dunmomee

[dunmomee]

Nobody Gets You, I Do

Synopsis: You’ve had enough of men who don’t see you, of relationships that chip away at who you are. One breakup and a meltdown later, there’s only one person you want to call. Your best friend since forever. But when comfort turns to tension, and teasing turns into touches that linger too long… you start to wonder if maybe the thing you’ve always needed has been right beside you all along.

Tag: mdni *****************************************************

You fumbled with your iPhone, hands trembling as you tried to dial your best friend's number. Rage surged through you, your body practically vibrating with fury. You paced around your bedroom, phone pressed tightly to your ear, the other hand buried in your hair, gripping hard. Each ring on the line only fueled your anger. You mentally screamed for your white-haired, goofy, bright-eyed best friend to answer, before you completely smothered him in your imagination.

On the last ring, he finally picked up. In the background, you could hear laughter, boisterous voices, the giggles of women, and it made you click your tongue in irritation just as Satoru finished a sentence, clearly mid-conversation.

“Hi, boo bear!” he greeted, overly excited.

You let out an exasperated sigh, your anger already starting to melt at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, playboy,” you muttered, sitting on the edge of your bed. The room was dim, lit only by a few stray rays of sunlight slipping through the gap in your thick curtains.

“I’m done with him,” you said flatly, throwing yourself back onto the bed, hair splaying across the soft covers.

“What did he do now?” Satoru sighed, but this one was different. It was the familiar sound of resignation, the here we go again kind of sigh. A routine you both knew all too well.

“He was complaining about my tweets,” you muttered, sinking deeper into the sheets. “Said that as his girlfriend, I shouldn’t be engaging with posts like that.”

“What posts, sweetie?” Satoru asked. You could hear him shuffling through papers, followed by a faint whisper in the background. Someone said something you couldn’t quite make out, and he responded with a few distracted grunts.

“Are you busy, ‘Toru?” you asked, shifting onto your side with a knowing smile. You already knew what his answer would be.

“You know I’m never too busy for you, Y/N,” he said, voice low and breathy. “Now tell me, what posts was that dipshit whining about?”

“Posts about wanting a man who makes you happy,” you said, voice laced with frustration. “And honestly, it wasn’t even about him. I just retweet everything that uplifts women. He never engages with my tweets about anime or movies or those cute cat videos, but suddenly he wants to catch an attitude over that.”

You got out of bed, running your hand over the sheets to smooth out the creases as you continued, “So we go back and forth for a while, and then I stop and think—Y/N, you are smart, beautiful, and amazing. Why do you keep putting up with this?” You straightened up, letting out a sigh. “So I told him. It’s over. I’m done.”

Satoru exhaled audibly on the other end. “You’re sure, Y/N? You’re done?”

“Yes, I am.” You stood there for a second, still and quiet, before turning back to the bed, fussing with the pillows. “I was just so angry. I was literally shaking when I called you.”

You heard more whispering in the background, followed by Satoru briefly murmuring a reply to someone before his voice returned to you.

“So, Y/N, I’m coming over right now so we can properly deal with this breakup,” he said with conviction. “I’ll grab ice cream on the way.”

You giggled. “Don’t you have to work, ‘Toru-chan?”

“Let me see…” you could easily picture him glancing at his watch with that casual confidence. “It’s 4:45 PM. They’ll survive without me. I have a princess in distress, and the world would quite literally collapse if I let her wallow in post-breakup self-pity and loneliness.”

“You’re so dramatic, Satoru,” you said, rolling your eyes fondly. “I’ll get dinner started.”

“See you in a few, boo bear.”

The line went dead, and you smiled to yourself, warmth settling quietly in your chest. Shedding your clothes, you stepped into the shower, letting the water wash away the weight of the day.

When you emerged, skin still damp and cheeks flushed from the steam, you reached for a shirt. Not just any shirt—his. Worn soft with time, it still smelled faintly of him. You slipped it on slowly, the fabric clinging to the memory of something more.

While you were setting the dining table, you caught sight of Satoru sauntering in with a bag in hand. Without a word, he strolled straight to your fridge and casually tucked the items inside. Just as you turned back toward the kitchen, he appeared right beside you, making you let out a small yelp.

“It smells amazing in here,” he said, stretching his arms out expectantly for a hug.

You rolled your eyes and gave him a quick side hug before returning to the kitchen to dish out the meal. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his mock scowl at being brushed off.

You plated the last of the curry, topped it with a sprinkle of chopped scallions, and turned to find him already perched at the kitchen island, chin propped on his palm, watching you with that signature lazy grin.

“Smells amazing, chef,” he said, eyes lighting up as you handed him a plate.

“Don’t flatter me yet. You haven’t even tasted it,” you shot back.

“Oh, I will. Thoroughly.” He dug in with exaggerated reverence, took one bite, and dramatically sighed. “Okay. Marry me.”

You snorted. “You say that every time I feed you.”

“And I mean it every time.”

You both settled into the cozy nook by the window, knees brushing under the table. The light from the city outside filtered in, muted and calming.

“I actually made dessert,” you said casually after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “I was gonna call you to come pick it up tonight… before everything went sideways.”

Satoru perked up. “Wait—you baked?”

You got up and returned with two warm ramekins of chocolate lava cake. The scent of cocoa filled the air as you placed one in front of him.

“I know it’s your favorite.”

His eyes sparkled as he dug in immediately. “You do love me.”

“I do,” you said dryly. “But not enough to give you my second one.”

As he ate loudly, and with frankly unnecessary enthusiasm, you both chatted about work. You leaned back in your seat, arms stretched overhead.

“I’m on leave for a few weeks,” you said. “Too many deadlines, too many PR fires. Hollywood is exhausting.”

“Sounds like my love life,” he replied, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “But seriously, I’m glad you’re taking time off. You deserve it.”

You smiled. “Thanks. I think I’ll just chill. Cook. Binge some old shows. Hide from the world.”

“You know I’m ready to take my own leave just to hang out with you, right?”

You laughed. “We both saw the breakup coming. But you don’t have to change your plans for me.”

He would anyway.

“Meh,” he muttered, shrugging.

Later, with dishes cleared and your bellies full, you both collapsed onto the couch. The tub of ice cream he brought was now half-melted between you as Friends played in the background, its laugh track filling the room with a soft rhythm.

Satoru scooped up a spoonful and glanced sideways. “I can’t believe you still have my old shirt.”

“It comforts me after every major breakup,” you said, curling up and letting your head rest lightly on his shoulder. “Like you did in college. What’s it been—three major heartbreaks since then? Men are trash.”

“Yes, they are.”

“You know that includes you, ‘Toru.”

He nodded, slurping noisily. “It’s your world, and I just happen to live in it.”

You turned to face him, tucking your legs underneath you. He mirrored you without hesitation. The only light in the room now came from the TV and the glow of surrounding skyscrapers.

“You were so right about David, Toru-chan,” you said quietly. “I was a fool. I keep falling for men who don’t really see me. And I’m so tired. I think I’m gonna take a break… reevaluate things. Maybe travel. I’m not even going to cry this time. I used my last tears on Luke.”

Satoru gave you a soft smile, one that didn’t reach his usual theatrics. “Good. No more tears over people who don’t deserve them.”

You took another spoonful of the melting ice cream, barely tasting it now. The room had gone quiet again, the kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy but it wasn’t exactly light either.

“Come here,” he said and gave you a hug.

It was comfortable. Familiar. Maybe too familiar.

When you shifted slightly, adjusting your position, his hand came up instinctively—fingers brushing your back, light as a whisper, before settling briefly at the small of it. Just enough contact to send a flicker of something through you.

You froze, just for a second. He didn’t seem to notice.….or maybe he did. He kept his eyes on the windows, spoon dangling lazily from his other hand.

But the touch lingered. Warm. Gentle. Intentional.

Your heart skipped a beat, though you weren’t sure why. It wasn’t like Satoru hadn’t touched you before. He was affectionate in his own over-the-top way. But this felt… different. Grounded. Quiet. Like a promise waiting in the silence.

You sat back, and his hand fell away.

He looked over at you then, and for the first time all night, the grin he gave wasn’t teasing. It was soft. Real. Like he saw something in you that you weren’t sure you were ready to see in yourself.

“What?” you asked, trying to brush it off with a chuckle.

“Nothing,” he said, eyes not leaving yours. “Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, his expression unreadable for a split second. Then he smiled, and it was his usual boyish grin again. “About how I’m gonna need another helping of that lava cake before the night ends.”

You rolled your eyes as you stood up, mumbling something under your breath about “greedy sweet tooths” while heading toward the kitchen again.

“I heard that,” Satoru called lazily from the couch.

“I meant you to,” you shot back, pulling open the fridge and grabbing the last lava cake ramekin. You heated it just a little because even he didn’t deserve cold chocolate lava cake after tonight and carefully placed it on a small dish.

But as you turned to walk back, your shin slammed into the low corner of the dining table.

“Shit!” you hissed, clutching your leg.

You barely had time to register the sting before Satoru was suddenly up and beside you, hand gently steadying your waist, brows furrowed in concern.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, immediate. That lazy grin from earlier was gone—he looked genuinely rattled.

You blinked at him, more surprised by his reaction than the pain. “It’s just a bump.”

He let out a breath and stepped back a little, visibly trying to mask how quickly he’d moved. You eyed him, suspiciously, holding out the cake.

“You’re really that worried over a table bruise?” you said, handing him the plate.

He took it, but instead of replying, he set the dish down carefully on the coffee table. Then, without a word, he reached for your wrist and pulled you gently toward him. You gasped as he sat back on the couch, guiding you down until you were straddling him.

“Satoru—what—”

“It must hurt a lot,” he said quietly, one hand settling on your hip, the other resting lightly on your knee. “I don’t like to see you hurt.”

His eyes searched yours, no teasing, no flirtatious lilt, just something raw and real sitting heavy in his gaze. “I feel like flipping the damn table.”

You stared at him, your breath caught halfway in your throat. Your hands were still hovering, unsure of where to land—on his shoulders? His chest? Nowhere at all?

“Satoru…” you started.

“Don’t,” he said gently, almost like a plea. “Not yet. Just… stay like this for a sec.”

His hands slid to your bare leg, briefly sliding by your panties and to your waist underneath your shirt. His old shirt.

So you did. Sitting there, knees pressed into either side of his thighs, your apartment softly lit by the glow of the city outside and the flickering television.

You could feel his warm, bare hands pressing into your skin. Steady, grounding… and burning. Like they carried intention. You tried not to overthink it, tried to will your brain into pretending this was just another one of your harmless moments with Satoru. He was just the boy you grew up with. The boy who got you into trouble and then got you out of it. The boy who teased you mercilessly, who held your hand through every fever and heartbreak.

But right now, he wasn’t just that boy.

Right now, he was a man. A very real, very grown man holding you like he was afraid you might disappear.

You’d felt his touch before. Comforting, casual, familiar. You’d shared countless sleepy mornings, half-asleep tangles on couches, even late-night comfort cuddles when the world felt too loud. But this… this felt different. You were aware of him now.

His eyes were fixed on yours, impossibly blue and soft with something you couldn’t name. His hair was tousled from your couch, the undercut somehow making it worse—better—more distracting. Your gaze dropped, unintentionally, to his lips.

What were you thinking?

This was Satoru.

Satoru, who used to snort-laugh when you tripped. Who once dared you to eat raw wasabi in middle school. Who always showed up, even when you didn’t ask.

“Satoru…” you breathed, barely audible. There was a tremble in your voice that surprised you.

His hands slid slowly, reverently, up your sides. They stopped just beneath your breasts, not crossing the line but close enough to make your breath hitch. His thumbs ghosted along your ribs, his touch tentative but certain, like he was giving you a chance to stop him.

“Boo bear,” he began, voice soft, eyes locked on yours. “I hate seeing you hurting.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, louder than it had any right to. There was something in his gaze—something tender and unspoken. Was it… love?

“Satoru…” you whispered, breath catching as your hand found its way to his cheek, thumb brushing gently against his skin.

His eyes fluttered closed for a second, like your touch was something he’d craved without realizing. Then he leaned in, resting his face in the crook of your neck. The heat of him, the familiar scent, the intimacy—it all wrapped around you like a memory and something more.

“Baby,” he murmured against your skin.

Your breath hitched. Your hand slid up into his hair.

“Don’t call me baby, ’Toru…” your voice was quieter now, but firmer. “Not if you don’t mean it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, his lips parting like he wanted to say something and suddenly, the room felt like it was holding its breath.

“Y/N, I’ve loved you since I was eight years old,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, eyes searching yours like they held every answer he’d ever needed.

You blinked, stunned into silence.

“Satoru, that’s… silly,” you said, though the words felt hollow. “No one falls in love at that age.”

“I did.”

His hand, warm and steady, left your side only to find yours, the one still cupping his cheek. He wrapped his fingers around it like it grounded him. Like it meant everything.

You swallowed hard. You could feel the heat under your skin, flushing your chest, your neck. Your body was betraying you. Breath stuttering, pulse wild, warmth curling low in your belly. Why were you reacting like this to his touch? This was Satoru.

But this wasn’t a joke. Not a tease. Not a half-thought flirtation like the ones he’d tossed at you over the years. This was different.

You tried to laugh it off, tried to pull away, but he didn’t let you.

“I know you feel it too,” he said, gaze unwavering.

And you hated that he was right.

“When?” you asked, the word escaping before you could stop it.

“After you clocked me with your water bottle for teasing Suguru.”

You blinked, brow furrowed. “That didn’t happen.”

His lips quirked. “It did. I still have the emotional scars.”

You tried to smirk, tried to break the tension, but his eyes never left yours. And then his hand slid back beneath your shirt…. his old shirt, fingertips unclipping your bra and finding the swell of your breast. Your breath caught.

He found your nipple with maddening ease, flicking it lightly, and a low moan escaped your throat before you could stop it. You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Not a single word.

Then he leaned in.

Slow at first, giving you space to pull away, to say no. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Your breath hitched, lips parting slightly as his hand brushed your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t cautious.

It was full and desperate and hungry, like years of something unsaid had finally burst the seams. His lips pressed firmly against yours, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pulled you closer by your waist, until your chest was flush against his. You gasped into his mouth, and he deepened the kiss, tongue brushing against yours in a way that made your entire body tense and melt all at once.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life to. Because he had been. And it showed in every desperate inch of how he touched you.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, your forehead stayed pressed to his. His hand was still in your hair. Yours were curled into the fabric of his shirt.

“I hated watching those guys touch you,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “I hated seeing you laugh at their stupid jokes.”

You let out a shaky breath, your lips brushing his. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because you were always looking at them like they hung the stars. You never looked at me like that.”

“I did see you, Satoru,” you murmured, fingers threading through his snow-white hair. “But I never thought you felt this way about me. You always had those blonde girls around: fake tan, fake smiles, fake personalities. You acted like you liked it.”

His jaw tightened, and his grip on your waist pulled you closer. “I was trying to forget you.”

You smiled softly, heart thundering. “Did it work?”

He leaned in again, lips ghosting over yours.

“Not even a little.”

His hands found the buttons of your shirt and he began unbuttoning the first two buttons and leaned his head into the crook of your neck to inhale your scent.

Then he guided you down. Slow. Deliberate. Until your back met the couch cushions. He hovered above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other brushing your cheek, your neck, tracing the edge of your jaw like he was trying to memorize you by feel alone.

Your breath caught as he leaned in again, lips pressing softer this time, languid, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. His hand slipped beneath your shirt again, bolder now, fingers trailing upward until they brushed the underside of your breast. You arched into him, involuntarily, and his mouth met yours again in a kiss that left you breathless and aching.

But then—

You thought about the rumors.

All the girls. The late-night whispers in dorm rooms, the giggles in locker-lined hallways. That Gojo Satoru could make any girl scream his name. That he didn’t stay the night. That it never meant anything.

And now here he was. Above you. Touching you like he meant every second of it. Kissing you like no one else ever existed.

Your hands curled into his shirt. “Toru…” you breathed, eyes searching his face.

He stilled. Eyes wide, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. “What?”

You hesitated. “I just—” You swallowed. “Why me?”

He leaned down, his nose brushing yours. “Because it’s always been you.”

His voice was steady, but you could feel the tremble in him. The way his thumb brushed your ribcage like he was trying to ground himself. Like he was afraid of ruining this.

You let your hand move to his face again, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. “Then show me,” you whispered, heart pounding in your throat. “But only if it’s me you want. Not just tonight. Not just now.”

His eyes flared with something molten, want, yes, but something deeper, quieter. Reverent.

“I want all of you,” he murmured. “Always have.”

And when he kissed you again, it was different—slower, surer, like he wanted to savor the way you fell apart beneath him.

Satoru laid you down on the couch like you were something precious. Yet starved for. His mouth didn’t leave yours for long. When it did, it was only to kiss lower: down the slope of your jaw, the column of your neck, the curve of your shoulder as he slid your shirt up inch by inch.

You weren’t sure when breathing became so difficult. Every place his lips touched left a trail of heat behind. When his hand slipped beneath your waistband, you whimpered, back arching, thighs parting instinctively to let him in.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he murmured, voice thick with awe and hunger, fingers stroking softly at first—then firmer when you gasped. “Is this really all for me, baby?”

You could only nod. Your voice had deserted you. Your body, however, answered for you, hips moving, heart racing, hands curling into his hair like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

It wasn’t just lust. It was years of something unspoken.

“I used to imagine this,” he whispered against your skin. “All the time. Even when I was with someone else.”

