one more place I want to show you.”

By the time you arrive at the jewelry stall, the sun hangs high overhead, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Unlike the market district, this section of the city is quieter, the chatter of merchants distant, softened by the hum of rustling leaves. The stall itself is small but carefully arranged—dainty chains displayed on dark velvet, rings nestled in silk-lined boxes, gemstones catching the light in a kaleidoscope of colours. Here, the world feels slower, as if it exists in its own pocket of time.

Satoru steps forward, fingers skimming lightly over the jewelry. His expression is uncharacteristically thoughtful. You watch him curiously. Until now, he’s been aimlessly amused by everything, flitting from stall to stall and shop to shop like a butterfly with no real direction, but this—this is different. There’s an intention behind the seriousness in his eyes.

“What are you looking for?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead picking up a simple silver necklace with a small blue gemstone embedded in its center. He turns it between his fingers, the pad of his thumb brushing over the stone as he studies it for a long moment. Then, as if coming to a decision, he looks at you.

“This suits you,” he says.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

He steps closer, the space between you shrinking. “Here,” he says softly. “Let me.”

Your breath catches when his hands lift, brushing against the back of your neck. The metal of the chain is cool against your skin, but his fingers—his fingers are warm, careful, the touch light enough to send a shiver down your spine. He lingers for just a fraction too long before fastening the clasp, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck in a way that makes heat bloom beneath your skin. When he pulls away, the pendant rests just above your collarbone. You touch it lightly.

“I—I can’t take this,” you say, voice quieter than before.

Satoru only smirks, but it’s not his usual brand of tiresome arrogance. It’s softer. “Too late. No returns.”

Your fingers tighten around the pendant. The stone is smooth beneath your touch, reflecting the sunlight in shifting shades of blue. It reminds you of something—of fleeting moments, of oceans you’ve never seen, of something vast and untouchable yet undeniably present. The question slips out before you can stop it: “Why?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze roams over you, something unreadable flickering in those too-bright eyes. Then, he shrugs. “Consider it a souvenir,” he says. “Something to remember today by.”

You want to press him for more, but something about the way he says it is fragile, delicate in a way that makes you hesitant to touch it too harshly. It is a thread pulled just slightly tighter, a balance shifted just slightly off-kilter. He reaches for your wrist, tugging you gently back towards the street. 

“Let’s go,” he says, ever the one to move before a moment settles. “We’ve still got time before sunset.”

By the time the sun begins its descent, the capital is alive in a different way than before. Where the market had been filled with the shouts of merchants and the clatter of wooden carts, the town square now hums with a different kind of energy—joyful and infectious.

Colourful paper lanterns have been strung between buildings, flickering to life as the sky fades from gold to dusky violet. Musicians gather in the center of the square, their lively tune spilling into the air, coaxing laughter and movement from the people around them. The scent of honeyed pastries from a nearby stall blends with the perfume of crushed petals from garlands strung over doorways.

“Well, sweetheart,” Satoru says, “it’s your lucky day. Looks like we’ve arrived just in time for a celebration.”

You look up at him, slightly wary. “A celebration for what?”

“The night before the lantern festival, ‘course.” He grabs your wrist and pulls you forward.

“Satoru—”

“Hush, we’ve done nothing but walk around all day,” he says, meandering through the crowd. “Let’s have a little fun.”

Your protests die on your tongue when you step into the heart of the square. The music swells, a melody of flutes, fiddles and tambourines; it is so rich and lively that it seems to settle beneath your skin, curling around your ribs like something alive. All around you, people spin and sway to the rhythm, moving as if the music is stitched into their bones. Women twirl in dresses of deep reds and blues, their skirts fanning out like blooming flowers, while men clap their hands to the beat, laughing as they switch partners. Children dart between the dancers, giggles escaping their lips, while couples sway together, lost in their own world.

You’re so caught up in taking it all in that you don’t notice Satoru moving until his hand finds yours again. The moment you realise what he’s doing, your eyes widen. “Oh, no—”

“Oh, yes,” he counters, grinning as he spins you suddenly, catching you before you can stumble. “You can’t expect me to dance alone, can you?”

“I can if I don’t know how,” you retort, heart racing at the unexpected movement.

He clicks his tongue. “Tsk. And here I thought you were quick on your feet.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Only when I need to be.”

The thief only laughs, that bright, boyish sound that makes something warm settle in your chest. “Just follow my lead,” he says, drawing you in.

Against all reason, you do. At first, you’re hesitant, stiff under his hands while he guides you into the rhythm of the dance. But Satoru is nothing if not persistent. He keeps you moving, spinning you into the flow of the music, making the world blur in bursts of colour and light.

It’s dizzying, the way he moves—not just with grace, but with a kind of unshaken confidence, like he’s never once doubted that the world will bend to him if he asks it to. His hands are steady on yours, his steps sure, and when he grins, it’s the kind of grin that makes you feel like you’re part of some grand adventure, something wild and untamed.

You’ve never met a man like him before.

Somewhere along the way, your hesitation fades. Your body moves with his naturally now, drawn into the lilt of the music. Your laughter bubbles up before you can stop it, spilling into the air between you as he twirls you beneath the glow of the lanterns. Satoru watches you closely, his smile softening, just a little around the edges.

“Told you it’s fun,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, breathless. “Warn me next time.”

“You do want a next time, then,” he says, and you don’t have an answer to that.

Because—maybe—you do. Something in you, you think, has begun to unravel. Maybe, against all logic, you’re slipping. Maybe, you don’t mind. You meet his gaze, heart rabbiting about in your chest. His eyes are impossibly blue, bright even in the dim glow of the lanterns. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, your thoughts a mess of tangled emotions, but you can’t bring yourself to step away. Not when his grip is this steady, not when his eyes are watching you like that.

The music melts into something softer, the once-rapid twirls melting into something slower, more intimate. Satoru’s hand shifts, resting lightly against your waist, his other still holding yours between calloused fingers. The world feels smaller now, quieter, narrowed down to just the two of you.

When the song finally ends, both of you out of breath and a little bit sweaty, Satoru steps back and bows with an exaggerated flourish. The fondness in your chest betrays you, and you curtsey back. He holds your hand again, and doesn’t let go. Even as the music fades and the crowd disperses, laughter trailing off into the warm night, his grip remains firm. You should pull away. Should remind yourself that he’s still a thief, still unpredictable, still frustrating beyond belief. 

Instead, you let him guide you through the winding streets of the capital once more, past shops closing up for the night, past candlelight flickering through bedroom windows, past lovers whispering in darkened corners. The warmth of the evening settles over you both, the smell of jasmines and roses and summer heat pressing in close.

“You’ll like this,” Satoru says, turning back over his shoulder.

“You say that about everything.”

“And I mean it every single time,” he replies. 

He takes you through a narrow alley, walking with the surety of someone who has spent their childhood finding all the hidden parts of the city. A wooden ladder rests against the side of a weathered stone building; Satoru lets go of your hand and immediately starts climbing.

You pause. “Seriously?”

“Unless you want to climb up four flights of stairs,” he calls down, teasing. “But I don’t think you’re in the mood for a hike.”

With an exasperated shake of your head, you gather the folds of your dress into your arms, bunching up the fabric. The ladder, thankfully, is sturdy despite having stood in that spot for who knew how long. The climb is easier than you expect, and when you reach the top, Satoru is already waiting, standing near the edge of the rooftop with his hands in his pockets, watching the city unfold beneath him.

Your breath hitches. The view is stunning. From here, the capital is a sea of golden lights, stretching wide until the river that snakes around the perimeter near the far end. The castle looms in the distance, its towers reaching towards the heavens, the marble reflecting all the lights. Beyond it, the countryside stretches endlessly, shadowed hills rolling underneath a sky dusted with constellations. The stars seem impossibly close, as if you could reach out and trace them with your fingers.

Satoru watches your reaction, the corners of his lips curling into something softer than a smirk, something quieter. “Told you.”

You don’t reply immediately, too busy taking in the sheer vastness of it all. The castle, the city, the stars—things that once felt distant and untouchable now seem just within reach. Stepping closer to him, you ask, “How did you find this place?”

“I used to come up here as a kid. Sometimes, when things got—complicated, I guess you could say—I’d sneak away, climb up here, and just watch. The world looks different from above.”

You nod, turning back to the view, letting the quiet settle between you. Satoru plops down onto the shingles of the rooftop, inches away from the part where it begins to slope, and motions for you to do the same. You comply, dress rustling as you sit down next to him. After a moment, Satoru shifts, leaning back on his palms, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The cool night air ruffles his hair, the moonlight catching on the silver strands.

“Can I ask you something?”

“...That depends,” you say.

His smile is easy, lazy—but his eyes are sharp and searching, like he’s trying to peel back all your layers. “Back in the market,” he starts, slow, “you let me pull you into that dance. You could’ve left. You could’ve made an excuse, walked away, ignored me entirely. But you didn’t. Why?”

You suck in a breath, eyes drifting to the city below. The streets are quieter now, the celebrations beginning to wind down. For so long, your world has been small. Not just physically, but in the way that mattered—the way that made it feel like you were meant to stay in one place, bound by duty, by love, by responsibility.

