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lomlsatoru · 2 days ago

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a treatise on inconvenient attraction

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot divided into two parts, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, mutual pining, medical drama, imperial intrigue, disguised royalty, forbidden affection, reader is so done, satoru is so annoying, suguru is tired, palace hijinks, touch-starved idiots, eventual smut, masturbation, possibly inaccurate court etiquette & other cultural inaccuracies, i tried my best please be kind ^^

wc — 29k | gen. masterlist | part two | read on ao3?

a/n: yes this was meant to be a oneshot but tumblr said no to my 46k draft so i split it into two parts. part two will be up tonight or tomorrow!! i also added A LOT while editing because i have no self-control. huge thanks to power thesaurus for enabling the vocabulary overdose. sorry for the long wait and i hope you enjoy <3

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the inner court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe.

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess.

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor. “this was no mere ornament, my lady. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a gold-threaded handkerchief. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant. with satoru, both were plausible.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek.

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like dew on a lotus petal.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces.

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts.

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves brushed the corridor’s tiles with deliberate drag; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner, catching latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, gesturing with the fan. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from heavens that had long since stopped answering.

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replies, his wink a fleeting spark in the afternoon light, the sapphire stud in his earlobe catching a glint as he tilts his head. “besides, would you rather i act like a stuffy prince?”

the irony isn’t lost on him—he is a stuffy prince, or will be someday, when his father, whose breath rattles like dry leaves in his chest, finally yields the crown still heavy with the ghost of tragedy.

the late empress’s assassination, when satoru was barely old enough to stumble through palace corridors, had carved a brutal lesson into the imperial family: visibility invites blades. better to cloak the heir in silk and paint him with harmless whimsy than risk another dagger finding its mark.

only five souls in the sprawling palace know the truth: his father, whose sunken eyes track satoru with fading sharpness; the imperial chancellor, whose pinched lips birthed this charade; the minister of justice, whose tribunal and ledgers guard the succession’s fragile legality; suguru, whose shadow clings to satoru with the weight of unspoken oaths; and satoru himself, whose laughter sometimes blurs the line between performance and truth.

the inner court, bereft of an empress dowager, pulses with the consorts’ ruthless ambition, their silk robes whispering of power sharper than any sword. though the emperor weakens daily, these women wage silent wars for his favor, each dreaming of a son to crown her empress should the hidden prince perish.

they know such a prince exists, veiled for safety, but none suspect he flits among them, orchestrating their rivalries with a peacock’s strut and a courtesan’s smile.

the ladies adore their ornamental peacock—his flair for theatrics, his mastery of rouge and kohl, his gossip that slices like a hairpin’s edge. they sigh theatrically in his presence, their voices dripping with the practiced melancholy of lives honed by ambition and cushioned by luxury.

“what a waste,” the third imperial consort murmurs behind her fan, its ivory slats trembling faintly as her jade-green eyes trace the elegant curve of satoru’s throat, where a single pearl pendant rests against pale skin. “if only heaven had been more generous with your... wholeness.”

satoru’s smile blooms, honed over years—a charm that invites secrets, a distance that keeps them safe. his fingers, glittering with rings that snare the light pouring through latticed screens, adjust a fold in his azure robe, the silk whispering like a conspirator. “perhaps heaven knew i’d be too dangerous otherwise, my lady. imagine the chaos if i possessed both beauty and... capability.”

the women titter, their fans fluttering like startled sparrows, their laughter a delicate chime of scandalized delight. he navigates their tempests with a diplomat’s grace, though the irony of wielding statecraft to soothe cosmetic squabbles stings faintly.

lady xiao, her skin glowing like moonlight on snow from some costly powder, leans forward, her gold hairpin swaying as she adopts a conspiratorial whisper. “you simply must settle our debate, master satoru. lady chen insists crushed pearls in face powder yield the most ethereal glow, but i maintain powdered moonstone is far superior.”

“both have their merits,” satoru replies, his tone grave as a scholar’s, though his eyes flicker with amusement only suguru, leaning against a pillar, would catch. he lifts a strand of lady chen’s hair, its ebony sheen catching the light as he studies it with exaggerated focus, his silver bracelet glinting.

“with your warm undertones, crushed pearls would complement beautifully.” he turns to lady xiao, close enough that her breath hitches, her kohl-lined eyes wide. “but for your cooler complexion, moonstone would weave that otherworldly glow you chase.”

the verdict sparks preening—lady chen’s fingers smooth her hair, lady xiao’s fan snaps shut with a triumphant click. satoru sinks back into his cushioned seat, silk rustling like a secret unveiled, accepting their praise with the ease of a man crowned in their vanities.

“though,” he adds, mischief curling his lips as his lashes cast delicate shadows, “true radiance comes from within. perhaps you should consult the palace physicians about inner harmony before fussing over external charms.”

the suggestion, cloaked in earnestness, lands like a jest. laughter erupts, bright and sharp, the women reveling in his knack for dressing insults as wisdom, their painted nails gleaming as they clutch fans tighter.

suguru watches from the garden’s edge, his black robes stark against the pavilion’s vermilion pillars, his face a mask of weary endurance. a stray breeze tugs a dark strand loose from his neat bun, brushing his cheek as his eyes track satoru’s performance with the resignation of a man tethered to chaos.

“master satoru,” lady qiao ventures, her voice honeyed, her lips glistening with rose-tinted gloss as she tilts her head, a jade comb glinting in her upswept hair. “surely you have preferences regarding feminine beauty? purely from an aesthetic standpoint, of course.”

the question is a silk-wrapped trap. satoru’s smile holds, but his eyes sharpen, a flash of the mind destined for thornier battles. his fingers, tracing the carved armrest, pause briefly, the gold ring on his thumb catching a stray sunbeam.

“beauty,” he muses, “is like fine poetry. exquisite verses reveal new depths with each reading. surface prettiness fades, but intelligence, wit, character...” his gaze sweeps their faces, lingering just long enough to flatter, “those transform mere charm into transcendence.”

the answer sates their hunger for praise while baring nothing, a masterstroke they mistake for depth. their fans resume their dance, silk rustling like whispers of approval.

hours might pass thus—satoru weaving through cosmetic crises with finesse—but today, peace shatters like porcelain on marble.

the trouble begins with a silk scarf.

lady yun sweeps into the pavilion, azure silk draped to accent her porcelain skin, the emperor’s favored hue shimmering with intent. her hairpin, a silver crane, gleams as she moves, her eyes cool with triumph. lady mei, in pale lavender, stiffens, her fan halting mid-flutter, her lips tightening beneath their coral stain.

“how... bold,” lady xiang purrs, her smile sharp as frost, her fingers tightening around a jade bangle that clinks faintly. “to wear his majesty’s signature color so prominently. one might think you’re presuming your position.”

satoru’s fingers pause on his teacup, its porcelain cool against his palm, sensing the venom brewing. suguru edges closer, his hand brushing the hilt of a hidden blade, his jaw set.

“presumptions?” lady yun’s laugh chimes, her sleeve rippling as she gestures, revealing a bracelet of sapphire beads. “i wear what his majesty gifted me. perhaps if you spent less time whispering with servants and more earning his favor, you’d grasp the difference.”

the barb cuts deep. lady xiang’s face flushes beneath her powder, her eyes flashing like struck flint. satoru counts three seconds before chaos erupts.

“ladies,” he interjects, rising with a honeyed command, his robe catching the light in a cascade of azure folds, his silver hairpin glinting. “surely we can resolve this without—”

“stay out of this, master satoru,” lady xiang snaps, her voice cracking, her fan trembling in her grip. the dismissal bites, though satoru cloaks his flinch in feigned concern.

lady yun pounces, her nails tracing her sleeve with studied nonchalance. “how refreshing to see your true colors,” she says, her voice silk over steel. “his majesty noted your... common mannerisms lately. perhaps the strain of clinging to relevance frays your breeding.”

lady xiang’s palm meets lady yun’s cheek with a crack that silences the pavilion, her bangle clinking sharply. gasps ripple through the consorts, their fans freezing mid-air, eyes wide with shock. lady yun’s cheek blooms red, her crane hairpin trembling as she touches the mark with delicate fingers, her gaze hardening into something lethal.

“you dare strike me?” she whispers, her voice low, her sapphire beads catching the light like tears. “a daughter of the northern provinces, educated in the capital, marked by heaven with this beauty?”

“beauty fades,” lady xiang hisses, advancing, her lavender silk swaying like a predator’s tail, her hairpin glinting. “but vulgarity is eternal. his majesty will tire of your pretensions soon enough.”

“his majesty,” lady yun counters, her smile venomous, her fan snapping open with a flick, “has tired of your seduction attempts. why else cancel tonight’s private audience? other matters, he said, demand his attention.”

the blow lands. lady xiang falters, her breath catching, her coral lips parting as the truth sinks in—her meticulously planned evening with the emperor, her chance to secure favor, stolen. her bangle clinks again as her hand trembles.

“you scheming witch,” she breathes, lunging with murder in her eyes, her hairpin slipping slightly in her hair.

satoru moves, swift and fluid, his robe whispering as he steps between them, his fan snapping shut with a crack. “my dear ladies,” he says, voice laced with subtle command, “surely such passion belongs in more... productive pursuits?”

his tone halts them, though their glares burn like embers. satoru’s mind races, cataloging lady yun’s intelligence network, lady xiang’s desperation, the shifting sands of favor. his pearl pendant sways as he tilts his head, feigning concern.

“perhaps,” he ventures, his voice smooth as jade, “lady xiang, you wished to discuss that complexion treatment? and lady yun, your poetry recitation tomorrow deserves preparation.”

the suggestion, edged with condescension, reins them in. lady yun smooths her silk, her sapphire beads clinking faintly, her rage cooling into a mask of poise. lady xiang’s smile sharpens, but she nods, her hairpin now askew, betraying her frayed composure.

satoru claps, the sound sharp, his rings flashing. “how marvelous! such spirited discourse invigorates the afternoon. shall we revisit pearl powder versus moonstone? we were on the cusp of brilliance.”

the redirect forces civility, though tension crackles. satoru sinks into his cushions, his silk settling like a sigh, his mind dissecting the consorts’ moves—lady yun’s spies, lady xiang’s fragility, the court’s delicate balance.

as evening shadows stretch across the marble, satoru rises, his movements liquid, his hairpin catching the fading light. “duty calls, my ladies. the third consort awaits my counsel for her evening attire.”

their disappointment flickers, but they turn to tomorrow’s schemes. satoru bows, precise yet playful, his robe trailing like a comet’s tail. suguru falls into step as they leave, silent until the pavilion’s whispers fade.

“exhausting performance, your highness,” suguru murmurs, his dark sleeve brushing a pillar, his bun loosening slightly.

“getting easier,” satoru replies, shedding his theatrics, his posture sharpening, his fan tucked into his sash. “though my future subjects will despair when their emperor knows more about catfights than regiments.”

“your father would say palace politics and battlefields demand the same cunning,” suguru notes, his voice dry, a faint crease at his brow.

satoru’s laugh carries mirth and shadow, his earrings glinting as he strides forward. tomorrow brings more cosmetic crises, more veiled barbs, more lessons in power disguised as powder disputes. the crown prince will hide behind silk and sighs, studying his subjects’ souls one shallow secret at a time.

after all, the best disguises become second nature. and sometimes, the sharpest power lies in pretending you hold none at all.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone's-talking-and-no-one's-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both.

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor's favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru's ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female hysteria,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who'd never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just summer heat affecting her delicate temperament.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn't. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he drawled, voice lazy yet laced with a spark of intent, like a cat batting at a moth it fully intended to devour.

suguru didn’t lift his eyes from the scroll he feigned reading, arms crossed over dark robes that seemed to absorb the light, their folds creasing like a storm cloud on the verge of breaking. his hair, bound with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted glow, as if even it resented being tethered to satoru’s orbit. “the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed a patience fraying like a worn thread.

“that’s the charm of playing eunuch,” satoru replied, rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every gaze followed him. his robes—silver threaded with sapphire embroidery, ostentatiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight rippling across a still pond, the hem whispering against the polished floor like a lover’s sigh. “every door yields if you smile just so and dazzle them with a touch of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound heavy with a thousand unspoken curses, each one honed by years of trailing satoru’s chaos. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing’s beneath my station when i’m cloaked as a eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a sesame-crusted rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace, as if daring the world to challenge him. “it’s half the thrill. haven’t i earned a bit of fun after wrangling the inner court’s tantrums?”

and with that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and the promise of impending upheaval. suguru muttered a curse—something about peacocks strutting toward their inevitable fall—and followed, because someone had to tether the fool before he plunged headlong into ruin.

what they found at lady hua's quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor.

court physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their elaborate sleeves flapping like indignant birds, silk badges of rank glinting on their chests as they gestured wildly at treatment scrolls. someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of bitter medicinal herbs, sharp and acrid, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria.

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly's wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan's hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk's beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you knelt in the corner like a shadow given form. not beside lady hua—that privilege belonged to the proper court physicians with their silk badges and centuries of inherited authority—but close enough to see, to listen, to absorb every frustrated gesture and dismissive wave of their sleeves.

you weren't dressed like anyone of importance. your outer court servant robes were simple, practical cotton dyed the color of weathered stone, sleeves rolled past your elbows in a way that would scandalize the inner court but served you well in the servants' quarters where actual work got done. your hair was pinned back with a plain wooden stick, not jade or silver, and your hands bore the telltale stains of someone who ground herbs by moonlight when the day's official duties were done.

but oh, how you watched. your eyes tracked every movement of the physicians' hands, cataloged each herb they selected, noted the precise angle of lady hua's breathing.

when one physician mixed powdered deer antler with ginseng, your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. when another declared her pulse “flighty as a sparrow,” your fingers twitched against your thigh—once, twice, three times, as if counting beats they couldn't feel from across the room.

satoru straightened, the motion so slight it might’ve escaped anyone but suguru, who stood at his side like a storm cloud tethered to a comet. his fan slowed, silk shivering in the pause, as if the air itself held its breath. “who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, curling like incense smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a cascade of moonlight.

suguru had already marked you, his arms crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the strain. “outer court servant. kitchen work, mostly. cleans the medicine rooms.” each word clipped, as if to dismiss you before satoru’s curiosity took root.

“hmm,” satoru hummed, but his eyes never left you, sharp and gleaming with the delight of a puzzle half-solved. “and yet she’s not scrubbing pots.”

you shifted, angling your body to better observe the lead physician’s fumbling needlework, seeking a pressure point to ease lady hua’s pain. the movement was subtle, practiced—a dancer’s adjustment, born of months spent watching, learning, memorizing from the shadows. your lips moved again, silent but deliberate, and satoru caught the glint of something fierce in your expression, like a blade catching lamplight.

this wasn’t idle curiosity. this was hunger, raw and disciplined, the kind that drove scholars to madness or mastery.

the physician botched his needle placement, and you winced, fingers curling into fists, your silent corrections now a faint whisper of frustration. satoru watched, enthralled, as your hands mimicked the motions—precise, fluid, as if you could thread the needle through her meridians from across the room.

“she knows,” he whispered, more to himself than suguru, his voice alight with discovery.

“knows what?” suguru asked, though his tone suggested he’d already glimpsed the answer and dreaded its consequences.

“that they’re doing it wrong.” satoru’s smile was slow, delighted, like a child uncovering a forbidden game. “look at her hands.”

your fingers danced against your thigh, tracing the exact patterns of needle insertion, herb grinding, pulse-taking—muscle memory honed through countless unseen hours, knowledge that shouldn’t belong to a servant who spent her days scouring medicine bowls. each movement was a silent rebuke to the physicians’ arrogance, a testament to a mind that refused to be confined by her station.

one physician stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief, his voice heavy with pompous resignation. “the lady’s condition defies our current wisdom,” he declared, more concerned with preserving his dignity than her life. “we’ve exhausted all known remedies.”

that’s when you moved.

not with boldness—that would’ve been suicide. instead, you rose from your corner with the fluid grace of a crane taking flight, approached the lead physician with eyes appropriately downcast, and spoke in the deferential tones expected of your rank.

“honored physician,” you said, voice clear yet soft, cutting through the room’s chaos like a bell in a storm, “this humble servant has seen similar symptoms in the outer courts. if it would not offend your wisdom… a kitchen maid last month suffered likewise.”

the physician barely spared you a glance, already dismissing whatever peasant cure you might dare suggest. “female hysteria is commonplace. hardly comparable to lady hua’s refined constitution.”

“of course, honored sir,” you murmured, eyes still lowered, but satoru caught the steel beneath your silk-smooth tone. “yet the maid’s symptoms mirrored these—the headaches, the pallor, the precise pattern of lesions. she recovered fully after a decoction of chrysanthemum, mint, and processed rehmannia root.”

his attention snagged, though he masked it with scholarly disdain. “absurd. such simple herbs could never address a condition of this intricacy.”

you held your ground, voice humble yet unyielding, like bamboo bending in a gale. “your expertise far surpasses my crude observations, naturally. but the maid did recover, and her symptoms aligned so precisely…” you trailed off, the perfect portrait of respectful hesitation, your fingers twitching as if itching to demonstrate.

the physician’s pride warred with his desperation. lady hua’s breathing grew shallower, her skin taking on a waxen pallor that would soon spell ruin for everyone in the room. “these herbs,” he said at last, feigning casual curiosity, “you saw their preparation?”

“this servant cleans the preparation rooms,” you replied, a careful lie wrapped in just enough truth to pass muster. “sometimes the physician’s assistants share their methods while i work.”

satoru watched the performance with rapt fascination, his fan now still, its silk frozen mid-flutter. you weren’t merely suggesting a cure—you were orchestrating the entire scene, playing the physician’s ego like a koto’s strings, submissive enough to avoid offense, knowledgeable enough to be indispensable, desperate enough to seem harmless.

yet your eyes, when they flicked upward for the briefest moment, held secrets sharp enough to cut glass, a mind that danced circles around the men who dismissed you.

within the hour, lady hua sat upright, color blooming in her cheeks like dawn over a lotus pond, the mysterious lesions fading like mist under morning sun. the lead physician accepted congratulations with magnanimous grace, claiming credit for “consulting palace staff to compile comprehensive symptom reports,” his chest puffing like a rooster at dawn.

you had already melted back into the shadows, your work done, but not before satoru caught the satisfied curve of your lips—fleeting, triumphant, gone in a breath.

“fascinating,” he murmured, eyes lingering on the corner where you’d vanished, as if the air still held traces of your presence.

suguru’s expression remained a study in neutrality, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his resignation. “a lucky coincidence. simple remedies sometimes outshine complex ones.”

“hmm.” satoru’s smile lingered, bright and sharp as a freshly drawn blade. “tell me, suguru—what do we know of kitchen maids who memorize advanced medical techniques? who position themselves flawlessly to study court physicians? who move like they’re accustomed to being heeded, not ignored?”

“we know,” suguru said dryly, his voice heavy with the weight of impending trouble, “that you’re about to make this our headache.”