You flinched slightly at that. The rumors. The girls. The way they used to talk, about how loud he made them moan, how he was always so good with his hands, how they could barely walk after a night with Gojo Satoru.

But none of that compared to this.

Because he wasn’t just fucking you. He was learning you. Touching you like he was desperate to memorize every gasp, every shiver, every soft plea falling from your lips. His name spilled from your mouth over and over, like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“You’re not them,” he growled, pushing two fingers inside you as his mouth sucked your nipple into the heat of his mouth. “You never were. You’re mine, Y/N.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, body trembling under the weight of everything—desire, affection, the years of quiet longing neither of you dared to name until now.

When he finally pressed inside you, slow, deep, deliciously stretching, you cried out his name like it had never tasted this good on your tongue before.

And Satoru moved like he was making up for every second he hadn’t touched you. Like he was trying to make you forget every rumor, every lie.

Like he was proving that whatever he’d been before… he was yours now.

And you believed him.

Because no one kissed like that.

No one touched you like you were sacred.

No one, but him.

[dunmomee]

Coffee and Classicals ☕

☕ chapter summary: When two days pass without a single message from you, Levi pretends not to fidget, until the silence begins to gnaw at him. What he finds when he finally sees you shakes him, and for the first time, he steps out of his solitude to care for someone other than himself. ☕ a/n: I'm sorry it's taken so long to put out this chapter. Between the stress of everyday life and waves of imposter syndrome and dissociation, it's been hard to stay grounded. But I'm committed to continuing this story and giving it my best. Thank you so much for reading—it means more than you know. For the next few weeks, I may stick to a biweekly update schedule while I take things one step at a time.

<<previous chapter ☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>

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Chapter Ten: Baby, Hold My Hand

It had been two full days, and Levi hadn’t received a single text from you. Not even one of those absurd, grotesque late-night comments from your reading that usually brightened his screen. 

He’d hovered over the idea of texting you back—several times, in fact—but always ended up deleting the draft, instead staring at the last thing you sent: a single laughing emoji. He even typed out a “?” once.

Erwin had been quietly watching Levi fidget with his phone. Before he could say anything, Levi stood up abruptly and muttered, “I’m heading to the library. Need to check out a book or two.”

The blond man's full brows rose in mild surprise as he watched his usually composed friend practically bolt from the room.

After aimlessly drifting through the bookshelves, pretending to browse titles he wasn’t even reading, Levi finally accidentally made his way to the study tables. He pretended not to notice Hange immediately, though it was hard to miss the chaos: scattered papers, open books, a graveyard of coffee cups, and a nest of tangled pens.

And of course, Moblit was there too, hunched over her shoulder like a loyal squire. Levi’s eye twitched. For some reason, seeing him there irritated him more than it should have.

He scanned the table twice, but his searching didn’t go unnoticed.

“Looking for someone?” Hange asked, a sly smile curling on her lips as she rested her chin in her hands.

“I came to pick up some books,” Levi said flatly, holding up the ones he’d grabbed earlier. “Looks like you’re missing someone from your usual circus.”

“Or,” Hange grinned, “you could just ask about Y/N like a normal person.”

She leaned back, clearly enjoying herself. “She goes into monk mode before finals. Studying from home, total lockdown.”

“Right,” Levi muttered, eyes narrowing.

Moblit chimed in, all good intentions. “She hasn’t replied to me either. It’s kind of her thing when she’s stressed. Though… she did complain about a headache yesterday before leaving. Left class pretty early.”

“She always replies to me,” Levi muttered, arms crossing tightly over his chest.

Hange tilted her head, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Worried, Levi?”

He clicked his tongue and looked away. “Tch. Not my problem.”

But it was.

Levi did his best to walk calmly out of the library, keeping his steps measured. But the moment he stepped outside, his pace quickened, panic gnawing at his chest as he pulled out his phone with trembling fingers.

He forced himself to stay steady, to think clearly, as he tapped on your name.

It rang.

And kept ringing.

No answer.

His stomach dropped.

Without thinking, he broke into a sprint, shoving his phone into his pocket as his walk turned into a full, desperate run.

By the time Levi reached your building, the sky had turned a pale, overcast grey. The kind of cold that seeps into your collar and settles in your bones.

He didn’t know why he felt this panicked. Maybe Hange was right. Maybe you were just holed up studying, like always.

He kept replaying the last time he saw you, how pale you looked, how tired your voice had sounded. You hadn’t been yourself. Even the way you disagreed with him had felt… empty. The absence of your usual fire stuck with him, echoing louder the longer the silence stretched.

A brown paper bag swung lightly from his hand. Inside were pastries and your favorite coffee, picked up mid-sprint so he wouldn’t show up empty-handed. Or in case you’d forgotten to eat, buried under textbooks and deadlines.

He knocked once.

Then twice.

Muted sounds inside.

“Oi.” A third knock, louder this time. Still no answer.

He tried the handle. It wasn’t locked.

Inside, the apartment was too warm. The air felt heavy. Books lay scattered across the floor and table, your laptop still open, its screen blinking weakly.

And there you were.

Half-curled on the floor, one arm stretched toward your fallen phone. Pale. Shivering. Your breathing shallow.

“Shit.”

Levi dropped the bag and was at your side in an instant. His hand brushed over your forehead. Clammy. Too warm.

“Hey. Wake up.”

His voice was urgent now, tight with something close to fear.

Your lashes fluttered. Dry lips parted. “...Levi?”

“Tch. You idiot,” he muttered, but it came out softer than he meant. Rough around the edges. “You should’ve called someone.”

“Didn’t… mean to…” The words barely formed as your head lolled slightly.

He cursed under his breath, lifting you gently and carrying you to the bed. You were lighter than he expected. Fragile in a way that unsettled him.

Bertholdt, the small cat perched like a grumpy guardian on the bookshelf, glared at him with wide, judging eyes. Levi ignored him.

The blanket smelled faintly like your shampoo. He pulled it over you, tucking it carefully under your chin before moving to the kitchen.

Levi moved quickly. First, he poured a glass of water and knelt beside you, easing your head up with a firm but careful hand.

“Drink,” he said, holding the rim to your lips. You blinked slowly, dazed, but obeyed. The water dribbled slightly down your chin, and he wiped it with the edge of his sleeve.

He exhaled, barely, and set the glass down.

“Stay put.” His tone was quiet but sharp, like a command laced with worry.

Then he was gone.

The trip was fast, efficient on the outside, frantic just beneath. Cold meds from the nearest pharmacy. Ginger, garlic, scallions, tofu, broth from the grocery store—whatever he could remember from all the times he had to take care of himself when no one else did. He paid in cash. Didn't wait for the receipt.

When he returned, he didn’t speak. Just tied an apron around his waist like it was second nature and began cooking, quietly, precisely.

Your eyes fluttered open and closed, struggling to make sense of what was happening. For a moment, you were certain it was a dream, seeing Levi, hearing his voice.

Your throat burned, your nose was somehow both blocked and running, and your limbs felt too heavy to move. You couldn’t even lift your hands.

The apartment slowly filled with the scent of warm broth and simmering ginger.

Steam curled in the air as he ladled the soup into a bowl, then carried it to the bed where you lay, barely propped up under a blanket.

He helped you sit, one arm supporting your back as he settled beside you.

“Medicine first,” he said, placing the pills in your palm and handing you the water again. You swallowed weakly.

Then, he held the bowl up and blew on the spoon before offering it to you.

You tried to take it from him, but your hand shook.

“I’ve got it,” he said quietly. And he did, spoon by spoon, gently, patiently. Between bites, he watched your color return, your breathing grow steadier.

You had eaten slowly, leaning against him for support, every motion sluggish from the fever. Now, your head rested back on the bed, eyes barely open, your skin still too warm to the touch.

Without a word, he stood and disappeared into the kitchen again. You heard the faucet run, water sloshing into a basin, then soft footsteps returning. He crouched beside you, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in concentration.

He dipped a towel into the cold water, wrung it out with calloused hands, and gently pressed it to your forehead. His touch was steady but careful, almost reverent. He moved the cloth to your cheeks, then the nape of your neck, each press designed to draw the heat from your skin.

“You do everything well except take care of yourself,” he muttered, more to himself. “You really are an idiot, Red.”

Your eyes fluttered closed at the cool relief. The fever still pulsed beneath your skin, but something steadier, calmer, had taken its place.

Levi folded the towel and replaced it with another, freshly soaked. He did it again. And again. Quiet, methodical. The kind of care only someone who’d memorized your every detail would give.

When your breathing finally slowed, he stood. His movements were quiet, deliberate, clearing the soup bowl, gathering the used towels into the basin. 

But your hand shot out, weak but insistent, fingers clutching the hem of his shirt.

“Just stay with me,” you whispered, eyes barely open. “Please. Just for a little while. Just… hold me.”

He froze.

For a moment, the silence between you stretched, filled only by the soft hum of the heater and the faint drip of water from the bowl.

Then he exhaled, long and slow, like something inside him finally gave way.

He stripped off the apron and loosened the top button of his shirt. Wordlessly, he toed off his socks and crossed to the other side of the bed. Gently, carefully, he pulled you into his arms.

You stirred faintly in protest.

“Shut up,” he murmured. “You asked.”

You melted into him almost instantly, your face nuzzling into the hollow beneath his collarbone. One arm draped over his torso, your fingers still curled tightly in the fabric of his shirt, like you were afraid he might disappear.

Levi hesitated just a moment longer, then pulled you closer.

One arm wrapped around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His fingers combed softly through your hair, slow, grounding strokes, while your breath warmed the hollow of his throat.

He felt it then.

The heat of you against him. The soft, unconscious sigh you let out as you melted into his chest. The painful tenderness pressing into his ribs like it had been waiting for this moment.

He didn’t fight it.

Didn’t analyze it.

Didn’t mock himself for caring too much.

He let it wash over him. The fear he’d felt earlier. The quiet relief now. The affection that had been building beneath every snide remark and quiet act of care.

“...You scared me, Y/N,” he said softly into your hair. “Don’t do that again.”

You mumbled something unintelligible into his chest, already half-asleep.

Levi let himself smile, barely. Just a twitch of his mouth, hidden in the dark.

Beneath the covers, he drew you closer, holding you like something precious, something he wasn’t ready to lose. Maybe something he never could.

And for the first time in a long while, Levi let himself feel warm.

Not from your shared body heat.

And not from the blankets.

But from the quiet, undeniable presence of you.

<<previous chapter

[dunmomee]

Somewhere Only We Know

synopsis: From the chaos of the premiere to the stillness of a beach, you and Satoru trade fame for fries and something more unspoken.

a/n: I’m baaaackkkk! This chapter’s been living in my drafts for over two weeks (yes, I kept editing it at a snail’s pace), but I finally let it breathe and I really hope you love how it turned out. Your thoughts mean the world, as always! 💙✨

<<Previous one-shot ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next >>

*******************************************************

London shimmered under a sky of steel-blue dusk, its skyline pierced by the London Eye's soft glow and the gold-rimmed silhouette of Big Ben. The red carpet outside the historic theatre was lined with velvet ropes and shuttering flashes. Inside, the grandeur of the venue swelled: gilded balconies, velvet drapes, ornate moldings that smelled faintly of dust and history. The London premiere of Crossed Lines was in full swing.

You arrived late on purpose.

Not fashionably late. Just strategically. You needed solo photos. Clean ones. No distractions. No Gojo Satoru hijacking your spotlight with a wink and a scandalous touch.

Your car pulled up to a roar of excitement. Fans pressed against the barricades, screaming your name. Photographers barked for angles, for smiles, for drama.

You stepped out onto the carpet in your lavender silk gown, the fabric catching the light like morning mist. The slit rippled with every step. Cameras flashed. The neckline dipped just enough. Your hair was swept up, your neck on full display, jeweled earrings twinkling like stars.

You signed autographs, pausing to greet fans. A little girl held a handmade sign that read: "Team Kael & Elia Forever." You knelt, signed her poster, smiled for a photo.

Then came the questions.

"Are you dating Gojo?"

"Did the kiss mean something?"

"Will there be a sequel?!"

"Should we expect to see you and Gojo in more movies together?"

You smiled sweetly. "You'll have to watch and see."

You moved toward another group of fans waving posters when a voice, too loud and too pointed, sliced through the hum.

"So quick to philander with Gojo after a five-year relationship, huh? No wonder your ex said you were the problem."

The words hit you like a slap. For a heartbeat, you froze.

But only a heartbeat.

You turned your head slowly, eyes scanning for the source without letting your expression crack. Your smile stayed in place, graceful, practiced. The kind that said nothing and everything.

Security was already moving. One of your guards placed a firm but polite hand at your back.

"This way, miss."

You allowed yourself to be guided, chin tilted slightly higher. You didn't flinch. Didn't respond. Just smiled like the cameras were still watching.

And they were.

You turned and posed alone; back slightly arched, profile catching the light, a gentle smile on your lips. You were poised. Untouchable. The very image of elegance.

Then the screams swelled.

You knew that sound. That white-haired man. That high-pitched chaos. The Gojo Effect.

Satoru appeared at the far end of the carpet, in a storm-grey suit and the smuggest grin known to man. He took his time walking toward you, signing a few autographs, waving at the press. You could feel his eyes tracking you the whole time.

And then—

"RECREATE THE KISS!"

"TOUCH HER WAIST!"

"LOOK AT HER LIKE LAST TIME!"

You were still mid-pose when he slid in beside you, his hand settling on the small of your back, like it belonged there, like it always had.

"You’re late," he murmured, voice low for your ears alone.

"I came late on purpose," you replied through your smile. "To avoid this."

He laughed under his breath, leaning closer as more photos clicked. "You wound me."

You angled toward the cameras, smile sharp. "Try anything again and I’ll stab you with my heel."

"Promises, promises."

More flashes. He leaned in like he might recreate the kiss. Just enough to tease the crowd. But you stepped away gracefully.

"Enjoy the chaos, Satoru," you said, voice honeyed.

And with that, you walked off the carpet, heels tapping, leaving him smirking under the glare of every lens.

The chaos of arrivals had faded into a hum. You stood backstage in the wings, your gown brushing softly around your legs, loose in all the places your stylist had promised would look "effortlessly chic." It dipped low at the back, exposing the length of your spine, cool air whispering over your bare skin. 

You felt lightheaded. Maybe it was the heat of the lights. Maybe the tension. Or maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t eaten anything solid since yesterday’s green juice. Nerves churned against an empty stomach. You pressed your palm to your abdomen, discreetly.

Satoru appeared at your side like gravity. A tailored grey suit hugged his frame, turtleneck soft against his skin. His platinum hair glinted under stage lights, and his cologne wrapped around you like something warm and annoyingly addictive.

"You look like a painting," he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. "One I'd steal from a gallery, no regrets."

You rolled your eyes. "You're supposed to behave tonight."

He smirked. "Oh, I am. This is me behaving."

The theatre doors opened. Applause rumbled like distant thunder. One by one, the cast filed onstage.

You followed, smile poised, spine pulled tall despite the ache in your knees. The spotlight hit like a wave. Heat. Noise. Eyes.

Satoru spoke first, all lazy charm. "We wanted this film to feel like something intimate and dangerous. And Y/N here? She carried that tension like breath."

The crowd chuckled, charmed. You smiled, managed a few words of thanks, though your throat felt dry. Your pulse raced. The floor under your heels seemed to tilt.

Then applause again. A few bows. The cast turned to exit. You pivoted, but your heel caught on the edge of the step. The world tilted—

A firm grip caught your waist.

Satoru.

His arm was around you in a blink, steady and secure. His palm found the curve of your hip, grounding you like a weight. No one else noticed. Not the audience. Not the cast.

Just you. Just him.

His voice brushed your ear. "Steady, sweetheart. I've got you."

Backstage, laughter rose.

Riko smirked. “You two gonna keep pretending this isn’t a slow-burn romcom in real life?”

Satoru opened his mouth to respond, but Yuki cut in with a deadpan, “We’ve had more chemistry reads with you two than actual rehearsals.”

“Honestly,” Utahime added, grinning, “at this point, the marketing team’s just waiting for that intimate kiss to drop so they can rebrand the entire film.”

“Do we get invited to the wedding?” Choso asked, sipping his drink like it was popcorn-worthy.

You forced a laugh, but your chest ached. "I need air."

Satoru didn't hesitate. He guided you through a narrow hall, down a staff corridor, out a side door into the night. The city air bit at your skin, cool and sharp.

You inhaled deeply. Stars peeked from behind clouded sky.

"I’m starving," you admitted quietly, voice hoarse. "Like…actually starving. Haven’t had a real meal in two days."

He frowned. "You should've said something."

You gave a weak smile. "Press tour rules. Look good. Breathe less. Survive on fumes and compliments."

He shook his head. "Get in the car."

His Porsche Panamera was parked by a side street, sleek, black, humming with heat. He helped you into the seat, his hand lingering at your knee longer than necessary.

"Trust me," he said. "We're gonna fix this."

Twenty minutes later, you were parked outside a drive-thru on the outskirts of the city. It smelled like grease and comfort.

The moment the intercom crackled, Satoru ordered without even glancing at you:

“Two double cheeseburgers. Fries. Extra crispy. Spicy wings. And cherry soda. No ice.”

You blinked. “You remembered.”

He shrugged. “I remember everything.”

The car pulled away, headlights cutting through the dim backroads as the city lights faded behind you. You kicked off your shoes and curled into your seat, unwrapping your burger as the road hummed beneath the tires.

“You know,” you said between bites, “people are probably watching our movie right now. And here we are dipping.”

