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crazii-chibi · 2 days ago

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❝ TABLE FOR TWO? ❞- s.gojo

☕︎੭ synopsis - satoru’s a charming, flirty waiter who jokes and teases his way through every shift—mostly for tips. but when his playful antics start tugging at your heart, what begins as harmless flirting slowly turns into something deeper. between stolen glances at the restaurant, fun fair adventures, and moments that hurt and heal, you realize love isn’t just served at the table—it’s chasing you, catching you, and sometimes, running alongside you, even as you try to leave it behind.

☕︎੭ tags - gojo x reader / restaurant AU / hes a waiter/ fluff / hurt semi comfort / slow burn (not really) / playful teasing / moving in together / timeskips / modern AU / set in america (scary ik) / bittersweet ending / theyre so cute / mild emotional angst / heartbreak / arguments / separation anxiety / no smut (sorry) but there is a cute kiss and tooth rotting fluff / also quite angsty

☕︎੭ wc - 12k

☕︎੭ a/n - this is a part of @kentospeach's jujutsu kitchen collab !

“what can i get for you, beautiful?”

you freeze mid-sip of your water, blink at the waiter leaning over your table with a grin that’s way too confident for a stranger. his hair’s platinum white and messy in that perfectly styled way that makes you want to roll your eyes and swoon all at once. the restaurant buzzes around you—plates clattering, low conversations, soft jazz on the speakers—but somehow, in this moment, he’s louder than everything.

and it's irritating.

“uh… hi?” you say cautiously, glancing around. yeah, he’s cute, but this is a little forward for a first meet.

he leans a little closer, tilting his head, smile widening like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “you shy? don’t worry, I make sure my favorite customers get the best service.”

“your… favorite?” you repeat, raising a brow. part of you wants to scowl; part of you is secretly entertained. the audacity of this man astonishes you. "this is my first time here."

“yeah,” he says, flipping his notepad open with a flourish. “but you’re looking like someone who deserves extra attention. maybe a free dessert later if you’re nice to me.”

you laugh, covering your mouth, partly embarrassed. “that’s… really bold. do you always flirt with strangers for tips?”

he shrugs, still grinning, one hand on his hip. “hey, business is business. but…” his tone drops just a fraction, teasing, eyes sparkling, “…some customers are worth more just the tips.”

you nearly choke on your water, because holy hell, what is this line? who says that to someone they just met? your cheeks heat up and you avert your gaze, trying to act unimpressed. “right. well, I’ll think about tipping you later.”

“thinking is dangerous,” he warns, leaning just slightly closer. “you might find yourself smiling before you even know it.”

you glance around to make sure no one else is watching. everyone else is busy with their own meals, oblivious, and somehow that makes his attention feel… entirely focused on you. impossible.

he scribbles something down, notepad tapping lightly against the table, then flashes that grin again. “so, what can I actually get you, pretty?”

you bite your lip, feeling cornered in the most ridiculous way. all you want to do is to tell him to fuck off and let you order with another waiter. any other waiter.

but alas, the rules of society state that flipping off a stranger would be considered rude, to your demise. so you swallow your venomous words and replace them with more appropriate ones.

“i’ll have the tonkotsu. no extras. just the noodles. and a coffee. black. shockingly thrilling, i know.”

satoru leans a little closer, grin wide, and scribbles it down with exaggerated care. “bold choice. you’ve got taste,” he says, tapping the notepad like it’s a trophy.

you lift a brow. “great. now go get it. save the theatrics for someone who tips more.”

“on it, ma’am,” he replies, bowing slightly, but then—of course—he doesn’t actually leave. he props his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand, still grinning like he’s waiting for something.

“don't call me that.” you mutter, voice flat, and he smirks like that only makes him more determined.

“alright, ma'am,” he says, leaning forward like you two are plotting some ridiculous heist instead of ordering food. “don’t worry, i’ll make sure your noodles arrive safely.”

you cross your arms, trying to act unimpressed, but the twitch of a smile betrays you. “yeah, yeah. just go.”

“right away,” he says, finally standing—but not before shooting you a wink that’s far too confident for someone who isn’t even your friend yet. even as he walks away, you can feel his gaze lingering, like he’s already planning how to charm you again when you come back another day.

ha! the idea's almost laughable. you weren't coming back here, the waiter is much too infuriating and the food isn't that good. certainly not good enough to put yourself through him.

well, that's what you managed to convince yourself.

the next week, you find yourself back at "jujutsu kitchen", even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t. the tonkotsu smells rich and comforting, the kind of smell that makes your shoulders loosen even before you sit.

the restaurant buzzes with low chatter and the clatter of dishes, warm lights giving the space a cozy glow. your day was long—deadlines, a boss breathing down your neck, emails you didn’t have time for—but here, at least, it can wait. you slide into the same corner booth, the one with soft lighting and a good view of the kitchen, and take a deep breath, hoping a bowl of noodles can make everything slightly more bearable.

he finds you almost instantly. satoru leans over your table, grin in place, hair perfectly messy. “back so soon? rough day?”

“i have no willpower,” you admit. “long day.”

he studies you, softening the grin just a fraction. “you look like you could use a win.”

you tell him your order: tonkotsu, black coffee, no extras. you don’t want conversation (you never do, but he always manages to drag it out of you). you get a small nod, pen hovering as he asks casually, “rough day at work?”

“everything went sideways. deadline got shifted, boss blamed me, laptop died mid-report,” you mutter.

he doesn’t laugh. “that sucks. hate that for you.”

you scoff. “thanks for the empathy, truly. that’s going to get you a tip.”

“empathy’s on the house,” he says, then adds, “but i’ll also bring something extra. chocolate. maybe some gyoza. you look like someone who deserves it.”

“i said no extras,” you murmur, but he’s already heading to the kitchen.

when he returns, he carries your order and sets a small ramekin of chocolate and a side of gyoza in front of you. “on the house,” he says, leaning closer. “boss owes me a favor.”

you mumble a thank you, biting your lip. he doesn’t linger theatrically, but the way his gaze meets yours feels deliberate, not showy.

halfway through the meal, he comes back to check on you.

you laugh, a short, incredulous puff that tastes like apology. “you dont need to hover, i'm not going to implode anytime soon.”

“you look like you might,” he says with a teasing lilt, but his voice softens once he registers the dark circles under your eyes.

“okay," he starts. "if you don’t want me hovering, i’ll leave. like a respectful ghost,” he says, playful but serious underneath.

you finally let out a long, quiet breath. finally, you think, a little relieved that he’s not looming over your table for once. “good,” you mutter, a tiny smile tugging at your lips. “i can manage eating my dessert in peace.”

he grins one last time, leans in just enough to wink, and steps back. “enjoy,” he says, voice louder now, then melts back into the blur of the restaurant, apron swaying.

the instant he’s gone, the space around you feels… different. quieter. you glance down at the dessert in front of you—the chocolate glinting under the warm lights, gyoza steam curling up gently—and for the first time since you sat down, you can really taste it.

your shoulders start to relax, and you allow yourself to be present, just for a moment. it’s peaceful, almost too peaceful. there’s no banter, no shit-eating grin—just you, the dessert, and the soft hum of the restaurant around you. it’s a small comfort, and somehow, it feels like enough for tonight.

you take a careful bite, closing your eyes as the sweetness hits your tongue. it’s quiet, calm, and maybe for the first time in days, it feels like things are okay.