“My grandmother,” you begin, softly. “She was the only family I had left.”

Satoru doesn’t move; he just watches you, waiting. “She got sick,” you continue, wringing your fingers together on your lap. “And I had to take care of her. I couldn’t leave, even if I wanted to. Even if—” You pause, exhaling through your nose. “Even if I dreamed about it sometimes.”

The memories come back in pieces—watching the world pass by beyond the edges of your village, wondering what lay beyond the fields and forests you had never crossed. The way you used to sit by your grandmother’s bedside, listening to the stories she told of places she had never been either.

“She passed away,” you say, quieter this time.

Satoru doesn’t speak, but the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten. You turn your head, looking out over the city again. The castle towers rise high against the star-streaked sky, the view stretching beyond anything you ever could have imagined from your tiny corner of the world.

“I spent so long staying in one place,” you admit, “being careful and doing what was expected of me. But now…” You trail off, searching for the shape of the feeling that’s been unravelling inside you since the moment you first stepped beyond the life you thought you were meant to live. “Now, I think I just want to see what’s out there.”

A slow smile tugs at Satoru’s lips. It’s not the cocky smirk you’re used to, nor the grin that comes with a teasing remark. It’s softer, something almost—fond. “And now that you’re here, is it everything you’ve dreamed of and more?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “It’s incredible.”

“I’m glad,” he says, then, after a beat: “Alright, my turn.”

“Your turn?”

“To answer a question.” His eyes flicker to you, playful. “You want to ask me something, don’t you?”

You pause. Then, before you can overthink it, you ask, “Are you still only with me because you want the crown back?”

The teasing edge in his expression falters, just for a second. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, fingers tapping idly against the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the distant castle. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more thoughtful. 

“At first, yeah,” he admits. “That was the plan.”

You wait, sensing there’s more. Satoru lets out a breath, a faint chuckle escaping him, though there’s a strangeness to the sound—like he’s amused at his own thoughts, still figuring them out. He says, “But you’re not exactly what I expected.”

You frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shifts, turning to face you fully now, the golden lights casting shadows across the side of his face. “It means,” he says, “that I figured you’d be like everyone else. Predictable. Easy to manipulate. Someone who’d either slow me down or get in my way.”

Satoru smiles, tilting his head, but this time, it’s different—less teasing, more like he’s studying you, trying to commit you to memory. “But you’re not.”

Your heart stutters. You don’t know if it’s the words themselves, or the way he’s looking at you—intent, unrushed, like you are something worth deciphering—but something shifts, something fragile and terrifying in its certainty. You should say something; you ought to shake your head, roll your eyes, scoff at him like you always do. But the night air is wrought with something you don’t have a name for, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.

“You’re stubborn,” he continues, voice dipping just slightly, low enough that you feel it more than hear it. “Smart. Quicker than I expected. You surprise me.”

The breath you’ve been holding releases in a slow exhale, but it doesn’t make the feeling in your chest settle. “I don’t know if I believe you,” you murmur.

Satoru leans in, not touching—not yet—but close enough that the heat of him brushes against your skin. “You really should.”

You barely have time to process what he means before he moves, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to stop him. Some part of you registers this—but you ignore it, because somewhere along the way, you stopped wanting to.

His hand lifts first, fingertips ghosting along your jaw, barely there, a touch so cursory, it could be mistaken for hesitation. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull you in like a man desperate—he waits, breath mingling with yours, gaze flickering down to your lips, then back up again, watching. It’s agonisingly slow, and maybe that’s what makes your pulse hammer in your throat, makes your fingers tighten at your sides as if fighting the instinct to reach for him. 

And then—the faintest brush. Featherlight; testing. A breath of a kiss, a question rather than an answer. You could pull away now, but the moment his lips meet yours, something inside you caves.

It’s soft at first, uncertain, but the second you respond—just the smallest tilt forward, the slightest press of your lips against his—he becomes more insistent. His hand cups your jaw more firmly, his other coming to rest against the small of your back, drawing you in as though the space between you is something offensive and unbearable.

You gasp against his mouth, but it isn't surprise. It’s relief; like something that had been threatening to snap inside you has finally, finally broken loose. His lips move slowly against your, unhurried but devastating, a contradiction of softness and something deeper, something unjumbling beneath your skin. You don’t even realise when your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like he might slip away if you don’t.

You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just fall.

It’s easy enough to fall into Gojo Satoru like this. Too easy, really. It should be harder. It should be something that gives you pause, something that makes you second-guess yourself. But you don’t, because right now, on this rooftop with the whole city stretching out below you and the stars scattered across the sky like crushed diamonds, it doesn’t feel like a mistake. It doesn’t feel like something you’ll regret. It just feels like him.

Satoru pulls away and watches you carefully, the way he always does when he’s waiting for you to make a move first. His hands rest loosely on either side of him, deceptively relaxed, but his gaze tells a different story. There’s something in his eyes tonight—softer, expectant, something that makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t entirely understand. Maybe you’ll never understand him fully. But you think, maybe you don’t have to.

You reach for him first this time. A brush of your fingers against his wrist. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—just watches, as if memorising the moment. You shuffle closer, until your knees touch where he’s sitting, until his breath stirs the air between you. When you finally lean in, when your lips graze his in something that isn’t quite a kiss yet, you hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes. Then, finally, he moves.

Satoru kisses like he does everything else—sure of himself, but not impatient. He takes his time, lets you press in closer as his hands find their way to your waist, his touch steady and warm. The rooftop is quiet except for the distant sounds of the city and the faint hum of the night air, but all you can hear is him—the way his breath blows on your cheek, the way he exhales softly when your fingers slip into his hair.

You let him kiss you deeper, let him tilt his head and pull you closer and melt into him as easily as breathing. When he pulls you into his lap, hands firm on your hips and his lips trail lower, brushing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, you decide you don’t want to stop at all.

The inn is a modest place, tucked between streets. Its wooden beams creak, and the scent of old bookshelves and candle wax wafts through the air, mixing with something sweet—honey, maybe, or the remnants of a forgotten perfume. Satoru had brought you here so quickly and paid for a room that, despite the knowing look the innkeeper gave you both, you didn’t have the time to feel embarrassed before he was whisking you away.

It’s quiet here, away from prying eyes. The bed beneath you is softer than you’d expected, sheets worn but clean, warmed by the heat of your bodies. A single melting candle in the corner lights up the room, its glow casting shadows along the rough-hewn walls, pooling in the hollow of Satoru’s throat as he hovers over you.

There’s a moment—just a moment—where uncertainty creeps in. You’ve never done this before. Somehow, Satoru seems to know that without you even saying anything. His hands, steady and warm, never wander too far, never push for more than what you’re willing to give. Even as his lips move against yours—slow, coaxing, patient—there’s an unspoken question between every kiss; an invitation rather than a demand. It makes it easier. Easier to melt into him and to follow the way his fingers map careful paths down your spine.

You barely register when he tugs at the hem of your clothes, when fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling somewhere unseen. His gentle fingers unclasp the comb in your hair, letting it fall down loose. He leaves the necklace on, though, the blue pendant just above your collarbone, reflecting his own blue eyes. They darken when he sees you like this. His hands are on your bare skin, and it’s different—more real, somehow. More intimate than anything else before this.

Satoru leans back, exhaling as he takes you in, eyes dragging over every newly exposed inch of you. His gaze is heavy, reverent in a way that makes you shiver. “You’re beautiful.”

Your breath catches. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading through you in slow, curling tendrils. Then he’s pressing his lips to your throat, his hands gliding down your sides, settling on your hips. His touch is firm but never rough. Still, the anticipation builds.

Your skin feels too hot, too sensitive, aware of the way his mouth drags lower—over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Then, lower still. You shudder. “Satoru—”

He hums against your skin, one hand sliding beneath your knee, urging you to part for him. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding. That’s all the permission he needs. His hands settle on your thighs, parting them gently. His lips ghost over the sensitive skin, teasing and testing, before he presses a kiss where you’re already aching for him.

The first touch of his tongue is tentative—just a slow, languid drag against you, as if savouring the taste. Like he’s learning exactly what makes you tremble. You do tremble. A quiet, broken sound slips from your lips before you can stop it, your fingers tightening instinctively in his hair. Satoru groans, low and pleased, and the vibration of it makes your stomach tighten.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overwhelm you. He simply moves with purpose, unravelling you piece by piece, lick by lick, until the pleasure builds into something unbearable. You don’t know when your eyes flutter shut and your body melts into the sheets. His grip tightens just slightly to hold you in place. When he drags his tongue over that one spot, when he sucks, slow and deliberate, pleasure licks up your spine like wildfire. You gasp.

“That’s it,” Satoru says, a tad proud. “Just let go.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your thighs tightening around him as he coaxes pleasure out of you with maddening patience. The tension builds, winding tighter, higher, and when he rubs your bundle of nerves with his thumb, you moan. Warmth spills through your limbs; your breath catches and everything around you blurs, reduced to nothing but the feeling of his mouth, his hands, his name falling from your lips in a whisper. Satoru stays there for a moment longer, pressing one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before moving back up. He kisses you again, slow and deep, and the taste of yourself on his lips makes your head spin.