He gave a lazy grin. “Let them. We gave them enough of a show.”

You nudged his thigh with your foot. “You’re moving around like you own London. You always know the good spots in every country. Late-night drive-thrus, rooftop bars in Soho, hole-in-the-wall ramen joints in Osaka. It’s suspicious.”

“Dated a British actress once,” he said, like it explained everything. “She hated crowds. Loved anything deep-fried. I picked up a few things.”

You grinned. “So the mysterious local-guide energy is all just secondhand ex-boyfriend experience?”

He tilted his head. “You think this level of charm just happens?”

“Charm,” you repeated flatly. “Right. Like the same charm that got you dumped by that Victoria’s Secret model after she leaked your chats to the press?”

He groaned. “That’s so low of you, Y/N.”

You laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Too soon?”

He shot you a look. “Still less painful than your five-year award-winning director bro era.”

You rolled your eyes, crumpling the burger wrapper in your hand. “Touché.”

“Five years is a long time,” he added, quieter.

“Yeah,” you said, voice dipping. “Long enough to start planning forever. Long enough for it to fall apart anyway.”

The silence sat between you for a second, only broken by the crinkle of food wrappers and the hum of the road.

“I’ve seen the comments,” he said suddenly. “The ones his hideous fans leave.”

You looked at him. “I got one earlier today”

Satoru looked so puzzled. Staring at you very briefly before facing the wheel.

You stared out the window. “Yeah. Said i was philandering with you”

He gave a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But we’re just coworkers,” he said, too fast, too flat.

You arched a brow but didn’t call him out. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How strangers think they know who we are. Like a couple of red carpet photos and interviews give them permission to write our whole story.”

He didn’t respond. Just drove on, jaw tight, fingers flexing once on the wheel. Like there was more he wanted to say, but didn’t.

Eventually, he pulled into a quiet overlook where the sea spread out dark and glimmering below. The moonlight danced on the waves. Not another soul in sight.

You sat together on the sand, legs tangled, food bags warm against your thighs. You bit into the burger and nearly moaned.

“Still dramatic,” he murmured.

You threw a fry at him. “Still insufferable.”

He smiled, softer now. “You were always like this. Even back then. Before any of this.”

You chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the moonlight skipping across the waves. “You were Suguru’s golden-boy best friend. I’m sure you thought of me as his weird-ass cousin.”

“That’s not true,” he said, voice low.

“I was so nerdy back then. And that acne...”

He turned to look at you fully. “You’ve always been amazing. And beautiful. Plus—I had braces, remember?”

“You were always the pretty boy,” you muttered. “Glassy skin. That annoyingly symmetrical face... ugh. Like a maiden’s.”

He laughed then, a warm, throaty sound that wrapped around you.

Silence stretched between you, soft and golden and fragile.

“I can’t believe Su-chan and Shoko get to live this amazing life together, and we’re just… floating. Stuck with the short end of the stick,” you sighed. “Remember when Shoko used to hate both of you? Or pretended to, anyway. And all of Su-chan’s teasing? Just his dumb way of saying he liked her.”

Satoru smiled faintly, sipping his drink.

You turned to him. “Do you think we’ll find something like that? Even in this flashy, chaotic world?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I know we can. The only problem is… the person I want hasn’t even realized it.”

Your eyes flicked to his.

He was staring at you, still, unreadable. But something in his gaze made your chest tighten.

Your fingers brushed against his on the blanket. Slowly, gently, he laced them together.

You sat there in the hush of night, your head tilted, his thumb brushing your knuckles. You chewed another fry. He reached for his phone.

Click.

"Did you just take a picture of me eating?"

He smiled. "You looked happy. I wanted to remember."

You turned to scold him, but found him already looking at you.

The air between you held still.

Then—

"Y/N!"

Your assistant’s voice shattered the quiet. She was running toward you, shoes sinking awkwardly into the sand with every step like the beach itself was trying to stop her.

You panicked, instinctively hiding the burger behind your back.

Too late.

You couldn’t suppress your snicker and neither could Satoru.

"You’re supposed to be on a cleanse! Valentino is expecting you at a final fitting!"

You sighed, standing slowly. Sand clung to your hem.

"They should fit the dress to her, not the other way around," Satoru said, rising beside you.

The assistant rolled her eyes. "That's not how this works."

She dragged you toward the waiting van. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you—thank goodness we had your location synced. I can’t believe that white-haired menace pulled this stunt. And your dress! Look at it!”

You looked back at him, eyes pleading—begging him to save you.

He didn’t move. He’d learned better than to face the wrath of your assistant, not after what happened during filming.

So he just watched.

Waved.

And smiled, like he knew something you didn’t. Not yet.

[dunmomee]

Somewhere Only We Know

synopsis: From the chaos of the premiere to the stillness of a beach, you and Satoru trade fame for fries and something more unspoken.

a/n: I’m baaaackkkk! This chapter’s been living in my drafts for over two weeks (yes, I kept editing it at a snail’s pace), but I finally let it breathe and I really hope you love how it turned out. Your thoughts mean the world, as always! 💙✨

<<Previous one-shot ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next >>

*******************************************************

London shimmered under a sky of steel-blue dusk, its skyline pierced by the London Eye's soft glow and the gold-rimmed silhouette of Big Ben. The red carpet outside the historic theatre was lined with velvet ropes and shuttering flashes. Inside, the grandeur of the venue swelled: gilded balconies, velvet drapes, ornate moldings that smelled faintly of dust and history. The London premiere of Crossed Lines was in full swing.

You arrived late on purpose.

Not fashionably late. Just strategically. You needed solo photos. Clean ones. No distractions. No Gojo Satoru hijacking your spotlight with a wink and a scandalous touch.

Your car pulled up to a roar of excitement. Fans pressed against the barricades, screaming your name. Photographers barked for angles, for smiles, for drama.

You stepped out onto the carpet in your lavender silk gown, the fabric catching the light like morning mist. The slit rippled with every step. Cameras flashed. The neckline dipped just enough. Your hair was swept up, your neck on full display, jeweled earrings twinkling like stars.

You signed autographs, pausing to greet fans. A little girl held a handmade sign that read: "Team Kael & Elia Forever." You knelt, signed her poster, smiled for a photo.

Then came the questions.

"Are you dating Gojo?"

"Did the kiss mean something?"

"Will there be a sequel?!"

"Should we expect to see you and Gojo in more movies together?"

You smiled sweetly. "You'll have to watch and see."

You moved toward another group of fans waving posters when a voice, too loud and too pointed, sliced through the hum.

"So quick to philander with Gojo after a five-year relationship, huh? No wonder your ex said you were the problem."

The words hit you like a slap. For a heartbeat, you froze.

But only a heartbeat.

You turned your head slowly, eyes scanning for the source without letting your expression crack. Your smile stayed in place, graceful, practiced. The kind that said nothing and everything.

Security was already moving. One of your guards placed a firm but polite hand at your back.

"This way, miss."

You allowed yourself to be guided, chin tilted slightly higher. You didn't flinch. Didn't respond. Just smiled like the cameras were still watching.

And they were.

You turned and posed alone; back slightly arched, profile catching the light, a gentle smile on your lips. You were poised. Untouchable. The very image of elegance.

Then the screams swelled.

You knew that sound. That white-haired man. That high-pitched chaos. The Gojo Effect.

Satoru appeared at the far end of the carpet, in a storm-grey suit and the smuggest grin known to man. He took his time walking toward you, signing a few autographs, waving at the press. You could feel his eyes tracking you the whole time.

And then—

"RECREATE THE KISS!"

"TOUCH HER WAIST!"

"LOOK AT HER LIKE LAST TIME!"

You were still mid-pose when he slid in beside you, his hand settling on the small of your back, like it belonged there, like it always had.

"You’re late," he murmured, voice low for your ears alone.

"I came late on purpose," you replied through your smile. "To avoid this."

He laughed under his breath, leaning closer as more photos clicked. "You wound me."

You angled toward the cameras, smile sharp. "Try anything again and I’ll stab you with my heel."

"Promises, promises."

More flashes. He leaned in like he might recreate the kiss. Just enough to tease the crowd. But you stepped away gracefully.

"Enjoy the chaos, Satoru," you said, voice honeyed.

And with that, you walked off the carpet, heels tapping, leaving him smirking under the glare of every lens.

The chaos of arrivals had faded into a hum. You stood backstage in the wings, your gown brushing softly around your legs, loose in all the places your stylist had promised would look "effortlessly chic." It dipped low at the back, exposing the length of your spine, cool air whispering over your bare skin. 

You felt lightheaded. Maybe it was the heat of the lights. Maybe the tension. Or maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t eaten anything solid since yesterday’s green juice. Nerves churned against an empty stomach. You pressed your palm to your abdomen, discreetly.

Satoru appeared at your side like gravity. A tailored grey suit hugged his frame, turtleneck soft against his skin. His platinum hair glinted under stage lights, and his cologne wrapped around you like something warm and annoyingly addictive.

"You look like a painting," he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. "One I'd steal from a gallery, no regrets."

You rolled your eyes. "You're supposed to behave tonight."

He smirked. "Oh, I am. This is me behaving."

The theatre doors opened. Applause rumbled like distant thunder. One by one, the cast filed onstage.

You followed, smile poised, spine pulled tall despite the ache in your knees. The spotlight hit like a wave. Heat. Noise. Eyes.

Satoru spoke first, all lazy charm. "We wanted this film to feel like something intimate and dangerous. And Y/N here? She carried that tension like breath."

The crowd chuckled, charmed. You smiled, managed a few words of thanks, though your throat felt dry. Your pulse raced. The floor under your heels seemed to tilt.

Then applause again. A few bows. The cast turned to exit. You pivoted, but your heel caught on the edge of the step. The world tilted—

A firm grip caught your waist.

Satoru.

His arm was around you in a blink, steady and secure. His palm found the curve of your hip, grounding you like a weight. No one else noticed. Not the audience. Not the cast.

Just you. Just him.

His voice brushed your ear. "Steady, sweetheart. I've got you."

Backstage, laughter rose.

Riko smirked. “You two gonna keep pretending this isn’t a slow-burn romcom in real life?”

Satoru opened his mouth to respond, but Yuki cut in with a deadpan, “We’ve had more chemistry reads with you two than actual rehearsals.”

“Honestly,” Utahime added, grinning, “at this point, the marketing team’s just waiting for that intimate kiss to drop so they can rebrand the entire film.”

“Do we get invited to the wedding?” Choso asked, sipping his drink like it was popcorn-worthy.

You forced a laugh, but your chest ached. "I need air."

Satoru didn't hesitate. He guided you through a narrow hall, down a staff corridor, out a side door into the night. The city air bit at your skin, cool and sharp.

You inhaled deeply. Stars peeked from behind clouded sky.

"I’m starving," you admitted quietly, voice hoarse. "Like…actually starving. Haven’t had a real meal in two days."

He frowned. "You should've said something."

You gave a weak smile. "Press tour rules. Look good. Breathe less. Survive on fumes and compliments."

He shook his head. "Get in the car."

His Porsche Panamera was parked by a side street, sleek, black, humming with heat. He helped you into the seat, his hand lingering at your knee longer than necessary.

"Trust me," he said. "We're gonna fix this."

Twenty minutes later, you were parked outside a drive-thru on the outskirts of the city. It smelled like grease and comfort.

The moment the intercom crackled, Satoru ordered without even glancing at you:

“Two double cheeseburgers. Fries. Extra crispy. Spicy wings. And cherry soda. No ice.”

You blinked. “You remembered.”

He shrugged. “I remember everything.”

The car pulled away, headlights cutting through the dim backroads as the city lights faded behind you. You kicked off your shoes and curled into your seat, unwrapping your burger as the road hummed beneath the tires.

“You know,” you said between bites, “people are probably watching our movie right now. And here we are dipping.”

He gave a lazy grin. “Let them. We gave them enough of a show.”

You nudged his thigh with your foot. “You’re moving around like you own London. You always know the good spots in every country. Late-night drive-thrus, rooftop bars in Soho, hole-in-the-wall ramen joints in Osaka. It’s suspicious.”

“Dated a British actress once,” he said, like it explained everything. “She hated crowds. Loved anything deep-fried. I picked up a few things.”

You grinned. “So the mysterious local-guide energy is all just secondhand ex-boyfriend experience?”

He tilted his head. “You think this level of charm just happens?”

“Charm,” you repeated flatly. “Right. Like the same charm that got you dumped by that Victoria’s Secret model after she leaked your chats to the press?”

He groaned. “That’s so low of you, Y/N.”

You laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Too soon?”

He shot you a look. “Still less painful than your five-year award-winning director bro era.”

You rolled your eyes, crumpling the burger wrapper in your hand. “Touché.”

“Five years is a long time,” he added, quieter.

“Yeah,” you said, voice dipping. “Long enough to start planning forever. Long enough for it to fall apart anyway.”

The silence sat between you for a second, only broken by the crinkle of food wrappers and the hum of the road.

“I’ve seen the comments,” he said suddenly. “The ones his hideous fans leave.”

You looked at him. “I got one earlier today”

Satoru looked so puzzled. Staring at you very briefly before facing the wheel.

You stared out the window. “Yeah. Said i was philandering with you”

He gave a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But we’re just coworkers,” he said, too fast, too flat.

You arched a brow but didn’t call him out. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How strangers think they know who we are. Like a couple of red carpet photos and interviews give them permission to write our whole story.”

He didn’t respond. Just drove on, jaw tight, fingers flexing once on the wheel. Like there was more he wanted to say, but didn’t.

Eventually, he pulled into a quiet overlook where the sea spread out dark and glimmering below. The moonlight danced on the waves. Not another soul in sight.

You sat together on the sand, legs tangled, food bags warm against your thighs. You bit into the burger and nearly moaned.

“Still dramatic,” he murmured.

You threw a fry at him. “Still insufferable.”

He smiled, softer now. “You were always like this. Even back then. Before any of this.”

You chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the moonlight skipping across the waves. “You were Suguru’s golden-boy best friend. I’m sure you thought of me as his weird-ass cousin.”

“That’s not true,” he said, voice low.

“I was so nerdy back then. And that acne...”

He turned to look at you fully. “You’ve always been amazing. And beautiful. Plus—I had braces, remember?”

“You were always the pretty boy,” you muttered. “Glassy skin. That annoyingly symmetrical face... ugh. Like a maiden’s.”

He laughed then, a warm, throaty sound that wrapped around you.

Silence stretched between you, soft and golden and fragile.

“I can’t believe Su-chan and Shoko get to live this amazing life together, and we’re just… floating. Stuck with the short end of the stick,” you sighed. “Remember when Shoko used to hate both of you? Or pretended to, anyway. And all of Su-chan’s teasing? Just his dumb way of saying he liked her.”

Satoru smiled faintly, sipping his drink.

You turned to him. “Do you think we’ll find something like that? Even in this flashy, chaotic world?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I know we can. The only problem is… the person I want hasn’t even realized it.”

Your eyes flicked to his.

He was staring at you, still, unreadable. But something in his gaze made your chest tighten.

Your fingers brushed against his on the blanket. Slowly, gently, he laced them together.

You sat there in the hush of night, your head tilted, his thumb brushing your knuckles. You chewed another fry. He reached for his phone.

Click.

"Did you just take a picture of me eating?"

He smiled. "You looked happy. I wanted to remember."

You turned to scold him, but found him already looking at you.

The air between you held still.

Then—

"Y/N!"

Your assistant’s voice shattered the quiet. She was running toward you, shoes sinking awkwardly into the sand with every step like the beach itself was trying to stop her.

You panicked, instinctively hiding the burger behind your back.

Too late.

You couldn’t suppress your snicker and neither could Satoru.

"You’re supposed to be on a cleanse! Valentino is expecting you at a final fitting!"

You sighed, standing slowly. Sand clung to your hem.

"They should fit the dress to her, not the other way around," Satoru said, rising beside you.

The assistant rolled her eyes. "That's not how this works."

She dragged you toward the waiting van. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you—thank goodness we had your location synced. I can’t believe that white-haired menace pulled this stunt. And your dress! Look at it!”

You looked back at him, eyes pleading—begging him to save you.

He didn’t move. He’d learned better than to face the wrath of your assistant, not after what happened during filming.

So he just watched.

Waved.

And smiled, like he knew something you didn’t. Not yet.

[dunmomee]

Coffee and Classicals ☕

☕ chapter summary: When two days pass without a single message from you, Levi pretends not to fidget, until the silence begins to gnaw at him. What he finds when he finally sees you shakes him, and for the first time, he steps out of his solitude to care for someone other than himself. ☕ a/n: I'm sorry it's taken so long to put out this chapter. Between the stress of everyday life and waves of imposter syndrome and dissociation, it's been hard to stay grounded. But I'm committed to continuing this story and giving it my best. Thank you so much for reading—it means more than you know. For the next few weeks, I may stick to a biweekly update schedule while I take things one step at a time.

<<previous chapter ☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>

****************************************

Chapter Ten: Baby, Hold My Hand

It had been two full days, and Levi hadn’t received a single text from you. Not even one of those absurd, grotesque late-night comments from your reading that usually brightened his screen. 

He’d hovered over the idea of texting you back—several times, in fact—but always ended up deleting the draft, instead staring at the last thing you sent: a single laughing emoji. He even typed out a “?” once.

Erwin had been quietly watching Levi fidget with his phone. Before he could say anything, Levi stood up abruptly and muttered, “I’m heading to the library. Need to check out a book or two.”

The blond man's full brows rose in mild surprise as he watched his usually composed friend practically bolt from the room.

