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jjklover365daysayear · 16 days ago

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𓇼° last verse of summer || chap. 1°𓇼

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: after the death of your mother, your younger brother and you move back to your small, beachside hometown to stay with your estranged father—one you haven’t seen in over a decade—for the summer before your brother officially turns 18. you’re determined to keep your brother safe, even if it means facing the painful past you thought you’d left behind, aka, your dad. however, the real surprise comes in the form of satoru gojo, the local handyman and swim instructor, whose unexpected presence stirs something deep within you. not to mention, your father seems to be closer to him than his own children.

wc: 9.6k

tags/warnings: angst, slow burn, romance, drama, grief, medical talk, mentions of cancer, fluff, small town, smut, alcohol, trauma, slow healing, music, family drama, sibling relationship, parental death, anxiety, family conflict/tension, emotional breakdowns, drowning, strangers to (one-sided) enemies to lovers, modern au, slight age gap between reader and gojo, gentle romance, takes slight inspo after The Last Song, dividers by @/bernardsbendystraws

series masterlist < next chapter

“I said I could do it—!”

“And I said I got it!”

Riley huffs in annoyance, dropping the lug nut wrench unceremoniously to the ground. You curse him, having just finished putting the car jack under the rear side of the driver’s side of your old, 1980 Chevrolet C/K pickup truck. The body is painted in a glossy baby pink, a bold yet playful color that instantly sets it apart from the usual classic truck crowd. Running along the length of the truck’s sides is a wide, beige horizontal stripe, bordered with thin black pinstriping, adding a retro two-tone contrast that hints at its original styling.

She’s your baby.

But your very old baby.

Hence why you’ve grown accustomed to the frustrating task of changing one of her tires after a flat.

It just so had to have happened again on the way to your dad’s. With your annoying little brother hovering over your shoulder like a stupid shadow who swears he knows anything about everything. You try not to hold it against him too much, he is only seventeen years old—just a few months from the big one-eight.

Grabbing the wrench he tossed to the ground, he officially gave up trying to help you change the flattened tire.

You wipe the back of your hand across your forehead, smearing sweat and maybe a little axle grease across your brow. The sun beats down on the asphalt, making heat shimmer just above the road, and your tank top is starting to cling in all the worst places.

Riley flops down on the grass beside the ditch like he’s just run a marathon. “You’re being dramatic,” he mutters, picking at a weed. “I could have done it.”

“You couldn’t even hold the damn wrench right,” you shoot back, crouching to start loosening the lug nuts. “You were turning it clockwise.”

He rolls his eyes. “You act like I’ve never seen a YouTube tutorial.”

“Well, maybe next time you should watch one before trying to strip the bolts on my baby,” you grumble, giving the wrench a practiced crank. It creaks—old metal groaning beneath newer tension—but it moves. You feel a small twinge of pride. You might’ve left your spark behind when you left the city, but at least you could still do this.

“You talk about that truck like it’s a person,” Riley says, flopping onto his back, arms behind his head. “It’s weird.”

“She is a person,” you reply flatly. “And she’s more dependable than half the people I’ve met.”

“You need friends.”

“I had friends,” you snap, too quickly. The words hang there, suspended between the two of you in the thick, humid air.

Riley says nothing, rolling his eyes childishly and looking off into the distance. You roll your own back, focusing on changing the affected tire, replacing it with the new one.

The silence stretches between you both, sticky and loud, broken only by the occasional buzz of cicadas and the metallic clank of the wrench. You work methodically—lug nut by lug nut, careful not to strip anything else. Your hands are dirty. Your patience is thinner than the layer of sweat on your neck.

It’s been like this with Riley since the funeral. Short fuses and longer silences. Neither of you really says what you mean, not since your mom died. You’re not sure whether either of you knows how. But it has only been three months.

The tire slips into place with a little grunt of effort, and you start bolting it on, bracing your foot against the rubber as you crank down the wrench. The smell of hot asphalt and metal fills your lungs. Riley lets out a sigh, louder than necessary, and you shoot him a look.

“What?” he asks, not looking at you.

You don’t answer. Just twist the last lug nut tight and give the wheel a nudge with your palm to check for wobble.

Nothing. Solid.

You sit back on your heels and exhale, letting your shoulders drop. “Done.”

“Finally,” Riley mutters, already getting to his feet and brushing off his shorts. “At this rate, we’ll get there by Christmas.”

“Don’t push me, Ry,” you warn, your tone sharper than you meant it to be. But you’re tired. You’re sore. And this return to Magnolia Bay has been nothing but a string of emotional landmines.

“I’m just saying—Dad’s probably wondering where we are.”

That makes you pause. Not because he’s wrong, but because the word still doesn’t sit right in your mouth. Benjamin, what you’d rather call him. Or dad, but you haven’t called him that in years. Not out loud.

You glance up the road. The sun is just a tad bit lower now, casting long shadows across the cracked two-lane road that winds into town. Somewhere, just over that tree line, is the old house with peeling paint and a porch you haven’t stood on since you were seventeen.

“You know you don’t have to hate him forever,” Riley says, quieter now. Almost careful. “Mom didn’t want that.”

You squint up at him, jaw ticking at the fact that your baby brother is…taller than you. “I don’t hate him.”

He snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

“I don’t.” You stand, dusting off your hands on your shorts. “I just don’t forget.”

Riley kicks a rock into the ditch. “Maybe if you tried—”

“Maybe if he hadn’t walked out.”

The words come out before you can stop them, too raw, too bitter. Riley flinches, and you instantly regret it. Because he doesn’t remember it the way you do. He was a kid, only five after all. He didn’t hear the door slam, didn’t see the way your mom collapsed in the hallway after.

He’s learned about your dad through your mom, Charlotte. She’s told him the more positive side of things, shining everything in an optimistic light that makes you scowl at the thought. And all Riley has been told by your mother is that your father and she divorced in a mutual agreement. Still, you let things slip sometimes.

You drag a hand through your hair, your heart beating too hard for such a hot, quiet day. “Sorry,” you mutter, barely audible.

Riley doesn’t say anything this time. Just walks around the back of the truck and climbs into the passenger side without looking at you.

You mentally facepalm, closing the toolbox and tossing it into the truck bed. You lower the jack, throwing it in right after. The sound echoes louder than it should.

You climb in behind the wheel, start the engine, and pull back onto the road.

And there it is again—that silence. Full of things neither of you is ready to say.

Just the hum of the road beneath you, and the pale, pastel rooftops of Magnolia Bay slowly coming into view through the heat-hazed horizon. You tighten your grip on the steering wheel.

It’s going to be a long summer.

Magnolia Bay. A small, southern beach town where you were born and raised, up until your mom left with you and Riley after another one of your parents’ huge fights. You still never told Riley what they fought about that truly ended it.

You’re not sure if it’s worth it anymore.

Magnolia Bay stretches out before you like a half-forgotten dream—a place where time seemed to move slower, like the lazy tides that rolled in and out of the calm bay. The salty air carried a mixture of blooming magnolia blossoms and sea breeze, a scent that always tangled with the memory of your childhood.

Weathered wooden piers jutted into the water, their boards sun-bleached and worn smooth by years of fishermen’s boots and barefoot wanderers. Painted signs advertising fresh catch and shrimp boils hung crooked on peeling storefronts. The narrow main street was lined with quaint shops, their windows fogged with salt and stories: a dusty old bookstore with cracked leather covers stacked inside, a cozy diner where the coffee never ran out, and a tiny music shop that still played vinyl records on lazy summer afternoons.

The beach itself was a stretch of pale, soft sand that warmed under the sun’s relentless gaze, dotted with crabbing traps and driftwood forts built by generations of kids like you and Riley. Old oak trees, heavy with moss and memories, leaned toward the shore as if trying to catch whispers from the waves.

And beyond the bay, the low hills rolled into thick pine forests, hiding secrets and childhood adventures beneath their shadowed boughs.

Magnolia Bay was beautiful and bruised, like a faded photograph with edges curling, its colors softened but still vivid enough to pull you back. It was home. You had left once before, running from the ghosts your parents left behind, but now you and Riley were back. For better or worse, this little town was the place where your story was always meant to continue.

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” Riley hums, his temple pressed up against the window. “I could stay with Dad on my own without you down my neck every five seconds.”

Your fingers tighten around the dark leather of the wheel, forcing yourself not to respond with a retort of your own. Be the bigger person. “I wanted to come, I told you,” you start, “I don’t want you staying alone with him before you go to college. Plus, he was fine with it in the letter he wrote back to us.”

“He’s our dad, Y/N.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Do you ever trust anyone?” He peeks at you.

You inhale sharply through your nose, eyes fixed on the road like it might offer an escape from the conversation spiraling in the passenger seat. The tires hum against the pavement, Magnolia Bay creeping closer with every passing telephone pole.

“That’s not fair,” you say finally, the words quiet but weighted. “I trusted Mom.”

Silence again. This time it feels heavier. Riley shifts in his seat, no longer lounging. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the tension that suddenly cuts through the air-conditioned cab like a knife.

“She trusted him once too,” you add, more bitterly than you meant to. “Look how that turned out.”

Riley scoffs under his breath. “People change.”

“Not everyone.”

The conversation stalls, but the mood doesn’t lift. Riley goes quiet again, slouching deeper into the seat, his head to the window once more as the truck rounds a bend. That’s when the familiar welcome sign of this small town comes into view—whitewashed wood with peeling gold letters framed by two crepe myrtle trees in full bloom.

“Welcome to Magnolia Bay — Where Memories Wash Ashore.”

You almost laugh. Or cry. You’re not sure which.

The truck rattles slightly as you take the old turnoff onto Shoreline Road. Immediately, the world changes. Brick buildings give way to clusters of pastel-painted homes, their porches wide and shaded by hanging ferns. Some still fly faded flags from holidays past, others have wind chimes dancing in the breeze.

It hasn’t changed much. The town always smelled faintly of salt and lemon oil, a mix of sea and sunbaked porches, and the air still had that sleepy feel to it—like everyone was moving just a few seconds behind.

You pass The Sand Dollar Café, where Miss Greta used to sneak you extra whipped cream on your milkshake. Duke’s Bait & Tackle sits beside it, with its signature wooden pelican out front, beak chipped and weathered. And just across the street is Lottie’s Music Hall, long boarded-up but still standing, paint flaking, the marquee reading “LIVE JAZZ THURSDAYS” like the band never stopped playing.

Your eyes linger on it. On the ghosts stitched into the wood.

“You really think he’s still the same guy from back then?” Riley asks suddenly, softer this time. “From before?”

You exhale, heart stuttering a little as the ocean glints just beyond the row of homes.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But I don’t want you to find out the hard way.”

The truck bumps over the gravel as you turn onto the long, winding drive that leads to your father’s house—white and weathered and waiting at the edge of the bay.

For a split second, distant memories of your childhood flash before your eyes. Scraping your knee on the wooden porch after running up the steps from watching the waves, or like the time you carved Riley’s and your initials just at the edge of the railing when he was only a year old. You shake your head, putting the truck into park.

The place—home—it feels almost like a recurring nightmare. One you’re forced to face head-on.

You unbuckle, and so does Riley, opening the door and stepping your feet out onto the sand that holds a trillion memories.

The house stands exactly as you remember it—and yet, somehow smaller.

A two-story craftsman tucked into a nest of overgrown sea grass and aging magnolia trees, its once-white siding now faded to a weathered gray, like the bones of driftwood. The porch wraps around the front like a tired smile, wide and slanted slightly on one end, the railing chipped and peeling from too many summers soaked in salt and heat.

The front door is still painted the same stubborn shade of turquoise your mom picked out—one of the few things she ever won a fight over—and it sits slightly crooked in the frame, like it’s leaning away from the weight of its history. Wind chimes hang from a rusted hook near the porch light, clinking softly in the breeze, their sound thin and haunting. Familiar.

Two rocking chairs sit side by side on the porch, one newer than the other. The older one—the one your dad always sat in during storms—is missing a slat in the back. You half-expect to see his tall frame hunched over a book, or nursing a drink, or watching the tide roll in like he used to when he was too angry to speak.

The windows are all cracked open slightly to let in the breeze, lace curtains dancing lazily inside. You can see the faint silhouette of your reflection in the glass, and for a heartbeat, you think it might be your mother standing there instead—young, weary, full of hope that never panned out.

You hesitate. Your hand rests on the edge of the open truck door, knuckles white.

Behind you, Riley kicks a shell across the driveway, his sneakers crunching in the sand and gravel. “Looks… the same,” he mutters.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

The scent hits you next—brine and old wood, a faint trace of lemon cleaner, and maybe something cooking inside. You’re not sure if your stomach turns from nerves or hunger.

The house doesn’t scream welcome.

But it doesn’t scream stay away either.

It just waits. Quiet and withered and full of ghosts you swore you’d never come back for. You close the door to the truck and take your first step forward, the sand swallowing your foot as you cross the distance to the porch. Riley lingers behind for a moment before following, quieter now. You reach the steps and pause, your eyes flick to the far-right corner of the railing, where, just barely, you can still see the faded carving from years ago.

Y/N + R

200—

The rest is too worn to read.

You drag your fingers over it before climbing the steps.

Some things, you guess, really do stay.

The dreaded knock doesn’t call for anyone. You almost feel stupid, and that familiar sense of resentment starts bubbling in your gut at the fact that he’s not even opening the door for his kids. You glance back, noting how his truck is parked.

He’s here.

So then why the hell isn’t he answering?

Riley knocks when he feels your growing anger, sighing when he gets the same, non-verbal answer.

“Maybe he’s sleeping,” he tries to concede.

“Or ignoring us,” you grumble, walking down the porch and along its bend towards the back of the house. The back door was usually left open when the front wasn’t.

Hint: usually.

But as you turn the corner, the last thing you expect to find is a shirtless man, hammering away at the wood that surrounds the aged door. You pause in confusion, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Who the hell is this guy?

Some white-haired freak who thinks people just want to see him shirtless. Well, he does kind of look like he has a nice six-pack. Not that you’re looking. He’s crouched down, loose, blue jeans hanging comfortably on his hips. The black band of his Michael Kors boxers peeked out just slightly below his navel. Sweat glistens on his forehead, he wipes it with his shoulder before continuing his work.

He doesn’t look over at you both.

“Um…hello?” You decide to speak out after receiving a silent elbow nudge from your brother. He looks over finally, and your arms cross with skepticism. “Who are you?”

The man doesn’t flinch at your voice—just finishes driving the nail in with one clean, practiced hit before slowly standing. The hammer drops to his side, and he brushes his palms on the back of his jeans, the motion casual, almost lazy.

Then he turns to face you fully.

And for a second, you almost forget what you were going to say.

He’s tall—obnoxiously tall—and his build is just lean enough to still be boyish beneath the sun-sculpted muscle. His jawline is sharp, and there’s a thin scar that runs beneath his right cheekbone like a half-finished sentence. But it’s his eyes—icy, amused, and far too perceptive—that really stop you in your tracks.

“Well,” he drawls, voice smooth like aged bourbon. He smiles, eyes crinkling into crescents as they turn soft. You hate the way the smile shows off his seemingly perfect set of white teeth. “You must be the welcoming committee. Looking for Ben?”

You bristle immediately, narrowing your eyes even further. This stranger calling your dad by a name you’ve only ever heard leave your mother’s and your lips feels unsettling. Riley mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like damn, and now you elbow him without taking your eyes off the stranger. “Benjamin. Yeah, we are.”

The man notices the action and grins. “Feisty. Good. Your dad said you’d be a handful.”

That name alone—the weight of your dad—lands like a slap.

Your arms tighten across your chest. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m Satoru. Or Gojo, whatever you wanna call me,” he says easily, picking his hammer back up and resting it on his shoulder. “I’m renting the back unit.”

“What unit?” you bite out. “This isn’t a duplex.”

“It is now.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, completely unaffected by your rising hostility. “Your dad converted the back of the house into a rental a while back. Guesthouse, technically—but I’ve been helping him fix it up.”

You look past him to the door he was repairing. Sure enough, there’s new wood nailed around the frame, the smell of fresh paint faint in the humid air. Flowering jasmine curls up one of the support beams, still wild and untrimmed. The back corner of the house—once storage and your father’s old workshop—now has a second address stenciled discreetly on a new mailbox post: 34 B.

What the fuck. “You’re telling me my dad has been shacking up strangers in his backyard?”

He chuckles. “Sure has.”

“And where is he now?” Riley asks.

As if on cue, your father emerges from the house, using the inside of the back door this Satoru man was just working on. His attention is first drawn to him. “Wood’s sounding good, Satoru. No more mold?”

“No more, Ben.”

The tension thickens in the air as your father steps fully into view. A man weathered by years but still carrying the stubborn pride of the South in every line of his face. His salt-and-pepper hair is combed back with the same careless ease as always, and his eyes flick between you and Riley, a quiet wariness underneath the gruff exterior.

“Y/N,” he says, voice low but steady, as if rehearsed in anticipation of this moment, “Riley.” His gaze lingers on you a little longer than it does on your brother.

You swallow hard, keeping your arms crossed tight around yourself, feeling the walls of this house pressing in like old ghosts. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer the door?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, eyes darting briefly to Satoru, who’s now leaning casually against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets, watching with that smile that still unsettles you.

“Been busy. Fixing things up. Getting the place ready for you kids, as I told you in the letter.”

You glance at Riley, who shrugs, but the knot in your stomach tightens. Riley steps forward first, albeit cautiously. Your father smiles, lines creasing at the edge of his lips before opening his arms up wide and welcoming your brother into a familial hug.

“Riley,” he breathes in, tightening his arms. “You’ve…grown so big.”

You hover back, body frozen in place. You almost feel like an outsider as you watch your brother and dad hug it out like they’ve been needing this hug for years now. In a way, maybe they have. But you don’t want to admit that to yourself just yet.

Your eyes flicker to the man standing behind them, leaned against the railing. You make eye contact with him before he looks away, pretending to dust away something from his hammer. As you look back at Riley and Ben, they step back from each other. Riley’s eyes glaze over with what you can only assume are tears.

That sight breaks Benjamin a little bit. His hand reaches out, hovering over Riley’s shoulder before patting. It looks like he’s holding back his own tears, as well.

Then, finally, your father looks at you.

It’s silent for a moment before he clears his throat. “Y/N,” he greets, fingers twitching by his sides. “You’ve…you’ve grown too.”

No shit, is what you want to say. Instead, you murmur out a small “yeah”.

He steps forward, arms held out in the same way they did with Riley. Except this time, his child doesn’t reciprocate.

You step back, body tensing up.

Benjamin’s smile falters just a fraction, the warmth draining from his eyes as he watches you recoil. For a heartbeat, his mouth opens as if to argue, to coax you forward, but then he closes it again, swallowing whatever words might have come out.

