mangowetwipes

[mangowetwipes]

sin bin sweetheart.

summary: when your housing falls through, the last person you want to end up living with is your best friend’s arrogant, hockey-playing brother, satoru gojo. sharing a space with him feels like being trapped in the sin bin, but the longer you live together, the harder it is to ignore the fact that breaking the rules might be worth the penalty.

pairing: ice hockey player!gojo satoru x fem!reader details: fluff, angst, smut (fingering, nipple play, riding, couch sex, shower sex), enemies to lovers au, roommates au, best friend’s brother au, college au. contains: profanity, alcohol consumption, mentions of death. art by kynlv1. 16.2k words.

sin bin (n.) – (in sport) a box or bench to which offending players can be sent for a period as a penalty during a game, especially in ice hockey.

01. how to piss off your new roommate 101 (an introductory course).

There are only three rules you asked Satoru Gojo to follow:

No bringing random girls home.

No hockey gear all over the living room.

Do your own laundry.

Sure, it might not be your house, because, technically, you’re the one moving in, but you think you’re being pretty reasonable. It’s just your bad luck that your new roommate happens to be the worst at following rules, because right now, at one o’clock in the morning, you are subject to him breaking rule number one already—and very loudly, at that.

There’s a thud against the wall, and a muffled laugh, followed by a low, drawn-out groan that sends every nerve in your body firing at once—though not in the way Gojo’s current “guest” might be feeling. You clutch the pillow over your head, suffocating yourself with cotton in a desperate attempt to block out the obscene noises. It doesn’t work. Nothing does. Not your loud sighs, not the rustle of your own blanket, not even the way you jam your phone’s speaker against your ear and crank your playlist until the bass rattles.

Your playlist doesn’t stand a chance against Gojo’s bedroom door and his absolute disregard for your sanity. 

Rule number one, you think bitterly, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the bare minimum. You had been so clear when you’d moved in three days ago. No random girls; no trail of hockey gear sprawling through the apartment; no mountains of dirty laundry festering in the communal space. Simple, enforceable rules—or so you thought. Apparently, Satoru Gojo is not the kind of man who respects laws, rules, or any other socially acceptable guidelines for how to coexist with another human being. Especially not when he’s this loud.

A particularly obnoxious moan makes you snap. You swing out of bed, feet hitting the cold wooden floor, and stomp into the hallway. You pause in front of his bedroom door, hand hovering in the air, knuckles inches away from knocking. Maybe you should just let it go. It’s not worth the fight. Not worth seeing that infuriating grin of his, the one that makes you want to throw a shoe at his face.

You hear another giggle from inside.

Nevermind. Definitely worth it.

You pound on the door. “Gojo!”

The noises cut off instantly. For a blissful moment, there’s silence—no laughter, no groans, just the sound of your own shallow breathing and the pounding of your fist against the door. Then comes the telltale rustle of sheets, followed by footsteps, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking his sweet time just to make you more irritated.

“Roomie?” His voice drips with amusement, low and lazy, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Can’t sleep? You could’ve just asked nicely if you wanted me to tuck you in.”

Your jaw drops, heat rushing to your cheeks—not from embarrassment but from pure, undiluted fury. “Rule. Number. One,” you bite out, enunciating every word. “Do you even remember what rule number one is?”

There’s a soft laugh on the other side of the door, and you can hear his guest giggling faintly too, like this is all some joke to them.

“You’re no fun,” he says. The doorknob clicks, turning slowly.

The door swings open to reveal Satoru Gojo, all six-foot-something of hockey-playing, rule-breaking glory, leaning against the frame. He’s shirtless—of course he’s shirtless—skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your brain. His white hair is mussed and sticking out at odd angles, like he’s just come off the ice—or, well, not the ice, but something just as irritatingly active.

He smirks down at you. “Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper. Or… Are you jealous?”

“Jealous?” Your voice cracks an octave higher. “Of what, exactly? The fact that you sound like you’re starring in a bad porno?”

His laugh is immediate, loud, and unrestrained. He leans closer, bracing one arm against the frame just above your head, his bare chest far too close for comfort. “If you were watching, it’d be a good one.”

Your face burns hotter. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs again, and the girl—this poor, probably very lovely girl—steps into the hallway behind him, wearing one of his oversized jerseys and looking anywhere but at you.

“I should… probably go,” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” you mutter before he can say anything. “You probably should.”

She scurries past you without a second glance, and you suddenly feel a little bad for her. Not because of Gojo—though he is the worst—but because she has no idea what she’s walked into. She’s just another girl in a long line of them, another notch on his stick, and probably clueless to the fact that he thrives on the attention, not the intimacy.

Gojo watches her disappear around the corner, then turns back to you, his smile gone slack. “You didn’t have to be mean.”

“I wasn’t,” you snap. “I was trying to sleep. Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you and your—whatever.”

Gojo studies you for a moment, his head tilting just slightly as if he’s trying to decipher something written on your face. It’s unnerving, the way his eyes—bright and unnaturally sharp even in the dim hallway—linger on you, taking their time. For the first time tonight, he’s quiet, though not in a way that feels like victory. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you more aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the glimmer of sweat on his skin, his overbearing presence in the narrow hallway.

“Whatever?” he repeats. “That’s harsh, even for you.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

“Not really,” he says. “Keeps me young and pretty, don’t you think?”

The audacity of this man. Pretty. He says it like it’s a fact, like he’s fully aware that half the campus would line up just to run their fingers through that ridiculous white hair. You hate that it is a fact, that his lean, cut frame and infuriating confidence somehow make him stupidly, obnoxiously attractive.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “Do you even remember the rules we agreed on when I moved in? Or was I talking to one of your empty hockey helmets?”

“You wound me. I’m a great listener. I heard every word you said that day. I just don’t… care.”

Your hands ball into fists. “You don’t care.”

“Not about rules,” Satoru teases. “You, though? I care about keeping you entertained.”

“Entertained?” you echo, incredulous. “By waking me up at one in the morning with—” You cut yourself off, scowling as the words die on your tongue.

He grins and steps forward. “With what, sweetheart?” he asks, voice dipping into that husky, too-casual tone that makes your stomach do stupid things.

You take a step back; then another, until your back almost hits the opposite wall. “You’re impossible,” you spit out, but your voice is thinner than you’d like.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Stop saying that!”

“What?” His grin widens. “It’s true. You get all flustered. Bet you don’t even know you’re pouting right now.”

“I’m not—”  You snap your mouth shut, realising that you are, in fact, pouting, and that only makes his grin that much more smug.

“Adorable,” he says simply, leaning back.

“You’re annoying as fuck.”

“And yet, you moved in here.”

You inhale sharply, the reminder stinging more than you’d like to admit. He’s right—you did agree to this arrangement. You had convinced yourself it was temporary, a few weeks max while you figured out your own place. Riko’s brother had been the last resort. You never expected it to feel like… like this. The hallway feels too small. He’s too close, too much. You can smell his cologne—clean, a little sharp, something that clings to him even after a game or whatever this was. You hate that your brain even registers the detail.

“Go to bed,” you manage to grit out.

“Careful,” Gojo drawls, stepping back. “Sounds like you’re starting to like telling me what to do.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You spin on your heel, storming back to your room, and slam the door behind you.

You don’t see him again until morning, which, unfortunately, is only a few hours later.

The scent of coffee drags you from your room, bleary-eyed and determined to avoid any and all conversation. But the moment you step into the kitchen, there Satoru is—shirtless again, because apparently he doesn’t own clothes—leaning against the counter. His white hair is damp, still dripping from a shower, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips as he scrolls lazily on his phone.

“Morning, roomie,” he drawls, not looking up. “Sleep well?”

You grab a mug and pour yourself coffee. “You’re lucky I don’t own a bat.”

“Ah, threats of violence. My favourite way to start the day.”

You don’t answer. You can’t, not when he’s standing there like that: hair damp and curling at the ends, little droplets of water slipping down the curve of his neck, trailing over his collarbone. It should be illegal to look that good at 7:42 in the morning, and in sweatpants, no less.

Instead, you wrap both hands around your mug and focus on not throwing it at his stupid, smirking face.

“Awfully quiet this morning,” Gojo muses, locking his phone and tossing it onto the counter. “What happened to the yelling? The righteous fury? The deeply unsexy threats about noise ordinances?”

You take a long, scalding sip of your coffee. “I’m choosing peace today.”

“That so?”

“Yup. Thought I’d try being the bigger person and see how it feels.”

“You sure it’s peace you’re feeling? ‘Cause it kind of looks like repressed rage. Or maybe,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, “you’re just still flustered from last night.”

You nearly choke. “Flustered?”

“Uh-huh. You did knock on my door in the middle of a good time.” He winks. “Can’t blame you for being curious.”

“You’re delusional,” you state.

“Maybe so,” he acquiesces. Gojo’s grin is lazy and crooked, shamelessly amused as he watches you struggle to maintain even a scrap of composure. You busy yourself with sipping coffee again, even though it’s too hot and definitely burning the tip of your tongue. Small price to pay for the distraction.

He shifts his weight and the movement draws your eyes before you can stop yourself—down to where his sweatpants slouch indecently low, the V of his hips on full display. Your eyes snap back to your mug so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. 

“I’m not flustered,” you mutter, mostly to your drink.

Satoru hums, unconvinced. “Of course not. You’re the picture of serenity.”

He reaches for the coffee pot and you realise, with a petty kind of satisfaction, that there’s not enough left for a full cup. You watch, vindicated, as he tips it all into his mug and frowns down at the half-full result.

“You’re the worst,” he says, utterly serious.

“I’m the one choosing peace, remember?”

“That was obviously a lie.”

You shrug and sip. “Maybe I’m just learning from the best.”

Gojo laughs, low and bright, and leans further over the counter, like he’s trying to invade your personal space just for the hell of it. “You’ve got a mouth on you, huh? I like that.”

“Bet you say that to all your roommates.”

“You’re my first,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Be gentle with me.”

You scoff, setting your mug down with more force than necessary. “I don’t even want to know how you ended up on the lease.”

“Simple,” he says, straightening and sauntering toward the fridge. “My old place burned down.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Well. Not all the way down. But it did get very, very singed.”

“And they let you sign another lease?”

He turns, carton of milk in one hand, and says, “Yup,” popping the ‘p’ at the end. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars, but there’s a weird warmth curling in your chest now, beneath the irritation and caffeine. Despite yourself, your gaze lingers on him a beat too long—on the line of his shoulders, the relaxed slope of his spine as he leans down to peer into the fridge.

“You gonna keep ogling me or…?” he says without turning.

You startle, cheeks warming. “I wasn’t ogling.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t!”

He straightens again, milk in hand, and gives you a look that says he knows he’s won. “You’re bad at lying. Your ears go all red.”

You clap your hands over them instinctively, which only serves to make him chortle. “I hate you,” you grumble, grabbing your mug and heading for the living room. 

“I love our morning chats,” he calls after you. “They really centre me for the day.”

You flip him off over your shoulder.

“You’ve got a great energy, roomie! Keep it up!”

It turns into a sort of game, after that: who can rile up their roommate the fastest. Satoru Gojo, of course, plays to win.

He starts small—mild provocations disguised as “accidents.” The shower mysteriously runs cold whenever you step in after him. Your favourite snacks vanish from the cupboard, only to be found later half-eated and crumpled under his bed. He starts setting his alarm ten minutes earlier than yours and singing obnoxiously loud in the mornings. It’s always the same song—something bubblegum pop and irritatingly catchy, like Twice or Britney Spears—and it sticks in your head all day, pulsing behind your eyes like a migraine.

You retaliate, of course. You start leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes around the apartment:

Replace the toilet paper next time, you sicko.

If you touch my almond milk again, I will cut off your balls in your sleep.

Why do you shed like a cat? Buy a lint roller. Freak.

You switch the labels on his shampoo and conditioner. You hide the remote. You change the password on the Wi-Fi.

It only fuels him. The worst part is, the bastard laughs. Every time you glare at him, every time you yell his name across the apartment, every time you swear you’re going to murder him in his sleep, he just grins like the cat that got the cream. Somehow, impossibly, he always wins.

Nanami is already at your usual table in the campus café when you arrive, tossing your bag into the seat opposite him with a force that rattles the salt shaker. He doesn’t look up from his coffee when he asks, “What did he do this time?”

“He unplugged the fridge, Kento,” you groan, slumping into your chair. “The fridge. All my groceries are ruined. My oat milk exploded.”

“Did you check the breaker?”

“Do I look like someone who knows what a breaker is?”

“Yes,” he says. “You are a functional adult. You are enrolled in a university. You should know how electricity works.”

“Okay, Mr. Engineer,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I was too busy trying not to throw Gojo out the damn window.”

“I thought you lived on the first floor.”

“Exactly my point.”

You look down, picking at your cuticles. You wish Gojo, your best friend’s annoying brother, wasn’t your last resort. The student dorms were all occupied, and you had to find housing at the last minute. Gojo offered, because he’s known you since you were an acne-riddled teenager in middle school, and also, most likely, out of obligation for his little sister’s best friend. Why else would he put up with you and pay half the rent? You remind yourself that you’re in his house, and not the other way around, and try to stay grateful for that fact.

You also wish you could tell Riko about her older brother, but you can’t because Riko’s dead.

Nanami sets down his cup with a soft clink, eyes lifting at last to meet yours. There’s no pity in them—he’s not the type—but there’s understanding. With every ounce of his understanding nature, Nanami says, flatly, “You’re going to give yourself a stroke before midterms.”

You exhale through your nose, pressing your palms to your eyes. “It’s like he wants me to lose it. He keeps bringing random girls home, Kento. At 3 A.M. And they’re loud. One of them used my toothbrush.”

Nanami looks visibly disturbed. “Why do you know that?”

“Because it was wet.”

“You should throw that out.”

“I did throw it out. And then I wrote a note. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Oh, my bad, was that your toothbrush? I thought it was for guests.’ Guests, Kento. He has a guest toothbrush now, that he keeps in the same cup as mine. I’m being psychologically tortured.”

“He’s always been like this,” Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s the one being victimised.

“You were on the same team as him for three years,” you say. “How did you not murder him in a locker room?”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” he replies. “I kept my earbuds in and my mouth shut. You, on the other hand, are picking a fight with a man who once got suspended for pelting a referee with jello shots.”

“That was him?” you gasp.

“Of course it was. Who else brings jello shots to a game?”

“I knew it wasn’t a food poisoning incident,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair. “They kept blaming the vendors, but one of those things hit Riko in the back of the head.”

Nanami’s expression softens for a second. He clears his throat, glancing out the window. You follow his gaze, the familiar ache blooming in your chest. It’s been two years since the accident, since the call you never thought you’d get. Since Satoru’s voice broke down over the phone, rasping your name, saying it over and over again like it would change something, like you could undo it just by being there.

Sometimes you forget she’s gone. You still scroll through your photos and stop at the ones of her, still think to text her dumb updates about your day. You still reach for your phone when Satoru does something particularly stupid, your thumb hovering over her name like muscle memory.

It’s worse around him. He reminds you of her��same nose, same stupid grin. Same laughter echoing off the apartment walls, loud and fearless and full of something that’s been missing since she died.

You scrub a hand over your face. “I don’t even know why he let me move in,” you say quietly.

Nanami, annoyingly perceptive as always, says, “Because you’re the only person left who reminds him of her.”

Your throat closes up. You glance away, blinking hard. It’s easier to talk like this with Nanami, with someone who knew her, who understands what’s been left behind in her absence. 

It’s just harder when you go home, when Gojo’s waiting in your kitchen, stealing all your forks, leaving crumbs everywhere, making a mess of your carefully managed grief. It’s harder when he smiles at you, wide and unbothered, like nothing in the world could touch him, like he isn’t hurting just as much. Maybe that’s why you haven’t packed up and left, or haven’t demanded he take you off the lease.

“Do you want to come watch us practice today?” your friend asks gently. “You could use the break.”

“Sure,” you agree, nodding.

The rink on campus is mercifully empty, barring the ice hockey players and their coach. You huddle deeper into your hoodie, tugging the sleeves over your palms as your breath fogs in the cold air. The bleachers are metal and unforgiving beneath you, but there’s something calming about the sharp scent of ice and the dull echo of skates carving into the rink. Nanami’s team is already mid-practice, moving like clockwork in their matching jerseys, passing the puck to each other. Nanami’s form is unmistakable—broad shoulders, crisp turns, no-nonsense efficiency. He’s the kind of player who never wastes energy, never showboats.

Which is probably why it takes you a second to notice the blur of white helmet skating circles around everyone else.

Even from here, you can tell it’s Gojo. Nobody else plays like that—reckless, fast, stupidly dramatic. He doesn’t pass so much as he dares his teammates to keep up with him. One second, he’s flicking the puck behind his back to someone mid-sprint; the next, he’s skating backwards while taunting the goalie, stick dragging lazy arcs on the ice. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But it’s also hypnotically, infuriatingly graceful.

You watch, arms tucked tight around your ribs, as Gojo ducks past a defender and pivots sharply on one skate. The move is flashy, unnecessary, but completely effective. He spins just out of reach, like he’s showing off for a crowd that isn’t even there. Then again, knowing him, maybe the absence of an audience is what makes it fun.

He catches the puck again mid-glide, lets it roll across his blade for the briefest second, and sends it arcing across the ice with a lazy flick of his wrist. It lands right where he wants it—at Nanami’s feet. Nanami redirects it into a clean slapshot that smacks against the boards with a heavy thunk. The coach blows his whistle and yells something you can’t quite make out, and the players all begin to split into drills.

Gojo circles back to the bench, tugging off his helmet. His hair is damp and flattened at odd angles, cheeks flushed red from exertion, but he’s smiling. He laughs at something one of the younger players says, throwing his head back like everything in the world exists solely for his amusement. His grin is sharp and his posture is loose with confidence, like he’s never known a moment of self-doubt in his entire life. He stretches his arms overhead, the hem of his jersey riding up just a little over his pads, and you force yourself to look away before your eyes linger too long.

It’s stupid. You’re here to support Nanami. You’re here because your friend thought you needed fresh air, something different, something other than the quiet churn of your own thoughts. You’re not here for him.

But when Gojo finally turns, like he’s felt your eyes on him all this time, and spots you across the rink, he smiles—wider this time. Brighter. You look away too fast to know if he waves.

The drills resume. They’re brutal, repetitive, the kind that test stamina more than strategy. Nanami is steady and solid, the way he always is, never showy but always in the right place at the right time. Gojo, by contrast, is everywhere. He darts around the rink, weaving in and out of formations, making near-impossible shots just to see if he can land them.

You settle into your seat, arms hugging your knees, and try not to think too hard. But it’s hard not to, especially when every stupid little memory rushes in like floodwater. The way Gojo always takes the last Pop-Tart in the box but leaves the wrapper on the counter; the way he sings obnoxiously loud in the shower and always, always manages to steal your charger right when you need it most; the way he tilts his head and looks at you, eyes too blue and too knowing, like he enjoys seeing how close he can get to pissing you off before you snap. Perhaps worst of all: the way he never apologises, just looks at you, smug and smugger, until you roll your eyes and pretend you weren’t mad in the first place.

Asshole.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring blankly, wrapped up in your own thoughts, until someone else joins the bleachers. The guy’s tall, wrapped in a wool coat and beanie, sipping a coffee that steams in the cold air. He glances at you briefly, offers a polite nod, and turns his attention back to the rink.

Gojo’s still showing off. The team’s moved to scrimmage now, red versus blue, and he’s the first one to score. He raises both arms in triumph, sticks his tongue out, and skates backward toward the bench, basking in invisible applause. 

You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands. “God, I hate him.”

The guy next to you chuckles. “You know him?”

“Yeah,” you say looking up.

“He’s not so bad. Bit of a drama queen, but he’s good. Probably the best player we’ve got.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t want to give Gojo the satisfaction, even by proxy. Instead, you wait for the moment he inevitably catches sight of you again—because of course he does, because nothing in his life is ever subtle. His head tilts. His grin turns sharklike. He lifts his stick and points it right at you, mouthing something across the rink. You groan again and pull your hood up.

Later, when you’re halfway back to your shared apartment, your fingers still freezing from the cold, your phone buzzes.

Gojo: you looked cute freezing your ass off up there Gojo: want me to warm you up? 😇

You: ����

02. the beginnings of affection (an existential crisis).

In high school, you made the grave mistake of telling Riko you thought her older brother was hot. It wasn’t a lie, because he was—tall, lean, unfairly pretty in that model-off-duty way, with a smile that had left many a classmate in a state of ruinous delusion. But back then, he was an idea, a rumour, a hallway myth in an expensive uniform and designer sneakers.

Now you live with him. Now you know better. Underneath his veneer of hotness lies a cold, twisted soul incapable of feeling remorse.

Yet. This morning, you catch yourself staring.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Roommate. His hair’s still damp from a shower, falling in soft curls over his forehead, and he’s wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him. Yours, actually—the one you thought you lost three weeks ago. It fits him, though it’s oversized on you, the faded design on the front nearly unreadable. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and one of the pant legs is tucked into a sock for some godforsaken reason. There’s a smear of toothpaste on his cheek.

And yet you think: cute.

Which is concerning. 

You frown into your cereal, spoon halfway to your mouth, and try to rationalise it. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the new shampoo he’s using. Maybe you’ve finally been broken by the sheer absurdity of sharing space with him. That must be it. A slow descent into madness. Like Stockholm Syndrome, but for roommates.

He catches you looking and grins.

“What?” you snap.

“You were staring,” he says smugly, raising his mug to his lips.

“I was zoning out,” you lie. “You just happened to be in the way.”

“Mhm. Don’t worry,” he says, winking. “Happens all the time.”

“You’ve got toothpaste on your face, weirdo.”

He wipes it off with the sleeve of your hoodie. Not his hoodie. Yours. You make a mental note to burn it.

“I’m going to start charging you rent for borrowing my clothes,” you mutter, standing to rinse your bowl.

Gojo hums. “Then I’ll start charging you for moral support. You know, the way I bring light and laughter into this apartment.”

“You bring irritation and trauma.”

He laughs. You pause, hand on the faucet. You shouldn’t feel warm. You shouldn’t feel anything. But there it is again—that awful flutter in your chest; that twist in your stomach like you’ve just misread a question on an exam and realised too late. You stare down at the water running into the sink and think, no. No, no, no. Not this. Not him.

Your hand tightens on the faucet. You don’t look up. If you do, he’ll see it: the flicker of something not quite annoyance, the hiccup in your heartbeat. The very beginnings of affection—or, worse, the remnants of it you thought you’d long since buried.