After aimlessly drifting through the bookshelves, pretending to browse titles he wasn’t even reading, Levi finally accidentally made his way to the study tables. He pretended not to notice Hange immediately, though it was hard to miss the chaos: scattered papers, open books, a graveyard of coffee cups, and a nest of tangled pens.

And of course, Moblit was there too, hunched over her shoulder like a loyal squire. Levi’s eye twitched. For some reason, seeing him there irritated him more than it should have.

He scanned the table twice, but his searching didn’t go unnoticed.

“Looking for someone?” Hange asked, a sly smile curling on her lips as she rested her chin in her hands.

“I came to pick up some books,” Levi said flatly, holding up the ones he’d grabbed earlier. “Looks like you’re missing someone from your usual circus.”

“Or,” Hange grinned, “you could just ask about Y/N like a normal person.”

She leaned back, clearly enjoying herself. “She goes into monk mode before finals. Studying from home, total lockdown.”

“Right,” Levi muttered, eyes narrowing.

Moblit chimed in, all good intentions. “She hasn’t replied to me either. It’s kind of her thing when she’s stressed. Though… she did complain about a headache yesterday before leaving. Left class pretty early.”

“She always replies to me,” Levi muttered, arms crossing tightly over his chest.

Hange tilted her head, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Worried, Levi?”

He clicked his tongue and looked away. “Tch. Not my problem.”

But it was.

Levi did his best to walk calmly out of the library, keeping his steps measured. But the moment he stepped outside, his pace quickened, panic gnawing at his chest as he pulled out his phone with trembling fingers.

He forced himself to stay steady, to think clearly, as he tapped on your name.

It rang.

And kept ringing.

No answer.

His stomach dropped.

Without thinking, he broke into a sprint, shoving his phone into his pocket as his walk turned into a full, desperate run.

By the time Levi reached your building, the sky had turned a pale, overcast grey. The kind of cold that seeps into your collar and settles in your bones.

He didn’t know why he felt this panicked. Maybe Hange was right. Maybe you were just holed up studying, like always.

He kept replaying the last time he saw you, how pale you looked, how tired your voice had sounded. You hadn’t been yourself. Even the way you disagreed with him had felt… empty. The absence of your usual fire stuck with him, echoing louder the longer the silence stretched.

A brown paper bag swung lightly from his hand. Inside were pastries and your favorite coffee, picked up mid-sprint so he wouldn’t show up empty-handed. Or in case you’d forgotten to eat, buried under textbooks and deadlines.

He knocked once.

Then twice.

Muted sounds inside.

“Oi.” A third knock, louder this time. Still no answer.

He tried the handle. It wasn’t locked.

Inside, the apartment was too warm. The air felt heavy. Books lay scattered across the floor and table, your laptop still open, its screen blinking weakly.

And there you were.

Half-curled on the floor, one arm stretched toward your fallen phone. Pale. Shivering. Your breathing shallow.

“Shit.”

Levi dropped the bag and was at your side in an instant. His hand brushed over your forehead. Clammy. Too warm.

“Hey. Wake up.”

His voice was urgent now, tight with something close to fear.

Your lashes fluttered. Dry lips parted. “...Levi?”

“Tch. You idiot,” he muttered, but it came out softer than he meant. Rough around the edges. “You should’ve called someone.”

“Didn’t… mean to…” The words barely formed as your head lolled slightly.

He cursed under his breath, lifting you gently and carrying you to the bed. You were lighter than he expected. Fragile in a way that unsettled him.

Bertholdt, the small cat perched like a grumpy guardian on the bookshelf, glared at him with wide, judging eyes. Levi ignored him.

The blanket smelled faintly like your shampoo. He pulled it over you, tucking it carefully under your chin before moving to the kitchen.

Levi moved quickly. First, he poured a glass of water and knelt beside you, easing your head up with a firm but careful hand.

“Drink,” he said, holding the rim to your lips. You blinked slowly, dazed, but obeyed. The water dribbled slightly down your chin, and he wiped it with the edge of his sleeve.

He exhaled, barely, and set the glass down.

“Stay put.” His tone was quiet but sharp, like a command laced with worry.

Then he was gone.

The trip was fast, efficient on the outside, frantic just beneath. Cold meds from the nearest pharmacy. Ginger, garlic, scallions, tofu, broth from the grocery store—whatever he could remember from all the times he had to take care of himself when no one else did. He paid in cash. Didn't wait for the receipt.

When he returned, he didn’t speak. Just tied an apron around his waist like it was second nature and began cooking, quietly, precisely.

Your eyes fluttered open and closed, struggling to make sense of what was happening. For a moment, you were certain it was a dream, seeing Levi, hearing his voice.

Your throat burned, your nose was somehow both blocked and running, and your limbs felt too heavy to move. You couldn’t even lift your hands.

The apartment slowly filled with the scent of warm broth and simmering ginger.

Steam curled in the air as he ladled the soup into a bowl, then carried it to the bed where you lay, barely propped up under a blanket.

He helped you sit, one arm supporting your back as he settled beside you.

“Medicine first,” he said, placing the pills in your palm and handing you the water again. You swallowed weakly.

Then, he held the bowl up and blew on the spoon before offering it to you.

You tried to take it from him, but your hand shook.

“I’ve got it,” he said quietly. And he did, spoon by spoon, gently, patiently. Between bites, he watched your color return, your breathing grow steadier.

You had eaten slowly, leaning against him for support, every motion sluggish from the fever. Now, your head rested back on the bed, eyes barely open, your skin still too warm to the touch.

Without a word, he stood and disappeared into the kitchen again. You heard the faucet run, water sloshing into a basin, then soft footsteps returning. He crouched beside you, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in concentration.

He dipped a towel into the cold water, wrung it out with calloused hands, and gently pressed it to your forehead. His touch was steady but careful, almost reverent. He moved the cloth to your cheeks, then the nape of your neck, each press designed to draw the heat from your skin.

“You do everything well except take care of yourself,” he muttered, more to himself. “You really are an idiot, Red.”

Your eyes fluttered closed at the cool relief. The fever still pulsed beneath your skin, but something steadier, calmer, had taken its place.

Levi folded the towel and replaced it with another, freshly soaked. He did it again. And again. Quiet, methodical. The kind of care only someone who’d memorized your every detail would give.

When your breathing finally slowed, he stood. His movements were quiet, deliberate, clearing the soup bowl, gathering the used towels into the basin. 

But your hand shot out, weak but insistent, fingers clutching the hem of his shirt.

“Just stay with me,” you whispered, eyes barely open. “Please. Just for a little while. Just… hold me.”

He froze.

For a moment, the silence between you stretched, filled only by the soft hum of the heater and the faint drip of water from the bowl.

Then he exhaled, long and slow, like something inside him finally gave way.

He stripped off the apron and loosened the top button of his shirt. Wordlessly, he toed off his socks and crossed to the other side of the bed. Gently, carefully, he pulled you into his arms.

You stirred faintly in protest.

“Shut up,” he murmured. “You asked.”

You melted into him almost instantly, your face nuzzling into the hollow beneath his collarbone. One arm draped over his torso, your fingers still curled tightly in the fabric of his shirt, like you were afraid he might disappear.

Levi hesitated just a moment longer, then pulled you closer.

One arm wrapped around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His fingers combed softly through your hair, slow, grounding strokes, while your breath warmed the hollow of his throat.

He felt it then.

The heat of you against him. The soft, unconscious sigh you let out as you melted into his chest. The painful tenderness pressing into his ribs like it had been waiting for this moment.

He didn’t fight it.

Didn’t analyze it.

Didn’t mock himself for caring too much.

He let it wash over him. The fear he’d felt earlier. The quiet relief now. The affection that had been building beneath every snide remark and quiet act of care.

“...You scared me, Y/N,” he said softly into your hair. “Don’t do that again.”

You mumbled something unintelligible into his chest, already half-asleep.

Levi let himself smile, barely. Just a twitch of his mouth, hidden in the dark.

Beneath the covers, he drew you closer, holding you like something precious, something he wasn’t ready to lose. Maybe something he never could.

And for the first time in a long while, Levi let himself feel warm.

Not from your shared body heat.

And not from the blankets.

But from the quiet, undeniable presence of you.

<<previous chapter

[dunmomee]

This fanfic belongs to a very dear friend.( @cutelikeharry) those interested in reading it, it's called Falling For You.

You can find it on Ao3 and Watppad.

[dunmomee]

Masterlist

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

Multi Chapter Fics:

୨୧ Coffee and Classicals (a Levi x reader fic) - Ongoing

୨୧ Crossing Line one-shots (an actor!Gojo x actor!reader fic) -Ongoing

୨୧ Cursed Cat (a witch!reader x knight!Gojo fic) -Ongoing

One-shots

୨୧ To You, The One I Once Loved (a cheater!Gojo x reader fic)

୨୧ What's Yours is Mine (a Gojo x reader fic)

୨୧ Mochi Apology (a Gojo x reader fic)

[dunmomee]

Masterlist (Coffee and Classicals) ☕

A Levi x Reader fic (Ongoing)

notes: A slowburn fic about sarcastic banter, unsolicited book recommendations, and lingering stares.

☕ Chapter One: Isn't That Filth?

☕ Chapter Two: This isn't Filth

☕ Three: Okay, I'll Listen to Your Filth

☕ Chapter Four: Ramen with Rain

☕Chapter Five: The Rest of Anna Karenina

☕Chapter Six: Yes, I'd Let You Ruin Me

☕Chapter Seven: I Want You in My Art

☕Chapter Eight: A Peak into My Abyss

☕Chapter Nine: Right Here, Right Now, With You

☕Chapter Ten: Baby, Hold My Hand

[dunmomee]

Masterlist (Actor!Gojo x Actor!Reader One-Shots)

notes: i swear these were supposed to be one-shots, … but here we are with one big, tangled story instead 🤭 they just kept bleeding into each other!

❤ Crossing Lines

❤ Unscripted

❤ Let's Test Your Chemistry

❤ Let Me Chase You The Right Way

❤ Blurring That Line

❤ Somewhere Only We Know

[dunmomee]

Blurring That Line

synopsis: The official press tour for you and Satoru’s movie is still ongoing—and that fire between you keeps sizzling beneath the surface. The thin line between fiction and reality is starting to blur.

a/n: Thank you for reading! This one was living rent-free in my daydreams and just had to be written. 💭✨ <<Previous one-shot ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next >> *******************************************************

The silk of the dress felt like water against your skin, pooling daringly low in the back. Each breath you took was a conscious effort, a reminder of the expanse of bare skin exposed to the cool studio air. Gojo stood beside you, impossibly tall and effortlessly magnetic.

The set was humming with the quiet energy of a well-oiled machine. White screens, sleek black scaffolding, light rigs angled just so.

It was an Entertainment Weekly cover shoot, the official press tour for Crossed Lines had been in full swing for weeks now.

You adjusted the silky backless gown as your stylist fluttered around your shoulders, smoothing the silver fabric into place. The dress dipped daringly down your spine, barely anchored by delicate straps. The photographer had already raved over it—perfect for the chemistry shot with your impossibly handsome co-star.

He was across the set now, looking unbothered as usual, sprawled lazily in a chair while his assistant powdered his skin. His crisp dark shirt had several buttons left undone, strategically so. His hair was tousled just enough to look careless, like he'd just rolled out of some lover’s bed. A perfect foil to your own sleek styling.

“Okay,” the photographer, a whirlwind of enthusiastic energy named Brenda,  called. “Let’s do the paired poses.”

You stepped onto the mark. Gojo rose in one smooth motion, eyes flicking over you as he approached. The pale lights picked up the mischief glinting in his gaze.

“Backless, huh?” he murmured, voice pitched low for only you to hear. “You trying to kill me?”

You shot him a look. “Focus, Satoru.”

He just smirked.

“Alright, you two look fantastic!” Brenda clapped her hands together. “Let’s start with something classic. Y/N, could you angle your body slightly towards Gojo? Perfect. Gojo, maybe a hand casually on her waist?”

Your breath hitched. A hand on your waist was one thing, but as Gojo’s fingers spread, settling with a warm, possessive pressure right at the dip of your spine – the very edge of the dress – a shiver traced its way down your back. His touch was light, seemingly innocuous, but against the sensitive skin laid bare by the plunging neckline, it felt electric. You forced a smile for the camera, hoping your trembling wasn’t visible.

“Lovely! Now, Gojo, maybe lean in a little, like you’re about to share a secret.” Brenda’s instructions continued, and with each shift in pose, Gojo’s contact seemed to deepen, to linger. He’d guide your elbow with a thumb that brushed the side of your breast. He’d adjust your stray hair with fingers that grazed your neck, sending a jolt through you. And always, his hand would find its way back to the small of your back, sometimes just resting, other times subtly drawing you closer until your sides brushed.

One pose had you perched on a stool, your legs crossed, while Gojo stood behind you, one hand braced on the stool beside your thigh, the other resting intimately at the curve of your lower back. His breath ghosted against your ear as Brenda fussed with the lighting. “Just a little closer, Gojo. Almost touching.”

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of his cologne filling your senses. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Was he doing this deliberately? His expression for the camera was all practiced charm, a dazzling smile that could melt glaciers. But you could feel the subtle tension in his fingers, the way his gaze flickered to your lips when the camera wasn’t directly on them.

Another setup involved you leaning against a sleek backdrop, Gojo’s arm draped across your shoulders, his hand once again settling low on your back, his fingers splayed just above the dress’s hem. The photographer, oblivious to the silent storm brewing between you, kept snapping away, capturing what would undoubtedly be described as smoldering chemistry.

“Okay, last few!” Brenda announced. “Let’s get one where Gojo is slightly behind Y/N, maybe his arms wrapped loosely around her waist.”

This was it. As Gojo positioned himself, his arms encircled you, his hands meeting just below your ribcage, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your hair, the solid presence of his body molded against yours. His fingers, for a fleeting moment, tightened almost possessively before relaxing back into a casual hold. It was in that brief pressure that you felt a spark, a confirmation of the unspoken tension that had been building throughout the entire shoot.

“Alright, beautiful! Now, let’s try something a little more dynamic,” Brenda, the photographer and now makeshift director, chirped, adjusting the studio lights. “Gojo, could you stand behind Y/N, maybe place a hand on her shoulder, like you’re protectively guiding her? Y/N, you can angle your body a bit more towards the camera, maybe look over your shoulder with a soft smile.”

You shifted as instructed, the silver fabric of the gown whispering against itself. The air conditioning in the studio suddenly felt cooler against the vast expanse of your bare back. You positioned your head, focusing on a point just beyond the lens, trying to project a relaxed confidence. You could feel Gojo move behind you, the subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of his expensive cologne reaching you. His hand settled on your left shoulder, a warm, reassuring weight.

“And… action!” Brenda called out.

Then, it happened. Not as part of the pose, not at Brenda’s direction. Gojo’s other hand, the one that had been resting casually at his side, lifted. You felt the lightest brush against the exposed skin of your mid-back, just below where the dress dipped. His fingertips, cool against your warmed skin, began a slow, deliberate descent, tracing the delicate line of your spine.

A jolt, unexpected and potent, shot through you. Your breath hitched, the carefully constructed air of professionalism threatening to crumble. It was such a subtle movement, so seemingly casual, yet the intimacy of it, the unprompted touch on such a vulnerable part of your body, sent a wave of heat rushing through you. Every nerve ending along your spine seemed to awaken.

You forced yourself to maintain the soft smile Brenda had requested, your eyes locked on the designated spot. You could feel the phantom trail of his fingers burning into your skin, each vertebra a point of intense awareness. Was he even looking at the lens? Or was his gaze focused on the exposed curve of your back, on the subtle tremor you were desperately trying to conceal?

“Perfect! That’s gorgeous, you two!” Brenda’s enthusiastic voice broke the tense silence that only you seemed to be experiencing. “And cut!” Gojo’s hand remained on your shoulder, the other now still, but the memory of his touch lingered, a vivid and undeniable connection forged in that brief, unscripted moment. You wondered if anyone else had noticed, if the camera had captured the charged energy that now thrummed beneath your skin. Forcing a slightly brighter smile, you held the pose, the unexpected intimacy of Gojo’s touch a secret only the two of you now shared in the crowded studio.

Finally, with a satisfied sigh, Brenda declared the photoshoot over. You subtly unwound yourself from Gojo’s embrace, a strange mix of relief and disappointment washing over you. Your back felt strangely exposed now that his touch was gone.

The interview portion began after. You both perched on a velvet settee now, the gown draped elegantly, your shoulders bare. He sat beside you, thigh nearly pressed to yours, casually draping one arm behind your seat.

Questions flew—movie roles, favorite scenes, stunts.

Then an off-screen voice asked, almost teasing: “Gojo-san—after working so closely with Y/N-san, and seeing the way the fans are reacting… any thoughts on the idea of on-screen chemistry turning into off-screen feelings?”

The crew chuckled. You glanced at him, expecting a flippant joke.

But Satoru’s eyes didn’t leave you. His expression shifted, open, honest in a way that startled you. Without missing a beat, he said:

“I think… sometimes when you have known someone all your life, and the lines between what’s for the camera and what’s real—well. They get harder to see.”

The room went still for a beat. Your breath caught. You didn’t know how to look away. You just nodded and gave a polite smile.

The shoot wrapped. People bustled around, packing equipment. Satoru said his usual goodbyes, all casual charm. You left with your thoughts spinning, heart thudding in your chest.

Later that night, in the quiet of his bedroom, Gojo lay sprawled across dark sheets, phone in hand.