“I get it,” he finally speaks, voice low, rougher now, like the years apart had worn the softness off him. “You’re not the same little girl I remember.”

Your chest tightens. No, you’re not. Far from it.

The scent of the sea drifts through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh wood and jasmine. Satoru shifts his weight behind Benjamin, but he says nothing. You glance at Riley, who’s watching the exchange silently, tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring.

Benjamin exhales heavily and plasters on a smile that looks much more forced. “Well—I—uh—why don’t we all step inside? It’s getting dark soon, and I want to catch up with you both. Maybe show you the changes I’ve made.”

The three of you follow Benjamin inside.

“Oh! And this is Satoru. He’s—”

“Taking up space,” you complete.

Benjamin bites the inside of his cheek before shaking his head. “No, he’s living out of the guesthouse. He helps me around the house and town. He also teaches swimming lessons.”

“Surf, too,” Satoru perks up, walking over to the kitchen and opening the fridge for a glass of water. Your jaw creaks from how hard you’re gritting your teeth.

“Surf?” Riley asks, a small gasp escaping. “You surf?”

Satoru nods as he lifts a glass of water to his lips. “Grew up near the coast, came to MB just a few years ago. Been surfing since I was younger than you. There’s some good breaks just past the jetty here if you know when to go.”

“That’s so cool,” Riley says, glancing at you for approval before quickly looking away again when he doesn’t find it. “I’ve always wanted to learn. Mom never really let us—she thought it was too dangerous.”

Satoru lowers the glass and leans back against the counter. “Well, your mom’s not wrong. Ocean doesn’t play fair. But I teach safe. Wetsuit, leash, reading tides. No one goes in without knowing what they’re doing. Your dad even joined me once. Guy’s still got decent balance for someone pushing sixty.”

Benjamin chuckles lightly, that same old laugh that used to echo through the house when you were young. “Decent, huh? You told me I looked like a drunk flamingo.”

“That was decent. For you.”

The three males in the house laugh as if nothing is wrong with the current situation. As if they don’t read your silence and frowning face. They probably do and are choosing not to comment on it—not like you’re trying to hide it. You’re not here to laugh. Not yet, at least. Not when your father has barely been back in your life longer than five minutes.

The house smells different. Not the lemon cleaner your mom used, or the coconut shampoo she washed your hair with when you were a kid. It’s all sawdust and aftershave now, with a lingering trace of sea salt. There’s a dull ache in your chest as your eyes sweep across the familiar, changed space.

The couch is new. The old woven rug is gone. The chipped family photo that used to hang crooked over the fireplace is nowhere in sight.

“Kitchen’s still the same,” you mumble, more to yourself than anyone else.

Benjamin hears anyway. “Thought about changing it too, but… I figured some things should stay put.”

You don’t respond.

Riley plops down at the dinner table like he’s been here every summer since you left. He starts flipping through a stack of local flyers sitting near the placemats—surf competitions, crab boils, a community open mic. His world is already expanding. Opening up.

You? You feel like the walls are inching closer.

Benjamin gestures toward the small hallway. “Figured you could take your old room again, Y/N. Cleaned it out a bit. Still have a few boxes in there I didn’t know what to do with—thought you might want to go through them yourself.”

“And me?” Riley asks, hopeful.

“The room across from hers,” your father replies. “Used to be the storage room, but I finished it off. Fresh paint, new bedframe, and the window faces the water.”

Riley beams, and the pride on your father’s face is unmistakable. You hate the jealousy that rises in your throat. It’s not Riley’s fault. It’s not even really Ben’s—not entirely.

“You kids settle in,” your father says after a moment. “Dinner’s on me tonight. Figured I’d take you down to Dockside—still do fish fry Fridays.”

You nod stiffly, trying not to let the warmth of nostalgia soften you.

Satoru finishes his water and sets the glass down gently, eyes on you as he speaks again. “You’ll like Dockside. Their Hush Puppies are better than I’ve had anywhere else.”

I’ve been there before, idiot. “I’m not here for the food,” you say flatly, brushing past him on your way to the hallway. “I’m here for my brother.”

They all watch you go, silently.

The sunset evening of MB feels safer than the presence of your father. At least Satoru didn’t come.

The three of you are walking down the boardwalk of the waterfront. You pass by locals, new faces you don’t remember from twelve years ago. Everyone must’ve had a brain and decided to get out of this place. Those who stayed, however few of them, are still holding onto the past. Just like your dad.

“Y/N, do you want that chocolate ice cream cone you used to love from—”

“No,” you interrupt, continuing your stride to Dockside without sparing a glance back at the same dampened expression on your father’s face.

He doesn’t say anything after that. Just slows his steps a little, whether from age or your rejection, you don’t care to figure out. The scent of grilled fish and fried batter starts to fill the air the closer you get to Dockside. It’s almost identical to how you remember.

The dock creaks beneath your sandals, weathered wood groaning under the rhythm of your steps. The lights strung along the awning of the restaurant flicker softly in the dimming amber of sunset. Couples and families gather around picnic tables, kids run barefoot past the wooden posts, and the world spins on like it hasn’t missed you at all.

Riley walks just behind you, hands shoved in his pockets, clearly unsure of where to put himself. He keeps glancing between you and your dad like he’s afraid one of you might explode.

The hostess—a girl who looks barely out of high school and smells like bubblegum—greets you all with a perky smile. “Table for three?”

“Four,” Benjamin corrects automatically, then clears his throat. “Three. Right. Three.”

You tense again.

No one comments on the slip.

The table is small, round, and too damn intimate for your liking. You take the farthest seat from Benjamin without thinking, forcing Riley to sit between you both. The menu hasn’t changed. You don’t even open it.

“I’ll get the fried shrimp platter,” you mutter when the waitress approaches. “With a sweet tea.”

“Same,” Riley adds quickly.

Benjamin orders last, a little quieter. “Catfish plate. No fries. Just slaw. And an order of Hush Puppies.”

Silence stretches between the three of you as the waitress disappears. Outside the screen windows, the sun dips lower, bleeding shades of crimson and pink across the water. Seagulls call in the distance. Laughter rises from another table. Someone plays an acoustic guitar nearby, out of tune but still earnest.

“So,” Benjamin finally says, grasping for a thread of conversation. “The guesthouse didn’t used to look like much, but Satoru’s been fixing it up pretty good. You should see what he did with the porch lights. Installed them himself.”

You stab your straw into your drink. “Maybe you two should get married.”

Riley chokes on his tea.

Benjamin’s mouth parts like he’s about to scold you, almost like he has the right, but then he just leans back in his chair, jaw tight. “That wasn’t called for.”

“Neither was you leaving.”

“Y/N,” Riley tugs at your elbow. “Stop it.”

It feels almost degrading to have a teenager scold you like this. Especially in public, especially in front of your father. And it’s even more embarrassing when you actually listen.

“…so,” your father speaks up after you get your drinks served first. He sips from his complimentary cup of water, swirling the ice cubes inside the blue cup. He looks between Riley and you, deciding to try his luck with the former first. “Your mother sent me your graduation photos. Valedictorian, too. I’m very proud of you, Riley.”

His son smiles, chuckling quietly as he ruffles the back of his hair. “Ah, yeah. Thanks. It was hard, but I did it, somehow.”

“You were always a bright boy. You even knew all the names of the planets by just four.”

“So I was GOATED even from a young age.”

“Hm? What’s that mean?” Benjamin tilts his head in such a gen-x way. You almost feel tempted to snort at that.

Riley simply shakes his head, mumbling something about how he’ll tell him later. The food soon comes, and he begins to chew one of the Hush Puppies from the plate in the middle.

You feel your father’s eyes glance at you, as if silently willing you to just look his way for more than five seconds for once. You don’t.

He munches on his catfish platter, tuning his voice into a friendly manner. “Your mother told me you were thinking of getting back into the piano. I didn’t know you stopped.”

You pick at the breading of your shrimp, watching flecks of golden brown fall back onto your plate. You still don’t look at him. “I didn’t stop,” you respond flatly. “I just stopped sharing it with people.”

It’s quiet again. Even Riley hesitates, eyes darting between you both with a tension so thick you could carve through it with your butter knife.

Your father swallows, clears his throat. “You know, the old hall by the church still keeps a grand piano in the back. Dusty, but good bones. I could help—”

“I don’t need your help.”

It comes out sharper than you meant it to. Your fork clinks a little too hard against your plate. Riley flinches.

Benjamin pauses, that forced friendliness cracking around the edges. “I just meant if you needed somewhere to play, I could talk to Pastor Jim—”

“I said I don’t need anything from you.” You finally look up. Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the soft noise of the dock like glass against a throat. “Not a piano. Not approval. And definitely not small talk about a life you weren’t in.”

His face shifts—hurt, maybe, or guilt—but you don’t care to study it. You go back to your food like you didn’t just suck all the air from the table.

The Hush Puppies don’t taste the same.

Riley takes a slow sip of his tea, murmuring to himself, “This is nice. Really love eating in World War III.”

You huff out something that might be a laugh, bitter and short-lived. Benjamin doesn’t respond. You don’t say anything else. None of you do.

The sun’s dipped almost entirely below the horizon now. Outside the screen, the water gleams a dull pink-orange, and the wind picks up, carrying the salt and sounds of gulls with it. You feel the kind of tired that’s more emotional than physical, the kind that hits behind your eyes and settles into your lungs.

You’re done pretending. Done making this easier for him. If he wants forgiveness, he’s going to have to sit in the mess he made for a while longer.

And maybe you’ll let him.

Eventually.

But not tonight.

You walk ahead of the father and son duo who hold ice cream cones in their hands—chocolate. Heading into the house, you feel weird calling home, even if it is temporary, you storm to your old room like a teenager who just got caught sneaking out for the first time.

The walls, an embarrassing shade of purple and pink—you’d been indecisive as a young girl. Even after all the years, everything is how you remember. As if frozen in place.

The bookshelf still leans slightly to the right, weighed down with outdated paperbacks and dust-blanketed trophies from spelling bees and school science fairs. Your twin bed, small and low to the ground, is tucked beneath the window with the same star-patterned sheets you left behind. There’s even a stuffed animal—your old bunny, Olive—perched at the head of the bed, one ear flopped down, the other stiff like it’s still waiting for you to come back and tell her where you went. Plus, the bay window you’d use to look out of after a particularly hard day.

You stare at Olive, heart thrumming too loudly in your ears. The air smells like dried lavender and the ocean. Like the kind of childhood you used to hold onto like a rope—until it burned your palms. You sit on the edge of the bed and let the silence collapse over you like a weighted blanket. You’re not sure if you want to scream or cry. Maybe both.

Down the hall, you can hear faint murmurs of Riley’s voice, soft and laughing. Your dad chuckles low in return. That sound—that ease between them—only twists the knife deeper.

You remember the abrupt leave you, Riley, and your mother made. You didn’t have much time to take any valuables, as you can see. Just essentials.

You hear another muffled laugh from Riley and your father. Before you know it, your eyes sting. Looking down at your lap, small tears stain pieces of your shorts a darker blue.

Your hands raise to dig into your skull, pulling at the roots of your hair with a frustrated vigor.

A part of you feels left out, jealous, angered, and downright anxious.

There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach that seems endless, one that makes you stand up and pace the room. There’s no more creaking floorboards anymore—either your father or that white-haired bastard changed that part, too. Just that little memory almost makes you nauseous.

A knock makes you flinch.

You think it’s your father, striding over to the door and swinging it open. But your eyebrows raise into your hairline when you notice it’s the bastard you were just cussing out in your brain.

He smiles again, the same one that makes it feel like you’re lifelong friends.

“What?” You snap.

But that doesn’t deter him, pointing a thumb down the hall. “We’re gonna make some s’mores, your dad wants to know if you want some.”

Gojo’s tone is as light as his smile, but there’s something else behind it—something studying you. You blink at him. You don’t move. Your arms cross instinctively over your chest, not because you’re cold, but because you feel exposed.

“I’m good,” you mutter, already moving to shut the door.

But he wedges his palm between it and the frame like it’s muscle memory. “You sure? Because I’m not gonna lie, I burn marshmallows better than anyone in this entire town. I’ve got proof. Scientific proof.”

You narrow your eyes. “I said I’m good.”

He tilts his head, still blocking the door, unbothered. “I’m not saying you have to hold hands and sing Kumbaya out there.”

Your jaw clenches, hands twitching at your sides. For a moment, you hate that he sees it. That he sees you.

You take a step back. “Look, I don’t know whatever bond my dad and you share or whatever the hell he’s told you. But the last thing I want to do is play roommate with some random guy for the summer. As long as my brother and I are here, I’d appreciate it if you don’t butt into our family business.”

His head tilts down slightly at you, his smile perking up slightly, which makes it seem like he’s holding back an amused smirk. “Who said I’m butting into anything?”

You glare at him. His confidence is infuriating—so casual, so steady, like he’s standing on solid ground while you’re still trying to keep your footing on shifting sand. “You’re literally in my doorway,” you hiss, voice taut. “That kind of counts.”

Gojo finally lifts his hand from the frame, palms up like he’s surrendering. “Fair. I’ll back off,” he says, taking one easy step back—but not far enough to make you feel like you’ve won. “But for the record, your dad hasn’t told me much. Just that you were coming back and that I should try not to scare you off.”

You scoff. “Too late.”

That earns a laugh—light, genuine, and it hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed.

“Listen,” he says after a beat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to be the ‘fun step-uncle’ or some shit, alright? I just figured you looked like you could use something sweet. Or at least, you know, a break from staring at that creepy stuffed bunny like it owes you money.”

You blink. “Her name’s Olive.”

“Of course it is.”

He moves to turn like he’s going to leave you alone for real this time, but pauses at the threshold. Gojo meets your eyes, staring for a few seconds. And there’s something quiet in the bright pair of blues he has, like he’s internally breaking down and storing away every bit of information about yourself that doesn’t meet the normal eye.

Finally, he nods casually, lips slipping into that calm smile of his like he didn't just try staring into your soul, and starts down the hallway. “I’ll leave a s’more on the counter in case you change your mind. But I’m warning you—if it disappears mysteriously in the middle of the night, I will assume you broke.”

You slam the door shut before he can get the last word in, your pulse thudding against your ribs. And for some reason, your stupid legs don’t carry you back to the bed. They carry you to the bay window, where you sit and watch the sky burn into twilight—stars blinking one by one into life, like soft reminders that time hasn’t stopped, even if your world did.

Olive stares at you from the bed.

You flip her off and barely get any sleep.

The next day, you wake up at the beautiful, perfectly ripe time of two in the afternoon. While everyone has already started their day hours before you even woke up, yours is just beginning. Still, you know you didn’t get a good night's sleep when you wake up groggy.

The sunlight peeking through your shades momentarily blinds you, causing your eyes to squint up. It’s warm inside your room, and you can only imagine it’s even warmer outside.

Your body is sore from falling asleep sitting up by the bay window, sore and cracking, and with a couple of stretches, you do. Throwing on a simple pair of blue denim shorts, black sandals, and a simple black t-shirt, you pad out your room and down the hall to brush your teeth and wash your face.

You haven’t unpacked yet, not that you want to. You remind yourself to maybe do so later in the day. Once you’re done in the bathroom, you take note of how quiet the house is. It’s almost unsettling, you can tell you’re the only one home. Not that it surprises you, considering it’s the afternoon, but you can't help wondering where Riley went off to and if he's lost. You shoot him a simple text, asking him where he’s at.

When you look up, your dad enters through the back door, wiping his carpenter pants free of the sawdust. When he notices you, he pauses, then nods. “Hey, kiddo. Finally up.”

He walks past you into the kitchen for a cool glass of water. “Satoru made some pancakes for us in the morning, I saved you some. They’re in the fridge.”

You don’t bother replying, watching him rinse his hands from the kitchen faucet before wiping them dry on his stained white t-shirt. Your eyes flick to a ceramic plate in the middle of the kitchen counter.

A s’more left untouched and undoubtedly stale.

“Where’s Riley?” Is what you ask first, scratching at your elbow.

“He’s out by the waterfront.”

“With who?”

“Satoru took him.”

“Doing what?” You’re already moving towards the front door.

Your dad doesn’t answer right away. He glances toward you as he sips his water, then places the glass in the sink with a little more force than necessary. “They’re just hanging out. Said they were going to walk the shore, maybe grab a bite.”

You stop at the door, hand poised on the knob. “You let some guy take your kid without telling me?”

Benjamin sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Satoru’s not some guy, Y/N. I trust him. Riley seems to like him. That’s more than I can say for how he usually acted around strangers.”

Your jaw tightens. “He’s not family.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t need to.”

Benjamin sighs, scratching at his bushy, brown eyebrow. Auburn eyes fixated on his daughter’s form. He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue before moving over to the circular table. “He’s fine, Y/N. Besides, while he’s out, maybe we can talk.”

The word talk almost makes you scoff out loud. You lean your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded tight over your chest. “Talk? About what? The weather?”

Your dad doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he pulls out a chair and gestures loosely to the one across from him. “No. About you. About us. About what happened.”

There it is. The invisible landmine you knew was buried somewhere in this trip—just waiting for your foot to find it. You shake your head, huffing. “It’s a little late for that.”

He nods slowly, like he expected that answer. “Maybe. But we never really talked about it, did we? Not really. One day I was watching you at piano practice, and the next, your mom was driving off in the middle of the night like I didn’t exist.”

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowing. “Don’t put this on her.”

“I’m not,” he says, holding up a hand. “I just want to know how you felt. I never got to ask.”

“I felt like I was seventeen and my dad let the whole family fall apart. I felt like I wasn’t enough to make things work. That about cover it?”

Silence stretches between you like barbed wire.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, his voice a low rasp. “I never wanted to leave you. That fight with your mom… it got bad. Worse than I ever thought it would. But I never meant to walk out on you.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. Your knuckles have gone white from clenching your arms so tightly. “You walked out on her, and by default, you walked out on me. Don’t act like it wasn’t a choice.”

His mouth opens, but you cut him off before he can get another word in.

“And don’t act like you came looking for us either.”

“I wanted to, Y/N,” he protests, a look of exasperation on his face. “But things between your mother and me were rough. She didn’t want me seeing you both and having it bring up bad memories.”

You scoff. Loudly. “Bad memories? Is that what we were to you? A reminder of all your fuckups?”

“That’s not what I said,” Benjamin says firmly, standing now. Not towering, not intimidating, just there. Steady. “I never stopped loving you, and you know that. I still called. I still sent gifts. I showed up at your damn recitals—”

“You sat in the back,” you snapped, heart pounding, voice cracking. “Like you didn’t want anyone to see you. You came like you were a ghost. You never stayed after, never came up to me. You just…watched. Like a stranger.”