“How was that?” he asks.

“You talk too much,” you say, and slant your lips against his again.

Satoru pulls away, though reluctantly. Kneeling between your legs, his hands move to his belt. You watch, still dazed, as he undoes it and kicks his trousers off, then pulls his tunic over his head in one smooth motion. You swear you forget how to breathe.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for him, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He shudders at the contact, and something about that—about the way you affect him—sends a thrill through you. Wordlessly, he leans back, watching you carefully.

You meet his gaze, and, slowly, slide your hands up, over the defined lines of his collarbones, over the faint scars that mark his skin. You take your time, tracing the firm places of his stomach, the ridges of muscle beneath your fingertips. He has a scar cutting through his torso, a jagged line that should look unseemly, but on Satoru it does not. You don’t think anything ever could. 

“How did you get this?” you whisper, running your fingers along the line.

“Failed assassination attempt on me,” he whispers back. You’re not even surprised anymore.

Satoru is beautiful. It’s a thought that strikes you suddenly, like a realisation that had been waiting for the right moment to surface. He’s all long limbs and lean strength, a body built for running and fighting and surviving. The sight of him, bare before you, makes something warm bloom in your chest.

“You’re staring,” he teases, but his voice is quieter this time, almost breathless.

You hum, letting your nails drag lightly down his torso, watching the way his stomach tenses in response. “Maybe.”

His breath comes out uneven. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he leans down, pressing his weight against you, caging you beneath him. The heat of his body is overwhelming, the feel of bare skin on bare skin sending a shiver through you. Even then, when he presses his lips to yours, he asks, “Are you sure?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He exhales sharply, his forehead dropping against yours. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, tilting your head just enough to kiss him again. “Then die quietly.”

His answering grin is crooked. He nudges your nose with his, and his hand finds yours against the sheets as he laces your fingers together. Slowly, he moves.

The first press is slow, careful, an unfamiliar stretch as he eases himself inside you inch by inch. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers tightening around his while your body adjusts to him. There’s a sting, a deep pull of discomfort that makes you tense, but he stills immediately, exhaling a shaky breath against your temple.

Satoru’s lips ghost over your skin, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, murmuring quiet praises in between. “You’re doing so well,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “So fucking perfect.”

The ache fades gradually, melting into something warmer. You take a slow breath, then shift your hips slightly—just enough for him to move. His sigh is shaky, his grip on your hand tightening. 

He starts moving, and the world narrows to nothing but him. It’s slow at first, every movement measured, as if he’s trying to memorise every little reaction and gasp that spills from your lips. He watches you the entire time, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it, like he’s seeing you for the first time. The pleasure builds gradually, a slow burn spreading through your veins. Each roll of his hips, each press of his body against yours sends another wave of heat through you, until the discomfort is nothing but a memory. Your legs tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper. Satoru groans, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he curses under his breath.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice strained. “You feel—” He shakes his head, unable to finish the thought. His teeth graze lightly over your shoulder. His pace quickens slightly, pulling breathy moans from you with every movement. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach, winding like a thread about to snap. 

And then he angles his hips just right, hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur. A broken sound escapes your lips. Your grip on his hand tightens, nails digging into his skin. “There?” he asks, voice thick with something you can’t quite place.

You nod, unable to form words, and he groans, pressing deeper, chasing every little reaction you give him. It’s overwhelming—the warmth of him above you, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the way he whispers your name like it’s something sacred.

When you finally reach that peak, when the pleasure crests and crashes over you in dizzying waves, your entire body shudders beneath him. The thread snaps, leaving you weightless and drowning in sensation as he follows soon after, his movements growing erratic. Satoru pulls out just in time, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he spills onto your stomach, one hand gripping your waist as his body trembles above you. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly; he takes in the sight of you beneath him—flushed, panting, utterly wrecked.

For a long moment, neither of you move. His breath fans over your collarbone, fingers fiddling with the silver chain around your neck. He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, and his grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. Eventually, Satoru shifts, rolling onto his back and searching for something to clean you up. He finds a wash basin with a cloth placed nearby; wetting it gently, he pads back to you. The thief—your lover, now, you suppose—is gentle, wiping you down with slow, careful movements before tossing the cloth aside. Then, without hesitation, he pulls you against him, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing his lips against your temple.

His fingers trace absentminded patterns along your spine, his touch featherlight. You feel his lips press against your hair, and the gesture makes your chest ache. You curl into him. He rests his chin on the top of your head. “Sleep,” he says.

You don’t say anything—just let your eyes slip shut, and let yourself sink into the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Satoru coaxes you out of bed with the promise of buying you a honey-dipped pastry from one of the vendors you’d been eyeing the day before. You grumble about his methods, saying he has an unfair advantage knowing your weaknesses so well, but truthfully, you don’t really mind. You dress quickly, smoothing your hands over the creases in your gown and pulling your hair back with the ivory comb, while Satoru lounges against the doorframe, watching you with that easy, lopsided grin of his. The sunlight catches in his hair, and when he tilts his head at you, something warm curls inside your stomach. You shove it down. 

The two of you leave the small inn just as the sun begins to rise, the golden light spilling over the rooftops. The streets are still mostly empty, save for a few vendors who’ve begun setting up their stalls. You walk beside Satoru, your hands brushing against each other now and then, though neither of you makes a move to pull away. He fills the quiet with his usual chatter, talking nonsense, teasing you about how you hogged the blankets, about how you snored (you did not). You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and spinning you in a quick, playful circle.

When you finally reach Nanami’s bookshop, it looks the same as it did the day before—quiet and unassuming, its worn wooden sign creaking slightly in the breeze. You push the door open.

Nanami is at the counter, as usual, a book open in front of him. But you can very quickly tell something is off. He doesn’t look up right away. His hands are still, fingers pressed against the page, unmoving. When his gaze finally lifts, it lingers on Satoru first, then flickers to you. He exhales and gives you just the faintest shake of his head. A warning. Leave.

You blink at him, confused. Satoru, oblivious as ever, only grins. “Morning, Nanami,” he sing-songs, stretching as he strolls further inside.

Nanami doesn’t answer. You hear footsteps, slow and heavy—the sound of hard boots against wooden flooring. Not from the entrance. From the back of the shop.

A man steps into view. Tall, with broad shoulders, his dark hair pulled into a high knot, leaving a few loose strands to frame his face. His clothing is different from the soldiers you’ve seen before—black and deep blue, his vest embroidered with the sigil of the royal family. But what strikes you most is his expression: Blank and unreadable; the kind of stillness that feels dangerous without needing to try. His eyes, dark and steady, scan the room methodically before resting on Satoru. He’s flanked by two soldiers on either side of him, standing in metal-plated armour with their faces hidden by the visors on their helmets.

“Ah,” the thief says. “So that’s why Nanami was looking at me like I was already dead.”

The room is still. Satoru doesn’t move. Neither does the man at the back of the shop. Nanami, ever composed, keeps his fingers pressed against the pages of his book, though you can see the tension in his shoulders. He knows exactly who this man is. You don’t.

“You’ve gotten sloppy,” he remarks, as if he was simply commenting on the weather. “I had multiple reports of you wandering throughout the city yesterday. You weren’t even subtle about it.” A small pause, and then: “Frolicking, they said. With a girl.”

His eyes slide towards you. Your stomach tightens. You don’t recognise him, but something about his presence makes your skin prickle. It’s the way he carries himself—the way his posture is lazy, the way his voice is even and smooth, but not emotionless. He reminds you of Satoru, but less flamboyant and raucous.

“I should introduce myself,” he continues, “to our friend here who appears visibly confused. Geto Suguru, captain of the Royal Guard, at your service, madam.”

Satoru merely shakes his head. “You really ought to pay your soldiers more,” he drawls. “Imagine sending them on a wild goose chase to find me. Surely there are more pressing matters to attend to—but I am flattered about the attention you’re very generously bestowing upon me.”

The man hums, unimpressed. “They do their jobs well enough. Unlike you.”

His gaze flicks to a low table pushed to the side. To the crown—the crown that was supposed to be tucked underneath your mattress back in your cottage. Your pulse quickens. Satoru follows his gaze. “Hm,” he says, like it’s all very unfortunate, “I suppose that’s how you found us.”

“You’re different,” the man says. “You never used to be this careless.”

Familiarity bleeds into his tone when he says it. They have a history, the thief beside you and the soldier opposite him, that much is clear. Your fingers curl into your palm.

“Is this the part where you tell me I’ve gone soft?” Satoru grins but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Captain Geto lifts a brow. “If the boot fits.”

Satoru snorts. You stay quiet, your mouth drying up. You don’t know how deep their history runs. You’re not sure if you want to, anymore, even though, earlier, your curiosity about Gojo Satoru knew no bounds.

“You found me, Suguru,” Satoru says simply, grin vanishing.

The captain inclines his head. “You always make things difficult,” he says, lifting a hand.

The soldiers step forward. Satoru doesn’t fight when they grab him. He stays motionless, doesn’t even flinch as they wrench his arms and wrists, twisting them behind his back. He doesn’t move, but you do. “Satoru—”

He turns his head towards you, and you swear you see something shutter in his expression. But as quickly as it comes, it goes, replaced by a grin that looks more like a sneer.