“not our headache,” satoru corrected with a grin. “my amusement.”

because lady hua’s recovery might’ve dazzled the court, but you—you were a riddle cloaked in servant’s robes, wielding knowledge that could heal or harm, navigating the palace with the lethal precision of someone who knew their own danger.

and satoru gojo, crown prince masquerading as eunuch, had just stumbled upon a game far more captivating than court whispers, one he intended to play to its end.

the emperor’s study always smelled faintly of old power—that particular blend of sun-warmed parchment, cedar polish, and something faintly metallic. blood, maybe, or the memory of it. it was the kind of room where even the air seemed to walk softly.

satoru sat across from the emperor with the calm of a man desperately trying not to tap his fingers. he adjusted the fold of his sleeve, eyes flicking toward the desk where his father’s brush moved in careful strokes. his posture was perfect, intentionally so—chin tilted, one knee loosely crossed, silver hair tied back but predictably disobedient with a few strands curling just beside his cheek. his robe, navy lined in restrained gold, sat sharp against the sun streaming through the lattice window. he looked every inch the noble son. all very deliberate.

“father,” he began, and the word felt heavier than it should have. maybe because he hadn’t used it in a while. maybe because he still wasn’t sure which version of the emperor he was talking to today.

no reply. the brush continued its whispered dance across parchment—a list of names, most likely. or death warrants. same difference in the imperial court.

“i’ve been thinking about the medical needs of the inner court.”

still no reaction, just the soft scrape of ink and paper. satoru swallowed the urge to fill the silence with more words and waited instead, watching for the telltale signs of his father’s attention.

then—a twitch of a brow. not much, but it meant he was listening. unfortunately.

“the women,” satoru continued, his voice smooth but softer now. “they’re suffering. quietly, of course. as they always do. they’re afraid to speak about their ailments, or worse, they’ve learned not to bother trying.”

the emperor’s brush paused for just a heartbeat before continuing its careful work.

“because they can’t be examined properly by male physicians, their symptoms are dismissed. attributed to nerves, to wombs, to feminine hysteria.” satoru kept his tone clinical, professional. “real suffering gets reduced to mood swings.”

“and you’ve discovered this how?”

the trap was expected, so satoru smiled—just a little, mostly to himself. “the third consort mentioned it during a conversation about hair ornaments. she gets migraines, told me she stopped letting the court physicians treat her after one tried to give her a mercury concoction and advised her to avoid loud colors.”

he left out the part where he’d actually laughed at the absurdity. she’d joined him. misery loves company, after all.

“she said a servant helped her instead. a woman from the outer court.” satoru watched his father’s face carefully. “i saw her treat the consort myself. her technique was impressive—precise, not palace-trained, but more effective because of it.”

what he didn’t say: you hadn’t spared him a glance during the treatment. your fingers had moved with unbothered certainty, tucking the consort’s hair behind her ear while applying pressure to specific points with your other hand. your eyes had flicked toward him only once, and the look had been unimpressed, functional, dismissive.

it had lit something unfortunate in him.

“you seem very well-informed about this woman.”

satoru inclined his head, letting one finger trail along the edge of the lacquered desk. “i asked around. standard diligence—you know how thorough i can be when something catches my interest.”

“i do,” his father murmured, finally setting the brush down with deliberate care.

satoru let the moment stretch, just enough to suggest sincerity without overselling it.

“she has no political affiliations, no family ties, no suspicious history. she’s been in the outer court six months and caused no disruptions. the only people who mention her are the ones she’s treated, and they talk about her like she’s something they dreamed during a fever—there but not quite real.”

he didn’t mention the late nights he’d spent tracing palace gossip until it led to your name, or how no one seemed to agree on what you looked like, only that you were quiet, clean, and dangerous in the way truly intelligent women often were.

“she’s better than most of our court physicians,” he said simply. “more hygienic too. she washes her hands, makes her patients do the same. revolutionary concept, apparently.”

the emperor gave him a look—hard to read, as always, but with an edge of something that might have been amusement.

“a woman like that, appearing out of nowhere with such skills.”

“suspicious, yes,” satoru agreed readily. “but also exactly what this court needs. what the women deserve. and...” he paused, letting the weight of unspoken words settle between them. “what you need.”

the temperature in the room seemed to shift, though neither man moved.

“you want to bring her into the inner court.”

“i want to give her an official appointment. court apothecary with proper access, recognition, protection.” satoru leaned forward slightly, and the afternoon light caught the edge of his silver hair, framing his face in something almost holy. “she’s worth the risk.”

he waited, watching his father’s expression for any sign of rejection. when none came, he pressed on.

“and there’s another reason.” his voice dropped, becoming something more vulnerable. “your condition hasn’t improved despite everything the court physicians have tried. she might see what they’ve missed, notice something they’re too set in their ways to consider.”

his voice didn’t shake, but it was closer than he wanted. closer than was comfortable.

his father said nothing for a long moment, fingers drumming against the desk in that familiar thinking rhythm satoru remembered from childhood.

“if there’s even a chance she could help...”

“then we should take it.” the emperor’s decision came swift and final. “appoint her. she’ll report directly to you—you brought her to my attention, you can manage her integration into court life.”

relief flooded through satoru like a tide, and he stood quickly, trying not to look as shaken as he felt. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me yet,” the emperor said, and there it was—that familiar edge of knowing amusement. “handling a woman of exceptional skill and mysterious background won’t be simple. especially when there’s personal investment involved.”

satoru hesitated, then offered what he hoped was a convincing lie. “my interest is purely professional.”

his father’s look could have cut glass. “you’ve described her capabilities in detail but haven’t once mentioned her appearance. either she’s remarkably plain, or you’re working very hard not to think about how she looks.”

“i hadn’t noticed.”

“mm.” it wasn’t quite a sound, more like a judgment rendered and filed away for future reference.

“inform the steward of her appointment,” the emperor added, returning his attention to the documents spread across his desk. “and do it properly. if you’re going to gamble on someone, don’t play your hand halfway.”

satoru bowed again, quick and precise, then left the room feeling like he’d been carefully dissected and sewn back together.

the hallway outside hummed with the usual quiet motion of palace life—servants gliding past with tea trays, scribes shuffling along with scrolls tucked into their sleeves, the distant sound of a flute meandering through some half-finished melody. normal sounds, normal sights, but everything felt different now.

you’d be staying. elevated to a position where your skills could be properly utilized, where he could watch you work and maybe, eventually, understand what drove someone with your abilities to hide among the servants.

he tried not to smile as he headed toward the inner court to deliver news that would change everything. tried and failed completely.

the first thing satoru noticed was the crack in your expression—not a chasm, just a flicker, like a lantern’s flame caught in a draft. he was always watching for it, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s, trained to catch the smallest tells in a court where lies were currency and truths were contraband.

that blink-and-you-miss-it smile—the quiet, cautious pride that bloomed when the summons reached you—vanished the instant your gaze landed on him in the receiving hall.

you went still, not with fear but with the kind of disappointment that stings like a paper cut, laced with offense, as if someone had promised you a jade pendant and handed you a wriggling rat instead.

he found it utterly delightful.

“you,” you said, the word a curse wrapped in velvet, sharp enough to draw blood.

“me,” satoru replied, spreading his arms just enough to invite applause, his grin a crescent of pure mischief. his robes today were pale violet, embroidered with butterflies that shimmered like moonlight on water, each thread catching the lantern glow with ostentatious grace.

his hair was twisted into a gold pin, too ornate for a eunuch but perfectly satoru, perched in the grey space where rules bent to his whims. a fine line of kohl rimmed his lashes, accentuating eyes that sparkled with dramatic intent—because if he had to endure the stifling heat and court nonsense, he’d damn well look like a painting while doing it.

the head steward droned on, his voice a monotonous hum about imperial favor and sacred duty, a speech satoru could’ve recited in his sleep.

he didn’t bother pretending to listen.

he was too busy cataloging your betrayals: the faint hitch in your breath, like a zither string plucked too hard; the way your hands folded, knuckles whitening as if gripping an invisible blade; the defiant tilt of your chin, a silent challenge to the world. you were furious, a bonfire masquerading as a lantern, and oh, how you tried to cloak it in courtly composure. but satoru saw the embers, and they thrilled him.

he caught the moment realization struck you, sharp as a needle: this wasn’t just a promotion. this was proximity. to him.

“the inner court welcomes you,” the steward concluded, his voice fading into the hall’s polished silence.

“i’m sure it does,” you said, your tone sugared with venom, each syllable a dart aimed at satoru’s smug face.

once the others dispersed, satoru glided forward, arms tucked within his sleeves, his voice dropping into that soft, insincere purr he saved for spooking cats and bureaucrats. “congratulations,” he said, leaning just close enough to make you bristle. “you’ve ascended. fresh linens, finer herbs, a view of the lotus pond. and, of course, me.”

you blinked at him, slow and deliberate, like a cat deciding whether to swipe or ignore. “is it too late to crawl back to scrubbing pans?” you asked, your deadpan so perfect it deserved its own pavilion.

“don’t flatter yourself,” he said, his grin widening, sharp as a crescent moon. “you’ll still scrub—just not linen. now it’s egos and temperaments, lotus tea for headaches, petals for petty heartbreaks. all the flowers of the inner court, lovingly pruned by your hand.”

“thrilling,” you muttered, the word dripping with disdain, as if you’d rather mop the emperor’s stables. “a promotion and a leash.”

“not a leash,” satoru said, pressing a hand to his chest with a mock gasp. “companionship—unsolicited, exquisitely dressed, and utterly unavoidable.”

and there it was—the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth, not a smile but a threat, like a blade half-drawn from its sheath. he liked it. no, he adored it, the way it promised trouble as much as it deflected his own.

he lingered a beat too long, eyes glinting like polished jade, before turning and strolling off, his robes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, as if the world spun on his axis. and maybe, just maybe, it did.

later that evening, purely by coincidence (his words, not truth’s), he found himself drifting past your new quarters. entirely by accident (again, his words). three times, his steps echoing softly on the stone path, each pass a little slower, a little bolder. the fourth time, he stopped.

he waited until the courtyard shadows stretched long, pooling like ink beneath the flickering lanterns that cast gold over the tiles. then, with the humility of a man who’d never known the word, satoru leaned against your doorframe, one hand toying with the edge of a scroll, its wax seal glinting like a conspirator’s wink.

“what,” you said, not turning from the table where you sorted herbs, your voice flat as a blade’s edge.

“i brought a gift,” he said brightly, his tone all sunshine and mischief, as if he’d just unearthed a treasure.

“is it my resignation?” you asked, still not looking, your fingers pausing over a vial of crushed ginseng.

“better. a medical mystery.” he stepped inside, uninvited, and held out the scroll, its parchment crinkling faintly. you didn’t take it, of course. you just stared, expression as unyielding as the palace walls, as if calculating whether a pestle could double as a club.

finally, you snatched it, your movements sharp, and scanned the text with a flick of your eyes. “these symptoms contradict each other,” you said, voice clipped, like you were scolding a particularly dense apprentice.

“i know,” satoru said, leaning against a lacquered cabinet, his sleeve brushing a jar that wobbled but didn’t fall.

“this is fabricated,” you added, your glare pinning him like a butterfly to a board.

“only the illness,” he said, undeterred, his smile a spark in the dim room. “the need for your attention? painfully real.”

you sighed, loud and theatrical, a performance worthy of the imperial stage. satoru mentally awarded it a nine out of ten—solid, but you could’ve thrown in a hair toss for flair.

you unrolled the scroll again, your lips twitching in a scowl as you muttered, “ridiculous.” the word was a dart, but satoru caught it like a prize.

“you’re a parasite in silk,” you said, louder now, tossing the scroll onto the table with a flick of your wrist. “the most useless eunuch in three dynasties, and that’s saying something.”

“flattery will get you everywhere,” he replied, utterly unfazed, his fingers brushing the edge of a clay bowl as he wandered your space like he owned it. “keep going, i’m taking notes.”

“i wasn’t flattering you,” you snapped, finally turning to face him, your eyes blazing like a forge.

“that’s what makes it so charming,” he said, his grin widening, as if your ire was a rare vintage he couldn’t resist savoring.

you shot him a look that could’ve curdled goat milk, then turned back to your work, your fingers moving with the precision of a calligrapher, sorting herbs into neat piles. but you kept the scroll, its corner peeking from beneath a stack of notes, and your muttering continued—snatches of “insufferable peacock” and “why is this my life” drifting like smoke.

satoru prowled your quarters, ignoring the way your gaze tracked his hands, as if you were mentally mapping every pressure point from wrist to neck.

he brushed his fingers over jars, their labels curling at the edges, and peeked into a box of tools, its contents gleaming faintly in the lantern light. he didn’t speak, just watched—the furrow of your brow as you concentrated, the deliberate flick of your wrist as you ground yanhusuo, the rhythm of your work like a silent song.

he didn’t know why he stayed.

or rather, he did, but admitting it felt like stepping into a trap of his own making. you were a puzzle with edges that cut, a contradiction that hooked him deeper with every barb. the faint scent of crushed herbs clung to the room, mingling with the wisp of incense curling from a burner, and it anchored him there, tethered to the moment.

when he finally slipped out, you didn’t look up, hunched over your desk, scribbling notes like you were waging war on the scroll’s nonsense. but as he passed the water basin by the door, its surface caught your reflection—a glare aimed at his retreating back, sharp and searing, like a blade thrown in silence.

it made his whole damn day.

he found suguru by the koi pond, pacing the stone path, hands clasped behind his back like a tutor bracing for a lecture on broken vases. the moonlight glinted off the water, the fish darting like silver needles beneath the surface.

“don’t say it,” satoru said, cutting him off before a word could escape.

“you like her,” suguru said anyway, his voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs, each syllable a judgment.

“i said don’t say it,” satoru shot back, tossing his hair with a flourish, the gold pin catching the light like a star.

“and yet, here we are,” suguru said, his gaze flicking to satoru’s face, reading the spark there with the ease of a man who’d seen this play before.

satoru sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, tilting his head to the moon as if it might explain why his heart thrummed like a war drum. “i’m just monitoring a potential threat,” he said, the lie so flimsy it barely held together.

“sure,” suguru said, his lips twitching, not quite a smile. “because that gleam in your eyes screams caution.”

“i’m delightful,” satoru corrected, spinning on his heel, his robes flaring like a dancer’s.

suguru groaned, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand future apologies. “you’re doomed.”

and he was probably right. but gods, what a glorious disaster to waltz into, with you at its heart—sharp-tongued, untamed, a flame that burned brighter than satoru’s own, and twice as dangerous.

satoru had never been a creature of habit.

routines were for bureaucrats, monks, and men with lives too dull to warrant a second glance. he craved spontaneity, thrived in chaos, relished derailing the meticulously stacked schedules of others like a fox scattering a henhouse.

unpredictability was his dance, disruption his song. so the fact that he now drifted down the same shaded corridor every morning—at roughly the same hour, with the same lazy gait and the same infuriating glint in his eye—was a confession he’d never voice aloud.

not that he’d admit it, even to himself.

his excuses shifted like the seasons. delivering a scroll to a scribe who didn’t exist. inspecting inner court security for threats that never materialized. dodging paperwork that multiplied like roaches in the archives. conducting a surprise audit of herbal stores. critiquing the palace tea for “quality control.” evading a minister whose droning voice on strategy briefings could bore a statue to tears.

each alibi flimsier than the last, but satoru wielded them with the confidence of a man who knew the world would bend to his whims.

really, it was one thing. one person.

you.

he found you as always—elbow-deep in some concoction, sleeves knotted tightly past your elbows, hair pinned in a haphazard bun that threatened to unravel with every movement.

a faint smudge of green—licorice root, perhaps—stained your cheekbone, a badge of your battle against the chaos you wove and tamed.

you were a paradox: a whirlwind of spilled herbs and scattered parchment, yet sharper, more focused than any silk-clad noble posturing in the emperor’s court. you looked like a battlefield medic with a grudge against decorum and a vendetta against wasted time, and it never failed to spark both amusement and distraction in satoru’s usually restless mind.

“you again,” you said, voice dry as crushed ginger, not bothering to lift your eyes from the mortar where you pulverized a root with grim determination.

“you sound shocked,” satoru replied, stepping over the threshold with a roll of his shoulder, his robes—deep cream silk embroidered with winding cranes that shimmered with each step—swaying like mist over a dawn lake.

today’s ensemble was absurdly extravagant for a glorified supply closet, the fabric catching the lantern light in soft ripples. his hair, loosely tied at the nape, let silver strands frame his face, and a delicate trace of plum-red pigment accented the corners of his eyes, a flourish that screamed performance. he was too much, and that was precisely the point.

“i thought we’d settled into a rhythm,” he said, leaning against your worktable, perilously close to your neatly bundled herbs and stacked parchment. “me, you, the tang of crushed roots, and that slow-simmering resentment you wear so well.”

you didn’t answer. instead, you ground the pestle with a force that suggested the root had slandered your ancestors, the bowl rattling faintly under your wrath.

he tilted his head, silver hair catching the warm glow like threads of starlight, his rings—three today, each etched with faint sigils—clicking softly against the table’s edge.

“no one else to pester?” you muttered, jaw tight, your fingers flexing around the pestle as if it might double as a weapon. “no decrees to ignore? no ministers to torment?”

“oh, plenty,” he said, his grin slow and sharp, like a blade unsheathed for show. “but none of them look half as charming when they’re plotting my demise.”

your hand stilled, the pestle clicking sharply against the bowl, a punctuation of pure exasperation. he nearly clapped, delighted by the precision of your irritation.

because it wasn’t just that you disliked him—plenty did, and he wore their scorn like a badge. you didn’t pretend. no groveling, no fawning, no hollow courtesies offered to his eunuch’s guise. your disdain was raw, unfiltered, a silent roar in every glance.

it was refreshing, like a cold stream after too long in the palace’s stifling opulence, and deeply, wickedly entertaining.

he returned the next day. and the day after. each visit a little bolder, a little longer, as if testing how far he could push before you snapped.

sometimes he brought absurdities disguised as inquiries: a scroll detailing a servant who sprouted hives when he lied, complete with fictional case notes. another time, a cracked jade hairpin, its edges worn smooth, which he claimed induced fevers under a full moon’s gaze.

once, he presented a koi scale in a silk pouch, its iridescence glinting like a stolen star, declaring it a rare cure for heartache—just to see if you’d fling it at him.

you did, with the aim of an archer, the scale skittering across the floor as you muttered something about “idiots in silk.” he gave you a mental ovation.

he started noticing things—more than he meant to, more than was wise. you drank your tea standing, spine rigid, eyes flicking to the window like you expected a rope ladder to unfurl. you reused parchment, scribbling notes in the margins of torn festival flyers or crumpled ceremonial edicts, your script tight and precise.

your tools gleamed, arranged like a general’s arsenal, each blade and vial in its place, but your hair perpetually slipped its pins, curling defiantly against your neck until you shoved it back with an impatient hand.

you hummed when you thought no one heard—a fleeting melody, half-forgotten, like a song from a village far from the palace’s red walls. your brows twitched, a subtle dance, when you puzzled over a formula. your lips curled, just so, a heartbeat before you unleashed an insult, as if savoring the barb.

and despite every barbed word, every glare sharp enough to draw blood, you never truly banished him. not really.

“you know,” he said one afternoon, sprawled in the corner of your workspace, one leg tucked beneath him like a cat claiming a sunbeam, his sleeves pooling like spilled cream, “you haven’t thanked me.”

“for what?” you asked, voice muffled as you rummaged behind a bamboo curtain, the clink of vials punctuating your words. “wrecking my mornings like a plague in peacock feathers?”

“for ushering you into the inner court,” he said, tipping his head back against the wall, silver hair cascading over his shoulder like moonlight spilling across snow. the motion was deliberate, a painter’s stroke, and he knew it.

a beat. then the sharp scrape of wood as you slammed a drawer shut, the sound a silent curse. you emerged, clutching a bundle of dried leaves, your glare sour enough to wilt the lotuses in the courtyard.