“You’re being quiet,” your roommate observes, voice languid with interest.

“I’m thinking about how I’ll kill you,” you reply. “Maybe poison. Something slow. Arsenic in your overpriced protein shakes.”

“Ooh. That’s hot. Do I get a last meal?”

“You already ate the last of my oats yesterday.”

“Untrue,” he says cheerfully. “I gave it to my teammate—”

You finally turn to glare at him, but it’s a mistake. He’s still wearing your hoodie, still smiling with toothpaste in the corners of his mouth and hair curling at his temples. His mug is held loosely between his fingers and he taps it against his hip like he’s about to say something clever.

He doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you. You blink first.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something stupid and ruin my morning.”

Satoru grins. “I was gonna say you look nice. But I see now that would be stupid.”

Your cheeks burn. You hate that he still gets to you. Hate that, despite all the bickering and unsolicited borrowing of clothes, you still feel something twist inside when he looks at you like that. He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down. “I’m going to be late,” he announces, stretching until the hem of your hoodie rides up and reveals the slope of his back. You look away like you’ve been burned.

“Don’t forget your umbrella,” you say, because it’s drizzling outside.

He grabs the umbrella by the door. “I’ll be back around seven,” he calls, halfway out. “Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t.”

But the door shoots behind him before the lie is even fully out of your mouth. There’s no point denying it. The problem isn’t that he’s hot. It’s that he’s warm, sometimes; thoughtful in ways you don’t expect, and annoyingly perceptive. The problem is that, in the hazy moments between arguments and insults and irritation, you’ve let your guard slip.

God. You’re so screwed.

“Hey. Hey. I thought I told you not to wait up.”

“I didn’t wait up for you.”

He toes off his shoes with a grunt, dropping his keys into the dish by the door and pulling off his jacket in one fluid motion. The collar of his t-shirt is wrinkled, stretched a little too wide at the neck, like someone had tugged at it—maybe he had, or maybe it was already like that. His hair’s a windblown mess, strands sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are rimmed with red like he’s either been up too long or had one too many drinks. Or both.

But he’s still Satoru, still maddeningly good-looking in that careless way of his, still the same insufferable guy who leaves the toilet seat up and sings Twice songs in the shower.

You’re curled up into the far corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around you, half a bowl of popcorn abandoned on the coffee table. You weren’t waiting up—really, you weren’t—but the TV is playing some old sitcom on mute, the light from the screen flickering across your face in soft, silvery flashes. Your phone is dark in your lap. You’ve read the same sentence in your book five times. You glance up when he speaks, and he stops mid-step, tilting his head at you.

“I didn’t wait up for you,” you repeat, quieter this time, and go back to pretending to read.

He smiles faintly, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push. “Right,” he says, voice low. “Of course not.”

He throws his  jacket over the back of a chair and pads into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You try not to follow him with your eyes. Try not to notice the way his shoulder blades shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way he hums softly under his breath as he opens the fridge and lets the light spill out across the tiles.

“You didn’t answer my text,” you say after a moment, tone sharper than you mean it to be.

“My phone died.”

You nod, once. Stupid. You don’t say anything else.

Satoru walks back into the living room, glass in hand, and sinks into the armchair opposite you with a groan. “Rough night,” he says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Didn’t think it would go that late.”

“Didn’t think you were going out at all.”

That makes him crack an eye open, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Jealous?”

You snort. “Of your terrible taste in dive bars and worse taste in company? Never.”

“I didn’t stay long,” he says. “The music sucked.”

“You go for the music?”

“I go for the distraction.”

Outside, it’s started to rain again, a slow, gentle drizzle against the windows. You stare at the pattern of drops sliding down the glass, trying to ignore the shape of him in your periphery—broad shoulders and long legs and bare feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. He’s too close and too far all at once.

“Do you… want some popcorn?” you ask eventually.

Satoru opens his eyes again and blinks at you. “Is this the part where you admit you were waiting for me?”

You scowl. “Forget it.”

“I’m kidding.” He sits up, leans forward slightly, eyes warm now, too warm. “I’d love some.”

You push the bowl towards him, watching as he picks out a piece and pops it into his mouth. 

“This,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “would be the part in a romcom where we kiss.”

“This,” you say, rolling your eyes, “would be the part in a horror movie where the protagonist makes a terrible decision and dies five minutes later.”

“That’s just rude.”

“Good.”

But he smiles at you, bright and boyish, like there’s no place he’d rather be than in this shitty living room at one in the morning with rain tapping against the windows and you scowling over a bowl of popcorn. You hate that it makes your heart ache; hate that, for all your better judgement, for all the times he’s made you want to scream into a pillow, there’s a part of you that softens around him. A part that keeps watching the door when he’s late. A part that stayed up, no matter what you said.

“We should bond,” Satoru says suddenly. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?”

You blink. “Bond?”

“Yeah. Like team-building. Except we’re not a team, and there’s no building.”

“That’s the worst pitch I’ve ever heard,” you say, but the corners of your mouth tug upwards despite yourself.

He shrugs, leaning back into the armchair again and tossing a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it clumsily with his mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like we’ve been circling each other. Might as well make it official.”

“Make what official?”

“This thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Our roommate truce-slash-rivalry-slash-situationship.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. “What—what situationship?”

“Okay, fine. Maybe not that last one.”

You throw a pillow at him, and he catches it with one hand, laughing. The room is too warm, or maybe that’s just your face. You glance away, shaking your head.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I was thinking. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow, and we’re both obviously in need of deep, soul-cleansing joy—”

“You mean you want to avoid your hangover.”

“—we should go skating.”

“Like, on the ice?” you ask.

“No, on a frying pan,” he says. “Yes, on the ice.”

“Come on,” Satoru calls. “It’s just frozen water.”

“I know what ice is,” you hiss.

He skates back toward you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and a beanie pulled snug over his snowy hair. Of course he makes gliding over a frozen lake look like second nature. He probably was born skating. You glare at him from your self-imposed prison at the edge of the ice. Your fingers are locked in a white-knuckled grip on the guardrail, your knees slightly bent like your body already knows it’s about to betray you.

Satoru stops a few feet away, his skates coming to a perfect halt with the faintest spray of ice. “You’re going to have to let go eventually,” he says, amused but not unkind.

You shake your head immediately. “I don’t trust frozen water. Or you.”

“That’s fair.” He shrugs. “But one of those things is going to get you moving, and it’s not the ice.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Doesn’t have to. Come on,” he coaxes, holding out a gloved hand. “I’ll go slow. Promise. Baby steps.”

You glance down at the ice, then at his hand, then back at the ice. It’s unfair, really, the way he looks so annoyingly trustworthy in moments like this. As if he hasn’t spent the better part of your shared time together being the most irritating man on the planet. As if he didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes zipping across the lake like a show-off while you contemplated your mortality from the safety of the shore.

Still, you let go of the guardrail. Just a little. Your hand slips into his, and his fingers tighten reassuringly around yours. He doesn’t tug; he waits, steady and warm and patient, until you peel yourself entirely away from your comfort zone and step onto the ice.

You immediately regret everything. Your foot slides, your balance tips, and you let out a strangled noise as you clutch at him with both hands now, absolutely abandoning any pretense of dignity. Satoru laughs, open and delighted, the sound echoing across the lake like it belongs in a different world.

“I’ve got you,” he says. His grip is solid, his body a firm counterweight to your graceless flailing. “Just stand. Don’t try to walk yet. Feel how your skates sit on the ice.”

“I hate this. I hate you,” you mutter, clinging to his coat.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, and you scowl because he’s grinning now, and it’s not helpful at all.

Slowly, he eases you forward, step by wobbling step. The cold nips at your cheeks, your breath fogging between you in soft white puffs. Every movement feels like a gamble, your muscles tense with the knowledge that at any second, you could end up flat on your back.

“You skate like Bambi,” he observes cheerfully.

“Say that again and I’m taking you down with me.”

“You’d have to catch me first,” he says. “And given your current progress, I’d say that’s not happening in this lifetime.”

You lurch at him, purely out of spite, and he lets out a surprised yelp as he stumbles back a little, catching you both from falling with more grace than you’ll ever possess. You end up in his arms, your face smushed embarrassingly against his chest, heart pounding from more than just the cold.

“You’re not bad at this,” he murmurs near your ear. “For someone who looks like they’re skating on stilts.”

You pull back to glare at him, but his smile softens into something almost fond, and you blink. He’s still holding you, hands braced at your waist now, fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. His touch is warm through the layers. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you can.

He leans back, clears his throat a little, and says, “Alright. Lesson one: don’t look down.”

“What?”

“No, seriously. Head up. Trust yourself a little. If you stare at the ice, your body will think you want to meet it.”

You lift your gaze slowly, reluctantly, and focus on the horizon instead: trees dusted in frost, a sky bruised with early twilight, and Satoru’s impossibly pale eyes, sharp and bright and filled with something you can’t name. He starts guiding you again, his hands still at your waist, your balance a little steadier now. Each glide is cautious; it’s progress, however painstaking.

You’re still clumsy—more shuffling than skating—but the panic has dulled, replaced by a nervous sort of awareness: of your feet, of your breathing, of him. The cold cuts through the air with a crispness that sharpens everything, from the bite in your lungs to the sting in your cheeks, but somehow, with Satoru’s hands anchoring you, it all feels a little softer.

“Look at you,” he says, low and a bit smug. “You’re a natural.”

You snort. “I’m one step away from death.”

“Death by ice is very poetic,” he muses. “We’ll put it on your tombstone. Beloved roommate. Skated once.”

You elbow him weakly, the motion throwing off your centre of gravity just enough to send you pitching forward—again. You gasp, arms flailing, but he catches you effortlessly, laughing as he draws you back upright like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature to steady you.

“That’s lesson two,” he says, grinning down at you. “Don’t do that.”

“You are the worst teacher.”

“And yet,” he says, steering you in a slow arc, “you’re still standing.”

The lake is quiet, save for the dull scrape of blades against the ice, the rustling of wind in the trees, and the shouts and hoots of a group of teenagers skating on the other end. You imagine the rink gets really crowded later in the evening, but for now, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in shades of silver and slate, the world narrowed down to the stretch of frozen water and the steady cadence of his voice in your ear. You take another step. Then another. Satoru doesn’t let go, even though you think you could maybe handle it on your own now. But you don’t ask him to.

“This wasn’t just about the skating,” he says after a while.

You glance up at him. His expression is unreadable now, the teasing stripped back to something quieter. You try for lightness. “Oh? Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me?”

“No. I did that last week. You were too busy yelling at me about the dishes.”

You huff a laugh, but it catches in your throat, because he’s looking at you in that way again—like you’re the only thing in focus. Like the cold and the ice and the time you called him a walking disaster don’t matter.

“I just wanted to do something with you,” he says. “Riko—Riko and I used to do this all the time as kids.”

“...Oh,” you say dumbly.

He doesn’t look away when you say it. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and you realise, belatedly, that you’re not gripping onto him anymore. You’re standing.

“She used to hold my hand like you’re doing now,” he continues, a half-smile flickering across his face, wistful. “Only, she had these tiny little gloves with cats on them, and she’d nearly pull me down every time she slipped.”

You can see it, easily—Riko as a small blur of determination, dragging her too-tall older brother around a rink, shrieking with laughter while he pretended not to be terrified of falling. You wonder what it was like, growing up with someone like that; with someone who looked at Satoru and saw more than the smirking exterior, who loved him before he learned to weaponise his charm.

“Is this where you guilt-trip me into being nicer to you?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “You being mean to me is the only thing that keeps me grounded.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not when your chest is doing that awful thing again—that fluttery, traitorous ache that started as irritation and now feels like something worse. “Do you ever stop being—” you begin, but you don’t finish.

Because he lets go. Just like that.

Your breath catches, skates faltering as your arms instinctively reach for him—but you don’t fall. Your legs wobble, sure. Your equilibrium protests. But you’re still upright, and still moving, slowly and awkwardly and without grace. And he’s just standing there, a few feet away now, watching you with a look that’s proud and amused and terribly fond.

“You’re doing it,” he says, and the words hang in the air like steam, like warmth in the cold.

You stare at him. “You tricked me.”

“Obviously.”

“You let go.”

“I did.” Satoru’s smile is maddening. “But look. You’re fine.”

You aren’t sure if you’re grateful or angry or both. The lake is wide around you, open and echoing, and your arms feel empty without his to cling to. But you’re skating. When you reach him again—because of course you make your way back, clumsy half-glides bringing you close enough to grab his coat again if you want to—he doesn’t move away.

“I hate that you’re right,” you mutter, breathing hard.

“I’m always right.”

“You’re never right.”

“You’re right,” he says solemnly. “I’m only ever hot and devastatingly charming.”

You shove him. It doesn’t do much; he’s solid, annoying, smug. But he laughs, and it echoes across the lake again, bright and honest. Then his hands find yours once more. “Next time,” he says, leaning in close, “we’ll try a spin.”

You gawk at him like he’s insane. “I will murder you on the ice.”

“I’d die happy.”

You should pull away. You should say something cutting, something that reestablishes the boundaries he’s always so eager to toe. But you don’t, because he’s warm even through your gloves, and the sky above you is bleeding into a soft lavender dusk, and his breath is a whisper against your cheek when he adds, “You were really brave today.”

“Don’t make it weird,” you mumble.

“Too late.”

You close your eyes, just for a moment. Without warning, you tug his hand and take a step back on the ice, away from him. It’s shaky. Messy. Maybe even stupid. But you don’t fall, and when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already following.

You don’t end up at the ice hockey team’s practice on purpose. It’s all a matter of circumstance: you’d forgotten to bring your keys, and Satoru had practice immediately after classes, so you decided to pay him and Nanami a visit because you’re meticulous and already ahead of all your assigned readings, so you have some free time anyway.

Your boots squeak faintly against the rubber mat lining the entrance as you step inside, the sharp scent of ice and that weird rubbery tang from equipment stinging your nose. It’s colder than you expect it to be—not just chilly, but biting—and you hug your coat tighter around yourself, muttering under your breath about your own stupidity for forgetting your keys.

Through the glass panels that separate the stands from the rink, you catch sight of the team already in warm-ups, skating brisk laps along the boards. Nanami is easy to spot, with his clean-cut form and too-serious expression, weaving between teammates. Satoru, in contrast, is a blur of motion and colour—grinning, flippant, always moving like he’s daring gravity to catch him. You know it’s him even with the helmet on. There’s something unmistakable about the way he skates, fast and loose like he was born with blades for feet and no sense of self-preservation.

You slip into the bleachers, choosing a middle seat and tucking your hands between your thighs for warmth. Your breath fogs in front of you in soft clouds. Below, the players yell instructions at one another, the thud of pucks hitting boards punctuated by the scrape of blades on ice. You expect to be bored within ten minutes, but strangely, you’re not.

You catch yourself watching Satoru more than you should.

He’s wearing a dark jersey with the number six on the back, paired with white hockey pants. He skates like he owns the ice, like the world is some elaborate game designed for his entertainment, and he’s the only one who knows all the rules. He’s obnoxiously good, of course. His passes are sharp and clean, his puck handling seamless, like the stick is an extension of his arm. He doesn’t celebrate the goals he scores, but you can tell he enjoys each one. It’s in the way he glances towards the stands after every shot, like he’s half-expecting applause. Like maybe—just maybe—he knows you’re watching.

And, of course, the one time you lean forward with genuine curiosity, Satoru catches your eye. You immediately sit back and pretend to examine the very interesting metal railing in front of you. When you look up again, he’s skating backwards towards the centre line, grinning like a lunatic. You roll your eyes.

Practice drags on, but in that weird hypnotic way that makes time pass fast. The drills shift from technical to scrimmage-style, players darting about, sticks clashing, shouts echoing through the space. Nanami plays with all the joy of someone forced into it by obligation, but you admire his skill all the same. Satoru, on the other hand, is infuriatingly smooth, darting past defenders and spinning to block shots.

At some point, you begin to lose feeling in your toes. You pull your legs up into your seat and burrow deeper into your coat. Satoru scores another goal with a fancy little flick of his wrist and has the nerve to wink at you through the glass. You flip him off, and he beams like you’ve handed him a bouquet of roses.

When practice ends, the players skate to the benches, pulling off their helmets and guzzling water. You consider leaving before Satoru can come find you, but by the time you make the decision, he’s already peeled off his gear and is jogging toward the stands, a towel slung around his neck and his hair a snowy mess of sweat-damp curls.

“You stalking me now?” he calls up, voice echoing through the cavernous space.

“I forgot my keys,” you reply flatly. “Trust me, if I had other options, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Aw,” he says, leaning on the railing in front of you. “So you missed me.”

You stare down at him, unimpressed. “You smell like a wet dog. I can smell it all the way up here.”

“Still came to see me, though.”

You open your mouth to reply with something scathing, but the words don’t quite come. Not when he’s standing there with flushed cheeks and a grin that’s more sunshine than snow, squinting slightly because of the overhead lights. Not when you remember, fleetingly, that Riko once told you her brother was really quiet, and you remember, again, that he changed after she died. The thought vanishes before you can dwell on it.

“We’re out of milk, by the way,” you say instead.

Nanami skates over. His jersey is soaked through, but his hair remains irritatingly neat under his helmet. He slows to a stop beside the boards, stick tucked under one arm, and gives you a nod in greeting. You nod back.

“She came all the way out here just to tell me we’re out of milk,” Satoru says.

“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale and gesture vaguely in his direction. “Why do you talk like that?”

“He talks like that because he has no concept of shame,” Nanami says.

“You wound me, Nanamin.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response—just raises a single brow and skates off toward the locker room. You watch his retreating figure for a second, then glance back at Satoru, now balancing precariously with one arm out.

“You are so dramatic,” you mutter, standing and starting down the bleachers.

“I prefer being called expressive,” Satoru calls after you, hopping off the railing and jogging to meet you at the base of the stairs. He smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and whatever chemical funk lives permanently in every locker room, but he’s grinning so widely you almost forget to wrinkle your nose. Almost.

“I can see your hair freezing,” you say as you fall into step beside him. “That’s disgusting. Go shower.”

He throws an arm around your shoulders; the gesture makes your skin bristle from the chill still clinging to his clothes. “But you like me gross,” he says, bumping your side with a playful swing of his hip.

You scoff and shove him off, barely managing to keep your balance as your boots skid slightly on the damp rubber flooring. “I like you better when you’re not radiating the scent of boiled socks.”

“So specific,” Satoru laughs. “Were you composing that one in your head the whole time I was on the ice?”

“No,” you mutter. “It came naturally. Like an allergic reaction.”

You follow him through the back hallway toward the locker rooms. It’s quieter here, the sounds of the rink replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. The linoleum floor is scuffed and water-stained, and everything smells like damp towels and disinfectant. You slow your steps, lingering near the door to the players’ lounge while Satoru pushes through the locker room entrance.

He peeks back before disappearing inside. “You waiting out here, or are you coming in for the full experience?”

“I value my life,” you deadpan.

“Suit yourself,” he singsongs, tossing the towel from his neck over your head before ducking inside with a grin. You yank the towel off with a sound of disgust and drop it on the floor. A few minutes pass. You idle on your phone, scrolling through old messages, then flick over to your calendar. Everything’s already done: papers outlined, deadlines logged, readings colour-coded and annotated. You’re bored.

Ten minutes later, the door creaks open and Satoru emerges, hair damp and pushed back from his face, now in grey sweats and a university hoodie two sizes too big. He looks softer like this, more human, like he could’ve been anyone else, if the world had been a little gentler.

“What?” he says, catching you staring.

You blink. “Nothing.”

He tosses his duffel bag over one shoulder and jerks his chin toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s hit the store. You said we’re out of milk, right?”

“And bread,” you add as you fall into step beside him again. “And you used the last of the eggs and just… put the empty carton back in the fridge.”

“False accusations. I plead innocent.”

“You plead lethargy.”

03. conflict resolution (the eternal affliction).

Christmas comes and goes, and the new year begins with you and Satoru deciding to sell the TV. It had been half-broken for weeks anyway—Satoru insisted it gave the screen a “vintage haze,” but you insisted it gave you migraines. So, on the second day of January, in a rare moment of mutual decisiveness, you both posted a picture of it on Facebook Marketplace with a joke caption, and watched the replies pour in. Some poor soul came to pick it up that evening, and just like that, your living room was quieter than it had been in days.

Maybe you needed the quiet. The holidays had been a blur of noise—family phone calls, missed trains, clinking glasses, and Satoru’s very enthusiastic and very drunk rendition of Last Christmas that made your upstairs neighbour leave an aggressive Post-It on your door.

Now, it’s snowing—thick, slow flakes that coat the windows and silence the city. You’re curled up on the couch with two blankets and a cup of peppermint tea you don’t really like, watching Satoru fiddle with the thermostat.

“It’s broken,” he says for the fifth time, shirt riding up slightly as he bends down to look behind the radiator. “I’m gonna sue the landlord.”

“You say that every week,” you reply, blowing on your tea. “You’ve never sued anyone in your life.”

“I could,” he says indignantly, standing upright. He looks infuriatingly good in sweats and a hoodie, even with socks that don’t match and a piece of tape stuck to his elbow from when he tried to fix the window seal this morning. “You don’t know what I get up to when you’re asleep.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re usually asleep before me.”

Satoru points a finger at you. “Exactly. That’s what I want you to think. But maybe I’ve been moonlighting as a lawyer in the dead of night. Ever think about that?”

You take a long sip of your tea to hide your smile. “You can’t even read the rental agreement without getting a headache.”

“You said you’d never bring that up again!”

“You were crying, Satoru.”

“It was printed in a size 10 font, what do you want from me?”

You laugh. Outside, the streetlights blur into glowing halos. Inside, it’s dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of peppermint and laundry detergent, and something you can’t quite place—Satoru, probably, who always smells like something slightly sweet, like sugar cookies and whatever shampoo he uses when he forgets yours isn’t his. You look over the rim of your mug at him. His hair’s messier than usual, falling into his eyes. You’ve told him to get it trimmed. He hasn’t listened.

“It’s still getting colder,” you say quietly, watching the snow. “You think we’ll get snowed in?”

Satoru flops onto the couch beside you, his body warm where it presses against your blanket-wrapped one, his knee knocking lightly into yours. “God, I hope so,” he mutters, tugging the throw off your legs to cover himself. “We could use the time off.”

“You don’t even work a real job,” you remind him.

He frowns, the expression exaggerated and pouty. “Excuse me. I’m a public servant. I’m out there risking life and limb every day, for our stupid old landlord. Or did you forget who shoveled the steps this morning?”

“Badly,” you point out. “You missed half the landing.”