—

you slide into the same booth the next week like you own it, throat still a little tight from the walk over. tonight you tell yourself you’ll be calm. no performances, no eye-contact wrestling match with satoru— you read his employee badge. you spot miwa at the pass—soft smile, apron tidy, the kind of server who remembers birthdays and the names of stray dogs—and breathe out, relieved. satoru’s on break; she said. mission accomplished.

miwa pads over with a pad and a warm, “welcome back.” she’s gentle, efficient—exactly the opposite of performative. you order without much fuss, grateful for the quiet exchange: tonkotsu, extra green onion, iced coffee. miwa hums and jots it down with a conspiratorial little smile. “i’ll be right back with that. try not to get robbed by charmers tonight,” she teases.

you let out a laugh that’s more of a deflated huff. “finally,” you murmur, sinking into the booth. “peace.”

for a delicious, suspended minute, you have it: no over-the-top winks, no hovering elbow, just soft restaurant noise and the steam of other people’s dinners. you close your eyes and take in the calm like it’s medicine. the dessert last week did something small to your chest, but you won’t admit he’s lodged there like a bright, impossible splinter.

and then satoru is there.

he doesn’t announce himself. he simply appears—apron off, sleeves pushed up, hair more rumpled than usual—and slides into the seat opposite you with the casual arrogance of someone who thinks the world should naturally revolve around him. he looks exactly like trouble with a charming smile, like a boy who’s decided the evening’s entertainment is now exclusively you.

you freeze. “what—”

“i’m on break,” he says, voice low and smug, folding his hands on the table. “so i’m spending it here. with you. like a date.”

your first instinct is to be annoyed on principle—why is he treating your quiet meal like a production? why can’t he take five minutes to man a corner table somewhere else? but the second thing that hits you is ridiculous: he’s grinning like he actually expects an enthusiastic response. which, infuriatingly, makes something in your chest soften.

you almost feel bad for him.

almost.

“you can’t just—” you start, because boundaries are a civilized person’s armor. “i’m trying to eat in peace.”

“peace is overrated,” he deadpans. then softer, “also boring. and you looked like you were drowning in paperwork last time. not on my watch.”

you narrow your eyes. “since when are you my lifeguard?”

“since i decided you were my favorite recurring table,” he says, as if the title is an honor he’s bestowed upon himself. he taps the napkin in his palm like it’s a badge. “and lifeguards get perks, like free fruitless flirting.”

you snort despite yourself. “wow, how lucky for me.”

he leans forward, elbows on the table, his face only a comfortable breath away. there’s still the showman in him—the tilt of his smile, the way his voice slides into performative cadence—but under it there’s something quieter: watchfulness, like he’s actually paying attention to the lines at the corners of your mouth, the tightness in your shoulders. you realize he’s not here for tips tonight. he’s here because he wanted to be.

miwa reappears with your bowl and sets it down gently, offering a small, “enjoy,” before slipping away. the steam from the tonkotsu curls up and catches the light. satoru picks up his chopsticks but doesn’t eat. instead he watches you take the first slurp, as if your small approval is the only reviewing that matters.

you poke at your noodles, eyes flicking between him and the broth. “i’m not letting you hover,” you say, half warning, half plea.

“i said i’d be a respectful ghost,” he reminds you. “ghosts are allowed to stare silently, apparently.”

you roll your eyes. he reaches across the table with a casualness that’s almost criminal and steals one of your gyoza. “that’s mine,” you protest, mock-offended.

“i’m borrowing this ,” he says, and pops it into his mouth with exaggerated delight. “mm. excellent choice.” he sets the chopsticks down and gives you a look that reads i'm enjoying it. you’d like him less if his enthusiasm weren’t contagious.

between mouthfuls you find yourself asking him—because curiosity has teeth tonight—“why are you actually here? you’re on break.”

“because i can be,” he says, then without the performance: “and because i wanted to see if you were okay. you don't order iced coffee unless you had a bad day.” he shrugs like it’s the most ordinary thing. “and because miwa told me you looked tired.”

you glance at miwa, who’s giving a tiny, embarrassed thumbs-up before disappearing again. betrayal in the form of human kindness.

you bite a smile. “you badger the staff for intel now?”

“i hog them for quality control,” he corrects. “and for dessert recommendations.” then, quieter: “i just… i wanted to know if you were okay.”

the word lands differently from the usual banter. your fork hovers. confession is a risky bird, and it flutters suspiciously when it gets near someone else’s chest. you say, “work was hell.”

“i know.” his fingers hover over yours on the table for a beat and then curl, deliberately, around your hand. it’s a small, grounding pressure that feels like someone tucking a blanket over your shoulders. “you don’t have to sell me short with sarcasm, by the way. i can handle the real thing.”

you want to pull your hand back on principle, but the heat that spreads through your palm is honest and small and welcome. you let your fingers rest against his. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculous and devoted,” he says, with a smile that makes you forget to be annoyed. “also, i made a stop at the convenience store and procured snacks. not terrible ones. premium ones. you deserve them.”

he fishes out a little paper bag from his jacket and sets a couple of awkwardly shaped pastries between your bowls, as if he’s presenting treasure. it’s dumb and unnecessary and perfectly him. your lips twitch. “you didn’t have to—”

“i know,” he says. “i wanted to.”

you study him, suddenly apprehensive about how much space he takes up in your chest when he leans like this. “this feels weird.”

“weird how?” he asks, genuinely puzzled, not the flirty act. one corner of his mouth tugs down, an expression you’ve started to recognize as sincerity trying on vulnerability.

“like,” you say, choosing each word like it matters, “i’ll start liking the waiter who flirts for tips. that seems like bad career planning.”

he laughs, but it’s soft. “i don’t flirt for tips anymore,” he says, and there’s the smallest tremor in his voice that tells you the line is truer than he pretends. “i flirt because i like your face.”

you almost choke on your noodle, and for once you don’t cover it with sarcasm. you look at him, really look, and see him there—not as a performance, but as a person who’s decided, point-blank, to be present. his eyes are bright and ridiculous and earnest. your chest hiccups. annoyance ripples and then melts into something warmer.

“gross,” you blurt, cheeks burning. “i hate you.”

“good,” he says, beaming. “me too. i’m glad.” then he reaches across and drags a napkin across your knuckles, wiping a smear of broth away with exaggerated tenderness, and the small intimacy of it is a kind of spell.

you stay until the bowls are empty and the restaurant dims into later-night lull. at some point, he rests his forehead against yours across the low table—an intimate, careless gesture that’s both occupier-of-space and claim. “i like being here,” he whispers, so soft you have to lean in to hear it. “i like when you come in. it’s my favorite part of the shift.”

you snort, swiping a noodle from your bowl with deliberate nonchalance. “you’re lucky the food’s decent,” you say. “if it wasn’t, i would’ve ghosted this place weeks ago.” it’s teasing, but the safe kind, the one you hand him like a dare.

he grins like he’s just won a prize. “so you’re saying i have job security?” he asks, voice all smug charm. then, softer, like he’s testing it, “wait, so you’ll keep coming back, right? even if i become unbearable?”

"you're already unbearable." you study him—the way his lashes flicker when he’s not performing, how his smile loosens around the edges in private. you can see the small hope in his face and for some reason it’s disarming. “i mean…,” you say, shrugging. “why not?”

“yes!” he practically whoops, then settles into a pleased little smile. “i’ll make it worth your while.” he waggles his eyebrows like a cartoon, the action so ridiculous it breaks whatever little seriousness was left between you.

so naturally, you throw a gyoza at him.

it arcs through the air in a perfect, absurd parabola, and he doesn’t even flinch. he catches it with one hand as if catching not-very-expensive dumplings is a daily talent. his eyes sparkle with mock offense. “wow,” he says, wounded and theatrical. “violent.”

you gape. “how did you catch that.”