“right,” you said, each word a blade honed to kill. “my deepest thanks for the promotion i wanted and the permanent shadow it dragged in.”

“shouldn’t you be grateful?” he teased, propping his chin in his hand, rings glinting as he traced the edge of a nearby jar. “i handed you the emperor’s court—prestige, resources, a front-row seat to my radiance.”

you turned to him, slow and deliberate, like a swordmaster sizing up a foolhardy opponent. “and i curse it every dawn,” you said, your voice low, each syllable a spark. “if i’d known you came tethered like a leech, i’d have begged to stay in the outer court, scrubbing pans in peace.”

he clutched his chest, a theatrical gasp, his eyes sparkling with mock agony. “you wound me, truly.”

“not yet,” you muttered, turning back to your leaves, your fingers ripping a stalk with unnecessary force. “but i’m practicing.”

his grin widened, sharp as a crescent moon, and he settled deeper into his perch, as if your scorn were an invitation to stay.

and you let him. not with words, never with warmth, but with the absence of a broom or a thrown pestle. and he kept returning, drawn by the rhythm you’d carved between you—insult, retort, silence. a glance, then another, lingering like a brush of silk. proximity that stretched longer than it should, close enough to feel the heat of your irritation, the weight of your presence.

it wasn’t peace—gods, never peace—but something like understanding, a pattern etched in barbed words and stolen moments. a hum beneath the surface, unnamed, unacknowledged, but growing louder with each visit.

then came the laugh—sharp, unexpected, a single burst when he presented a “case” about a noble who sneezed only during poetry recitals. your eyes crinkled, head tilting back for a heartbeat, the sound bright and unguarded before you smothered it, your face twisting into a scowl as if you’d betrayed yourself. you looked like you wanted to burn the room down to erase it.

satoru stared, too long, too openly, catching the way your cheeks flushed, the way you ducked your head to hide it. he saw you glance at him, then away, quick as a startled bird, and something in his chest tugged—sharp, stupid, undeniable.

he left that day with a thought that prickled like a splinter: he was in deeper trouble than he’d planned, and it was entirely, gloriously your fault.

today’s morning puzzle was more unhinged than usual.

“man experiences nosebleeds only in the presence of caged birds,” you read aloud, your tone so flat it could’ve scraped the lacquer off the palace floors. “and when exposed to lacquerware.”

satoru, sprawled in his usual corner of your workspace like a sculpture no one ordered, blinked with the kind of innocence that fooled no one, least of all you. his robe—warm ivory threaded with golden phoenix feathers—caught the dawn’s light, casting fleeting sparks against the wall like a firecracker’s afterglow. his hair, braided with a defiant thread of red silk (he knew you loathed it), spilled over one shoulder with the precision of a stage cue.

he was every inch the frivolous, silk-draped menace he aimed to be, his rings—two today, etched with coiling dragons—glinting as he propped an elbow on a crate of dried herbs.

“don’t you think there’s a tragedy woven in that?” he asked, voice too chipper for the hour, like a bird chirping before the world had rubbed sleep from its eyes.

“you’re banned from tragedy,” you snapped, shutting the scroll with a crack that made a passing maid jump, her tray of tea wobbling. you tossed it onto the table, narrowly missing a jar of powdered rhubarb, its clay surface dusted with your fingerprints.

this wasn’t his first medical case, nor even the twentieth. he’d stopped counting around the time he concocted a patient who sneezed whenever lies were spoken nearby.

what began as a game—probing your diagnostic skill with obscure, half-invented symptoms—had spiraled into a ritual as absurd as it was unshakable. yet you read every one. scrawled notes in their margins. laced them with insults sharp enough to draw blood. returned them smudged with ink and bristling with barely restrained fury.

he hoarded them like relics.

“you should’ve seen the drafts,” he said, as if that salvaged anything. “the first version had goose feathers and wine fumes. i spared you.”

“if this is your plot to bury me in professional shame,” you said, wrenching open a jar of salves with a force that suggested personal vendetta, “you’re nearly there.”

he tilted his head, a single silver strand slipping free, brushing the curve of his ear like a painter’s afterthought. he watched you move—always with purpose, always taut as a bowstring. you no longer flinched at his presence, but you never softened either. you wielded words like scalpels, keeping him at bay with precision cuts.

he liked sharp things. always had.

at first, the game was straightforward: deliver impossible cases, watch you unravel them, maybe coax a laugh if the stars aligned.

they never did.

you didn’t laugh. but you scowled, rolled your eyes, muttered poetic venom into your mortar as you ground herbs to dust. you called him names with the accuracy of a physician lancing a wound—“peacock,” “nuisance,” “silk-clad calamity”—each one a tiny victory he tucked away like a magpie with trinkets.

“this isn’t a diagnosis,” you muttered now, flipping the scroll open to scrawl furious notes, your brush slashing the parchment like a blade. “this is a poem having a tantrum.”

“you wound me,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest as if your words could be stitched into his ribs. “you’re the only one who’s ever called me poetic.”

“you’re the only fool in this empire whose puzzles come with a musical accompaniment,” you shot back, your brush pausing mid-stroke, ink pooling at the tip.

he grinned, quick and wicked. “you noticed?”

“you brought a flautist last week,” you said, voice flat as a blade’s edge. “he tripped on your sash.”

“he needed the practice,” satoru said, smooth as polished jade, his fingers tracing the rim of a nearby vial, its glass cool under his touch.

you didn’t bother responding, just turned back to your work, sharpening a bundle of dried ginger with a knife that gleamed like a silent threat. the blade’s rhythm was steady, each slice a rebuke to his existence.

he watched it all. the way your hands danced, precise yet restless, as if they could never quite settle. the way your lips pressed thin when you read something particularly absurd, a silent curse forming before you spoke. how your hair, always slipping its pins, curled defiantly at your nape, streaked with ink from fingers too busy to care. how you muttered in a cadence just off-kilter from the palace’s polished formalities, a dialect of frustration and focus.

you were chaos cloaked in competence, a storm bound by will, and he couldn’t look away.

every day, he brought another case. a man who laughed himself into fainting fits during banquets. a servant girl who sleepwalked into the kitchen’s rice stores, waking with flour in her hair. an aristocrat’s daughter who swore her vision flipped upside down every other hour, blaming it on cursed earrings.

he scribbled them late at night, brush half-dry, on balconies between court sessions, once even during a poetry recital where he feigned sleep, his sleeve hiding the ink stains. each case a thread, a tether, an excuse to linger in your orbit.

because you read them. frowned. sighed. looked at him.

and the looking—gods, that was everything. he didn’t need your laughter. he craved what came after: the pause after the sigh, the flicker after the eye-roll, that fleeting moment where you seemed to forget you loathed him, where your gaze held something softer, unguarded, before you rebuilt your walls.

“i should report you,” you said now, your brush scratching the parchment with deliberate force, each stroke a small rebellion.

“for what?” he asked, shifting to prop his chin on one hand, leaning forward like a cat too stubborn to abandon its perch. “creative medicine?”

“for impersonating someone with a shred of sense,” you said, your voice low, each word a dart aimed at his ego.

he made a wounded noise, theatrical and bright, but his smile stretched wider. “i have sense. i just keep it locked away, like a heirloom too fine for daily use.”

you gave him a look, long and withering, that could’ve soured wine. it only made his grin sharpen, his rings catching the light as he tapped the table’s edge, a rhythm to match your knife’s steady cuts.

“you treat patients like mildew treats silk,” you said, tossing the ginger aside and reaching for a vial, your fingers brushing a stray leaf that clung to your sleeve like a conspirator.

he laughed—not the polished chuckle he offered concubines or ministers, but a real one, sharp and sudden, echoing in the cramped quarters like a misfired firework.

your eyes snapped to him, and for a heartbeat, you weren’t just annoyed. not entirely. there was something else, a flicker of surprise, maybe curiosity, gone before he could name it. but it tightened his chest, a knot he couldn’t untie.

he kept bringing puzzles—not for their cleverness, not for their humor, but because they carved a space for him in your shadow. they let him listen to your muttered curses, watch your hands move like a weaver’s, feel the weight of your presence. they let him be noticed, even if only as a thorn in your side.

and maybe they let him be wanted there, if only for the span of a scowl.

“why are you like this?” you asked one morning, your brush stilling mid-stroke, the question dangerously soft, like a blade hidden in silk.

he had a dozen quips ready—flippant, charming, deflecting. but he leaned forward, caught the way a loose strand of hair curled near your temple, ink-smudged and defiant, and said, soft and unguarded, “you look alive when you’re annoyed.”

you froze, your brush hovering, a drop of ink trembling at its tip. then, slowly, you looked up. met his eyes, their blue sharp and unguarded, like a sky before a storm.

he smiled—not mocking, not entirely, just a curve of lips that felt too honest for the game you played.

you threw the scroll at his head. it sailed wide, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird.

he ducked, barely, laughter spilling from him as he retreated, the sound trailing behind like a comet’s tail. your glare followed, searing, but he caught the faintest twitch at your mouth, a ghost of something that wasn’t quite hate.

later, he sat beneath the south pavilion’s shade, one leg tucked beneath him, the other dangling off the edge like a boy too restless for propriety.

a breeze tugged at the red sash cinched at his waist, lifting it like a lazy flag, as if even the wind knew he was procrastinating. beside him, scrolls—court reports, diplomatic briefs, a poetry contest invitation he’d already singed at the edges—sat ignored, their wax seals glinting like accusations.

he thought of your scowl, your voice, the way your gaze landed on him like a blade seeking a target. everyone else in the court tiptoed around him, offering flattery or fear.

you never did.

and maybe that was why, every day, without fail, he drifted back to your door, armed with another impossible case, another absurd tale. each one a thread to bind him to you, a reason to linger, to disrupt, to be seen.

because the worst part of his morning was the hour before he saw you—empty, quiet, a void where his thoughts echoed too loudly.

and the best part? watching you glare like you wanted him gone, yet never quite forcing him out, your silence a grudging invitation to return.

the scrolls were getting longer.

not just longer—denser, labyrinthine, absurdly ornate. satoru had upgraded to calligraphy brushes dipped in perfumed ink—rosewater one day, sandalwood the next, a faint whiff of osmanthus lingering on the parchment like a taunt.

he was testing how long it’d take before you snapped and hurled something profane, maybe the inkstone itself. the symptoms wove intricate webs, the logic knotted like a courtier’s braid, the footnotes teetering on operatic.

he cited phantom case studies, fictitious physicians from provinces that didn’t exist, and once, with brazen pride, slipped in a forged imperial seal that nearly landed him in front of a magistrate. nearly. that one, he’d written in couplets, each line a smug little bow.

“you’re wasting my time with this drivel,” you snapped, brandishing the scroll like it carried a plague. “don’t you have feathers to preen or mirrors to seduce?”

he was perched, as always, on the low bench by your window, posed like a statue some lovesick noble commissioned and regretted. his posture was too perfect for someone who’d spent half an hour picking a robe to irk you most—storm blue, embroidered with cranes mid-flight, sleeves pooling over his knees like spilled ink, dragging across the floor with every restless shift.

a gold hairpin gleamed in his braid, red silk threaded through it, swaying like a pendulum when he tilted his head in mock fascination. he was a painting overburdened with flourishes, every detail screaming excess.

“your thorns are almost charming,” he said, sipping from a porcelain cup, its rim chipped from a prior visit when he’d “accidentally” knocked it off your table. his boots, still flecked with courtyard mud, left faint smudges on your floor. “like a pufferfish dreaming of cuddles.”

you fixed him with a stare—slow, lethal, the kind that could sour fresh cream or silence a minister mid-rant. the breeze from the open lattice tugged at the scroll’s edge, rattling the ash tray, but you didn’t blink, your fingers tightening until the parchment crinkled.

he beamed, as if you’d serenaded him.

you muttered something under your breath—likely a curse involving his tea turning to sludge, his bones melting to tallow, and a cholera revival tour.

he showed up again the next day. and the day after. and again, undeterred, even after you told the guards to “misplace his map.” they never did, swayed by his bribes of candied lotus and whispered gossip, plus a promise to rank their uniforms’ aesthetics—a scale he invented on the spot, complete with commentary on tassel placement.

each scroll outdid the last. a plague afflicting only left-handed nobles, their sneezes synchronized with lunar phases. a woman who could digest only white foods, weeping hysterically at the sight of lotus root, claiming it sang to her in minor keys. a child coughing poetry—verses from a romantic epic banned by the late empress, each stanza more scandalous than the last. one footnote, scrawled sideways in gold ink, taunted, “solve this with that temper you wield like a blade.”

you unraveled them all, dissecting each with surgical precision. your annotations bled red, sometimes purple for peak offenses, your brushstrokes sharp as a duelist’s thrust.

but somewhere between the sarcastic jabs and hissed curses, your critiques softened—not in tone, never in tone, but in focus. you asked questions, prodded his logic with a gentler hand, your frowns less like thunderclouds, more like passing shadows.

you lingered over his absurdities, as if they were puzzles worth solving.

not that he noticed. of course not.

suguru did.

“twelve visits this week,” he said, voice dry as a desert wind, eyes fixed on the go board where satoru was losing spectacularly for forty-five minutes. “shall i carve you a plaque for her door? engrave it with ‘satoru’s folly’?”

satoru flipped a game piece, then flicked it at suguru’s shoulder, where it bounced off his black robes like a pebble off a cliff. “i’m running an experiment.”

“on what?” suguru glanced up, one brow arched like a drawn bow.

“the effects of sustained hostility and ground herbs on royal composure,” satoru said, his grin a crescent of pure mischief.

suguru’s stare was withering. “findings?”

“unexpectedly delightful,” satoru said, leaning back, his braid swaying like a metronome.

court sessions were crumbling. satoru, once the deity of theatrical boredom—master of mock gasps, swoons timed to derail debates, and insults so sharp they left officials blushing—was drifting.

he missed the minister of rites’ botched couplet, a travesty he’d have roasted for weeks. he forgot to deliver a memorandum to the archives—twice—its wax seal cracking from neglect. tax discussions passed in a haze, his fan unopened, his quips dormant. his eyes wandered, tracing patterns in the ceiling’s carved dragons, as if they held answers he didn’t dare seek.

suguru kept a tally in his meeting notes’ margins: missed snide remarks: five. disinterest level: catastrophic.

the inner court ladies noticed, their eyes sharp as jade pins, their tongues sharper.

they tracked satoru like hawks circling a wayward sparrow, cataloging his absences with gleeful precision. first, he vanished from their mid-morning gossip salons, leaving their tea untouched and their scandals half-shared. then came his bizarre fixation on medical theory, of all things, muttering about rare fungi and diagnostic riddles like a scholar possessed.

“we’ve scarcely seen you,” one lady said during a stroll through the peony courtyard, her fan snapping open like a dagger’s unsheathing, its silk painted with vipers. “has the emperor’s health grown so dire?”

“oh,” satoru said, voice slow and honeyed, “the apothecary’s got a fungus collection that’s positively riveting. almost as captivating as her glare when i nudge her vials out of order.”

giggles scattered like dropped pearls, sharp and knowing. he offered no further explanation, his smile a closed gate.

that afternoon, he swept into your quarters, scroll in hand, bound with red thread, inked in violet on paper too fine for his nonsense—proof it was his worst yet. his hair was half-loose, wisps clinging to his cheek where he’d skipped pinning it, a faint ink smear on his thumb from a late-night drafting frenzy. the scroll bore your name, penned at the top in a flourish that dared you to burn it.

you opened it, scanned the first lines, and your expression could’ve shattered a tea bowl. “this better not rhyme,” you said, voice low, each word a warning shot.

he smiled, too soft at the edges, less smug than something unguarded, like a seam in his silk had frayed. his fingers brushed the bench’s edge, lingering as if to anchor himself, and he watched you read, his gaze catching the way your brow twitched, the way your lips pressed thin.

somewhere beneath the posture, the perfume, the performance, his heart stuttered—a single, traitorous skip.

it was enough to whisper: this was no longer just a game.

he sent a courier three provinces south for a flower that didn’t even bloom this season.

“you dispatched a royal courier to the southern mountains for a sprig of winter jasmine?” suguru asked, voice taut with disbelief, arms folded so tightly it seemed he was trying to cage a migraine. his shadow loomed across the veranda’s polished wood, sharp against the dappled sunlight filtering through the wisteria.

satoru, reclining in the east veranda’s shade, swirled his teacup with a lazy flick of his wrist, the liquid long gone cold and forgotten. “it’s for a case,” he said, shrugging, stretching one leg until his silken robes spilled over the floor like ivory ink, catching flecks of light.

his fan lay discarded beside him, its painted cranes motionless, but his posture screamed decadence: languid limbs, robe slipping to bare the gleam of his collarbone, silver hair a cascade tucked behind one ear, a blue cord woven through for no reason but to catch the eye.

“it’s a seasonal ornamental,” suguru snapped, his boots clicking as he took a half-step forward, resisting the urge to pace. “not medicine. not even symbolic medicine. it’s for perfume, satoru. perfume.”

“depends on the metaphor,” satoru replied, grinning without looking, his gaze drifting past suguru’s scowl to the corridor snaking toward the inner court. his rings—two, etched with lotus vines—glinted as he tilted the cup, letting it catch the light like a conspirator’s signal.

suguru dragged a hand down his face, his sigh heavy enough to stir the wisteria petals scattered nearby. “i’m going to strangle you with that sash.”

“you’d have to catch me first,” satoru said, raising the cup in a mock toast, his grin sharp as a blade’s edge.

he had no intention of explaining. not the three couriers he’d sent in secret, their horses kicking dust across provinces. not the velvet-wrapped parcel one returned, petals still dewed from mountain mist, their fragrance curling like a secret. and definitely not the way your brow furrowed—half suspicion, half awe—when he set the sprig on your worktable, its silk wrapping unfurling like a bribe from a poet.

“this is fresh,” you said, nose wrinkling, holding the jasmine between two fingers like it might bite. “this isn’t local. not even close.”

“i know,” he said, voice bright as festival lanterns, chin propped on one hand as he watched you with the shameless glee of a man too pleased with his own audacity. “gorgeous, isn’t it?”

your glare could’ve sterilized a scalpel. “you’re unbearable.”

“and yet, here i linger,” he said, his sleeve brushing a vial as he leaned closer, just enough to make you stiffen.

“tragically,” you muttered, tossing the sprig onto a parchment, where it landed like a fallen star.

he stayed longer that day—far longer, until the shadows slanted sharp and the afternoon’s warmth bled into dusk’s cool edge. your tea sat untouched, its steam long gone. your sighs grew louder, each one a performance, yet you never shoved him out. he watched you work: arms bare to the elbow, sleeves knotted loosely, hands stained with pigment and resin, moving like the shelves and tables were extensions of your will.

you always faced the window when handling volatile herbs, not for light, he’d learned, but for the breeze, its faint stir cutting the fumes and teasing loose strands of your hair.

he cataloged it all. the way you hummed when focused—fractured, tuneless, like a half-remembered lullaby from a village beyond the palace’s reach.

it wasn’t daily, but frequent enough that he timed his arrivals to catch its fading notes. the way you sorted jars by scent—camphor to the left, ginseng to the right—ignoring strength or tradition. how you cracked your knuckles before mixing tinctures, a sharp pop like a soldier before battle. the pause before you spoke to him, as if weighing which barb would cut deepest.

it was intoxicating, like chasing the edge of a storm.

he crafted excuses to linger: forged dosage errors scrawled on stolen parchment, misfiled records he “discovered” in dusty archives, fake prescriptions only he knew were nonsense. once, he claimed mint sensitivity just to spar with you over its diagnostic merit. he lost, spectacularly, your rebuttal so sharp it left him grinning for hours.