“I assume you won’t struggle,” the captain says.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Geto,” Satoru says.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—before your brain wraps around what’s happening—Suguru turns to you. His dark eyes sweep over you, assessive. “You’re from the villages, aren’t you?”

You freeze. His voice is calm—not unkind or threatening. Just certain. There is nothing that suggests immediate condemnation about the way he says it, but it sends a prickle of something cold down your spine. You force yourself to square your shoulders and look him in the eye when you confirm his question.

Suguru nods at your reply, something thoughtful about the way he regards you. “Then you have a choice,” he says.

“A… choice?” Your pulse thunders against your skin.

He tilts his head once more, slightly, and for a moment, you could almost call him composed—gracious, even. His words are anything but. “Either you come with us, as his accomplice. Or you return to your village and pretend this never happened.”

The words drop between you like stones. Your throat tightens. You know what he’s offering. A way out. A chance to walk away and go back to the life you left behind. You can let these past few weeks become nothing more than a bitter memory, something you can tuck away and bury deep. But if you leave—

You find yourself looking at Satoru. He grins at you, looking for all the world like he doesn’t have a care. Like he isn’t standing there, bound, with soldiers at his back and chains ready to be locked around his wrists. But you also see the way his shoulders have gone taut, the way his fingers twitch, just slightly, like he wants to reach for you. Before you can think to answer, Satoru cuts in.

“I lied to her.”

Your heart hammers in your chest at his sudden declaration. Captain Geto raises a brow, waiting.

Satoru’s grin widens, careless and easy. “She didn’t know who I was. She didn’t know about the crown or any of this. I played her the fool, and charmed my way into her good graces. Can you blame her?”

You feel like the ground beneath you has vanished. He’s lying. You know it, Suguru knows it, Nanami knows it—but he says it anyway, as if willing it into truth, daring Suguru to challenge him. 

“You never change,” the captain murmurs.

“Nope,” the thief agrees, popping the ‘p’ sound.

There’s a silence; a slow, quiet sigh. Suguru shakes his head. “Take him.”

The soldiers move. You react on instinct, lurching forward, reaching for him—but rough hands seize your shoulders, pulling you back. Nanami, you realise. His sturdy arms—too muscular for a simple bookseller—hold you in place no matter how much you squirm in his grip.

Satoru, on the other hand, merely presses his lips together when they fasten the iron cuffs around his wrists. You feel the sharp sting of panic rise up your throat. “No—” Your voice cracks, but no one is listening. Your limbs feel useless, weak, as the soldiers push past you. “Wait—”

Captain Geto steps forward, blocking your path, his presence an immovable wall of black and blue. His dark eyes settle on yours, calm and resolute. “We found the crown at a cottage.”

His words feel like ice water down your spine. You swallow hard. Suguru doesn’t look triumphant, doesn’t even look like he’s enjoying this. He states it as an inevitable fact. “The entire village was searched,” he continues, measured and unhurried, like he’s laying out the pieces of a story so that you understand. “We found the stolen heirloom hidden there. And if it was there, then that means whoever lives in that cottage—” 

He pauses. You don’t dare to breathe.

“—was harbouring the kingdom’s most wanted criminal.”

A leaden weight settles in your chest. No. No, that’s not true. I didn’t know. But the words don’t come. Because you did know, right from the start, when you stole the crown from him.  It was already too late, then, and it is too late now, because now—now, you know the shape of his smile, the sound of his laugh, the calluses on his fingers. Satoru was protecting your secret, and the realisation burns. Your nails bite into your palm. You want to say something, to fight back and demand an explanation from Geto Suguru. Satoru turns his head towards you.

The soldiers pull him to the door, and you watch, your throat tight and your breath shallow. Your feet won’t move, your body feels frozen, like some part of you believes this is the last time you’ll see him. Like some part of you is already mourning. Satoru’s grin doesn’t slip. His white hair falls over his eyes, and for a brief second, you swear you see something there—something reassuring. He’s telling you it’s going to be okay. He’s telling you not to follow.

“Gojo Satoru,” the captain announces, “as the Captain of the Royal Guard, as per the First Commander’s decree, I hereby arrest you for the cases of looting, thievery, causing bodily harm and injury, failure to repay your debts to the capital, stealing the royal family’s most precious heirloom, and betrayal to the Royal Crown. Do you object to any of these claims?”

“No, Captain,” Satoru says.

“Very well. Your punishment for the following acts of treason is death. The execution will be tomorrow, at sundown. Do you have anything you wish to say?”

His blue eyes find yours. “No, Captain,” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your vision blurs. Gojo Satoru, the menace, the thief you’ve journeyed with, the man who knows you more intimately than anyone else, smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, as the guards lead him away.

“There’s a history, isn’t there?” You cross your arms over your chest. Nanami and Utahime—who had arrived almost as soon as Nanami had sent word—look at each other. “Between the captain and Satoru, and—and you two and Satoru. Tell me.”

It’s been two hours since Satoru was arrested. Two hours of restless pacing, your mind running in frantic circles and your hands clenching and unclenching as you tried to come up with a plan—any plan—that didn’t result in you standing at the end of a sword. 

Nanami had stopped you before you could even try to follow the captain and his soldiers. “That’s suicide,” he had told you, his voice low but firm. “You wouldn’t make it past the castle gates.” He had barely convinced you to stay. But the truth was, you wouldn’t have made it far. Not when Geto had given you just one day to gather your things, buy what you needed from the capital, and leave. Leave. The word itches under your skin. You had nodded shakily when Captain Geto had told you as much. But even as you agreed, you knew. You’re not leaving—not while Satoru is to be executed.

Nanami sighs. “It’s not something you need to involve yourself in.”

“That’s not your call to make,” you snap.

Utahime shifts beside him, arms crossed. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“I don’t care,” you argue. “Satoru is in a cell somewhere, waiting to be executed, and you’re acting like it’s already over.” You take a step closer. “But it’s not, is it? Because if it were, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Fine,” the tailor says. Nanami opens his mouth to protest, but she gives him a look and he stays silent. She leans against the table, fingers drumming on the wood, and takes a deep breath before she starts:

“We were all soldiers once. Me, Nanami, our friends Shoko and Haibara, Geto, and Gojo. We trained together. We fought together. We thought we’d die together. And some of us did. Haibara—he was the youngest of us. Too kind, too trusting—” her jaw tightens— “and he shouldn’t have been sent on that mission. Gojo and Geto were the best of us. The strongest. That strength made them invaluable, but it also put them close to the former captain of the Royal Guard.”

“The First Commander?” you ask.

Nanami nods, his expression darkening. “After Haibara’s death, Geto and Gojo… They changed. Geto became more distant, more dissociated from all the blood and the killing. Gojo became more reckless. At first, we thought it was just grief. Losing Haibara—it did something to all of us. But Geto and Gojo… they were different. They knew something we didn’t.”

Utahime shifts uncomfortably. “They spent more and more time with the First Commander. We didn’t think much of it. He was a brilliant strategist, and they were his best soldiers—it made sense that he’d favour them. Then, one day, while we were busy sparring at the training grounds near the east wing, Geto and the First Commander came up to us. They said—they said that they’ve entrusted us with a new mission: To find and kill Gojo Satoru.”

Your blood runs cold. “...What?”

“We didn’t know why,” Nanami says, grimly. “We still don’t. But we didn’t have a choice, so we played along. We followed his trail, but we never got too close—we made sure of it. Geto was the only one who really cared; the rest of us couldn’t stomach killing our friend.” He lets loose a breath, shoulders slumping. “Eventually, we got sent away for being too incompetent. I took over my father’s shop. Utahime became a tailor. Shoko moved to another kingdom to practice medicine.”

“And Satoru became the kingdom’s most wanted criminal,” you finish for him.

“Yes.” The man sounds tired, resigned when he says it. “The former captain of the Royal Guard became the First Commander—he is the current king’s elder brother, after all—and Geto rose in the ranks to become the new captain. The late queen passed away, and the king’s health deteriorated rapidly, until the First Commander was forced to rule in his name.”

Your head spins with all this information. There must be more to this story—there has to be. Satoru couldn’t have become a notorious thief for no reason. Geto Suguru couldn’t possibly have still been hunting for him if there wasn’t something Satoru knew. Something invaluable. How does the crown tie into this? Satoru must have stolen it for a reason. What could he gain from stealing the royal family’s most priceless heirloom, other than a grand amount of money? You know Satoru wouldn’t have stolen the crown just for the fun of it. 

You’re missing something. Something crucial. You just need to figure out what. But first, you need to save the thief who showed you the world beyond the borders of your village.

Nanami exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. His expression remains blank, but there’s something tense about the way his fingers curl into a fist before he forces them to relax. Utahime has her arms crossed, her fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeves. They had hesitated before, unwilling to speak of the past, but you are nothing if not determined and stubborn.

“Do you guys know your way in and out of the palace?” You shift on your feet. The words leave your lips with urgency, and you don’t dare let yourself hope.

Utahime answers without hesitation. “Of course. I couldn’t forget it even if I tried.”