“i catch what’s mine,” he answers, taking a theatrical bite as if to prove the point. “and if you keep coming back, i’ll keep catching things. metaphorically and literally.”

you roll your eyes but your lips twitch into a genuine smile. the gyoza is gone before you can claim moral victory; instead, satoru bites, chews, then tilts his head like he’s seeing you properly for the first time. “you should probably throw more food at me so i learn my lesson.”

“you just wanna eat my food, fatass,” you say, and the sarcasm is mostly a coat—underneath it there’s warmth. “but yeah, i’ll add it to my list of ways to manipulate you.”

“i accept bribes in dumplings,” he says, tapping his chest. “and compliments. and the occasional terrible joke.”

you stare at him, amused and surprised at how easy this feels. the restaurant blurs around the edges—the clink of dishes, the low murmur of other diners—until it’s just the two of you and the soft lamp above the table. his hand finds yours across the wood without any fanfare, fingers sliding between yours like it’s the most natural thing.

“so,” he says, thumb rubbing the back of your hand in a lazy, purposeful rhythm, “same time next week?”

you pretend to consider, turning the idea over like it’s a menu item. “you mean come back to this chaotic circus run by charming degenerates?”

“precisely that,” he replies, voice smug again. “wait, am i the charming degenerate?”

you ignore his question and squeeze his fingers once, then let go, your heart pleasantly heavy in a way that makes you want to tease him mercilessly. “i'll keep coming back. but only if you stop stealing my gyoza.”

“no promises,” he says, grin wide and entirely unapologetic. “i like the gyoza more than i should.”

you laugh, the sound soft and unguarded, and he laughs with you, wild and bright.

when you leave, he walks you to the door despite being on break—insisting politely—and stands there until you step out into the night. he finally says, quieter than before, “i’ll see you then. it’s a date.”

you almost tell him not to call it that, but the word lands like a warm thing between you. “see you,” you reply, and mean it.

the city hums around you, but there’s a little ribbon of him tucked in your pocket now—a napkin with his number on it that he snuck there when you weren't paying attention. you walk home with a goofy, light feeling, thinking about dumplings, about warm broth, and about the way someone can turn from an inconvenience into something you actually want.

hours later, you get home, shoes kicked off, hoodie on, and your phone lights up like a tiny beacon of temptation. you type quickly, just to make sure the number on the napkin isn’t some weird restaurant prank. no other reason:

you [7:41pm]: hey, just checking. this is satoru's number, right? not a scam or a ramen hotline?

a few seconds later, your phone buzzes again:

satoru [7:41pm]: nope, 100% me. though i do give unsolicited ramen tips occasionally.

you roll your eyes at the screen, but your fingers hover over the keyboard anyway.

you [7:43pm]: oh joy. excellent. ramen hotline, noted.

satoru [7:44pm]: hah. but seriously, was it fun having me hover over your noodles tonight?

you grin despite yourself.

you [7:46pm]: i survive your hovering, barely.

satoru [7:46pm]: barely?? tragic. i should come over with soup tomorrow to remedy the trauma.

you [7:47pm]: tempting. go on…

satoru [7:47pm]: alright, hear me out. we go to the fun fair tomorrow. cotton candy, stupid games, terrible prizes. i win you something you don’t need but secretly love.

you blink at the phone like it’s asking too much, then grin.

you [7:49pm]: you’re on. but i expect the cotton candy to be mine.

satoru [7:49pm]: agreed. but i’ll be sharing that first bite. just to assert dominance.

you [7:52pm]: you wish.

satoru [7:52pm]: anyway, get some sleep tonight so you’re prepared for my expert fair strategies.

you [7:53pm]: can’t wait… night, satoru.

satoru [7:54pm]: night, favorite recurring table. dream of noodles and me.

—

you wake up with a weird mix of excitement and anxiety, like your chest is doing small somersaults. the text from last night is still blinking in your mind: dream of noodles and me. your phone’s on the nightstand, still buzzing softly with reminders of reality, but all you can think about is the fun fair and him. you roll out of bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin for a second, then realizing—today isn’t a “stay in and wallow” kind of day. it’s a fun fair day. and satoru is coming.

you shuffle to the bathroom, brushing your teeth while already imagining the chaos: flashing lights, the smell of fried dough and popcorn, silly carnival music that sticks in your head, and him grinning that ridiculously confident grin. you try to settle on an outfit that says: approachable but still slightly dramatic, because let’s be honest, he’ll notice if you try too hard. you end up in a casual hoodie over a cute top and jeans—the kind of outfit that lets you run and scream on rides but still look good for photographs. a little mascara, quick swipe of lip balm, and you’re done.

as you dig for your shoes, your phone buzzes. it’s him, of course.

satoru [10:12am]: just outside. ready to be whisked into a day of pure chaos and sugar?

you grin like an idiot.

you [10:13am]: already prepared. bring your A-game, mister.

satoru [10:15am]: my A-game is my default. brace yourself, i’m your chauffeur today.

by the time you grab your bag and lock the door, he’s leaning against his sleek little car like it’s a prop and he’s the star of a rom-com. hair messy, sunglasses on, grin way too wide.

“finally,” he says as you approach. “i was beginning to think you’d chicken out.”

“me? chicken out?” you laugh, shaking your head. “please, i’ve been anticipating this since the second you texted me.”

he winks, holding the door open like a gentleman for no reason other than dramatic effect. “then prepare yourself. this is going to be legendary.”

the drive is filled with his running commentary on the fair: which stalls are worth hitting, which rides are “scientifically proven to be the best,” and of course, a few questionable jokes you try not to laugh at too loudly. he’s constantly glancing at you from the corner of his eye, grinning whenever your smile escapes. by the time you pull up, you’re already on edge with excitement.

the fair is a whirlwind of colors and smells—cotton candy pink and bright yellow lights, popcorn drifting through the air like clouds, carnival music looping over and over. satoru grabs your hand instantly, tugging you forward, and you stumble slightly just enough to make him laugh, that deep, melodic laugh that makes your chest feel light.

“first stop,” he declares dramatically, pointing at a ring toss stall, “where i will prove my unparalleled skills and win you something priceless.”

you roll your eyes but your lips twitch. “priceless? we’re talking stuffed animals, not stocks.”

“details, details,” he says. “to you, a stuffed bear. to me, a victory that will echo through the ages.”

he plays with a strange, focused intensity, leaning way over the counter, tongue peeking out a little, tossing rings like a pro. you watch, mesmerized, until he winks at you and lands one directly on the bottle. one ring. perfect.

“ta-da!” he announces. the operator hands over a medium-sized plush bunny, and he turns to you, holding it out like it’s a crown. “for you, of course. because i only win for my favorite recurring table.”

you laugh, taking the bunny. “thanks, i guess. don’t let it go to your head.”

“too late,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, then nudging you toward the next game. “next up: the dunk tank. watch and learn, i intend to be soaked in glory—or at least make someone else pay for it.”

you follow him through the fair, hands brushing, little bumps and laughs spilling between you as he drags you to game after game. he buys you a funnel cake—half powdered sugar, half chaos—and insists you both share it while you sit on a bench, legs swinging. you're sticky, happy, and your cheeks hurt from laughing.

“you’re ridiculously easy to entertain,” he says, smirking, taking a bite of the funnel cake like it’s a prop.

“and you’re ridiculously annoying,” you fire back.