“i’m starting to think you’re a fixture here,” you said one afternoon, not looking up as he sauntered in, uninvited. your hands were buried in a jar of powdered ginseng, your hair falling into your face, dusted with chalk like a scribe’s error.

“don’t be absurd,” he said, claiming the spare cushion by your shelves with the ease of a man who’d never heard the word no. his robe—cobalt blue, stitched with black cranes and storm clouds—pooled around him, dramatic and excessive, its hem brushing a stray leaf you’d missed. “i have other haunts. they’re just less… stabby.”

“and less likely to throw you out?” you asked, flicking a speck of dust from your sleeve, your tone dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs.

“precisely,” he said, his grin a spark in the dim room.

you didn’t laugh, but you didn’t banish him either. and when your hand grazed his sleeve—a fleeting, accidental brush as you reached for a vial—you didn’t pull back. didn’t flinch. the contact, barely a whisper, burned in his mind like a brand.

he was too comfortable now, not just in your space but in your orbit—your rhythms, your silences, the way you tilted your head before a fight, lips pursing when you swallowed a sharper retort. you insulted him with the grace of someone who’d decided he wasn’t worth charming, each barb a masterpiece of disdain.

it was the truest exchange he had all day.

no one else dared. but you? you called him a fungus with delusions of grandeur. you said his robes looked like a peacock mugged by a thunderstorm. you told him his puzzles were “an affront to medicine and common sense.”

and still, he returned. because every insult was a flare, every glance a challenge, every unspoken word a riddle more gripping than any court intrigue.

he told himself it was curiosity. a game. a puzzle to unravel.

but if that were true, why did he measure his day by how long he could linger before you snapped? why did he trace the curl of your handwriting in his mind, the rhythm of your humming, the way you bit your cheek when lost in thought?

and why, when he left, did the world feel a little flatter, the colors muted, like a painting left unfinished?

lately, he wasn’t sure if he was studying you or unraveling himself. each visit chipped away at his excuses, leaving something rawer, riskier, in its place. he caught himself watching not just your hands but the faint scar on your knuckle, the way your eyes softened when you thought no one saw. he noticed how you lingered, too—not in words, but in the way you let him stay, let him disrupt, let him fill the silence with his nonsense.

he was in too deep, and the worst part? he didn’t care.

because every sprig of jasmine, every forged case, every stolen ribbon was a thread pulling him closer to you—and he was too far gone to cut it.

it began with a flower.

well, no. it began with a lie about a flower.

“lunar-affected fever,” satoru said, voice solemn yet dripping with drama, holding a scroll like it was an imperial decree rather than a parchment stuffed with absurdity.

he lounged across your workspace’s threshold, as if the breeze itself had swept him in, robes of slate gray—stitched with pale moons that shimmered faintly—billowing with each subtle shift. his hair, half-tied with a silver pin, caught the filtered sunlight, glinting like spun thread, a few strands curling defiantly against his jaw. “rare as a comet. strikes only under moonlight. fever, dizziness, faint prophetic dreams. possibly contagious.”

you didn’t look up. didn’t pause. just dipped your brush in ink with the precision of a surgeon, your movements steady as stone. “there is no such thing as lunar-affected fever,” you said, voice flat as a pressed leaf, not even indulging him with a sigh.

he tsked, tapping the scroll against his palm like a tutor poised to chide a wayward pupil. “how can you be sure without seeing the flower?”

your head lifted—slow, deliberate, your eyes locking onto his with a glare sharp enough to wither an orchard. your lips pursed, brow twitching, a silent vow of retribution etched in your expression.

satoru’s smile widened, blue eyes sparking with mischief, like a cat who’d just knocked a vase to the floor and called it art.

which is how you found yourself—against logic, reason, and three stern vows to your own sanity—trailing him through the moonlit paths of the imperial gardens, gravel crunching softly under your sandals.

your sleeves were tugged tight around your wrists, knotted to keep them from snagging on stray branches. your hair, pinned in a hasty bun, unraveled in soft curls that clung to your temples, damp from the night’s humidity. you walked in silence, letting the faint whisper of your steps speak for you.

ahead, satoru moved with the effortless grace of someone who owned every pebble, every leaf. the lantern in his hand swayed, its warm glow dancing across the path, painting his silver hair with flecks of gold, like a halo he didn’t deserve.

he glanced back now and then, just to check you were still there. each time, his smirk softened for a heartbeat, a flicker of something unguarded, before he faced forward, humming a tuneless melody under his breath, the sound weaving into the night like a secret.

“you could’ve just asked me to see a flower,” you muttered at his back, your voice low, edged with exasperation.

“and skip the theatrics?” he half-turned, walking backward with infuriating ease, his robes catching the moonlight in ripples. “you wound me.”

the pavilion he led you to crouched in shadow, draped in ivy and curling wisteria, their leaves glistening with dew. moonlight poured through the open beams, silvering the air, catching the faint mist that clung to the ground. the night carried a sharp, green bite of moss, layered with something sweeter, fragile, like a bloom holding its breath.

and there it was: the night-blooming cereus.

its petals unfurled, slow and tentative, as if coaxing itself into existence. the bloom glowed, ethereal, held together by moonlight and whispers, its edges curling like a secret shared in the dark.

“it blooms once a year,” satoru said, voice softer now, stripped of its usual flourish. he stepped beside you, not quite touching, but close enough for the warmth of his presence to brush your skin. “only under a full moon. they call it the queen of the night.”

your lips parted, breath catching, a faint hitch you couldn’t hide. your arms, folded in defiance moments ago, slowly loosened, fingers twitching as if to reach out. your eyes locked on the flower, and for the first time in days, your face shifted—brow easing, mouth softening, the hard edges melting away. you weren’t the court apothecary, nor the wary prisoner of palace games.

you were someone rediscovering wonder, like a child glimpsing a star for the first time.

“beautiful,” you whispered, the word escaping before you could cage it, fragile as the bloom itself.

satoru wasn’t watching the flower.

“yes,” he said, voice barely a murmur, “it is.”

he stared at you, caught in the moonlight’s caress on your cheekbone, the soft curve of your profile. his fingers flexed, not to touch, but to hold the moment—the way your eyes shimmered, the faint flush on your skin, the curl of hair clinging to your temple. he wanted to etch it into memory, to keep it sharper than any painting.

the silence stretched, warm and alive, a fragile bubble of stillness that pulsed with its own rhythm. the night held you both, the cereus glowing between, its petals trembling as if aware of the weight it carried.

then—predictably, perfectly—you shattered it.

“what a waste of my night,” you muttered, spinning away with a dramatic eye-roll, your sleeve swishing like a curtain falling on a play.

but your hands betrayed you.

you reached for the bloom with a reverence that belied your words, cupping it as if it might crumble to dust. when you turned, you cradled it to your chest, fingers curled protectively, like guarding a secret you hadn’t meant to claim.

satoru didn’t tease. didn’t speak. he fell into step beside you, lantern swinging gently, casting slow-dancing shadows that tangled with the gravel path. he stole glances as you walked, catching the way you peeked at the flower—once, twice, like you needed to be sure it was real. your sandals scuffed softly, a counterpoint to his silent steps, and the night seemed to lean in, listening.

he didn’t sleep that night. not properly. he lay beneath his canopy, robes half-discarded, staring at the lattice ceiling as moonlight slanted through, replaying the curve of your lips, the softness in your eyes, the way you’d held the bloom like it was a piece of yourself you’d forgotten. his chest felt tight, restless, like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.

the next morning, he arrived at your chambers as always, leaning in the doorway like he’d been carved for the space, robes of deep indigo shifting with each breath. you didn’t greet him, didn’t look up, your focus buried in a stack of parchment, your hair already slipping its pins, ink smudged on one knuckle.

same sleeves. same scowl. same you.

but when he leaned too close, feigning interest in your notes, his eyes caught it: pressed between the worn pages of your herbarium, nestled beside meticulous entries on sedatives, the cereus. flattened, pale, its glow dimmed but defiant, like a star pinned to earth.

your handwriting, precise and sharp: epiphyllum oxypetalum. blooms once yearly, under full moon. fragile.

he said nothing. didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. but his chest ached, a low, slow throb, tender and mortifying, like a bruise he hadn’t earned.

for the first time in weeks, he forgot to bring a new case. no scroll, no absurd symptoms, no ribbon-wrapped nonsense. he just stood there, watching you scribble, the silence heavier than it should’ve been.

and when you finally glanced up, your eyes narrowing at his stillness, he felt it—a tug, sharp and undeniable, like a thread pulling taut between you.

he didn’t know what to call it. not yet.

but as he left, his steps lighter than they should’ve been, he wondered if you’d noticed the absence of his usual chaos—and if, maybe, you missed it.

it started with kiyohiro, a court eunuch, collapsing in the corridor outside your chambers.

not with flair. not convincingly. just a calculated wobble, a practiced sway, before he sank to the floor with a theatrical sigh, clutching his stomach like the palace kitchens had slipped arsenic into his rice.

“abdominal pain,” he groaned, palm pressed to his navel, eyes fluttering as if scripted. “possibly fatal. i need the court apothecary at once.”

you didn’t flinch. didn’t glance up. the pestle in your hand ground dried peony root against stone, its rhythm steady, unyielding, like a heartbeat ignoring a storm. “eat fewer sweet buns,” you muttered, voice flat as sunbaked clay, handing a tonic to a maid without breaking stride.

it should’ve ended there.

but gossip spreads faster than truth in a palace of whispers. by week’s end, your chambers had become a pilgrimage site for every bored eunuch with a noble title and a flair for drama. a sudden rash? a fluttering pulse? a dizziness that struck only when you entered, your sleeves brushing the air like a challenge?

satoru watched it unfold, his displeasure sharp and simmering. arms crossed, posture a studied nonchalance that screamed irritation, he haunted your doorframe like a specter with a grudge. his robes—too fine for indifference, deep indigo threaded with silver lotuses—shimmered under lantern light, his hair tied with lazy precision, glinting like frost on a winter stream.

“remarkable,” he drawled one afternoon, voice silk laced with venom, as he ushered another swooning eunuch out with a smile that never touched his eyes. “how many eunuchs have fallen mysteriously ill this month?”

you didn’t look up, fingers folding linen cloths with deft flicks. “jealous?”

his gaze snapped to you, blue eyes narrowing. your face was a mask, but your hand paused, just once, on the bowl’s rim, a flicker of defiance. “of what?” he said, voice low, edged. “their fake ailments or their pitiful flirtations?”

“both, it seems,” you said, a smirk tugging your lips, mischief woven into your exasperation. your eyes stayed on your work, but your voice carried that familiar spark, like a blade hidden in a sleeve.

your sleeves were rolled to your elbows, dusted with faint lotus bark, strands of hair slipping from their pins to cling to your jaw, damp with the room’s humid breath. you looked unruffled, impervious to the parade of titled eunuchs feigning ailments to bask in your presence.

satoru, though, was anything but.

not openly. not officially. but he was there—always. every time a noble eunuch swept in with a new complaint, satoru materialized, claiming urgent business nearby. every consultation hosted his lounging form—leaning against a lacquered pillar, fan snapping open with a lazy flick. he never interrupted outright. he just… watched, his comments slicing with surgical precision.

“takamasa, you faint in sunlight?” he asked, voice dripping with mock concern, as the young eunuch clutched a silk handkerchief to his chest.

“yes,” takamasa murmured, voice frail. “it’s terribly inconvenient—”

“curious,” satoru cut in, fan pausing mid-flutter. “weren’t you sprawled in the courtyard yesterday, under midday sun?”

the silence that followed was a masterpiece, heavy and delicious. you didn’t bother hiding your eye-roll, your lips twitching as you ground herbs with renewed vigor.

“you’re absurd,” you told him later, after he’d dismantled enjirou’s complaint of “chronic sighs” with a single arched brow and a quip about fainting goats.

“i’m diligent,” he said, lips curving, his fan tapping his chin. “your time’s too precious for noble fairy tales spun in silk.”

he didn’t say the rest—that he loathed how they looked at you, like your attention was a prize to be won with theatrics, like you were a treasure to be claimed with a well-timed swoon. he hated the way their eyes lingered, as if they could buy your focus with flattery or feigned frailty.

then came the emergency.

a kitchen servant collapsed, breath shallow, sweat beading like dew on his brow. no posturing, no poetry. just raw panic—gasps, shouts, the clatter of a dropped tray. his skin burned under touch, his pulse a frantic stutter.

satoru was already there.

he didn’t knock, didn’t wait. he followed the stretcher into your chambers, sleeves shoved up, hair slipping from its tie, strands catching the sweat on his neck. the usual glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something taut, focused, like a blade drawn and ready.

you were already in motion.

your face was a mask of calm, eyes sharp as you issued orders—clear, clipped, commanding. this wasn’t the you who wielded wit like a dagger; this was you at war, hands swift and sure, voice steady as stone. you didn’t glance at satoru, didn’t need to. he moved with you, seamless, like he’d studied your rhythm for months.

he passed you cloths, their edges fraying from haste. helped lift the servant onto a cot, his grip steady but gentle. ground herbs under your curt instructions, his fingers quick, precise, remembering how you liked the mortar angled for rhubarb root, its bitter tang sharp in the air.

“you actually care about these people,” he said quietly, voice almost lost in the clink of vials, as he handed you a ladle and wiped the servant’s brow with a damp cloth.

“someone has to,” you said, eyes fixed on your work, your fingers deftly measuring a tincture. “most here see servants as props.”

he didn’t reply, didn’t know how. just kept moving beside you, his sleeves brushing yours in the cramped space, the air thick with bile, heat, and crushed leaves.

the night stretched on. two more servants were carried in—one vomiting, one limp as a rag. the room reeked of sickness and herbs, the floor littered with discarded cloths.

your voice frayed at the edges, your hands trembled once—briefly—before you clenched them steady. your braid had come loose, strands sticking to your sweat-damp neck, but you didn’t pause to fix it.

satoru stayed.

when it was over—when the last fever broke, the last pulse steadied—you collapsed into your chair, limbs heavy, breath ragged. your brush slipped, smearing half-written labels across the desk. your eyelids sagged, your head dipping to rest on the crook of your arm, ink smudging your cheek like a child’s mistake.

he approached softly, his outer robe already in hand, its deep indigo folding over your shoulders like a shield. his fingers hovered above your arm, a moment of hesitation, then pulled back, leaving only the faint warmth of the fabric.

your cheek pressed to your arm, breath slow, lips parted in sleep.

he sank into the chair beside you, not touching, not speaking. he tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closing, his own exhaustion pulling at him. his feet throbbed, his fingers stained with bark and ink, but he didn’t move.

when you stirred at dawn, throat dry, eyes gritty, he was still there—head back, arms folded, mouth slightly open, a faint crease in his brow, like even sleep couldn’t ease his tension.

your voice cracked, raw from the night. “you stayed.”

his eyes opened, slow, steady, like he’d been waiting for you to speak. “someone had to make sure you didn’t drown in your own brews,” he said, voice hoarse but carrying that familiar lilt, a spark of amusement in the ruin of the night.

you looked at him—really looked—and said nothing more. neither did he.

but the silence between you wasn’t hollow.

it was heavy, alive, woven with something new—something neither of you could name, but both felt, like a pulse beneath the skin.

the summons came at dawn.

no pomp, no ritual—just a folded slip passed in the corridor, stamped with the emperor’s seal, its wax glinting like a quiet threat. satoru read it in silence, his face a mask, brows twitching faintly before he slipped it into his sleeve.

he rose from the window seat where his tea sat cold, the morning light catching the sheen of his indigo robes. his movements were fluid, but a weight clung to him—anticipation, not fatigue, heavy as a stone sinking in still water.

his father didn’t call unless it mattered.

and lately, everything mattered.

the emperor’s chambers were dim, morning sun barely piercing the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across lacquered floors. incense curled in the corners, frankincense and cedar weaving a thick, ancient haze, clinging like a memory too stubborn to fade.

satoru stepped inside quietly, his robes—indigo lined with black, unadorned—swallowing the light. his hair, usually a defiant spill, was pulled into a tight tail, no stray strands, no red cord for flair. he bowed low, spine rigid, fluid as a dancer, but his hands clenched too tightly at his sides, knuckles pale against the silk.

“you’re late,” the emperor murmured, voice thin but steady, a thread stretched taut.

“never late,” satoru said, slipping into the chair by the bed without waiting for leave, his tone light but guarded. “just selectively punctual.”

his father, propped against a mound of cushions, gave a faint huff—half breath, half fond rebuke. his eyes, sharp despite their sunken frame, flickered with a spark of the man beneath the crown. his skeletal hand adjusted the jade charm at his wrist, its edges worn smooth by restless habit.

silence fell, heavy, expectant, like the air before a storm.

“whoever she is,” the emperor said at last, gaze drifting to the far wall where a painted crane seemed to watch, “don’t let her pull you from what matters. your coronation looms closer than we planned.”

satoru stilled, his breath catching, a faint hitch he buried beneath a neutral mask. his lashes flicked, the only sign of the jolt beneath his skin. “it’s strategic,” he said, voice smooth, polished. “she fascinates me for reasons i can’t name. i need to know why.”

the emperor turned slowly, his gaze piercing despite the tremor in his fingers as he smoothed his robe’s folds. “is that why suguru says you linger in her chambers like a moth drunk on lantern light?”

satoru’s eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the mosaic of lotuses and dragons, their curves blurring in the dim glow. suguru, his bodyguard, had seen too much—every visit, every scroll, every stolen glance—and carried it to the emperor’s ear. duty bound him to report, and satoru couldn’t fault him, though the sting lingered.

“very strategic,” the emperor added, voice softening, a faint amusement curling beneath the weariness. “suguru tells me you’ve sent couriers across provinces for her. flowers, of all things.”

satoru’s lips parted, then closed, words dissolving like mist. his fingers tightened on the chair’s edge, the wood cool under his grip.

“she reminds me of your mother,” the emperor said, eyes drifting to the ceiling’s carved phoenixes, their wings frozen mid-flight. “sharp-tongued. unyielding. challenged me every day of our marriage. made me a better ruler. a better man.”

satoru’s throat burned, a dry ache he couldn’t swallow. his gaze stayed on the floor, the weight of his father’s words pressing against his chest, fragile and unnameable. he had no reply, no quip to deflect the truth laid bare.

he left with silence draped over him like a second robe, his steps too quiet, his face too blank. guards bowed as he passed, their armor clinking softly, but he didn’t see them, his mind tangled in the echo of his father’s voice, suguru’s report, and you.

that night, he didn’t bring a scroll. no absurd case, no ribbon-wrapped nonsense to make you sigh. he brought flowers.

dahlias, crimson and bold, tied with an ink-dark ribbon, their petals vivid against the muted light of your chambers. dignified, elegant, deliberate—a choice that spoke louder than his usual theatrics.

he entered with a hesitant confidence, like stepping onto a bridge he wasn’t sure would hold. the air carried the familiar bite of herbs and ink, softened by the faint musk of drying parchment. you glanced up from your worktable, sleeves rolled, fingers stained with licorice root, one brow arching in quiet surprise.