The certainty in her voice makes your chest loosen just the slightest bit. You chew on your lip, mind racing. The execution is set for tomorrow at sundown. The timing isn’t a coincidence—if your hunch is right, Captain Geto has chosen to use the lantern festival as a veil for the event. A celebration of light and joy to mask the bloodshed. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides, the beginning threads of an idea weaving together in your mind. It’s reckless and dangerous, but what other choice do you have? “I have,” you say slowly, “a horse and a cat waiting for me outside the capital.”

Nanami’s brows furrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

You allow yourself a small, wry smile. The plan forming in your head is far from perfect—it’s borderline absurd, really—but the best distractions are often the ones no one expects.

“What better way to cause a disruption at a crowded event,” you say, leaning forward slightly, “than by letting a massive warhorse go rogue?”

The lanterns haven’t been lit yet—there are still hours to go for that—but the festivities begin with pomp and affair, much like the evening before, when Satoru and you had danced in the town square. Laughter rings out in waves, warm and unrestrained, carried through the crisp summer air laced with the sweet scent of spiced cider and roasted chestnuts. Music swells from the centre of the town square, a lively melody played by nimble hands on well-worn strings, and for a moment, the festival feels untouchable—like something out of a dream.

Until a scream splits through the dusk. The first crack in the revelry appears as festival-goers stumble back, their joy crumbling into confusion, then alarm. The cobblestone streets tremble beneath the furious pounding of hooves, and the festival—once so bright and golden—erupts into chaos. 

Like a demon birthed from light and flame, the beast arrives. A massive white warhorse, his snowy coat gleaming beneath the lamps’ glow, surges into the square, his reins flopping about his sides with no one there to ride him and his mane whipping about with the force of his gallops. His powerful frame barrels through the market stalls, hooves kicking up a storm of dirt and debris. A merchant barely dives out of the way as a cart of oranges topples over, spilling fruit across the street in a surge of gold and tangerine. The scent of crushed citrus only seems to amplify the panic.

Sukuna. Warhorse, menace, and a walking natural disaster. He rears up, hooves cutting through the air, and lets loose a shrill, defiant neigh that sends festival-goers scrambling. Children clutch at their mothers’ cloaks. Guards—once lazily stationed at their posts—snap to attention, hands flying to their weapons. Merchants abandon their wares, shouting frantically instead.

From the alleyway, you watch, heart hammering against your rib cage. The plan was simple. Let Sukuna loose. Create a distraction. Slip into the palace unnoticed. You were not, however, expecting this. Your eyes drift to where Nanami and Utahime stand, safely behind a water fountain, observing to make sure no real harm is caused and no one is actually injured. Utahime looks mildly shocked, while Nanami looks a little green.

Sukuna swings his massive head to an unfortunate vegetable vendor, plucks a perfectly round cabbage from the wreckage, chews it once, twice—and then hurls it full force at the nearest guard’s nether region. The cabbage makes impact with a resounding thud. The man crumples instantly. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, holding Megumi tightly against your chest with your other one. You’ve replaced Utahime’s gown with your tunic and trousers from before and a pair of sturdy boots; it’s easier to move and hide the cat against your chest by covering him with your cloak. Your pack rests against your shoulders, filled to the brim with all your supplies. 

The horse pivots, tail lashing as he sends a stack of pastries flying with a single, well-placed kick. Cream-filled tarts arc through the air, and one particularly unlucky festival-goer takes a hit directly to the face, stumbling backwards in stunned silence. The panic spreads like fire through dry brush. Flower stands topple as people shove their way through the square, knocking over barrels and baskets in their desperate attempts to flee. Musicians abandon their instruments, their once-lively tunes now replaced by the erratic clang of an overturned drum.

You press further into the shadows, gripping Megumi a little tighter. “Alright,” you whisper, gaze darting to the now-abandoned palace gates. “This is our chance.”

The cat flicks his tail against your arm, but doesn’t resist when you set him down. He slinks forward, paws silent against the stone. You take one last glance towards the town square—where Nanami and Utahime are watching Sukuna with the expressions of a duo questioning every single life decision they’ve ever made—before slipping out of the alley.

The plan had been reckless from the start. Nanami had called it suicidal. Utahime had looked moments away from smacking you when you first suggested sneaking into the palace alone. But when it became clear you wouldn’t be swayed, she’d relented, pressing a map into your hands and tracing a single, hidden path with her fingertip. 

“The old passageway beneath the garden wall,” she had told you. “Hardly anyone remembers it exists—except for Geto, maybe, but he won’t be looking for you. It leads you straight through the kitchens and towards the prison underground.”

From this distance, the palace looms like a beast sleeping beneath the stars, its many towers and arching spires silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. The golden sconces hanging from its walls cast a warm glow, creating long shadows that dance across the stone. Behind you, beyond the square, the festival rages on despite the commotion Sukuna caused. With a population this big, a simple horse won’t stop the people from celebrating—no, Sukuna had done his job well. You don’t hesitate in front of the palace. Hesitation means death.

The main gates are impossible—too well-guarded and exposed. But Utahime had spoken of another way, a smaller side entrance used for deliveries that leads you straight to the garden. It’s tucked away in the farthest corner of the palace grounds. The guards stationed there have been pulled towards the chaos in the square, just as planned. Still, you move carefully.

The shadows are your only ally as you press yourself to the outer walls, each step as silent as you can be. Megumi slinks beside you, nothing more than a wisp in the darkness with a half-torn ear, his sharp green eyes scanning for movement. You follow the curve of the stone wall, past ivy-covered archways and gushing marble fountains, until—

There. A wooden gate, half-hidden behind overgrown vines. You reach for the iron handle, fingers curling around the cool metal. You push against it with your shoulder, and it gives. The gate swings open just enough for you and Megumi to slip through, and then you’re inside the palace.

The palace gardens stretch before you in a maze of hedges and stone pathways. White roses bloom in the moonlight, petals pale as ghosts, their sweet scent thick and cloying. Marble statues of forgotten kings stand in silence, their hollow eyes seeming to follow you as you move. Somewhere beyond, you hear the distant murmur of voices—guards perhaps, manning the main halls. But here, amidst the leaves and the flowers, you are alone. 

You weave through the bushes, careful not to let your cloak catch on thorns. The path Utahime described had been clear in your mind before, but now, with the pressure to get Satoru out as quickly as possible increasing with every beat of your heart, the details feel hazy. A fountain, an old tree, and then the passage.

The fountain comes first, its water glimmering like molten silver under the moonlight. You crouch low, pressing yourself against its cool stone base, scanning the area. There’s no one around. A few paces ahead, a twisted oak rises from the ground, its gnarled roots stretching across the earth like reaching fingers. Its bark is scarred, and its branches are half-bare despite the season—just as Utahime had said.

Your pulse quickens. At the base of the tree, partially covered by weeds and wildflowers, a patch of stone juts out at an odd angle. Unlike the rest of the carefully arranged stone tiles in the garden, this one looks out of place—covered by dirt and worn by time. You drop to your knees and press your fingers against the surface. There is a slight shift, a breadth of space where there should be none.

This is it. With a careful push, the stone gives way, revealing a dark opening beneath the roots. The air that rushes out is humid and damp, as though it has not been stirred in years. You glance at Megumi. “Well,” you whisper to no one in particular. “There’s no turning back now.”

You drop legs-first into the hidden passageway. The moment your boots hit the ground, the world above seems to shrink away, muffled by layers of soil and stone. The darkness here is absolute. It presses in from all sides, thick and mawkish, the kind that swallows light and sound alike. For a moment, you do nothing but breathe, your fingers braced against the rough tunnel walls. The air is damp and stale, carrying the scent of moss, old stone, and something faintly metallic—like rain-soaked iron.

In front of you, Megumi lands soundlessly, his lithe form slipping into the darkness easily. You hear the soft thump of paws against dirt, then nothing. If not for the glint of his sharp eyes, or the way he presses his body against your leg, he might as well have disappeared.

Your fingers find the small lantern strapped to your belt. You turn the wick as low as it will go before striking the flint. A tiny ember flares, then blooms into a soft, flickering glow, just enough to illuminate the path ahead. The tunnel stretches forward, curving out of sight, its ceiling low enough that you have to crouch slightly to keep moving.

The walls here are old—older than the palace above, maybe even older than the kingdom itself. Stones worn smooth by time line the passage, their edges softened by centuries of damp air and creeping roots. In some places, cracks have formed, letting in faint sounds from the world above—the distant echoes of music and cheering from the lantern festival. Each sound feels impossibly far away, as if the tunnel exists in a world entirely separate from the one above.

You move forward carefully, your steps light on the uneven ground. Megumi pads ahead, his tail lifted in the air. The path narrows, forcing you to squeeze between the crumbling walls, and then widens again.

The passage spits you out into a vast, cavernous room, its ceiling arched and lined with thick wooden beams. Dust floats in the lantern’s dim glow, stirred by your arrival. Wooden barrels sit stacked in rows along the far wall, their formerly pristine surfaces marred by age and neglect. Bottles of aged wine and forgotten casks of ale sit upon the rotting shelves, relics of a time when this place had been used for more than secrecy. You drag your fingers across one of the barrels as you pass, feeling the rough texture of splintered wood beneath your touch.