“thank you,” he says solemnly, bowing his head like a knight accepting a medal. “i’ve been training my whole life for this level of acknowledgment.”

the day stretches on like this: laughter, sugar, tiny victories, playful teasing. he wins you a giant pink teddy bear at one game, insisting it’s “your throne protector” for any bad days ahead. you try to protest, but he’s grinning, carrying the bear like a badge of honor, walking backwards so he can keep an eye on you.

at some point, you both end up on a Ferris wheel. the lights twinkle below you, music drifting up faintly. satoru leans over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and for a second, the world narrows to just the two of you.

“fun, right?” he murmurs.

“yeah,” you say softly, “it’s… really fun.”

he grins, nudging your shoulder lightly. “mission accomplished. and tomorrow, maybe we do it again. or at least plan the next conquest.”

you laugh, laying your head against his shoulder for a moment. “don’t push it,” you tease, though your heart feels like it’s smiling.

“never,” he whispers, still wiggling the teddy bear in your lap. “i’ll keep it exciting, though. you’ll see.”

the Ferris wheel climbs slowly, each turn giving you a little more space from the bustling fair below. the lights blur into streaks of color as the night deepens, and satoru keeps glancing at you, that mischievous grin softening into something warmer, almost unreadable. your chest flutters every time his fingers brush yours across the little safety bar, casual but deliberate.

you’re quiet for a moment, letting the breeze play with your hair, watching the city glow in the distance, and suddenly he’s leaning closer, a little too close for casual conversation. “you’re really quiet,” he murmurs, voice low, warm. “that’s not like you.”

“i’m… taking it in,” you murmur back, eyes fixed on the tiny lights of the fair below. but your pulse is betraying you—you’re aware of every brush of his arm, every shift of his weight closer to yours.

he chuckles softly, and it’s a sound that curls around you like silk. “taking it in, huh?” he teases, but his grin falters for the tiniest second. “or thinking about me.”

you meet his eyes, and there’s that spark—the one that’s been teasing and pulling at you all week. “maybe a little of both,” you admit, voice soft, teasing, almost breathless.

satoru’s grin deepens, but this time it’s quieter, more intent. he leans closer, slow, careful, and your heart races with anticipation. “good,” he says softly. “because i was hoping i could… be a little closer too.”

his hand slides to yours fully now, fingers interlacing, thumbs brushing. the touch is deliberate, warm, grounding. he leans in another fraction, giving you space to pull back if you want—but you don’t. you’re leaning in too, drawn like gravity.

then his lips brush yours, softly at first, a teasing, questioning touch, testing the waters. your body responds instantly, leaning closer, your hands finding the curve of his shoulders. the kiss deepens, slow, deliberate, full of need and tension. his thumb traces your hand as your lips move against his, and it’s impossibly intimate—like the whole fair and city below have disappeared.

he breaks away just slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling. “you’re addictive,” he murmurs, grin quirking at the corner of his lips, but there’s heat in his voice, quiet and teasing at the same time.

you can’t help a small laugh, breathless, hands clutching him. “i could say the same about you.”

he smiles, a slow, knowing, soft kind of smile, and then kisses you again—longer this time, deeper, more urgent, full of everything you’ve been holding back. you press against him, fingers tangling in his hair, lips moving in perfect, chaotic rhythm. the world narrows, the Ferris wheel creaking around you, lights spinning past, hearts racing in sync.

when you finally pull back, both of you are breathing a little heavier, foreheads pressed together. his grin returns, slow, satisfied, teasing—but the meaning behind it is real. “worth the ride?” he asks, voice low and playful.

you can’t help smiling, heart still racing. “absolutely,” you murmur, leaning into him once more. “best ride ever.”

"i could show you a better one."

you hit his chest at that, illiciting a boyish bark of laughter from his lips. he squeezes your hand, resting his head briefly against yours as the wheel turns again, small laughter mixing with quiet sighs of contentment. and for a long, delicious moment, you just stay there, suspended in motion, hearts tangled, lights whirling around you, feeling like the world has shrunk to just the two of you.

—

after that, two weeks slip by without you stepping foot into jujutsu kitchen. the first few days, you don't think much of it—life got in the way, work piled up, and besides, you weren’t about to admit (even to yourself) that you almost missed a certain white-haired menace hovering over your booth. but then the cold hit. first a scratch in your throat, then the headache, then the kind of exhaustion that keeps you in bed for hours staring at the ceiling, too drained to do anything.

you hadn’t texted him. hadn’t called. you figure he probably won't notice—he has customers every day, girls giggling at his dumb jokes, people ready to fall for the charm that used to irritate you. you're just another regular, nothing more.

so when your phone buzzes against your nightstand, screen flashing his name, you freeze.

“...hello?” your voice sounds pitiful, rough.

“you’re alive,” satoru sighs, dramatic relief dripping through the line. “i was about to file a missing persons report. two weeks without your sarcasm? i thought you’d sworn me off forever.”

you huff, rolling onto your side. “you’re ridiculous. i’m just… busy with work.”

“busy sounding like you swallowed nails? are you sick?”

you pull the blanket over your head. “it’s just a cold. i'm fine.”

"i'm bringing you soup."

"satoru, i'm not consenting to this. you'll catch my cold."

“good thing i’m not asking for consent,” he replies, "but in other contexts, i always do. so don't worry." and before you could argue, the call ends.

twenty minutes later, there's a knock at your door.

you drag yourself to answer it, you, with your messy hair and your hoodie three sizes too big. and there he is, holding a steaming plastic container and beaming like he owns the world. “delivery for the grumpy patient,” he says, waving the bag at you. “compliments of yours truly.”

“i told you not to come,” you mutter, stepping aside anyway.

“yeah, and when have i ever listened?” he breezes past you, toeing off his shoes, already at home in your apartment. the smell of miso soup fills the space, warm and comforting. “sit,” he orders lightly, like you were the customer again. “doctor gojo prescribes soup, hydration, and me.”

"how did you even get my address?" you ask, genuinely confused.

"ah, ah! a magician never reveals his secrets. now sit down, woman!"

you roll your eyes but sit down on the couch, watching him set everything up with surprising care. no jokes while he ladles soup into a bowl, no flashy grin when he presses it into your hands. just a quiet kind of focus, a soft line between his brows like he's actually worried.

“thank you,” you murmur, almost embarrassed.

“you don’t need to thank me.” his voice drops lower than usual, playful lilt gone. “i just… i didn't like not seeing you. and when you didn’t show, i kept thinking maybe you were avoiding me.”

“i wouldn't do that,” you whisper, the words felt thin, weak. "and besides, you don't matter that much in my life for me to purposefully avoid you." you tease, trying to shift the conversation topic.

his lips curved, small but genuine. “really?”

you don't reply to that.

the soup is good. comforting. but it's the miso that warms you—it's the way he stays, sprawling on the other side of the couch, chatting about nothing just to keep you company. it was how he refills your water without asking, how he doesn't make a snide remark on your posture when you slouch against the cushions, too tired to sit straight.

he could’ve left after dropping it off. probably should’ve. but he didn’t. and when the quiet moments stretched between his words, when you caught him looking at you like you weren’t just another table in the restaurant to pester for tips—it hit you.

oh.

you liked him.

stupid, loud, clingy satoru. the waiter who won't leave you alone, who makes your worst days lighter, who's currently watching you with an expression you don't think he gives anyone else.

“what?” you asked, defensive under his gaze.

“nothing,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch cushion, smile tugging at his mouth. “just glad you’re here.”

"well yeah, i live here."

"i meant here, as in with me."

your heart clenches, but in the best way.

and you can't admit it out loud, not yet—but you know. you're in trouble.

you also know you're in trouble the second his hand brushes yours. it’s casual, thoughtless—he’s just shifting the blanket higher, tucking it around your shoulders like he has the right. but then his palm lingers.

you blink up at him, sluggish from fever and fatigue, but he’s already moving, already tugging until you’re tilted sideways. your cheek presses against the firm plane of his thigh, his hand guiding you down like this is where you’re supposed to be.