There’s that silence again. But this time, it doesn’t stretch like barbed wire. It sinks, heavy and slow.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me,” he admits, quieter now. “And maybe I was too much of a coward to find out if I was right.”

You look away, jaw working. Because part of you wants to say you were right. Part of you wants to scream that he should’ve fought harder. That he should’ve chased after the car that night. That he should’ve come to get you. But another part—the part that still remembers the smell of sawdust on his clothes and the way he used to hum old rock songs while making Sunday breakfast—just aches.

“Riley doesn’t even remember what it was like,” you murmur bitterly, eyes fixed on the floorboards. “He gets to start fresh. He gets to like you again without having to forgive you.”

Benjamin sits down again. Slowly and carefully.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he says. “I just want the chance to know you again. As you are now. Not the kid I left behind.”

Your throat tightens, a lump forming like it’s been there for the last twelve years and is only now rising to choke you. You stare at him for a long moment. At the lines around his eyes that didn’t used to be there. At the callouses still rough on his hands. At the regret that seems too big for his frame.

“You don’t know me anymore,” you say softly.

He nods once. “Then let me try.”

“Like I said,” you turn back to the door, opening it and stepping a foot out without looking over your shoulder again. “It’s too late.”

The door slams shut behind you.

And Benjamin stays still, watching your retreating figure through the kitchen window with a familiar ache in his chest. He didn’t assume gaining your trust, love, and affection would be easy. But he wouldn’t be lying if the naive part of him hoped and prayed that it wouldn’t be as difficult as this.

“Fuck,” he grunts to himself, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair.

The sand divots under your sandals as you walk above it like a wobbly blanket. Eyes darting around in search of your brother and that freak. There’s people playing frisbee, an intense volleyball match to the right with shirtless hunks that you try hard not to stare at. A few people tanning, others building sandcastles. The boardwalk, filled with those little shops, has people going in and out of them. There’s a few older people going on a run and even a few gym bros lifting weights.

Of course, people are swimming, too.

You scan the beach, hand raised to block the worst of the sun’s glare. You’re not sure who you’re more irritated with—your father, for trusting some near-stranger with your brother, or Gojo, for once again inserting himself where he doesn’t belong.

Still no sign of Riley. Your jaw tightens.

Then, finally, you spot him.

Riley. Barefoot and knee-deep in the shallows, his jeans rolled up. And just a few feet away—of course—is Gojo. He’s crouched in the surf, gesturing excitedly toward something in the water, his white hair glinting like a beacon under the sun. You can hear Riley’s laugh, faint but unmistakable, and it hits you square in the chest.

Something about it—a carefree kind of happiness you hadn’t heard in weeks—makes you pause, brewing with a storm of jealousy you don’t want to admit to yourself.

Gojo’s got his sandals slung over one shoulder, wet up to the shins, and a ridiculous pair of sunglasses perched on his nose like he’s some celebrity trying to lay low. His tan practically glowing under the afternoon sun in a dangerously sexy way. He splashes a bit of water toward Riley and says something that makes your brother double over laughing.

You hate how easy it looks. How natural. Like he belongs here. Riley just fucking met him for crying out loud.

You cross your arms and start making your way toward them, each step heavier than the last.

When you get closer, Riley and Satoru’s laughter is clearer, still having no damn clue as to what is exactly so funny. You stop just when the waves hit your toes. “Riley.” Your voice cuts through the sound of the surf.

Both heads turn.

Riley straightens up fast, like a kid caught doing something he’s not supposed to—though he hasn’t done anything wrong. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his damp jeans, eyes sheepish but bright. “Hey,” he says, blinking up at you. “Didn’t think you were awake yet.”

“Clearly,” you reply, gaze sliding over to the man beside him.

Gojo doesn’t move at first. He’s crouched down like he was mid-thought, mid-story, like he wasn’t expecting you to come storming in and change the weather.

Then he stands. All slow, easy swagger. Sunglasses still on. Dripping wet. “Hey, sunshine,” he says, flashing a smile. “Sleep well?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you focus on your brother. “You didn’t text me back,” you say, voice flatter now, and more controlled.

Riley shrugs. “Didn’t hear it buzz.”

Gojo cocks his head. “My fault. I kinda stole him for a few hours. Should’ve run it by you, huh?”

You cross your arms. “Yeah, maybe you should’ve.”

There’s a beat of silence. The tide pulls back, leaving thin foam around your ankles.

Riley looks between the two of you, picking up on the tension. “We were just talking, that’s all,” he says quickly. “He was showing me how to look for sand dollars.”

Gojo grins. “Found two, actually. Your brother’s got good eyes.”

You ignore him.

“Riley,” you say gently, trying not to snap. “Go rinse off. I’ll walk with you back.”

He hesitates.

“Now,” you add, softer, but firmer.

Riley frowns, clearly disappointed, but doesn’t argue. He starts toward the rinsing station a few yards up the beach, leaving you and Gojo alone. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The sun beats down between you.

“You gonna yell at me now?” Gojo asks, tipping his head. “Or save it for the walk back home?”

“I asked you to stay out of things.”

“You said that last night. About your dad,” he replies calmly. “Didn’t realize that included Riley.”

You step closer, words cold enough to slice between them. “It includes everything.”

Something shifts behind his sunglasses. He doesn’t smile this time.

“He was bored,” he says simply. “I saw him walking alone and asked if he wanted company. He said yes.” You open your mouth, but he cuts in first. “It’s really not a big deal. Your brother is old enough to make his own decisions. Besides, it’s just MB, not much can happen.”

You snort. “He can drown, for one. He’s spent more time in the city than some shithole like this.”

“Shithole?” Satoru raises his brows, perking his sunglasses up until they hold the front of his hair back. Damn, he looks good. “MB’s not a shithole. And he can learn to swim. He wants to learn. And I’m down to teach him.”

Your jaw clenches. “That’s not your job.”

Gojo’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I didn’t say it was. I’m just saying—he asked. What was I supposed to do? Tell him no because his sister has some stick up her ass about me?”

You blink. Once. Twice. “Excuse me?”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he’s already regretting opening his mouth. “Forget it. Look—I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Y/N.” Your name rolls off his tongue softer now, like he’s trying to hit the brakes. “I’m not the enemy here.”

“No?” You laugh once, but it’s humorless. “Then what are you, exactly? My dad’s new best friend? My brother’s personal swim coach? What next—moving into the guest room? We all play happy family until summer ends?”

He looks away then, jaw ticking as he stares at the ocean like it’ll offer him something better than your anger. “That what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what this is, nor do I care enough.”

“You obviously do.”

“No, all I care about is you keeping your big, stupid head away from my brother and me.”

Gojo’s eyes flick back to yours then—calm, unreadable, but no longer smiling. His hands hang loose at his sides, fingers twitching once like he wants to say something else, but reins it in. You recognize the look; it’s the same one your dad wore in the kitchen. That same tired tension, like he’s holding back more than he’s saying. He tilts his head, tone quiet now. “You know… for someone who says she doesn’t care, you sure spend a lot of energy making sure I know exactly how much you don’t.”

You open your mouth, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“I’m not trying to worm my way into your life, Y/N. I just met you yesterday, Riley, too. I don’t have an issue with you, really. But let the kid live.”

Your fingers twitch in your palms. “I am letting him live.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he throws your own retort back into your face.

You step forward, and his eyebrows raise. Just as you’re about to speak another hurdling insult, Riley comes back.

“Y/N,” he says, a knowing tilt to his tone. You look over your shoulder, yet again, you receive the same look Satoru and your father gave you within the span of thirty minutes. Your stomach clenches, and you quietly back off Satoru, approaching your brother.

“Let’s go,” is all you say before making your trek back home.

Riley, pursing his lips into a hidden frown, looks back at Satoru. The white-haired man simply smiles, nodding his head and waving his hand in a don’t worry, you go motion. Riley’s shoulders slump, waving back before following after you.

Satoru sees Riley jogging up to your side, saying something to you that his ears can’t make out. You must’ve said something back because now it looks like Riley is arguing with you. He sighs to himself, whatever sibling issues you both have going on is not something he wants to poke in on.

Hell, when Ben told him his kids would be coming for the summer, firstly, he didn’t expect his daughter would be…hot as fuck. Secondly, he didn’t anticipate how prickly you’d be. Definitely didn’t expect you to come at him like you’re armed for war. All sharp edges and cold glares and unsaid things pressing behind your eyes.

He genuinely wonders when the last time you got laid was. Maybe you just need a good dick-down.

Your brother’s cool, though. Bright kid.

But like he said before, he doesn’t want to intrude on your family. He knows just as much as Ben told him and won’t push further. Ben’s been good to him. That’s what matters. The rest? Not his business.

He makes a mental note to stay in the backhouse more. Stay out of the way.

And maybe—just maybe—try not to want things that were never meant for him. That includes beautiful women with resting bitch faces aimed directly at him for no reason.

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jjklover365daysayear · 16 days ago

Text

Loved & Lost — chapter two

pairing: gojo x f! reader

synopsis: Your marriage to Gojo Satoru was doomed from the start. You believed in fairytales, he believed in the past. Your futile attempts at gaining your husband’s attention and affection caused more anguish than rapture. And you’re starting to wonder if you can ever survive being compared to a dead woman forever.

tags/warnings: second wife trope, modern au, arranged marriage, heavy angst, smut, fluff, mentions of su*cide, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, societal pressure, elite circles, mentions of classism, drama, cheating (emotional & physical), gojo is an assjole, reader tries her best to make the best of things, character death, talks of mental illness. artwork by mercyerr. dividers by @/cursed-carmine. gojo pov from the past for first half.

wc: 6.1k

series masterlist < prev. < three

SIX YEARS AGO:

Satoru couldn’t possibly be happier. He was getting ready for his CEO position at Gojo Global Holdings. Everything was looking good. Stocks were high, and the board meetings had only good things to report. People were beginning to show him more respect around the office.

And of course, he has a wife. A beautiful, caring, astonishing wife that he loves more than anything in this entire world.

Nothing—no one—could ever compare to Sayuri.

Round cheeks that he loved pinching. The same ones that would quickly blush a pretty shade of pink from his playful teasing. Luscious brown hair that shone so beautifully under the sun. Green eyes with two long sets of eyelashes to complement them.

She’s beautiful. Utterly breathtaking.

His heart stutters just thinking about her.

They’ve been together seven years already, but married for five.

Gojo was already looking forward to the next five. He fantasizes throughout his days about what would bless their lives as they grow older.

Children—naturally—were the first ones. Though he’s been trying to put it on the back burner.

However, he can’t stop the sliver of hope that shines through whenever he’s alone and looking up at the moon as if it can grant him all his wishes.

He wants his children to look more like her than him. So even when Sayuri is away, he would always have a little piece of her cradled in his arms so delicately.

He’s daydreaming again, smiling to himself like a goofy idiot as he pours himself another glass of whiskey. The alcohol has loosened his inhibitions.

“—will…heir…male or female…by 35…”

“What?” Gojo asks, only tuning into the conversation once he heard the word will.

Satoru’s grandfather, an old man, sighs heavily. Bald with a greying goatee. Wrinkles on his face, though not too many for a seventy-something-year-old man. The Gojo genes were quite phenomenal, after all.

“Have you been paying attention at all?” his grandfather scoffs in disappointment.

“Now I am,” Satoru leans back, jutting his chin. “Continue.”

Satoru’s grandfather shares a look with his son before looking at the youngest Gojo in the room. “Well,” he starts, setting his own glass down, “I was in the middle of explaining the will.”

“Why?” Satoru shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing we haven’t heard before.”

“He’s rewriting it, Satoru,” his father cuts in, hissing through clenched teeth.

Satoru jolts up, eyes widening. He disregards the whiskey that stains his expensive shirt. “W-What? You’re rewriting it? Why? To what?”

The old man rubs his temples, clearly weary of repeating himself. “My health isn’t what it used to be. So, I’ve decided to make the terms stricter—more concrete before I pass.” His gaze sharpens. “You must not only be married, but also have a legitimate heir by the time you’re thirty-five in order to inherit the full estate and control of Gojo Global Holdings.”

Satoru blinks, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. “…Married… and an heir? That’s new.” He chuckles, a sad attempt to ward off his growing anxiety.

His father’s voice is low but firm. “It’s always been the unspoken rule, but now it’s just written in stone. No exceptions.”

“Besides,” his grandfather crosses one leg over the other. “You and Sayuri have been married five years now. And still no children. Why is that?”

Gojo’s grip tightens on his glass subtly, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Of course, they would ask this. Everyone does, especially as their marriage grows older.

Children. Heirs. Bloodline. Legacy.

“We’ve…been trying,” he offers.

“You’ve been saying that since five years ago, Satoru.” His father runs a hand through his thick, white-haired pompadour. “You’re twenty-seven. We all expected children within the first year. Don’t you love her?”

“Of course I love her,” Satoru quickly snaps back, frowning at his father’s implication.

“Then why no children?”

Satoru’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at his father. He says nothing in response, too caught up in his own whirlwind of unspoken emotions. Too caught up in the secret he and his wife have been keeping to themselves for years now.

They’ve been smoothly fighting off the pushy questions of children. But of course, everyone has their limits.

And that doesn’t exclude elitist assholes like his family, who want nothing more than for their golden child to have his own.

But he would never air out their dirty laundry, especially when said wife wasn’t even present.

His grandfather, noting the tension, clears his throat to intervene in the stare-off. “Thirty-five,” he reiterates, “that’s eight long years. Many things can happen in eight years.”

“And if nothing does?”

His grandfather gives him a certain look—one that says that can’t happen. “Then key land titles, properties, and majority ownership, none of that will be passed down to you.”

His heart pounds harder, a deep pit forming in his gut. He sits up straighter to feign a confident facade, despite the fact that his foot is nervously tapping the floor. “That’s—that’s a little outlandish, don’t you think? Besides, that would include the gallery I bought for Sayuri, too. That’s not—”

“—negotiable,” his father cuts in sharply, voice like steel. “Sayuri’s gallery is part of the legacy now. And it’s not exempt from the terms. If you fail, everything reverts to the family trust. No exceptions.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, the room suddenly feeling too small, the air too thick. He forces a tight smile, though it falters around the edges. “You think I don’t want to provide an heir? You think I don’t want to start a family?”

His grandfather’s eyes hardened. “We don’t question your desires, Satoru. We question results.”

“It’s not up for debate, Satoru,” his grandfather emphasizes once more. “That gallery is tied legally to Gojo Global Holdings, which means it falls under the same conditions. No heir, no inheritance. The art house will revert to the company entirely.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. His mind raced, heart hammering against his ribs. The gallery wasn’t just an asset—it was Sayuri’s dream, her legacy, her passion. He had promised her he’d protect it.

He bought the gallery as a gift for her within just the first year of her marriage. It houses all her prized possessions—her happiness. And in turn, his happiness, too.

He can’t just let her dreams and passions be a simple pawn in his life.

But now, it felt like a sword hanging over his head.

His father’s eyes bore into him like a predator sizing up its prey, even if that prey is his only child. “This is business, Satoru. Not some sentimental trinket to be protected out of charity. The board agrees with me.”

Satoru swallowed hard, struggling to keep the desperation from bleeding into his voice. “I… I just need more time.”

His grandfather shook his head slowly, voice grave. “Time is a luxury you don’t have. The will takes effect the day I sign the final document. No exceptions. This is your last chance to secure everything you want—for yourself, and for your wife.”

Satoru felt trapped between two worlds—the love he had for Sayuri and the cold, brutal expectations of his family. He had always believed his marriage was enough. That the future would come naturally, on its own time. He didn’t think things would ever be taken to the extreme like this.

But now, the weight of a ticking clock threatens to crush that hope.

He looks down at the glass in his hand, the whiskey swirling like a storm inside. He’d have to make choices. Hard ones.

Choices that might change everything.

His head is already starting to hurt once his grandfather says something like how he’ll sign the final document sometime next month.

All he can think of is his precious Sayuri. She already has so much on her plate. With her own familial issues, and her company most likely going to file bankruptcy, her father’s declining health, and her mother having to be hospitalized again within the last three months, the last thing he wants to tell her is that they need to have a child.

Sooner rather than later.

Especially when they’ve already spent thousands in secret on just the tedious processes alone.

His grandfather is right.

A lot can happen in eight years.

And yet—it already has.

Too much has already happened behind closed doors, in sterile clinics under soft fluorescent lights, in quiet moments where Sayuri smiled through disappointment with tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In the aftermath of every failed attempt, every false hope, every silent car ride home when neither of them could say a word.

He wanted that future so badly. A little family. Messy hair and sleepy mornings. A nursery filled with stuffed animals and baby books. He still wants it.

But now, those dreams come with conditions. With ultimatums. With deadlines.

His fingers curl tighter around the glass until his knuckles blanch. The ticking of his grandfather’s old watch fills the quiet again. He’s aware, distantly, that no one’s speaking now. His silence stretches the tension, but no one dares interrupt his thoughts.

“Next month,” he repeats, more to himself than anyone else. ��You’ll sign it next month.”

His grandfather nods once. “Be prepared.”

“Try not to let your personal emotions get in the way of business,” his father adds, voice softening as if he can soften the blow that’s already been dealt. “You’re a Gojo. You were raised for this.”

But what about Sayuri? Satoru wants to scream it. What about her dreams, her health, her heart? What about how exhausted she is—how she hides the bruises from hormone injections, how her fingers shake when she checks her phone, waiting for test results? What about them, as human beings?

He doesn’t say any of it.

Because love has no place in this room. Not when legacies are being carved in ink and blood.

“I understand,” he says instead, even though it tastes like ash on his tongue.

His father nods in approval, but his grandfather watches him carefully. As if already wondering what moves Satoru might make next.

As if he knows, deep down, that eventually—love may not be enough.

And as Satoru finishes the last of his whiskey, head pounding with the weight of it all, he realizes the truth in that bitter thought.

He’s damned if he does. Damned if he doesn’t.

And Sayuri—sweet, beautiful Sayuri—may never know what he’s about to sacrifice. Or what it will cost them both.

A lot can happen, he repeats to himself in his mind.

Maybe a chance miracle. At least, that’s what he prays to the gods above for.

PRESENT TIME:

“How is Satoru treating you?

The question alone should’ve been an easy one to answer. Most wives would say good, phenomenal, maybe even exceptional.

Though sitting in front of your father, with a hopeful smile on his aged face, you hesitated whether to expose the harsh reality of your marriage to a man he trusted his only daughter with.

“It’s good,” you meekly respond, busying yourself with your cup of iced tea.

Your father, Haruto, raises his bushy brows. “Oh? Just ‘good’?” He laughs heartily. “C’mon, you can spill the details with your old man. Ah, just not all the details.”