Somewhere above, a faint creak echoes through the ceiling—a floorboard shifting beneath weight. Your breath stills. Someone is walking the halls above. You and Megumi freeze in place, listening. Silence.

Whoever it was is gone now. But the reminder is clear: You’re inside the palace now. You are running out of time. Exhaling slowly, you move to the far end of the cellar, where Utahime had said the servants’ door would be. The wood is warped with age, but when you press your shoulder against it, it gives way with a quiet groan. Beyond it, a narrow stairway spirals upwards. At the top lies the palace kitchens—and beyond that, the key you need to free Satoru.

You unsling your pack, shifting it in your arms, and step cautiously into the palace kitchens. The air is thick with the scent of past meals—roasted meats, cinnamon, and something rich and spiced. The massive hearth smoulders with dying embers, glowing orange. 

The kitchen is deserted, just as Utahime had said it would be. Most of the palace staff must have gone to watch the festival, or—more conveniently for you—to see whatever disaster Sukuna had caused in the square.

Still, you don’t take any chances. You straighten your back, undo the strings of your pack, and heft it in your arms like a sack. Striding forward, you lift your chin as though you belong here. Megumi flits past your feet, disappearing underneath one of the heavy wooden tables.

The ruse almost works—until just as you near the door leading out of the kitchen, footsteps sound from the far hallway. You freeze for only a moment before forcing your limbs to loosen. With a quick breath, you throw a mild look of annoyance onto your face, shift the pack higher onto your hip, and march forward. The door swings open and you nearly collide with a harried-looking cook. He’s a broad-shouldered man with a walrus moustache, apron stained with what looks like a day’s worth of work, and he stops short when he sees you.

“You—who are you?” His moustache quivers. His eyes flick to the open bag in your arms, filled with a hastily gathered of carrots, leeks, and a single sad-looking turnip. 

You let out an exasperated huff. “Finally,” you say, injecting the right amount of irritation into your voice. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to get these here?”

“What?”

“The town square’s a disaster! Some lunatic set a warhorse loose! I had to take the long way around the outer walls just to get here, and by the time I arrived at the usual gate, no one was there to let me in.” You shake your pack for emphasis. “Thought I was going to have to eat these myself. You’re lucky I even bothered.”

The cook eyes you suspiciously, but your complaint sounds mundane enough to be true. He rubs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. “The gods are testing me tonight. Fine, fine, put them on the table. But be quick about it.”

“Yes sir,” you mutter under your breath, making a show of stomping towards the long wooden table in the center of the kitchen. You set your pack down with a decisive thud, dusting your hands afterwards for good measure. The cook is already distracted, grumbling to himself as he turns towards the fire. You take the opportunity to scan the room, eyes landing on a rack of pots and pans hanging next to the hearth.

A weapon. Your fingers itch. It’s not that you’re planning to hit someone, but it’s always good to be prepared. And you wouldn’t exactly be the first person to use a frying pan as a last-minute means of self-defense; you’ve heard of tales of the princess of a neighbouring kingdom escaping her tower where she was kept imprisoned with nothing but a chameleon for company and a frying pan for safety.

Without hesitating, you grab one from the rack, testing its weight in your hand. It’s sturdy. Heavy enough to knock a man out cold if necessary. You slide it under your arm, keeping it close as you edge your way towards the door. 

“Oi.”

You stop. The cook is watching you again. You lift the pan slightly. “Borrowing this.”

His moustache quivers again. “For what?”

“To use,” you say vaguely. “Surely I deserve it after having brought you your vegetables despite all the trials and tribulations I faced along the way.”

“You know what? I don’t want to know. Just get the Hell out of my kitchen.”

You don’t need to be told twice. With a slight nod, you make your way towards the hall, Megumi slipping out from his hiding place to follow at your heels. The moment you’re out of sight, you tighten your grip on the pan and let out a slow, relieved breath.

You’ve done it. You’ve infiltrated the palace.

The halls stretch before you, long and gilded, lined with tapestries and portraits. The marble beneath your feet gleams even in the dim torchlight, and the walls are carved with intricate patterns of swirling gold, catching the flicker of flames like veins of molten fire.

It really is beautiful. A shame you don’t have the time to appreciate it.

Satoru had spoken of this palace with an almost begrudging sort of fondness, describing the soaring ceiling and the endless hallways. He’d said that it was too grand and gaudy, but his voice had betrayed him. Maybe, if things were different, you’d have let yourself stop for a moment; might have run your fingers over the carved archways or peeked behind the heavy velvet curtains just to see if what he had said is true.

But right now, Satoru is locked in a cage beneath all this finery, and if you didn’t move fast enough, he’d stay there. 

So you force your gaze away from all this grandeur and press forward, Megumi keeping pace beside you. The entrance to the underground prison is right where Nanami had explained it would be—tucked away at the end of a long corridor, next to the life-size portrait of the late queen. A single guard stands watch, leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

It’s almost insulting. You’d expected some kind of resistance, but clearly, the festival is a grander affair than you thought it’d be, given the fact that the entire palace is mercifully empty. (Take that, Gojo, you think. It’s not just some stupid, fucking dream.)

The guard is young, barely older than you, and his helmet is tilted back on his head like he doesn’t expect to actually need it. A ring of keys hangs from a nail on the wall beside him, just out of his immediate reach. You exhale slowly. It has to be fast.

You step forward, letting your footfalls become just loud enough to catch his attention. The guard startles, straightening as his hand drifts to the sword at his hip. “You’re not supposed to be—”

You don’t give him a chance to finish. Before he can react, you swing the frying pan. There’s a thunk as the cast iron connects with his temple, and his expression shifts from alarm to blank surprise before his knees buckle beneath him. He falls to the floor, out cold before he even hits the ground. For a moment, you just stand there, blinking down at his unconscious form.

“Okay,” you mutter. “That actually worked.” Megumi lets out an unimpressed meow. 

You shake off the momentary shock and step over the fallen guard, reaching for the keys. They’re cold in your hand as you lift them from the nail, heavier than you expected.. You kneel, looping a thin cord you’d kept in your pocket through the keyring before carefully tying it around Megumi’s neck. The metal dangles against his dark fur, catching the light as it sways with the feline’s movement. Megumi flicks his ears.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, scratching behind his ears in silent apology. “You’re the only one small enough to slip through the bars. Go save Gojo, yeah? I’ll let you use him as a mattress for the rest of your life if you do.”

You glance toward the heavy wooden door leading to the prison. You can already feel the cold draft seeping through the hinges. Satoru is waiting—and you’re almost there.

The moment Megumi slips through the prison door, you press yourself against the cold stone wall, every muscle in your body coiled tight. Now comes the hardest part: Waiting.

The silent stretches, suffocating. The distant echoes of the lantern festival feel like they belong to another world entirely—one where people are laughing, dancing, reveling underneath lantern-lit skies. But here, away from all the joyousness, in the belly of the beast, the air is still. You tighten your grip on the frying pan, the only weapon you have, though you’re not sure how much use it’ll be if someone really finds you. The minutes drag, each one more agonising than the last, and you fight the urge to start pacing.

What’s taking so long? Did Megumi make it inside? Did Satoru get the keys? Did something— A sudden, ear-splitting clang echoes from the prison depths—and then, footsteps. Heavy, fast, running. Before you can brace yourself, the door bursts open.

Gojo Satoru is a blur of white and shackles and laughter, stumbling forward as if he can’t believe the oxygen he’s breathing is real. Megumi bounds after him. The thief’s hair is a mess, his clothes rumpled from captivity, and the iron cuffs that once bound his wrists now dangle uselessly from one hand with the lock wrenched open.

He stops, just for a moment, breathing heavily, and then— “Oh.”

He reaches for you. Strong arms reach around you, lifting you clean off your feet before you can protest. He spins you once, laughter bubbling from his chest, the sound bright and alive and so him that your heart lurches.

“You’re brilliant, did you know?” he says, breathless, grinning into your hair. “My beautiful, clever girl.”

Heat rushes to your face, but before you can come up with anything resembling a response, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands settle firm at your waist, fingers pressing into you as if he needs to ground himself, needs to believe that you’re real. 

“You actually did it,” he murmurs, voice softer now, as if the realisation is still settling in. His eyes—so much brighter now that he’s not sentenced to imminent death—roam your face, searching. “You came for me.”

“Of course I did,” you say, and there’s a conviction to your voice that you didn’t know you were capable of. “What, did you think I was going to leave you in there?”

Satoru lets out a breath that could almost be a laugh. His fingers tighten just slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “Nah,” he says. “You love me too much for that.”

You would have smacked him for that, but Megumi hisses in warning, and—

A slow, deliberate clap shatters the moment. The sound echoes through the empty corridor. Satoru stiffens. You twist in his arms, and there, standing at the entrance to the corridor, framed by torchlight, is Geto Suguru.

He is calm. He is composed. His uniform is pristine, untouched by the madness of the outside world. Something about the way he stands—the way his eyes glint—tells you that he had been expecting this.