“I was conserving energy,” he says primly, “in case we do get snowed in. You’ll be thanking me when it’s day four of no groceries and you’re chewing on the couch cushions.”

You scoff, curling your feet under you. “We’ve got food. I made sure.”

“I saw.” He grins, tilting his head to rest against the back of the couch, blue eyes sparkling. “I saw you hide the good snacks in the cereal box. You’re so sneaky.” Satoru reaches for the remote out of habit, then remembers the TV is gone. “Oh. What are we supposed to do now? Talk to each other?”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “We could play cards.”

“We could commit tax fraud.”

You nudge his leg with yours. “Satoru.”

“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “But only if I get to cheat.”

“You always cheat.”

“You always let me.”

He says it quietly, but he looks at you like he’s talking about something else entirely. Maybe he is. You set the mug down carefully, your fingers too warm now to keep holding it. You’re suddenly aware of everything: how his thigh brushes yours, how he’s slouched so far down the cushions that his hoodie’s ridden up again, showing a sliver of pale skin and the waistband of his sweats; the scar on his hip he told you he got from an ice hockey accident; the way he shifts when you don’t say anything, like he feels your gaze and likes it.

The peppermint flavour in your mouth goes sticky and sweet.

“I’m bored,” he says again, softer. “You wanna do something stupid?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Like take a really hot shower. Together. For environmental reasons.”

You huff, trying not to laugh, even as your stomach does a slow somersault. “Very eco-conscious of you.”

“Exactly. I’m a hero.”

You roll your eyes, but the thought lingers—his body wet and close, fogging up the glass, your cold skin pressed to his. It lingers longer than it should. You lean your head back against the couch and try to chase it away, but Satoru leans closer, propping his chin on your shoulder, voice lazy and low, as he says, “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

You shoot him a look, about to say something, but it dies on your lips. He’s close. His eyes are sleepy but sharp, his breath warm where it brushes your cheek. You blink slowly. You think you could kiss him and he’d let you. You think if you said please, he’d let you crawl into his lap and never leave.

“I don’t even like peppermint,” you deflect, mostly to yourself.

“Riko used to say you always drank it in winter.”

“It’s supposed to feel festive.”

“You’re festive,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like the words slipped out without thinking.The snow falls harder. The pipes groan, and the heater hisses weakly. You pull the blanket higher around your neck. “You’re not warm enough,” he observes.

“Thanks for the update.”

“I’m just saying. We could fix that.”

“Is this you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?”

You stare at him. He’s gorgeous like this—half-lazy, half-serious, the kind of effortless pretty that shouldn’t be allowed in sweats and two-day-old hair. You think about the way his voice goes low when he’s teasing you, like it is now. The way he always runs a hand down your back, firm and gentle, when he knows your day’s been long. It’s unbearable, sometimes, the want. The wanting him like this.

“I could be convinced,” you say quietly.

“Oh, yeah?”

He doesn’t move right away; he watches you—searching, maybe, or waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t. He shifts to face you more fully, and leans in slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away. His fingers brush your jaw, warm and careful, and then he kisses you.

It starts soft, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. You answer with a small sound at the back of your throat, leaning in, tilting your head, letting your mouth part just slightly under his. Satoru deepens it with a low noise that vibrates between you, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to anchor your close. His lips are warm, his mouth sweet—peppermint and the leftover hint of something honeyed from dinner. He kisses like he does everything else—wholeheartedly, a little cocky, and all-consuming. Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as he presses in.

His other hand slides beneath the blanket, settling against your waist. You’re still bundled up in layers, but you feel the heat of his palm through the cotton. Your whole body reacts to it: shivering, softening, leaning closer. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just barely, his nose brushing yours. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown, a flush high on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. “You sure?” he asks roughly. “Because I’ll stop. I’ll stop right now if—”

You kiss him again, quick and firm. “I’m sure.”

Satoru lets out a breath, then nudges the blanket off both of you. The cold air hits your skin for half a second before he’s pulling you onto his lap, coaxing you into straddling him. You go willingly, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. It’s clumsy at first—your feet slide, your knee bumps the coffee table—but he steadies you with both hands on your hips, and it stops being funny.

Your faces are inches apart. You can see every speck of silver in his eyes, the pink curve of his bottom lip, the threadbare collar of his hoodie that dips just low enough to show the line of his throat. Your fingers slip under the hem of it, and he shudders.

“This okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods, but adds, “Don’t ask like that. Like I’d ever say no to you.”

You kiss him again. His hands move—up your back, under your shirt, leaving trails of heat where they go. You’re both flush with warmth now, the kind of warmth that fills your chest and settles low in your belly. The radiator’s broken, and your tea’s gone cold, but it doesn’t matter, not with his body beneath yours, not with his mouth at your neck now, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the place where your pulse beats.

“Satoru,” you whisper, and he groans softly against your skin like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week. You tighten your fingers in his hoodie, tugging just slightly, and he lifts his head to look at you. You run your hands down his chest, over the soft cotton. “This has got to go.”

He grins, crooked and flushed. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”

You tug the hoodie up, and he raises his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. His hair is mussed even further, sticking up in a dozen directions, and you can’t help smoothing it down with your hands. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the planes of his chest scattered with faint scars.

“You’re staring,” he says, softer now.

“You’re pretty,” you reply, just as quiet.

His smile falters—not in a bad way, but in that way it does when you say something that actually gets to him. He swallows, reaches up, and brushes your hair back behind your ear. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when I’m trying to be cool.”

“You’re never cool,” you whisper, leaning in again. “I’m on birth control. Just so you know.”

His laugh is rough, but it dies in his throat the second you crush your mouth to his again—all heat, no patience now, just the wet slide of his tongue against yours. His hands are already pushing under your shirt, fingers tracing every rib, until his thumbs drag slow circles under your breasts. You arch into his touch.

“Off,” he says, yanking your shirt up. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away, leaving you in just your bra—some flimsy lace thing he’s already eyeing like he wants to tear it off. The cold air hits your skin, but you barely feel it, not with the way his gaze burns over you. His hands are on you again instantly, palming your tits through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper. His thumbs flick over your nipples, already stiff, and you gasp when he leans down to lick a hot stripe over the fabric.

“So beautiful,” he says, teeth catching the edge of the cup. He tugs it down, freeing one breast, and seals his mouth over it with wet, filthy pulls of his lips while his tongue flicks the peak. You moan, thighs clenching, already grinding down against his lap where his cock strains against his sweatpants.

“Satoru—” Your fingers twist in his hair, holding him to your chest as he switches sides, biting lightly at the other nipple through the lace before dragging the cup down to give it the same treatment. His free hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your pants, and you shudder when he presses the heel of his palm hard against your clit.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groans against your skin, fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles. “Can feel it through your pants.”

You’re panting now, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction. He undoes the string of your pants with one hand, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear. His breath hitches when he sees how wet you are, glistening and swollen.

“Look at that,” he rasps, dragging two fingers through your folds, spreading your slick. He slides one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, teasing. “Already so fucking tight—how’re you gonna take me?”

You whine, hips jerking, trying to him deeper, but he just chuckles, adding a second finger, curling them just right to make you gasp. He pumps them slowly, his thumb circling your clit in time, until you’re trembling, your thighs shaking around his wrist.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers free with a filthy sound. You nearly sob at the loss, but he unbuckles his jeans, shoving them just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking. 

“Ride me,” he orders, voice rough.

You don’t hesitate. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and lower yourself into him inch by inch. The stretch burns, the way he fills you so perfect, it steals your breath. Both of you groan as you take him to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, and his head falls back against the couch with a groan. His hands roam your body—squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to grip your ass, urging you faster. You comply, bouncing on his cock now, the slap of skin echoing in the room. Every thrust drags him against that perfect spot inside you, and you can feel the coil of pleasure tightening, your clit throbbing with each movement.

“Gonna come,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “Satoru, I’m—”

“Let go,” he urges, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. “Come on my cock.”

The orgasm crashes through you—your back arches, your walls clamp down on him, and you cry out, shuddering as pleasure rips through every nerve. He fucks you through it, his hips jerking up to meet your frantic movements, until he groans and spills inside you with a low moan.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and spent. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. He tilts your chin up, after a moment, kissing you slow and lazy.

“So,” he mumbles against your lips. “About that shower.”

“Yes, please.”

He peels you off the couch with a groan, your legs shaky, your skin still fever-hot where his come drips down your inner thighs. The bathroom tiles are cool under your bare feet as he guides you in, his palm never leaving the small of your back, like he can’t stand not touching you for even a second.

Steam fogs the mirror before the water even hits your skin. Satoru adjusts the spray with a rough twist of his wrist, testing it with his fingers before pulling you under the warm heat. The water sluices over your shoulders, your breasts, his hands following its path like he’s trying to watch every inch of you with his touch instead.

“You missed a spot,” you tease, breath hitching when his thumbs drag over your nipples, already stiff again from the contrast of heat and his calloused fingers.

“Fucking smartass,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it—not when his cock is already thickening against your hip, the tip flushed and leaking. He crowds you against the tile, his mouth searing a path down your throat, sucking bruises into the tender skin below your ear. Water beads on his lashes when he looks up at you, fingers hooking under your knee to hike your leg over his hip.

“Turn around,” he orders, voice frayed with want.

You obey, bracing your palms against the slick wall as he presses flush against your back. His cock nudges between your thighs, not quite inside it—just rutting against your slick folds, teasing. The head catches on your entrance, the stretch just shy of unbearable, and you whimper, pushing back.

Satoru chuckles, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head aside. His other hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your slick over your clit. “Still dripping,” he says, circling that swollen bud just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “Like you’re fucking made for me.”

You gasp when he finally pushes inside—slow, deliberate, stretching you with every inch until his hips meet your ass. The water cascades over both of you as he starts to move, deep, rolling thrusts that have you arching, your nails scraping against tile.

“Look at you,” he groans, tightening his grip on your hip. His other hand leaves your hair to grab your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you harder. “Taking me so fucking good.”

It’s too much—the drag of his cock against your walls, the slap of skin, the way his teeth sink into your shoulder. You’re babbling, half-formed pleas and his name, your thighs trembling with every thrust.

“Gonna make you come again,” he grits out, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing circles. You come with a cry, your walls fluttering around him as your climax crashes over you. Satoru fucks you through it, his hips stuttering as his own release hits—a harsh groan against your neck as he spills inside you.

He holds you up when your legs give out, turning you in his arms to kiss you slow and filthy under the spray. His tongue licks into your mouth, while his hand drifts down to your ass.

“Clean now?” you mumble against his lips, dazed.

He laughs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Dirty as hell.” His other hand slides between your thighs, gathering the mix of water and come dripping down your skin. “Gonna have to do this again.”

You shiver as he brings his fingers to your mouth, watching your lips part to suck them clean.

Spring is sprung, but nothing changes between you and Satoru. It’s as if the two days you spent snowed in right after New Year’s are just that—two days that exist outside of your usual periphery, kept locked away in the recesses of your mind like a dream you can’t decide whether to revisit or forget. The world has thawed and so, seemingly, has he. No more late nights curled together on his couch. No more cereal-for-dinner declarations or tangled limbs under too-warm blankets. That strange liminal space you existed in, suspended in the hush of snowfall and the hum of radiator heat, disappears as soon as the city begins to bloom again.

Instead, things shift back into old rhythms.

You start finding mismatched socks in the laundry again. His cereal bowls accumulate in the sink in quiet protest of dishwashing. You bicker over the thermostat settings like you always used too—Satoru insists that 24°C is the perfect temperature while you’re constantly reaching for the dial to turn it down. He steals your phone charger without asking. You use his shampoo out of petty revenge. He hogs the bathroom mirror every morning, combing through his hair with a devotion that borders on tragic. And you… you go back to pretending that none of it ever meant anything more.

You try not to notice how careful he is now, how his gaze lingers a little too long but his fingers don’t. How he keeps his distance—playfully, almost purposefully. As if closeness is a privilege that’s been revoked. As if intimacy was a mistake that neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

And because it’s easier this way, you don’t ask.

Instead, you both fall into the easy charade of Just Roommates, the same performance you perfected before that blizzard rewrote the script. It’s familiar, comfortable—until it isn’t.

Because one night, he doesn’t come home.

You notice it sometime around 11:30 P.M. His shoes aren’t by the door, his keys aren’t clattering into the dish like they usually do. The apartment is quiet in a way it hasn’t been for months. You try not to worry. He’s an adult. He disappears sometimes. That’s just Satoru being Satoru. But something in your chest prickles with unease, and your thumb hovers over your screen for a good five minutes before you finally open your messages.

You: hey, you coming home tonight?

No reply. The text sits there, read but unanswered. You sit on the couch for another half hour, idly scrolling, not really seeing anything. Your eyes keep darting to the door like he might waltz in with some dumb excuse and a bag of chips. When the clock hits 1:04 A.M., you give up pretending and text Nanami.

You: do you know where satoru is?

Nanami: hold on. Nanami: yeah. unfortunately. 

Two seconds later, an image pops up.

It’s a picture taken at a frat party—one of those messy, overcrowded events where the music’s too loud and the floor’s sticky with God-knows-what. There’s a blur of colour and movement, people crowding the frame, but it’s not hard to spot him: Satoru, in the centre of it all, unmistakable even with the grainy quality of the photo. He’s half-sitting on the back of a couch, red solo cup in hand, sunglasses perched uselessly on the bridge of his nose despite it being well past midnight. His head is tilted toward a girl beside him—brunette, bright lipstick, her arm draped over his shoulder.

You stare at the image for longer than you mean to.

The girl’s laughing. Satoru’s smiling. And not that small, soft sort of smile he gives you when he thinks you’re not looking, but wide and lazy, the kind he usually wears when he’s trying to charm his way out of something.

Your stomach curls, cold and unpleasant. You shut your phone off. The apartment is still too quiet. You brush your teeth with shaking fingers, climb into a bed that feels a little too big, and press your eyes shut like that might block out the sudden ache in your chest. 

It shouldn’t matter. You’re just roommates.

You think about the girl he’d brought home that day, three days into your moving in. You’d felt bad for her, knowing that she was just a notch in his over-filled stick. Is that what you are, too? Just another person he slept with? His little sister’s best friend, who’s never been the same after she died, just another name on his list?

Maybe it’s your own fault. You knew what he was like.

The morning after, you don’t reach for your phone. You don’t check to see if he came home sometimes after you fell asleep. You don’t look for his shoes by the door. You just go about your day like you’ve got somewhere to be.

It’s easier this way. To keep moving. To stay busy. To pull your focus away from the image etched into the backs of your eyelids: the shape of him in someone else’s orbit, grinning like he didn’t have your heartbeat tucked between his palms only a few weeks ago.

When you finally do check your phone, there’s no apology. Just a half-hearted “my bad lol” text that arrives sometime around 10 A.M., flippant and thoughtless, as if it never even occurred to him that you might’ve waited up.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t push. The silence becomes your new rhythm.

Where once there was casual ease between you, there is now only space. Deliberate, careful space. You start closing the door to your room whenever he’s home. You keep your headphones in, even when you’re not listening to anything. You stop making dinner for two. You stop leaving him notes on the fridge. He seems to notice, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe he’s too oblivious to put the pieces together. Or maybe this is just easier for him, too.

You start planning your exit. You don’t tell him. You don’t know how to. You start searching on your laptop late at night, under the covers like it’s something shameful. Studio apartments, room shares, sublets posted by strangers who spell everything in lowercase. Nothing looks promising, but you scroll anyway, determined to find something, anything, that doesn’t have him in it.

You start making lists in your notes app. Things you’ll need: a kettle, your own set of plates, a bathroom rug. Things you’ll miss: the way he sings when he’s in the shower, the sound of his laugh echoing down the hallway, the smell of his shampoo. And then there are the things you don’t let yourself write down. Like the way his arms felt around you that night on the couch. Or the look in his eyes when he thought you were asleep. Or the fact that, for a brief few moments this winter, you really, truly believed he could be something more.

You don’t talk about any of it. Not to him, not to Nanami, not to your friend who sits next to you during class. You just swallow it down like a bitter pill and keep moving.

Some nights, he comes home late and you pretend to be asleep. Some mornings, he lingers in the kitchen a little too long, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything, but you never do. You sip your coffee in silence, watch the steam curl up, and keep your eyes fixed on the window. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to him. It’s that you don’t trust what you’d say.

Because the truth is this: you’ve overstayed your welcome, not just in this apartment, but in the idea of him. You let yourself want, and now you’re paying for it.

And Satoru—he’s still Satoru. Beautiful and reckless and untouchable in the ways that matter most. He flits around you like he doesn’t notice you pulling away. Or maybe he does, and he’s letting you go. So you send in applications. You tour a too-small studio with cracked linoleum and convince yourself the peeling walls are “charming.” You lie on your bed at night and stare at the ceiling and imagine what it’ll feel like to live in a place where his laugh doesn’t echo through the walls.

Spring has sprung. The world is warm and blooming again. But you—you’ve never felt colder.

When you tell Nanami you’re moving, he doesn’t chide you for it. Just shrugs, and asks if you want any help with packing. You nod, grateful, and ask if you can accompany him for their ice hockey practice that evening. You need to give Satoru your keys back, and you would prefer to do it with your friend next to you.

The rink is always colder than you expect. Even in the early blush of spring, when your jacket is too light and the wind a little gentler, the ice rink clings to winter. Nanami doesn’t say much on the walk over. He’s not the type to pry unless invited, and you’ve been… quiet, to say the least. A silence cushioned in resignation more than sadness. As if the version of yourself who cried into her pillow over Satoru in January has finally dulled into someone softer, steadier.

You sit in the bleachers with your arms tucked close to your chest as Nanami skates onto the ice. The boys are already roughhousing, and Satoru—he’s grinning. Always grinning.

You spot him the moment he hops the rail. His hair is a mess under his helmet, and his jersey hangs a little lopsided over his pads, but there’s that same carefree energy, as though nothing in the world has ever really touched him. Not even you.

You fold your fingers around the keys in your coat pocket and press them tight into your palm. Practice is what you’ve come to expect. Fast. Loud. A blur of bodies in motion, blades on ice, the occasional thud as someone crashes into the boards. You watch the way Satoru moves—like he owns the rink, like gravity is just a suggestion. You realise, belatedly, that you are looking. Maybe too hard.

When the whistle blows and the scrimmage ends, the team filters off the ice in staggered waves, peeling off helmets, slapping shoulders, shouting about drinks and dinner plans. Nanami nods at you from the bench, motioning that he’ll meet you outside. You’re halfway down the bleachers when you hear his name.

“Hey!” Satoru’s voice cuts through the buzz of conversation. You turn. He’s jogging over with that same impish grin, helmet under one arm, hair sweat-damp and eyes far too blue. “You came.”

You blink. “Yeah.”

“You missed me, huh?” he teases, bumping your shoulder with his. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you love watching me play.”

There it is—that familiar tilt of his head. A part of you wants to smile back, the way you always do. Fall into the rhythm again. Pretend.

But not this time.

You pull your hand from your coat pocket and extend it toward him, fingers curled around the small, silver ring of keys. “Here,” you say simply.

Satoru stills. He looks at your hand like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing, like the keys might bite him if he takes them. “What…?” his voice falters. “What’s this?”

“Your spare,” you reply. “I’m moving out.”

He doesn’t take the keys right away. He stares at you, the confusion sharpening into something quieter, something more serious. “You’re serious.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

You don’t say I wouldn’t have watched you skate around like nothing ever happened if I wasn’t. You don’t say I wouldn’t have dragged myself back into this space, this icebox version of our past, if I didn’t want to close the door for good.

He finally reaches out and takes them, curling his fingers slowly around the metal like it might dissolve. You notice the way his smile has faded. The rink is suddenly very quiet.

“I see,” he says. It’s the most subdued you’ve heard him in weeks.

You take a step back. “Good game, by the way.”

You walk away.

04. the end (happily ever after).

“You can’t leave until the end of the month,” Satoru says by way of greeting, toeing off his shoes at the entrance. “You signed the lease with me. You have to stay until April.”

You pause halfway through stacking one of the moving boxes, fingers curled around a stack of your dog-eared books. “Are you seriously quoting the lease at me right now?”

Satoru shrugs out of his jacket. “I’m just saying. It’s legally binding.”

You set the books down a little too hard. “What, so now you care about the rules?”

“I’ve always cared,” he says.

“No, Satoru. You care when it’s convenient. You care when it means getting the last word. You don’t get to act like this now, after weeks of pretending I don’t exist.”

“I wasn’t pretending—”

“You stopped coming home,” you snap, the words catching in your throat like thorns. “You stopped showing up. You stopped talking to me.”

“I needed space,” he says, and you laugh—cold and bitter and hollow.

“From what? From me? From whatever happened that weekend?”

He says nothing. Just shifts his weight and stares at the floor like the grain of the wood might suddenly rearrange itself into answers.

You swallow. “Right. Of course. That weekend didn’t mean anything. Just like everything else.”

“Don’t do that,” Satoru says quietly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what we are,” you retort defensively. “Were. Because you clearly figured it out a long time ago and didn’t bother telling me.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” Your voice shakes. “Then what about the girl from the party, Satoru? What was that?”

His head jerks up. “What girl?”

You cross your arms. “Nanami showed me a photo. Some frat party. You and some girl. You looked—happy.”

Something flickers across his face—confusion first, then something like hurt. “You mean Misaki?”

“I don’t know her name. I just know you were smiling. With your arm around her. And I know I don’t sleep with people I don’t care about. So maybe it didn’t mean anything to you, but it did to me. And you were just going to go back to your life like nothing happened, I wish you’d said so before I gave a damn.”

“Misaki,” he says again, stunned. “She’s dating Hajime.”

You blink.

“She’s my teammate’s girlfriend. He wanted a photo of all of us for her birthday because she’s moving to Osaka. That’s it. We all posed for a stupid picture, and then I left. I didn’t even want to go.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But your chest still aches with weeks of uncertainty, with that night you nearly cried yourself to sleep on the mattress you were already half-packing away. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I thought I already fucked everything up,” he admits. “You stopped talking to me. You looked right through me. I thought I crossed a line, and you regretted it.”

You shake your head, disbelieving. “You—you thought I regretted it? Satoru, I—” You cut yourself off. Swallow it down.

He steps forward, hands out like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed anymore. “I didn’t want to risk making it worse. But then you stopped coming to practice. You stopped leaving your door open. You were just… gone.”

“The only thing we ever had in common,” you say, “was Riko.”

His face falls.

“She’s dead, Satoru. And maybe… maybe we were just trying to hold on to each other because she was the one who tied us together.