You smile tightly at his attempt to lighten the moment, but the tea in your hand suddenly feels heavier than it should. You stir the melting ice with the tip of your straw, watching the ripples distort your reflection on the surface.

“I mean…” You begin, and the lie sits thick on your tongue. “He’s busy. With work. Late nights.”

Haruto hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, that’s expected, I suppose. Being in charge of Gojo Global isn’t a small role.” He leans back in his chair, stretching slightly before fixing you with a pointed look. “But he still makes time for you, right?”

You hesitate again. This time, for a beat too long.

Haruto notices. The corners of his smile falter just a little, but he keeps his tone gentle. “Sweetheart.”

“Of course he is,” you shake your head, meeting your father’s scrutiny with a light chuckle. “Why wouldn’t he be? Don’t worry about it, Dad. You already have a lot on your plate.”

He frowns. “I’ll always worry when it comes to my children. And it’s not worry, I’m just making sure my son-in-law is treating my daughter with the respect and love she deserves. Don’t fault me for that.”

“I’m not faulting you, Dad.” You smile weakly, a forced curve of your lips that barely touches your eyes. “It’s just been… a bit of an adjustment. You know how it is. New routines, new responsibilities.”

Haruto hums, nodding along, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his coffee mug. “Adjustment, huh? That boy’s not giving you a hard time, is he?”

You nearly choke on your tea but manage to swallow it down with a dry throat. “No. No, not a hard time,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Haruto narrows his eyes just a little, not missing the shift in your tone. “Y/N…” His face is open, gentle. But his voice holds that firm undertone that only comes when he's concerned. “You know I’d never let you stay in a marriage where you weren’t cherished, right?”

Your fingers twitch around your glass.

Satoru doesn’t hit you. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even insult you outright.

He just makes you feel like nothing. Like you’re a placeholder. A legal necessity. A shadow in his house.

But how do you tell your father that? After everything he had done just to see you married well? After he walked you down the aisle and shook Satoru’s hand with pride in his chest?

You take a deep breath and force a tiny laugh. “We’re just getting to know each other better. That’s all. It’s quiet sometimes. But I think that’s just him.”

Haruto tilts his head. “Quiet?”

You nod. “Well, he’s just not very…” loving, kind, present— “expressive.”

That was putting it kindly.

Haruto sits back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he studies you for a long moment. You drop your gaze to the condensation sliding down your glass.

“I see,” he finally says, voice unreadable.

You wish he didn’t. You wish he couldn’t.

But your father was never an oblivious man. Not when it came to you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “when your mother passed, I promised myself I’d protect you the best I could. Even if I couldn’t give you everything. Even if it meant watching you walk into a life I didn’t fully understand.”

You glance up sharply, surprised at the sudden shift in his tone.

“I gave that boy my blessing,” Haruto continues, “because I thought he’d be the kind of man who’d never let you feel alone. But now…”

He leans forward, lowering his voice.

“You can lie to the world, sweetheart. But you don’t have to lie to me.”

Your chest tightens with a growing sense of panic. Because for some reason, you still feel the need to defend your husband, despite his cruelty. And because you know just how scary your dad can get when something doesn’t go as he planned it to. “Dad, I—don’t worry, everything is fine.”

“He loves you?”

“Of course he does.”

“And he’s nice to you?”

“Yes!”

“Does he hit you?”

“What?! No, no, he doesn’t hit—”

“Does who hit her?”

Oh, great.

As if your sudden interrogation couldn’t get ten times worse. Ren’s deep voice—the kind of tone he gets only during certain situations—hits you first. Hearing two sets of footsteps, you turn around to see Noa striding in beside him.

Both your brothers, tall and extremely invasive sometimes, look like twins. Dark hair, thick eyebrows (though Noa keeps his more in touch), and stony expressions on their faces. It’s almost laughable considering Ren almost always has that idiotic, dopey grin on his face. It’s usually Noa’s job to have a resting bitch face. Their eyes dart between you and your father.

Once they get closer, Ren repeats himself, looking at you. “Is Satoru hitting you? I’ll beat his fucking—”

“He’s not hitting me!” you shout, throwing your hands up as you abruptly stand.

Your chair scrapes loudly against the wooden floor as you rise, the noise jarring enough to cut the tension—but not the heat of it.

“He’s not hitting me,” you repeat more firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. “No one’s hitting anyone. Can everyone just—stop? Don’t talk about him like that.”

Ren’s jaw tightens, but he pauses, eyes scanning your face. Noa, quieter but no less intense, shifts his weight beside him. His gaze lingers on you longer—searching, reading between the lines like he always does. Your father doesn't speak either. His hands rest on the table, knuckles pale, waiting for your next words.

You take a deep breath, forcing the trembling in your limbs to still. You don’t even know why you’re fiercely coming to Satoru’s defense, unsure if he’d do the same for you. But you don’t want to bash his name behind his back, especially to your family.

He doesn’t hit you, that much is true.

You take a deep breath before continuing. “Satoru’s not… he’s not what you think he is. He’s just under pressure. The company, the board, his family—there’s a lot on his shoulders right now. And I knew what I was getting into when I married him.”

Noa frowns slightly. “Pressure doesn’t give him the right to treat you like—”

“He doesn’t treat me like anything!” you snap, more sharply than you mean to. You glance away, lowering your voice again. “He’s just distant. That doesn’t mean he’s bad.”

Ren crosses his arms, clearly unconvinced. “So what, we’re supposed to pretend everything’s peachy just because he’s got a boardroom to impress? You're our sister. If you’re not happy, we deserve to know.”

You shake your head quickly. “Don’t make this bigger than it is. I’m fine. Really. We’re figuring it out. He’s not a monster, okay? He’s not cruel, he’s just complicated.”

Noa sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t owe him that kind of defense if you’re miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” you lie, blinking too fast.

Haruto finally speaks, voice low. “No one’s accusing him of anything, not without reason. But you shouldn’t have to explain this hard, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m explaining because I love him. And because I want this to work. Maybe he’s not perfect and maybe we’re not perfect, but he’s trying. We both are.”

That lie tastes even worse than the last one, but it’s the only thing that buys you some quiet.

Do you even really love Satoru? Or is that your malleable mind playing tricks on you, forcing you into a deluded fantasy?

A tense silence blankets the room. Ren sighs and finally backs off, muttering under his breath, “He’d better be trying.”

Noa gives you a long, unreadable look, then pulls Ren by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let it go.”

Reluctantly, Ren lets himself be tugged away, but not before pointing a stern finger at you. “If he ever lays a hand on you, you call me. Or better yet, don’t—because I’ll already know.”

“We all will,” Noa reiterates, looking you up and down as if to tell himself you’re really safe and sound.

You roll your eyes, but it’s the kind of exasperated affection only a younger sister can give. “Got it, watchdogs.”

Once they disappear into the other room, your father remains still, his gaze fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything, just gently slides your glass back toward you.

You sit back down, hands trembling slightly as they curl around the chilled glass.

You can feel his disappointment without him saying a word.

But he lets it go. For now. Because you’ve always been the one thing in his life that he doesn’t push too hard.

Even if you wish, deep down, that someone would.

Satoru had a particularly annoying time at the office today. His past couple of days have been filled with congratulations on the new marriage and being married to a woman like you.

Board members to secretaries, all wondering how married life has been treating him so far. He can’t fault them too much; they’re simply curious.

Too curious.

And Satoru, to save his own ass and because he’s not a complete idiot, won’t spill his guts to outsiders. And if word got back to your family about anything wrong, it would get back to his father. Then to him.

And he can’t have a domino effect like that.

Satoru is more than convinced he can manage to keep you married to him, despite the way he’s been treating you. He’d overheard from your own father prior to the arranged marriage that you’re the only one of his children who hadn’t been married off yet.

He heard snippets of your father saying that when you were a child, you couldn’t wait to have a family of your own one day.

Truthfully, it sickened him.

Not because he found the idea of family repulsive. Not because he didn’t think you were capable of having one. But because it made you seem weak. Childish. Naïve.

As if your only ambition in life was to play house and wait for some prince to sweep you off your feet. And now that you had one—on paper, at least—Satoru felt backed into a corner. Forced to wear the crown and wield the sword for a kingdom he never asked for.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped through the door to his estate. It was eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His tie was already tugged loose, jacket slung over his shoulder.

He toed off his shoes without much thought, the soft thud echoing through the marble-floored hallway. The silence that greeted him was nothing new— reminding himself that your presence in this house is nothing more than ghostlike. Just yesterday, he forgot you even lived here. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He glanced toward the dimly lit living room. The soft amber glow of a single floor lamp cast long shadows across the couch. A book lay open on the coffee table. One of yours. Probably one of those worn romance novels with cracked spines and folded corners. He didn’t understand how you could still stomach reading about love.

He exhaled a heavy breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he made his way up the staircase.

His mind was on autopilot the entire way up to his room. Twisting the knob, he stepped in.

He was suddenly greeted by the scent of something sweet, but floral. It stung at his nostrils, making his nose twitch in disgust. Shaking his head, he tosses his tie onto his bed and undoes the first few buttons of his crisp white button-up.

He instinctively walks over to the frame that’s faced down, fingers skimming the edges in hesitation. After a few seconds, he sighs and pulls his hand back, keeping the frame where it is.

That lingering, sinking feeling in his gut stays with him as he takes a seat at the end of his bed, eyes flickering from the small, untouched bedside table with memorabilia that makes him force his tears back. Satoru runs his hands through his silky hair, scratching at his scalp.

His head drops, elbows on his knees.

The silence of a room too big for one person is louder than anything. A deafening noise that even years later, he still can’t get used to. He reaches over to the other bedside table—the one on his side—and flicks on his usual white noise to help him decompress.

The soft static of the white noise machine begins to fill the room, a dull hiss that drowns out the noise in his own head—if only slightly. It’s the only sound he can tolerate at this hour, the only thing that doesn't ask anything of him. Unlike people. Unlike you.

His fingers hover above the dial, tempted to crank the volume higher until it scrubs out every thought, every memory, every feeling still tethered to this place. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Satoru leans back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His white shirt hangs open now, collar slack and sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. He stares up at the ceiling like it might offer him answers—or absolution. Neither comes.

He thinks about what one of the VPs said earlier that morning. “You must be one lucky bastard to land her.”

He’d laughed. Politely. Played along. Even though the words burned hotter than he’d expected. Lucky? He’s not lucky. He’s trapped.

Because he doesn’t want to need anyone. Least of all you.

He rises suddenly, agitated by the recurring thoughts. He pulls the door open to his shower and undresses with sharp vigor. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He steps into the shower, water still cold.

The freezing water hits his skin like glass. A shock to his system, but he welcomes it. He stands still under the icy stream, not flinching, not gasping—just letting it soak through his hair, his skin, his thoughts.

He needs the clarity. Or the punishment. He’s not sure which anymore.

The water slides down his body, carving paths through tension knotted deep into his muscles, but nothing dislodges the heaviness in his chest. He tips his head back with a small groan, water crashing against his face like rain in a storm he can’t escape. Every breath he takes feels borrowed, like he’s still living in someone else’s life.

A husband.

A future father.

A leader of an empire he’s been molded to inherit, not one he ever chose.

He rests a fist on the tile wall, knuckles turning white. The water grows warmer with time, but it doesn’t soften him. Doesn’t reach far enough inside to undo the bitterness creeping up his spine like frostbite.

His thoughts swim back to you. You were invading his safe space. Again.

The way you moved so quietly around the house, as if you were trying not to disturb him. The way your eyes lit up when he put that damned ring on your finger. Your soft voice, your gentle presence, they all annoy him. And now, they begin to haunt him too.

And he despised it. Despises you even more for it.

Because it meant he noticed you, even if barely and reluctantly.

After a while, the heat becomes unbearable, and he shuts off the shower abruptly. The room fills with steam as he steps out, grabbing a towel and running it carelessly through his hair. He doesn’t bother drying off properly—just enough to keep the water from dripping onto the wood floors.

He walks to the mirror and stares at himself, steam fogging the glass around his reflection.

He looks tired.

Not just physically. Deeply, fundamentally worn.

His fingers reach up, wiping away the condensation. His own eyes stare back—blue, piercing, sharp—and yet lifeless. He wonders if Sayuri would even recognize him now, if she’d look at the man in the mirror and see the boy she used to believe in.

He wraps the towel loosely around his waist and exits the shower, leaving wet footprints on the way to his closet.

He flicks the light on and again, that evil scent hits him like a truck.

Not anything he’s used to, nothing familiar, not Sayuri.

His frown deepens as he ventures further into his closet, steely eyes quickly scanning the clothes in front of him.

Satoru has been in here enough times to know everything like the back of his hand. He knows how things were placed. He’s spent countless days just sitting in here, looking at his late wife’s side and reminiscing about the times she’d come in here and fuss over what she should wear. As if no matter what she wore, she wouldn’t look breathtaking.

And so, Satoru would definitely know when something in this room has been touched.

He gulps hard, stepping closer to a pale blue dress of Sayuri’s that was her favorite. The sleeve of it, once tucked neatly with the rest of her clothing, is now pulled out. It’s small, barely detectable.

His breath hitches.

It’s a minute detail. One that no one else would notice. But Satoru does. Because he’s obsessive, because grief made him hyper-aware, and because Sayuri’s belongings are the only part of his life he’s allowed to remain untouched.

Until now.

He stares at the sleeve—his late wife’s favorite dress—and something tightens in his chest. Something ugly. Something furious. The silk hangs just barely off the hanger, but it’s enough to pull him out of his controlled spiral and into something volatile. His hand shoots out, grabbing the fabric with more force than necessary.

It’s not torn, not ruined. But it’s not where it should be.

And he knows damn well you’ve been in here because nobody else would’ve dared.

They all know what happened last time someone tried to.

You—the ghost walking his halls like you belong in a life that was never meant for you. You—the woman who smiles too softly and walks too quietly and dares to tiptoe into parts of him no one was invited to revisit.

Why would you come in here?

Why would you touch her things?

The very idea of you trying to “connect” with Sayuri—trying to make this house feel like home by reaching into a grave he hasn’t finished mourning—makes his jaw lock.

You don’t belong in here. You don’t belong anywhere. You never did.

And now you’re really trying to get him angry, aren’t you?

He releases the sleeve with a harsh exhale and storms out of the closet, towel still clinging to his hips, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

He doesn’t care for the maids who give him a wide-eyed look as he stomps through the halls. He’s laser-focused.

“Where is she?” he barks out to a younger woman.

She gulps and stammers out. “I–I—umm–!”

The maid’s voice quivers, her eyes darting like a cornered animal’s. But Satoru doesn’t give her the mercy of patience.

“Where. Is. She.” His voice drops to a low, cold timbre—more dangerous than a shout.

The girl flinches. “I-I think she’s in the garden, sir.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns, strides down the corridor, and throws open the double glass doors leading outside.

The night air hits him like a slap—cool, tinged with the scent of lavender and jasmine. The estate’s private garden stretches wide and quiet, bathed in the silver wash of moonlight. A place that once brought Sayuri peace. A place he’s avoided like a wound that never quite healed.

And there you are.

Sitting on the stone bench near the koi pond, barefoot, a light shawl draped over your shoulders, your hair pinned loosely like you’d half-forgotten to finish getting ready for bed. You’re gazing up at the stars, knees drawn to your chest, quiet and soft in a world that doesn't make space for quiet and soft anymore.

You don’t hear him approach, not at first. Not until the heavy crunch of his steps on gravel pulls your attention.

Your head turns.

And you see the look on his face.

Stormy. Unreadable. But not blank—not empty like usual. No, there’s fire in his eyes this time. Cold, sharp fire.

Your heart skips.

“Satoru—?”

“Did you go into my closet?” His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

You blink, startled by the sudden intrusion. “What?”

“Did you go into my closet?” he repeats, voice more clipped now, each word a blade.

You bring your knees down, sensing the shift in the air—tense, cold, and ready to snap. “I just went in for a moment,” you admit carefully. “I was only curious. I didn’t know people weren’t allowed in your roo–”

“So you thought going through my wife’s things was appropriate?” His stare sharpens.

You freeze. Both at his level of anger directed solely at you, and the fact that he still referred to her as his wife. Something he’s yet to call you.

“I didn’t touch anything of hers—”

“The dress,” he cuts in, voice like steel. “The sleeve was out of place.”

Your heart begins to pound. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize—”

“Exactly,” he snaps. “You don’t realize. You move through this house like you’re trying to wedge yourself into something you don’t understand. And now you’re digging through her life too?”

“I wasn’t digging,” you protest, voice shaking as you stand to your feet. “I was just trying to understand you better. I wasn’t trying to replace her.”

The words hang in the air like smoke after a fire. You feel a lump form in your throat, blinking rapidly.

His jaw ticks. “You can’t replace her,” he spits out, each word precise and heavy.

You flinch, like the truth itself stings.

“...I know,” you whisper. “I never wanted to.”

A silence settles between you both. One that feels longer than it is. He stares at you like you’re his mortal enemy, hands fisted by his sides. It takes everything in him not to completely snap at you.

Finally, Satoru takes a step back, the fire behind his eyes dimming—but only slightly. “Next time, stay out of my things.”

You nod, but he doesn’t wait for confirmation. He turns on his heel, muscles taut, movements brisk. But just before stepping back into the house, he pauses. His voice returns, quieter, but somehow crueler.

“You want to be a wife so badly? Learn to stay in your place.”

And then he’s gone.

The doors swing shut behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

You stand there, still and silent, eyes burning. After a few more silent seconds, you slowly sit back down.

The stone feels colder underneath your skin than from before. The stars look duller, the wind howls louder. And suddenly, your face wets with tears.

The tears had started slow, like a leak in an old dam—one you’d tried so hard to patch up, seal, ignore. But now they stream freely, staining your cheeks, dripping onto the thin fabric of your shawl. You don’t wipe them away. You don’t even move.

The garden is quiet. Too quiet. Even the koi seem still, like the world is holding its breath around you, unsure whether to comfort you or leave you in your silence.

You clutch your arms around yourself tighter, pulling the shawl around your frame as if it can protect you from the way his words are still echoing in your skull.

Stay in your place.

You thought you’d been doing that.

You’ve been cooking his breakfast, even making him lunch that you find left uneaten on the kitchen counter. You’ve been trying to keep quiet, even despite the fact that you’ve barely seen him around the house since you’ve been married to him. You’ve learned long before Satoru to only smile when you’re supposed to, to not ask too much.

To try not to be too much.

So if this isn't your place, then where is it?

Your fingers grip the edge of the bench. Cold. Smooth. Real. Unlike the dream you used to have about love. About family. About what it would feel like to build a home, not just live in one that looked pretty on the outside.

You think about how his face looked when he said her name—Sayuri. It still holds the only softness he’s capable of.