The early promo video had already dropped.

Of course, it wasn’t from the official Entertainment Weekly account yet—no, it was from your Instagram.

A simple caption: “...lines blurred 📸🎬”

The clip was thirty seconds: you in that backless gown, the scandalous poses, his hand against your skin, the tension that crackled between you both. Fans were already losing it in the comments.

Satoru watched the reel again. And again.

His thumb hovered over your lips when you smiled in that one frame—half teasing, half caught. He smirked to himself, eyes narrowing.

Finally, he typed under your post:

“Should I have blurred my hands too?” 😇

He hit post and tossed the phone beside him. It vibrated immediately—notifications lighting up rapid-fire:

@fanacc1: SATORU HELLOOOOOO??! @movieupdates: the audacity in this comment 🔥🔥🔥 @getoynsiblings: Geto’s gonna kill him omg @crossinglinesupdates: sir please respect us some of us are at work @ethanmikefanaccount: Satoru, she’s literally another man’s woman @fandomfanatiq: OMG GOJO WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?! @jjklover22: My Satoru ship heart is exploding!!!!! @moviebuff: Is he talking about the chemistry or something more?! 👀 @y/nfan: PLEASE TELL US YOU TWO ARE DATING @satorubiggestfan.official: she’s not all that

Satoru let out a soft, wicked laugh and flipped the phone facedown on the nightstand, already buzzing with more replies.

Swinging off the bed, he padded barefoot across the sleek floors of his kitchen, tugging open the refrigerator door with one hand.

The cold air spilled out. He grabbed a bottle of water.

And leaned against the counter—grinning faintly to himself, thinking of you.

[dunmomee]

Coffee and Classicals ☕

chapter summary: After your visit to the aquarium, you and Levi wander into a quieter, nostalgic part of town—one filled with echoes of your past and the early days of figuring out who you were. Along the way, you glimpse a gentler, more inquisitive side of Levi that rarely surfaces. a/n: It feels like I blinked and the world spun without me. Work, life... everything's been so loud and heavy lately, and I’ve just been floating through it. But I missed this. I missed writing. I missed the quiet joy of building something with words—even when I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say. This chapter lived in my drafts for over a week, always feeling like it was missing something. Maybe it still is (maybe that’s just me), but I’ve poured what I could into it. And I hope it meets your expectations. Thank you, as always, for reading💛

<<previous chapter ☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>

****************************************

Chapter Nine: Right Here, Right Now, with You

The hush of the aquarium still clung to you as you stepped back into the town’s soft rhythm, that late afternoon lull where the sky turned the color of old porcelain and the wind carried the scent of sea salt and something warm baking.

You drifted a little ahead, letting your fingers graze ivy-draped railings and the crumbling walls of art supply shops you hadn’t thought about in years. The streets here were quieter. More lived-in. As if time walked slower.

“I haven’t been to this side of town since freshman year,” you murmured, half to yourself.

Levi’s eyes followed your movements. “Why?”

You shrugged. “It reminds me too much of home.”

A corner record store still had faded gig posters in the window. A stationery shop owner recognized you instantly and waved, calling you by name. The bakery down the block offered you a sample without question, a little red bean bun you and Hange used to hoard during finals week. She asked about the rowdy and loud girl that used to follow you around.

Levi watched each interaction with a face like stone, but his gaze lingered longer than it should have.

“They still remember you,” he said quietly.

You smiled a little, awkward. “Yeah. I used to come here when I was trying to discover who I was outside my family. Hange and I met here too. She was excited to get those tasty macaroons. She bumped into me and spilled all her books.” You laughed at the memory.

As you spoke, you turned your face away to cough into your elbow. When you looked back, Levi was still watching you, a faint crease between his brows.

A silence settled between you, but not an uncomfortable one. You fell into step beside him as the conversation returned to safer ground.

“So,” you said, bumping his elbow with yours, “The Handmaid’s Tale. I read your annotations— about memories as rebellion.”

He glanced sideways, unsurprised. “What did you think?”

You exhaled slowly, perhaps closer to a sigh. “Terrifying. Lonely. But also… she has this kind of inner defiance. Like she’s keeping something sacred alive, even when everything’s taken.”

“She is,” he said simply.

You paused to look at him. “Is that why you recommended it?”

Levi shrugged, not dismissively. “No, I just thought you needed something to sit with. Something challenging. Not everything needs to be solved in the first ten pages. Or be about euphoric orgasms and velvet rods . Some stories are meant to unravel you slowly.”

You blinked, then raised your brows.

You came across a tiny street stall, and your eyes lit up. You practically skipped over to the rows of odd snacks and drinks — dried squid, mochi shaped like animals, fruit jellies that wobbled like orbs in their plastic shells. You grabbed one of everything, beaming as you paid.

“You’re going to get sick,” Levi said behind you, deadpan.

“You’re going to die of dehydration,” you countered, voice raspier than usual. “So who’s really making bad choices?”

His eyes, sharp as ever, flickered to meet yours, a hint of genuine surprise etching into his otherwise stoic expression. You’d hit a nerve, it seemed.

He scowled and, without a word, turned to stalk away. You watched him go, your gaze trailing his retreating back, a faint smile playing on your lips. He returned a moment later with a cup of iced tea, which he held like it offended him. “Only thing cold. Still tastes like disappointment.”

You laughed, though it came out thinner this time, followed by another small cough. Still, you kept grinning.

He watched you try the squid strip and nearly gag, only to finish it anyway out of sheer pride.

And then, like it was nothing, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small iced coffee, your exact usual order from the book café.

Your eyes widened. “Is that for me?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

You grabbed it from him and took a long sip.

“You know, you’re going to choke.”

“This isn’t as good as the one you make,” you said, shaking the cup.

“That’s because there’s a secret ingredient.” He had a slight upward curve on his lips.

“What is that?” You said, hitting him slightly. “I know you’ll say something cringy like ‘my heart’.” You kept your eyes on him.

He didn’t reply, his gaze unwavering, and your heart did a strange little skip.

As you walked, he started asking quieter questions — the kind you didn’t expect from him.

There was a warmth behind your ribs that didn’t come from the sun. You bit the inside of your cheeks. “Why are you fascinated with books… classicals?”

Levi considered that. “I guess I liked things that echoed. Even when you put them down, they’ll keep talking to you. Keep resonating.”

You nodded. “That sounds so you.”

He glanced over. “What about you?”

You laughed, trying to cut the sudden intensity. “To fill the void inside of me…” You wanted to add something else.

“Smut does that?”

“And we’re back to that. You never let things go?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You read the complete series of This Man .”

“Okay. First of all, it’s a literary masterpiece. Second, Jodi Ellen Malpas is the best writer to exist.”

He actually smirked. “Shakespeare shakes in his grave.”

“But seriously…” You trailed off, eyes dropping to your hands. “Reading books like that didn’t demand too much of me. Math, for all its intricate logic, was incredibly demanding. And truthfully, I didn't know if I wanted to dedicate my life to it long-term.”

Levi stayed quiet, listening.

“I don’t know what I want to do, really. I’d been good at math forever. My family, they’ve always had this grand vision for me – accolades, fellowships, a career at some prestigious research facility, like working at a place as intense as CERN.” You sighed, a heavy sound. “I just… followed the current.”

“So smut really saved you?”

You grinned. “The only part of my life I actually chose.”

He hummed, then added quietly, “Choosing what unravels you is still a choice.”

You stopped walking for a second. It took you a moment to register how much weight that sentence carried.

You gave a small, bitter laugh, followed by another cough you tried to stifle.

“I study. I read. I get good grades. But I don’t have that thing; that passion.”

He watched you, brow slightly furrowed again.

“Math is something I do because I’m really good at it, and I do genuinely appreciate its elegant solutions and the way everything fits perfectly. But I don’t love it with that burning passion I see in others, or that intensity my parents expect.”

You tried to lighten the mood. “Maybe I’ll take reading smut seriously. Go full academic on it. Erotica analysis.”

Levi actually scoffed. “You’d have citations and footnotes.”

“And a dramatic thesis title,” you grinned. “The Rhythm of Desire: A Mathematical Approach to Fictional Orgasms.”

He coughed on his iced tea, nearly choking.

You offered him another squid strip as a peace offering. He declined.

Still, something warm had settled between you; shared laughter, quiet confessions, the easy press of vulnerability neither recoiled from. His arm brushed yours again as you passed a bakery glowing with paper lanterns in the window, and you didn’t pull away.

But before you could ask more, he changed the subject.

“When’s your birthday?”

You blinked. “That was abrupt.”

He shrugged. “We’re trading questions.”

You told him, and he nodded like he’d write it down in some invisible notebook you weren’t supposed to know he had..

“I never asked,” you said softly. “What do you want to do? After school?”

He exhaled, like it was a question he’d been asked a hundred times and still didn’t have the conviction. “I want to write the greatest story that ever existed.”

You smiled. “That’s amazing.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Says the girl who’s going to be valedictorian.”

“Touché.”

You walked in comfortable silence for a while, lost in the quiet ease of his company. You hadn't even realized where you were going until you rounded a familiar corner, suddenly seeing your own apartment building loom into view. A breeze kicked up — cool and sharp. Your throat stung faintly from talking, and you coughed into your elbow, brushing it off like it was nothing.

There was that moment, always that moment, where something could happen, but never quite did.

“Thanks for walking me,” you said, your voice quieter now. You sniffled slightly and hoped he didn’t notice.

Levi gave a small nod. “Get some sleep. And water. And maybe some proper food.”

You laughed, though it came out a little raspier than you expected. Your head felt a bit warm, but you chalked it up to the long day.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you hugged him. Quick, impulsive, warm.

He froze just slightly, and for a beat, you felt the hesitant, feather-light brush of his hand against your back – a secret gesture, barely there.

Then you pulled away before either of you could say anything more, jogging up the steps.

“Night!” you called.

He didn’t answer until you were almost inside.

“Night, Red.”

You closed the door with your heart rattling inside your chest—and a faint tickle in your throat that you told yourself was nothing.

Bertholdt lay curled on the bed, watching you with quiet curiosity.

<<previous chapter ☕ Next>>

[dunmomee]

Half of Me

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One night, one mistake—and a lifetime you didn’t expect.

☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, toxic relationship dynamics, implied infidelity (emotional and physical cheating), slapping, mind romantic tension...?, messy love triangle brewing, suguru enters the chat, sad gojo hours™, reader just really deserves better fr. Art by: @mmsks_ on X

You don’t hear from him the morning after the fight. Not right away, at least. So you keep your head down. You pour drinks, wipe counters, and try not to let the silence get to you. But when an old friend steps through the café doors, it’s enough to tilt the world just slightly off-center again. Somewhere else, truth unravels—loud, ugly, and years too late. And by the time your phone lights up, you’re not even checking it anymore.

Step Eleven: Call It What It Is

The headache hit before he even opened his eyes.

A slow, gnawing pressure right behind his temples, like something clawing its way out from the inside, deciding to stay there indefinitely. His mouth tasted like regret—metallic and dry—and his limbs felt heavy as stone beneath a throw blanket. Suguru’s couch wasn’t exactly known for comfort—slightly lumpy and permanently scented with whatever cologne he wore nowadays—But Satoru had barely noticed.

He’d passed out sometime around 3 AM with a half-empty glass tumbler still on the floor beside him and the soft hum of Suguru’s playlist echoing low through the dark apartment.

Now, the early morning light had slithered its way through the half-drawn curtains. It fell across his face in thin, accusing lines.

He blinked blearily at the ceiling.

Grey. Cracked in the corner. Not his home, though, he didn’t know if he could call his soulless penthouse home.

He sat up slowly, grimacing at the ache in his back. He’d fallen asleep in the same clothes he wore the day before—yesterday’s dress shirt wrinkled and damp from yesterday’s rain. It stuck to his skin uncomfortably, his tie hung half-undone around his neck, and he let out a slow exhale, before rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He hadn’t even thought about going back to his own place. The idea of walking into that hollow shell of a penthouse, with Hana’s perfume still clinging to his pillows, was like a loaded weapon, and it had been enough to just make him stay put.

Today was supposed to be the day.

He’d told Suguru that last night—between the drinks and the guilt and the hundredth loop of that final look on your face before you walked away from him. Today, he was going to tell Hana. No more lies. No more delay. Just honesty, no matter the fallout. He practiced what little of it he could in his head, over and over, while he poured another drink. He didn’t have the right words—not even close—but saying nothing wasn’t the solution. Not anymore.

But when he texted her that morning—once, then twice—there was nothing.

Satoru [6:47 am] Hey. Call me when you get this. I need to talk to you. Today.

Not a single word back.

It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. That…wasn’t like her. Not in the slightest. Hana always responded, even if she was pissed. Even if it was just a passive-aggressive “K”. But this—this total silence—it itched under his skin. Maybe she was just busy. Or upset with him missing her calls last night. Or both. But it didn’t feel right…it felt like the moment before lightning struck down.

The rest of the morning passed in a fog. He stole a quick shower in Suguru’s cramped bathroom before his best friend even woke up, towel-dried his hair, and left wearing the same half-wrinkled clothes from yesterday. His tie stayed stuffed in his coat pocket.

And he downed two aspirin with cold tap water before he left for the office.

He drove in silence.

Even the Porsche—his prized, polished black 911 Turbo S—felt muted, like the engine was purring through wet cotton. Rain drizzled in a half-hearted rhythm on the windshield. Grey clouds hung low, pressing against the skyline like they were trying to smother it.

When he pulled into the parking garage at the firm, he noticed it.

The shift.

It’s not like anything was out of place, the glass walls and marbled floors gleamed like they usually did. But something was just off. It was the way people looked at him. Or the way they didn’t. The security guard who was always stationed by the front desk gave him a curt nod. He didn’t smile. Didn’t crack a joke about Satoru’s late arrival. Then there was the receptionist, who quickly flinched away when he passed through the turnstile gates, barely greeting him. 

None of it was direct, exactly. But something was just in the air—as if everyone knew something that he didn’t.

The elevator ride up was somehow worse, watching the flicker of floor numbers rise behind his shoulder as he caught his reflection in the brushed steel of the doors—hollow-eyed, jaw tight, hair still damp at the ends—and suddenly felt like a stranger in his own life. A shell of himself. 

He didn’t look guilty, did he? He maybe looked like someone who hadn’t slept, someone who needed another painkiller, not an intervention.

When the doors opened, he stepped onto the executive floor and immediately felt the temperature drop.

People paused mid-conversation. Phones were still held to ears, but no one was talking. Footsteps slowed. And worse than the obvious stares—were the people who didn’t look at him at all. Someone literally turned sharply to avoid him as he passed the coffee cart.

His throat dried as he walked the length of the hallway, ignoring the pinch behind his eyes and the faint heat crawling along the nape of his neck.

When he stepped into his office and dropped his bag onto the desk, he didn’t even have time to sit before a frantic knock interrupted the silence. His assistant—Yuna—peeked her head in with her tablet pressed tightly to her chest, her knuckles white from the tension. She looked pale, and her voice barely registered.

He furrowed his brow. “Morning…”

“Good morning, Mr. Gojo,” she said quickly. “Your father would like to see you. Now. In his office.”

“…Alright,” he replied slowly, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Did I miss a meeting or something?”

Yuna opened her mouth. Closed it. Then whispered, “I don’t know. But he looked…pretty upset.” She gave him a sympathetic look before turning and walking back to her desk.

Upset didn’t even begin to cover it, though.

The walk to his father’s office was like moving through water. Everything was eerily quiet. Every step sounded too loud. When he reached the double oak doors, he hesitated just a second before pushing them open.

Both of them were already inside.

His mother sat in one of the custom leather chairs on the far end of the room. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, clutching tissue, makeup worn, face streaked with red, like she’d been crying for hours but refused to let the tears fall now.

And to her left, his father stood behind his desk, posture rigid, eyes storm-dark and unblinking. When he turned to look at Satoru, the anger in his eyes could have shattered concrete.

He stepped fully inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

No one said a word for a moment. But he glanced between his parents, unsure which direction the fire would come from first. “…You wanted to see me?” he asked, trying not to let the tension seep into his voice.

His father’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Do you have anything you’d like to tell us?” he asked, cool and measured.

Satoru’s spine straightened. “I—” he faltered, desperately trying to read their expressions again, trying to buy even a second of time to think. “Did I…miss something?”

His mother’s lip trembled. She looked down, then away.

His father’s voice sharpened. “Don’t play stupid. I’m giving you one chance. Do you want to tell us, or do I have to say it aloud?”

Satoru’s pulse started to rise, slow and stuttering. His thoughts scrambled.

There was no way. He hadn’t said anything yet. Not to them. Not to Hana.

Unless—

“Dad, I—I don't know what you’re talking about…” he said carefully, feeling the inside of his mouth go completely dry.

His father didn’t respond. Just stepped out from behind the desk and crossed the room in three swift strides.

The slap came fast, landing before he could even see it coming.

It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t theatrical, just loud and vicious—open-handed across Satoru’s cheek, hard enough to jerk his head to the side. His mother flinched in her seat.

The pain flared hot and immediate. Not just from the impact, but from the humiliation as well.

He could taste metal in his mouth. 

The last time his father laid a hand on him was nearly a decade ago—sophomore year of college, the night the cops brought him home after an underage drinking charge and a fight outside a bar. He hadn’t felt this kind of shame since then. 

This fury from his dad had clearly been building for a long, long time though.

“You arrogant, ungrateful little bastard,” his father seethed. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out? That you could keep this hidden forever?”