“No.” His voice is firm. “No, that’s not true.”

You look away. “Isn’t it?”

“Maybe at first,” he says. “But not anymore. Not for a long time.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I had more time. I miss you. Every day. I miss going grocery shopping with you. I miss your hair in the drain and your mugs on the counter and the way you used to fall asleep on the couch back when we still had the TV. I miss you,” he repeats, quieter this time, “so no. You can’t leave. Not until I get to ask you out properly.”

For your first date, Satoru sneaks you into the campus ice rink at one in the morning. 

“Nicked the keys from the coach,” he says. “Don’t tell Nanamin.”

The air inside the rink is biting and crisp, even colder than you remember from the times you’d come to watch practice. Satoru flips the lights on, flooding the empty arena with a soft, almost romantic glow—clean white against the polished glass, shadows stretching long along the bleachers. You stand near the edge of the rink, hugging your coat tighter around your body.

“I can’t believe you stole from your coach for this,” you say, though you’re smiling.

Satoru shakes the keys at you. “Borrowed. It’s borrowing if I return them.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m endearing,” he corrects, walking backwards towards the ice, arms spread wide. “And this is your first official date. Has to be memorable.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is soft and melty, like it always is around him now.

He’s already laced into his skates, having arrived with them slung over one shoulder. You, on the other hand, have to sit at the benches while he kneels in front of you to help you with yours. His fingers are quick and practiced, tugging the laces snug before double-knotting them with a flourish. It should be embarrassing—being fawned over like this—but there’s something reverent in the way he moves, like this is a ritual of his own making, and it tugs at something in your chest.

“You do this for all your first dates?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but failing. You’re too aware of the way his breath fans over your thighs, or the way his touch lingers just a little too long against your ankles.

He glances up at you, bright eyes amused. “You’re my first. Be gentle with me.”

The ice is smooth, freshly resurfaced. Satoru leads you to the centre, gliding effortlessly, show-offy as ever. He does a little spin, throws both arms in the air like he’s just scored, then turns and offers you a hand.

“You know I can’t skate like that.”

“Lucky for you,” he says, stepping closer and tucking his fingers through yours, “I happen to be very good at holding people up.”

You’re wobbly at first, your legs unsure, and he skates backward slowly, pulling you along. His hands are steady on your waist, his smile wide and proud. And once you find your rhythm—still shaky, but upright—you circle the rink together, the only sounds the soft hiss of blades on ice and your laughter echoing against the rafters.

It’s surreal. You’ve seen him like this before: in his element, cocky and sure of himself on the ice. But it’s different now, because now, every glance he throws your way feels like it means something. Halfway through, he slows to a stop and pulls you in close. “You know,” he says, softer now, “I used to dream about this.”

You blink up at him. “About breaking and entering university property?”

“No,” he says. “About you. Being with you. I used to imagine all the ways I could maybe get you to see me the way I saw you. And it always started with something like this.”

You flush. “Satoru…”

“Do you remember,” he says, nudging his forehead against yours, “after the snowstorm? When I told you I wouldn’t regret it?”

You nod.

“I meant it,” he says. “I still mean it.”

The kiss comes naturally, like exhaling. You’re both half-frozen, and he tastes like mind and cold air, but it’s perfect anyway—slow and warm and just a little clumsy, because you’re still in skates and your balance is terrible, and he laughs into your mouth when you nearly topple over.

“I’ve got you,” he says, arms anchoring you close.

When you eventually sit on the benches again, sipping hot chocolate from a thermos he’d smuggled in his bag, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Next time, I’ll bring you here in the daytime like a normal person.”

You hum, smiling against the rim of the cup. “But I think I like this version better.”

Satoru’s fingers find yours and squeeze. “Me, too,” he says.

The final buzzer sounds.

The crowd erupts around you—horns blaring, feet stomping, voices swelling into an anthem of unbridled celebration. On the ice, bodies collide in a heap of jerseys and helmets, gloves flung into the air like confetti. The scoreboard flashes a victorious 5 – 4, and you swear your heart’s beating just as fast as the game-winning slapshot Satoru landed in the final two minutes.

You stay seated in the bleachers, slightly breathless, fingers clenched around the hem of your coat. The whole rink pulses with energy. You could cut the adrenaline with a knife. Students are screaming their heads off. Someone nearby throws a foam fingers into the rink. Your ears are ringing and your eyes are locked on the number 6 jersey, skating lazy circles while his teammates swarm Nanami in a dogpile near the goal.

Satoru Gojo.

You watch him turn, searching the stands. The grin on his face is dazzling, sweat-slicked hair sticking out of his helmet in damp tufts. He lifts his stick over his head like a banner, pointing it directly at you when he finds you in the crowd.

Your heart stutters. You’re not even embarrassed about how wide your smile stretches.

He doesn’t even wait for the rest of the ceremony.

Not ten minutes later, he’s climbed the barriers and jogged up the bleacher steps, ignoring the photographers, the shouts of “Gojo! Pictures!” and Nanami’s loud, “Get back here, Gojo!” He finds you in the fifth row, standing now, half-shocked and half-laughing, and barrels straight into you.

“Hey—” you start, but then he’s kissing you.

It’s not the first time—God knows it won’t be the last—but something about it makes the rest of the world dissolve. Your hands find the sides of his face, fingers catching on the straps of his helmet, as he presses you back gently against the guardrail. He tastes like mint and ice and sweat, and his smile never fully disappears against your mouth.

“I knew you’d come,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough with exertion. “Could feel it.”

You swat him lightly on the chest, breathless. “Of course I came. It’s the finals.”

“You didn’t come to the semi-finals,” he teases, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Thought I’d been demoted.”

“You were in the sin bin for half the game,” you retort. “Not exactly sweetheart behaviour.”

He grins against your cheek, pulling back just enough to look at you. The crowd’s still losing their minds around you, but neither of you seem to notice. His helmet’s off now, clutched in one hand, and his forehead leans against yours.

“You came tonight,” he repeats. “That’s all I needed.”

It hits you, then, just how many people are watching. Phones are out. A chant’s already building in the lower rows—Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!—but he doesn’t care. He kisses you again like you’re the only person in the arena.

Maybe you are.

“God,” he says, breathless as he pulls away, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that after a win.”

You smile, fingers curled loosely in his jersey.

“Well,” you whisper, tugging him closer, “guess you’ve earned it.”

[mangowetwipes]

Some names just sound so ridiculously fake that had they been fictional, people would’ve rolled their eyes in complete disbelief. Like seriously. Wdym there’s a mf called Galileo Galilei. Stfu. You just made that up

[mangowetwipes]

thinking about tender calf and ankle kisses before they’re pulling your legs over their shoulders

[mangowetwipes]

"You could get up early and do it before work" I could also wait for a magic beanstalk to start growing in my living room LMAO. Let's focus on things that happen in the real world

[mangowetwipes]

The lion does not concern itself with the bank account balance when a little treat is calling

[mangowetwipes]

i think waiting together is a love language. wait for the train with me, so we can talk a little longer. wait for dinner with me, we can slow dance in the kitchen. wait for me until i can talk after crying my eyes out, hold me, we will figure it out. wait for me when it gets rough, i know i can get through this (with you). wait for me in the car, this song is too good to not finish listening to it. wait for the first snow with me, cold red noses and bright eyes. lets wait for each other, i love you.

[mangowetwipes]

🔹pairing — photographer!gojo satoru x pop star!reader

summary — it's just another tokyo night — lights too bright, hearts too loud, and him, a stranger with snow-white hair and a camera that sees more than it should. you didn’t expect to end up in a photo booth with him. you didn’t expect him to notice the things you tried to hide. and you definitely didn’t expect the way your heartbeat synced with every flash of his shutter.

🔹word count — [ 16 k]

🔹content warnings — strangers to lovers 18+, explicit smut, performance anxiety, mentions of panic attacks, emotional vulnerability, comfort after anxiety, kissing, light crying, gentle handling, gojo being soft and reassuring, mutual yearning, lots of tender affection.

please read with care. your mental well-being matters. 🕊️

🔹a/n — this piece is close to my heart. it began as a simple one-shot inspired by a song, but, as always, the emotions carried me somewhere deeper. it's my first time writing for satoru gojo, and though i was nervous at first, it slowly found its rhythm. this story gently explores anxiety, panic attacks, and intimacy—written from a place of understanding and experience. if you’ve ever felt overwhelmed, i hope this brings you comfort. put on some soft classical music, take a breath, and let the words hold you for a while.

It would be believable if you said no — no, not completely.

That you never wanted fame. That the stage just found you one day and you woke up in Tokyo surrounded by diamonds, deadlines and strangers who knew your name.

But that's not the truth — it never will be.

Since the beginning, you wanted it all. The stage lights. The stadiums. The screaming fans who made you feel like a god.

And now you have it.

But, they never knew — the heartache of sacrifice, the isolation of fame and the loneliness of love, like tonight you can barely breathe.

Your shaking body curled up on the edge of a hotel bed, that costs more than your first apartment. Mascara smudged. Champagne untouched. The only light in the room flickers from your phone screen. Not a ‘how are you?’ Not a ‘you okay?’ Just —

Manager ,

“I know it's been a long week, but remember why you're here. This is what you wanted. Millions of people would kill to be in your shoes”

You exhale bitterly — that's just how they are, it's how they've always been since the day you signed that contract — name written in black ink to feed their eager souls. A team of stylist, handlers and publicists left half an hour ago, thinking you were getting ready for the after party.

But you're still in your hoodie. Knees pulled to your chest. Crying into silence. In this dark, lulling empty room you could feel the loneliness creep within your heart — shredding it piece by piece. And as tears shed, your voice barely audible, you let out a scream — a scream, these luxurious empty rooms would never seem to understand.

A neon light caught your eyes — no several neon lights.

The city below, it was alive. Neon. Noise. Freedom.

“Freedom,” you whispered to yourself as you stood up and walked towards the polished glass windows. It was freedom that you so deeply craved and yet in here — you feel like you're trapped in a glass case — on display, but invisible.

But tonight, you don't want to be seen.

You want to be felt.

You want something real tonight, even if it was temporary.

Something quiet. Something that doesn't ask for your name.

So you wipe your face — no makeup, nothing fake. Pull the first thing that isn't branded. Tuck your hair under a hat and you slip out the back exit. For once — no bodyguards , no cameras, no lies. Just you, a hoodie and the hope that someone, somewhere, might look at you and not see her.

The hallway echoes with the sound of your boots. The back exit of the hotel opens with a hiss — the cool warm air clug to your legs like moisture.

You were finally in Tokyo — not the city built with cameras, but the one that's known for living after dark — the city that never sleeps.

You smile to yourself as you look up and see the Neon signs flicker pink and orange. Drunken laughter spills out from a nearby karaoke bar. The air smells like summer rain and fried chicken, your breath fogs just slightly, warmth hitting the summer night. You walk with your hands buried in your sleeves, passing strangers who don't recognize your face — faces that don't ask anything from you.

You let your body melt within the crowds — normal you thought, for once…. not being seen feels like a relief. It's as if you can finally breathe for the first time in such a long time — you can breathe.

Having no direction and no way of understanding where you are heading, you see it. A small shop wedged between a 24 - hour bookstore and a laundromat. A single paper later sways outside the door, its soft orange glow lighting the kanji painted above the curtain entrance.

Deep down you had no idea what guided you there or — solely how you found this place. But it smelled like broth, the kind your mother used to make back home and the kind of peace that never lingered for long. You chew your bottom lip without realizing, cuff your sleeves tighter and finally slip inside — a little shop that, somehow, felt like home.

The moment you step in, the quiet wraps around you. There are maybe four other people — older men, a couple, one woman reading a magazine and a cat sitting on the counter top, eyes closed like a true old man.

The chef behind the counter looks up. His eyes linger on you for a bit too long — not unkind, just… unsure. Someone mummers something in Japanese and you offer a small bow — not sure if it is the right thing but hoping it's enough. The chef guides you to an empty seat near the far end of the counter. You nod and sit.

The chef gives you a menu before he leaves and you sigh softly — all the words are in kanji. And you can't read a single thing, the only thing you can manage to do now is show the chef a picture when he comes back.

You set the menu down — let your shoulders drop. Finally, you can breathe even if it was just for a moment.

The door hasn't even closed behind you yet, when you hear it.

Click

Soft but sharp. You hear a camera shutter. You glance up at the small window, you see him.

A man with shock-white hair and a loose coat with a camera strap hanging diagonally across his chest. He's standing in the street, angling the lens towards the glowing lantern above the shop — framing it against the dark sky.

Click

Then he tilts the camera, just slightly. Not aiming at you, not really — but he captures something, something close. You stiffen, your entire body tenses like you've been slapped — your body betrayed you again.

Not this again.

It starts slow. Not with tears, not with sobs — just the tightening. Your lungs are folding in on themselves. Like the air in this tiny shop was too thick, too sharp — like your breathing through a cotton and glass at the same time.

But suddenly, you hear the door open.

It was him.

He noticed, lowered his camera and the slight crease between his eyebrows was enough to confirm he didn't know you.

Behind you, you could hear the small door close.

He wasn't in a rush, you could feel his presence— suddenly like he was the only one that would understand you — whether that was through the agonizing pain you felt at the moment or through differentials you both shared.

He slid into the seat beside you, set the camera gently on the counter, for a moment — you glanced at it, instinctively. It didn't look like the cameras the paparazzi used. No flashy lense. No cold metal. This one was vintage — worn leather strap, scuffed corners, like it had lived more lives than most people.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” he says, voice light — almost amused. “I wasn't taking your picture. Not exactly…”

Oh, he speaks English.

You didn't answer right away — still coming down from the edge of a panic you'd barely concealed. Still unsure if you were imagining the gentleness in his voice.

“It's just —” he gestures vaguely towards the small window. “The light. The way the steam framed your face. The whole shop looked like a movie set for a second.”

And for the first time that night you looked at him.

He was tall, slightly disheveled, but with a kind of easy charm most people had to rehearse. A soft gray hoodie tucked beneath his dark coat, collar folded just so.

But it was the glasses that caught you. The thin frames that somehow made him look both bookish and ridiculous. And behind them —

Those eyes.

Ice - blue, startling in contrast to the warmth of the room. Not sharp, not cold — but clear. Like a winter sky before snow.

You hated how quickly you felt seen. And how badly you wanted to keep looking. Your cheeks rushed to pink, like a blooming sunset longing to be hidden beneath the horizon.

But you still say nothing. Your gaze never leaving his — chewing your bottom lip out of habit you could only stare even though the blooming sunset never left to hide beneath its horizon.

He scratches the back of his neck, “Okay, yeah. That sounded weirder out loud.”

Then suddenly holds his hands up in surrender. “I swear I'm not creepy — I'm a photographer. Street stuff. No models. Just… beauty when it shows up, you know?”

He nods towards you, and scratches his neck yet again.

“You showed up, ” but of course this time he was the one with a blooming sunset. He sighs and mumbles something only he would understand.

And for the first time you laugh, you don't know why you laugh — but you do. It's small. Tight. But real.

He grins like he's just scored a win in a silent game you weren't playing. “See I told you I'm charming,” he says. “I'm Satoru by the way.”

He beams with happiness, but you…. you're hesitant. You can't trust anyone in the world you live in, you two are from different worlds and that is why you could only shrug. But deep down you wish you were someone else — even just for a moment to give him some piece of yourself.

But he doesn't push it. Just nod.

“Mystery girl. Got it”

His hands tap against the wooden counter and finally take the laminated menu and squints at it.

“Wait — can you read any of this?”

You shake your head, and the crease between his snowy brows were more than enough to convince you that he was indeed worried.

“Ah no wonder — that explains your panic - order.” He waved over the chef. “She'll have the miso with garlic and egg.”

You didn't understand a thing he was saying to the chef but you were very thankful.

He finally looks back at you “I think you'll like the one I just ordered. Trust me. Best cure for whatever you're running from.”

For the slightest moment you felt naked — he could read you like a book. And this was something you were never used to… no one could ever peel your layers back that easily. But…. for some reason this Satoru Gojo man…. knew how to and he wasn't afraid to say it — fearless.

“Do you always talk this much?”

He suddenly chokes on the water he was sipping , and you couldn't keep yourself from laughing — this only made him smile deeper, much more warmer than usual.

“Sorry — about that…” he started and leaned in just slightly. “But yes, only to the people who look like they stopped being happy a while ago.”

He taps the side of his camera and smiles “Or to people the light seems to like”

You smiled at his little gesture — and just on time the chef brought your miso.

As you reached for your chopsticks, Satoru leaned over the counter and scribbled something on the napkin. You didn't notice at first — not until now. He slid it closer with a grin that said nothing at all. You glanced down. It was a messy doodle of a ramen bowl and a stick figure with spiky hair giving a peace sign. Below it written in surprisingly neat handwriting :

‘The light still likes you’

You don't say anything. Just fold the napkin, slow and careful, and tuck it into your hoodie pocket like it was nothing.

It wasn't nothing.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

Moments pass by and to your surprise the miso was perfect. So perfect, in fact, you didn't realize how much you needed it until the very last sip. Warm broth. Soft egg. Garlic that made you feel something again — you hadn’t tasted comfort in weeks.

“Told you,” Satoru said, watching you with a pleased grin of a man who knew he'd done something right. “The miso here changes lives.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but lift your gaze, the warmth from the food still lingering in your chest. “You hang around ramen shops, offering therapy often?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” he replied, without missing a beat. He paused for a moment and looked out the window, and you couldn't help but notice the grin forming on his pale pink lips. “Are you doing anything right now?”

The question caught you off guard — you hesitate. You had no plans. Just your empty hotel room, a blinking phone screen, and a list of other things you didn't want to think about. By now you knew that your managers, securities and even teams were looking for you.

“I was thinking….” Satoru stood, stretching like a cat that's been napping all day. “Come with me.”

He held out his hand, eyes sparkling like he knew this was the part where you'd say no — but hoped you wouldn't.

“Promise I'm not some serial killer. Just a guy who knows a good view when he sees one.”

You squint your eyes, “Don't all serial killers say that?”

He only laughed at your question.“Do you trust me?” he says, still holding his hand out — enough for your fingers to reach his own.

You were quiet for a beat too long. And then —

“... Where are we going?”

You finally press your hand in his. And they were soft but yet the corners filled with callouses from the works of his camera. They were cold, but touching him felt just like summer just beginning — slow, soft, and full of promises . Your eyes never left his and he grinned like you'd just said yes to the universe.

“To fall in love with Tokyo”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

You weren't sure what you expected when you stepped out into the Tokyo night — but it wasn't this.

Neon signs blinked lazily above you, casting pink and gold on every slick surface. The streets buzzed with life. It was loud but not chaotic, full but not suffocating. The city didn't feel like it was closing in — it felt like it was opening up.

And for the first time in a long time… you were finally opening up too.

Satoru — walking beside you like he'd known you longer than a single bowl of miso — looked completely at ease. Hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted towards you with a half - smile that tugged something quiet inside your chest.

“Ever had takoyaki?” he asked.

You blinked, “Tako…. what?”

“Octopus balls” he replied, grinning like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You stopped in your tracks, arms crossed. “Absolutely not.”

He burst out laughing, bright, unfiltered, boyish Enough to earn an eye roll, but also enough to make you smile in spite of yourself. You weren't used to this kind of reckless ease but God… it was nice.

“Okay, okay bad intro, sorry for making you turn into a red tomato —” eyes twinkling like he'd discovered something private about you. “But they're good. Warm, crispy, gooey. Little fireworks in your mouth.”

“I'm not red. And that's the worst food pitch I've ever heard.”

“Mystery Girl, you trusted me with the miso,” he said confidently.

“I might not understand Japanese but I swear you bribed that chef,” you narrowed your eyes.

“Details.” He grinned. “Come on.”

He steered you gently toward a small stall, glowing under yellow paper lanterns. A man stood behind the counter, flipping golden spheres on the grill. The scent — buttery, savory — hit you by surprise.

“One box,” Satoru told the vendor.

Then to you :

“No running away”

You pouted instinctively — and he smiled like he was collecting every reaction.

You watched him pay. His profile under the lights made something in your chest thump — ridiculous, really. He was just… easy to look at. Familiar in a way he shouldn't be. You'd only just met — and yet it felt like you'd known him longer than the life you were running from.

He handed you a toothpick and motioned to the steaming takoyaki between you. “You first.”

“Do I have to….?” you asked — eyeing them with doubt.

“Trust me," he murmured, smiling. It came out more like a statement than a question.

You hesitated — then poked one and brought it to your lips. Hot. Soft. Salty. Just like he explained.

Your eyes widened.“...Holy shit.”

Satoru gasped theatrically. “A cuss word from the mystery girl?”

You laughed, hand over your mouth. “Okay, okay — they're good.” You confirmed as you continued to devour the delicious takoyaki.

He gave a dramatic bow. “Another win for the charming stranger."

“You're so dramatic, Satoru, like…. ” you paused for a moment to think of the right word”... drama king.”

“Excuse you but king is enough for me.”

And for some reason you couldn't help but again. It was a feeling nobody could describe, the feeling of being free, being you, being open — but mostly you weren't pretending.

Satoru picked up one too and blew on it — you caught him glancing at you. Just for a second too long.

“What?” you asked.

He shrugged. “You're smiling again.”

You blinked

You were. That real, rare kind of smile. The kind you hadn’t worn in months — not in photo shoots, not in press releases, not even in your dressing room mirrors.

“Told you,” he said. “Best cure for running.”

You looked down, cheeks warm, when suddenly—

Click.

The soft sound made your spin straighten just slightly but the sound wasn't loud, it wasn't aggressive. His camera hung around his neck, and this time you caught him in the act.

“Satoru.” you warned. Not with anger — but with a kind of hesitation that lived in your bones.

He froze, sleepish and unashamed

“Sorry… I couldn't help it. The light really does love you.”

You didn't panic. Not this time. There was no cold sweat. No racing thoughts. Just quiet. Him. His presence. His words. Somehow, the click wasn't loud enough to trigger the fear. Somehow… he wasn't.

“Delete it.” you said.

“Do you really want me to?” he asked, voice softer now — quiet like a baby's lullaby.

You didn't answer. You just kept chewing — a little slower this time.

He didn't delete it — because he never would. Because in the very second, you were real — and real was rare.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The streets bustled with laughter and glowing lanterns. Drinks clinked in plastic cups. Skewers crackled over charcoal.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing your hand again, “We still got Tokyo to fall in love with.”