And his anger for you is just a hollow substitute for the grief he never let himself feel.

But that’s not your fault.

Is it?

A breeze picks up and blows across your bare ankles, goosebumps blooming along your skin. You shiver. You shake your head, exhaling shakily. You’re not that kind of woman. You don’t run.

But you do wonder how much more will be left of you in a month, maybe six, and even a year. Will you still be yourself? Will Satoru finally start being nice and acting like a proper husband to you? Or are you just destined for a loveless marriage?

Eventually, your tears slow, unsure of which part to cry harder for.

You sit there until the moon rises higher and the wind grows colder and your legs are stiff, eyes raw.

And until you remember that no matter how cruel he is, no matter how little he sees you, you’re still expected to show up at breakfast tomorrow. On time. Polished. Proper.

A wife.

You rise, slowly, legs wobbling like they barely belong to you.

As you turn back to the house, one truth follows you like a shadow clinging to your feet:

You may live here. But you are not wanted here.

Not by him. Maybe not ever.

Still, you walk back inside.

Because even a ghost has nowhere else to go.

a/n: i hope you’re all enjoying so far. i will be writing one more chapter on this so that i have at least 3 out already, then finally finishing killer! toji, then updating my other fics. thank you all for ur patience 😭💕

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jjklover365daysayear · 18 days ago

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ᡣ𐭩 ft: ryomen sukuna x f!reader

ᡣ𐭩 notes: honestly, the amount of fighter jjk fanarts i’ve seen here & on pinterest might have inspired this 😈

ᡣ𐭩 cw: underground!fighter sukuna, medic!reader, modern au, suggestive, heavy tension, fighting/violence

✶ underground!fighter sukuna only lets you patch him up — doesn’t matter if there are five other ring-side medics nearby. the moment he gets injured in the middle of a match??? he’s only asking for you.

“where’s my girl?”

“ryomen — we have five other medics here.”

“yeah, but i don’t want them… i want her.”

✶ underground!fighter sukuna would flirt with his female fans in front of you on purpose just to watch your reaction. he’ll wink at some girl from the crowd, sign her arm, maybe even lean in wayyyy too close when she asks for a selfie — all while keeping one eye on you. but if you don’t flinch? don’t glare, pout or even look a little bit jealous?? ohhh now he’s the one annoyed.

✶ underground!fighter sukuna makes every treatment feel like foreplay. you’re trying to clean a gash on his cheek, and there he goes saying shit like: “… you sure you’re only here to stitch me up? ‘cause the way you’re looking at me says otherwise...”

at this point, you’ve threatened to throw the antiseptic bottle at him at least once a week.

✶ underground!fighter sukuna flirts while he’s actively bleeding. black eye? bloody nose? split lip? this man will still try to flirt with you like he didn’t just crawl out of a cage match with another guy who is built exactly like a grizzly bear. “fuckkk that stings… you trying to punish me or turn me on?”

✶ underground!fighter sukuna sends you shirtless selfies with the wounds on his abs clearly visible — paired with corny captions like: “shit, this cut hurts… come sit on my lap and make it go away maybe?”

yesss he types that with absolutely zero shame & if he’s feeling cheeky enough, he’d even ask you to send him some “selfies” too.

✶ one time, another fighter flirted with you while underground!fighter sukuna was waiting to get patched up. he watched in silence with his fists clenched at his sides like he was physically holding himself back from lunging at him right then and there.

and well, the very next day — he stepped into the ring and knocked that guy out in under 60 seconds. it wasn’t just a win — it was a fucking massacre. the guy had a split lip with blood gushing from his nose, bruises already blooming across his jaw by the time sukuna landed his final blow; even the audience looked shaken and some whispering, “wait… isn’t that a little too much??” while his die-hard fans??? they just roared with approval, proudly saying, “yeahhh now that’s our fucking champion.”

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jjklover365daysayear · 18 days ago

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convict!sukuna who has nurse!reader bent over one of the prison clinic bends on one end, hand pulling on your hair as he fucks you deep and hard, the long strokes bullying your pussy wide open as you cream on his dick, meanly taunting you over how he can't hear you talking because prisonguard!toji has his cock stuffed into your mouth across the narrow width of the bed, cooing mockingly and wiping your tears while doing nothing to slow down the thrusts he uses to face fuck you.

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jjklover365daysayear · 18 days ago

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the whole of japan knows the name ryomen sukuna ; the menace of a child who grew up to become the king of curses. it's the name used to scare children into obedience, the name most feared amongst chiefs and samurai, the name that strikes fear in even outsiders when the thought of travelling to the island finds it's way into their minds.

but what they don't know is even the demon king himself has his own fear; a fear so deadly and consuming all hell is raised when brought to light. what is it, you ask..?

his wife... upset... and pregnant.

the whole estate can feel whenever you enter this state, the air is thicker, the servants work harder and more efficient, the kitchen is on edge 24/7, stocked and stationed to follow and deliver your every demand. it's as if a second sukuna replaces the sweet, compassionate woman they've gotten used to within the blink of an eye.

and sukuna feels it the most; in all his years he's never seen anyone as his equal, but now, it feels as if he's been outmatched at his own game, especially during times like this:

the king of curses watches and listens lazily on his throne as chiefs and noblemen from different provinces stand before him, trembling as they present their offerings and voice their concerns in shaky voices with a bored expression on his face.

this is what he's been restricted to for the past six months, lounging around his estate and accepting gifts and sacrifices like some simpleton as per your command request for your pregnancy.

it's only when one of the chiefs is about to offer a golden dragon sculpture that the large double doors of the room swing open and a servant bursts through, eyes wide and urgent in a way that has sukuna immediately sitting up, an inkling of worry regarding your wellbeing forming within his black, stone heart.

"what is it?" his voice is cold and rough as he speaks, casting tremors throughout the bodies of the mortals before him.

"i-it's the lady of the house, she- she's upset..."

the statement itself is enough to have him out of his seat, barking at the men to leave the estate as he thunders out of the room and through the temple halls to the direction of the garden you're residing in, a frown on his face as he trudges through the floral path leading to your favourite gazebo.

that's when he sees it, the bane of his existence; your arms crossed and a scowl on your lips.

he swallows, beginning to open his mouth to speak before you cut him off by pointing at the bowl of blueberries on the table beside you.

"sukuna," you start, no cute nickname used in your state of displeasure, "what are those?"

the curse finds himself momentarily bamboozled, are you playing a joke on him? "...blueberr-"

"exactly." your voice is clipped, eyes narrowing, "when you were about to enter your meeting, did i ask for blueberries?"

it's sukuna's turn to scowl. you did ask for blueberries, he specifically remembers you asking him for the damn fruit, "woman, what are you on abou-"

"i told you i wanted strawberries." you cut him off once more, "i'm here, building your child in my stomach, and you still never listen to me." you stamp your foot this time, a move more adorable than intimidating, but sukuna knows better than to tease.

"you asked for blueberries, brat, i remem-"

"do you think i am incapable of recalling what i said to you ten minutes ago?" your voice is louder now, eye ablaze and locked on his own. "do you think my pregnancy has rendered me incompetent?"

he's beginning to panic now, gulping as he shakes his head quickly, "i didn't say-"

"go get my strawberries, sukuna!" you bark, patience officially snapped in half as you glare daggers up at your husband.

sukuna practically scrambles away to retrieve your fruit, a storm cloud hanging over his head once he reaches the kitchen, his voice as deadly as lightening as he yells for a new ball of strawberries, snatching it from the young male servant who hands it over with shaking hands.

he mutters beneath his breath as he stomps back to your gazebo, setting it down on the table before you speak once more, pointing towards the pillow heaven on the wooden floor. "sit."

the curse sighs in exasperation before taking the bowl and plopping onto the cushions. he raises an eyebrow as you immediately make yourself comfortable on his lap, another demand leaving your lips. "feed me."

sukuna tsks in response, but ultimately relents, bringing a strawberry up to your lips and watching the pleased smile that spreads across them as you chew and lean back on him, placing on his hands to rest on your belly.

"we love you, 'kuna~"

he shakes his head, even as a slightly warm feeling begins to spread across his chest. gods help him if the little hellion in your stomach comes out just as strange as you (it'll have him wrapped around it's tiny little finger anyway).

SINCERELY Ξ ☆MISSDUVAL, 2025.

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jjklover365daysayear · 18 days ago

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18+

best friend!satoru who eats you out for the first time as your second birthday gift. you’d joked about needing a second dessert after cake and he’d shrugged, carried you bridal style to the couch, pinned your thighs over his shoulders and said, “you want me to put frosting on it or nah?” you thought he was kidding. you learned he was not.

best friend!satoru who gets painfully hard when you wear his clothes, but doesn’t bother to hide it.

best friend!satoru who lets you borrow anything from his closet, and steals from yours constantly. “mutual property. yours is mine, mine is yours. if you see me decked out in your miniskirt, i don’t want to hear a word,” and he means it—full on struts past you one morning in your crop top, showing off his slutty waist like it’s his god-given right, looking back only to say: “you left it on the floor. you forfeited ownership.”

best friend!satoru who’s your lingerie consultant. even when you’re dating someone else, he always insists on helping you “rate” the pieces you wear for The Other Guy. “7.5. makes your tits look great, but you’re gonna waste that on him?” weeks later, you realize half those sets went missing.

best friend!satoru who feeds you fries off his plate. dips them in sauce and holds them up to your lips. always pretends to miss your mouth so he can press his greasy fingers against your bottom lip and go “oops, messy girl.” and chuckles when you lick or bite his fingers in retaliation.

best friend!satoru who lets you use his card when you’re sad. doesn’t ask what for, just sends you a selfie of him pouting with a “buy smth pretty so you don’t cry” caption. if you don’t spend at least $300, he gets personally offended.

best friend!satoru who showers with you “to save the environment,” but spends more time helping you exfoliate your back and rinse your conditioner out than actually washing himself. you turn around once and catch him palming himself lazily under the stream. “oh,” he says, blinking. “you can keep singing, don’t mind me.”

best friend!satoru who has zero boundaries when it comes to your body. he adjusts your straps, straightens your necklaces, zips you into dresses from behind with such painstaking care that should not be so casual.

best friend!satoru who hasn’t fucked you, but has definitely slept curled around you like a body pillow on many occasions. who dry humps you during cuddles—not even always consciously. sometimes it’s in the middle of a movie, arms wrapped around you, hips rocking languidly against your ass while you eat popcorn. other times he full-on moans in his sleep.

best friend!satoru who is that annoying best friend who accidentally walks in while you’re changing.

best friend!satoru who kisses your forehead chastely. who holds your hand walking through crowds. who likes to pull you into his chest and rest his chin on the top of your head

best friend!satoru who gets hard watching you cry over your ex. not out of cruelty—he hates seeing you hurt, truly—but you’re sobbing into his chest, voice wobbling through half-formed sentences, and it does something to him. part of him wants to cheer you up with takeout and movies. the other part wants to fuck you so good you forget that asshole’s name entirely.

best friend!satoru who keeps saying “it’s not sexual unless you cum” like that’s a rule in the friend handbook.

best friend!satoru who never asks you to be his, because he knows the second you say yes, he’s compromised. you’ll become the one thing he can’t afford to lose. he keeps you close, but not close enough that someone could make you a target. as the strongest, he’s spent his whole life being selfless for the sake of everyone else. but he’s just not sure he’d know how to be selfless with you.

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jjklover365daysayear · 18 days ago

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18+ discovering his breeding kink… while inside you

the thing about satoru is that he never planned to be into this.

he loooved fucking you raw, sure—relished the stunned, glassy-eyed stare you gave him like you simply couldn’t believe he’d fit inside you. but he hadn’t walked into it thinking breeding.

the first time he came inside you, it was an accident. truly. he’d been mouthing sloppily at your tits, rutting into you while his brain was on vacation somewhere down between your legs. totally lost in the warm slick chokehold of your cunt. he barely got the apology out before he came again, within seconds.

“toru,” you breathed, “did you… did you just-”

“…yeah.”

“uh-huh.” legs thrown over his shoulders, your pussy raw and leaking around the length he hadn’t even pulled out yet. and he’d gone so quiet. not in a thoughtful, post-nut clarity; satoru was almost catatonic. staring down at where your bodies connected like your pussy had given him an epiphany.

“what,” you finally asked, gently nudging his cheek with your heel, “you freaking out? we have plan b-”

snowy lashes flicked up, then one hand dropped to your lower belly, pressing gently as if he could feel it take. “no,” he confessed, chest heaving. “i wanna do that again.”

“again,” you echoed, trying not to laugh.

“again and again and again,” he muttered. you should’ve seen it then. the switch flipping. it was the micro-expression of a man discovering a little too much about himself all at once. fingers hooked behind your knees, pushing until they were flush with your shoulders, cunt stretched wide and leaking. satoru buried himself in one hard thrust, the slick squelch so loud you winced.

three kids later, you’ve confirmed it: your husband’s ego is only rivaled by his virility.

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jjklover365daysayear · 19 days ago

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an apple a day (won’t keep you away)

being married to a doctor means learning to share him—with his patients, his charts, his endless emergencies. and tonight? tonight, you're not feeling particularly generous. thankfully, there's a bowl of apples, a well-timed grudge, and just enough spite to make a point.

(aka: in which you attempt to keep gojo satoru away using apples, mild emotional warfare, and maybe a little love.)

wc — 3.7k ✦ tags -> modern au, domestic fluff, established relationship, married life, petty!reader, soft satoru gojo, satoru deserves to suffer a little, affectionate banter, cuddling & snuggling

they say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but apparently it takes seventeen apples to keep one particularly annoying white-haired doctor from hovering around your kitchen island like a lovesick ghost.

you’re on apple number four when satoru finally works up the courage to speak. he’s been lingering by the doorway for the past twenty minutes, those ridiculous reading glasses perched on his nose—the ones with the slightly bent left arm from when he fell asleep reading case files on the couch last month. you’d been the one to gently extract them from his face that night, folding them carefully on the coffee table while he mumbled your name in his sleep. now they’re fogged from his nervous breathing, and you can see him shifting his weight from foot to foot, case files forgotten in his hands as he watches you methodically demolish your way through the fruit bowl with the dedication of someone preparing for war.

“sweetheart,” he starts, voice pitched in that careful, testing-the-waters tone he uses when he knows he’s stepped in it. his fingers tighten around the manila folders, and you catch the slight tremor in his hands. good. let him shake. let him remember what it feels like to be uncertain.

“nope.” you bite into apple number five with perhaps more aggression than necessary, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the way he flinches at the sound. the juice runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand—a gesture that would normally have him reaching for a napkin, fussing over you like you’re made of spun glass. instead, he just stands there, watching you with those impossible eyes that remind you of winter mornings and the way light hits hospital corridors at dawn. “i’m busy.”

“busy... eating apples?” his hair catches the overhead light, and you hate how it makes him look ethereal, like something stepped out of a dream. he’s always been too beautiful for his own good, all sharp angles and soft edges in places that don’t make sense. the way his collarbones peek out from his partially unbuttoned shirt, the slight stubble along his jaw that speaks of a man who’s been too tired to shave properly.

“busy keeping doctors away.” you don’t look at him directly, but you can feel the way he deflates a little, shoulders sagging like a marionette with cut strings. it’s a small cruelty, but you’ve earned it. you’ve earned the right to watch him squirm.

what he’s done, technically speaking, isn’t even that terrible. he’d simply gotten so absorbed in a particularly challenging case that he’d forgotten—completely forgotten—about your dinner reservation. the reservation you’d made three weeks ago, circled on the calendar in red ink, mentioned casually over morning coffee no fewer than six times. the reservation at that tiny italian place you’d been dying to try, the one with the hand-painted tiles and the owner who looked like he’d stepped out of a cooking show. the reservation you’d gotten dressed up for, sitting pretty in the living room in your blue dress—the one with the pearl buttons that he’d fastened for you that morning, his fingers gentle against your spine as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

you’d waited an hour. sixty full minutes of checking your phone, adjusting your jewelry, watching the clock tick past eight, then eight-thirty, then nine. the restaurant had called twice to confirm, their polite concern making your cheeks burn with secondhand embarrassment.

it’s not the missed dinner that has you eating apples like they’ve personally offended your entire bloodline. it’s the way he’d walked through the door at midnight, takeout bag in hand, hospital scrubs wrinkled and hair mussed, and asked if you wanted to share his hospital cafeteria sandwich. as if you were some kind of raccoon who’d be satisfied with his medical facility scraps. as if you hadn’t spent forty minutes perfecting your eyeliner only to wash it off with angry tears.

apple number six meets its demise, and you can feel the way your jaw is starting to ache from the aggressive chewing. there’s something primal about it, something that speaks to the part of you that wants to throw things and scream and make him understand exactly how small he’d made you feel.

“honey,” satoru tries again, and this time he actually steps into the kitchen, his sock-clad feet silent against the tiles. his reading glasses are slightly fogged, probably from the nervous breathing he’s been doing for the past half hour. normally, you’d reach over and clean them for him without thinking, a small gesture so automatic it’s practically muscle memory. you’d learned early in your marriage that he never remembers to do it himself, too focused on whatever medical journal or patient file has captured his attention.

today, you let them stay foggy. let him see the world through the blurry lens of his own poor life choices. there’s a coffee stain on his shirt—right above the pocket where he keeps his favorite pen, the one you bought him for your first anniversary. he probably doesn’t even realize it’s there, too caught up in his own guilt to notice the small details that usually anchor him.

“you’re going to make yourself sick,” he says, which is rich coming from someone who once ate convenience store ramen for six days straight during his residency. you remember that week, how you’d found him passed out over a stack of textbooks, chopsticks still clutched in his hand and his hair falling into his eyes like spilled moonlight.

“i’m building immunity,” you inform him primly, selecting apple number seven with the care of someone choosing a weapon. the fruit is cold against your palm, still slightly damp from when you’d washed the entire bowl earlier in a fit of productive rage. “very important for married life, apparently.”

the married life comment hits him right in the chest, and you can see the way his breath catches. he does that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose—a nervous habit that’s become more pronounced over the years—and looks like a kicked puppy. a very tall, very gorgeous kicked puppy with eyes the color of shallow ocean water and a mouth that’s currently doing something complicated with guilt and longing.

you hate how much you love him. you hate how even when you’re furious, part of you wants to smooth down his ridiculous hair and kiss the worried crease between his eyebrows. you hate how he’s standing there in his wrinkled button-down, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in that way that makes your stomach do stupid things, and your traitorous heart still does little flips. there’s a small scar on his left hand from when he’d tried to fix the garbage disposal last spring, and you can see him flexing his fingers—another nervous tell that he’s probably not even aware of.