“satoru—” you start, voice hoarse.

“shh.” his fingers slide into your hair, combing through gently, carefully untangling strands that even your brush would’ve yanked at. “you need rest. i’ll be good, i swear.”

your lips part with the protest you mean to give, but it never comes. because the second he drags his nails lightly against your scalp, all the tension in your body bleeds out. it feels good—too good. and he knows it, judging by the satisfied hum in his throat.

“see? not so bad.”

you grumble something incoherent, shifting like you might sit up, but his free hand is on your shoulder now, holding you in place. not forceful. just steady. “don’t even think about it,” he warns gently.

the tv fades to background noise. your fever fog blurs the edges of everything—except him. the long, sure strokes of his hand. the heat seeping from his body into yours. his steady breathing above you, slower now, quieter, like he’s syncing it to yours.

you want to say it’s weird. you want to say he’s annoying, invasive, ridiculous. but all you manage is a little sigh when his thumb traces your temple, the faintest circle, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the pain dulls. not gone. but softened under his touch, under the weight of his presence.

you think, in that hazy place between awake and asleep: you’re in so much trouble.

because this feels too good. too safe. too much like something you could want forever.

and he just keeps playing with your hair, content to sit there in silence while you drift. and somehow, this quiet moment seems more intimate than your shared kiss on the ferris wheel.

—

the message hits your phone just as you’re shutting your laptop, that little ping making your stomach do something embarrassingly anticipatory.

satoru [5:43pm]: hey, trouble. dinner tonight? i’ll behave-ish.

you grin because of course he punctuates “behave” with “-ish” and because for reasons you’ll never admit, you want to see what that looks like. you text back fast:

you [5:44pm]: only if you promise not to steal my gyoza again, fatty.

he replies with a string of ridiculous emojis and a yes that sounds impossibly smug even through your phone. by the time you’re walking under the restaurant awning, rain misting your hair, he’s already there, hair dark at the edges from the drizzle, his eyes very nearly glowing in the dark to the point it scares you a little at first. he opens the door for you like it’s a movie moment, and you almost roll your eyes at the showiness—almost.

inside, the place is dim and cozy, lights soft enough to make the design feel more interesting. he picks the booth by the window like it’s his stage and slides in across from you. “look at you,” he tuts, as if you’re the one wasting his time with your very presence. “you’re late three minutes. unacceptable,”

“traumatic, im aware,” you reply, because you’re playfully dramatic tonight. he pays half-attention to the menu and full-attention to the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. he orders like he’s conducting an orchestra—not just food, but the right bottle of something sparkling, an appetizer to share, and two main dishes because he refuses to let you go hungry.

you talk through dinner like you’ve done this forever: jokes, the tiny interrogations that are really flirting dressed up as curiosity, insults handed like candy. he makes you taste his dish and pretends to be scandalized when you prefer yours. you stab at your pasta and he theatrically offers his fork.

and everytime you lean in; he leans in more. both literally and metaphorically.

the champagne arrives in thin flutes and the bubbles make the world feel smaller and lighter. he lifts his glass with exaggerated solemnity. “to us,” he says. you clink glasses and laugh as he tilts his glass too much to dribble some of the champagne onto the table.

he watches you between bites like he’s memorizing you—the little quirks you don’t realize you have when you talk about the dumb things that made today terrible. when you mention a pointless meeting that got out of hand, his face goes small in a way you can’t hide from. “that’s unfair,” he mutters. “you don’t get paid in justice, huh?”

“nope, just in crumbs and meagre paychecks,” you say, and he laughs, but there’s something softer under it. he tells you about a stupid customer who once asked for ramen with ice in it. you spit your champagne a little and he grins, delighted you reacted.

by the time dessert comes—an over-the-top chocolate slice ridiculous enough to make you nostalgic for childhood birthday cakes—you’re both looser, the edges of your sentences unbuttoned. he pushes a forkful toward you, and when your fingers brush, it’s an electric nothing and everything. but you don’t pull away.

walking out, the rain is thicker, the streetlights haloed like planets. he produces an umbrella like a magician, and it’s barely big enough for two. you press shoulders, trying not to be sentimental, trying not to notice how his sleeve clings to your arm from the rain. he links fingers with yours without making a thing of it and you realize you don’t mind the way his hand feels—large, strong, perfectly stable.

you wobble on a puddle and he straightens you wordlessly, then grins. “you’re tipsy,” he observes.

“i am not tipsy,” you say, but your voice squeaks and you laugh, and the whole world feels like it’s tilting just enough to make room for his laugh beside you. you both dodge a taxi splashing and you curse at the driver while he pretends to be scandalized, clutching your hand (and his imaginary pearls) like he’s rescuing a hostage.

he slows you at a crosswalk and looks at you like he’s trying to decide if what he's about to do next is the right move. the rain drums around you both and he drops the umbrella for a second, letting the water pepper the two of you. you blink and the rain is in your lashes. “why'd we stop? tired already?” you ask, half teasing.

“because you looked like you needed to be inconvenienced by me,” he says, and it’s the most sincere ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard. “and… because i need you to know that i like you being around when my day is shitty.”

you tilt your head. “go on.”

he swallows, then goes quiet in a way that makes you feel, stupidly, like you’re the one about to drop the script. “i don’t do honesty well,” he admits after a beat, eyes never leaving yours. “i do jokes and theatrics because it’s safer. but i’ve been thinking about you. a lot. and—” he inhales, a wet breath in the rain—“i like you. more than i thought i would.”

the words drop into the rain, and the city noise recedes to nothing. your chest learns to skitter. you cough, a laugh that is also a sob. “you’re joking,” you say, because it’s easier than responding to a grown man admitting feeling.

“i’m not,” he says, every piece of armor off. his voice cracks on the last syllable. “i like you like i want to be the one you come to when something stupid happened at work. i like you like i want to see you wearing my clothes. i like you like i want to be the person you need, not the person you see when you’re bored. so—” he drops his eyes and then looks up at you fast, nervous but determined—“will you be my girlfriend? properly?”

time slows. a taxi whooshes by, splashing cold water onto your shoes, and you barely notice. the rain makes his eyelashes drip, his lips raw from his confession. your brain scrambles—yes, no, maybe?—and none of it matters because his face is open and honest and trembling and somehow that’s the only invitation you needed.

your answer is small, fumbling. it’s a laugh that turns to a whisper. “are you serious?”

“dead serious,” he says, stupidly proud. “i’ll do dates. i’ll even stop nicking your gyoza. i’ll let you win at claw machines sometimes. i’ll—” he stops because he’s babbling, and you want to kiss him just to silence the words.

“yes,” you say, and it’s not polished or planned, but it’s true. “yes, satoru.”

he grins so hard you think his face might split. he sweeps you close, umbrella forgotten now, and kisses you the way someone who’s been practicing on paper might kiss—clumsy at first, then sure, then absolutely all in. the rain pats a steady rhythm around you and your shoes squish unpleasantly, but nothing in your body wants to move away. when he breaks, he whispers against your lips, “i'll make you so happy, i promise.”

you laugh into his shirt, breathless. “prove it,” you murmur.

“i will,” he says, then smiles wickedly and drags you down the block, hand locked in yours. you stumble and laugh and he steadies you, and for a moment the world feels as if it’s stitched just for the two of you.

the rain follows you up the stairs to your building, sopping your hair and soaking his, and when he finally lets you inside, he lingers like he’s savoring the end scene. you press your forehead to his and say, hoarse, “don’t leave.”