And all you could do was smile as you held your hand tightly. Hoping that this feeling would never pass by.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The night air filled your lungs but it wasn't enough like the laughter you both are sharing beneath the glowing moonlight. Satoru playfully pulls your body flush against his warm one — maybe it was the beer you both shared earlier, maybe it was the chaos of laughter but…. the warm feeling within your heart was unbearable.

You were both halfway through your second beer when you stopped outside another glowing stand. A weird looking machine sat humming quietly

“You've never done a capsule toy before?” Satoru asked, pointing to it.

You blinked and it was enough confirmation to Satoru that you've never seen a gachapon machine before. “What did you do as a kid — work full-time?”

You cough, cheeks warm from beer and grilled skewers. “I was too busy trying to be someone, I guess.”

He feeds a coin in and twists the crank. A loud clunk — then a capsule rolled out blue and shiny. He cracked it open — eyes lighting up.

“Oh hell yeah.” he says. “It's a ring, you're mine now.” He slips the plastic ring on your finger dramatically, bending a knee in the middle of the market — not a care in the world on who was watching . “Married by skewers and squid balls. Peak romance, right?”

You snort so hard it hurts.

But don't take it off, not even when you pass the next stall. You look at the plastic ring scattered with all the fake diamonds — you smile.

“Guess that makes me Mrs Gojo?” you mumble the last part — flushed by your own words

“Damn right,” he smirks.

When the crowd noise faded and the drink wore off, you found yourself leaning on him. Arms wrapped around his. Eyes closed against his shoulder.

He looked down, watched your lashes flutter, then said quietly, “You look peaceful. But we've still got a lot of places to explore.”

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Then take me wherever you want Mr Satoru Gojo.”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The night pulled you deeper — like a song you couldn't stop humming.

Lantern light faded into electrical ones. The street narrowed, signs flashing in kanji you couldn't read and somewhere between the laughter, grilled meat and your fingers still curled around his, you forgot to look back — just like how you are starting to forget the different version of yourself.

“Another stop,” Satoru said, grinning next to you.

“Where are we going,” you asked — your grip never falters. “Another food stand.”

He didn't say anything at first, just grinned like it was a secret. “ Better.”

You followed him through a small alley that opened into a bright buzzing corner lot with color — pixelated music playing from the inside. Glass walls framed a row of claw machines and retro cabinets, blinking in challenge.

“An arcade?” you asked, eyes widening.

“The arcade,” Satoru said with pride. “The best one in Tokyo, I swear. Been coming here since I was a kid.”

The childish grin on his face was enough to make you laugh. And before you could even protest — his hands tightened in yours.

The arcade buzzed with life. Neon lights spilled across the floor, reflecting in scattered patterns across your shoes. You paused at the entrance — slightly overwhelmed by the chaos and noise, but his hand… still wrapped around you, grounded you and it was enough to take all the sudden fear away.

“Come on,” he said, tugging you gently. “You're not going to chicken out on me now, are you?”

“Not yet,” you smirked, your voice softer now — lighter.

Satoru darted over to the claw machine, all glass and plastic, filled with colorful plushies, shaped like cats, frogs even a few questionable dinosaurs.

“I used to be a god at this,” he declared, inserting coins. “Watch and be amazed.”

You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow. “I'm watching.”

He concentrated like a man diffusing a bomb. The claw dropped and…. missed. Then again. Missed.

And again.

“I swear it's rigged,” he muttered, frowning.

For a moment you caught the smallest pout — like a kid who just dropped all his candy. It made you laugh, quietly, like the sound belonged only to the space between you. And then —

Click

Only this time, your eyes locked with his…and he smiled.

But the strange thing was — that usual twist in your chest? That flutter of panic in your ribs? It didn't come. Your heartbeat stayed steady, like it trusted him. Your breath slowed. Your cheeks carried a warm flush like someone had painted them soft with sunrise. Your fingers didn't twitch to hide your face.

And you knew, in that moment, that whatever spell he'd cast — it was working.

“Don't show it to anyone,” you whispered, not even looking away. It felt like a secret you wanted him to keep.

He nodded but what you didn't see, what you didn't even think to say — was ‘delete it.’

Because deep down… you didn't want him to.

“So the ‘god’ of claw machines got defeated by plushie with bunny ears?” you questioned, while turning towards the machine — Satoru was quick to join your side.

“That bunny has attitude, can't you see its face?”

You giggle. He turned to you, mock wounded “Okay. Your turn.”

You gripped the joystick,carefully guided claw, and with an effortless click — the claw latched onto a soft, white cat wearing glasses plush and dropped it into the bin.

You turned to him with a proud as ever grin

“God, huh?”

“.... I let you win.” he scowled with an unreadable expression.

You held up your prize, grinning. “Sure you did.”

Then— quietly, without thinking —you extended it toward him.

“Here. For your collection of humiliating defeats.” you teased, tugging it towards his hands.

But he didn’t take it.

“Keep it,” he said, suddenly softer. “Something to remember tonight by.” And he suddenly smirked too proudly, “Plus if you look at it — kinda looks like me.”

“Shut up Satoru,” you said, shoving him playfully.

But he was right.

It did look like him.

Your fingers curled tighter around the plush.

Then you felt it — his hand, wrapped like silk in yours — his fingers no longer hesitating like they used to. This time they felt like home. Like the kind of touch that belonged to an old lover. His hands weren't anymore — they danced against yours to the rhythm of a heart slowly, but surely, falling for the lens that has been seeking your truth all along.

“Oh look — there's the Dancing Machine,” he murmured, smiling as he pointed ahead. “Let's go. You'll like this one.”

The machine flickers to life with neon fury as you approach it. It's screen pulsing like a warning sign — and in that moment you knew you were doomed.

“Satoru, I don't dance, ” you lie to him flatly, letting go of his hand, while you clutch your hoodie like it's a parachute.

Satoru smirks — smug and easy. “You won't be dancing sweetheart. You'll be surviving.” he winks and just like that your cheeks betrayed you.

“You know… whatever.” You scowled, gripping your hoodie tighter, like it could erase the color now blooming across your face . “Same thing. I'm not doing it."

Suddenly he was in front of you — close. And for a heartbeat, the light within his eyes rivaled the neon blues that wrapped around you both.

“You scared all of a sudden Mystery girl , don't cry on me now,” and the smirk was enough to make your heart skip a beat. And the sudden remarks you had were gone

“I'm…. not gonna cry,” you whispered, voice small — like a secret you were scared he already knew.

He smirks, and finally hops onto the left side of the machine — like muscle memory, arms loose at his sides, confidence radiating. You sigh, but follow — hesitant at first, shoes squeaking slightly as you step on the platform. The music begins — loud, fast and unapologetically chaotic.

The arrows fly up like an anxiety attack.

You step. Wrong.

You step again. Still wrong.

You mutter a curse, quietly, and Satoru lets out a laugh, not mocking — just delightful to see the sudden crease between your brows. “You said you didn't dance. You didn't say you'd actually be fighting for your life.”

“Shut up,” you say, grinning despite yourself, trying to keep up.

He's moving with rhythm and swagger,like he's showing off. And you're over here trying not to trip over your own two left feet — who knew a star like yourself couldn't keep up with a dancing machine.

Then in the midst of your own thoughts — a hand brushes yours.

He doesn't look at you, but you feel it, the flicker of it, like a little jolt of something unspoken. The tiniest accidental spark in all this ridiculous movement.

And maybe… maybe the beat isn't the only thing messing with your heart.

You laugh too hard when you stumble into him. He steadies you, hands instinctively around your waist, his face closer now than it's ever been all night.

His breath smells like cherry soda, while you can't make out the color of his lips under the neon sky but you were sure they were pink due to all the snacks you had earlier. His eyes — amused, curious — as they linger just a little too long.

“Still think you are gonna win?” you ask, recovering.

He shrugs, cocky. “I already did sweetheart.”

And then he jumps back into it, dancing like the floor belongs to him.

You smile, cheeks warm, feet still wrong — but somehow the rhythm doesn't feel so foreign anymore.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The song ends with a whirlwind of light and breathless laughter. Satoru hops off first, barely winded, brushing imaginary duds off his shoulders like he just performed at Madison Square Garden.

You? You're clinging to the side rail like it's a lifeline, hoodie damp with effort, lungs dragging in air like you've just survived a war.

He glances over at your state and grins.

“Damn, that bad?” you pant, pushing the hair out of your face.

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Are you kidding? That was the most fun I've had in days. And look at that,” he gestures smugly at the screen. “Victory: Me. Humiliation: You.”

You roll your eyes but can't stop the smile tugging at your lips. “The machine is obviously rigged.”

He taps his temple. “Nah. Just superior coordination and let's not forget, legendary charm.” And then — a wink. It's always that damn wink of his.

You shove his arm, playfully, the kind of shove that says : you're ridiculous, but maybe I like it.

And the lights from the screen fade behind you, you follow him through the arcade. The neon glow softens now, quieter corners waiting for the next part of your night.

Then — he stops.

Right in front of the photo booth.

Your breath catches.

You stare at it like it's a ghost. A glass coffin dressed up in lights and silly props. You don't move, not at first.

Satoru’s the first one to notice — of course, ever since the ramen shop incident he's been very attentive, but he plays it easy. Hands in his pockets. That usual lazy grin on his adoring lips. “I've got a rule,” he says in a quieter voice than usual. “Any date that doesn't end with a photo strip isn't worth remembering.”

Your lips twitch. “This isn't a date.”

“Could've fooled me,” he hums, and steps towards the curtain of the photo booth.

You freeze. He turns back at the stillness of your silence. And then you say it, soft, and honest.

“Satoru…. you know how i feel about photos.” the small in your voice betrays you enough, your grip your sleeves once again as your eyes try to avoid his very own striking blue ones.

But you can feel him watching you, not with confusion, not pressure. Just… care. Like maybe… just maybe if he reached hard enough for you, you'd be able to see yourself through his lens.

And then — with the kind of gentle mischief — he lifts his camera instead. The one, slung casually over his shoulder, the one that's already taken two photos of you… and maybe two of you secretly. The one he never parts with.

“Then… let me remember you the way I see you.”

His confession ran dry, enough for you to finally look up and blink… enough for your heartbeat to increase.

“Satoru…”

“No pressure,” he says softly. “We don't have to look at it. I just…want to remember you here. With your hair all messy from fake dancing. And your face is still pink from dancing. That's all.”

Your throat tightens, but somehow — you nod.

He lifts the camera, and you hear it —

Click

One shot. No poses. No warning. Just you — bathed in arcade glow, hoodie clutched in one hand trying not to smile too hard.

You don't ask to see it.

He doesn't show it.

But you both feel it. The way the moment sinks into silence between the two of you. The way the laughter of people around you slowly fades away… and the way he suddenly reaches for your hand…was enough to filter through your aching heart.

He gestures to the photo booth again, you smile and whisper, “Only if we wear stupid hats.”

He lights up like the jackpot just hit.

“Deal,”

So you go in, hands still wrapped around his like it's meant to fit in your, like it's second nature.

The booth is cramped — closer than either of you expected — knees bumping, shoulder touching, the heat of Satoru’s arm brushing yours like summer heat.

He's fiddling with the touch screen like it's his first time. “Okay, okay. We've got ten seconds per frame. That's enough time to be iconic right?”

You're laughing nervously already, finger twitching in your sleeves again, your heart thudding harder now that the curtain is closed — private — but also vulnerable. The small space swallows sound. Neon slips through the edges of the curtains, the world hushed behind the curtain.

And then, it hits.

The pressure of the lense. The stillness. There is no way to hide. Your breath suddenly stumbles. The laughter fades from your lips. You glance towards the exit, and you want to bolt. It's stupid, it's just a photo —but your chest tightens all the same.

But then —

“Hey.”

You hear his voice, it was low, soft, the kind of gentleness that anchors.

You turn, close to tears — but he's already looking at you. Not impatient. Not annoyed — just there. Inspecting each and every little detail of your eyes, nose, lips… any sign of hesitation.

You nod quickly. Then shake your head. “I… I don't know if I can do this. I know it sounds dumb…”

“It's not dumb,” he says immediately, and shifts closer — just enough to keep you in the present, not enough to make it worse. “You don't have to explain anything to me. We can leave, right now.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, as your fingers clutched deeper within your skin. You hate this — the spiraling, the doubt, the unease, the hopelessness — you hated everything.

But then again —

You felt his hand within yours. This time it was different. This time he made you look at him as he whispered “It's gonna be okay.”

And smiles — not the bright, cheeky, confident grin he always wears if he won a silly plush or if he beat you with his swagger dance moves, but the soft private one… you've only witnessed two or three times for the night.

The one just for you.

“I'm right here,” he murmurs, not letting go of your hand. “And tonight…” he says looking around for the hats. He finally finds them, but he grabs a crooked plastic tiara off the side hook and jams it gently onto your head. “You're royalty.”

You blink. “And you?”

He dramatically slaps on a giant red nose, and a cone hat so crooked that it nearly falls off. “I'm your humble jester.”

You let out a breathy laugh at his words. He reaches over and selects the frame settings, tapping rapidly like a game show contest, and the countdown begins:

3…2…1

You try to smile — really, you do — but you end up just blinking, lips parted, unsure.

Flash

And you could feel yourself, squeezing Satoru’s hand so tightly — but suddenly he laughed, head thrown back as the crooked hat slowly fell from his snowy white hair. And in that moment you felt true peace — like he was grounding you, unconsciously.

“Okay, okay! Let's do better! C’mere — lean into me a little.”

You hesitate, then inch closer. His one arm slid behind you this time, not quite around you — but enough. You don't realize how close your faces are until the second countdown starts.

3…2…

He whispers, “Pretend you're having fun.”

Flash.

And you do — barely — your smile crooked, shy, but real this time. His nose brushes your temple

Third shot : You both try to make peace signs, but yours come out backwards and he ends up in front of your face. And for the first time in that tiny booth you burst out laughing.

Flash.

Last one

He suddenly grows quiet. You ace at him unsure of what to do but he doesn't move. Just stares at you, seriously this time, like he's memorizing something important.

You sift nervously under his gaze, “Satoru —?”

Flash.

You blink, caught off guard. The final frame freezes the moment you're staring at him — surprised, breathless — as he looks at you like you're the last photograph he ever wants to take.

The screen flashes white for a second longer, then fades. A soft mechanical whirring begins and the trip of photos starts to print.

The sound of photos printing was the only thing that consumed the tiny photo booth. You exhale like you've just come up with air. And Satoru — he leans back first, stretching his arms overhead like the whole thing was no big deal. But then he turns to you — really looks at you — like you've done something brave.

“You did good,” he says softly tugging the tiara forward so it sits more securely on your head.

“Like… really good.”

With his hands no longer wrapped around yours, you tug them in your sleeves again, unsure how to reply, the sound of your heartbeat slowly increasing yet again and the warmth that surrounded you both was still buzzing within your chest.

His eyes never left yours once, like he's watching a movie with each and every movement you made. And that's when the photo finally slides out — but still he doesn't budge.

“Satoru the photos…” you whisper, feeling slightly intimidated by his eyes.

“Right,” he grins, snatching them. “Let's see the damage.”

You lean in slightly as he holds them up into the neon light. The first one makes you both laugh — your awkward blink, his ridiculous grin — but it's the last one that quiets you.

He tilts the strip toward you. “This one's my favorite.”

You stare at it — at you, frozen mid - breath, wide - eyed and uncertain. And him, beside you, unflinching, like he has always meant to be in your frame.

“You can have it,” you whisper to him softly, while studying the stripped photo.

And just when you thought you could win with him — he does the unexpected. Tore it down the middle — carefully, gently, making sure he doesn't ruin the picture.

“Nope. Half and half,” he replied, popping the ‘p’. “That way I have an excuse to see you again.”

Your breath hitched slightly at the little confession but you didn't say anything , as you stared at the torn strip resting within your palm. At the way your faces were pressed together, at the way you both grinned, at the way…. you both looked ridiculous but yet… so happy.

And for the first time that night, you saw the girl you once were — slowly being unwrapped by a ‘stranger’ you barely knew. A stranger who doesn't even know the real you — guilt was one thing, but you knew that all of this will end by tomorrow.

You watch him fold the half torn strip and tuck it into his wallet, like something precious, you think your heart might actually stop.

And at that moment, you didn't want the arcade lights to dim.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

He nudges your shoulder. “Come on royalty. Let's get out of here before someone challenges you for the throne.”

You smile, slipping out of the booth behind him. The air outside the curtain feels cooler somehow — looser like the weight in your chest has lightened.

The rest of the arcade fades around you — the beeping buttons, the singsong clatter machines — until it's just the two of you walking slowly towards the exit. Your hands brush once, twice, before he finally laces his fingers through yours.

The night air kisses your cheeks soft and chilled. And from the warmth of your hoodie, the tiny plush—the one he claimed looked like him — peeks out again — a quiet reminder of the comfort you didn’t know you needed.

You glance up at Satoru, his white hair catching the glow of streetlamps. And he’s already looking at you again.

“You hungry?” he asks, swinging your joined hands. “Or are we surviving off that one victory cat plush for the rest of the night?”

You snort, tugging the little thing from your hoodie pocket and holding it up. “Well he's got more substance than the popcorn you inhaled, at the stalls earlier tonight.”

“Hey!” he clutches his chest, feigning heartbreak . “I'll have you know that popcorn was gourmet.”

“Sure,” you smirk. “If ‘gourmet’ means microwaved cardboard with fake cheese dust.”

He gasps — actually gasps — and spins you gently gently like your mid - argument in a fairytale dance. You stumble with a breathless laugh.

“You wound me princess,”

The sudden name caught you off guard, as the familiar warmth rose within your cheeks. “I'm not a princess, thank you very much.”

You're still giggling when the warm yellow glow of a 7 - Eleven appears up ahead.

Satoru perks up like a kid. “Wait. Emergency sugar run.”

You blink, confused by the shift —but he's already tugging you inside.

Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, casting pale halos across neat rows of snacks. Satoru beelines for the sweets, arms sweeping across shelves like he's conducting a sugar–fueled heist. You trail behind, amused, a quiet shadow to his child like chaos.

He's already piling instant puddings,mystery cakes, and sweets you've never seen into his arms.

You raise an eyebrow, “This is extremely concerning.”

“This here Mystery girl,” he says solemnly, turning dramatically, “is called balance.”

You stare, “You're buying three types of cake in a cup. And soda. And whatever that pink thing is.”

“Exactly,” he grins, holding up a melon soda. “Fruit group: covered.”

You roll your eyes, but follow him to the counter . As he pays, your gaze drifts upwards —to the security screen behind the register. One angle captures you perfectly, standing behind him, the plush cat once again peeking from your hoodie.

You watch yourself, absentmindedly fixing your hair. And then —

Click

Your head snaps around instantly. But Satoru's already lowering the camera, that smug grin already blooming.

To your surprise, you don't flinch. Not this time. Instead you met his eyes and the way he looked at you, the way he smiled — warm, easy, and sincere makes your heart skip a beat.

The fear you usually felt in front of the lens to fades… because —

He was the one behind the lens.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he says, mock-innocently, twisting the camera’s worn leather strap around his finger. “Candid art. The lighting was perfect. ”

He scratches his neck awkwardly. “Plus… you looked kinda cute.”

You bite your lower lip, looking away. But then you spot his cakes — and a familiar, mischievous grin forms.

“I'm gonna steal your cakes.”

“You wouldn't —”

But you already are. You snatch the bag and sprint towards the exit.

“Oh no, Royal rebellion! ” he shouts , behind you chasing. “Come back here, you traitor!”

Outside you break into a sprint, laughing as you hold the cakes hostage. He follows — dramatic and loud — yelling something about dessert theft and snack justice. You round a corner, nearly tripping on your own feet as you shriek with laughter, and then —

Then — you trip.

Well, not quite. You both stumble into a heap onto a patch of grass. Not hard — more like a clumsy trip that ends with him catching you, kind of. Your back hits the grass, and suddenly he's hovering over you, one knee on the ground, one hand beside your head to brace himself.

His face is right there.

Both your chest rise and fall — laughter fading into silence. Laughter suddenly dies out, slowly — like the world no longer exists.

His glasses are foggy slightly but you can still see the way his gaze drops — from your eyes, to your lips and then back again.

Time holds its breath.

You reach up, fingers brushing the fogged lenses, gently adjusting them enough to see him again — clearly . In that moment you couldn't help but reach out for them — adjusting enough for the fog to clear. His eyes — sea-glass blue, aglow with some kind of softness you've never quite seen before.

He doesn't lean in. But he doesn't move away either.

The world has yet not awakened, it's just the two of you — breath tangled, time frozen — with only the night sky watching. And in the stillness your hearts are loud.

“You're red,” you hear him whisper, just above your lips.

You swallow. “And you're… heavy.”

That breaks it. He exhales a breathless laugh, and rolls onto the grass beside you. “You ran, with all my pudding.”

“You photographed me on a surveillance cam!” you argued.

“You're welcome.”

You both lie there side by side, the stars half-hidden above the city haze. His hand soon found yours again — lazily, comfortably lacing his fingers within yours — like it's been that way forever.

After a while, he sits up and offers you his hand.

“Come on, the night’s still young.”

You groan and pout slightly. “Ugh, where are you taking me this time you sugar demon?”

He smirks, “It's a surprise, Mystery girl. Plus I need to enjoy those cakes on the way.”

You eye him, “Fine. But I get a bite.”

He hums thoughtfully, smirking “So the princess does like sweets”

Your cheeks warm.“You know damn well I'm not a princess.”

The plush cat peeks out from your hoodie like it's judging you. You sigh and let him pull you to your feet.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The elevator dinged softly, as the doors slid open, revealing a hallway bath in soft neon lights and muffled pop music coming from down from the corridor.

You blinked. “Wait — karaoke?”

Satoru strolled out ahead of you, casually licking a spear of frosting off his thumb — still working his way through the second mini cup he snuck from the convenience store, like a mischievous child.

“Suprise-” he singsinged with a grin over his shoulder. “Figured you can loosen up a bit before turning back into Cinderella.”

Your brows rose. “You planned this…?”

“Yup. Booked the room an hour ago. Had to pretend it was for a bachelorette party.” He wiggled his brows. “Don't worry. I asked for pink lighting and everything.”

In that moment you couldn't help it — the laugh slipped out before you could catch it. God, he was stupid. Stupid and tall and funny.

Inside the karaoke room was cozier than you expected. A plush L shaped couch wrapped around a glass table cluttered with menus, spare mics, and tiny lights. The screen on the wall rolled through generic music videos, waiting for input.

You lingered never the door for a second longer than necessary. Your throat tightened a little. It's just karaoke, you told yourself. He doesn't know.

Satoru plopped down dramatically, cake in one hand, remote in the other. “Beer’s coming soon. You're up first, pop princess.”