“i’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. there’s something raw in his expression, a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten despite your best efforts to stay angry. “i’m really, really sorry. i got caught up in this case and—”

“and forgot you had a wife.” apple number eight doesn’t stand a chance, and you can taste the tartness on your tongue, sharp and unforgiving. “happens to the best of us, i’m sure.”

“that’s not—” he runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in twelve different directions. it’s gotten longer recently, curling slightly at the ends in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. you’d been planning to trim it for him this weekend, the way you always do, sitting him down in the bathroom while he closes his eyes and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “you’re the most important thing in my life. you know that.”

“do i?” you finally look at him properly, and oh, that’s a mistake. because he looks absolutely miserable, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights and too much coffee. his glasses are sliding down his nose again, and you can see the small indentations they leave on the bridge—a mark of the long hours he spends hunched over medical charts. you’re not quite ready to stop being mad yet, but looking at him makes your resolve waver like a candle in the wind. “because your patient charts seem to think otherwise.”

“that’s not fair.” his voice is barely above a whisper, and you can see the way his hands are trembling slightly. there’s something broken in his posture, the way he’s holding himself like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too quickly.

“neither is sitting in a restaurant alone for an hour, but here we are.” you gesture vaguely with apple number nine, and you can feel the sticky residue of juice on your fingers. the kitchen smells like fruit and frustration, and you can see your reflection in the window—hair slightly mussed, eyes bright with unshed tears and righteous anger. “at least these apples showed up when expected.”

satoru’s face crumples a little more, and you can see him struggling with something. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and there’s a flush creeping up his neck that makes the pale column of his throat look almost translucent. he’s always been expressive, wearing his emotions like weather patterns across his features, but this is different. this is the look of a man who’s realized he’s broken something precious.

“i dreamed about you last night,” he says finally, and his voice is so soft you almost miss it. the words hit you like a physical blow, unexpected and devastating in their quiet honesty. “even when i was sleeping at the hospital. i dreamed we were at that restaurant, and you were wearing that blue dress—the one with the little buttons—and you were laughing at something i said. and when i woke up, i realized i’d never actually seen you laugh in that dress because i’m an idiot who can’t manage his own calendar.”

you’re still holding apple number nine, but you’ve stopped eating. your fingers are sticky with juice, and you can feel the way your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. this is new territory—satoru’s usually more of a grand gesture guy, all expensive flowers and dramatic declarations. this quiet honesty is almost worse because it’s sliding right past your defenses like water through a sieve.

“you noticed the dress,” you say, and you hate how soft your voice sounds, how the anger is already starting to leak out of it like air from a punctured balloon.

“i always notice.” he takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. his feet are bare, and you can see the way his toes curl slightly against the cold tiles. “i notice everything about you. how you tap your fingers when you’re thinking.” his eyes drop to your hands, and you realize you’re doing it now—drumming against the counter in a rhythm that matches your heartbeat. “how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating.” you can feel yourself doing it, the unconscious gesture that he’s catalogued like a scientist studying his favorite specimen. “how you always, always clean my glasses for me even when i don’t ask.”

you glance at his fogged lenses and feel your resolve wavering like a house of cards in a strong wind. this is emotional warfare, and he’s not even trying. he’s just standing there, looking at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been carrying his whole life.

“i brought you something,” he says, and pulls a small container from his pocket. his movements are careful, deliberate, like he’s afraid of spooking you. “from that italian place. i went there this morning and explained to the owner what happened. told him my wife was too good for me and i needed to grovel properly.”

despite yourself, you’re curious. there’s something about the way he’s holding the container, like it’s made of glass and dreams. “what did you get?”

“their tiramisu.” he sets it on the counter between you like a peace offering, and you can see the way his hands shake slightly as he releases it. “the owner said his wife threw a shoe at him once for missing their anniversary, and that dessert was the only thing that saved him.”

you stare at the container, and you can feel the way your anger is transforming into something else, something softer and more dangerous. it’s a small thing, really—just takeout tiramisu from a restaurant you’ll probably never get to eat at properly. but it’s something. an acknowledgment. an effort. you can imagine him standing in that little restaurant, probably still in his scrubs, explaining to a stranger how he’d failed you. the mental image makes your throat tight.

“i’m still mad,” you tell him, but you’re already reaching for a spoon, and you can see the way hope flickers across his features like sunlight through leaves.

“i know.” he watches you take a bite, and his whole face lights up when you make a small sound of appreciation. it’s embarrassing how good it is, how the rich sweetness seems to melt some of the hardness you’ve been carrying in your chest. “is it good?”

“it’s...” you take another bite, considering. you can feel the way he’s watching you, cataloguing every micro-expression like he’s studying for the most important test of his life. “it’s pretty good.”

“good enough to maybe consider reducing the apple consumption? i’m starting to worry about the local orchard supply.” there’s a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the edges. it’s the same smile he’d given you on your first date, nervous and hopeful and completely devastating.

that startles a laugh out of you, which you immediately try to cover with a cough. but satoru’s too perceptive, has always been able to read you like his favorite book, and his eyes crinkle with hope.

“was that almost a smile?” he asks, taking another careful step closer. you can smell his cologne now—something clean and expensive that you bought him last christmas. there’s something else too, something that’s purely him. coffee and antiseptic and the faint scent of the lavender detergent you use on his scrubs.

“no,” you lie, but you’re fighting a losing battle now. the tiramisu is really good, and he’s standing there looking rumpled and sorry, and you’re remembering why you married this disaster of a man in the first place. how he’d proposed to you in this very kitchen, getting down on one knee next to the refrigerator because he couldn’t wait another second. how he’d cried when you said yes, happy tears that made his eyes look like sea glass.

“i have an idea,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s pulling his phone out. his fingers are moving quickly across the screen, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips—a nervous habit that’s become endearing over the years. “new rule. from now on, all my important dates go in a shared calendar. you get alerts. i get alerts. my secretary gets alerts. hell, we’ll alert the entire hospital if we have to.”

“satoru—” you start, but he’s already warming to his theme, the way he does when he gets an idea stuck in his head.

“and,” he continues, his voice gaining strength, “i’m taking next weekend off. completely off. no hospital, no emergencies, no nothing. just me and you and whatever restaurant you want to try.”

you want to stay mad. you really do. but he’s looking at you with those stupid eyes that remind you of winter sky and promises, and his glasses are still fogged, and you’re only human. there’s something about the way he’s standing there, all nervous energy and desperate hope, that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

“your glasses are dirty,” you say finally, and you can hear the surrender in your own voice.

his whole face transforms, hope blooming across his features like flowers in spring. “are they?”

“very dirty. you probably can’t see anything.” you’re already reaching for them, and you can feel the way he’s trying not to grin and failing spectacularly.

“now that you mention it, everything is quite blurry.” he’s practically vibrating with joy as you carefully clean his lenses with the hem of your shirt, the same ritual you’ve performed a thousand times before. “if only someone could help me with that.”

“i suppose i could assist. just this once.” your fingers are gentle as you clean the glass, and you can feel the way he’s watching you, like you’re performing some kind of miracle.

“just this once,” he agrees solemnly, but he’s practically bouncing on his toes as you slide them back onto his face.

when the glasses settle into place, his eyes are bright and clear and so full of love it makes your chest tight. you can see yourself reflected in the lenses, and there’s something intimate about it, like you’re the only thing in his field of vision that matters.

“better?” you ask, and your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“much better.” his hands find your waist, tentative and careful, like he’s afraid you might bolt. “hi.”

“hi yourself.” you glance at the counter, where approximately ten apples remain, and then back at his hopeful face. he’s already bracing himself, probably preparing for apple-induced martyrdom, and there’s something so endearing about his willingness to suffer for you that it makes your heart do that fluttery thing again.

“i think i’ve punished you enough for one night,” you say finally, and you can feel the way the words change everything between you.

satoru, already bracing for apple number ten, blinks in surprise. “really? i mean, i’m prepared to die by fruit if that’s what it takes, but—”

“come here.” you open your arms, and it’s like watching a dam break.

his whole face crumples in the softest way, and then he’s crossing the kitchen in two strides, practically folding himself into your chest like a tired puppy. his reading glasses bump against your collarbone as he burrows closer, and you can feel the tension leaving his shoulders like a physical thing. he’s warm and solid and slightly trembling, and you can feel the way he’s trying to get as close as possible, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

you both sink onto the couch, a tangle of limbs and forgiveness. he drapes himself over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues, his long frame somehow managing to curl around you completely. his head finds its way to your chest, and you can feel the way his breathing starts to even out as you run your fingers through his hair.

“you smell like apples,” he mumbles against your throat, and you can feel the curve of his smile against your skin. “and spite.”

“you deserve both.” your fingers find the spots he likes best, the places that make him melt like ice cream in summer.

“i do.” his voice is muffled, but you can hear the contentment in it, the way he’s finally starting to relax.

you end up tangled under a throw blanket, legs intertwined like puzzle pieces that have finally found their match. his cold nose is tucked into your neck, and you can feel the way he’s breathing you in like you’re his favorite scent. your fingers card through his hair absently, and you can feel the way he shivers slightly at the touch.

“i missed you,” he whispers against your throat, and his voice is so small it makes your heart ache.

“i know. me too.” the admission feels like stepping into sunlight after a long winter.

he kisses your collarbone, a soft press of lips that makes your skin tingle. then your jaw, your temple, the tip of your ear. each kiss is different, some apologetic, some grateful, some tinged with the promise of more. it’s like he’s apologizing in a language only your skin understands, each press of his lips a small plea for forgiveness.

you murmur something about the tiramisu still sitting on the counter, and he groans dramatically, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“it can wait. i’m too full of regret and love.” his arm tightens around you, and you can feel the way he’s trying to memorize this moment.

“you’re so dramatic.” but there’s fondness in your voice, the kind that comes from years of loving someone’s quirks.

“you married me.” he pulls back slightly to look at you, and his hair is sticking up in odd directions from your fingers. his glasses are slightly askew, and there’s a soft smile playing at his lips.

“unfortunately.” you reach up to fix his glasses, and he leans into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

“you adore me.” it’s not a question, and the confidence in his voice makes you want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

you do. painfully, irrevocably, in ways that terrify and exhilarate you. so you pull the blanket tighter around both of you and let him cling like a vine, whispering stupid nothings into your hair about how he’s going to buy you a whole italian restaurant if that’s what it takes, how he’s going to quit medicine and become a professional dinner-rememberer, how you’re too good for him and he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

his voice is getting sleepier, the words slurring together as exhaustion finally catches up with him. you can feel the way his breathing is starting to even out, how his grip on you is loosening just slightly. there’s something peaceful about it, the way he trusts you enough to let his guard down completely.

because satoru gojo may miss dinner reservations, but he always comes back to you like gravity, like tide to shore, like everything inevitable and right in the world. and tonight, wrapped in his ridiculous apologies and the lingering taste of tiramisu, that’s enough.

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jjklover365daysayear · 19 days ago

Text

in case of academic emergency, kiss me

pairing — nerd satoru x fem reader

synopsis : you’ve never liked muscles—too veiny, too try-hard, too gym-bro coded for your taste—which makes satoru gojo the perfect academic crush: lean, bookish, annoyingly brilliant, and safely tucked behind oversized sweaters and wire glasses. he’s the kind of boy who corrects professors mid-lecture and times his pen clicks like a ritual, which you absolutely haven’t been documenting in your notebook instead of actual math. you’re three rows behind him in advanced calculus and catastrophically gone, convinced he’s harmless—until a coffee shop collision, one t-shirt, and a deeply inconvenient bicep reveal send you into a full-blown crisis you may or may not kiss your way out of.

tags -> oneshot, fluff and humor, college au, study dates that are actually dates, mutual pining, character study disguised as a crush spiral, satoru is insufferable and hot about it, reader is so mentally ill about one man, study session or seduction who can tell, she thought he was safe (he wasn’t), calculus is the least of her problems, emotional damage but cute, he takes off his sweater and ruins her life, majestic art by @/rinoomii on twt ♡

wc — 10.7k | gen. m.list | read on ao3?

a/n: this was for that one anon who requested a drabble with sleeper build nerdjo, sorry it took so long, take this 10k beast instead mwah 😽

you’ve always believed that muscles are fundamentally disgusting.

not in a mean way—more like how some people think feet are gross or how the texture of velvet makes them want to crawl out of their skin. it’s visceral, unexplainable, the way your stomach turns at the thought of all that bulging mass and veiny definition. which makes your current predicament absolutely, catastrophically ironic.

because here you are, sitting three rows behind satoru in advanced calculus, completely and utterly gone for a boy who couldn’t look more like he’s never seen the inside of a gym if he tried.

the morning light filters through the lecture hall windows, catching the mess of his hair—not quite platinum, not quite pearl, but something like the color of fresh snow under streetlights, if snow could defy gravity and stick up at impossible angles while somehow still looking effortlessly perfect. you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time cataloging the way it moves when he turns his head, the way it catches light like spun silver thread, the way one particular strand always falls across his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back with that same precise, annoyed gesture.

(you’re pathetic. you know you’re pathetic. you’ve literally counted the number of times he does that little hair-push thing per lecture—it’s seventeen on average, and you’re horrified by the fact that you know this. even more horrified by the fact that you’ve started timing the intervals between each gesture. twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, give or take.)

professor yaga’s voice drones on about derivatives, but you’re lost in the way satoru’s shoulders hunch slightly as he scribbles notes, the careful precision of his long fingers around his pen—fingers that are almost delicate, pale and elegant like they belong to a pianist rather than a college student. the way he occasionally pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle—never his fingertip, always his knuckle, like he’s afraid of smudging the lenses or maybe like he’s performed this exact motion so many times it’s become muscle memory.

there’s something almost ritualistic about it, this careful maintenance of his perfect image. you’ve noticed he does a quick check of his appearance every time he enters a room—subtle, barely perceptible, but you’ve been watching him long enough to catch the way his eyes briefly scan his reflection in any available surface, the way his fingers make minute adjustments to his hair or the position of his glasses.

you wonder if he knows how pretty his hands are. you wonder if he knows you’ve been staring at them for the better part of two months, memorizing the way his thumb taps against his pen when he’s thinking, the way he flexes his fingers when he’s about to write something he’s particularly proud of. you wonder if he knows that you’ve started taking notes about his note-taking habits instead of actually taking notes, which is definitely going to bite you in the ass come exam time.

(seriously, your notebook is less “advanced calculus” and more “comprehensive guide to satoru gojo’s micro-expressions and fidgeting patterns.” you’re a fucking disaster.)

you’re so busy staring at the way his neck curves when he tilts his head—and god, what a neck, all pale skin and sharp angles, the kind of neck that makes you want to trace your fingers along the line of it—that you don’t notice the classroom has gone quiet until professor yaga’s voice cuts through your reverie like a blade.

“miss,” yaga says, and you can hear the barely contained irritation in his voice, the way he draws out the word like it’s personally offensive to him, “perhaps you’d like to solve this equation for us?”

your stomach drops to somewhere around your ankles. the whiteboard might as well be covered in ancient sumerian for all the sense it makes to you. you enrolled in this class for exactly one reason, and that reason is currently turning in his seat to look at you with those eyes—god, those eyes that aren’t just blue but something deeper, stranger, like the color of deep ocean water when afternoon light hits it just right, or maybe like the heart of a glacier, all crystalline and impossible.

his head tilts slightly as he looks at you, and you catch the way his lips part just a fraction, the way his eyebrows draw together in what might be concern. there’s something almost protective in his expression, the way he leans forward slightly in his seat like he’s preparing to spring into action.

there’s a collective shift in the room, students turning to look at you with expressions ranging from mild curiosity to outright schadenfreude. jennifer, two seats over, is definitely smirking, her perfectly glossed lips curved in a way that makes you want to throw your textbook at her head. you can feel your face burning, can practically hear your heartbeat in your ears, and you’re acutely aware that everyone—including satoru—is watching you flounder like a fish out of water.

you catch the way your hands start to shake slightly, the way your breath catches in your throat, and you know your face is doing that thing where it goes blotchy and red in the worst possible way. your mouth opens and closes once, twice, no sound coming out, and you’re pretty sure you look like you’re having some kind of breakdown.

(this is fine. this is totally fine. you’re just about to publicly humiliate yourself in front of the boy you’ve been mooning over for eight weeks. no big deal. just your entire academic reputation and any chance of ever talking to satoru again going up in flames. totally manageable.)

you’re about to open your mouth and make a complete fool of yourself when satoru’s hand shoots up with the kind of lazy confidence that makes half the class want to throw things at him. but you catch the way his fingers tremble slightly, so briefly you almost miss it, the way he presses his lips together for just a moment before speaking.

“actually, professor yaga,” he says, and his voice carries that particular blend of polite condescension and casual arrogance that makes your chest flutter even as you watch three people in the front row visibly bristle, “i think there’s an error in the problem setup.”

the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. you can practically feel the collective eye-roll rippling through the lecture hall like a wave. behind you, someone mutters “here we go again” under their breath, and you have to resist the urge to turn around and defend him. but you’re too busy watching the way satoru’s jaw tightens slightly, the way his free hand curls into a loose fist on his desk before he forces it to relax.

yaga’s eyes narrow dangerously, his entire posture shifting into something that suggests he’s about to commit murder. “excuse me?”

“the coefficient in the third term,” satoru continues, completely unbothered by the teacher’s glare or the way half the class is now shooting him looks that could kill. his fingers drum once against his desk before he catches himself and forces them to still—a tiny crack in his perfect composure that somehow makes you want to protect him, want to build a wall between him and everyone else in this room. “it should be negative, not positive, based on the previous step. common mistake, really.”

and there it is—that little smile, barely there but unmistakable, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s just performed a particularly clever magic trick. his chin lifts slightly, and you catch the way his eyes briefly flick toward you, checking to see if you’re watching, if you’re safe.

(common mistake. god, he’s such a little shit, and you’re completely gone for him. absolutely, irrevocably, pathetically gone.)

the silence that follows is deafening. you can see yaga’s jaw working, can practically feel the collective urge to murder emanating from your classmates like heat waves. satoru just sits there, chin tilted up slightly, that insufferable little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but you notice the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh, the way his shoulders are held just a little too rigidly.

there’s something almost performative about it, the way he wields his intelligence like a shield, deflecting attention from the fact that he’s just saved you from public humiliation. again. you’re starting to recognize the pattern—the way he times his interruptions, the way he makes his corrections sound like casual observations rather than calculated rescues.

but more than that, you’re starting to recognize the cost of it. the way other students look at him like he’s some kind of academic boogeyman, the way professors tolerate him with barely concealed irritation, the way he sits alone in every class despite being the smartest person in the room.