“these are for…” he started, holding the bouquet with a care that belied his usual nonchalance, as if the flowers might wilt under a careless grip.

“another fake ailment?” you cut in, eyes narrowing, though a spark of curiosity flickered beneath the suspicion.

his lips curved, soft, not his usual smirk. “just thought they suited you.”

you paused, breath hitching for a moment, your fingers stilling over a vial. then you reached out, your hand brushing his—a flicker of contact, light as a moth’s wing, warm and gone too soon. it was nothing. it was everything.

neither of you moved, not at first. the air held its breath, charged with the weight of that touch.

then you cleared your throat, turned away, busying yourself with a jar that hadn’t moved in weeks, its label curling at the edges. he smiled at your back, eyes tracing the slant of your shoulders, the faint tilt of your head—always left when you were flustered, a detail he’d memorized like a map.

from then on, he brought meals.

not with fanfare. not every night. just often enough to become a rhythm. evenings blurred with your work, and he’d appear, tray in hand, the food simple but warm—soft rice flecked with sesame, miso delicate as a sigh, sweet egg custards you claimed to dislike but always finished, scraping the bowl when you thought he wasn’t looking.

“you don’t have to keep feeding me,” you said one night, chopsticks hovering, steam curling from the rice like a secret.

“and miss watching you eat while insulting my wit?” he said, settling beside you, his knee brushing the table’s edge. “never.”

some nights, words came softly, worn by exhaustion—snatches of court gossip, old memories, musings on the rain like it held answers. other nights, silence reigned, comfortable, heavy with unspoken things.

your chairs drifted closer.

knees brushed beneath the low table. once. then again. neither of you pulled away. his hand rested a little too close to yours. your gaze lingered a little too long. and the quiet between you stayed warm, charged, not innocent, but not yet dangerous.

still disaster bloomed, as it always does, in the quietest breath of night.

the garden held its breath, a rare stillness cloaking the night. the koi pond shimmered under moonlight, liquid silver rippling with each stray breeze, its surface catching the faint glow of lanterns swaying like conspirators. wisteria hung heavy, its scent weaving with damp earth, sharp and fleeting, the air thick with the promise of something about to break.

you walked side by side, sleeves brushing now and then, deliberate in their graze. the concubine you’d treated earlier slept at last, her fever broken, the air in her chambers no longer taut with dread. yet neither of you moved to part, steps slowing as the garden’s quiet conspired to hold you there.

satoru trailed a half-step behind, hands clasped behind his back, his long robe whispering against the gravel, its pale gray hem catching the lantern glow like mist.

moonlight wove silver through his white hair, sharpened the elegant line of his jaw, made him look like a figure etched from starlight. his eyes, glacial blue, flicked to you every few moments—memorizing the curve of your profile, the way your hair curled against your neck, damp from the humid air.

his silence tonight was heavy, careful, like a man cradling a glass too full to spill. “you really don’t rest,” he murmured, voice low, a thread of concern tucked into his usual drawl, barely louder than the wind’s sigh.

you didn’t slow, sandals scuffing softly. “rest is for those who can afford carelessness.”

he huffed, almost amused, the sound soft as a falling petal. “remind me never to share my medical records with you.”

your lips twitched, a ghost of a smile, gone before it could settle.

silence returned, thrumming now, alive with something unspoken—full, heavy with possibility, like a storm gathering just out of sight.

then you stopped.

he nearly bumped into you, catching himself with a soft inhale. you turned, gaze locking onto his, clear and unreadable, a spark of something sharp and startled flickering in your eyes. his breath hitched, chest tightening with a feeling he didn’t dare name.

no script existed for this. no smirking quip, no practiced tease. just a slow, swelling pause, the world narrowing to the space between you.

he leaned in—not a game, not a performance—raw, unguarded, his heart a traitor beating too loud.

his hand lifted, trembling faintly, hovering near your cheek as if afraid to shatter the moment. his eyes searched yours, seeking permission, a sign, anything to stop him.

you gave none.

so he kissed you.

softly at first, reverent, lips brushing yours with the care of someone handling porcelain. his mouth was warm, unsure but honest, and your breath caught—a soft hitch he felt and paused for. his eyes fluttered half-shut, lashes long and pale, his silver hair swaying slightly as he leaned in further.

your lips parted, startled but not retreating, your fingers curling tight at your sides. his hand found your jaw, slow and sure, thumb grazing your cheekbone like he’d memorized it. he tilted his head slightly, shadows shifting along his high cheekbones, his breath mixing with yours. your heart thudded, loud in your throat.

you tilted up, just enough, your mouth moving under his—tentative, then firmer, a quiet answer. the moment bloomed between you, the stillness of the air broken only by the soft brush of silk against silk, the distant sound of wind chimes trembling in the garden. satoru forgot how to think. his mind emptied, breath stolen. the world dissolved into the warmth of your breath, the taste of crushed herbs on your lips, and something sweeter beneath that made his chest ache.

he kissed you again—deeper this time, less cautious, more aching. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there like a secret. his other hand, trembling, hovered at your waist before pulling you in by the small of your back. his lips parted, tongue brushing yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, reverent, like he was afraid to break you.

and you kissed him back.

not immediately, but when you did—it was real. your mouth opened to him, breath shaky, spine stiff but yielding. you leaned forward, just slightly, your hands still curled but not pushing. he tasted you like a prayer, like something sacred, like maybe if he kissed you long enough you’d stay.

then he pulled back, eyes dark and wide, pupils blown, lips red from the kiss. he looked at you as if he couldn’t believe it had happened, as if the world had turned inside out and there you were, still in his arms.

“you—” he breathed, voice hoarse, gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes, dazed, lost, drunk on something he never thought he could have.

and then he kissed you again.

this time, hungry. this time, like a man stepping into fire knowing full well he’d burn. your lips met his with a gasp, and you let him take you for one heartbeat too long. one second too many.

your fingers twitched. your knees wavered. you wanted to hate him for how good it felt.

and then—you shoved him.

hard.

he stumbled backward, arms flailing like a heron skidding across ice, nearly tripping over the embroidered hem of his robe. he caught himself on a stone lantern with a grunt, robes fluttering around his ankles. his eyes were wide, lips still parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

“have you lost your mind?” you snapped, voice like a blade. your cheeks blazed, your chest heaved, and your glare—gods, your glare could level dynasties.

he blinked, then grinned despite himself. crooked and boyish, maddeningly unrepentant.

“possibly,” he said, breathless.

“i’m not wasting my genes on a eunuch,” you spat, your voice sharp as shattered jade. “no matter how pretty his face.”

satoru froze.

then blinked.

then let out a laugh. not one of those dramatic, hand-over-mouth princely chuckles he liked to use when causing a scene. no, this one was quiet, startled—undignified, even. a breath of disbelief that hiccuped past his lips and got swallowed by the wisteria.

“you think i’m a eunuch,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

you didn’t dignify him with an answer. nor did you stay to argue. didn’t pause for a cutting remark or a dramatic glance over your shoulder. no, the moment he stilled, the moment that too-long silence fell between you like a dropped fan, you turned. spun on your heel and stormed off with the kind of pace that said if you didn’t leave now, you might do something you’d regret—like kiss him again. or worse: ask if he meant it.

which, of course, he did.

still, you muttered as you walked away. low and furious, under your breath, like the words were bubbling out whether you wanted them to or not. he caught fragments. something about hormones. about silk-robed maniacs with too many rings. about eunuchs, eggplants, and the gods forsaking your common sense.

the silence sank teeth into his shoulders. the night air folded around him like silk dipped in ice. his thumb grazed the edge of his bottom lip, slow, like he could rewind the last few seconds through touch alone.

he had forgotten.

forgotten what he was pretending to be. forgotten the rings, the incense, the mask he’d sewn into his skin over the years. he had kissed you like a man—not a prince, not a eunuch, not a myth wrapped in silk and riddles. just a man.

and you had kissed him back.

but the moment shattered before it could be named. your words had carved right through it. not cruelly, not intentionally. that was the worst part. you didn’t know what you’d done. you hadn’t even seen him.

you kissed the lie.

he pressed his hand to his mouth, jaw clenched. it was almost funny. it should have been funny. and maybe in the morning, it would be.

but right now?

right now, he was half-sick with the sweetness of it. with how close he’d come to believing that moment was real. with how much he still wanted it to be. the ache wasn’t sharp, but it was deep—a bruise blooming slow beneath the ribs.

he should have laughed it off. he should have returned to his quarters, poured wine, told suguru something smug and unrepeatable. instead, he just stood there, dumb and dazed and smiling like an idiot.

“she thinks i’m a eunuch,” he said again, quieter this time. and still—still—he wanted you to kiss him again. not because you didn’t know who he was.

but because, somehow, impossibly, you might want him anyway.

he didn’t see you for three days.

not for lack of trying. you were a specter, slipping through locked doors, vanishing into sudden meetings, leaving maids shrugging when he pressed for your whereabouts. even the gossiping servants, usually eager to spill, offered nothing but vague apologies.

in court, he was a shadow of himself. during a trade council, he sat rigid, staring through a minister droning about tariffs, his fingers tracing the same spot on his lips where your kiss had burned.

the room’s incense choked him, too sweet, and when a scribe dropped a brush, the clatter made him flinch, his thoughts snapping back to your startled shove. he nodded at the right moments, but his voice, usually sharp with quips, was dull, his eyes drifting to the window where moonlight might’ve been.

concubines noticed. one wept over a broken hairpin, its jade splintered like her heart, and satoru could only muster a tired, “it’s just a pin.” another sulked over a petty slight—someone had worn her shade of crimson—and he waved her off, words flat: “wear blue instead.” their pouts deepened, but he had no energy for their dramas.

suguru found him sprawled on the pavilion roof, one arm flung across his eyes, the other tossing dried plums at passing sparrows, each throw more despondent than the last. “so,” suguru said, tossing him a rice cracker with no pity, “she hit you with reality?”

“no,” satoru muttered, snapping the cracker in half with the mournful air of a man betrayed by fate. “she pushed me. emotionally.”

suguru’s pause, mid-bite, was louder than words, his raised brow a silent judgment.

the worst part? satoru couldn’t stop replaying it. the shape of your mouth against his, warm and yielding. the sharp twist of your face when you pulled back, eyes blazing with fury and something softer, unguarded.

a week passed. he performed—attended court, smiled on cue, offered wry commentary in meetings, even penned a birthday poem for the favored concubine’s pet nightingale, all wit and charm. but it was hollow.

in a session on border disputes, he doodled your name in the margin of a scroll, then scratched it out, ink smearing like his resolve. a concubine wailed about a lost fan, and he stared through her, muttering, “buy another,” his voice a ghost of its usual spark.

every night, when the palace quieted, his steps led him back to the garden, to the spot where you’d stopped, where he’d leaned in, where the line between strategy and sincerity had dissolved. the wisteria was fading now, petals curling brown, and he stood there, moonlight pooling around him, hand drifting to his lips, still tingling.

the ache wasn’t intrigue. wasn’t curiosity.

it was want—raw, relentless, refusing to fade.

and as he lingered, the irony gnawed deeper: he’d disguised himself as a eunuch to protect his life, only to lose his heart to a woman who thought he had none to give.

the problem began with a scream.

not yours.

hers.

lady mei, daughter of the insufferable minister of war, unleashed a shriek that could’ve cracked the palace jade, scattering birds from the rafters and jolting the court from their jasmine-laced tea. it ripped through the corridors like a war horn, shrill and self-important, drawing eyes and whispers like blood draws flies. by the time satoru caught the rumor, it had spread like ink in water—ravenous, unstoppable, vicious.

poison. hair falling in clumps.

dark magic, they hissed. foreign plots. a witch.

and you—gods, you—stood accused before the tribunal, chin high, jaw forged in iron, wrists bound in red silk that chafed raw welts into your skin. your robe sagged, one sleeve torn where a guard’s grip had twisted too hard, but you didn’t flinch. your lips were a tight slash, face a mask, yet your eyes blazed—defiant, untamed, a storm caged in flesh.

satoru overheard it by chance. or fate. call it what you will.

he’d been pacing the eastern promenade, robe loose at the throat, hair tied with reckless grace, his posture a thin veneer of boredom. two servants lingered by the reflecting pool, their whispers sharp, gleeful, cutting through the spring air. “she cursed lady mei’s beauty cream,” one breathed, eyes wide as lotus blooms.

“no,” the other hissed, leaning in, “a tonic. thins the blood. deadly in excess.”

satoru’s world snapped. his ears roared, a high, searing hum drowning all else. the garden’s lattice blurred, its patterns bleeding like smeared ink. the koi pond burned too bright, the air choking despite the breeze.

his hands clenched, nails carving crescents into his palms, silk twisting in his fists. he spun, robes flaring like a tempest, the blue fabric cracking with each furious stride. court eunuchs scattered as he stormed past, their bows faltering, stunned by the raw fury radiating from him. the usual glint in his eyes was dead, replaced by something glacial, murderous.

suguru caught him at the tribunal wing’s threshold, breathless, hair tied back, sleeves rolled as if he’d sprinted from his post. “your highness,” he hissed, seizing satoru’s arm in a grip that could bruise, “you cannot barge in. your position. your disguise.”

satoru’s head turned, slow, deliberate, like a blade aligning for a strike. rage poured from him, white-hot, unyielding as a forge. “they’re going to execute her over lies,” he snarled, voice low, jagged, each word a shard of flint. “i won’t stand by.”

his body trembled, not with fear but with violence barely contained, his jaw locked so tight the muscle twitched near his ear. his eyes burned beneath his white hair, colder than a winter’s edge, promising devastation.

“think strategically,” suguru urged, stepping in front, voice firm but pleading. “this screams more than justice. it screams you.”

satoru’s breath caught, a sharp stutter. his lips parted, then clamped shut. a beat. another. he exhaled through his teeth, a hiss like a blade drawn from its sheath. “fine,” he bit out. “strategy. but if they touch one hair on her head—”

“they won’t,” suguru said, softer, his gaze tracing satoru’s face, seeing the fractures in his mask. “they won’t.”

satoru didn’t nod, didn’t thank him. he turned, vanishing like a storm unleashed, not to brood but to burn.

he tore through the palace like a wraith on fire. scrolls ripped from shelves, bamboo frames splintering under his grip. records cracked open, pages scattering like ash. his movements were sharp, relentless, stripped of the lazy grace he once wore like a second skin.

servants stammered, spilling secrets under his stare, their voices quaking. he bribed, coerced, lied, threatened—one steward nearly fainted when satoru leaned in, his smile all teeth, voice a silken blade: “care to clarify?”

by midnight, his sleeves were rolled, white linen smudged with ink and soot, his hair fraying from countless rakes of his fingers, strands clinging to his sweat-slick neck. scrolls and witness names littered the lacquered table like battlefield wreckage, his voice raw from demanding testimony. lady mei’s handmaidens trembled under his questions, eyes darting like sparrows before a hawk.

her perfumer tried to flee, only to find satoru waiting by the storage room, leaning casually against the doorframe, voice like frost: “running somewhere?”

he summoned an outer court physician under a false name, tearing through ledgers with brutal precision—red stamps, supplier lists, ingredient logs—until he found it.

mercury.

tucked in an imported skin tonic’s recipe, a whisper of silver in the fine print. enough to shed hair, to bleach skin, to kill in time. he held the vial to the candlelight, its liquid shifting like molten guilt, thick and treacherous. his reflection twisted in the glass—pale, wild-eyed, lips a grim slash, the boy who’d kissed you burned away by rage.

the fury in him cooled, hardened, became something sharper—certainty, cold and unyielding.

he didn’t smile at first.

then he did. not the charming mask, not the courtier’s grin. this was jagged, raw, all teeth and shadow, a predator’s bared edge.

because he had it—the proof, the truth, the blade to cut you free. because no one—not a spoiled heiress, not a scheming courtier, not a whisper cloaked in silk—would touch you.

not while he still drew breath.

his rage didn’t falter, didn’t soften. it fueled him, a fire in his veins as he prepared to storm the tribunal with evidence in hand, the irony of his eunuch disguise a bitter sting. he’d hidden to save his life, only to find his life now hinged on saving yours.

the vial still sat in his palm when the sun began to rise.

dawn crept in, golden and soft, a cruel jest against the storm in his chest—tight, raw, ready to split at the seams. light spilled like syrup across the chaos of scrolls and vials strewn around him, glinting off ink-stained bamboo and glass, but nothing could dull the acid churning in his gut. he hadn’t slept, hadn’t sat, the night consumed by evidence and fury, leaving only the mercury’s cold gleam and the certainty that if he didn’t act, they’d rip you from him.

he didn’t change, just yanked his robe tighter, the pale silk creased from hours of pacing. his hair, tugged back with a frayed black ribbon, was crooked, strands escaping to cling to his sweat-damp neck. his movements were sharp, stripped of flourish, the mask of poise shattered by sleepless resolve.

he strode through the palace corridors with lethal purpose—not the slouch of a court eunuch, not the drawl of the royal fool they took him for. he moved as who he was: crown prince, predator, a blade honed and aimed. his steps struck the tiled floor like war drums, each echo a challenge.

no bowed head, no softened gaze—his outer robe flared with every stride, stark against the morning’s glow seeping through latticed windows. officials turned, startled, as he stormed into the tribunal, a figure cloaked in silk and wrath, moonlit hair twisted high, eyes like shattered ice.

suguru trailed three paces behind, silent, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. he moved like a shadow, hand resting on his sword’s hilt—not for defense, but as if ready to drag satoru out if this went too far. his disapproval burned like a brand between them, unspoken but searing.

you were there.

kneeling, silent, spine rigid as jade. your robes were plain, hair hastily knotted, strands fraying against your neck. your wrists, unbound now, rested stiffly in your lap, fingers knotted white. your lips were a taut line, jaw locked, and your eyes—gods, your eyes—had shifted. still clear, still fierce, but now laced with something new: calculation, suspicion, a blade-sharp wariness that hadn’t been there before.

because you’d seen him enter—not as a servant, not as the eunuch you’d assumed, but as a man with too much power in his stride, too much steel in his voice, too much weight in how the court stilled. something didn’t add up, and your gaze cut through him like a scalpel.

satoru’s eyes locked on yours. unwavering, unyielding.

for the first time, in all your barbed exchanges, he couldn’t read you.

“lord satoru,” the minister of justice intoned, voice brittle as dried reeds, “you were not summoned.”

“i rarely am,” satoru replied, smooth but icy, his smile a blade that didn’t reach his eyes. “yet i arrive when it matters.”

he stepped forward, robes hissing across the floor like a drawn sword, and drew a lacquer box—black, polished, lethal—from his sleeve. “i trust the tribunal still cares for truth?”

he didn’t wait for permission, didn’t bow, didn’t blink. his fingers, steady as stone, snapped the lid open.

inside: the vial, sealed, labeled, venomous.

“lady mei has been slathering mercury on her skin,” he said, voice clipped, cold as a winter’s edge. “an imported cream to bleach her complexion. overuse brings tremors, fatigue, hair loss.” he let the last word hang, sharp as a guillotine. “symptoms unrelated to the apothecary’s work.”

he turned to the panel, gaze unblinking, deliberate. “it wasn’t her tincture that poisoned mei. it was mei’s own vanity.”

whispers erupted, spreading like mold. fans snapped shut, silk rustled, discomfort coiling through the court. ministers exchanged glances, some avoiding your eyes, others squirming under satoru’s stare.

“your source?” the minister of justice asked, voice thinner now, authority fraying.