Satoru blinked hard, slowly raising a hand to his stinging cheek. His eyes burned with tears and indignation, with a growing, rising heat that clawed at the base of his throat. His jaw worked as he straightened. His father’s hand still hung in the air for a second before falling back to his side.

“Hide what—?”

“You got her pregnant,” his father spat. “That lowlife barista from your university days. The one we told you to stay away from.”

His mother finally spoke, turning to look at him, her gaze filled to the brim with disappointment. “Hana’s parents called us. They found out from her. She went to your apartment last night.”

Satoru’s stomach dropped. The room spun slightly. He blinked, stunned. “What?”

“She knows, Satoru,” his mother whispered, voice cracking. “She knows everything. And so do they.”

Hana. She knew.

It hit him in layers—the memory of her calling last night, the texts he never responded to, the ultrasound photo that she must have seen under his pillow—

And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Fuck.

His mother’s voice cracked. “Do you know how humiliating it is to hear something like that from someone else? To be blindsided like that?”

“You’ve embarrassed this entire family!” his father snapped. “Your mother and I have spent years building your reputation. Years of investing in your future. And this is how you decide to repay us? By knocking up some girl and dragging the Gojo name through the goddamn mud? You have no idea what kind of damage this causes! Not just to your reputation, but to ours. To the legacy of this firm!”

“I didn’t—” he finally managed, but it sounded weak even to him. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. I was going to tell Hana. I just didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t know how? Is that your excuse? You’re lucky they didn’t call the press,” the older Gojo snarled. “Your name—our name—has already been whispered around this entire building. Do you understand what you’ve done?”

“This isn’t just some mistake we can sweep under the rug, Satoru,” his mother said, eyes shining. “You’ve ruined everything.”

“Stop calling it that.”

His voice turned flat. Sharp.

They both looked at him.

Satoru swallowed, his hand curled into a fist by his side. “She’s not a mistake. Neither of them are. She’s my best friend. She’s the mother of my child.”

“She’s not your fiancée,” his father shot back.

“So what?” his voice grew louder now, enough to shake as he continued. “Just because we aren’t together doesn’t mean you get to talk about her like that.”

“Don’t get sanctimonious with me,” his father barked. “You think having a bastard child with her is noble? Do you know how this looks? How much we’ve already had to clean up?”

“She’s nothing, Satoru. She always has been,” his mother whispered. “We warned you about her back when you started school. And this is exactly why.”

He couldn’t breathe. All the oxygen felt like it had been sucked out of the room. 

“She’s a mistake, this—” his father gestured with a disgusted hand, “—is a mistake. But it’s one we can fix. We’ll handle it. Quietly. We’ll settle something with her. We can make a statement saying that the baby isn’t yours. That it was all just a big misunderstanding. You’ll apologize to Hana. Make amends. Make that woman sign an NDA, deny paternity—”

“No.”

The word came before he even thought it.

Firm. Final. Echoing off the walls.

He could hear his mother’s breath catch.

“You don’t get to say no.”

“I’m not doing all of that,” he scoffed. “You don’t get to make this decision for me. Not this time. She’s not some fling, she’s not a phase. I care about her—and I care about this baby. And you don’t get to tell me what to do with them. You can be pissed at me, you can cut me off, but I’m not going to fucking abandon them. I won’t.”

“You are our son,” his mother pleaded. “You’re supposed to protect this family. Your name—”

“My name is mine,” he snapped. “And she’s not some scandal that I need to cover up. She’s not some “mistake” to pay off. I’m going to be there for both of them. I’m going to be a father, whether you guys like it or not.”

“You’re throwing away your entire life for a woman who doesn’t belong in it!”

Satoru’s hands shook with anger. Enough was enough.

“No, she does belong in it! You’ve hated her since school. Because she received government assistance, because she didn’t come from the “right” family. But she’s stronger than any of us. She’s doing this on her own. She’s carrying my kid, and she shows up every fucking day without the world holding her hand. She’s not the one who should be ashamed!”

His parents stared at him like they didn’t recognize him. “You’re making a huge mistake, Satoru.”

He stepped back, eyes still burning with frustration. With anger.

“Maybe…But at least it’s mine to make.”

His father looked like he wanted to lunge at him again. His mother’s face crumpled like a used tissue.

And he turned without another word. Left the room without waiting for a dismissal, fingers trembling at his sides, skin flushed with heat and adrenaline. The doors had slammed shut behind him, and the echo followed him down the hallway.

When he finally got back to his office, he slammed the door behind him and sat down slowly into his chair, heaving through the remnants of the fight.

He picked up his phone and sent one text:

They know.

He stared at the message for a long time after it went through, already imagining your expression when finally you saw it—the twist of surprise, maybe even a sliver of guilt. Maybe you’d think it was too little, too late.

But at least now, the truth was out.

The café was unusually quiet for a Thursday morning.

Not silent—there was still the low hiss of milk steaming behind the bar, the occasional click of a laptop trackpad, the soft shuffle of newspaper pages turning—but it felt quieter. Maybe the world was moving a little slower than usual, just out of sync with itself.

You didn’t mind.

The morning rush had already passed, but it still smelled like burnt espresso and an amalgamation of syrups. You moved on autopilot, wiping down the countertops in slow, circular motions. The rag in your hand was damp. Lukewarm dragging over the grain of the wood. The neon-pink “Open” sign flickered faintly in the window. 

Your apron strings felt too tight around your waist. Your back ached—not terribly, just a dull weight between your shoulders—and you’d been nursing the same lukewarm tea since your shift started. Someone had left half a muffin in the pastry case again—cranberry orange, crumbling at the edges—and the overhead lights buzzed just faintly enough to make your head hurt.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, pretending not to think.

No one had commented on the way you hadn’t really smiled all morning. Or the fact that you hadn’t said more than a few words to your coworkers unless prompted. Your posture was stiff. Your apron a little off-center. Your name tag slightly crooked. But they didn’t push, which you appreciated. You just mostly kept your head down. Focused on the slow pace of refilling napkins and cleaning. Anything that didn’t require conversation. Anything that didn’t make your mind wander to last night.

Because thinking about it—about him—honestly made you want to cry.

You hadn’t slept much. You’d gone home, curled up on the couch with Bear tucked against your stomach, and stared at the blurry ultrasound photo until your eyes stung. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the way he looked at you—defensive and helpless and completely unreadable. You heard your own voice cracking on the sentence, “I can’t keep doing this if he won’t fight for me.”

You meant it. God, you’d meant it so much it still ached to breathe.

You didn’t know what you expected after walking away like that. You weren’t waiting for him to chase you. But you kept catching yourself glancing at your phone, checking it between customers like a reflex. He hadn’t texted. He hadn’t called.

You didn’t know whether to be angry or disappointed. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe just tired.

And now, here you were. Eight hours of forced cheer and aching feet. Eight hours of pretending you didn’t feel like you were slowly unraveling.

The bell over the café doors jingled, soft and familiar.

You glanced up out of habit—ready to greet whoever stepped in with that same practiced smile—but froze when you saw who it was.

Suguru.

He looked almost out of place in the soft light of the café—his black coat damp with rain at the collar, hair pulled back like always, but with a few loose strands clinging to his jaw from the weather. He gave you a crooked smile, brows lifting slightly in greeting. “Hey, stranger.”

“…Hey.” You blinked. Your grip on the rag faltered slightly. “I haven’t seen you since—”

“Since before Satoru broke the news?” he finished, voice easy, without judgment. His smile softened, but didn’t disappear. “Yeah. It’s been a while. Figured I’d check to see if you were still alive.”

You tucked a damp cloth beneath the counter and gave a sheepish little laugh. “Yeah…I’ve been avoiding everyone, I guess…Laying low.”

“Why?”

Your shoulders lifted and fell in a quiet shrug, letting your eyes drift to the floor. “I don’t know. I guess I just—I’ve been kind of embarrassed.”

Suguru tilted his head. “Embarrassed? For what? Getting pregnant? You know it takes two people to do that, right?”

You cracked the barest smile, but your fingers picked at the hem of your apron. “Yeah. I know. It’s just…it’s Satoru. Who happens to be very taken. Not exactly a brag-worthy situation.”

He chuckled. “True. Satoru is—well, Satoru. But still, it’s not your burden to carry alone. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just focused on the damp rings of condensation on the countertop and nodded faintly.

“I mean it,” he said, a little softer now. “You’re not the one who should be hiding. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He leaned against the counter, voice lowering. “And for what it’s worth, everyone in the group’s going to love that kid. You know that, right?”

Your chest somehow ached and fluttered at the tenderness in his tone.

“…Thanks,” you replied quietly.

After a second, he shifted his weight and leaned an elbow gently against the counter, offering another smile. “He came over last night.”

You looked up, surprised. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Showed up in the rain. Looked like shit. We drank, talked a bit. He told me about what happened with you guys.”

You groaned under your breath. “Sounds about right…”

He watched you quietly for a moment. “I know he’s a dumbass, but he’s…trying. I think. But you’re also right to be upset. You’re not asking for too much, you know.”

You felt your throat tighten around a reply, but nothing came. Instead, you just nodded and looked back down, smoothing your hands across the countertop like there was something there to fix.

He glanced around the café—still mostly empty save for the usual regulars, a few laptops glowing dimly, a couple on the far wall sharing earbuds. Then he looked back at you, something a little more careful in his expression.

“When do you get off work?”

You blinked. “Why…?”

“Because,” he said, voice easy. “I was gonna grab some food. There’s this new soba place around the corner from here.” He scratched the back of his neck, “And…I thought maybe you’d want to come too? It’s nothing fancy, but it’s better than cafe leftovers.”

You hesitated, blinking again. “Like…just the two of us?”

“Yeah. Just warm food and hopefully zero Satoru drama. Unless you already have plans,” he added, sounding a little sheepish now. “Totally cool if you don’t want to.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Part of you knew it might look bad. Part of you knew Satoru probably wouldn’t like it. But after everything—after the silence, the fight, the walking away—you were tired of waiting for him to figure things out.

And maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was petty.

But Suguru was here. Being kind. Being steady. And you…didn’t want to be alone tonight.

So you nodded and gave him a quiet, tired smile. “Yeah. Okay. I get off at six.”

His smile stretched a little wider now. “Theeen it’s a date,” he said, tapping his hands against the counter like a dork.

You rolled your eyes, fighting off a genuine smirk, but didn’t correct him.

He left with a wave and a lopsided grin, promising to be back by the time you were done. The bell above the café door jingled again as it shut behind him, leaving you in the still-warm hush of the shop.

You stood there for a moment, hands braced on the counter, staring at the place where he’d just been.

A date.

He’d said it lightly—jokingly, even—but the word still hung in the air like steam above a hot cup of tea.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it could look like. What it could turn into. Suguru wasn’t subtle, not really, even if he pretended to be. And you weren’t naïve enough to pretend that your answer hadn’t meant anything at all. Even if it was just a quiet “yes” said through the ache of everything else.

You sighed and leaned your weight into your palms, head dipping slightly.

You still hadn’t heard from Satoru. Not since last night. Not since the stupid fight.

And wasn’t that the whole point? That you were tired of waiting for him to decide whether or not you were actually worth stepping up for?

Still, a small part of you—tucked deep and unwelcome—whispered that maybe this wasn’t fair. That maybe it would hurt him. That maybe he was doing his best.

But then again…so were you.

And for once, you just wanted to feel like someone saw you—not as a secret, not as a scandal, but as someone worth sitting across a table from. Someone worth showing up for.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t mean anything. Maybe it would mean everything. You didn’t know.

But you’d said yes.

And it counted for something, right?

You eventually went back to wiping down the rest of the counter, letting your heart beat off-rhythm. 

You didn’t bother checking your phone again after that. Not for Satoru. Not today. Because for the first time in a while, you were looking forward to something else.

You didn’t see the screen light up behind the bar where you’d left it charging.

Didn’t see the new message that had just come in.

Satoru [7:41 am] They know.

Author's Note: ...👀

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

I also dropped a little Spider-Man!Gojo oneshot if you're interested: here.

[dunmomee]

Cursed Cat

a Witch!Reader x Gojo Satoru One-Shot

a/n: I'm back with another TikTok-inspired one-shot. Hope you enjoy this one!

<<previous

*******************************************************

You were a witch.

Not the green-skinned, wart-covered, cackling kind with a crooked hat and broomstick always in tow.

No, you were the grounded kind. The kind who wore flowing dresses embroidered with flowers, sunshine, and tiny birds. You lived in a cozy little cottage tucked between trees, where the shelves overflowed with worn spell books and half-finished enchantments.

You, like most witches, always had spells lying around, scattered on parchment, bubbling in jars, or tucked between pages with fraying corners.

Lately, you had been into whimsical spells, light-hearted enchantments woven into sweet treats. Cupcakes that made you giggle uncontrollably. Shortbread that summoned vivid dreams. Honey-laced cookies that encouraged the truth to spill from your lips like syrup. It was charming, fun, and harmless.

You were in your playful era. The phase of doing things for the joy of it. The what-if-I-put-a-sleeping-spell-in-a-macaron phase.

The thing was, you had a boyfriend. A silly one. Blue-eyed, snow-haired, tall as a beanstalk.

A knight of your little town, sworn to protect the peace, uphold the law, and somehow still convinced that every sparkly or sweet-smelling thing in your cottage was a snack waiting to be devoured.

So when he had been sent off on a short patrol by the lord of the village, you figured it was the perfect time to try a new spell. One of your whimsical little snack charms, just for fun.

That night, the moonlight spilled through the windows in gentle beams, casting silver streaks across the floorboards as the faint scent of dried herbs and melting sugar lingered in the air. You had decided to spend the evening mixing charm spells into treats to satisfy your inner scientist. You had borrowed a spell book from the library with a charm that could turn living things into other living things.

But you should have known better than to leave enchanted pastries unattended in a house where Gojo Satoru also lived.

Because when you returned from your bath, robe loosely tied and hair damp, you found a sugar-dusted plate with one glaringly empty spot.

You blinked. "Satoru?"

A soft mewl answered you. Followed by the tiniest thud.

Your eyes dropped to the floor. Sitting there, fluff puffed, one glowing blue eye barely visible under a mop of snowy fur, was a very displeased-looking white cat. Long-limbed, twitchy-eared, and unmistakably him.

You blinked again. "Oh no." "Meow."

He was supposed to be away.

"Satoru, you idiot," you hissed, crouching. "Did you eat the dream-bite?"

The cat flicked his tail and stared at you, unblinking.

You groaned. "It was literally glowing. What part of glowing blue cupcake screamed 'midnight snack' to you?!" "Meow," he replied flatly.

You stared at him. He sneezed.

"Oh my gods," you muttered, scooping him up. He yowled dramatically, limbs flailing like he had never been held in his life, even though he very clearly curled into your chest seconds later, tail lashing with both pride and offense.

You placed him gently on the bed. "Alright. Calm down. You’ll turn back in twelve hours. Maybe nine if I can reverse-engineer the sigil matrix, but..." You trailed off as he padded across the duvet, big baby-blue eyes locked on you.

"You want snuggles now?" you asked, rolling onto your side. "A moment ago you were having a hissy fit."

Catoru—because you were absolutely calling him that now—gave a decisive chirp and climbed onto your lap, then your chest, then tucked himself into the crook of your arm like it was made for him. Which, okay, it sort of was.

"Aww. There he is," you murmured, stroking his soft fur with a gentle hand. "Big scary knight reduced to a cuddle puddle."

He purred.

You scratched behind his ear, and he leaned into it. For a moment, it was sweet. Calming. Cute, even.

Then he bit you. Sunk his teeth deep into your palm.

"Ow. Did you just bite me?!"

Catoru sat up, tail flicking with smug triumph. "You little... was that payback?!"

His ears twitched. "Okay. That’s it. No more head pats. You’re cut off."

He blinked slowly. Then turned around and showed you his butt.

You gasped. "Don’t you dare sass me, mister."

But he was already curling into a dramatic fluffy loaf, very deliberately facing away from you like some furry little diva.

You sighed, flopping back onto the pillow. "So much for having fun."

The next morning, you awoke to the sound of groaning.

On your chest, where Catoru had previously been snoozing, was now a very naked, very human Satoru Gojo. His arm was draped across your waist. His face was smushed against your sternum.

You blinked. "You’re back."

"...Did I bite you?" he mumbled.

"Yes."

He looked up, eyes bleary. "Hot."

You smacked his forehead.

[dunmomee]

Let Me Chase You the Right Way

synopsis: After an interview, you and Geto head out to meet Satoru and you discover there’s more to him than you ever expected. Then, after a scandalous moment, he tells you he wants to chase you.

a/n: This isn’t in any particular order, but I’ve carried most of the storyline over! I’ve been having so much fun writing Gojo, and Geto makes an appearance too. Thank you all for engaging with my writing!

<<Previous one-shot

The studio was warm under the amber lights but not uncomfortably so. More like golden hour on a sleepy veranda, the kind of hush that made secrets slip easier. You and Geto sat on a deep sapphire couch, twin profiles mirrored in posture and expression. Same black hair, same violet eyes, same dimple that appeared when either of you smirked.

You always joked that you were alternate versions of the same person, split exactly a year apart. Born on the same day. He arrived first, but you had longer, fuller hair, something he still found deeply unfair.

“I don’t think the world knows you two are cousins?” the interviewer asked with a grin, crossing one leg over the other.

“I prefer the word siblings,” Geto replied smoothly. “We’re only children, born on the same day. She’s basically half of me. The dramatic half,” he added, tipping his head toward you.