“you’re right,” yaga says finally, and the admission sounds like it physically pains him, like each word is being dragged from his throat with pliers. he turns back to the board with more force than necessary, chalk scraping against the surface with a sound that makes half the class wince. “thank you for the... correction.”

as the professor erases and rewrites the equation, you catch the subtle way satoru’s shoulders relax, the way his fingers uncurl from where they’d been gripping his pen. his head drops slightly, and you see him take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a way that suggests he’s been holding his breath this entire time.

he’s nervous, you realize. he’s just as affected by these moments as you are, just better at hiding it behind layers of calculated arrogance and that insufferable smile.

that’s the fifteenth time this semester—you’ve been counting, because apparently your brain has decided to catalog every single instance of satoru saving you from academic humiliation. fifteen times in eight weeks, and each time you fall a little bit deeper into this ridiculous, hopeless crush. each time you’re more convinced that you’re the only person in this entire lecture hall who doesn’t find him completely insufferable.

(you’re also probably the only person who’s noticed the way his ears go pink when he’s called out, or the way he clicks his pen three times before he raises his hand, or the way he always makes sure his “corrections” benefit you specifically. you’re definitely the only person who’s noticed the way he glances over at you after each rescue, checking to make sure you’re okay, that little furrow between his brows that suggests he’s genuinely worried about you.)

because that’s the thing about satoru—he’s brilliant, and he knows it, and he’s absolutely shameless about wielding that intelligence like a weapon. he’s the type of person who corrects professors mid-lecture with a smile that suggests he’s doing them a favor, who finishes exams in half the allotted time and then sits there looking bored while everyone else scrambles, occasionally glancing around the room with barely concealed amusement.

but you’ve started to notice the moments when the mask slips. the way he sometimes looks out the window with an expression that’s almost wistful, like he’s thinking about being anywhere else. the way he doodles in the margins of his notes—not equations or formulas, but little sketches, delicate and precise, usually of things he can see from his seat. a leaf, the corner of a building, once, memorably, a tiny sketch of the back of someone’s head that looked suspiciously like your silhouette.

he’s condescending without meaning to be, arrogant without trying, and you’re pretty sure he’s never encountered a problem he couldn’t solve or a question he couldn’t answer. you’ve watched him turn in homework assignments written in what you can only describe as mathematical poetry, each solution more elegant than the last, and you’ve seen the way professor yaga’s mouth tightens every time satoru raises his hand.

it should be annoying. it should make you want to throw things at him like everyone else does. jennifer actually did throw a pencil at him once—it bounced off his shoulder and he just turned around and smiled at her like she’d given him a compliment, but you caught the way his smile faltered for just a moment, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to rub the spot where it hit.

instead, it makes you want to lean over and whisper ‘thank you’ directly into his ear, makes you want to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips, makes you want to mess up his perfectly styled hair just to see what he’d do. probably fix it with that same precise, methodical care he applies to everything else, but maybe—just maybe—he’d let you be the one to mess it up again.

you’re so far gone it’s not even funny anymore. it’s concerning. it’s the kind of pathetic that would make your friends stage an intervention if they knew. the kind of pathetic that has you checking your reflection in every surface before class, wondering if today might be the day he actually notices you beyond your academic incompetence.

the lecture continues, yaga’s voice taking on that particular sharp edge that suggests satoru has ruined his entire day, and you watch the way your classmates shoot covert glances at the boy three rows ahead. there’s resentment in those looks, the kind of frustrated irritation that comes from being consistently outshone by someone who doesn’t even seem to be trying.

but you’re not watching them. you’re watching satoru, cataloging the way he takes notes with the same meticulous care he applies to everything else, his handwriting neat and precise even when he’s obviously bored. you’re watching the way he occasionally glances toward the window, his expression going soft and distant, like he’s thinking about something far more interesting than derivatives.

you’re watching the way he doesn’t look back at you, but you catch the subtle way his ears are still pink, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh before he forces his hand to still. you notice the way he shifts in his seat, adjusting his position so that he’s angled slightly toward you, like he’s subconsciously trying to keep you in his peripheral vision.

you wonder if he knows what he’s doing, if he’s keeping track too, if he notices the way you always seem to be in trouble right when he’s ready with an answer. you wonder if he’s cataloging your expressions the way you’ve been cataloging his, if he’s noticed the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous.

(he is. he’s been counting too, actually, though his count is higher because he includes all the times he’s wanted to interrupt but didn’t, all the times he’s watched you panic in that particular way that makes your eyes go wide and your bottom lip disappear between your teeth. he’s been cataloging your expressions the same way you’ve been cataloging his, though he’s infinitely better at being subtle about it. he knows you bite your lip when you’re concentrating, knows you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous, knows you have this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re trying to work through a problem. he’s memorized the way you look when you’re happy, when you’re confused, when you’re frustrated. he’s got it all filed away in his brain like the most important data he’s ever collected.)

you’re wondering what it would be like to know him outside of this careful academic performance when the lecture ends, students immediately scrambling for the exits with the kind of urgency that suggests they’re fleeing rather than simply leaving. you can hear fragments of conversation as people file out—“such a show-off,” “can’t believe yaga puts up with that,” “probably thinks he’s smarter than everyone”—and you want to defend him, want to point out that he is smarter than everyone, but you’re too busy shoving your barely-touched notebook into your bag, trying to look like you weren’t just spending ninety minutes staring at the back of someone’s head.

your hands are shaking slightly as you pack up your things, a combination of leftover adrenaline from your near-humiliation and the growing realization that you’re about to be alone with him, maybe for the first time since this whole ridiculous crush started. you fumble with your bag’s zipper, curse under your breath when it catches, and generally look like the disaster you are.

when he appears beside your desk, you’re struck by how different he looks up close. all sharp angles and pale skin, the kind of boy who looks like he’d snap in half if you hugged him too tight. which is perfect, actually, because you have no interest in the alternative.

but more than that, you’re struck by how he seems to take up more space than his slight frame should allow. there’s something about his presence that’s magnetic, commanding, the way he stands with his weight shifted slightly forward, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated that makes you want to lean closer, something that makes you think of morning frost and expensive soap.

there’s something almost fragile about him when he’s not performing for the class, something that makes you want to handle him carefully. his glasses have slipped down his nose slightly, and when he pushes them up with that familiar gesture, you catch the way his eyelashes flutter against the lenses, impossibly long and pale.

“rough lecture?” he asks, and there’s something almost apologetic in the way he says it, like he’s aware that his interventions might be drawing unwanted attention to you. his head tilts slightly, and you notice the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way he doesn’t bother to push it back this time. there’s a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are serious, concerned.

you catch the way your breath hitches slightly, the way your fingers tighten around your bag strap. “depends on your definition of rough,” you reply, slinging your bag over your shoulder, hyperaware of how close he is, how the simple act of standing puts you almost at eye level with him. “if by rough you mean completely incomprehensible, then yeah, absolutely brutal.”

he laughs, and it’s nothing like the polite chuckle he gives in class. this is genuine, warm, the kind of laugh that makes his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “it’s not that bad once you get the hang of it,” he says, falling into step beside you as you head toward the door. you notice the way he shortens his stride to match your pace, the way he holds the door open for you with casual politeness, his fingers briefly brushing yours as you pass through. “calculus is just like... a language. once you learn the grammar, everything else falls into place.”

the brief contact sends a jolt up your arm, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you shiver slightly, the way your cheeks flush. you step through the door, and he follows, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. the hallway is busy with students rushing to their next classes, and you have to resist the urge to grab his arm to keep from losing him in the crowd.

“easy for you to say, mr. perfect score on every exam,” you say, and you can’t help but smile at the way he preens slightly at the compliment, his chin lifting just a fraction in that familiar gesture of pride. his eyes light up in a way that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

“perfect score is an exaggeration,” he says, but he’s clearly pleased, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, spreading down his neck in a way that makes you want to trace the path of it with your fingertips. his fingers fidget with the strap of his bag, and you wonder if he’s as nervous as you are, if he feels the same electric tension that seems to crackle between you whenever you’re this close.

“ninety-eight percent is still perfect in my book.”

“that two percent haunts me,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest with such dramatic flair that you can’t help but laugh. his eyes are dancing with mischief, and you catch the way he leans slightly closer as he speaks, like he’s sharing a secret. “keeps me awake at night, wondering where i went wrong.”

this is how it always goes with satoru—easy banter that makes you forget why you were ever nervous around him in the first place. he has this way of matching your energy, of making conversation feel like a game where you’re both trying to make the other laugh first. it’s addictive, the way he responds to your sarcasm with his own, the way he seems genuinely delighted when you give as good as you get.

but underneath the easy conversation, you’re hyperaware of every detail—the way he gestures when he talks, his hands moving in precise, elegant motions like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. the way his eyes light up when he’s about to make a joke, the way they seem to focus entirely on you like you’re the only person in this crowded hallway. the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize your expressions, the way his smile goes soft and genuine when he thinks you’re not looking.

you notice the way other students move around you both, giving satoru a wide berth, but he doesn’t seem to notice. he’s too focused on you, on the conversation, on the way you laugh at his ridiculous dramatics.

“hey,” he says suddenly, and his voice drops slightly, becomes more hesitant. his fingers find the strap of his bag, fidgeting with the buckle in a way that suggests he’s more nervous than he’s letting on. “i was wondering... would you maybe want to study together sometime? i mean, if you want. no pressure or anything, but i think i could help you with some of the concepts that are giving you trouble.”

you stop walking so abruptly that the student behind you nearly crashes into your back, muttering something unflattering about people who don’t know how to walk in hallways. satoru takes two more steps before he realizes you’re not beside him anymore, then turns back with a slightly confused expression, his eyebrows raised in question. behind his glasses, his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossible color that makes your brain short-circuit and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

“you want to study with me?” you ask, and you hate how breathless you sound, hate the way your voice goes up at the end like you can’t quite believe it. students flow around you both like water around stones, and you’re vaguely aware of someone muttering “move it along” as they squeeze past, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“well, yeah,” he says, and now his ears are definitely pink, a flush creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweater. he pushes his glasses up his nose in that familiar gesture, and you realize it’s become a tell—something he does when he’s nervous or uncertain. “i mean, you’re smart, obviously. you just need someone to explain things in a way that makes sense. and i...” he trails off, his gaze dropping to the floor for just a moment before meeting your eyes again. “i like talking to you. about math stuff. and non-math stuff too.”

there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it, the way his fingers twist in the strap of his bag, the way he rocks slightly on his heels like he’s fighting the urge to flee. you catch the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the way he bites his lower lip briefly before releasing it.

your heart is doing something acrobatic and probably medically concerning in your chest. you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like he’s just offered you the moon, and maybe that’s not far from the truth. this beautiful, brilliant boy who corrects professors and makes calculus sound like poetry wants to spend time with you outside of class.

“okay,” you say, and you know you’re smiling like an idiot, can feel the way your cheeks are starting to hurt from the sheer width of your grin. you probably look deranged, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “yeah, i’d like that. i’d like that a lot.”

“really?” the relief in his voice is so obvious it’s almost endearing, and you catch the way his shoulders relax, the way his grip on his bag strap loosens. his smile transforms his entire face, making him look younger, softer, less like the intimidating academic weapon everyone thinks he is. “cool. great. how about friday? there’s this coffee shop off campus that’s pretty quiet, good for studying.”

“it’s a date,” you say, and then immediately want to melt into the floor because who says that, who actually says ‘it’s a date’ in response to a study session invitation, what is wrong with you—

but satoru’s smile goes soft and genuine, transforming his entire face, and he says, “yeah, it is,” and suddenly your mortification transforms into something warm and fluttery that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

there’s something different about the way he looks at you then, something that makes the busy hallway fade into background noise. his eyes seem to trace your features like he’s memorizing them, and you catch the way his lips part slightly, the way his breathing seems to quicken.

you’re standing in the middle of the hallway, students flowing around you like water around stones, and for a moment it feels like you’re the only two people in the world. you can see the exact moment when he realizes how close you are, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes.

then the moment breaks as someone jostles past you, muttering about people blocking the hallway, and you’re both laughing, a little breathless and a lot overwhelmed. the spell is broken, but something has shifted between you, something that makes the air feel charged with possibility.

“i should probably get to my next class,” you say, even though you want to stay here forever, want to memorize every detail of this moment, want to bottle up the way he’s looking at you and save it for later.

“yeah, me too,” he says, but he doesn’t move away, doesn’t break eye contact. his hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you, and you wonder what would happen if you just took that step closer, if you eliminated the careful distance he’s maintaining.

you can see the internal struggle playing out on his face, the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his fingers flex at his sides. there’s something he wants to say, something he wants to do, but he’s holding himself back.

“friday,” you say, and it comes out softer than you intended, almost like a promise.

“friday,” he agrees, and then he’s walking away, but not before you catch the way he glances back over his shoulder, the way his hand lifts in a small wave that’s almost shy.

you watch him go, noting the way other students move out of his way, the way conversations seem to pause as he passes. he’s magnetic in a way that draws attention even when he’s not trying to, and you realize with a start that everyone else sees it too—they just respond to it differently than you do.

where you see brilliance, they see arrogance. where you see careful precision, they see showing off. where you see someone who’s maybe just a little bit lonely behind all that intelligence, they see someone who thinks he’s better than everyone else.

maybe he does think he’s better than everyone else. maybe that’s part of what makes him so fascinating.

you’re still standing there, watching his retreating figure, when you realize you’re going to be late for your next class. but you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy replaying every moment of the conversation, already counting down the hours until friday.

this is dangerous territory, you think as you finally start walking toward your next class, your feet practically floating above the ground. this is the kind of crush that could completely derail your academic career, the kind of infatuation that makes you do stupid things like enroll in advanced calculus just to stare at someone’s neck.

but as you think about the way satoru looked at you, the way his voice went soft when he asked you to study with him, the way he said “yeah, it is” like he meant it, you decide that maybe dangerous territory isn’t such a bad place to be.

especially when it comes with the promise of friday afternoon coffee and the chance to finally figure out what makes satoru gojo tick.

even if he is still, fundamentally, a complete and utter show-off who somehow makes that quality devastatingly attractive.

you’re so screwed.

friday arrives like a slow-motion disaster, the kind where you can see the crash coming from miles away but you’re powerless to stop it. you’ve changed your outfit three times—first too casual, then too formal, then back to casual because this is just studying, right? just two people and some textbooks and definitely not a date despite what you said in that moment of temporary insanity.

(except he said “yeah, it is” with that soft smile and those impossible eyes, and you’ve been replaying that moment on loop for three days straight like some kind of masochistic highlight reel.)

the coffee shop is exactly the kind of place you’d expect satoru to choose—minimalist décor, overpriced drinks, the sort of aggressively hip establishment where the baristas have philosophy degrees and the wifi password is something pretentious like “nietzsche123.” you spot him immediately, sitting in a corner booth with textbooks spread across the table like he’s preparing for academic warfare.

he’s early. of course he’s early. probably calculated the exact time needed to arrange his hair in that perfectly imperfect way, probably positioned himself at the precise angle where the afternoon light would catch the silver threads woven through the pearl-white strands like he’s his own personal photographer.

when he sees you, his face transforms—eyebrows lifting slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what starts as surprise before blooming into something genuine and warm. he stands up with fluid grace, all long limbs and careful coordination, and waves you over with a gesture that’s somehow both casual and theatrical, fingers splaying wide before curling into a beckoning motion.

“you made it,” he says when you reach the table, and there’s something almost breathless in his voice, like he’s been holding his breath without realizing it. his fingers drum once against the table edge before he catches himself, shoving his hands into his pockets with a self-conscious laugh.

“did you think i wouldn’t?” you ask, sliding into the seat across from him, your knee bumping against his under the table. he doesn’t move away—if anything, he seems to lean into the contact, and you can see the way his pupils dilate slightly behind his glasses.

“honestly? kind of.” he pushes his glasses up his nose with his knuckle, and you’re starting to recognize it as his tell for when he’s being more honest than his usual performance allows. his gaze drops to the table for just a moment before meeting yours again, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. “i have this effect on people where they find me charming for about thirty seconds and then remember i’m insufferable.”

you’re watching the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way he emphasizes certain words with tiny gestures—a tilt of his head, a slight lean forward, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip when he’s thinking. it’s hypnotic, the careful choreography of his expressions, and you’re rapidly losing the ability to form coherent thoughts.

“thirty seconds? wow, that’s generous.” you’re unpacking your bag with deliberate slowness, trying to give your hands something to do so you don’t reach across the table and touch the strand of hair that’s falling across his forehead. “most people clock you as insufferable immediately.”

“ouch,” he says, but he’s grinning now, the kind of sharp-edged smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes them shine like winter light on water. his head tilts to the side, and you can see the way his hair shifts with the movement, revealing the elegant line of his neck. “and here i thought you were different.”

“i am different,” you say, finally looking up at him fully, and something in your tone makes his expression shift. his smile softens, becomes less performative, and he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand in a way that makes his eyes seem impossibly large behind his glasses. “i think you’re insufferable and charming.”

the silence that follows is loaded with the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too tight. satoru’s fingers drum once against the table—index, middle, ring, pinkie in perfect succession—before he catches himself and forces his hand to still. you can see the way his throat works when he swallows, the subtle flex of muscle beneath pale skin.

“well,” he says finally, and his voice has dropped to something softer, more intimate, the words shaped carefully around a smile that’s trying to be casual but comes out fond instead. “i can work with that.”

he’s already ordered you a coffee—somehow knew exactly how you like it, which should be creepy but instead makes your chest feel warm and fluttery like you’ve swallowed a handful of butterflies. when you raise an eyebrow at him, he shrugs with practiced nonchalance, but you can see the way his ears go pink at the tips.

“you get the same thing every morning from the campus café,” he says, pulling out his calculus notebook with movements that are just a little too precise to be natural. his fingers trace the edge of the cover before flipping it open, and you notice the way his handwriting is perfectly neat even in the margins. “vanilla latte, extra shot, no foam. you also tap your card exactly three times before you put it away, and you always check your phone right after ordering.”

you stare at him, and he meets your gaze with something that’s trying to be confident but comes across as almost shy. his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and you can see the way his breathing has gone slightly shallow.

“that’s either very observant or very stalky.”

“i prefer observant,” he says, and there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s admitting to more than just casual people-watching. his fingers fidget with his pen, clicking it once, twice, three times before he realizes what he’s doing and forces his hand to still. “i notice things. especially when they’re interesting.”

you’re hyperaware of every micro-expression—the way his eyebrows lift slightly when he’s waiting for your response, the way his lips part just a fraction when he’s thinking, the way his eyes track your movements like he’s cataloging every detail for later review.

“are you calling me interesting?” you ask, taking a sip of your coffee to hide the way your hands are trembling slightly. the movement draws his attention to your mouth, and you can see the way his gaze lingers there before snapping back to your eyes.