“her handmaidens. her perfumer. her personal effects.” satoru tilted his head, expression a mask of frost. “shall i list the ingredients by name or rank them by toxicity?”

suguru’s glare bored into his back, a silent warning, his tension a pulse in the air. satoru felt it, ignored it.

because the room shifted. your name slid off the pyre.

“the tribunal finds no fault in the apothecary’s conduct,” the minister of justice said, voice tight, reluctant. “charges dismissed.”

you exhaled, a soft release, like you’d held your breath since the scream. your fingers flexed, chin lifted, but your gaze didn’t soften—not for him.

satoru’s shoulders eased, just a fraction, the knot in his chest loosening. but relief was fleeting.

“how convenient,” the minister of justice said, eyes narrowing, voice dripping with suspicion, “that you know so much about a servant’s case. one might think you have a personal stake in this apothecary.”

satoru smiled, slow, calculated, a jagged edge of teeth. “knowledge is my trade.”

“very well, your hi—”

the slip was a whisper, barely there. the silence that followed was a chasm. satoru’s gaze didn’t flinch. suguru’s jaw ticked, a muscle jumping under his skin.

—“master satoru.”

and that was that.

the matter closed.

satoru turned, robes flaring like a storm’s wake, the lacquer box gripped tight, its edges biting his palm. no triumph warmed his chest—only dread, heavy as iron, settling in his bones because he’d stormed in with fire in his veins and too much truth on his tongue.

suguru followed, wordless, his silence blistering, storm-browed and heavy. they didn’t speak as they left the hall, didn’t need to—suguru’s disapproval was a blade at satoru’s back.

but just before satoru crossed the threshold, he turned.

just once.

just long enough to see you, still kneeling, still watching. your eyes weren’t grateful. they were narrow, probing, a scalpel slicing through his facade.

and in that fleeting second, he breathed—not relief, not victory, but the hollow ache of knowing he’d saved you and damned himself.

you wouldn’t thank him. you’d ask questions—the kind that could unravel his lie, his title, his heart.

and gods help him, he’d still do it again.

contrary to what he was expecting, you gave him nothing—that’s the thing about silence—satoru feels it like a blade to the throat.

especially when it’s yours.

it hits him hard—not metaphorical, but literal, a sharp slap to the back of his head from his father the morning after the tribunal, in the locked imperial study where guards stood sentinel and the air reeked of bitter incense and sharper disappointment.

“have you lost your senses?” the emperor snapped, voice a low rumble, the kind that precedes a storm’s break. “you kindized your cover for the court apothecary. do you grasp the risk to everything we’ve built? your coronation looms, and one slip could have the court tearing itself apart with questions.”

satoru stared at the floor, fists clenched, knuckles bone-white, jaw locked until his teeth ached. his ceremonial robe sagged, sash skewed, hair knotted with an ink-stained ribbon, the black fraying at the edges. “i did what was right,” he said, voice steady but tight, each word a stone dropped in defiance.

“you did what was emotional,” his father countered, eyes piercing, seeing too much.

the worst part? he was right. no defense would sound like anything but a confession, so satoru swallowed it, the truth burning like bile.

now, days later, he’s chasing the one he risked it all for, and you won’t even look at him.

your silence is a weapon, surgical, precise. he feels it instantly—the way your shoulders tense when his voice spills into a room, a subtle flinch like you’re bracing for impact. your spine stiffens when he steps too close, a wall rising without a word. your gaze skims over him, light as a stone skipping water, never settling, never sinking. your hands freeze, as if expecting an unwanted touch, your face a perfect mask, blank and unyielding.

it’s not avoidance. it’s retreat—calculated, deliberate, leaving nothing for him to grasp, not even your sharp-tongued barbs.

he first catches it in the herb garden, where you’re crouched among flowering angelica, sleeves rolled, fingers stained green, a smudge of pollen dusting your cheek like gold in the sunlight.

you glance up, startled, then pivot smoothly to the court physician beside you, words clipped, professional, before excusing yourself. you brush dirt from your hands, braid swinging like a snapped cord as you vanish around the corner, leaving the air colder, heavier.

satoru stands frozen, clutching a jar of honeyed lotus he’d meant to give you, its petals already curling, drooping like his hope. he follows—of course he does.

the next day, and the next, he trails you through corridors, across courtyards, into the inner palace’s echoing hush. he memorizes the whisper of your sandals, the way your lips thin when he enters, how you wrap your arms tighter around yourself, even in the summer’s heat, as if shielding something fragile.

you don’t insult him. don’t banter. don’t anything.

your greetings, when they come, are cold, formal, a blade pressed lightly to his throat—polite, practiced, punishing. each one carves deeper than your sharpest quip ever could.

he corners you by the water jars one morning, after mapping your routes like a hunter. his robe is creased from rushing, a loose thread dangling from the sleeve, his hair half-falling from its tie, white tufts framing his temples. he clutches a sprig of purple gentian—regret, he’d learned, hoping you’d read it too.

“hey—” he starts, voice softer than he means.

you look through him, eyes empty, like he’s vapor, insignificant. then you step around, sandals hissing on stone, not rushing, not flinching, gaze fixed ahead, unreadable, distant. you leave him clutching a flower that feels heavier than it should, its petals bruising in his grip.

he staggers, heart lurching, chest hollow with disbelief. not because you’re cold—he’s endured worse. not because you’re sharp—he’s always craved that. but because you’ve erased yourself from the game he loved losing. you’ve left him swinging at shadows, and the absence of your fight is a wound he can’t staunch.

by midday, he slinks into suguru’s quarters, dragging his feet like a scolded child, arms crossed tight as if they could hold his unraveling together. his sash is half-untied, a dark smudge on his collar from spilled ink he didn’t bother to clean. he collapses onto a cushion, graceless as a felled tree, robe tangling at his ankles, a gentian petal stuck to his shoulder, wilted and sad.

“she’s avoiding me,” he declares, voice heavy with the weight of a man mourning a war lost. his hair is a wreck, strands clinging to his neck, the petal fluttering to the floor like a final surrender.

suguru, buried in scrolls, raises a brow, unimpressed. “yes. i noticed.”

satoru flops back, one arm flung across his eyes like a tragic poet. “i’ve been to the medicine hall four times today.”

“i’m sure they loved the interruption.”

“they offered me a foot bath and begged me to leave.”

suguru hums, dry as dust. “reasonable.”

satoru peeks from under his sleeve, the gentian now a crumpled heap beside him. “why?”

suguru sets his brush down, pinching his nose like he’s bracing for a saga. “maybe she’s unnerved by how you stormed the tribunal to save her.”

satoru sits up, indignation flaring. “i couldn’t let them execute her.”

“and that,” suguru says, voice flat, “is why she’s dodging you.”

satoru scowls, raking both hands through his hair, worsening the chaos. “that’s absurd. i saved her. she should be calling me brilliant, handsome, terrifyingly heroic.”

“she should,” suguru says, bland, “but instead, she sees you as a threat.”

“i’m not a threat,” satoru pouts—yes, pouts, lips jutting like a child denied sweets. “i’m charming.”

“you kissed her,” suguru says, blunt as a hammer, “then risked your identity to clear her name. you nearly exposed yourself in the tribunal. if that’s charming, we’re reading different scrolls.”

satoru opens his mouth, then shuts it, the truth landing like a stone. he is dangerous—not to you, never to you, but in the way men are when they want too much, feel too much, when your name in your sharp-tongued cadence has become a rhythm he can’t unhear.

maybe you saw it—the depth of his care, the reckless edge of it. maybe you knew what it could cost in a palace where love is a weakness, where weakness is a death sentence. maybe that’s why you’ve gone silent, because you’ve lived here long enough to know how quickly devotion becomes a noose.

and gods, it hurts.

no one’s ever run from him like this, not with this quiet, cutting precision. he’d rather you scream, call him a peacock, mock his silk robes—anything but this silence, this absence that feels like farewell.

because he’s not ready to let you go—not when your kiss still burns his lips, not when he’d burn the palace down to keep you safe again.

the thing about denial is satoru is incredibly good at it.

he’s practically a master of delusion—an expert in selective optimism, an artisan in pretending everything is fine, especially when it very much isn’t. it’s the first week of your silence, and he’s convinced this is a temporary misstep. a phase. a momentary lapse in your usually impeccable judgment that will surely pass.

surely.

he starts showing up in places he has no business being.

“oh! what a coincidence finding you here… in the herb garden… at dawn… when you always collect morning dew,” he says brightly one morning, attempting nonchalance. he leans far too casually against the wooden trellis, his outer robe slightly askew, strands of silver-white hair glinting with condensation from the early mist.

he even has the audacity to smile like he hasn’t been pacing that path for the last half hour, waiting for you to arrive.

your back is to him. you don’t flinch, but your hand pauses over the mint leaves for a beat too long before moving again. your fingers move with mechanical precision as you snip the stems, pile them into your basket, and keep your gaze locked firmly on the greenery in front of you.

you don’t answer.

he stands awkwardly for another breath, then another, shifting from foot to foot, clearing his throat once—twice—until you finally rise with your basket and brush past him with all the grace of a falling leaf that still manages to cut like a knife. your sleeve doesn’t even brush his. your hair smells faintly of crushed basil and dried chrysanthemum, and the scent follows you as you walk away.

undeterred, satoru escalates.

he appears in the medicinal stores that afternoon, arms folded behind his back like he owns the place. which, in a roundabout way, he technically does. his hair is freshly tied back, his sleeves rolled precisely to the elbow like he might do something useful. he’s even wearing his softer silk robes, the ones he knows don’t intimidate patients.

he produces a small pot from within his robe with the dramatic flourish of a magician mid-performance.

“a rare specimen from the southern provinces,” he announces, eyes sparkling. “white-tipped chrysanthemum. useful for calming fevers, clearing toxins, and healing broken hearts.”

he adds the last bit with a grin that slides a little crooked at the corners. lopsided. hopeful. a little pathetic.

you don’t even look up at first. your hands continue grinding dried rhubarb root into powder, movements efficient, clinical. your brow is furrowed. there’s a streak of ash under your eye from hours near the incense brazier, and your sleeves are dusted with crushed herbs. when you finally glance his way, it’s brief. dispassionate. two seconds of eye contact that make him feel like he’s been dissected and found wanting.

“i have twenty-two of these in the western cabinet,” you say, voice devoid of venom or warmth. “but thank you for the… professional courtesy.”

your bow is precise. and then you’re gone. the hem of your robe whispers against the stone as you turn the corner without a single backward glance.

he stands there in the cool quiet, alone but for the chrysanthemum pot in his hands, which suddenly feels heavier than it should. the silence in the room hums louder now. it presses at the back of his skull. he sets the pot down on the nearest shelf and doesn’t look at it again.

later, he finds himself slouched sideways across suguru’s low table, picking at the edge of a rice cracker he has no intention of eating. his forehead is pressed to the polished wood, arms sprawled out like he’s melting.

“she’s just busy. it’s nothing personal,” he mumbles into the grain of the table.

suguru, who has been dealing with palace politics since before satoru could tie his sash properly, looks at him like he’s watching a fire burn too close to the curtains.

“busy?” suguru echoes, his tone so dry it might as well be powdered bone.

satoru lifts his head a fraction, eyes shadowed under his bangs. “overwhelmed,” he insists, sitting up and tossing the uneaten cracker onto the tray. “the tribunal aftermath, new responsibilities, increased patient load—she’s under a lot of pressure.”

“you stormed a tribunal to save her,” suguru interrupts, setting down his brush with pointed slowness.

“yes, but heroically,” satoru says, arms folding tighter around himself, like he can physically ward off the doubt creeping in. “nobly.”

suguru’s eyebrow rises. high. impossibly high. it might detach from his face and float away like a skeptical spirit.

“look,” satoru mutters, shifting to lie on his back and drape an arm over his eyes like the protagonist of a particularly tragic play, “this is just a bump. a weird, quiet, icy bump. i’ve weathered worse. she’ll come around. she always does. she—she has to.”

he pauses.

“right?”

suguru doesn’t answer. just watches him in silence, eyes narrowing with the kind of older-brother pity that makes satoru want to melt through the floor.

and then he sighs. a long, theatrical sigh that fails to lighten the weight in his chest. because he’s starting to realize this isn’t just a bump.

this is a slow, cold freeze.

and you’re the one pulling the frost line farther back every time he gets close. the air between you grows thinner, colder, until every word he wants to say dies frozen on his tongue before it ever reaches you. and for the first time, he’s afraid that all the warmth in the world might not be enough to melt it.

the thing about desperation is it turns satoru into a mastermind of madness.

week two dawns, and your icy silence is a fortress his charm can’t breach, so he pivots. he schemes. he crafts plans so absurd they’d make court poets weep for their lost dignity. you can’t be mad he saved you—impossible—so this is just a phase, a fleeting misstep he’ll charm into oblivion.

his opening gambit? a theatrical ailment, served with flair.

“my pulse races, i can’t eat, and sleep’s a stranger,” he proclaims one morning, materializing at your workstation like a ghost draped in pale silk, robes pristine but hair gleaming as if he spent an hour brushing it to catch the dawn’s glow. he leans over your table, just close enough for his sleeve to graze a vial, voice dripping with mock woe. “also, my palms sweat when i see… certain people—which is definitely not you!”

the apothecary hall hums with early light, golden rays slicing through lattice windows, casting woven shadows across stone. camphor and dried licorice root scent the air, sharp and heavy. junior assistants shuffle behind, sorting valerian and lotus pods, their murmurs a soft drone.

you’re a statue, unmoved, flipping a ledger page, ink brush scratching measurements with ruthless calm. “sounds like a minor imbalance,” you say, voice a blade, clean and cold. “chrysanthemum tea and more sleep.”

satoru gasps—gasps, hand to chest, staggering back like your words are divine judgment. a pestle clatters from an assistant’s grip, a tea bowl teeters on a shelf, wobbling like his pride. “none of that worked,” he insists, eyes wide, tragic. “it’s chronic. possibly terminal. i need daily checkups. twice daily, for… observation.”

you don’t reply, just pluck a jar of calming ointment from a cabinet and set it on the table’s edge with a thud, not sparing him a glance. he snatches it, clutching it like a sacred talisman, bowing with such reverence his hair spills forward, a silver curtain brushing the floor.

that’s the spark.

what follows is a campaign satoru deems elegant, a symphony of strategy. in truth, it’s a farce teetering on lunacy.

he turns sleuth, all subtle inquiries and innocent smiles. he grills kitchen staff on your lunch habits—bitter plum candies, you love them. he corners a laundry maid about your robes—same deep indigo, always pressed. he charms couriers for your midday haunts—west pavilion, near the koi pond. harmless, he swears, just… research. he scribbles notes, tucked in his sleeve, scrawled between council dronings: tools right to left, hums odd rhythms, hates wasted ink.

he’s not stalking. he’s conducting a study, a meticulous survey of your existence.

“reconnaissance,” he mutters one afternoon, crouched behind a decorative screen in the infirmary’s rear hall, wedged between a linen cart and a scroll of spleen meridians, half-unrolled like his dignity.

it’s a ritual now. daily excuses, each more brazen. a fan “dropped” near your herbs, its silk tassel suspiciously pristine. a scroll “forgotten” on your desk, its contents a poem he swears isn’t his. a comb—his personal seal carved deep, definitely not his—left by your inkstone. a pouch of dried dates, “slipped” from his sleeve, suspiciously your favorite.

he times his returns perfectly, catching the flicker of annoyance in your eyes, the slow sigh as you spot his silhouette. your jaw tightens, lips purse, gaze narrows like you’re diagnosing a plague.

“oh, thank the heavens,” he says one afternoon, kneeling by your table, robes pooling like spilled moonlight, embroidery glinting in the sun. “i feared this comb lost forever.”

“that comb is carved with your seal,” you deadpan, stirring crushed kudzu, steam curling around your face. “you’re the only one here who uses that seal as inner palace manager.”

he gasps, hand to heart. “so it is mine. a miracle.”

assistants exchange glances. one chokes back a laugh, sleeve muffling the sound. another’s eyes roll so far they might never return. you just stir, unamused, the bowl’s steam hiding the twitch of your mouth.

suguru finds him later, crouched behind a silk screen in the medicine hall’s corner, half-veiled by pressure-point charts and an abandoned anatomy scroll.

satoru’s staring at you mixing tinctures, gaze soft as if you’re a rare painting or a storm breaking over mountains. your sleeves are rolled, ginger staining your fingers, brow furrowed as you test the liquid’s thickness. a stray hair slips free, brushing your cheek each time you lean, and he tracks it like a comet.

“are you… spying?” suguru asks, voice teetering between worry and exhaustion.

“reconnaissance,” satoru says, eyes never leaving you. “completely different.”

“how?”

“it’s dignified.”

suguru’s sigh could topple empires. he walks away, leaving satoru to his vigil.

he stays, knees aching, drafts chilling his ankles, even as shift bells chime and servants pass with raised brows and whispered gossip. he can’t stop. watching you work—your precise hands, your quiet focus—is the only time the world feels right, the only time you’re close, even if you won’t see him.

your silence can’t be anger, not when he saved you, not when he was your shield. it’s just… a phase. you’ll crack, throw a barb, maybe hurl a vial at his head. he’d take it gladly.

he’ll keep showing up, unavoidable, until your frost thaws or you snap.

because if he’s in your orbit, you’ll have to see him eventually—right? right?

the thing about humiliation is satoru has no sense of it.

or maybe he feels it but buries it beneath stubborn vanity and desperate theatrics, draping it in silks and timed flourishes like a tragedian clutching a tattered script. he’s not wrong—you can’t be mad he saved you—so he barrels forward, undaunted, a peacock in a storm.

week three crashes in like summer monsoons—heavy, unyielding, impossible to ignore. satoru’s antics scale to operatic madness, each act more brazen than the last.

it begins at a court ceremony, the air thick with incense curling like specters around bored officials’ heads. sunlight seeps through high lattice windows, spilling gold across tiled floors, glinting off jade pins and silk fans fluttering like moth wings. courtiers murmur, voices low, while a servant’s dropped tray earns a hissed rebuke that echoes faintly.

you stand beside the inner palace physician, posture rigid, face a mask, eyes fixed forward, your refusal to see him sharper than any blade.

he notices. gods, he notices.

so he “collapses”—clutching his chest, dropping to his knees with a choked gasp mid-chant, silk robes pooling like melted snow. the sacred hymn stumbles, a musician’s brow arches, but the koto strings hum on. “weakness,” he rasps, voice cracking just enough to sell it, hand trembling as he sways. “sudden… overwhelming…”

you glide to him, linen rustling, herbal scent trailing like a faint curse. kneeling, you press two fingers to his wrist, jaw tight as iron. his pulse? steady as a war drum.

“your hands are so healing,” he murmurs, lips parted, lashes low, a saintly look ruined by the smirk tugging his mouth.

you drop his wrist like it’s plague-ridden.