“And he’s the sulky half,” you said, nudging his knee with yours. “But he makes music that makes people cry, so we let him have it.”

The interviewer chuckled. “Geto, your new album just debuted at number one on the Billboard charts. You also worked on the Crossing Lines soundtrack. What was it like working on something both your cousin and your best friend were so involved in?”

Geto’s smile dipped just slightly, shy, always a little more private under direct light. “Exhausting. Rewarding. Scoring that film was… special. Satoru’s a nightmare to work with. Y/N is an angel. Can never do any wrong. I didn’t work directly with them though. They were on set; I was holed up in the studio. In the shadows.”

You leaned back with a sip of your water. “He’s only being nice because we’re recording. He calls me insufferable when no one’s watching.”

Geto pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “I would never.”

“Would you ever feature Y/N in one of your music videos?”

“I’ve been trying to get her on a track,” Geto said, shooting you a look. “She can sing. Really sing.”

You leaned toward the mic, deadpan. “That’s slander.”

“She’s shy,” he stage-whispered. “But one day. She’s got this soft alto thing, her voice lingers. We harmonized on a demo once, and I’ve been trying to trick her into recording ever since.”

You shrugged. “Let’s see how desperate your next album gets.”

The interviewer blinked, intrigued. “You really sound like you admire her.”

“I do,” Geto said without hesitation. “She’s this other piece of me, just… existing in the middle of all this chaos.”

You blinked, caught off guard, fingers nervously twisting the hem of your cropped shirt.

The conversation flowed from career talk to childhood stories; how you used to steal his CDs, how he once pretended to be your middle school manager just to scare off a persistent boy.

“Besides your eerily similar features,” the interviewer added, “there’s another common thread; Gojo Satoru. You’ve both known him since childhood. What’s he like to you?”

“Like feeding cotton candy to a raccoon,” you said at the same time as Geto.

“Chaotic, but weirdly charming,” Geto clarified with a smirk.

You laughed, throwing your head back as your hair spilled over the top of the couch. “That’s… surprisingly accurate.”

“He’s been my best friend since we were teenagers,” Geto said, settling back. “This movie is really the first time Satoru and Y/N interact outside of me. Watching them finally talk to each other properly, felt like watching my last two braincells meet.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’ve known each other for years, yeah. But like Su-chan said, this was the first time we actually… saw each other. I used to have this fixed image of him in my head. Turns out he’s a little more nuanced than just ‘A-list actor’ or ‘my cousin’s best friend.’”

“There’s definitely chemistry,” the host added, sipping his water. “On-screen and off. The red-carpet kiss?”

“That was Satoru,” you said quickly, your cheeks warming.

“And I have yet to unalive him for that particular stunt,” Geto added with a smirk.

------

The sky was bruising violet by the time you left the studio, tucked into the passenger seat of Geto’s sleek black SUV. The city blurred past in streaks of gold and red, the hum of jazz playing low over the speakers.

“I need to stop by Satoru’s,” Geto said, one hand steady on the wheel.

You blinked, still half-scrolling. “No problem.”

You were half-lost in your phone anyway, browsing outfit options your stylist had just sent over for the next event, each photo more glamorous than the last. The soft saxophone blended with the sound of your swipes as you zoomed in on the hemline of a pearl-white gown.

Geto glanced over at your quiet frame, then back at the road. “You’re so still.”

“I’m reviewing outfits,” you replied, thumb pausing over a silver mesh number. “I need to send feedback by midnight.”

When you finally looked up, the neighborhood outside surprised you. Serene. Trees with darkening leaves. Rows of discreet homes set far back from the street. It was peaceful in a way the city never was.

“I thought he lived in the city.”

“Nah,” Geto replied, turning down a side street. “He moved to the suburbs.”

“The suburbs?” You turned to him, incredulous. “Since when does Gojo Satoru do neighborhoods and white picket fences?”

Geto smiled, a little knowing. “Since he got tired of elevators and glass walls.”

You weren’t prepared for it.

The house sat quietly at the end of a cul-de-sac, wrapped in warm wood and trailing ivy, the porch light flickering like it had been left on for someone. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t clinical. It felt lived in. Human.

Gojo’s house was beautiful, earth-toned and modern, with a wraparound porch and golden light spilling from the windows. A pair of white sneakers sat neatly by the door.

Inside, it smelled like lavender, clean linen, and something faintly citrusy.

You stepped in slowly, your heels clicking against hardwood floors. The walls were lined with framed photos, not just from premieres or shoots, but blurry Polaroids, candid moments frozen mid-laughter. A shelf held a mix of Blu-rays and manga. A dog-eared volume of Bleach leaned beside a crystal whiskey decanter. A pair of black-rimmed reading glasses rested on a stack of scripts.

It was so him, but not the version the world knew. Not the charming, untouchable star. This was the hidden version, the one who let silence be a comfort, not a performance.

“Welcome to the lair,” Gojo said, emerging from the hallway in gray sweatpants and a worn Mets hoodie. His hair was damp, sticking up like he hadn’t bothered with a towel. Barefoot. Relaxed. Disarming.

Dangerous.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day,” you said, still scanning the room.

“What—me, domestic? Say it isn’t so.”

“It’s weirdly… nice.”

Geto handed him a box. “The David Bowie vinyls you had me hunt down across three continents.”

“Ah, my emotional support records.” Satoru glanced at you. “Don’t look so shocked. I live like a functioning adult.”

You blinked. “I just didn’t think you did houses. I thought you collected penthouses and lingerie models.”

He smirked. “Got the idea from someone.”

You raised a brow. “Model number nineteen?”

“No,” he said, voice low, gaze catching yours. “Someone once said a real home is where nothing feels like performance. I guess I wanted that.”

You looked away too quickly.

He busied himself with the vinyls, flipping through each one like it held secrets. “Tea? Yogurt? Ice cream?”

You shook your head, stepping into the living room. “It’s shockingly normal in here. No secret marble staircase? No neon-lit bar?”

“I’m full of surprises.” He slid the vinyl onto an empty shelf space, it looked like it had always belonged there.

Geto’s phone rang. He stepped into the hallway to take the call.

You trailed your fingers along the couch cushions. “Honestly, this is impressive, Satoru. I was expecting... I don’t know. The half-naked posters. All the Zanpakutō replicas you used to collect.”

He laughed. “They were tastefully curated. And very on-brand.”

Geto returned with a groan. “Shoko and my mom blew a tire after tennis. I’ve gotta go.”

You blinked. “Are they okay?”

He winked. “They’re fine. Satoru’ll drive you home.” He turned to Gojo. “Not one hair on her head, got it?”

He typed something into his phone. A soft ding echoed from Satoru’s pocket.

“I sent him your address,” Geto added, kissing your forehead. “Don’t argue.”

You sighed. “I could’ve just Ubered, Su-chan.”

“I’ll sleep better this way.”

And then he was gone.

Gojo gave you a mock-serious look. “You still call him Su-chan?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, heat rising to your cheeks.

Gojo smirked, stretched his arms over his head, and made his way toward a narrow credenza near the entryway. He grabbed his keys, a blue-metallic Porsche 911 Turbo S.

Of course.

“Let’s go, princess,” he said with a smirk, twirling them on one finger.

The drive was quiet, cushioned by the purr of the engine and the faint hum of the city bleeding past the windshield. Gojo adjusted the air vents without glancing your way.

“New Arctic Monkeys is garbage,” he muttered.

You snorted. “It’s not garbage. It’s just sad-boy lounge music.”

“Exactly. Garbage.”

You shrugged. “I like sad-boy lounge.”

“Of course you do,” he said, casting a sideways glance. “Remember when you used to write down every single One Direction lyric and try to sing along? You were obsessed with Zayn.”

You gasped. “How do you even remember that?”

“Because I had to hear it. Every Sunday. On the balcony. In this bizarre high-pitched croak.”

You both laughed, and the air in the car loosened. Easier now. Lighter.

“Back when everything was simpler,” you said eventually, eyes following the blur of lights outside.

“This is the part where you say, ‘Satoru, you made it more exciting.’”

You turned toward him, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. “It was chaos with you around. But I loved every moment.”

He smirked. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Keep dreaming, Satoru.”

When he pulled into your street, he slowed to a crawl.

Your place sat on the corner, tucked behind a narrow gate softened with ivy and tall grasses. Warm porch light spilled out, pale yellow curtains glowing faintly behind the windows.

Gojo blinked. “...This is really nice.”

You smiled faintly. “Thanks. I moved in last month. Still doesn’t feel like mine yet.”

He turned off the engine and looked over. “Why?”

You hesitated, then exhaled. “Everything from the last place reminded me of him. Five years is a long time to collect... things. Mugs. Coasters. Pillows. I even had to replace my toothbrush holder.”

His expression shifted, something unreadable flickered in those glacier-blue eyes.

You opened your door. “You wanna come in? I owe you a drink for the ride.”

He paused. A fraction too long. “I don’t want to... cross anything,” he said slowly.

You looked back at him. “It’s tea, Satoru. Not a binding contract.”

Your place was warm in a way most apartments never truly achieved. Books stacked along the side of the couch, a throw blanket draped carelessly over the backrest, flickering candles scented with bergamot and honey. It wasn’t a set. It was a real place. Yours.

He followed you inside slowly, glancing at the walls.

Then he saw it.

Hanging above your small hallway table, nestled between an oil painting and a mirror: a postcard-sized sketch, faded with time, curled at the corners.

Two kids in sunglasses and matching pool floaties. Gojo had drawn it—badly—when you were fourteen. He’d signed it with a doodle of himself grinning and the words, “To Y/N: don’t forget I peaked early.”

He stared, unmoving. You were already in the kitchen.

He didn’t say a word when you came back with two mugs of tea.

“You still take yours with too much honey, right?” you asked, handing him one.

He accepted it silently. Didn’t mention the sketch.

You both sat on the couch. The silence wasn’t awkward. Just thick.

“So,” you finally said, blowing on your tea, “you ready for the storm?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The rest of the press tour. The media circus. The ‘Are-they-dating-are-they-not’ TikTok edits.”

He smiled wryly. “They’ll crucify us if we don’t flirt in public.”

“They’re already crucifying us because you do.”

He leaned back, arm resting on the cushion behind you. “What can I say? We have chemistry.”

You scoffed. “It’s because you’re the good-looking one.”

His gaze sharpened, just for a second. “You never give yourself enough credit.”

The air shifted.

His fingers tapped his mug once, then he stood.

“Well. I should go—”

“Wait,” you said, rising instinctively.

He stopped in front of your wall, turning to you slowly.

“That sketch,” he said softly. “I can’t believe you still have it.”

You shrugged, voice quieter. “You were the first person who made me laugh after my dad passed away. I kept it.”

Silence.

He stepped toward you.

You didn’t move.

“You were my light that summer,” you said.

“I really didn’t do anything, Y/N. Suguru—”

You stepped closer, filling the gap between you two. Mugs forgotten.

He reached out, one hand brushing your jaw, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

You tilted your chin up.

“Satoru...”

His other hand slid under your shirt. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, eyes hooded.

You rose on your toes, hand slipping into the soft undercut at the back of his neck.

His lips ghosted over yours.

He kissed you. Deep. Slow. Like he’d been waiting years and still didn’t want to rush. It was nothing like the one he'd delivered for the cameras or on the red carpet. It was void of playfulness and tease. This was different.

You clung to his hoodie. His hand traced your ribcage before cupping your bra-clad breasts. Your breath caught in your throat.

Then, he pulled away. Just enough.

His forehead rested against yours.

“I want to chase you,” he whispered. “The proper way.”

And then, before you could speak. Before you could even open your eyes—

He stepped back.

Turned.

And left.

The door clicked softly behind him.

[dunmomee]

[dunmomee]

Let Me Chase You the Right Way

synopsis: After an interview, you and Geto head out to meet Satoru and you discover there’s more to him than you ever expected. Then, after a scandalous moment, he tells you he wants to chase you.

a/n: This isn’t in any particular order, but I’ve carried most of the storyline over! I’ve been having so much fun writing Gojo, and Geto makes an appearance too. Thank you all for engaging with my writing!

<<Previous one-shot ❤ Masterlist ❤ Next one-shot>>

The studio was warm under the amber lights but not uncomfortably so. More like golden hour on a sleepy veranda, the kind of hush that made secrets slip easier. You and Geto sat on a deep sapphire couch, twin profiles mirrored in posture and expression. Same black hair, same violet eyes, same dimple that appeared when either of you smirked.

You always joked that you were alternate versions of the same person, split exactly a year apart. Born on the same day. He arrived first, but you had longer, fuller hair, something he still found deeply unfair.

“I don’t think the world knows you two are cousins?” the interviewer asked with a grin, crossing one leg over the other.

“I prefer the word siblings,” Geto replied smoothly. “We’re only children, born on the same day. She’s basically half of me. The dramatic half,” he added, tipping his head toward you.

“And he’s the sulky half,” you said, nudging his knee with yours. “But he makes music that makes people cry, so we let him have it.”

The interviewer chuckled. “Geto, your new album just debuted at number one on the Billboard charts. You also worked on the Crossing Lines soundtrack. What was it like working on something both your cousin and your best friend were so involved in?”

Geto’s smile dipped just slightly, shy, always a little more private under direct light. “Exhausting. Rewarding. Scoring that film was… special. Satoru’s a nightmare to work with. Y/N is an angel. Can never do any wrong. I didn’t work directly with them though. They were on set; I was holed up in the studio. In the shadows.”

You leaned back with a sip of your water. “He’s only being nice because we’re recording. He calls me insufferable when no one’s watching.”

Geto pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “I would never.”

“Would you ever feature Y/N in one of your music videos?”

“I’ve been trying to get her on a track,” Geto said, shooting you a look. “She can sing. Really sing.”

You leaned toward the mic, deadpan. “That’s slander.”

“She’s shy,” he stage-whispered. “But one day. She’s got this soft alto thing, her voice lingers. We harmonized on a demo once, and I’ve been trying to trick her into recording ever since.”

You shrugged. “Let’s see how desperate your next album gets.”

The interviewer blinked, intrigued. “You really sound like you admire her.”

“I do,” Geto said without hesitation. “She’s this other piece of me, just… existing in the middle of all this chaos.”

You blinked, caught off guard, fingers nervously twisting the hem of your cropped shirt.

The conversation flowed from career talk to childhood stories; how you used to steal his CDs, how he once pretended to be your middle school manager just to scare off a persistent boy.

“Besides your eerily similar features,” the interviewer added, “there’s another common thread; Gojo Satoru. You’ve both known him since childhood. What’s he like to you?”

“Like feeding cotton candy to a raccoon,” you said at the same time as Geto.

“Chaotic, but weirdly charming,” Geto clarified with a smirk.

You laughed, throwing your head back as your hair spilled over the top of the couch. “That’s… surprisingly accurate.”

“He’s been my best friend since we were teenagers,” Geto said, settling back. “This movie is really the first time Satoru and Y/N interact outside of me. Watching them finally talk to each other properly, felt like watching my last two braincells meet.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’ve known each other for years, yeah. But like Su-chan said, this was the first time we actually… saw each other. I used to have this fixed image of him in my head. Turns out he’s a little more nuanced than just ‘A-list actor’ or ‘my cousin’s best friend.’”

“There’s definitely chemistry,” the host added, sipping his water. “On-screen and off. The red-carpet kiss?”

“That was Satoru,” you said quickly, your cheeks warming.

“And I have yet to unalive him for that particular stunt,” Geto added with a smirk.

------

The sky was bruising violet by the time you left the studio, tucked into the passenger seat of Geto’s sleek black SUV. The city blurred past in streaks of gold and red, the hum of jazz playing low over the speakers.

“I need to stop by Satoru’s,” Geto said, one hand steady on the wheel.

You blinked, still half-scrolling. “No problem.”

You were half-lost in your phone anyway, browsing outfit options your stylist had just sent over for the next event, each photo more glamorous than the last. The soft saxophone blended with the sound of your swipes as you zoomed in on the hemline of a pearl-white gown.

Geto glanced over at your quiet frame, then back at the road. “You’re so still.”

“I’m reviewing outfits,” you replied, thumb pausing over a silver mesh number. “I need to send feedback by midnight.”

When you finally looked up, the neighborhood outside surprised you. Serene. Trees with darkening leaves. Rows of discreet homes set far back from the street. It was peaceful in a way the city never was.

“I thought he lived in the city.”

“Nah,” Geto replied, turning down a side street. “He moved to the suburbs.”

“The suburbs?” You turned to him, incredulous. “Since when does Gojo Satoru do neighborhoods and white picket fences?”

Geto smiled, a little knowing. “Since he got tired of elevators and glass walls.”

You weren’t prepared for it.

The house sat quietly at the end of a cul-de-sac, wrapped in warm wood and trailing ivy, the porch light flickering like it had been left on for someone. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t clinical. It felt lived in. Human.

Gojo’s house was beautiful, earth-toned and modern, with a wraparound porch and golden light spilling from the windows. A pair of white sneakers sat neatly by the door.

Inside, it smelled like lavender, clean linen, and something faintly citrusy.

You stepped in slowly, your heels clicking against hardwood floors. The walls were lined with framed photos, not just from premieres or shoots, but blurry Polaroids, candid moments frozen mid-laughter. A shelf held a mix of Blu-rays and manga. A dog-eared volume of Bleach leaned beside a crystal whiskey decanter. A pair of black-rimmed reading glasses rested on a stack of scripts.

It was so him, but not the version the world knew. Not the charming, untouchable star. This was the hidden version, the one who let silence be a comfort, not a performance.