“Oh, my,” Geto says, dark amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “What a touching reunion.”

He doesn’t lunge, doesn’t rush—simply tilts his head, fingers shifting ever-so slightly around the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. But that is enough. Satoru reacts immediately.

“Time to go,” he says, and before you can even register it, his hand grips yours and pulls.

You break out into a run, Megumi bounding alongside you both. Your feet barely touch the polished marble floors as you tear through the hallway. Satoru’s grip is firm, unyielding, tugging you forward even as your heartbeat roars in your ears.

The palace corridors blur past in streaks of gold and shadow. The vast, open walls, formerly filled with the hum of courtly affairs and the soft shuffle of silk-clad nobles, now echo with the rhythm of your own footsteps. The grandeur, the impossible opulence—none of it matters now. The only thing that does is putting as much distance between you and the man behind you.

Geto does not rush, but you feel him there, just beyond the edges of your vision. He moves like inevitability, his steps unhurried, the soft tap of his boots against stone barely audible over the breathless pace Satoru sets.

Left. Satoru veers sharply, nearly yanking you off balance as he takes a turn down a narrower passageway. The walls here loom closer, lined with paintings depicting long-forgotten wars and rulers whose names history has nearly erased. Megumi races ahead, his black fur a blur against the dim light, navigating the twisting hallways with a hunter’s instinct.

“Where—” you barely manage, lungs burning— “are we going?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His grip tightens around your wrist, fingers warm despite the chill in the air. Then, finally: “The throne room.”

You nearly stumble. “The what?”

“Best place to corner him.” He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite the speed at which you’re moving. “No exits. Just him and me.”

“That’s a terrible plan!”

“Oh? Got a better one, beautiful?”

You don’t. Not one that doesn’t involve getting caught. Another turn. Another impossibly long hallway. The walls here are different—sleek, dark stone rather than marble, lined with towering pillars that stretch high into the vaulted ceiling. This is the heart of the castle, you realise. The oldest part. The place where power has been passed from one ruler to the next, where history has been carved into the very foundations. The entrance to the throne room looms ahead. Twin doors. Impossibly tall, made of dark oak reinforced with gold filigree. The sigils of the royal bloodline are carved into them, worn smooth from centuries of rule.

Megumi reaches it first. He doesn’t slow—just slips through the narrow gap left ajar. Satoru doesn’t stop running, either. He shoves against the heavy doors, and they groan open, the vast chamber beyond yawning wide to swallow you whole.

The throne room is silent. No guards. No nobles. Just tall stone columns, high windows that cast fractured moonlight against the polished floors, a row of swords hanging on the far end of the wall, and the lone, empty throne that sits at the far end of the chamber. Your stomach drops when you see what’s placed on the throne’s seat.

The crown. Geto Suguru has expected this to happen—had planned for it, even. All for what?

Satoru releases your wrist just as the doors slam shut behind you. The sound of approaching footsteps makes you whip around so quickly, you nearly lose grip of the handle of the frying pan. Satoru turns, unhurried, a smile curling at the edges of his lips even before Geto steps into the dim light.

“How predictable,” the captain drawls. His fingers roll the hilt of his sword idly, his gaze sweeping from the empty throne to Satoru, to you. “Well played, Satoru. But I’m afraid this game is already over.”

He doesn’t move in a rush—not in the reckless, desperate way of a man eager to end a fight—but with slow steps. The grip on his sword remains loose, casual, as if he’s hardly concerned. As if this is nothing more than a simple conversation. Satoru backs up, just as measured, retreating step by step towards the far wall where the swords hang in an orderly row. You stay still, carefully stepping away, Megumi hiding behind your legs. This is not your fight to partake in; you know this because the captain barely glances your way.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” Geto says, tilting his head as his boots click against the floor. “All those years, running in circles, chasing shadows. Looking for something that was right in front of you the entire time.”

“I don’t know,” says Satoru, almost lazily. “I think I was more preoccupied with avoiding your assassination attempts.”

Geto chuckles. “Come now, old friend. I gave you plenty of warning.”

“Oh, sure. That time you nearly poisoned my drink?” Satoru grins manically. “Tell me, was that your idea, or were you merely using the First Commander as inspiration?”

Your breath hitches. The First Commander? 

The laughter in Geto’s expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was doing what I had to do. Look at me now, Gojo. I’m the Captain of the Royal Guard, while you’re just a fugitive with no place to call home. This could’ve been your position, had you not decided to be so fucking righteous.”

“Right. It’s my fault for finding out that the First Commander murdered the late queen.”

Everything clicks into place. Nanami had mentioned that the First Commander was the current king’s older brother—the current king, who has been severely ill for the past decade, who hasn’t been seen in the public eye ever since, because he was supposedly on permanent bedrest. Your heartbeat quickens. Just how much rot is this kingdom hiding behind the rubies?

“Ah,” Satoru continues. “I’m forbidden from speaking of it, aren’t I?”

The captain’s jaw ticks, but his smirk remains. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The thief scoffs. “Of course. Because it wasn’t you who told me to shut up about it instead of confronting the old man. To turn a blind eye, to let it happen ‘cause it was—what did you say?—bigger than us.” He laughs, sharp and humourless. “How’s that working out for you, Suguru?”

“Still so naïve.”

“And you’re still so blind,” Satoru throws back. He reaches behind him, grabbing the nearest sword from the wall, and swings it down. “What was it, again? The commander deserved the throne because he was older? Because the king was too soft? Because it was for the good of the kingdom?” His voice drips with mockery. “Come on, Suguru. Give me that speech again. I loved that speech.”

Geto’s fingers shift on the hilt of his sword. “You never understood.”

“Oh, I understood perfectly,” Satoru snaps. “The commander couldn’t sit on his hands and wait for fate to hand him what he thought was his. So he took matters into his own poison-stained hands. And you let him.”

Silence stretches between them, thick as fog, pressing against the walls. You swallow hard, watching the way Geto’s jaw sets. 

“We’ve had this conversation before, right before you decided to rat me out,” he continues. “We both knew. We knew he was killing them.”

Geto’s eyes flash. “And what was I supposed to do, Satoru? Fight back? Get myself executed like you nearly did? The commander had already won the moment the queen died.”

“The queen,” Satoru seethes, “who had a son, Suguru. The trueborn heir to the throne. The very thing the commander feared most.”

Geto’s lips part—then press into a thin line. There. There it is. The missing piece, the lock to the key.

Satoru takes a step forward, lifting the sword in his hand. “That’s what broke you, isn’t it?” His voice is softer now, but not kind. “You could stomach the poison. You could stomach the lies. But when he tried to kill the baby, that was when you hesitated.”

“I thought you were dead,” Geto says, almost conversationally. “When you ran. The first few months when they declared you a fugitive, I thought you wouldn’t make it. And yet, here you are.”

“I am very hard to kill.”

“That, you are.”

They move at the same time. Steel clashes in a burst of sparks, the force of the impact ringing through the cavernous throne room. Satoru twists, parrying the next strike with ease, but Geto presses forward, forcing him back towards the dais. They circle each other, two hunters hunting each other. You tighten your grip on the frying pan—though it might be rendered useless given the situation.

“You were so convinced you could save him,” Geto murmurs, keeping his blade pointed at Satoru’s chest. “That you could find the heir, put him on the throne, and somehow make this kingdom right again.”

“And you were so convinced that I wouldn’t,” Satoru says. “It took a while, but I managed to steal the crown, didn’t I? The late queen—may she rest in peace—was clever. It was tough trying to figure it out—that the clue rested upon what belonged to the true heir.”

“Clever, indeed. But not clever enough. You see, I’ve already figured it all out.” Geto lunges again, blade flashing. Satour meets him mid-strike. They push against each other, each testing the other’s strength, neither giving way.

“You think you’ve won just because you found the crown?” Geto taunts. “Because you figured out the queen’s little riddle? It changes nothing.”

“No, Suguru. It changes everything.” Satoru grins, eyes alight with someone reckless. He shifts his weight, twisting free of Geto’s grip, and swings his sword in a sharp arc. Geto blocks it, but just barely—his foot skids slightly against the polished marble, his balance momentarily off. Satoru seizes the opening, pressing forward with quick, calculated strikes.

The clang of their swords echoes, the only sound save for your own shallow breaths. You inch closer to Megumi, keeping him shielded behind you, even as you cannot tear your eyes away from the fight.

“You were there that night,” Satoru bites out in between strikes, “when the commander told us of his plan for the queen’s son to be killed.” His blade swings, forcing Geto another step back. “You heard the order.” A sharp clash. “You almost let it happen.” Another blow. “And you knew I wouldn’t.”

Geto parries the next attack with more force, forcing Satoru back. “I told you to let it go. I told you it was too late.”

“And I told you to go fuck yourself!” Satoru fires back. He dodges another strike easily, as though his years of training as a soldier have not left his body despite the disuse of sword-fighting.

“You should’ve joined me,” he says. “We could’ve risen the ranks together. Fixed things together.”

“Fixed things? You wanted to erase the truth. I wanted to bring it back.” Satoru’s eyes narrow. “That’s why you never killed me, isn’t it? Because some part of you—some part of you—wanted me to prove you wrong.”