“get up,” you say, voice flat as slate.

he pouts. “but—”

“up.”

he rises, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes, their shimmer catching the light like a winter lake, regal and utterly shameless.

it spirals from there.

next, the rash. “a mysterious affliction,” he whispers one afternoon, leaning in the apothecary doorway like he’s spilling state secrets. his robes are artfully mussed, a few silver hairs astray for effect, his seal as inner palace manager glinting on his belt. “in places too improper to show anyone else.”

you don’t look up from your mortar, grinding ginseng with mechanical precision. “i trust your medical discretion,” he sighs, hand over heart, theatrical as a funeral ode.

you gesture for a eunuch assistant without a blink. satoru dismisses him in five minutes, claiming a “miraculous recovery,” his grin brighter than the noon sun.

then, the hiccups. “three days,” he tells a dubious herbalist, face grave between hiccups so staged they could headline a festival. “unprovoked. incurable.” they flare only when you’re near, vanishing the instant you leave. “hic—lady rin fainted in the greenhouse—hic—scandalous—hic—heat or a lover?—hic—”

you shove a pressure point chart his way and keep walking. he trails you, hiccuping like a deranged waterfowl, robes swishing in your wake.

he takes to hiding behind potted plants—literal, not figurative. you catch the glint of embroidered silk behind a jasmine bush near the treatment wing. it rustles. he sneezes. you don’t pause. the gardeners are less forgiving; one finds a scarf snagged in a fig tree and mutters about cursed spirits with tacky taste.

a palace maid starts a betting pool on a parchment scrap behind the tea station. by midweek, court ladies wager on his next ailment: lunar migraines, aphrodisiac allergies, silence sensitivity. the tally’s pinned to a beam, fluttering like a rebel flag.

suguru finds him one evening, propped against a doorframe outside the record room, squinting at his reflection in a polished bronze tea tray. “what are you doing?” suguru asks, voice flat as a stepped-on reed.

“finding my best angle,” satoru says, tilting his chin, robes catching the lamplight like liquid frost. “this side’s devastating.”

“why?”

“some of us care about aesthetics, suguru.”

suguru stares three heartbeats, then leaves without a word, sandals slapping stone. satoru sighs, adjusts his sleeve, rechecks the tray. the problem isn’t his tactics—clearly, it’s the lighting.

because you can’t be furious. this is just a phase, a fleeting frost he’ll melt with enough flair. he’ll keep performing, unavoidable, until you laugh or snap—either’s a win.

the thing about pretending is the mask eventually cracks.

week four creeps in like a slow fog—dense, suffocating, clinging to satoru’s bones. his schemes, once fueled by giddy denial, turn brittle, their spark snuffed out. you’re not mad he saved you—surely not—but your silence is a void, and his antics no longer draw your gaze. still, he can’t stop, even as the performance bleeds into something raw, something real.

he spends an afternoon perched in a tree outside your window, teetering on a gnarled branch not meant for a man in layered silk. robes bunch under his knees, snagging on rough bark, his personal seal as inner palace manager glinting at his waist. ceremonial hairpins clink with each shift, the branch groaning under his weight.

petals drift into his lap, mingling with dust and a bold beetle that crawls up his sleeve. he swats it, muttering, as sap drips onto his shoulder, staining the silk. birds mock him from above; a maid below stifles a giggle, scurrying off.

he stays for hours, legs numb, arms clutching the trunk, eyes fixed on the lantern’s warm flicker behind your rice paper screen. a breeze carries distant gossip, the clack of slippers, the faint crash of a dropped mortar from the apothecary wing. he dozes off—chin to chest, cheek mashed against bark, mouth slack, snoring softly, undignified. a sparrow shits on his sleeve and flees.

your window slides open, airing out the stale warmth. he jolts awake, flailing, a squawk escaping as he tumbles—a sprawl of silk and limbs hitting dew-soaked grass with a grunt that echoes through the courtyard. leaves tangle in his hair, a grass stain blooms on his shoulder, a twig juts from his sash. one robe sleeve hangs off, his hairpin crooked.

you stare down.

“i was inspecting landscaping,” he croaks, blinking up, voice raw, throat scraped from days of shouting your name. “root systems. erosion. vital work.”

your eyes narrow. you slide the window shut, the wood’s soft thud louder than any rebuke.

his voice starts failing after that. he calls after you—across training fields, past koi ponds, through garden paths—first hopeful, then frantic, then ragged with need. his throat burns, words slurring, a dry cough haunting quiet moments, like his own body rebels. you never turn, not even when he trips over his sandals, voice cracking on your name.

“you’re overworking yourself,” suguru says one morning, watching satoru prod a congealed pile of rice. the breakfast hall buzzes—teacups clink, servants weave with platters of dumplings and lotus root—but satoru sits still, a ghost in the chaos where he once shone. his robes sag, collar limp, sash half-tied, dark crescents bruising under his eyes. he hasn’t slept, not truly, not in a way that heals.

“i’m fine,” he rasps, voice a brittle whisper, throat raw.

a thread frays from his sleeve, tugged absently for half an hour. a maid swaps his tea for honey water; it sits untouched, steam curling into nothing.

he stops performing—not by choice, but because his body betrays him. the court notices, their amused whispers turning wary. “cursed?” one mutters under the moon-viewing pavilion’s arch. “heartbreak,” an older consort replies, fan slow, knowing, “untreatable by herbs.”

the betting pool withers; no one bets on a man breaking in plain sight.

a young court lady tries teasing him during a scroll signing, giggling about his missing sash. he looks through her, face blank—not cold, just gone. her smile fades, and she retreats, fan drooping.

the emperor summons him. the chamber reeks of aged wood and sandalwood, cicadas shrieking outside, a moth dancing near the lantern.

“your distractions are… obvious,” the emperor says, voice mild over a porcelain cup of spiced tea. “have you sworn to starve?”

satoru blinks slowly, words sinking in late. “i’m capable,” he says, voice fragile, unconvinced.

the emperor sighs, cup clinking softly. “suguru, pinch him when he sighs.”

“gladly,” suguru mutters, already poised by the window.

he pinches satoru at the next council briefing. satoru yelps, startling a western envoy who drops his brush. “sorry,” satoru says, straightening, blinking fast, “muscle spasm. stress. common.”

no one buys it, least of all him.

you pass him in the apothecary hall later, face blank, pace even, tray of powdered herbs in hand, fingers stained with crushed petals. your sleeve brushes his, a fleeting touch that stops his breath, his hand twitching, hoping for your gaze.

you don’t look. not a flicker.

he wonders if he’s fading, if he’s a ghost you never truly saw.

the thing about hitting rock bottom is satoru drags props and a crowd with him.

by week five, even the imperial koi dodge him, one darting away when he slumps over the pond, sighing into its depths like a poet scorned. a servant mutters, “talking to fish again?”

another hisses, “no, monologuing. there’s a difference.” his antics swing from pitiful to deranged, depending on the hour and how close you are before he sneezes. palace staff whisper behind sleeves, watching a tragedy laced with farce unfold in real time.

it starts with rain—a relentless downpour soaking roof tiles, seeping into scroll rooms, turning courtyard stones slick as eel skin. it clings to bones, weighs hair, chills marrow. attendants scurry with parasols, eunuchs huddle under eaves, guards eye the sky, dreaming of indoor shifts. the head gardener slips twice, cursing weather gods with a rake in hand.

satoru lingers outside your quarters.

four hours.

he leans against a wooden post, a drenched statue of damp nobility and sniffles. rain beads on his jaw, dripping onto his robe’s collar, silver hair plastered to his cheekbones like wet silk threads. his soaked outer robe clings, transparent, revealing embroidered underlayers meant for court, not courtyards. his slippers squelch, squishing with each shift. he sneezes every five minutes, loud, pathetic, drawing glances from servants who now reroute entirely.

you open the door—not from pity, but because maids are betting in the side hall, giggling: five minutes more? ten? the cook wagers candied ginger he’ll faint; a laundress bets on a song; the steward swears he saw satoru’s eyelashes blink code.

you sigh, step inside, return with gloves and a cloth mask. your hair’s knotted tight, sleeves pinned, expression sharp enough to carve jade. he coughs, theatrical anguish. “you’re treating me like i’m plague-ridden.”

“you are plague-ridden,” you snap, gloves crackling as you seize his wrist, touch clinical, cold. his skin’s chilled, pulse steady despite his act.

he leans into your grip. you flick his forehead, precise as a dart.

he whines all day, mostly to suguru, who slumps in the physician’s lounge, regretting every choice leading here. an unread scroll lies in his lap, herbal poultice stench thick in the air. outside, birds chirp, mocking the farce within.

“she wore gloves, suguru,” satoru moans, swaddled in three blankets, sipping a garlic-laced brew that reeks of despair. his personal seal as inner palace manager dangles from his sash, glinting dully. “gloves. like i’m a festering toadstool.”

“you’re feverish,” suguru says, eyes on his scroll. “you are a toadstool.”

satoru gasps, rattling a tea set. an attendant flinches, a teacup teeters, caught by a mortified apprentice.

then, self-diagnoses. “nocturnal hemogoblins,” he declares one evening, bursting into your workroom, clutching his side, face pale from sleeplessness and a dusting of tragic powder. “it’s dire.”

you don’t look up from your parchment. “you mean hemoglobinemia.”

he beams. “you spoke to me.”

you freeze, brush hovering, face souring like you bit a rotten plum. you resume writing, silent. he tallies seven words in his head, a victory he celebrates like a war won.

his ploys escalate. rare herbs appear—ones you haven’t seen since southern training, wrapped in silk not from palace stores, their earthy scent lingering in halls. he trails sandalwood one day, golden pollen the next, a perfumed cloud like incense smoke.

“found this lying around,” he says, setting a saffron root sprig on your table, its crimson threads vibrant against wood.

you raise a brow. “saffron root from the western isles… lying around?”

he shrugs, smile strained.

then, disaster. he brings a volatile herb you’ve warned against, cradled in a velvet box like a jewel. within an hour, his face swells—left eye shut, lip ballooned, nose a vivid plum. “i feel… handsome,” he slurs, voice muffled.

you administer antidote with the weary air of someone resigned to fate, humming faintly, maybe to cope. your fingers are deft, grip firm, expression a blank wall. “where’d you get this?” you ask, spreading minty salve with a spatula reeking of despair.

“sources,” he wheezes.

that night, suguru catches him before a mirror tray, rehearsing lines like a doomed actor. a breeze lifts the corridor’s sheer curtain, a moth fluttering past.

“oh! fancy meeting you here, exactly where i knew you’d be!” satoru chirps, smoothing his robe, chin tilted for sincerity—looking haggard instead. “new hairpin? it suits you perfectly!” “your humor theory’s brilliant. also your face. mostly your face.”

suguru sighs, shoulders sagging under satoru’s folly. “gods save us,” he mutters. “he’s full peacock.”

satoru twirls a mugwort sprig, eyes glassy, grinning at his warped reflection. “she’ll talk tomorrow. i feel it.”

suguru doesn’t argue—not when satoru looks like he’s praying to a deaf god.

because rock bottom isn’t the end, not when you haven’t looked at him. he’ll keep performing, props and all, until you see him again.

the thing about spectacle is it spills beyond the stage, especially when you’re satoru—inner palace manager, supposedly useless eunuch, suspiciously well-connected, and now openly consulting marble lions for romance tips.

by week six, palace gossip sheds its humor. giggles behind perfumed fans turn to pity, whispers hushing as he enters, soft glances heavy with concern and secondhand shame. attendants quiet, kitchen staff wince at his approach. he’s no longer the flamboyant eccentric juggling concubine schedules, overseeing embroidery, delivering orchids with a bow. he’s a wilted ribbon snagged on your heel, trailing the apothecary who won’t spare him a glance.

the man who once danced through courtyards now stumbles into furniture, walks into half-shut doors, topples garden lanterns, eyes locked on you. you’re not mad he saved you—impossible—so this is just a phase, he tells himself, even as denial frays.

“i think i’ve forgotten how to swallow,” he declares post-midday meal, voice grave, like he’s diagnosing his own doom. honeyed yam lingers in the air, courtiers’ fans rustling faintly outside in the spring heat.

you don’t look up from your scroll, brush scratching ink. “that’s a tragedy,” you say, dry as dust.

“what if it’s muscular or psychological? some stress-induced esophageal issue?”

“chew slowly. drink water.”

“but what if i choke?”

“then i’ll have peace at last.”

he haunts formal events, a mournful specter five steps behind you—always five, counted under his breath like a lifeline. “one, two, three—damn it,” he mutters, crashing into a eunuch with a hairpin tray when you veer past the lotus fountain. the clatter echoes, pins scattering like stars. three attendants scramble to clean it.

you don’t pause.

his hair, once a silver crown, rebels, strands haloing unevenly, a jade pin perpetually crooked. his robes, once pristine, misbutton, sashes unraveling, trailing like a poet’s failed verse. he’s less courtier, more shipwreck, washed ashore after a botched love letter.

in the east garden, he slumps against a mossy lion statue, sighing so loud the gardener pauses, rake hovering, checking for wounds. “should i go for subtle longing or theatrical suffering?” satoru asks the lion, squinting at its weathered snout. “be honest.”

the lion’s silent. a maid stifles a snort, fleeing.

suguru finds him there—again. “are you talking to rocks now?” he asks, arms crossed.

“he listens without judging,” satoru says, solemn.

“he also doesn’t talk back.”

“that’s the appeal.”

satoru’s decline hits new lows. suguru catches him outside your quarters, face blank, as if willing himself into the stonework.

“you’re groveling for scraps of her attention like a starving dog,” suguru says, voice sharp but steady.

satoru’s head snaps up, eyes flashing, lips jutting in a pout that could shame a spoiled child. “groveling? me? the inner palace bends to my every whim! and soon the empire!” he huffs, crossing his arms, personal seal glinting at his waist. “i’m strategizing, suguru. strategizing! she’s just too stubborn to see my brilliance yet.”

he stomps a foot, robe swishing petulantly, then jabs a finger at suguru. “and don’t you dare call it groveling when i’m clearly executing a masterful campaign of devotion!”

suguru raises a brow, unmoved. “a campaign? you spent three hours yesterday faking heart palpitations just so she’d take your pulse. then you begged for a recheck because ‘it might be irregular.’”

“my heart does race when she’s near,” satoru says, chin high, though his voice wavers, petulance cracking. “that’s a medical fact!”

“it’s called infatuation, your highness, not an emergency.”

“and that swallowing thing could happen to anyone,” satoru adds, puffing his chest, but his shoulders slump, the fight leaking out.

suguru’s gaze softens, concern replacing jest. “this isn’t sustainable, satoru. you’re the crown prince. this behavior—it’s beneath you.”

satoru stiffens, petulance fading to a flicker of dread. “i know my place,” he says, but the lie tastes like ash, heavy on his tongue. his shoulders sag, bravado crumbling under the weight of his secret.

the emperor summons him that evening. the chamber glows dim, sandalwood incense crackling, its nostalgic scent thick in the stillness. tea steams untouched in a porcelain cup, its delicate aroma lost.

“you’re not sleeping,” the emperor says, eyeing him over his teacup, voice calm, not accusatory.

“i’m fine,” satoru lies, sitting rigid, eyes shadowed, nails carving crescents into his palms. his sleeve bears an ink blot, smudged from hours hunched over pointless scrolls.

he’s not fine.

“whoever she is,” the emperor says, pausing, gaze unreadable, “she’s left a mark.”

both of them know who is his father referring to.

the thing about spiraling is you run out of masks to hide behind.

week seven slips in like damp air—silent, heavy, inescapable. no corridor theatrics, no feverish wails, no ailments flung at your workspace. the palace corridors echo emptier, as if bracing for a storm. satoru stops performing, and the silence left screams louder than his boldest quip.

no giggling attendants trail him. no court ladies stage stumbles for his glance. he doesn’t lurk by the apothecary hall, conjuring maladies. he watches—from shadowed walkways, courtyards, corners where he can feign a passing errand. his eyes follow you, a silent question too raw to voice.

in court, his voice fades. once a spark in the dull churn of palace bureaucracy, now he speaks only when called, words brief, humor gone. no jabs at garish sashes, no quips to ease tense silences. he lets the quiet fester. when he skips sparring with the southern envoy—a woman who thrives on his banter—heads turn.

suguru notices, arms crossed in the council chamber, head tilted, eyes asking: what’s happening?

the truth lies at your door.

before dawn, satoru leaves heliotrope bouquets at your threshold—small purple blooms, fragile yet vivid, whispering devotion, unspoken love. not native, not in season, their existence defies reason.

he pulls strings—his authority as inner palace manager, his personal seal flashing in shadowed deals with garden masters and secret merchants. delivered under moonlight, wrapped in fine parchment, stems cut sharp, they’re offerings to a shrine only he tends.

he never signs them, never speaks of them. he waits—behind a painted screen, a corridor curtain, close enough to see your fingers brush the petals. his breath catches. your face stays stone, but he sees: the pause, your fingertips lingering, the faint crease in your brow, swallowing a sigh.

each day, the bouquets grow intricate—heliotrope laced with silk one dawn, wrapped in medical gauze the next, paired with a scrawled line from a physician’s text. the message roars, wordless.

palace staff whisper. some say a ghost leaves the flowers—who rises before the fifth bell? others bet on a noble’s secret suit. a concubine swears a fox spirit’s at work. guards step around the blooms, wary, reverent.

satoru says nothing, just watches, always watches.

at night, he haunts the moonlit garden—where you kissed, where he fractured. barefoot, steps silent on stone, pale hair loose, catching moonlight like spun silver. he murmurs to the koi pond, half-hoping for answers. “she doesn’t hate me, does she?” he asks, voice a breath, hoarse.

suguru finds him there, again. “does she hate me, suguru?” satoru asks, raw, fraying.

suguru pauses, arms folded, gazing at the pond’s still surface, a breeze barely stirring it. “it’s not that simple.”

satoru exhales, shaky, slumping, rubbing his palm against his eye, exhaustion carving every line. “what did i do wrong? besides everything.”

he replays your voice, your teasing eye-rolls, how you’d answer his nonsense yet see him, real. now your tone’s cold, courteous as a blade’s edge, eyes never landing. when he nears, your wall rises, unyielding.

in a corridor, maybe chance, maybe not, you nod politely. something breaks. “don’t worry,” he mutters, bitter, sharp, “i won’t keep you. i know you find me repulsive.”

you stop, head turning, confusion and guilt flickering, but he’s gone before you settle.

his mask flakes—slow, not sudden. he skips meals, nights blur sleepless, small slights spark fury. he snaps at a scribe for smudged ink, slams a door, cracking its frame, over a misfiled scroll. his hands shake reading reports you once marked with sharp notes.

“are you well, master satoru?” a junior physician asks, soft during rounds.

he smiles, too bright, too thin. “never better.”

the court whispers—behind screens, fans—about his silence, his temper, his drift. the inner palace manager, once a dazzling oddity, fades. none suspect his crown prince blood—only suguru, the emperor, the chancellor, and chosen ministers know, their secret guarded tight. but they question his focus, his steadiness.

suguru hears it—every murmur, every doubt—and watches his friend, the empire’s sharpest mind, the boy who made consorts laugh, unravel, thread by silver thread.

because spiraling starts quiet, until it’s a scream he can’t voice.

the thing about shame is that it never arrives alone. it drags longing behind it like a train of silk, heavy and unyielding, and satoru’s learning fast that longing is a damn tyrant, bowing to no one, least of all him.

week eight’s been a fever dream of jagged edges, but now, in a corridor outside the emperor’s chambers—vermilion walls lacquered to a bloody sheen, sandalwood choking the air like incense gone sour, scrolls rustling behind paper screens like whispers of the dead, morning light slicing through lattice to scatter dust motes like ash—satoru gojo is a wreck.

his robe’s crooked, one sleeve slipping, silver hair half-loose, sticking to his sweat-slick neck, dark crescents bruising under his eyes. his breath catches, raw, as regret gnaws his ribs, sharper since last week’s bitter words. your silence, your averted eyes, the way you glide past like he’s a plague-riddled corpse you won’t bother to name—it’s worse than your barbs, worse than fury. it’s absence, and it’s killing him.

you appear, a flicker of your silhouette against the screen, steps soft on the worn runner, scrolls clutched to your chest like a shield. your jaw’s clenched, lips a tight slash, gaze fixed above his shoulder like he’s nothing, air. his heart stumbles, forgets how to beat. he moves too fast, too desperate, a man drowning.