“I'm not a pop pri —”

“Don't even start,” he said pointing at you. “You already got convenience store staff smiling at you like you're a Disney character. I bet you sing like one too.”

You rolled your eyes, slipping beside him on the couch. The beer arrived minutes later, frosty bottles with enough bite to dull the nerves. One turned to two, and two turned to three. He challenged you to do Britney Spears in a bad accent. You dared him to sing Whitney Houston, and he tried — very, very badly.

You were laughing so hard your cheeks hurt.

And when you finally picked a song for yourself — something light, something dreamy — Satoru went quiet.

He leaned back, legs man spread, beer in one hand, watching you with that fond smirk of his — like you were some rare vinyl record playing in a quiet room.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, lowering the mic after the first chorus.

“Just… didn't think you'd be that good,” he said with a grin, a little slower now, a little heavier from the drink. “You're kinda showstopping.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, “You're drunk, Satoru.”

“Not yet,” he winked. “But you keep singing and I might just… fall in love.”

For a moment, your eyes met his — once again it felt like the air was heavier within this room. He's watching you closely — but he's already close — you lower your head enough to keep yourself from heating up, yet again.

You nudged his knee with your own, “ You couldn't hit a note if it hit you.”

“Ride.I'm emotionally injured now princess.”

You both kept going — singing, teasing, the kind of tipsy closeness that made you forget the world outside. You kept dancing around the room at one point, mic in one hand, laughing as he howled off-key from the couch. You didn't realize how close you'd gotten until you dropped beside him again, still catching your breath.

His eyes flicker to yours.

You're softened.

And a quiet beat filled the air.

His hands brushed your knee, but you didn't move.

“Can I… please take a picture of you?”

His voice wasn't teasing this time. It was quiet. Hopeful. A little shy in the way you never imagined Satoru Gojo could ever be.

The barriers which surrounded you two, were slowly fading in the little karaoke. You could feel the veil you've used to cover yourself instinctively lifting and for him to finally open that door — was the girl you used to be.

You blinked, heart catching on the sudden turn. “What, now?”

He nodded slowly. “You look…” He fumbled, thumb tapping the lens nervously. “You look like something I don't want to forget. ”

Your stomach flipped. And still — you reached out gently, finger brushing his. “Yes. Only you can Satoru Gojo.”

He grinned, boyish and bright, and fumbled with his camera — suddenly all clumsy fingers and slightly drunken nerves. The flash didn't fire. He didn't need it.

You stood on the table again, this time slower, more deliberate. Singing softly into the mic, hips moving like they remembered the stage — but the stage was gone, and it was just him, just this moment.

Click

And Satoru lowered the camera slowly, like the moment had stolen something from him. His gaze locked on yours — blue azure eyes wide and soft with something achingly real.

“You're beautiful,” he said, barely audible over the music.

You froze. He blinked, as if realizing it had slipped out. “I mean — you've always been, I just — shit, sorry I didn't mean to say it like that —”

A warm flush crept up his neck. His words tangled. And you… you were just about to say something real — when —

Your phone buzzed

The screen lit up : Manager

And right then and there your stomach sank.

“Give me a sec,” you murmured, climbing off the table and stepping into the hallway, far enough so that he couldn't hear. You pressed the phone to your ear.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Her voice was sharp, loud cutting through the high you'd been floating on just a few minutes ago.

“I told you to come to the event, you didn't come. You wander out in Tokyo and you can't even lie low either. There are photos, real ones this time — don't play dumb, we've already seen them.”

You froze in place. “Photos…?”

“I told you to be careful, and you're out there — dancing? Singing? God Y/N, if this breaks, it's not just you. It's the label. It's the tour. We had control. Now we don't.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper, your throat thick. You could slowly feel the lump in your throat.

“You're not just some girl who gets to play dress-up, and run around like no one's watching. You, out of all people know that.”

You didn't realize a tear had slipped until it hit your collarbone.

You took a shaky breath. And then —

Flash.

Right.Blinding.

Your name echoed down the hall.

“Y/N! OVER HERE!”

Panic snapped its fingers inside your chest like a rubber band.

More flashes. More clicks. More people. And the more your name slips from their lips.

Your breath caught.

The phone slipped from your fingers like gravity itself and that's when you cave.

You were no longer normal.

You were the star you were always meant to be.

And you were cracking, like bones with each and every flash.

Your knees gave out as the noise closed in, the flashbulbs stuttering like lightning in a storm — lights that were once your comfort, are now your enemy. Voices were overlapping — your name, your name —over and over again, like it didn't belong to you anymore.

Your chest constricted violently. You couldn’t get air. Not even a sip, as the crowd chanted your name from left to right.

Your hands clawed at the wall behind you. You didn't move. You couldn’t move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't run. You didn't even know where to go. You didn't have anywhere to go. Every part of you felt too small for the panic crawling under your skin — a screaming, suffocating thing that curled itself around your ribs like a vice.

You were choking on your own name.

A name loved by so many, but hated by the one person that created it — and it was you. The name you loth so deeply now, that you wish you could turn back time and live the life you've once wanted to escape.

But then —

Warmth.

Two hands. Familiar. Gentle. Steady.

“Shhh. Hey,Hey, I got you — hey. I'm right.”

Satoru.

You barely heard him through the noise rushing in your ears. Your vision was tunneling and the familiar tears rushed down your warm cheeks. Your hands shaking violently in his grip. You couldn’t look up. Couldn't face him like this. Not now. Not as the girl crumbling under the spotlight she asked for.

But he didn’t let go.

You felt his hand slide down your back,the other curling gently around your wrist — grounding you like he was trying to pull you out of the storm with nothing but touch.

“Breathe,” he whispered, right at your ear now, close and steady. “Come on, princess. Look at me. Just look at me. I need you to breathe, okay?”

You tried — you really did — but the tears came harder.

“Can't — can't breathe —” you gasp.

“Yes, you can,” he said, firmer now but still soft. “I've got you. I promise, I've got you.”

He lowered you both to the ground gently,away from the camera, behind the stone pillar just outside the entrance — somewhere quiet where no one could find you. He pressed your back against it and knelt in front of you. The city still screamed behind you, but he became your world.

Then he did something simple. Something so stupid but beautiful. Something that only Satoru Gojo would do.

He took your hand and placed it firmly against his chest — right over his lively beating heart.

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That's me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.”

You could feel it — the steady thump of him, beating for you when yours couldn't.

You clung to it. Clung to him.

Like he was the only oxygen you could ever need.

And slow… the tightness in your chest loosened. Not gone. Not entirely. But enough to breathe.

Enough to finally cry.

You let your head fall against his shoulder. And he held you like he'd done it before, like he knew how to carry someone breaking within his very hold.

“I didn't want it to be like this,” you whispered hoarsely, “Not like this…”

He cupped your cheek with one hand, tilting your face to him gently.

“I know,” he said, like it broke his heart too. “You didn't deserve this.”

And maybe it was the adrenaline, or grief, or the way he looked at you like you were still human — but you leaned in.

And he didn't stop you.

The world felt like it was pooling beneath your own palms. The beating of his heart keeping you steady enough to find, your own drumming against your ribcage

And finally —

His lips met yours — soft, slow, reverent. A promise and a plea. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't polished.

But it was real.

You melted into him, like you've been waiting all night. And when you pulled back, breathless, you rested your forehead against his and whispered —

“Please stay.”

His hand still pressed yours to his heart.

“Always.”

It wasn't a promise made in grand declarations — it was whispered barely, audible, something to shatter if you breathe too hard.

And somehow, you believed him — every word, every vow, and little letter that seemed to leave his promised lips was something to believe in.

It was the hope you held onto — it was his heart you clung to.

You stayed like that for a while. Neither of you moved, like the ground beneath you might vanish if you did. The world — the cameras, the noise, the name you hated — all blurred out behind the steadiness of his chest and the hush of shared breaths.

Eventually, Satoru stood, brushing his thumb under your eye to catch the last remnants of tears, that treating to leave you with more stains of heartache.

“Come on,” he said, quiet but steady. “Let's get out of here, I'm sure we lost them by now.” He added as he looked around every corner.

“Hopefully you'll like my apartment.” he whispered against your ear. And finally his hand reached for you unconsciously — making sure to lace his fingers through yours, to ground you, to hold you, to let you know that you are with him — and only him.

The walk to his apartment was wordless. Not because there was nothing to say, but because nothing needed to be said. He walked close, his finger brushing against your knuckles now and then, like a question he was scared to voice. The night air was thick with silence — not cold, not tense, just full.

His apartment was tucked between the city's smaller spots, inconspicuous and soft-lit, a place clearly meant for peace, safety and disappearing. He tucks your hands against his own as you both made your upstairs — a dim light shone against the walls, making it earlier for the both of you to find your way to his door.

“I know… it's not much you're used to,” he says smiling softly, while opening the door. “But it's home.”

Once inside, the darkness held you both, like little stars waiting for any source of light to ignite.

Satoru flickered the switch, and the apartment came to life with a quiet hum — not loud, not invasive, just soft light against cream coloured walls and scattered mangas. A half-empty mug sat on the shelf with a half eaten cake next to it and to your surprise — you smile. The faint scent of bergamot and cedar hung in the air, it was the scent that clung to him at times.

It wasn't grand. It wasn't polished. But it was warm — lived - in, in the way hearts are when they finally stopped running — from truth, hope, love and just finding acceptance.

He watched you for a moment, as if memorizing the way you stood in the doorway, unsure of whether to come closer or bolt. You weren't the stage name he heard minutes ago. You weren't the headlines. You were just a girl with tired eyes and a trembling heart.

“You can sit wherever,” he said gently, scratching the back of his neck. “Or — uh — I can make you tea. If you want. Or we can just —”

“Satoru, can I just…. be here?” you asked, your voice soft, like it might just shatter.

His expression changed — something between a breath and a vow.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can just be.”

You nodded, and for the first time in weeks — maybe months — you let yourself sink down, into the couch of an apartment — of a place called home. It creaked beneath you, like it was trying to familiarize your weight. Satoru sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

You couldn't help but lean against his shoulder, the warmth of his body slightly, warming your cold heart. There was silence yet again. But this time it wasn't it was full — full of something different.

Something much more meaningful.

There was no pressure. No panic.No fear. No anxiety.

Just his presence was enough to sing the word — calmness.

He didn't ask about you. He didn't mention the tears or the world you just escaped. He just leaned back, exhaled slowly, and let his hand find yours again, like it was always meant to be that way.

And that was the moment you realized —painfully, achingly — that he was the only person that hadn't asked you to be anything.

“Satoru,” you whispered his name, softly as if you were afraid he'd vanish any second,as if this was a dream you were never meant to have. “I…. I'm so sorry.”

And finally you felt it again — slowly tears started to weld within your eyes. You grip his hand softly, making sure it was the only thing grounded you within this moment.

“Princess…” he whispered, arms wrapping around you, as if holding you could keep you from falling apart as if he could catch every little piece before it hit the ground.

He gripped you tightly — not out of desperation, but out of certainty. Like this was something you've always wanted throughout all your years. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and he held you through the tremble of your body, the apology in your tongue, the grief you've been carrying for God knows how many years… ever since you've entered your world of glamor and fame.

“You don't have to apologize,” Satoru murmured into your hair, voice low and quiet and steady,like the ocean pulling at the shore. “Not to me. no to anyone.”

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. You just held him tighter, like he could numb all the pain you've felt. And somehow in some way he understood.

He let his lips brush against your temple. Light. Soft. Reverent.

“I'm here remember.” he said gently, mimicking his action prior — and you could feel his heart again, beating beneath your palm.

“And you can breathe,” he whispered, barely audible.

The way he held you — not like some rescuing a damsel,but some who had been waiting for a very long time to find you — to come home — undid something in you. The kind of care you've always wanted, craved, dreamt of day after day. And this time…. therethere was no masks. No pretending. No demands.

He knew you now, he knew the real you.

You pulled back slowly,just enough to see him — your foreheads almost touched, your breaths mingling in the air between you. His eyes searched for yours, not for permission this time but for you.

And you were there — every broken, soft, tired part of you. Finally seen.

His heart still beneath your palms slowly started to increase, as your lips brush against each other, so close to kissing.

“Your heart is racing,” you whispered gently.

His gaze drops to your lips and back to your eyes. “It's because of you…”

The quiet between you changed. The kind of quiet that felt like gravity — pulling, heavy, inevitable.

His eyes flickered to your lips once again and then slowly — almost cautiously — Satoru leaned in.

He kissed you for the second time that night, like a secret he's been keeping too long. Like a prayer. Like he didn't know how to be gentle, but was trying anyway.

Your hand slid to the side of his sculpted face, holding him close,and his arms wrapped tighter around your waist, anchoring you both in a moment that neither of you wanted to end.

It was warm. Deep. Real.

You didn't realize how long you've been kissing until your lungs started to burn, until your hands were trembling and your body was pressed so fully against his that you could feel the flutter of his heartbeat, feel the soft rise and fall of his chest.

Satoru pulled back, just slightly, just enough for you to breathe — noses brushing together slightly as his lips parted like he was about to speak — but no words came. The outline of your lips, nose, eyes… everything was enough for him to be struck in awe — in awe only for you.

His eyes never left yours, he was studying you — like you were something fragile wrapped in starlight. Like he couldn't quite believe you were real. His long slender finger hovered just above your cheekbones — a slight pause — just to grasp this moment of truth, that you were truly real. The fear of touching you too quickly might just break the spell, he so desperately wanted to cling.

“You're…” he started, then laughed — shy, breathless. “You're so damn beautiful it actually hurts.”

You blinked, and he kissed your eyelids — slow, soft. “All of you. Even the parts you hide. Especially those.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment — just long enough to feel the weight of his words settle in your chest, to let them echo in places that had long been quiet. Then, like instinct, your finger reached for him — the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. The cool rims of his glasses kissed your finger tips, and you hesitated… then gently slid them off.

“I've always loved your eyes,” you whispered more to yourself than to him — like it was a secret you held far too long.

He stilled.

The quiet tension passed between you — something fragile, something reverent. Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the button of his shirt, trembling slightly as they ghosted across fabric and heat. But before you could move further, his hand caught yours — not to push you away, but to hold it, to bring it to his lips.

“As much as I'd love for you to take control,” he murmured against your skin, pressing a wet kiss into your palm. “I'd rather be the one to pleasure you.”

Your breath hitched, shallow and sweet, as his teeth grazed tenderly across your wrist. He trailed higher over your arm, your shoulder, up the column of neck until his mouth hovered just beside yours. And then —

He kissed you.

Softly, reverently, like it was the only thing he'd ever been meant to do. The kind of kiss that melted time, unspoiled the tension between your ribs, and made you forget that pain ever existed. You melted into it — into him.

You — past the flickering lights of the kitchen, past the couch that still held your shape — and into the bedroom. The walls were muted blue, the kind that held onto moonlight like a secret. Everything felt still, as though even the night was holding its breath for you.

He laid you down carefully, slowly, like you were made of something too precious to be rushed. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt again and this time he didn't stop you.

His name was a breath on your lips.

And the way he looked at you — God, it was worship.

No — more than that. It was reverence wrapped in longing, the kind of praise woven into silent prayers only an angel like you could understand. Satoru's hand lifted to brush your hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on his cheek, like he couldn't bear to stop touching you — not now, not after everything.

Your eyes shimmered with grief, but nestled between the pain, the frustration and the ache — there was still hope.

“Satoru… you're staring.” you whispered, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, as your fingers continued to toy with the hem of his shirt, pulling it slightly.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered back, his gaze drifting to your lips. “You're so… unreal. I don't think you understand”

You glance down, flushing under his gaze, shy — but not pulling away.

Then you felt his hand slide beneath your hoodie. The sudden warmth of palm against your bare skin made your breath hitch, your back arching slightly — aching for more of his touch, for more of him.

And when your eyes fluttered open, he kissed you.

But this time, the kiss wasn't tender.

It was desperate. Messy. A collision of want, of apology, of finally. You gasp against his mouth when you felt his fingers flick against your nipple — and it only makes him smirk.

“You've been naked under this hoodie this whole time?” he murmured, his tone dark with mischief and then did it again — that teasing flick, enough to make your back lift off the bed as soft cry escaping your lips.

His mouth dipped to you exposing neck, pressing warm kisses against the sensitive skin there. “God, you smell amazing.” he breathed between kisses, voice raw, low, reverent.

Your hoodie began to to ride up, under his touch, his finger dragging it slowly, teasingly — until the swell of your breasts was fully exposed.

And then he stopped.

His gaze lingered longer than you expected, as if he was memorising every part of your body — like you were something holy, as if your body was a scripture and he was about to learn every verse by heart.

When his mouth finally descended, his tongue flicked softly against your nipple, earning a whimper from you, that had your hands flying to his hair, clutching at the strands for support. He hummed against your skin, savoring the way you fell apart so easily for him.

“Satoru…” you moan, your eyes squeezing shut, hips twitching gently beneath him.

A gentle pop echoed in the room as he pulled away from your breast with a soft suck, giving the other one equal attention as much as possible.

“You're so fucking perfect,” he whispered — and there was a tremble in it, as if even he couldn't believe you were real.

He shifted slightly, his finger grazing your inner thigh beneath your hoodie. You felt his mouth press one more kiss to your nipple, before he moved lower, his lips dragging down the curve of your stomach, hot and open, slow enough to make you whimper again.

Your back arched subtly when his hand cupped your heat — warm, calloused fingers reading your body like scripture. He watched your every reaction, patient, devoted, drinking in the way your breath hitched and your legs shifted beneath his touch.

Satoru found the band of your shorts and hooked his fingers beneath it, dragging the fabric down with excruciating slowness. His lips followed the trail, pressing hot, reverent kisses to your thighs as he bared you, inch by inch.

“God,” he breathed, voice low and rough, “your skin’s so soft…”

His lips ghosted over your ankle, then the arch of your foot, and higher still—open-mouthed kisses blooming like fire across your inner thigh. Wet, deliberate, worshipful.

You squirmed beneath him, whimpering, “Satoru, please…”

He glanced up through silver lashes, the corners of his mouth curling just slightly as he reached your center—thumb grazing the sensitive skin just beside it, like a tease, like a test.

The wet patch against your ribbon pink underwear didn't go unnoticed.

“You're so wet,” he whispered, his tone dark.

Your breath hitched when he reached the band of your underwear, his thumb hooking into the elastic. But he paused — not to tease this time but to look up at you.

“You okay?” he asked, and it was so soft — the way he always asked like you were something delicate, breakable, precious.

You nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

“Good,” he smiled, voice low, sultry and he began to pull your underwear down with agonizing slowness. “Because I want to taste the way you mourn.”

He whispered it like a vow.

And when he settled between your legs, his breath ghosting against your core, you knew —

He wasn't just going to touch you.

He was going to ruin you

His breath was hot against your thigh. You felt it before you felt his mouth. Nipping slightly at your clit, teasing you like a man that's ready to take on his meal.

“Satoru please—” you whine beneath his gaze.

Then — he finally kissed you there, where you needed him most — slow and deep, as if offering a prayer. You gasp his name “Satoru…”

He hummed in response, the low vibration of his voice rumbling against your wet folds, like a secret that's only meant for you. His tongue was slow, tender but sure, parting you with care, as if he was reading grief straight from the folds of your body.

You writhed beneath him, your hands tangling in his snowy white hair, pulling slightly — not to stop him no, but to anchor you from the waters that's been daring to release. You needed something to hold onto and right below you was, the man that's devouring from within — was the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely.

“That's it,” he whispered, pausing to kiss your inner thigh, dragging his lips up, then returning to your core one again. “Let me hear you.”

You felt him spit on your clit, that's when he sealed his mouth around it — sucking gently, sending a jolt of pleasure that made your back arch instinctively.

“Oh my god —” you gasp at the sudden sensations that's about to take over.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, when he continued to suck, lightly, slowly, deliberately. His fingers gripping your hips, grounding you - guiding you through it. He was so attentive. So focused. Like he was trying to memorize the sound of your pleasure, the movement of your body, your weaknesses, your strengths — as if he was trying to replace every single memory of your pain with something sacred.

“You taste… like sweets,” he murmured against you, voice dripping with awe, like he was losing himself in it too. “I could spend a lifetime right here.”

And then you felt it — a single digit — no two, his fingers pushed within your walk. The sound of you clenching walks wrapped around his fingers like they were made for him.

“Can you hear how wet you are,” he asked, as his tongue flicked against your clit. One here, one there. A kiss on your thigh as his fingers continue to work through your went hole.

“Satoru… I..” you couldn’t even finish your sentence, and he continued to pump faster. Your eyes squeeze shut at the sudden sensations of pleasure — and for the second time that night his lips sealed your clit sucking — faster, deliberate — his tongue flattened, stroked long and slow, curling just right.

You back arched as a moan ripped through you, messy and high pitched. You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes. Maybe from the pleasure, maybe from the grief still lingering at the edges. You didn't know anymore.

“Good girl,” he said again, and you could hear his voice — how much he needed this, how much he needed you. The way he kept pulsing his fingers within your walls, the way he kept sucking and licking you like you were his last prayer. “God, you're perfect. I've got you baby. Let it go.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could. Your thighs clamp tight around his head as the heat built and broke — wave after wave until you were trembling, chest rising and falling as your hands covered your face.

Satoru only kissed your inner thighs then your knee, softly as he continued to work you through your orgasm. And finally, he moved up your body slowly, carefully, like he was putting the pieces back together with every kiss he pressed to your warm, dewy skin.

His voice was hoarse when he asked, “Still with me?”

You nodded, barely able to form words, your chest heaving, heart still pounding lively in your throat.

You reached for him this time. And as your lips met his desperately, tasting yourself on his tongue — you knew :

He wasn't trying to heal you.

He was mourning with you. And this was his prayer. His body a psalm. You, the alter.

Your kiss deepened, slow at first — like a silent exchange between sorrow and want — and then something stirred within you. And yearning not to receive, but to give. To worship him, just the way he had worshipped you.

Your fingers trailed down the planes of his back, to the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards with shaky hands. He broke the kiss only to let you pull it off him, and when your palms met bare skin, the heat between you deepened. He was beautiful — not just physically, but in the way he looked at you, like you were salvation in human form.

“Satoru… let me touch you, ” you whispered against his jaw, voice fragile but full of promises.

His breath caught, and for once he didn't hide behind teasing words nor cocky smirks. He nodded — almost shyly — and let you shift you onto his back.