“i won’t,” he answers without hesitation. “unless you kill me. then i’ll haunt you.”

you shove him playfully and he laughs, you collapse against the doorframe, heart pounding and happy and dizzy. the rain has washed the world clean; you stand there dripping and laughing and certain of one thing: this is the start of something perfect.

—

months pass, and somehow, the world shifts so that it revolves around a rhythm of small, ridiculous, perfect things with him. three months in, and the way your life was before him feels almost like a faded memory.

he moved in after only a month. of course he did—he’s satoru gojo. he claims it’s “for efficiency,” because coming over every day was exhausting him (he never mentions that he was secretly dying when you weren’t there). you tease him endlessly about being clingy, but secretly, it makes your chest ache in a good way to see him crash on your couch, spread out like he owns it, and look up at you with that grin: “what? this is my spot now.”

mornings are chaotic. you wake to the smell of coffee and burnt toast, him hovering with a spatula like it’s a magic wand. “the eggs are overcooked,” he announces dramatically, holding up the pan for your inspection. you groan but smile, because he’s tried, and they taste perfect anyway. sometimes you pull on one of his massive shirts and wander into the kitchen, hair messy, him laughing at the sight. “you’re basically a burrito,” he says, tugging at the sleeves. “i love it.”

you fight him over the last pancake, and he just grins wider, “i win. it’s mine now.” the way he moves, teasing and loud and always taking up more space than seems possible, somehow fills every corner of your apartment with life.

laundry is hilarious. socks disappear into his endless piles, shirts you bought for yourself vanish into his closet. he claims it’s “strategic storage.” you catch him wearing your hoodie one evening, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, sniffing the neck like he’s worried it won’t smell like you. you laugh, too much, and he just smirks, shrugging like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “i like it. don’t make me stop.”

nights are quieter. sometimes he reads sprawled on the couch while you sip tea beside him, his head in your lap. sometimes you steal the blankets and he grumbles before tugging you closer anyway. he cooks elaborate dinners you barely help with, claiming it’s “culinary art,” and you clean afterward, teasing him about the way he leaves flour on every surface. you catch him looking at you while you wipe the counters, small smile tugging at his mouth, like he’s memorizing the sight.

little moments accumulate like treasure. brushing his hair back from his eyes after he leans over to reach for something, sleepy “good mornings” whispered with noses nudging, playful arguments over who gets the last slice of cake, stolen kisses in the hall because one of you is too stubborn to wait for the bedroom.

and then, one evening, the words tumble out in the quiet. you’re leaning on his shoulder on the couch, watching a dumb movie neither of you is paying attention to, and you glance up at him, suddenly aware of how small his hands feel when they cup your face. he looks back and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“i love you,” you say, soft and honest, almost breathless.

he freezes. just for a fraction of a second. then he’s laughing, ridiculous and loud, because he can’t contain it, and tugs you onto his lap, pressing your forehead to his. “i love you too,” he says, smiling into your hair, voice unsteady but certain. “like, absurdly much. can’t believe you’re mine.”

you wiggle into him, tugging the blanket around both of you, and he nuzzles your hair, humming. “don’t ever leave,” he mutters, though you can hear the joking edge in his voice—it’s him, masking something too soft to say.

days blend into weeks. you share errands, late-night snacks, rainy walks, movie marathons, breakfast in bed that somehow always ends with him spilling something on the sheets. he never stops holding your hand, tugging you into him, or smirking when you glare at him for being dramatic about everything from spilled milk to traffic lights.

one day, sunlight slips through the blinds in thin gold bars and the apartment smells faintly of yesterday’s sauce and something like laundry. you’re half-buried in covers, the book open across your knees, the page edges soft where you’ve been turning them for hours. outside, the city murmurs; inside, everything is small and private.

he appears in the doorway like an afterthought, hair still tousled from sleep, shirt sleeves pushed up. he watches you for a second, like he’s memorizing the way you read—how your brow quirks when you hit a sentence you like, how your lips press together before you laugh at a line. there’s a look on his face that isn’t theatrical at all; it’s clear and a little stunned, as though he keeps discovering you for the first time.

“you look peaceful,” he says, and his voice is quiet enough that it doesn’t startle you. you close the book and pat the mattress, and he pads over, shedding the last of his morning stiffness. when he slides in behind you, the mattress dips with him and you feel the familiar ease of being claimed. his arm snakes under your neck, fingers finding the nape of your throat with practiced care, and he pulls you closer so your back rests against his chest. the world tightens to the two of you.

you tuck your legs up and his hand moves, casual and soothing, along your ribs where the fabric of your shirt lifts. his thumb traces small, lazy circles, like he’s erasing the edges of the day that worry you. you breathe in, slow. his breathing matches yours after a beat, steadying, bringing a predictable rhythm to your chest.

“what are you reading?” he asks, chin resting near your shoulder, breath warm and soft on your ear. his hair brushes your temple when he shifts. you tell him the title and he hums, the sound like contentment. “i like mystery books,” he murmurs.

you smile, leaning back against him in a way that feels more like coming home than anything else. he nudges your shoulder with his nose, a ridiculous, affectionate press that makes you snort. “stop it,” you say, voice playful, but your fingers curl in his sleeve anyway.

he kisses the corner of your mouth, gentle at first, then lingering as if to test how much permission you’ll give. when you tilt your head toward him, he deepens the kiss, softening his touch so it becomes a conversation. you taste coffee and the faint tang of tomato on his lips, and it makes you grin despite yourself.

“you taste like tomato,” you tell him when you pull back, breathless and laughing. he answers with a small, satisfied smile, the one that softens the hard lines of his face—like he’s been waiting to show it.

“i just ate one,” he says.

"what— you just took bites out of one like an apple?"

"yeah?"

"fucking weirdo…"

"yet, you still love me."

you wrap an arm over his, palm flat against his chest, feeling the beat beneath fabric. “don’t get cocky,” you warn, though your tone betrays you. he doesn’t. instead he presses his forehead to yours, eyes closing, and the two of you blink a small silence into being. it’s not dramatic; it’s a thing that happens often now, this effortless closeness.

he starts talking then, not about plans or duties, but about small, ridiculous things that make you laugh until your sides ache: an absurd story about a customer, a recipe he wants to attempt and will inevitably burn, his conspiracy that the neighbor’s cat judges his fashion choices. there’s a softness in his voice you don’t hear with customers, a patience reserved for you. he pauses sometimes, letting the quiet hang, then squeezes your hand as if to confirm you’re both still there.

minutes fold into easy hours. he reads over your shoulder, then reads aloud in a deliberately ridiculous dramatic voice that makes you hit his arm. later, when you fall asleep mid-sentence, he stays awake, eyes on your face, fingers moving through your hair with the sort of reverence people use for fragile things.

you wake at some point to find him watching the ceiling, looking older for a second, the light catching on the curve of his jaw. he notices you waking and smiles, and the smile is all amusement and a kind of fierce affection that takes the breath out of you. “you okay?” he asks, voice small. you nod and he pulls you closer so your cheek rests against the soft weight of his shirt, and you feel ridiculous for needing him, and entirely human for wanting him.

the evening spreads over you both like a quiet coat. you fall asleep eventually, his arm curled around you, one hand tucked against your hip as if that grip could hold time in place. in the dark, his breathing slows, safe and sure. you breathe with him, letting the small domestic sounds—clattering dishes, a distant siren, the hum of the fridge—become a lullaby that belongs only to the two of you.