“fancy seeing you here,” he says, breathless, slouching to fake nonchalance. it’s a lie—his voice shakes, hands twisting in his sleeves, fingers knotting silk to hide the tremor. his eyes, bloodshot, cling to you, raw, pleading.

your face doesn’t shift, cold as stone. “i need to pass,” you say, voice clipped, sharp as a blade’s edge, stepping left.

“not until you tell me what i did wrong,” he says, sliding into your path, shoulders hunching, robe swishing like a broken fan. his tone’s too raw, too sharp, betraying the ache clawing his chest.

“i have patients waiting.” you pivot right, scrolls creaking in your grip, knuckles pale.

“they can wait longer.” the words cut, harder than he meant, and he sees it—a flicker in your eyes, anger or hurt, gone before he can name it. “why are you avoiding me?”

you move left. he mirrors. you shift right. he’s there. his robe flares in dramatic waves, a stage actor mid-meltdown, planting himself with the stubborn desperation of a man who’s got nothing left to lose.

your lips press thinner, a muscle twitching in your jaw. “move,” you say, low, a warning that could draw blood.

“not until you look me in the eyes and say you’re just busy.” he drops his voice, rough, tilting his head to catch your gaze, breath unsteady, carrying a tremor of need.

you scoff, eyes dropping to the runner’s frayed weave, and duck under his arm. “i’m not avoiding you,” you lie, voice snapping like brittle wood. “i’m simply—”

“look me in the eyes and say that again,” he demands, voice low, gravelly, arm bracing against the wall, caging you without touching. his sleeve hovers near you, trembling, silk brushing the air like a ghost’s touch.

you pivot. quick. a step to the side, a swerve meant to slide past him.

he steps with you.

you dart the other way—he’s there too, like a mirror with better posture. you try a feint, then a fake-out, then a spin worthy of palace dancers. every time, he matches you beat for beat, fan flicking, robe swishing, like this was all a pre-choreographed tragedy staged just to annoy you.

“are you—are you blocking me for sport?” you hiss, ducking and weaving like a cat trying to escape a curtain.

“i consider it cardio,” he replies, far too pleased.

“you are not—” you lunge left—blocked. “—a door.” you spin right—blocked. “you are—”

he shifts again, one arm rising to lean against the opposite panel, successfully completing his transformation into the world’s most aggravating, smugly-dressed wall.

“damned peacock,” you mutter under your breath, your patience unraveling like a poorly tied sash.

he grins, all teeth and challenge. “is that panic?”

then—fate, that cruel bastard, plays its hand. in his eagerness to perform one final smug pivot, satoru overcommits. his foot catches the embroidered hem of his robe—once regal, now a treacherous coil of silk. a curse, sharp and scandalized, escapes him as his balance betrays him.

his arms flail like a bird startled mid-preen. he reaches—grabs the only thing in reach—you.

the world lurches.

you’re yanked forward in a graceless blur. scrolls burst from your sleeves like startled pigeons. your sandal skids. silk snaps. the floor rises.

you crash atop him, your knees bracketing his hips, robes tangled, your weight knocking the wind from his lungs. one hand braces on his chest, the other—lands on his thigh, then slips higher, dragged by momentum and misfortune—and then time stops.

your hand rests where no eunuch’s should be, pressing against the hard, pulsing truth of his lie. satoru’s eyes snap open, wide as moons, heart slamming, drowning the corridor’s hum, his pulse a wild drum in his throat.

you freeze, breath hitching, eyes widening in slow horror, pupils dilating until they swallow the light. your lips part, a faint gasp, your gaze locked on his lap, then flicking to his face, shock warring with disbelief. your fingers flex, instinctive, the slight pressure a spark that sets him ablaze, raw, unbearable.

his face ignites, crimson flooding ears to throat, sweat slicking his brow, matting his hair. shame burns like a pyre, but longing—eight weeks of it, festering, unspent—flares hotter, primal, coiling tight in his gut. his cock twitches under your hand, a traitor, throbbing, straining against silk, a humiliating pulse he can’t stop, fed by your touch, your horrified stare.

he tries to speak, mouth opening, closing, a fish gasping on dry land. a sound escapes—half-whimper, half-choke, not human, raw with need and mortification, a plea he can’t shape.

“y-you’re—” you start, voice a trembling whisper, hand jerking back like it’s burned, fingers curling into your palm, scrolls forgotten, scattered across the runner.

“late for a meeting!” he yelps, pitch shattering, a glass-breaking wail. he scrambles up, nearly headbutting you, sleeves flailing in a whirlwind of panic. “as are you! very late! we should go! separately! you first! or me! both!”

he shoves himself upright, stumbles, one sandal half-off, toes catching the runner, and crashes into a lantern stand. it wobbles, brass clanging like a mocking gong; he mutters a frantic, “sorry, sorry,” to the metal, voice high, fraying.

he’s gone, fleeing down the corridor like death’s on his heels, robe flapping, silver hair streaming like a comet’s tail. his footsteps echo, uneven, desperate, fading into the palace’s hum, sandalwood trailing like a curse.

he doesn’t stop until he hits the eastern wing’s darkest storage room, a crypt behind a forgotten pantry. dusty scrolls pile like forgotten sins, edges curling in stale, mildewed air. a broom slumps against a wall, bristles choked with cobwebs, spiderwebs veiling the corners, shimmering faintly in the gray sliver of light from a cracked window. the floor’s cold, gritty, biting his knees as he collapses, back slamming the door shut, sealing himself in.

his breath heaves, lungs raw, face buried in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp, tugging silver strands until his scalp stings, sweat dripping down his neck, pooling at his collarbone. shame scalds, a molten wave, but longing—weeks of your silence, your cold eyes, your absence carving him hollow—chokes him worse.

your touch, accidental, sears like a brand, your horrified gaze a knife twisting in his ribs. his cock’s still hard, painfully so, straining against his robe, a throbbing pulse that won’t relent, fed by every thought of you, every memory of your voice, your fire, your fleeting glance that once saw him whole.

he groans, low, broken, forehead pressed to his arm, cursing himself, you, the gods, the robe, the corridor, the whole damn world. his hand twitches, hovering over his lap, resisting, pleading, but the need’s a tyrant, born of eight weeks’ yearning, your sharp tongue, your gaze that cut him alive, your silence that breaks him now. he surrenders, fingers fumbling, shoving silk layers aside, fabric scraping his fevered skin, cool air hitting the heat of his flesh like a slap.

he frees himself, cock heavy, swollen, tip slick with precum that glistens in the dim light, dripping down his shaft, a shameful bead that pools on the gritty floor. he grips himself, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth, the contact a jolt that makes his hips jerk, his breath catching like a sob, raw and ragged. it’s not lust—it’s longing, raw, bleeding, for your eyes that once saw him, your barbs that cut him alive, your touch that burned through his lies.

he strokes, slow, punishing, hand tight, calluses from a hidden sword scraping sensitive skin, each slide dragging a moan, chest heaving, sweat matting his hair to his flushed cheeks, silver strands plastered across his brow, his throat bared as his head tips back, veins pulsing under sweat-slick skin.

he pictures you—your wide eyes, shocked, lips parting as you fell atop him, robe clinging to your frame, the faint herb scent on your skin, sharp and clean. he imagines your breath on his neck, your fingers deliberate, curling around him, guiding him, your voice whispering his name, not in horror but want, low and rough like it was in his dreams.

his strokes quicken, desperate, slick with precum, the wet sound obscene, echoing off dusty scrolls, bouncing in the stale air. his free hand claws the floor, nails scraping grit, fingers digging into cold stone, seeking an anchor as his body shakes, hips bucking into his fist, rhythm frantic, no control left, only need.

his moans spill, raw, unfiltered, bouncing off the walls, a litany of broken sounds. “fuck,” he gasps, voice shattering, “why you?” it’s your absence, your fire, the way you looked at him once, like he was real, now a ghost he chases.

his hand moves faster, rougher, slick and relentless, each stroke a plea for you to see him, to cut him again with your gaze. “please,” he whispers, to you, to nothing, “just look at me.” his vision blurs, tears or sweat, he can’t tell, heat coiling low, a knot tightening, pulling, until it snaps like a bowstring.

he comes hard, a shudder tearing through him, spine arching, hips jerking as he spills over his hand, thick, hot, splattering the gritty floor, staining his robe’s hem, a shameful mark that burns his eyes. his moan’s a broken cry, half your name, half a curse, echoing in the crypt-like room, jagged, raw, filling the air until it chokes him.

he collapses, sprawled across dusty linens, chest heaving, eyes wide, staring at the cracked ceiling, its fissures mirroring his fractured mind. his hand’s still wrapped around himself, slick, trembling, aftershocks fading into a hollow ache, longing unspent, pooling in his gut like poison, heavy, unyielding.

he lies there, time blurring, mildew’s scent thicker now, mingling with his sweat and release, air suffocating, pressing his chest. his hair’s plastered to his face, silver strands streaking his flushed cheeks, robe a tangled wreck, one sleeve torn, another inside-out, silk clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. he’s gutted, undone by his own hand, your touch a memory he can’t unmake, your horrified eyes a wound he can’t close, bleeding him dry.

later, he emerges, robe barely tied, one sleeve dangling, hair damp at the temples, flushed like he’s wrestled a demon and lost. his steps falter, sandals scuffing stone, smile forced, brittle, not touching his bloodshot eyes, dark crescents bruising beneath, cheekbones sharp from skipped meals, skin pale as moonlight gone wrong.

suguru passes him, dark robe pristine, pausing mid-step. “you look like you fought an assassin,” he says, flat, one brow lifting, eyes scanning satoru’s ruin—flushed skin, trembling fingers, sweat-slick hair matted to his neck.

“calisthenics,” satoru chirps, too bright, voice cracking, a pitch too high. “fantastic for circulation.”

suguru’s eyes narrow, lingering on the rumpled robe, the damp hair, the faint bruise on satoru’s knuckles from clawing the floor. “circulation,” he repeats, slow, heavy with doubt, like he smells the lie and the shame beneath it.

satoru hurries off, pace quick, like he’s fleeing a fire he set. his robe flutters, misaligned, dragon’s tail mocking him with every step. he doesn’t dare picture your face, your hand, your horror—not again.

he’s considering faking his death. or switching identities. exile in a fishing village sounds appealing.

(give him two hours. maybe three.)

a/n: LMAO pls don’t mind part one ending here. as i said this is meant to be a oneshot only 🧍🏻‍♀️

taglist: @n1vi @victoria1676 @rannie-16 @satokitten @fwgojos @sanestsanstan @satorusbabyy @simplymygojo @ch0cocat1207 @fancypeacepersona @yamadramallamaqueen @iamrgo @cuntysaurusrex @blushedcheri @achildofaphrodite @yourgirljasmine5 @mrscarletellaswife @satorupi @dayeeter @lovelyreaderlovesreadingromance @mo0sin @erens-heart @slutlight2ndver @yutazure @luvvcho @eolivy @se-phi-roth @gojowifefrfr @00anymous00 @peachysweet-mwah @heyl820 @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @weewoowongachimichanga @ssetsuka @etsuniiru @ehcilhc @synapsis @michi7w7 @perqbeth @viclike @shocum @saitamaswifey @dizzyyyy0 @c43rr13s @faeiseavv @beereadzzz @jkslaugh97 @wise-fangirl @tu-tusii @applepi405

#tbr

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lomlsatoru · 3 days ago

Text

HEY, EMO BOY! - CHOSO KAMO

summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.

word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)

content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."

You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."

She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”

“You spilled beer on my shoes.”

“And I’ve had character development after that.”

You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.

The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.

“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”

You blink at her.

“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”

You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”

“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

And you’re not.

Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.

And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.

The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.

You don’t flinch.

You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.

Not by the music. Not really.

By him.

The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.

He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.

His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.

You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.

And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.

Like he knew.

Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.

The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.

Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.

At one point, you swear he looks at you again.

Really looks.

And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.

You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.

Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?

By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.

"Where are you going?"

You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."

But you do.

You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.

Maybe he already has.

You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.

You tell yourself you just needed some air.

That’s all.

Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.

The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.

“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”

You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”

You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”

“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”

You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”

You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.

You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.

Yes, this was fun.

Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.

Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.

But god, you want to.

Even just once.

A glimpse. A moment. Anything.

And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—

The door swings open again.

And this time, it’s him.

Panic.

Real, irrational, full-body panic.

Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.

Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.

And his eyes—

His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.

You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—

Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”

But it’s too late.

Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—

He’s walking toward you.

Slow, calm, confident.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.

You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”

But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And now—

Now he’s standing right in front of you.

He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.

“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”

You blink.

He knows.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—

“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”

You slap a hand over your face.

Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.

When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.

Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.

It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.

“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”

You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.

And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

You definitely stop breathing.

Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is: “I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”

He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.

“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.

You nod way too fast.

So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”

You bury your face in your hands again.

He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Oh, how you were so very fucked.

You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.

Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”

Like it’s a gift.

And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.

“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.

To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”

shoko: hello?? where are you???

shoko: ANSWER ME

shoko: sigh

shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice

shoko: i’m checking your location.

shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE

shoko: 2 missed calls

shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.

you: dot dot dot

shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.

you: emergency phone call

shoko: 🧍‍♀️

shoko: you’re a terrible liar

you: ok but like.

you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency

shoko: OH MY GOD.

shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.

you: he talked to me

you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO

shoko: AND???

you: and i said dumb shit

you: and he still talked to me

you: and i think i blacked out at one point??

you: but like. the good kind

shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???

you: barely

you: i think i ascended actually

shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????

you: he remembered me from the front row 😭

you: called me cute 😭😭

you: asked for my name 😭😭😭

you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭

shoko: …girl.

shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic

shoko: but i might start planning your wedding

you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust

you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig

you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE

shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now

You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.

You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.

“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.

Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”

“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

You blink. Wait. Right now??

You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.

The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.

The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”

Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???

“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”

“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”

“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.

You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?

“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.

Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally???

Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”

Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”

But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.

“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”

You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.

And for the first time—you think maybe you do.

He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”

Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.

He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.

Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.

You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.

“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.

You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.

You swallow. “A little.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”

You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.

And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”

His voice is soft now, just for you.

You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”

He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”

You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.

“…Not yet,” you murmur.

And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”

Great. Now you’re even more nervous.

He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.

He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.

Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.

You're staring. Absolutely entranced.

“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.

You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.

He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”

Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”

He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.

Your breath hitches.

“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.

“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.

He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”

You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.

Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.

You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.

“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”

You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”

His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.

“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.

“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.

His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.

“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”

He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.

“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.

You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.

“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”

You blink. “Next time?”

He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”

And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”

You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.

You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”

His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”

Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”

The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.

Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.

And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.

Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.

The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.

But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.

Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.

And that’s when you realize it.

He’s playing for them—but looking at you.

And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?

It’s all for you.

The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.

He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.

You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”

His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”

And damn, now he’s the one blushing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.

“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before—cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”

You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”

He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”

Pause.

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.

So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”

He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”

You weren’t. You were listening to him.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.

And then—

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your breath hitches. “Huh?”

He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.

Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”

He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”

You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”

He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”

And just like that, you’re done for.

“...I guess I could go for a drink.”

His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”

The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.

He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.

“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.

He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.

“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.

He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”

You nod slowly. “He still around?”

Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”

There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”

You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”

His lips curve. “Touché.”

You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.

Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.

Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart flutters. “Same place?”

He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”

The night doesn’t end there.

He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.

And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.

You reach your place too soon.

You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

He steps closer instead.

There’s a breath between you. Just one.

And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your heart might’ve actually stopped.

You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:

you: SHOKO

you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP

you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY

shoko: it’s literally 1am

shoko: you better be on fire

you: I KISSED HIM

shoko: what

shoko: WHO

shoko: WAIT

shoko: WAIT.

you: YES. HIM.

shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???

you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES

shoko: oh my god you’re so gone

you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA

you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you: I KNOW

You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.

Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming call: Choso.

Your heart stutters.

You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”

His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.

There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.

He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”

“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”

You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.

“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”

Your stomach flips.

You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”

And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.

You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.

This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.

You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—

—and damn.

They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.

“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.

“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”

He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”

You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.

“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”

He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”

You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”

He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”

That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.

He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.

Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.

Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.

Your brows lift. “You serious?”

He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.

You slip your hand into his.

He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.

You sway.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.

He smirks. “I’m not.”

You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.

His hand traces slow circles on your back.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”

He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.

Not when the song ends.

Not when the next one starts.

Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.

You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.

Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.

For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.

“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.

The pause stretches.

“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.

He nods once. Barely.

You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”

And that’s all it takes.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.

His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.

Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.

And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:

“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”

You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”

That gets a reaction.

His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re already kissing him again.

This time it’s different.

Less hesitant.

More hungry.

Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.

His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“You’re trouble.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”

And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”

The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.

You swear he’s doing it on purpose.

But you don’t stop him.

The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.

"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.

You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”

“Me too.”

You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “You make me nervous.”

You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.

And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.

He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”

You nod. “If you answer.”

He grins. “Always.”

You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.

“Goodnight, Choso.”

And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.

Heart pounding. Lips tingling.

You wake up with your heart still pounding.

And not because of a nightmare.

Nope. This was worse.

Because it was real.

You kissed Choso.

Again.

And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.

You’re so doomed.

Your phone vibrates.

You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.

choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say

choso: thank you for last night

You freeze.

Sit up slowly.

Your heartbeat? Violent.

You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:

you: it was nothing :)

Immediately after sending it:

you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please

And then:

you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse

Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.

Then it buzzes again.

choso: you’re not being weird.

choso: you’re being adorable

choso: i like you too

choso: also… can i see you again tonight?

You shriek into your pillow.

And then type:

you: you better

You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.

come to the studio. i want you to hear something.

Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.

He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.

He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.

And the words? They burn.

It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.

When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.

“…You wrote that?” you ask.

Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”

“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.

You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”

He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You nod before your brain even catches up.

And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.

The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.

His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.

But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.

“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”

His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.

Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.

The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.

Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.

He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.

His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.

“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.

“You’re killing me.”

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

The path to the bedroom is a blur.

You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.

The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.

You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”

“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”

You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.

It’s not frantic. It’s worship.

The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.

When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”

His touch starts soft. Teasing.

His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck... all this for me?”

His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.

“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”

He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.

It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.

“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”

You nod, breathless.

He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.

It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly.

You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”

And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.

You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.

He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.

He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.

And fuck.

He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.

You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”

And oh, does he eat.

He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.

You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.

Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—

You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.

When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.

And he licks his lips.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.

He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.

You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.

Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.

“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”

His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.

He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

But it’s not pain. No—never that.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.

“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.

And he fucks you.

Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.

“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.

He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.

Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.

With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.

He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”

You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”

That’s all he needs.

He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.

His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.

And then—finally—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.

"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”

You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.

Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.

You don’t want him to either.

And neither does he.

So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.

After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.

He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”

He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.

Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.

Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.

You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”

He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”

You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.

A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.

He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither would he.

So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.

Exactly where you both want to be.

author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

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