You move over straddling his hips, fingers trailing down the expanse of his chest. His hand came into contact with your hips, as you kissed him again, slower now, your lips brushing over his and your hand drifted downward. When you palmed him through his pants, a low groan escaped his throat — like a silent plea — waiting for your touch to flood him.

“God,” he rasped, “you're… dangerous.”

You smiled, soft and sure, “So are you.”

You unzipped his pants with care, letting your fingers linger just a moment too long over the skin beneath his waistband. When you finally pulled him free, his head tilted back against the pillow, a quiet, broken noise leaving his lips.

You couldn't help but bite your lower lip, his member was glistening with precum. It was large, and you couldn't help but wonder if it would ever fit. Slowly you took your time, kissing down his chest, his stomach, until your breath hovered over his aching member.

And then with one last glance upward, your eyes met his. “Let me mourn you too.”

Then — you took him in your mouth.

You began slowly, the same way grief moved through the soul — carefully, respectfully like you understood the weight he carried — just like he carried yours. He tasted like skin and sorrow, like everything he couldn't say pressed against your tongue.

His hand found your hair, not to guide you but to anchor himself — just like you did — to remind him that this was no dream, that was reality itself

That you were here, offering the kind of solace no prayer could match.

“F-fuck… ” he breathed, voice already shaking. “F-feels… so good, fuck.”

You moved with tenderness, each stroke of your tongue an act of devotion, not lust — and he felt it. Every piece of it. Felt like it was stitching something inside him back together, only to tear him open again.

His head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, and then he looked down at you, breathless.

“Don’t look away,” he whispered. “Stay with me, baby… please.”

You hummed softly around him, and his whole body trembled.

“God– your mouth,” he groaned, hand tightening just a little in your hair. You could feel him shutter at your touch. A broken sound escaped him when you deepened your pace, slow and purposeful, and he covered his eyes with the back of his hand like he couldn’t take it.

You pulled back slightly, lips still kissing along his length, eyes locked with his. “I'm mourning you too,” you whispered again. And then you took him in fully, and he let out a quiet, aching, “Fuck, I'm gonna come — please — princess.”

His hips stuttered, and he reached for you blindly, not to stop you, but to hold on. As if letting go meant losing you again.

You let him fall from your lips with a soft gasp of breath, and you kissed your way back up his body, letting your chest rest against his, letting him feel your heartbeat—fast and full and alive.

He cupped your cheek when you reached his face, and when he kissed you, he could taste himself on your lips.

“Say my name,” he asked softly.

You smile, cheeks warm. “Satoru Gojo.”

You couldn't help but giggle at his sudden behavior. He smiled, and when he kissed you it was much different — his lips lingered longer on yours, not hungry,not rushed just… aching. Like he needed to taste every breath you offered, like your kiss could resurrect something lost. You felt the shift in the air — the kind of silence that held meaning. The kind of silence where one would reminisce in silence.

When he rolled you gently beneath him, it wasn't dominance — no this time it was him surrendering to you, and you to him. He looked down at you, like you were something fragile, sacred. Like he feared you might just be a dream, ready to slip from his hold if he moved too fast.

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath still warm and uneven. “Are you sure?”, voice tight almost pleading, “I don't want you…” but before he could even continue you kissed him.

Kissed him — pulled away, nodding as your fingertips brushed along the curve of his cheek. “You were the first man to make me feel normal…” your voice half broken, soft, “Make me remember I'm here, with you.”

And so he did.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, and you gasped — not from pain but from the depth. From how full it felt. From how deeply it fit, like he was carved for you.

Neither of you moved at first. He just held you – inside and out — letting your bodies adjust, letting the moment stretch.

His lips pressed to your shoulder, to your collarbone, to the hollow of your throat. “You feel like… heaven, I swear.” he murmured, voice breaking against your skin as he marked the flesh.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him deeper, closer. “Oh my god —” a soft gasp leaves your trembling lips.

He started to move, slowly, reverently like every thrust was a vow. Ever sigh a confession. You clung to each other like salvation.

The sound of your bodies — soft breaths, whispered names, the quiet rhythm of skin meeting was the only music the moment needed.

“There — right there…” you let out a breathy cry, your voice shivering with need as his rhythm deepened, unhurried but sure, like he knew every itch of you by instinct.

“Yeah? Right there, princess?” he whispered into your skin, his breath hot and trembling, forehead pressed to yours. “You're taking me so well — fuck your perfect.”

Your body moved as one, the type of synchronicity that didn't come from practice, but from the depth within both of you. From mourning. From reverence.

His hand slid between you, fingers circling your swollen clit, with aching gentleness. “I want to feel you fall apart,” he breathed heavily, voice cracking. “I want to feel you lose yourself. Can you do that for me?”

You could only nod, not trusting your voice enough — your hands clawing at his back, trying to keep yourself grounded as the pressure inside you coiled tighter, your breath hitched with every thrust. Behind you — you could hear the soft thud of the headboard tapping the wall with each deep thrust — a quiet rhythm that matched the desperate way he moved inside you.

“Satoru —” his name tumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he groaned in return, lips pressing to your cheek, your jaw, your mouth.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Fucking breathtaking. I could die right here.”

His movements grew a touch more desperate, not rough, never rough with you — but like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out. Like he was etching his soul into yours with every motion.

“I'm close,” you whimper, voice trembling.

“Me too princess. Fuck — me too. Let go for me, yeah? Come with me,” he pleaded, the sound of it wrecked and unfiltered. “Please…”

You felt it hit — the crash of sensation, white-hot and consuming. Your body arched, your vision blurred, and his name left your lips in a broken sob as you clenched around him.

He wasn't far behind.

With a strangled moan, he spilled inside you, holding you so tight like he was afraid you would disappear. His whole body shook, and for a long moment neither of you breathed — just trembled in each other's arms, undone and reborn.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything unspoken. Grief. Healing. Worship.

And the echo of your names on each other's lips.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

You stayed like that for a long time, your chest rising and falling against his, breaths uneven, skin still warm from what had just passed between you. Satoru's fingers remained tangled in your hair, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your legs still curled around his.

No one spoke.

The silence wasn’t suffocating—it was sanctuary. It was the lull after a storm, where hearts beat softer and the world fades away to nothing but skin and soul.

And then —quietly, you shifted.

You rolled to your side, his hand reluctantly slipping from your body, but not far. It found your waist instead, grounding you in the afterglow.

You stared at the ceiling for a while. So did he.

“You have a beautiful name,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving the ceiling. As his hands slowly started to form shapes against the warmth of skin.

You could only smile, you realize now that he knows you. He knows the other part of your life — he knows the you , you've been hiding from him too long.

And suddenly you realize just how vulnerable you both were in this moment, your voice was almost too soft to be heard.“Do you ever get scared of your own art?”

Satoru turned his head toward you, brow furrowed.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. “I used to sing to heal,” you whispered, “but somewhere along the way, I started singing just to be heard. And now… I don’t know the difference.”

There was a pause — just long enough to hurt.

“I think I take pictures for the opposite reason,” he said. “Not to be heard. Just to see. To really see. And sometimes… to help people see themselves again.”

You swallowed. Slowly. Delicately. “I used to hide from the flash,” you confessed. “Like it might capture something I didn’t want anyone to see. That’s why I panic. I think… I thought the lens could turn me into something I’m not.”

He didn’t say anything. But his hand squeezed your waist.

You finally turned to face him, naked in every sense of the word.

And then, voice like dusk, you asked:

“Will you show me what you see?”

Satoru didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He sat up slowly, reaching for his camera near the edge of the bed — far forgotten after your flush encountered, the lens glinting faintly in the city light seeping through the curtains.

He offered it to you, gently, like it was sacred, a secret he only shared with you.

“Come here,” he murmured, scooting back until you were both sitting cross-legged on the bed, legs barely touching. “Look through this.”

You took it with tentative fingers. Brought it to your eye. And for the first time, the world didn’t spin. Because through that lens, you saw him — Satoru Gojo. Raw. Beautiful. Tired. Honest.

The kind of man who listened with his whole body. Who didn’t ask for more than you could give. Who saw you without trying to fix all your broken parts.

“Now,” he whispered, brushing a hand over yours, helping guide your grip, “gently press right here.”

The shutter clicked. You lowered the camera.

And he was smiling.

Something warm bloomed in your chest. It didn’t have a name, but it sat beside the ache of goodbye. You handed the camera back to him.

And then you laid beside him again, not touching, just watching his face as he admired the photo you'd taken.

“Is that how you see me?” you asked.

He looked at you—not through the lens this time, but with the same stillness.

“No,” he said, voice rough with sleep and truth. “That’s how you see me.”

You didn’t say anything after that.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

Eventually, you drifted. His breathing slowed. And when you were sure he was asleep, you kissed him—just once—like you were pressing the memory of him to your lips.

Then you rose quietly, redressing in silence.

And as dawn crept in behind you, you slipped out the door and back into the world that never stopped watching.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were running.

You felt seen.

You saw yourself, through his lens.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡

3 MONTHS LATER

The soft hum of the aircon the only sound. Your phone lay facedown beside you, but you hadn’t touched it in hours. The headlines had already done what they always did — Pop Star’s Breakout Ballad 'Bliss' Stuns the Charts. A Song That Sounds Like a Goodbye.

They called it haunting. Beautiful. Vulnerable.

They didn’t know it was a confession.

You blinked slowly, lashes wet with unshed tears. The room felt too big tonight, like the shadows had grown long enough to reach inside you.

The clock flashed 2:17 AM. The same hour you left him in Tokyo. The same hour you slipped back into your skin and out of his arms. A sob broke from your chest before you could stop it. You gripped the sheets — but it wasn’t enough. You stood, restless, and with a sudden, angry motion, you kicked your suitcase over.

Its contents spilled everywhere. Clothes. Sunglasses. Lipsticks.

And then… something else.

A hoodie. The hoodie you wore that night.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You dropped to your knees. One by one, the memories fell out.

The tiny cat plushie that looked just like him — smug, sleepy-eyed.

The bent photobooth strip — the two of you caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, cheeks pressed together. He was staring at you in the last frame.

Your fingers shook.

Then you saw it — a polaroid. You. That night. Hair tousled, bare face , glitter clinging to your collarbones. Eyes soft and tired, looking right at him.

He took it when you weren't looking, while you were singing.

You flipped it over.

His handwriting.

You were always my lens.

If you ever need to find me…

- G.

(xxx-xxx-xxxx)

Your breath hitched.

And then you were dialing. Hands trembling. Tears dotting the screen.

The phone rang.Once.Twice.Three times.

Your heart clenched.

Then—

“Hello?”

His voice.

Rough. Sleep-warmed. Gentle.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

“…Is it you?” he asked, softer this time. “Is it really you?”

You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, choking back a sob.

“I wrote it for you,” you whispered. “The song. I—I didn’t know how else to say it.”

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t cold.

It was breathing.

And then, in that quiet, you heard it — the sound of him exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for three months.

“…Come home,” he said.

🔹author's note — i can genuinely say i’m proud of this piece. it took me two weeks to complete—not just because of the writing itself, but because i had to step away at times. some parts were intense, emotionally and mentally, and i wanted to give them the care they deserved. if you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. i’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to let me know what you think. your support means the world.

much love always,

katherine ♡

🔹taglist — @angelkiyo, @imjustheretoreadgeto, @emochosoluvr, @lazyjellyfish300

📌 for updates or to be added to my taglist, please use the link in my navigation, i'll also add the link here for the taglist —> 💌 ♡

ps i do not own the art used in this post. credits goes to the original artist (unknown).

©lafleurperdue. please do not copy, translate, repost, or claim my writing, art, or designs. dividers, words, and worlds belong to me. katherin, with soft ink & heavy heart 🤍

[mangowetwipes]

sin bin sweetheart.

summary: when your housing falls through, the last person you want to end up living with is your best friend’s arrogant, hockey-playing brother, satoru gojo. sharing a space with him feels like being trapped in the sin bin, but the longer you live together, the harder it is to ignore the fact that breaking the rules might be worth the penalty.

pairing: ice hockey player!gojo satoru x fem!reader details: fluff, angst, smut (fingering, nipple play, riding, couch sex, shower sex), enemies to lovers au, roommates au, best friend’s brother au, college au. contains: profanity, alcohol consumption, mentions of death. art by kynlv1. 16.2k words.

sin bin (n.) – (in sport) a box or bench to which offending players can be sent for a period as a penalty during a game, especially in ice hockey.

01. how to piss off your new roommate 101 (an introductory course).

There are only three rules you asked Satoru Gojo to follow:

No bringing random girls home.

No hockey gear all over the living room.

Do your own laundry.

Sure, it might not be your house, because, technically, you’re the one moving in, but you think you’re being pretty reasonable. It’s just your bad luck that your new roommate happens to be the worst at following rules, because right now, at one o’clock in the morning, you are subject to him breaking rule number one already—and very loudly, at that.

There’s a thud against the wall, and a muffled laugh, followed by a low, drawn-out groan that sends every nerve in your body firing at once—though not in the way Gojo’s current “guest” might be feeling. You clutch the pillow over your head, suffocating yourself with cotton in a desperate attempt to block out the obscene noises. It doesn’t work. Nothing does. Not your loud sighs, not the rustle of your own blanket, not even the way you jam your phone’s speaker against your ear and crank your playlist until the bass rattles.

Your playlist doesn’t stand a chance against Gojo’s bedroom door and his absolute disregard for your sanity. 

Rule number one, you think bitterly, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the bare minimum. You had been so clear when you’d moved in three days ago. No random girls; no trail of hockey gear sprawling through the apartment; no mountains of dirty laundry festering in the communal space. Simple, enforceable rules—or so you thought. Apparently, Satoru Gojo is not the kind of man who respects laws, rules, or any other socially acceptable guidelines for how to coexist with another human being. Especially not when he’s this loud.

A particularly obnoxious moan makes you snap. You swing out of bed, feet hitting the cold wooden floor, and stomp into the hallway. You pause in front of his bedroom door, hand hovering in the air, knuckles inches away from knocking. Maybe you should just let it go. It’s not worth the fight. Not worth seeing that infuriating grin of his, the one that makes you want to throw a shoe at his face.

You hear another giggle from inside.

Nevermind. Definitely worth it.

You pound on the door. “Gojo!”

The noises cut off instantly. For a blissful moment, there’s silence—no laughter, no groans, just the sound of your own shallow breathing and the pounding of your fist against the door. Then comes the telltale rustle of sheets, followed by footsteps, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking his sweet time just to make you more irritated.

“Roomie?” His voice drips with amusement, low and lazy, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Can’t sleep? You could’ve just asked nicely if you wanted me to tuck you in.”

Your jaw drops, heat rushing to your cheeks—not from embarrassment but from pure, undiluted fury. “Rule. Number. One,” you bite out, enunciating every word. “Do you even remember what rule number one is?”

There’s a soft laugh on the other side of the door, and you can hear his guest giggling faintly too, like this is all some joke to them.

“You’re no fun,” he says. The doorknob clicks, turning slowly.

The door swings open to reveal Satoru Gojo, all six-foot-something of hockey-playing, rule-breaking glory, leaning against the frame. He’s shirtless—of course he’s shirtless—skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your brain. His white hair is mussed and sticking out at odd angles, like he’s just come off the ice—or, well, not the ice, but something just as irritatingly active.

He smirks down at you. “Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper. Or… Are you jealous?”

“Jealous?” Your voice cracks an octave higher. “Of what, exactly? The fact that you sound like you’re starring in a bad porno?”

His laugh is immediate, loud, and unrestrained. He leans closer, bracing one arm against the frame just above your head, his bare chest far too close for comfort. “If you were watching, it’d be a good one.”

Your face burns hotter. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs again, and the girl—this poor, probably very lovely girl—steps into the hallway behind him, wearing one of his oversized jerseys and looking anywhere but at you.

“I should… probably go,” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” you mutter before he can say anything. “You probably should.”

She scurries past you without a second glance, and you suddenly feel a little bad for her. Not because of Gojo—though he is the worst—but because she has no idea what she’s walked into. She’s just another girl in a long line of them, another notch on his stick, and probably clueless to the fact that he thrives on the attention, not the intimacy.

Gojo watches her disappear around the corner, then turns back to you, his smile gone slack. “You didn’t have to be mean.”

“I wasn’t,” you snap. “I was trying to sleep. Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you and your—whatever.”

Gojo studies you for a moment, his head tilting just slightly as if he’s trying to decipher something written on your face. It’s unnerving, the way his eyes—bright and unnaturally sharp even in the dim hallway—linger on you, taking their time. For the first time tonight, he’s quiet, though not in a way that feels like victory. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you more aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the glimmer of sweat on his skin, his overbearing presence in the narrow hallway.

“Whatever?” he repeats. “That’s harsh, even for you.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

“Not really,” he says. “Keeps me young and pretty, don’t you think?”

The audacity of this man. Pretty. He says it like it’s a fact, like he’s fully aware that half the campus would line up just to run their fingers through that ridiculous white hair. You hate that it is a fact, that his lean, cut frame and infuriating confidence somehow make him stupidly, obnoxiously attractive.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “Do you even remember the rules we agreed on when I moved in? Or was I talking to one of your empty hockey helmets?”

“You wound me. I’m a great listener. I heard every word you said that day. I just don’t… care.”

Your hands ball into fists. “You don’t care.”

“Not about rules,” Satoru teases. “You, though? I care about keeping you entertained.”

“Entertained?” you echo, incredulous. “By waking me up at one in the morning with—” You cut yourself off, scowling as the words die on your tongue.

He grins and steps forward. “With what, sweetheart?” he asks, voice dipping into that husky, too-casual tone that makes your stomach do stupid things.

You take a step back; then another, until your back almost hits the opposite wall. “You’re impossible,” you spit out, but your voice is thinner than you’d like.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Stop saying that!”

“What?” His grin widens. “It’s true. You get all flustered. Bet you don’t even know you’re pouting right now.”

“I’m not—”  You snap your mouth shut, realising that you are, in fact, pouting, and that only makes his grin that much more smug.

“Adorable,” he says simply, leaning back.

“You’re annoying as fuck.”

“And yet, you moved in here.”

You inhale sharply, the reminder stinging more than you’d like to admit. He’s right—you did agree to this arrangement. You had convinced yourself it was temporary, a few weeks max while you figured out your own place. Riko’s brother had been the last resort. You never expected it to feel like… like this. The hallway feels too small. He’s too close, too much. You can smell his cologne—clean, a little sharp, something that clings to him even after a game or whatever this was. You hate that your brain even registers the detail.

“Go to bed,” you manage to grit out.

“Careful,” Gojo drawls, stepping back. “Sounds like you’re starting to like telling me what to do.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You spin on your heel, storming back to your room, and slam the door behind you.

You don’t see him again until morning, which, unfortunately, is only a few hours later.

The scent of coffee drags you from your room, bleary-eyed and determined to avoid any and all conversation. But the moment you step into the kitchen, there Satoru is—shirtless again, because apparently he doesn’t own clothes—leaning against the counter. His white hair is damp, still dripping from a shower, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips as he scrolls lazily on his phone.

“Morning, roomie,” he drawls, not looking up. “Sleep well?”

You grab a mug and pour yourself coffee. “You’re lucky I don’t own a bat.”

“Ah, threats of violence. My favourite way to start the day.”

You don’t answer. You can’t, not when he’s standing there like that: hair damp and curling at the ends, little droplets of water slipping down the curve of his neck, trailing over his collarbone. It should be illegal to look that good at 7:42 in the morning, and in sweatpants, no less.

Instead, you wrap both hands around your mug and focus on not throwing it at his stupid, smirking face.

“Awfully quiet this morning,” Gojo muses, locking his phone and tossing it onto the counter. “What happened to the yelling? The righteous fury? The deeply unsexy threats about noise ordinances?”

You take a long, scalding sip of your coffee. “I’m choosing peace today.”

“That so?”

“Yup. Thought I’d try being the bigger person and see how it feels.”

“You sure it’s peace you’re feeling? ‘Cause it kind of looks like repressed rage. Or maybe,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, “you’re just still flustered from last night.”

You nearly choke. “Flustered?”

“Uh-huh. You did knock on my door in the middle of a good time.” He winks. “Can’t blame you for being curious.”

“You’re delusional,” you state.

“Maybe so,” he acquiesces. Gojo’s grin is lazy and crooked, shamelessly amused as he watches you struggle to maintain even a scrap of composure. You busy yourself with sipping coffee again, even though it’s too hot and definitely burning the tip of your tongue. Small price to pay for the distraction.

He shifts his weight and the movement draws your eyes before you can stop yourself—down to where his sweatpants slouch indecently low, the V of his hips on full display. Your eyes snap back to your mug so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. 

“I’m not flustered,” you mutter, mostly to your drink.

Satoru hums, unconvinced. “Of course not. You’re the picture of serenity.”

He reaches for the coffee pot and you realise, with a petty kind of satisfaction, that there’s not enough left for a full cup. You watch, vindicated, as he tips it all into his mug and frowns down at the half-full result.

“You’re the worst,” he says, utterly serious.

“I’m the one choosing peace, remember?”

“That was obviously a lie.”

You shrug and sip. “Maybe I’m just learning from the best.”

Gojo laughs, low and bright, and leans further over the counter, like he’s trying to invade your personal space just for the hell of it. “You’ve got a mouth on you, huh? I like that.”

“Bet you say that to all your roommates.”

“You’re my first,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Be gentle with me.”

You scoff, setting your mug down with more force than necessary. “I don’t even want to know how you ended up on the lease.”

“Simple,” he says, straightening and sauntering toward the fridge. “My old place burned down.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Well. Not all the way down. But it did get very, very singed.”

“And they let you sign another lease?”

He turns, carton of milk in one hand, and says, “Yup,” popping the ‘p’ at the end. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars, but there’s a weird warmth curling in your chest now, beneath the irritation and caffeine. Despite yourself, your gaze lingers on him a beat too long—on the line of his shoulders, the relaxed slope of his spine as he leans down to peer into the fridge.

“You gonna keep ogling me or…?” he says without turning.

You startle, cheeks warming. “I wasn’t ogling.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t!”

He straightens again, milk in hand, and gives you a look that says he knows he’s won. “You’re bad at lying. Your ears go all red.”

You clap your hands over them instinctively, which only serves to make him chortle. “I hate you,” you grumble, grabbing your mug and heading for the living room. 

“I love our morning chats,” he calls after you. “They really centre me for the day.”

You flip him off over your shoulder.

“You’ve got a great energy, roomie! Keep it up!”

It turns into a sort of game, after that: who can rile up their roommate the fastest. Satoru Gojo, of course, plays to win.