A flicker of something crosses Geto’s face. A hesitation. A second too long. Satoru moves. His blade sweeps low, and Geto barely has the time to block before he’s forced back again, this time nearly stumbling. His boot scrapes against the first step of the dais, right in front of the empty throne—mere paces away from where you’re standing, clutching your frying pan like it’s a lifeline. Satoru stops, standing just a few feet away, his own sword lowered slightly, his breathing steady.

Geto exhales slowly, eyes shadowed, and then—finally—he laughs. Low; amused; dark. “You always were the best, Satoru,” he says. “I’ll give you that. But I’ve figured it out too. The queen’s secret. The heir’s true identity.”

Satoru’s expression doesn’t waver. “Oh?”

A slow smile spreads across Geto’s face. “Okkotsu Yuta is his name,” he says. 

You take a step forward. Geto continues, “The last remaining royal—”

Another step. “—was raised as—”

Another step; this time, you raise your arms over your head. “—a low-life peasant on the border between our kingdom and the next.”

CLANG!

Geto Suguru’s mouth slackens. His eyes go cross-eyed before he crumples to the floor, unconscious. Satoru blinks. His eyes dart up to meet yours.

You stand over the captain of the Royal Guard’s stupefied body, the frying pan gripped so tightly in your hands, the handle digs into your palms. “...Oops?”

Satoru exhales—a sound caught between disbelief and sheer delight—before throwing his head back with a bark of laughter. “You,” he says, stepping over Geto’s unconscious form, “are fucking amazing. And here I was, thinking I’d have to duel him for longer.”

You lower the frying pan, shoulders sagging slightly as the adrenaline ebbs. “Yeah, well, you were taking too long.”

He drops the sword; it falls to the floor with a resounding thud. You grimace. Satoru wraps his arms around you, melting into you as though drained of all his energy. You lean against him, as well. It’s not over yet—the First Commander is still alive, the king’s health is still failing, the heir is still unaware of his royal lineage, and the kingdom’s fate is uncertain.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, after Megumi weaves about in between your legs. “We might be able to catch a glimpse of the last bit of the lantern festival if we’re lucky.”

You pull back slightly, brows knit together in a frown. “Aren’t you tired? You should be resting!”

“Nah.” He grins. “What sort of man would I be if I brought you all the way to the capital and didn’t let you see your dream?”

“But—”

“Tomorrow. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”

“Okay.” You give in. How could you not?

The river glows with the reflections of a thousand golden lanterns, each one a drifting star against the darkened water. Somewhere beyond the riverbanks, the kingdom rejoices, but here—adrift in a tiny wooden boat, far removed from the noise and the world—it is quiet. It is just you and Satoru, bathed in the warm glow of floating light. You trace your fingers along the delicate paper lantern in your lap, the thin parchment almost translucent beneath your touch. Satoru watches you, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Make a wish,” he tells you.

You let your lips turn upwards, closing your eyes. The lantern lifts into the air. It floats upwards, joining the sea of golden light that drifts towards the heavens. Beside you, Satoru releases his own, head tilted back to watch it rise, the glow reflected in the blue of his eyes. For a long while, you don’t speak. The world has never felt so hushed, so suspended in time. 

Then, he turns to you, the shimmer of the lanterns casting his face in soft gold. “I think,” he says, “I have a dream too.”

“Really? Tell me.”

He leans in instead, and his lips press against yours—warm, certain, like the promise of something endless. Overhead, the lanterns continue their slow, drifting ascent, rising higher, higher, until they are nothing but distant constellations in the dark.

It feels like stardust.

⇢ a/n: @mahowaga & @admiringlove, you both know who you are. thank you, as well, to kae, @ylangelegy, for beta reading this fic, giving me invaluable feedback, and letting me ramble about this fic to them; i appreciate you endlessly. and, of course, thank you, dear reader, for reading this behemoth of a fic :) i hope you have a wonderful day! sidenote: due to tumblr’s paragraph limit, several paragraphs that were written as separate word blocks had to be combined into one in order to make it fit in one post. to read it with the original formatting, as it was written in my google docs, ao3 would definitely offer you a better experience!

[yvesdoee]

someone knows smut fanfics with toji but not rough sex dominant daddy age gap stuff but something really soft and sweet😭

[kashverse]

THE ADVENTURES OF KUNAFAMILY

this is an optional guide to read if you would like to know more about certain family dynamics referenced in the kunafamily fics! read more sukuna & papakuna fics under the @sukuna tag <3

how did you and sukuna meet? + ( bonus abridged version )

sukuna during your pregnancy

babykuna during her first months

babykuna's first birthday

babykuna's first day of kindergarten

babykuna gets her first pet ( aka the story of mr. pickles the maine coon )

showing babykuna memories of you and sukuna

babykuna asks how was she ‘made’

babykuna asking for a sibling ( aka the story of baby the tabby cat )

[summer-oil-inactive]

suguru who sees you as grumpy little kitten when you being bratty.like. you can be all mad at him but his thoughts were like "they must be hungry , poor thing." and just softly coo at you. he just seeing you as soggy , grumpy , hungry kitten that need attention.

REALLLLLL REAL REAL YOU GET IT . he can’t get angry at you!!!!!! you’re his baby!!!!!!!! :(( if you get too hissy and fussy he’ll just assume there’s something you need that you can’t really verbalize …. so he really does treat you as like . a baby kitten . his little baby

[sanemistar]

contents ★ husband!satoru x wife!reader, fluff, established relationship, mentions of pregnancy (i kinda have a baby fever rn), satoru gojo’s birthday special. 0.7k+ wc. ﾉ author’s message: since it’s satoru’s birthday today here’s a cute little special drabble for my beloved <33 back ★ jjk m.list

satoru hasn’t ever really paid any special attention to nor cared about his birthday, it’s been just a regular day to him. nothing special to celebrate, he’d just be a year older. that’s all that is to it.

it’s been like that, until you’d stepped into the picture and changed his life entirely. ever since he got together with you and his birthday has been a day full of surprises and precious memories that he swears to himself he’ll treasure for the rest of his life. it’s all thanks to you that satoru now has a reason to look forward to his birthday every year.

satoru is away on a quick mission, so you decide to take the chance of your husband coming back home late tonight and make his birthday cake yourself. since it’s the first time you celebrate his birthday as his wife, so you wanted to make something special this year. you’re currently in the kitchen, preparing the ingredients and the things you need to make the cake. you carefully place everything on the counter as you start working right away.

once you’re done with the cake, you place it on the table before you start hanging the decorations on the wall and setting the mood. the theme is obviously blue because it’s the color you associate him with the most. when you’re finished with that, you quickly get yourself ready and dress up as you wait for your husband to get back home. you can’t help but feel so excited to see him when he gets back because you have a special gift for him this year, you’re announcing your pregnancy. you’ve only found out about it just recently so you thought his birthday would be the perfect timing for the announcement.

not too long after you’ve gotten dressed you hear the jingling sound of satoru’s keys, signaling his arrival. luckily, you manage to turn off the lights last minute.

“baby? you here?” he calls for you, but you don’t respond. he keeps looking around trying to find you when you turn on the lights, appearing in front of him with the cake held in your hands.

“happy birthday toru!” you shout enthusiastically with a cheeky smile on your face. and satoru just couldn’t help but laugh at the cute little act of yours. he thanks you before he approaches you and gives your forehead a kiss as he places his hands on your waist.

the two of you sit down and eat the cake together.

“you know, i made it myself.” you say proudly

“so that’s why this year’s cake is so special. thanks, babe. you’re the best.” he replies before taking another bite.

“the cake might not be the only special thing of the day.” you ominously tell him. you can clearly see the slight confusion and anticipation on his face.

“what do you mean?” he asks curiously, waiting to know what you’re talking about. you take his hand and place it on your stomach.

“next year it won’t be just you and me, a little one is joining us.” you grab his other hand and entwine it with your own. “i’m pregnant, honey.” you happily announce your pregnancy to your husband.

“wait wait.. for real? babe, are you sure? am i gonna be a dad?” he asks, clearly still shocked by the sudden announcement. you nod as you bring him the ultrasound pictures of your baby as a confirmation.

you’re standing there right in front of satoru, watching how he’s reacting while eagerly waiting for his response. his reaction is a bit delayed due to his brain taking some time to process the news but once it hits him he lets go of your hand only to pull you close to him in a tight hug as he spins you around.

“this is the best thing i could ever ask for.. you have no idea how much i’ve been waiting for this, to have a family with you.” he says emotionally as a few happy tears escape from his eyes.

“you’ll be the best dad ever, toru. i love you.” you rest your hands on the side of his cheeks as you gently wipe away his fallen tears. he smiles softly, his hands placed on your waist as he leans closer to you. faces are only a few inches apart.

“i love you more than anything, babe. thanks for always making my birthday a day worth celebrating, i wouldn’t have it any other way.” he says before his lips capture yours in a passionate, loving kiss.

satoru is already looking forward to celebrating his next birthday with you and his little one.

𝜗𝜚 taglist: @unriding @lxnarphase @sylusdoll @itachiiwrites @itoshivy @17020 @creamflix @luv-lies @suguru-getos