“Welcome to the lair,” Gojo said, emerging from the hallway in gray sweatpants and a worn Mets hoodie. His hair was damp, sticking up like he hadn’t bothered with a towel. Barefoot. Relaxed. Disarming.

Dangerous.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day,” you said, still scanning the room.

“What—me, domestic? Say it isn’t so.”

“It’s weirdly… nice.”

Geto handed him a box. “The David Bowie vinyls you had me hunt down across three continents.”

“Ah, my emotional support records.” Satoru glanced at you. “Don’t look so shocked. I live like a functioning adult.”

You blinked. “I just didn’t think you did houses. I thought you collected penthouses and lingerie models.”

He smirked. “Got the idea from someone.”

You raised a brow. “Model number nineteen?”

“No,” he said, voice low, gaze catching yours. “Someone once said a real home is where nothing feels like performance. I guess I wanted that.”

You looked away too quickly.

He busied himself with the vinyls, flipping through each one like it held secrets. “Tea? Yogurt? Ice cream?”

You shook your head, stepping into the living room. “It’s shockingly normal in here. No secret marble staircase? No neon-lit bar?”

“I’m full of surprises.” He slid the vinyl onto an empty shelf space, it looked like it had always belonged there.

Geto’s phone rang. He stepped into the hallway to take the call.

You trailed your fingers along the couch cushions. “Honestly, this is impressive, Satoru. I was expecting... I don’t know. The half-naked posters. All the Zanpakutō replicas you used to collect.”

He laughed. “They were tastefully curated. And very on-brand.”

Geto returned with a groan. “Shoko and my mom blew a tire after tennis. I’ve gotta go.”

You blinked. “Are they okay?”

He winked. “They’re fine. Satoru’ll drive you home.” He turned to Gojo. “Not one hair on her head, got it?”

He typed something into his phone. A soft ding echoed from Satoru’s pocket.

“I sent him your address,” Geto added, kissing your forehead. “Don’t argue.”

You sighed. “I could’ve just Ubered, Su-chan.”

“I’ll sleep better this way.”

And then he was gone.

Gojo gave you a mock-serious look. “You still call him Su-chan?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, heat rising to your cheeks.

Gojo smirked, stretched his arms over his head, and made his way toward a narrow credenza near the entryway. He grabbed his keys, a blue-metallic Porsche 911 Turbo S.

Of course.

“Let’s go, princess,” he said with a smirk, twirling them on one finger.

The drive was quiet, cushioned by the purr of the engine and the faint hum of the city bleeding past the windshield. Gojo adjusted the air vents without glancing your way.

“New Arctic Monkeys is garbage,” he muttered.

You snorted. “It’s not garbage. It’s just sad-boy lounge music.”

“Exactly. Garbage.”

You shrugged. “I like sad-boy lounge.”

“Of course you do,” he said, casting a sideways glance. “Remember when you used to write down every single One Direction lyric and try to sing along? You were obsessed with Zayn.”

You gasped. “How do you even remember that?”

“Because I had to hear it. Every Sunday. On the balcony. In this bizarre high-pitched croak.”

You both laughed, and the air in the car loosened. Easier now. Lighter.

“Back when everything was simpler,” you said eventually, eyes following the blur of lights outside.

“This is the part where you say, ‘Satoru, you made it more exciting.’”

You turned toward him, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. “It was chaos with you around. But I loved every moment.”

He smirked. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Keep dreaming, Satoru.”

When he pulled into your street, he slowed to a crawl.

Your place sat on the corner, tucked behind a narrow gate softened with ivy and tall grasses. Warm porch light spilled out, pale yellow curtains glowing faintly behind the windows.

Gojo blinked. “...This is really nice.”

You smiled faintly. “Thanks. I moved in last month. Still doesn’t feel like mine yet.”

He turned off the engine and looked over. “Why?”

You hesitated, then exhaled. “Everything from the last place reminded me of him. Five years is a long time to collect... things. Mugs. Coasters. Pillows. I even had to replace my toothbrush holder.”

His expression shifted, something unreadable flickered in those glacier-blue eyes.

You opened your door. “You wanna come in? I owe you a drink for the ride.”

He paused. A fraction too long. “I don’t want to... cross anything,” he said slowly.

You looked back at him. “It’s tea, Satoru. Not a binding contract.”

Your place was warm in a way most apartments never truly achieved. Books stacked along the side of the couch, a throw blanket draped carelessly over the backrest, flickering candles scented with bergamot and honey. It wasn’t a set. It was a real place. Yours.

He followed you inside slowly, glancing at the walls.

Then he saw it.

Hanging above your small hallway table, nestled between an oil painting and a mirror: a postcard-sized sketch, faded with time, curled at the corners.

Two kids in sunglasses and matching pool floaties. Gojo had drawn it—badly—when you were fourteen. He’d signed it with a doodle of himself grinning and the words, “To Y/N: don’t forget I peaked early.”

He stared, unmoving. You were already in the kitchen.

He didn’t say a word when you came back with two mugs of tea.

“You still take yours with too much honey, right?” you asked, handing him one.

He accepted it silently. Didn’t mention the sketch.

You both sat on the couch. The silence wasn’t awkward. Just thick.

“So,” you finally said, blowing on your tea, “you ready for the storm?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The rest of the press tour. The media circus. The ‘Are-they-dating-are-they-not’ TikTok edits.”

He smiled wryly. “They’ll crucify us if we don’t flirt in public.”

“They’re already crucifying us because you do.”

He leaned back, arm resting on the cushion behind you. “What can I say? We have chemistry.”

You scoffed. “It’s because you’re the good-looking one.”

His gaze sharpened, just for a second. “You never give yourself enough credit.”

The air shifted.

His fingers tapped his mug once, then he stood.

“Well. I should go—”

“Wait,” you said, rising instinctively.

He stopped in front of your wall, turning to you slowly.

“That sketch,” he said softly. “I can’t believe you still have it.”

You shrugged, voice quieter. “You were the first person who made me laugh after my dad passed away. I kept it.”

Silence.

He stepped toward you.

You didn’t move.

“You were my light that summer,” you said.

“I really didn’t do anything, Y/N. Suguru—”

You stepped closer, filling the gap between you two. Mugs forgotten.

He reached out, one hand brushing your jaw, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

You tilted your chin up.

“Satoru...”

His other hand slid under your shirt. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, eyes hooded.

You rose on your toes, hand slipping into the soft undercut at the back of his neck.

His lips ghosted over yours.

He kissed you. Deep. Slow. Like he’d been waiting years and still didn’t want to rush. It was nothing like the one he'd delivered for the cameras or on the red carpet. It was void of playfulness and tease. This was different.

You clung to his hoodie. His hand traced your ribcage before cupping your bra-clad breasts. Your breath caught in your throat.

Then, he pulled away. Just enough.

His forehead rested against yours.

“I want to chase you,” he whispered. “The proper way.”

And then, before you could speak. Before you could even open your eyes—

He stepped back.

Turned.

And left.

The door clicked softly behind him.

<<Previous one-shot | Next one-shot>>

[dunmomee]

Coffee and Classicals

synopsis: Beneath the sarcasm and well-worn paperbacks, something shifts. The quiet between you is heavy, tender. It’s fleeting, unspoken, but it feels like peace.

a/n: I’ve been feeling a bit overwhelmed lately, and honestly, getting this chapter out was a struggle. It feels a little underwhelming to me, even though I know where the story’s headed. I just don’t quite know where I am in it right now, if that makes sense. I might take a short break next week to ease some of the outside stress and hopefully come back with a clearer head for the next chapter. Thank you so much for reading, it truly means the world. I love seeing your comments, they keep me going.

<<Previous ☕ Masterlist ☕ Next>>

Part eight: Peek into My Abyss

You had been at your reading table, head sinking into your textbook as the overhead fan made lazy circles above you. The light from your phone screen bathed your face in a soft blue as you scrolled back through the photos from the exhibition. A smear of Miche’s expression lingered in your mind, the offhand charm, the warmth in his teasing, the way he made it look so easy to belong.

And then there was Levi, in that jacket that clung a little too well to his frame, his bangs falling across his face, long overdue for a trim. In the photo, he stood in front of one particular piece, his gaze fixed, his posture unusually still. He had said something about how it captured the kind of feeling that doesn’t go away, even when it should.

You swiped to the next photo.

But it wasn’t the art itself that stayed with you. It was that quiet moment in front of Northern Peace, the way Levi had looked at it like it was something he used to know. Like he’d lived inside it once, and was only just remembering how it felt.

You hadn’t been sure why you did it. Maybe it was the soft hum in your chest, or the way the silence in your room pressed in, gentle but unrelenting. Your thumbs moved before your mind could catch up.

To Just Levi [11:22PM]: That painting reminded me of the part where Anna said she stopped caring about being right; she just wanted peace in her heart.

You stared at the message, hovering over the screen, unsure. Maybe it was too much. Maybe it was reaching, or worse, attention-seeking. You wanted to say more, maybe even send the photo of the painting, but as you fumbled through your gallery, your thumb slipped just a fraction too far.

His name flashed across your screen in bold.

FaceTime ringing.

Your heart lurched.

Shit. No no no no no—

You scrambled to hang up, breath caught in your throat. But before you could, the screen shifted.

Levi picked up.

You froze. Caught.

His face was mostly in shadow, lit only by the low orange glow of a lamp somewhere off-screen. He was leaned back against something, probably his headboard, the collar of his shirt slouched open at the neck. You caught a flash of silver chain at his collarbone. His hair was slightly tousled. You watched him run a hand through it.

You gaped. He squinted, unimpressed.

“I thought I said I don’t do calls.”

You flailed. “I didn’t mean to FaceTime! I—uh—I was trying to send the photo of the art.”

He had hummed. Not annoyed, just quiet. Almost… thoughtful. The silence had hung for a while. And then, in a low voice:

“Your text,” he’d said. “She didn’t want to be right. She just wanted the noise to stop.”

A breath had passed. His eyes hadn’t been on you anymore, but somewhere to the side, like he was seeing something else. Something old.

“You get used to carrying things alone. Telling yourself silence is peace. But it’s not.”

He had tapped his thumb once against the edge of the screen, then added, “Sometimes it’s just loneliness dressed up in quieter clothes.”

He had said it so simply, so clinically, that you almost missed the weight of it. But the words had settled deep, like they were meant to be hidden until now.

He had glanced back at you. His gaze had held. Unblinking.

“And then, once in a while…” His voice had trailed, lips quirking into something not quite a smile. “You hear something—or meet someone—that makes the silence feel… different.”

You had barely breathed. He noticed. Of course he did.

His fingers had brushed against his mouth, a pause stretching between you—like something unsaid had briefly perched on his tongue before slipping away. Then, as if shaking off a thought too heavy to carry:

“You don’t need to send the painting,” he’d muttered. “Art’s better observed in person.”

There was something about the way he said it. Almost offhand, but not careless. Like he wasn’t talking about the painting at all.

His words landed in you like a small stone dropped into still water, rippling outward. You went quiet.

His eyes never left yours, and for a moment, the silence felt less like absence and more like invitation.

There was something there. Brewing. Slow, careful, unnamed. But it was there.

And you could feel it.

Your voice had been softer when you spoke again. “Hey. Um… I was supposed to go to the aquarium tomorrow.”

He had raised a brow.

You’d continued, stumbling, “With Hange. But she just texted. She’s covering a shift. I have two tickets, and I don’t wanna waste them…”

You hadn’t quite been able to look at him.

“So what, you’re inviting me because you have no choice?”

“I’m inviting you out of panic.”

“Honest. That’s new.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Come on. You’d like it. There’s a whole jellyfish tunnel and a massive open ocean tank. It’s beautiful. You don’t even have to talk.”

There had been a beat. A subtle flicker in his gaze.

“Fine,” he’d said. “But only because I don’t want you getting abducted on the way.”

You’d bitten your lip to keep from smiling too wide.

You’d whispered, “Goodnight, Just Levi.”

“Night, Red.”

The call had ended. You’d straightened your back, phone still warm in your hand. You stared down at the equations sprawled across your notebook, your cheeks on fire.

It felt seen.

Not by some flawless man on a page, spine bent back on your nightstand.

But by someone real.

By him.

The aquarium had its own kind of hush, not silence, but the reverent quiet of people in the presence of something vast. The overhead lights were dim, and the halls felt like a cathedral made of water. Everything glowed in gradients of blue, green, and indigo, refracted and soft around the edges. Sounds were muffled. The air was cool, heavy with salt and filter mist, and carried a faintly metallic scent, like cold sea stones and glass.

You walked beside Levi through that slow, dreamlike space. Neither of you spoke at first.

He wore a light, weathered jacket in slate grey, zipped halfway, the collar folded sharp against his neck. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, exposing the delicate lines of veins and the tension in his forearms. There was a slight ruffle in his dark hair, like the wind had gotten to it on the way over, and his jeans tapered neatly to his boots.

You were in a soft cardigan over a tank top and loose, striped pants, a comfy ensemble meant for walking and wonder. You almost felt underdressed beside his low-effort elegance. Your fingers kept brushing whenever you walked too close, and every time, both of you pretended not to notice.

“That’s a giant isopod,” you murmured, nodding toward the display. It lay curled, pinkish and armored, beneath a rocky arch inside its tank. “They can survive five years without food.”

Levi’s eyebrow ticked upward. “Sounds like a charming date.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “You? Please. You’d die if you went six hours without tea and righteous judgment.”

He exhaled sharply. Not a laugh, but close. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t project.”

You grinned, but his gaze lingered on you a little longer than the joke called for.

Your arms were folded loosely in front of you, while his hung relaxed at his sides. He wasn’t touching you, but his presence felt warm and grounded.

You passed tanks filled with jellyfish that pulsed like breath, lionfish fanned out like ornate robes, and glittering schools of anchovy that twisted like silver brushstrokes. But it wasn’t until you turned a corner that something stopped you.

The dumbo octopus floated alone in a cylindrical tank bathed in soft blue. It looked almost weightless, ghost-pale and fragile, its ear-like fins fluttering gently. It moved slowly, with no urgency, like it had all the time in the world. Like it was dancing to a song only it could hear.

You stepped closer, drawn in. Pressed your palm softly against the cool glass.

There was something in your chest you couldn’t name. A fullness and a sorrow all at once. That strange ache of beauty when you came across something pure, untouched by anything ugly. It reminded you of quiet chapters in books that changed everything but said so little.

You stared for a long time. Chin tilted. Mouth slightly open. Unmoving.

Then you felt it, that pressure, that sensation of being watched.

You glanced sideways.

You expected Levi to be watching the creature, but he wasn’t.

He was watching you.

His expression was unreadable, but intense. His arms were folded now, his posture loose, but his gaze was razor-sharp. Fixed. Like you had said something too intimate just by existing beside him.

“What?” you asked, your throat dry.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes swept over your face, pausing beneath your eyes.

“You look tired,” he said finally. “More than usual.”

Your face warmed. “Well, thanks.”

“That’s not…I didn’t mean it like that.”

You gave a weak laugh, but his voice was low, genuine. There was no teasing in it. He stepped a little closer, just enough that your shoulders might have touched if you leaned.

“Dark circles,” he said. “They’re new.”

You shifted your weight. “It’s just… classes. Projects. Reading.”

“You’ve been reading late.”

You blinked. “How do you know?”

He shrugged, barely. “You text me quotes at 2 AM.”

You looked away, heat curling up your neck. “Sorry. I just… I like knowing what you’re thinking. When you recommend something, it’s like a peek into your mind.”

He was quiet.

“You don’t have to,” he said eventually. “Read them, I mean. Not for me.”

You tucked your hands into your cardigan sleeves, grounding yourself. “I want to. Plus… I’m studying for finals. Need to maintain the top spot.”

It spilled out before you could stop it, half-pride and half-confession. The second it left your mouth, you froze. That wasn’t supposed to come out. Not to him. Not like that.

He watched you instead, lips slightly parted, as if he were thinking of a dozen replies and none of them were safe.

“You’re weird,” he said at last.

You tilted your head, giving a slow, amused smile. “Says the man who drinks nothing other than carefully brewed tea.”

His eyes flickered, amusement, maybe, but more. He looked like he was about to say something clever, but instead, he turned back to the dumbo octopus.

“Why that one?” he asked. “You’ve been staring at it longer than the rest.”

You breathed out slowly. “It just… moves like it doesn’t care who’s watching. It’s fragile, but it doesn’t seem scared. Like it’s living in its own little dream.”

A pause.

“Sounds like someone I know.”

You glanced at him. His tone was so neutral, you almost missed the softness beneath it. But he wasn’t teasing.

You looked down, barely whispering, “You think I’m fragile?”

“I think you pretend you’re not.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

The tank glowed softly beside you. Levi stepped closer, not enough to make it obvious, but enough that you felt the brush of his shoulder against your arm. Warm. Steady.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Say things like you’re joking. But you mean them.”

You shifted, not quite meeting his eyes. “So do you.”

A beat.

“You pretend not to care. But you do.”

The words landed between you like something tender and dangerous. And for a moment, you both just existed. In the quiet. In the water-blue light. With the octopus drifting behind the glass like a living metaphor for all the things you didn’t know how to say.

“You should sleep more,” he said, finally.

“You should let people in,” you answered, so soft it was barely a breath.

You thought he might say something else. Something that would take the air from your lungs. But then a school group flooded into the exhibit, and the spell shattered.

You stepped back. He let you.

The dumbo octopus disappeared into a coral crevice, and the moment floated away with it.