“i’m calling you distracting,” he says, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. his voice drops to something almost husky, and you can see the way his fingers tighten around his pen. “do you know how hard it is to focus on derivatives when you’re sitting three rows behind someone who makes the most adorable face when they’re confused?”

you nearly choke on your coffee, and satoru’s immediate reaction is to half-stand, his hand reaching across the table like he’s going to pat your back before he catches himself and settles back down. but his eyes are wide with concern, and you can see the way his whole body has tensed with the impulse to help.

“adorable face?” you manage once you’ve stopped coughing.

“mmm,” he hums, and now his smile is pure mischief. he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and you can see the way his sweater pulls slightly across his shoulders. “you get these little lines right here—” he reaches across the table and almost touches the space between your eyebrows before catching himself, his hand hovering in the air for just a moment too long. you can see the way his fingers curl slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to make contact. “and you do this thing where you bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking really hard.”

your face is burning. absolutely burning. you can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and you know he can see it because his eyes are tracking the flush with obvious fascination.

“you’re making that up.”

“am i?” he tilts his head, and his hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. his smile is absolutely wicked, and you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest. “you’re doing it right now.”

you immediately stop biting your lip, which only makes him grin wider. his whole face lights up with delight, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he does this little victorious bob of his head that’s so smug you want to throw something at him.

“see? adorable.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat in it. you flip open your own textbook with more force than necessary, and you can feel him watching the movement with obvious amusement. “we’re here to study, remember?”

“right,” he says, but his tone suggests he’s not particularly invested in the idea. you can see him in your peripheral vision, the way he’s propping his chin on his hand, the way his eyes are still tracking your every movement instead of looking at his textbook. “studying. with calculus. very serious business.”

(this is hopeless. you’re supposed to be learning about derivatives and instead you’re cataloging the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. you’re supposed to be focusing on equations and instead you’re wondering what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair. you’re so far gone it’s not even funny anymore.)

for the first hour, he actually does help you study. he’s a good teacher, you’ll give him that—patient in a way that surprises you, breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces without making you feel stupid. but he’s also incredibly distracting in ways that feel almost intentional.

he keeps scooting closer under the pretense of getting a better look at your notebook, his movements casual but deliberate. first it’s just his knee pressing against yours under the table, then his shoulder brushing against yours when he leans over to point at something in your textbook. you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated with hints of cedar and something else that’s purely him.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, leaning closer to look at your work. his breath ghosts across your cheek, and you can see the way his eyes dart to your lips before focusing back on the page. “see, right here? you’re making it more complicated than it needs to be.”

his hand covers yours on the pen, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers are slightly longer than yours, the careful way he guides your movements. his touch is gentle but sure, and you find yourself focusing more on the pattern of his breathing than on whatever mathematical concept he’s trying to teach you.

“are you paying attention?” he asks, and there’s something almost smug in his voice, like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on you. when you look up, he’s closer than you expected, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his storm-cloud eyes, can count the individual eyelashes behind his glasses.

“yes,” you lie, trying to focus on the equation in front of you instead of the way his thumb is tracing absent patterns on your knuckles.

“liar,” he says, and his voice is low enough that you feel it more than hear it. his smile is absolutely wicked, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly. “you’re not thinking about calculus at all, are you?”

you pull your hand away, probably too quickly, and immediately miss the contact. satoru’s expression flickers—just for a moment—with something that looks like disappointment before he covers it with that trademark smirk.

“i’m thinking about how insufferable you are.”

“mmm,” he hums, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied expression. his head tilts slightly, and you can see the way his hair catches the light, the way his eyes are still tracking your movements. “and how charming?”

“jury’s still out on that one.”

“i’ll take it,” he says, and then he’s back to explaining derivatives like he wasn’t just completely derailing your ability to form coherent thoughts. but you can see the way his ears are still pink, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh before he forces them to still.

(he’s nervous too. the realization hits you like a freight train—satoru gojo, who corrects professors and makes calculus sound like poetry, who wields his intelligence like a weapon and his smile like a shield, is nervous around you. it’s a heady thought, knowing that you affect him even a fraction of how much he affects you.)

this is how the afternoon goes—moments of genuine studying interrupted by satoru being absolutely shameless about testing your boundaries. he finds excuses to touch you, to lean close, to make comments that toe the line between helpful and flirtatious.

when you get frustrated with a particularly difficult problem, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek for just a moment too long. you can see the way his eyes soften, the way his touch is gentle despite the calluses on his fingertips.

“there,” he says softly, and his voice has gone impossibly fond. “now i can see your face when you’re thinking.”

when you finally solve a problem correctly, he grins like you’ve just discovered the cure for cancer, his whole face lighting up with genuine delight. he does this little pleased wiggle in his seat that’s so endearing you want to kiss him senseless.

“knew you had it in you, smarty pants.”

when you make a joke about his handwriting being too neat, he leans over and deliberately writes something messy in your notebook, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. the movement draws your attention to his mouth, and you can see the way his lips curve around the task, the way his eyebrows furrow slightly when he’s focusing.

“there,” he says, sitting back with a pleased expression, his eyes bright with mischief. “now we match.”

(you’re in trouble. deep, catastrophic trouble. every small gesture, every casual touch, every moment of shared laughter is another nail in the coffin of your carefully constructed emotional defenses. you’re falling for him in real-time, and he seems to know it, seems to be cataloging every blush, every stutter, every moment you lose track of what you’re supposed to be doing because you’re too busy staring at him.)

it’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin, how he seems to know exactly which buttons to push to make you flustered. but it’s also kind of thrilling, the way he focuses all that sharp intelligence on figuring out how to make you smile, how to make you laugh, how to make you forget that you’re supposed to be studying.

by the time the sun starts to set, painting the coffee shop in shades of amber and gold, you’ve made decent progress on your calculus homework. but you’ve also developed what feels like a permanent blush and a serious case of satoru-induced brain fog. the other patrons have thinned out—the philosophy-major barista is cleaning the espresso machine with the kind of methodical precision that suggests closing time is approaching.

“we should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone and trying to ignore the way satoru’s face falls slightly at the suggestion. “it’s getting late.”

“probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move to pack up his things. instead, he leans back in his seat and studies you with those storm-glass eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side. you can see the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way his glasses have slipped down his nose just a fraction. “can i ask you something?”

“shoot.”

“why’d you take advanced calculus?” he asks, and there’s something genuinely curious in his voice, like he’s been wondering about this for a while. his fingers drum against the table—that same precise rhythm you’ve started to recognize as his thinking pattern. “i mean, it’s not required for your major, right?”

you freeze, your hands stilling in the process of shoving your textbook into your bag. because how do you explain that you enrolled in a class you have no business taking just to stare at someone’s neck? how do you admit that you’ve been making academic decisions based on a crush that’s gotten completely out of hand?

“i...” you start, then trail off, scrambling for a plausible lie. your eyes dart around the coffee shop, landing on anything but satoru’s face. “i thought it would be... useful?”

“useful,” he repeats, and his tone suggests he’s not buying it for a second. when you finally meet his gaze, you can see the way his eyebrows have lifted slightly, the way his mouth is fighting a smile. “for what?”

“for... life?” you try, and even you can hear how unconvincing that sounds. your voice goes up at the end, turning the statement into a question, and you can see the exact moment satoru realizes you’re lying.

his grin spreads slowly across his face, like sunrise breaking over a horizon, and you can see the way his eyes light up with delighted understanding. it’s the expression of someone who’s just solved a particularly satisfying puzzle, and you’re the puzzle.

“you took advanced calculus because of me, didn’t you?”

“that’s ridiculous,” you say, but your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal, which somewhat undermines your credibility. you can feel heat creeping up your neck, and you know he can see it because his eyes are tracking the flush with obvious fascination.

“oh my god,” he says, and his delight is so obvious it’s almost offensive. he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and you can see the way his sweater pulls slightly across his shoulders. “you actually took a class you hate just to stare at me. that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”

“it’s not—i didn’t—” you’re sputtering now, face burning with embarrassment, your hands fluttering uselessly in the air like you’re trying to grab the words back. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“am i wrong though?” he leans forward even more, resting his chin on his hand, and his smile is absolutely wicked. you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest, the way his eyes are practically glowing with mischief. “come on, admit it. you think i’m pretty.”

“i think you’re insufferable.”

“and pretty.” his voice drops to something almost sing-song, teasing, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

“and arrogant.”

“and devastatingly attractive.” he’s practically purring now, clearly enjoying your flustered state. his fingers drum against the table in that familiar pattern, and you can see the way his whole body is angled toward you, like you’re the center of his universe.

“and completely full of yourself.”

“but pretty though, right?” his voice has gone soft, almost vulnerable, and when you look at him you can see something genuine beneath the teasing. his smile is gentler now, less performative, and there’s something almost hopeful in the way he’s looking at you. “it’s okay, you can say it. i already know.”

you want to deny it, want to maintain some shred of dignity, but the way he’s looking at you makes your brain turn to mush. his eyes are soft and warm and impossibly blue-grey, like storm clouds with sunlight behind them, and you can see the way his breathing has gone slightly shallow.

“you’re... aesthetically pleasing,” you admit finally, the words coming out barely above a whisper.

“aesthetically pleasing,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words, rolling them around in his mouth like expensive wine. his smile widens, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “wow, try not to swoon too hard.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re smiling despite yourself, and you can see the way his whole face lights up when he sees it.

“make me,” he says, and there’s something challenging in his voice that makes your heart race. his eyes dart to your lips, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze again, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly.

the tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his eyes keep dropping to your mouth, how easy it would be to just lean forward and close the distance between you. the coffee shop has gone quiet around you—just the soft hum of the espresso machine and the distant murmur of the barista’s radio.

“we should really go,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t move away. if anything, you lean slightly closer, drawn by some invisible force that seems to exist in the space between you.

“yeah,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move either. his eyes are searching your face, and you can see the way his breathing has gone uneven. “we should.”

finally, finally, he pulls back with visible effort, his hands shaking slightly as he starts gathering his things. you do the same, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated, hyperaware of every brush of his fingers against yours as you both reach for the same pen.

the walk back to campus is quiet, but it’s the kind of charged silence that makes your skin feel electric. satoru walks close enough that your shoulders brush with every step, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. every few steps, he glances at you sideways, and you can see the way his mouth keeps twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

“thanks for today,” you say when you reach the point where you usually part ways, your voice soft in the gathering dusk. “for helping me study, i mean.”

“anytime,” he says, and his voice is softer now, more sincere. his hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and you can see the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “i had fun.”

“even though i’m a terrible student?”

“especially because you’re a terrible student,” he says, and his grin is bright enough to light up the growing darkness. “gives me an excuse to spend more time with you.”

your heart does that acrobatic thing again, and you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like he hung the stars. the streetlights are starting to flicker on, casting everything in a warm golden glow, and you can see the way the light catches in his hair, turns his eyes into something almost ethereal.

“same time next week?”

“absolutely,” he says, and then he’s walking away, his pace slightly hurried like he’s trying to escape before he does something impulsive. you watch him go, noting the way his hair moves in the evening breeze, the way other students still move out of his way even though he’s not trying to command attention.

(you’re so gone. completely, utterly, catastrophically gone for this insufferable, brilliant boy who makes calculus sound like poetry and looks at you like you’re the most interesting equation he’s ever tried to solve.)

you’re halfway back to your dorm, still floating on a cloud of caffeine and satoru-induced euphoria, when you realize you forgot your phone at the coffee shop. cursing under your breath, you turn around and hurry back, hoping the café is still open.

the door is unlocked, and you can see your phone sitting on the table where you’d been studying, the screen dark against the wood. you grab it quickly, not wanting to keep the staff any longer than necessary, but as you turn to leave, you nearly collide with someone coming out of the bathroom.

“oh, sorry, i—” you start, then stop dead in your tracks.

because it’s satoru. of course it’s satoru. but this isn’t the satoru you’ve been staring at for two months, the one who sits hunched over his textbooks in oversized sweaters and cardigans that hide every line of his body. this is satoru with his sweater off, standing there in just a fitted white t-shirt that clings to his frame in ways that make your brain completely shut down.

the sweater is draped over his arm, and you can see a small coffee stain on the sleeve that must have happened when you weren’t looking. but that’s not what your brain is focusing on. your brain is entirely occupied with the fact that satoru gojo has been hiding an absolutely devastating physique under all those carefully chosen baggy clothes.

he’s not bulky. he’s not some muscle-bound gym rat with biceps the size of your head. but he’s solid. broad shoulders that you never would have guessed at under all those loose sweaters, arms that look like they could pick you up without breaking a sweat, a chest that’s definitely more defined than it has any right to be.

you can see the lean muscle in his forearms, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the subtle definition of his abs through the thin fabric. he’s what people call a sleeper build—looking deceptively slight in clothes but surprisingly strong underneath. and it’s your worst nightmare and your most shameful fantasy rolled into one.

“you forgot your—” he starts to say, then stops when he sees your expression. his eyebrows furrow slightly, and you can see the way his head tilts in confusion. “are you okay?”

you’re not okay. you’re the opposite of okay. you’re spiraling, free-falling into a panic because your body is betraying you in the worst possible way. your carefully constructed preferences are crumbling like a house of cards, and you can feel your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“fine,” you squeak, but your voice comes out strangled and about three octaves higher than normal. you take a step back, then another, until you’re pressed against the wall with nowhere to go.

satoru follows, not aggressively, but with that same calculated precision he applies to everything else. you can see the concern in his eyes, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his mouth turns down at the corners. he stops just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, can smell his cologne mixed with something else—something that’s just him.

“you sure?” he asks, and his voice is soft, concerned, but there’s something else in his eyes. something that suggests he’s very aware of the effect he’s having on you. you can see the way his gaze darts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, the way his breathing has gone slightly uneven.

“fine,” you repeat, but you’re not fine. you’re the opposite of fine. you’re having a complete existential crisis because your stupid body is responding to the sight of his shoulders, the way his shirt clings to his chest, the subtle line of muscle that disappears beneath his collar.

“you don’t look fine,” he says, and now his hand is reaching up to touch your forehead like he’s checking for a fever. the movement makes his shirt ride up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin and the hint of muscle definition that makes your mouth go dry. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

his palm is warm against your forehead, and you can feel the slight roughness of calluses on his fingertips. you’re close enough to see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, close enough to count the barely visible freckles scattered across his nose.

“i have to go,” you say, but you don’t move. you can’t move. you’re trapped between the wall and satoru’s unexpected solidity, and your brain is completely offline.

“hey,” he says softly, and his other hand comes up to frame your face. his touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you might break if he applies too much pressure. “talk to me. what’s wrong?”

you want to tell him it’s nothing, want to laugh it off and pretend you’re not having a complete mental breakdown over the fact that he has shoulders. but you’re looking up at him—when did he get so tall?—and his eyes are so concerned and so impossibly beautiful, like storm clouds with lightning behind them.

“you’re—” you start, then stop, because how do you explain that you’re having an existential crisis over someone’s biceps?

“i’m what?” he asks, and his voice is gentle, patient, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to figure out how to form sentences. his thumbs brush across your cheekbones, and you can feel the slight calluses on his skin.

“you’re stronger than you look,” you finally manage, and it comes out like an accusation.

satoru blinks, clearly not expecting that particular confession. his eyebrows lift slightly, and you can see the way his mouth parts in surprise. “i... yes? i work out sometimes. is that... bad?”

“yes,” you say immediately, then realize how that sounds and scramble to backtrack. “i mean, no. i mean—” you’re spiraling again, because he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve, and his hands are still on your face, and you can see the way his muscles move under his shirt when he breathes.

“you don’t like that i work out?” he asks, and there’s something almost hurt in his voice, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his mouth turns down at the corners.

“it’s not that,” you say quickly, because you can’t bear the thought of hurting his feelings, even in your current state of panic. “it’s just... i don’t usually... i mean, i’ve never been attracted to...”

you trail off, realizing what you’re about to admit, but satoru’s eyes light up with understanding. his mouth curves into a slow smile, and you can see the way his pupils dilate slightly.

“you’ve never been attracted to guys with muscle,” he says, and it’s not a question. his voice has gone soft, almost wondering, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

you nod miserably, feeling your face burn with embarrassment.

“but you’re attracted to me,” he continues, and there’s something almost smug in his voice now, the way his smile widens, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“unfortunately,” you mutter, but you can’t look away from him, can’t stop cataloging every detail of his face.

“unfortunately,” he repeats, and his smile is absolutely wicked now. you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest, the way his eyes are practically glowing with mischief. “so what you’re saying is that i’m irresistible enough to overcome your very reasonable preferences.”

“i’m saying you’re a problem,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. your hands have somehow found their way to his chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and you can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin material.

“a problem you want to solve?” he asks, and he’s leaning closer now, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. you can see the way his eyes dart down to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze.

“a problem i want to avoid,” you lie, but your hands are pulling him closer even as you say it, and you can see the way his smile turns fond at the contradiction.

“liar,” he says, and then he’s kissing you, soft and sweet and completely devastating.

the kiss is everything you’ve been imagining for months and nothing like you expected all at once. his lips are soft, gentle, but there’s something sure and confident in the way he moves against you. you can taste coffee and something indefinably sweet, can feel the way his hands tighten slightly on your face like he’s afraid you might disappear.

when he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. you can see the way his eyes have gone dark, the way his hair is slightly mussed from where your fingers found their way into it.

“still think i’m a problem?” he asks, and his voice is rough, affected, like the kiss hit him just as hard as it hit you.

“the biggest problem,” you say, but you’re smiling now, because maybe some problems are worth having. especially when they come with shoulders like that and eyes like storm clouds and the kind of smile that makes you forget why you ever thought muscles were a bad thing.

“good,” he says, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, with more confidence. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the strength in his arms, the way his body is solid and warm against yours.

it should terrify you. it should make you want to run. instead, it makes you want to map every line of muscle with your fingertips, want to figure out exactly how strong he is, want to lose yourself in this impossible contradiction of a boy who looks like he’d break if you handled him too roughly but feels like he could hold you together if you fell apart.

“you’re trouble,” you murmur against his lips, and you can feel the way he smiles at the words.

“the best kind,” he agrees, and his voice is pure sin, rough and low and absolutely devastating.

you’re so screwed. but as satoru kisses you again, his arms solid and sure around you, you decide that maybe being screwed isn’t such a bad thing after all.

especially when it comes with the promise of more friday afternoon study sessions and the chance to figure out exactly what other surprises satoru gojo has been hiding under those oversized sweaters.

even if he is still, fundamentally, a complete and utter show-off who somehow makes that quality devastatingly attractive.

and if his hidden muscles are just another thing to add to your growing list of reasons why you’re completely gone for him, well, that’s a problem you’ll deal with later.

right now, you’re too busy kissing the most insufferable, brilliant, surprisingly strong boy you’ve ever met to care about anything else.

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