—

the sun wakes you up the next day, soft and insistent, tugging you out of a sleep still tangled in dreams of cotton candy and Ferris wheels. your body aches pleasantly from sleeping on satoru's chest all night—you're willing to sacrifice your back to stay close to him. you stretch lazily, tugging the blankets closer before remembering the reality of the day: work.

its 8:32am, satoru would've already gone to his morning shift at jujutsu kitchen.

you shuffle through the motions, making coffee, fumbling with toast, the smell filling the apartment like a comfort you didn’t know you needed. you stare at your phone over the rim of your mug, half-expecting a text from satoru with some ridiculous morning greeting. there’s nothing yet, just the quiet hum of the city waking up.

you finally pull yourself together, shower, brush your teeth, and pick an outfit that’s somewhere between professional and stylish enough to feel like you’re putting your best foot forward. your hair is half-up, half-down, casual but tidy; you grab your bag and check the contents—wallet, keys, phone, sanity—before heading out the door.

on your way to work, the city is alive and buzzing, but your mind drifts anyway. your thoughts skip from yesterday’s fair to the lingering warmth of his body against yours. you can’t stop the little smile creeping across your face, and you have to shove it down before it attracts attention on the subway. maybe you’re still floating from the night before, but that’s okay.

as soon as you step into the office, the usual hum greets you—phones ringing, printers buzzing, coworkers murmuring—but there’s something different. your boss is standing at the front of the office, papers in hand, posture unusually upright, the kind of posture that makes your stomach twist in anticipation.

“good morning,” she starts, voice a little tighter than usual. “can i see you in my office for a moment?”

you blink, curiosity and nerves tangling together. “uh… sure.”

the walk down the hall feels slower than normal, each step echoing in your mind like some kind of drumroll. your chest pounds. what could it be? a new project? a complaint? your imagination runs wild, bouncing between excitement and panic.

you step into the office, and your boss gestures for you to sit. there’s a small pause, a deliberate one, and you can feel the air thickening with suspense.

“you’ve been doing… excellent work,” she starts, carefully. “and after reviewing the past few months, your contributions, your leadership on projects… we’d like to offer you a promotion. senior position.”

your heart skips, a jolt so sharp you nearly spill your coffee. your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “wait… really?” you manage, breathless, fingers clenching the edge of the desk.

she nods, smiling gently. “yes. we think you’re ready for this next step. the position is in our branch in another state, but the offer is yours if you want it.”

another jolt runs through you. excitement, panic, disbelief, thrill—it’s all wrapped into one dizzying package. your lips part, words caught in your throat, mind spinning with possibilities.

you blink, steadying yourself. “okay… wow. okay,” you say finally, still stunned. “thank you. this is… this is amazing.”

your boss smiles, leaning back in her chair. “we wanted to tell you in person. take your time to think about it, but we’re confident you’re the right choice.”

you nod, heart still racing, eyes sparkling. the world outside seems brighter suddenly, more alive, possibilities stretching wide.

and for the first time this morning, you allow yourself to imagine what it would mean: new city, new challenges, new beginnings… and maybe, just maybe, a way to share it all with someone who’s already made life feel like the fun fair.

but your joy is cut short once his words fully register in your mind.

“wait… it’s in another state?”

the words echo, bouncing between the excitement in your chest and a sudden, hollow twist in your stomach. your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as your brain refuses to settle. another state. new city. new life. all the possibilities shimmering like lights on a Ferris wheel, but somewhere in the glare, you feel the shadow of… him.

satoru. the thought sneaks in before you can stop it—his grin, his hand in yours, the warmth of him pressed close just last night, the way his presence seemed to shrink the world until it was just the two of you. the idea of leaving that behind, even temporarily, presses at your chest, and suddenly the excitement you had moments ago feels tangled with something heavier, something bittersweet.

you try to reason with yourself. this is your career, your growth, your life. the offer is incredible. senior position. the chance to do more, earn more, live differently. a tiny, selfish part of you—the part that loves stability, comfort, and control—whispers say yes.

another part—the part that aches for him, for the easy laughter, for the small stolen moments—whispers what about him?

he could do long distance, right?

you bite your lip, staring at the ceiling as if answers might be written there. your chest feels tight, your mind spinning with what-ifs. what if he’sll be okay? what if he hates me? what if… but then, slowly, your fingers unclench. you nod to yourself as if sealing a pact, a quiet, half-terrified, half-hopeful agreement.

“i… i’ll take it,” you murmur, almost to yourself, almost a question.

your boss smiles, pleased, unaware of the tiny storm twisting inside you. “excellent,” they say, handing you the formal paperwork and the next steps. “we’ll help you transition. congratulations. you’ve earned this.”

and you nod, the words tasting strange and foreign on your tongue. you should feel triumphant, victorious even. but instead, there’s a hollow tug, a whisper of hesitation as your mind drifts back to satoru, to the warm, chaotic, ridiculous world he’s created for you these past weeks.

you don’t know why you said yes—greed? ambition? the need for change? maybe all of it, maybe none. but the decision is made. and the thought of leaving soon, even with excitement pressing against your chest, carries a small, nagging ache you can’t quite shake.

for a moment, you just sit there, holding the paperwork, feeling both elated and unsteady, knowing that the next step is huge—but so is the part of your heart that doesn’t want to leave what you’ve found here.

—

that night, you push open the doors of jujutsu kitchen, the warm smell of broth and frying oil hitting you immediately, but it barely registers. all the comfort of the familiar smells, the buzz of the restaurant, the low chatter—it’s background now, drowned out by the storm coiling in your chest. you scan the room, and there he is. satoru, leaning casually against the counter, hair as impossibly messy as ever, that ridiculous grin plastered across his face. he looks… bright. safe. like nothing in the world could touch him.

and then you realize: you're about to turn his world upside down.

he notices you immediately. “hey,” he calls, casual as ever, but his tone tilts slightly once he sees your frown, curious. “what’s wrong?”

you swallow hard. “i… i have something to tell you,” you say, voice tight, words catching like they’re running from themselves.

he straightens, eyes softening, and his grin is gentle now. “okay… shoot. what’s up?”

“i got offered a promotion,” you say carefully, careful for what the words might mean when they land. “senior position.”

his eyes brighten instantly, and before you can even finish, he’s across the table, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “wow!! that’s amazing! good job, baby,” he murmurs, voice warm and proud. and for a moment, the storm inside you eases.

“thank you,” you whisper, letting yourself smile a little. then the weight drops.

“…it’s in another state.”

he freezes mid-breath. for a fraction of a second, his face is perfectly still—then the smallest shadow of panic flickers in his eyes. “oh… you turned it down, right?”

you blink. “no,” you admit, voice low, almost guilty. “i accepted it.”

the change is instantaneous. his shoulders slump slightly, the playful light in his eyes draining away, replaced by confusion, hurt, and something heavier—something raw. he swallows hard, jaw tight, then lets out a strangled laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “wait… what?”

"we can do long distance—"

"baby…"

“i didn’t know what else to do!” you try to explain, feeling the words catch in your throat. “it’s… a good opportunity. i can’t—i can’t pass it up.”

“you can’t pass it up?” he echoes, voice breaking slightly, sharp edges cutting through the warm restaurant air. “you’re leaving? you’re… leaving me?”

“satoru—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“no, wait,” he says, hands gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white. “don’t—don’t start that calm, rational stuff. i need to know. do you want to leave? are you happy about it? or is this just… some selfish career move?”

“i… i don’t know!” you snap, heart pounding, fingers balling into fists. “maybe i am happy! maybe i want this! maybe i don’t have a choice!”

“don’t have a choice?” he repeats, voice rising, and suddenly it’s like the entire restaurant has narrowed to just the two of you. “of course you have a choice! i thought we… i thought we had something, and now you’re just walking away!”

“i’m not walking away!” you yell, desperation spiking. “i’m trying to live my life, satoru! i… i can’t just… just stay because of you!”

"i can't believe you."

"we'll call everyday—"

"it's not the same."

"so you're breaking up with me?"

"you're the one leaving me behind!"

"maybe this is something i need to do. maybe i just— need to be selfish for once."

his mouth falls open at that, he steps back, blinking rapidly, his smile gone, replaced by a raw, jagged expression of pain. tears gather at the corners of his eyes, unashamed, uncontrolled. “seriously?” he chokes out, voice cracking. “so that’s it? you’re choosing… a job over me?”

you flinch at the tone, at the heartbreak vibrating in his chest, but your own chest twists painfully. “it’s not just the job! it’s… i don’t know, satoru!”

he laughs bitterly, sharp and jagged, a sound that rips through the air like shattered glass. “you don’t know? you don’t know and you decided anyway?!”

“i—i wasn’t thinking about losing you!” you say, tears brimming now, throat tight. “i didn’t want this to go this way, okay?”

he steps forward, but it’s not comforting—it’s accusing. “losing me? i’m not some trophy you take when convenient!” he shouts, voice raw, trembling with anger and despair. "i care about you. i… i love you, and you’re just leaving me for a paycheck!”

you swallow, tears threatening to spill. “i love you too! i just… this isn’t about leaving you. it’s about my life. i—”

“your life!” he echoes, voice breaking completely now. “my life is part of your life! you don’t just take off and ignore that!”

he slams a hand on the counter, causing a few glasses to rattle. you flinch at the sound, your stomach twisting, chest aching. he’s crying now openly, big, hot tears streaking down his face, his voice raw and hoarse. “i can’t just… sit here and watch you go! do you even understand what that does to me?”

you reach out instinctively, wanting to grab his arm, to touch him, to soothe him, but he recoils slightly, shaking his head, anger and heartbreak mingling in a storm of gestures and words. “don’t touch me right now,” he whispers through sobs. “just… go away. leave me alone.”

your chest aches. you want to stay. you want to hold him. you want to beg him to understand. but you also feel the impossible weight of the truth: you’ve made your choice, whether your heart fully agrees or not.

“satoru…” you say softly, your voice breaking. “i—”

“go!” he yells, voice cracking, rage and sorrow mixing until it’s almost unbearable. “just… leave!”

you freeze, swallowing hard, tears blurring your vision. his chest heaves, his shoulders shake, and you realize: no matter what you say now, the wound is too fresh, the heartbreak too immediate.

you take a trembling step back. “okay,” you whisper, almost inaudible. your hands fall to your sides, empty, powerless, aching to do more than just stand there.

he doesn’t look at you as you retreat toward the door, still gripping the counter as though it anchors him to the world. his sobs are quiet now, but the shuddering in his chest is unmistakable, it's as if you could hear his heart breaking in time with yours.

and you aren't sure if you'll ever recover from that.

—

the morning air is crisp at the train station, carrying that familiar metallic scent that always reminds you of beginnings and ends. your bag feels heavier than it should, weighed down with clothes, paperwork, and a knot in your chest that has been growing for the past month. a month since that day at jujutsu kitchen. a month of yearning, of half-hearted calls, of reminders of what you forgot to pack. every step toward the train feels like walking into a storm you can’t quite control.

you step onto the platform, heart hammering, mind swimming with anticipation and dread. the train waits there, long, gleaming, and humming with life. people move around you, chatting and yawning and carrying coffee cups and briefcases, oblivious to the quiet chaos in your chest. you take a deep breath and lift your bag, steadying yourself. you have to sit down before the train begins to move, before reality crashes down.

sliding into a window seat, you press your hand against the cool glass, staring at the platform in front of you. you close your eyes for a second, trying to steady your breathing, when—just like that—the world twists in a way you weren’t expecting.

a gasp escapes you, half disbelief, half joy. and there he is.

he’s there. satoru. standing on the platform, his haunted eyes locked onto yours as a rueful smile graces his lips.

“satoru…” you whisper, voice trembling, tears brimming, because somehow it’s him. he’s here. he sees you. he knows. he steps closer and presses his hand to the glass where yours is too. pushing hard against the window, praying for some miracle that the glass breaks and he gets the chance to touch you one last time.

"you didn't think i'd let you leave without a proper goodbye, did you?" he yells, his voice clear as day even through the thick windowpane.

he winks, that ridiculous, perfect, impossibly bright wink that makes your stomach flip. and just like that, the train begins to move, inching forward, teasing the moment like a cruel twist of fate. but he walks beside it, somehow keeping pace, hand never leaving the glass, eyes never leaving yours.

“i love you!” he shouts, the words clear even through the distance and roar of the engine. his tears streak his cheeks, but his grin is unbroken. every ounce of fear, frustration, and heartbreak from the past month is packed into that look, that desperate, beautiful, impossible act of devotion.

“i love you too!” you mouth back, lips trembling, raw, tears finally spilling freely. your chest aches with a joy so sharp it almost hurts, joy tangled with the ache of leaving, the ache of knowing distance will stretch cruelly between you.

he starts to run alongside the train as it picks up speed, the ground blurring beneath his feet. your bag shifts beside you, forgotten, as you lean closer to the window, feeling every yard he covers, every heartbeat that mirrors yours. the wind whips around him, but he doesn’t falter, doesn’t let go of the connection you’re holding through the glass.

“don't forget me!” he shouts, though the words are half swallowed by the rush of the wind and the train. he’s crying, but the strength and determination radiating off him is breathtaking.

your own tears streak your face as you cup your hand over your mouth, barely able to breathe for the weight of it. “i won't,” you whisper, voice hoarse, heart breaking and soaring at the same time. “i promise!”

he starts to falter as the train accelerates, but he doesn’t let go. the raw emotion in his eyes—the joy of seeing you, the terror of losing you, the weight of knowing distance will stretch cruelly between you—is almost unbearable.

you press your palm flat against the window, pressing yourself toward him as if sheer will could bring him inside the train with you. “i’ll wait!” you mouth, tears streaming freely now, cheeks burning, heart hammering against your ribs. “i’ll wait for you!”

and then it happens—the train picks up full speed. the world outside blurs into streaks of color. the platform drops away. he reaches the very end, fingers brushing the edge of the track, toes skimming the ground like he’s running on air.

he stops, chest heaving, hands trembling slightly, but he holds your gaze as long as he can. his grin is small now, wobbly, a mixture of pride and heartbreak. he waves one final time, lips trembling, tears shining. your hand mirrors his motion, pressed against the glass like a desperate prayer.

your heart feels both shattered and full at the same time, the memory of him running beside the train etched into your mind like a flame that refuses to die. you press your forehead against the cool glass, whispering to the wind, “i love you… i love you…” hoping it reaches him somehow, hoping it carries across the miles that now stretch between you.

and as the train speeds into the distance, the city unfolding around you, you realize that even though the moment is over, even though the platform is behind you, the memory, the connection, the promise—it will carry you forward. every mile you travel, every challenge, every new beginning—you’ll carry the echo of him in your chest, until the day you meet again.

tysm for reading, heres the taglist. lmk if u wanna be added to this perm taglist

@whorishminds @besidesjustmyamour @throatgoatgeto @go-go-gadget-autism @thecrazyfangirlthings @grignardsreagent @strawberryshortcakkitty @sparklyeva @naammiii @liasacountgothacked @annicishana @my-starlights @caffine-exe @error-raccoon-404 @afreakforyautja

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