He starts small—mild provocations disguised as “accidents.” The shower mysteriously runs cold whenever you step in after him. Your favourite snacks vanish from the cupboard, only to be found later half-eated and crumpled under his bed. He starts setting his alarm ten minutes earlier than yours and singing obnoxiously loud in the mornings. It’s always the same song—something bubblegum pop and irritatingly catchy, like Twice or Britney Spears—and it sticks in your head all day, pulsing behind your eyes like a migraine.

You retaliate, of course. You start leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes around the apartment:

Replace the toilet paper next time, you sicko.

If you touch my almond milk again, I will cut off your balls in your sleep.

Why do you shed like a cat? Buy a lint roller. Freak.

You switch the labels on his shampoo and conditioner. You hide the remote. You change the password on the Wi-Fi.

It only fuels him. The worst part is, the bastard laughs. Every time you glare at him, every time you yell his name across the apartment, every time you swear you’re going to murder him in his sleep, he just grins like the cat that got the cream. Somehow, impossibly, he always wins.

Nanami is already at your usual table in the campus café when you arrive, tossing your bag into the seat opposite him with a force that rattles the salt shaker. He doesn’t look up from his coffee when he asks, “What did he do this time?”

“He unplugged the fridge, Kento,” you groan, slumping into your chair. “The fridge. All my groceries are ruined. My oat milk exploded.”

“Did you check the breaker?”

“Do I look like someone who knows what a breaker is?”

“Yes,” he says. “You are a functional adult. You are enrolled in a university. You should know how electricity works.”

“Okay, Mr. Engineer,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I was too busy trying not to throw Gojo out the damn window.”

“I thought you lived on the first floor.”

“Exactly my point.”

You look down, picking at your cuticles. You wish Gojo, your best friend’s annoying brother, wasn’t your last resort. The student dorms were all occupied, and you had to find housing at the last minute. Gojo offered, because he’s known you since you were an acne-riddled teenager in middle school, and also, most likely, out of obligation for his little sister’s best friend. Why else would he put up with you and pay half the rent? You remind yourself that you’re in his house, and not the other way around, and try to stay grateful for that fact.

You also wish you could tell Riko about her older brother, but you can’t because Riko’s dead.

Nanami sets down his cup with a soft clink, eyes lifting at last to meet yours. There’s no pity in them—he’s not the type—but there’s understanding. With every ounce of his understanding nature, Nanami says, flatly, “You’re going to give yourself a stroke before midterms.”

You exhale through your nose, pressing your palms to your eyes. “It’s like he wants me to lose it. He keeps bringing random girls home, Kento. At 3 A.M. And they’re loud. One of them used my toothbrush.”

Nanami looks visibly disturbed. “Why do you know that?”

“Because it was wet.”

“You should throw that out.”

“I did throw it out. And then I wrote a note. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Oh, my bad, was that your toothbrush? I thought it was for guests.’ Guests, Kento. He has a guest toothbrush now, that he keeps in the same cup as mine. I’m being psychologically tortured.”

“He’s always been like this,” Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s the one being victimised.

“You were on the same team as him for three years,” you say. “How did you not murder him in a locker room?”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” he replies. “I kept my earbuds in and my mouth shut. You, on the other hand, are picking a fight with a man who once got suspended for pelting a referee with jello shots.”

“That was him?” you gasp.

“Of course it was. Who else brings jello shots to a game?”

“I knew it wasn’t a food poisoning incident,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair. “They kept blaming the vendors, but one of those things hit Riko in the back of the head.”

Nanami’s expression softens for a second. He clears his throat, glancing out the window. You follow his gaze, the familiar ache blooming in your chest. It’s been two years since the accident, since the call you never thought you’d get. Since Satoru’s voice broke down over the phone, rasping your name, saying it over and over again like it would change something, like you could undo it just by being there.

Sometimes you forget she’s gone. You still scroll through your photos and stop at the ones of her, still think to text her dumb updates about your day. You still reach for your phone when Satoru does something particularly stupid, your thumb hovering over her name like muscle memory.

It’s worse around him. He reminds you of her—same nose, same stupid grin. Same laughter echoing off the apartment walls, loud and fearless and full of something that’s been missing since she died.

You scrub a hand over your face. “I don’t even know why he let me move in,” you say quietly.

Nanami, annoyingly perceptive as always, says, “Because you’re the only person left who reminds him of her.”

Your throat closes up. You glance away, blinking hard. It’s easier to talk like this with Nanami, with someone who knew her, who understands what’s been left behind in her absence. 

It’s just harder when you go home, when Gojo’s waiting in your kitchen, stealing all your forks, leaving crumbs everywhere, making a mess of your carefully managed grief. It’s harder when he smiles at you, wide and unbothered, like nothing in the world could touch him, like he isn’t hurting just as much. Maybe that’s why you haven’t packed up and left, or haven’t demanded he take you off the lease.

“Do you want to come watch us practice today?” your friend asks gently. “You could use the break.”

“Sure,” you agree, nodding.

The rink on campus is mercifully empty, barring the ice hockey players and their coach. You huddle deeper into your hoodie, tugging the sleeves over your palms as your breath fogs in the cold air. The bleachers are metal and unforgiving beneath you, but there’s something calming about the sharp scent of ice and the dull echo of skates carving into the rink. Nanami’s team is already mid-practice, moving like clockwork in their matching jerseys, passing the puck to each other. Nanami’s form is unmistakable—broad shoulders, crisp turns, no-nonsense efficiency. He’s the kind of player who never wastes energy, never showboats.

Which is probably why it takes you a second to notice the blur of white helmet skating circles around everyone else.

Even from here, you can tell it’s Gojo. Nobody else plays like that—reckless, fast, stupidly dramatic. He doesn’t pass so much as he dares his teammates to keep up with him. One second, he’s flicking the puck behind his back to someone mid-sprint; the next, he’s skating backwards while taunting the goalie, stick dragging lazy arcs on the ice. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But it’s also hypnotically, infuriatingly graceful.

You watch, arms tucked tight around your ribs, as Gojo ducks past a defender and pivots sharply on one skate. The move is flashy, unnecessary, but completely effective. He spins just out of reach, like he’s showing off for a crowd that isn’t even there. Then again, knowing him, maybe the absence of an audience is what makes it fun.

He catches the puck again mid-glide, lets it roll across his blade for the briefest second, and sends it arcing across the ice with a lazy flick of his wrist. It lands right where he wants it—at Nanami’s feet. Nanami redirects it into a clean slapshot that smacks against the boards with a heavy thunk. The coach blows his whistle and yells something you can’t quite make out, and the players all begin to split into drills.

Gojo circles back to the bench, tugging off his helmet. His hair is damp and flattened at odd angles, cheeks flushed red from exertion, but he’s smiling. He laughs at something one of the younger players says, throwing his head back like everything in the world exists solely for his amusement. His grin is sharp and his posture is loose with confidence, like he’s never known a moment of self-doubt in his entire life. He stretches his arms overhead, the hem of his jersey riding up just a little over his pads, and you force yourself to look away before your eyes linger too long.

It’s stupid. You’re here to support Nanami. You’re here because your friend thought you needed fresh air, something different, something other than the quiet churn of your own thoughts. You’re not here for him.

But when Gojo finally turns, like he’s felt your eyes on him all this time, and spots you across the rink, he smiles—wider this time. Brighter. You look away too fast to know if he waves.

The drills resume. They’re brutal, repetitive, the kind that test stamina more than strategy. Nanami is steady and solid, the way he always is, never showy but always in the right place at the right time. Gojo, by contrast, is everywhere. He darts around the rink, weaving in and out of formations, making near-impossible shots just to see if he can land them.

You settle into your seat, arms hugging your knees, and try not to think too hard. But it’s hard not to, especially when every stupid little memory rushes in like floodwater. The way Gojo always takes the last Pop-Tart in the box but leaves the wrapper on the counter; the way he sings obnoxiously loud in the shower and always, always manages to steal your charger right when you need it most; the way he tilts his head and looks at you, eyes too blue and too knowing, like he enjoys seeing how close he can get to pissing you off before you snap. Perhaps worst of all: the way he never apologises, just looks at you, smug and smugger, until you roll your eyes and pretend you weren’t mad in the first place.

Asshole.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring blankly, wrapped up in your own thoughts, until someone else joins the bleachers. The guy’s tall, wrapped in a wool coat and beanie, sipping a coffee that steams in the cold air. He glances at you briefly, offers a polite nod, and turns his attention back to the rink.

Gojo’s still showing off. The team’s moved to scrimmage now, red versus blue, and he’s the first one to score. He raises both arms in triumph, sticks his tongue out, and skates backward toward the bench, basking in invisible applause. 

You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands. “God, I hate him.”

The guy next to you chuckles. “You know him?”

“Yeah,” you say looking up.

“He’s not so bad. Bit of a drama queen, but he’s good. Probably the best player we’ve got.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t want to give Gojo the satisfaction, even by proxy. Instead, you wait for the moment he inevitably catches sight of you again—because of course he does, because nothing in his life is ever subtle. His head tilts. His grin turns sharklike. He lifts his stick and points it right at you, mouthing something across the rink. You groan again and pull your hood up.

Later, when you’re halfway back to your shared apartment, your fingers still freezing from the cold, your phone buzzes.

Gojo: you looked cute freezing your ass off up there Gojo: want me to warm you up? 😇

You: 🖕

02. the beginnings of affection (an existential crisis).

In high school, you made the grave mistake of telling Riko you thought her older brother was hot. It wasn’t a lie, because he was—tall, lean, unfairly pretty in that model-off-duty way, with a smile that had left many a classmate in a state of ruinous delusion. But back then, he was an idea, a rumour, a hallway myth in an expensive uniform and designer sneakers.

Now you live with him. Now you know better. Underneath his veneer of hotness lies a cold, twisted soul incapable of feeling remorse.

Yet. This morning, you catch yourself staring.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Roommate. His hair’s still damp from a shower, falling in soft curls over his forehead, and he’s wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him. Yours, actually—the one you thought you lost three weeks ago. It fits him, though it’s oversized on you, the faded design on the front nearly unreadable. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and one of the pant legs is tucked into a sock for some godforsaken reason. There’s a smear of toothpaste on his cheek.

And yet you think: cute.

Which is concerning. 

You frown into your cereal, spoon halfway to your mouth, and try to rationalise it. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the new shampoo he’s using. Maybe you’ve finally been broken by the sheer absurdity of sharing space with him. That must be it. A slow descent into madness. Like Stockholm Syndrome, but for roommates.

He catches you looking and grins.

“What?” you snap.

“You were staring,” he says smugly, raising his mug to his lips.

“I was zoning out,” you lie. “You just happened to be in the way.”

“Mhm. Don’t worry,” he says, winking. “Happens all the time.”

“You’ve got toothpaste on your face, weirdo.”

He wipes it off with the sleeve of your hoodie. Not his hoodie. Yours. You make a mental note to burn it.

“I’m going to start charging you rent for borrowing my clothes,” you mutter, standing to rinse your bowl.

Gojo hums. “Then I’ll start charging you for moral support. You know, the way I bring light and laughter into this apartment.”

“You bring irritation and trauma.”

He laughs. You pause, hand on the faucet. You shouldn’t feel warm. You shouldn’t feel anything. But there it is again—that awful flutter in your chest; that twist in your stomach like you’ve just misread a question on an exam and realised too late. You stare down at the water running into the sink and think, no. No, no, no. Not this. Not him.

Your hand tightens on the faucet. You don’t look up. If you do, he’ll see it: the flicker of something not quite annoyance, the hiccup in your heartbeat. The very beginnings of affection—or, worse, the remnants of it you thought you’d long since buried.

“You’re being quiet,” your roommate observes, voice languid with interest.

“I’m thinking about how I’ll kill you,” you reply. “Maybe poison. Something slow. Arsenic in your overpriced protein shakes.”

“Ooh. That’s hot. Do I get a last meal?”

“You already ate the last of my oats yesterday.”

“Untrue,” he says cheerfully. “I gave it to my teammate—”

You finally turn to glare at him, but it’s a mistake. He’s still wearing your hoodie, still smiling with toothpaste in the corners of his mouth and hair curling at his temples. His mug is held loosely between his fingers and he taps it against his hip like he’s about to say something clever.

He doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you. You blink first.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something stupid and ruin my morning.”

Satoru grins. “I was gonna say you look nice. But I see now that would be stupid.”

Your cheeks burn. You hate that he still gets to you. Hate that, despite all the bickering and unsolicited borrowing of clothes, you still feel something twist inside when he looks at you like that. He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down. “I’m going to be late,” he announces, stretching until the hem of your hoodie rides up and reveals the slope of his back. You look away like you’ve been burned.

“Don’t forget your umbrella,” you say, because it’s drizzling outside.

He grabs the umbrella by the door. “I’ll be back around seven,” he calls, halfway out. “Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t.”

But the door shoots behind him before the lie is even fully out of your mouth. There’s no point denying it. The problem isn’t that he’s hot. It’s that he’s warm, sometimes; thoughtful in ways you don’t expect, and annoyingly perceptive. The problem is that, in the hazy moments between arguments and insults and irritation, you’ve let your guard slip.

God. You’re so screwed.

“Hey. Hey. I thought I told you not to wait up.”

“I didn’t wait up for you.”

He toes off his shoes with a grunt, dropping his keys into the dish by the door and pulling off his jacket in one fluid motion. The collar of his t-shirt is wrinkled, stretched a little too wide at the neck, like someone had tugged at it—maybe he had, or maybe it was already like that. His hair’s a windblown mess, strands sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are rimmed with red like he’s either been up too long or had one too many drinks. Or both.

But he’s still Satoru, still maddeningly good-looking in that careless way of his, still the same insufferable guy who leaves the toilet seat up and sings Twice songs in the shower.

You’re curled up into the far corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around you, half a bowl of popcorn abandoned on the coffee table. You weren’t waiting up—really, you weren’t—but the TV is playing some old sitcom on mute, the light from the screen flickering across your face in soft, silvery flashes. Your phone is dark in your lap. You’ve read the same sentence in your book five times. You glance up when he speaks, and he stops mid-step, tilting his head at you.

“I didn’t wait up for you,” you repeat, quieter this time, and go back to pretending to read.

He smiles faintly, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push. “Right,” he says, voice low. “Of course not.”

He throws his  jacket over the back of a chair and pads into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You try not to follow him with your eyes. Try not to notice the way his shoulder blades shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way he hums softly under his breath as he opens the fridge and lets the light spill out across the tiles.

“You didn’t answer my text,” you say after a moment, tone sharper than you mean it to be.

“My phone died.”

You nod, once. Stupid. You don’t say anything else.

Satoru walks back into the living room, glass in hand, and sinks into the armchair opposite you with a groan. “Rough night,” he says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Didn’t think it would go that late.”

“Didn’t think you were going out at all.”

That makes him crack an eye open, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Jealous?”

You snort. “Of your terrible taste in dive bars and worse taste in company? Never.”

“I didn’t stay long,” he says. “The music sucked.”

“You go for the music?”

“I go for the distraction.”

Outside, it’s started to rain again, a slow, gentle drizzle against the windows. You stare at the pattern of drops sliding down the glass, trying to ignore the shape of him in your periphery—broad shoulders and long legs and bare feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. He’s too close and too far all at once.

“Do you… want some popcorn?” you ask eventually.

Satoru opens his eyes again and blinks at you. “Is this the part where you admit you were waiting for me?”

You scowl. “Forget it.”

“I’m kidding.” He sits up, leans forward slightly, eyes warm now, too warm. “I’d love some.”

You push the bowl towards him, watching as he picks out a piece and pops it into his mouth. 

“This,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “would be the part in a romcom where we kiss.”

“This,” you say, rolling your eyes, “would be the part in a horror movie where the protagonist makes a terrible decision and dies five minutes later.”

“That’s just rude.”

“Good.”

But he smiles at you, bright and boyish, like there’s no place he’d rather be than in this shitty living room at one in the morning with rain tapping against the windows and you scowling over a bowl of popcorn. You hate that it makes your heart ache; hate that, for all your better judgement, for all the times he’s made you want to scream into a pillow, there’s a part of you that softens around him. A part that keeps watching the door when he’s late. A part that stayed up, no matter what you said.

“We should bond,” Satoru says suddenly. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?”

You blink. “Bond?”

“Yeah. Like team-building. Except we’re not a team, and there’s no building.”

“That’s the worst pitch I’ve ever heard,” you say, but the corners of your mouth tug upwards despite yourself.

He shrugs, leaning back into the armchair again and tossing a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it clumsily with his mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like we’ve been circling each other. Might as well make it official.”

“Make what official?”

“This thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Our roommate truce-slash-rivalry-slash-situationship.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. “What—what situationship?”

“Okay, fine. Maybe not that last one.”

You throw a pillow at him, and he catches it with one hand, laughing. The room is too warm, or maybe that’s just your face. You glance away, shaking your head.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I was thinking. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow, and we’re both obviously in need of deep, soul-cleansing joy—”

“You mean you want to avoid your hangover.”

“—we should go skating.”

“Like, on the ice?” you ask.

“No, on a frying pan,” he says. “Yes, on the ice.”

“Come on,” Satoru calls. “It’s just frozen water.”

“I know what ice is,” you hiss.

He skates back toward you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and a beanie pulled snug over his snowy hair. Of course he makes gliding over a frozen lake look like second nature. He probably was born skating. You glare at him from your self-imposed prison at the edge of the ice. Your fingers are locked in a white-knuckled grip on the guardrail, your knees slightly bent like your body already knows it’s about to betray you.

Satoru stops a few feet away, his skates coming to a perfect halt with the faintest spray of ice. “You’re going to have to let go eventually,” he says, amused but not unkind.

You shake your head immediately. “I don’t trust frozen water. Or you.”

“That’s fair.” He shrugs. “But one of those things is going to get you moving, and it’s not the ice.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Doesn’t have to. Come on,” he coaxes, holding out a gloved hand. “I’ll go slow. Promise. Baby steps.”

You glance down at the ice, then at his hand, then back at the ice. It’s unfair, really, the way he looks so annoyingly trustworthy in moments like this. As if he hasn’t spent the better part of your shared time together being the most irritating man on the planet. As if he didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes zipping across the lake like a show-off while you contemplated your mortality from the safety of the shore.

Still, you let go of the guardrail. Just a little. Your hand slips into his, and his fingers tighten reassuringly around yours. He doesn’t tug; he waits, steady and warm and patient, until you peel yourself entirely away from your comfort zone and step onto the ice.

You immediately regret everything. Your foot slides, your balance tips, and you let out a strangled noise as you clutch at him with both hands now, absolutely abandoning any pretense of dignity. Satoru laughs, open and delighted, the sound echoing across the lake like it belongs in a different world.

“I’ve got you,” he says. His grip is solid, his body a firm counterweight to your graceless flailing. “Just stand. Don’t try to walk yet. Feel how your skates sit on the ice.”

“I hate this. I hate you,” you mutter, clinging to his coat.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, and you scowl because he’s grinning now, and it’s not helpful at all.

Slowly, he eases you forward, step by wobbling step. The cold nips at your cheeks, your breath fogging between you in soft white puffs. Every movement feels like a gamble, your muscles tense with the knowledge that at any second, you could end up flat on your back.

“You skate like Bambi,” he observes cheerfully.

“Say that again and I’m taking you down with me.”

“You’d have to catch me first,” he says. “And given your current progress, I’d say that’s not happening in this lifetime.”

You lurch at him, purely out of spite, and he lets out a surprised yelp as he stumbles back a little, catching you both from falling with more grace than you’ll ever possess. You end up in his arms, your face smushed embarrassingly against his chest, heart pounding from more than just the cold.

“You’re not bad at this,” he murmurs near your ear. “For someone who looks like they’re skating on stilts.”

You pull back to glare at him, but his smile softens into something almost fond, and you blink. He’s still holding you, hands braced at your waist now, fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. His touch is warm through the layers. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you can.

He leans back, clears his throat a little, and says, “Alright. Lesson one: don’t look down.”

“What?”

“No, seriously. Head up. Trust yourself a little. If you stare at the ice, your body will think you want to meet it.”

You lift your gaze slowly, reluctantly, and focus on the horizon instead: trees dusted in frost, a sky bruised with early twilight, and Satoru’s impossibly pale eyes, sharp and bright and filled with something you can’t name. He starts guiding you again, his hands still at your waist, your balance a little steadier now. Each glide is cautious; it’s progress, however painstaking.

You’re still clumsy—more shuffling than skating—but the panic has dulled, replaced by a nervous sort of awareness: of your feet, of your breathing, of him. The cold cuts through the air with a crispness that sharpens everything, from the bite in your lungs to the sting in your cheeks, but somehow, with Satoru’s hands anchoring you, it all feels a little softer.

“Look at you,” he says, low and a bit smug. “You’re a natural.”

You snort. “I’m one step away from death.”

“Death by ice is very poetic,” he muses. “We’ll put it on your tombstone. Beloved roommate. Skated once.”

You elbow him weakly, the motion throwing off your centre of gravity just enough to send you pitching forward—again. You gasp, arms flailing, but he catches you effortlessly, laughing as he draws you back upright like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature to steady you.

“That’s lesson two,” he says, grinning down at you. “Don’t do that.”

“You are the worst teacher.”

“And yet,” he says, steering you in a slow arc, “you’re still standing.”

The lake is quiet, save for the dull scrape of blades against the ice, the rustling of wind in the trees, and the shouts and hoots of a group of teenagers skating on the other end. You imagine the rink gets really crowded later in the evening, but for now, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in shades of silver and slate, the world narrowed down to the stretch of frozen water and the steady cadence of his voice in your ear. You take another step. Then another. Satoru doesn’t let go, even though you think you could maybe handle it on your own now. But you don’t ask him to.

“This wasn’t just about the skating,” he says after a while.

You glance up at him. His expression is unreadable now, the teasing stripped back to something quieter. You try for lightness. “Oh? Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me?”

“No. I did that last week. You were too busy yelling at me about the dishes.”

You huff a laugh, but it catches in your throat, because he’s looking at you in that way again—like you’re the only thing in focus. Like the cold and the ice and the time you called him a walking disaster don’t matter.

“I just wanted to do something with you,” he says. “Riko—Riko and I used to do this all the time as kids.”

“...Oh,” you say dumbly.

He doesn’t look away when you say it. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and you realise, belatedly, that you’re not gripping onto him anymore. You’re standing.

“She used to hold my hand like you’re doing now,” he continues, a half-smile flickering across his face, wistful. “Only, she had these tiny little gloves with cats on them, and she’d nearly pull me down every time she slipped.”

You can see it, easily—Riko as a small blur of determination, dragging her too-tall older brother around a rink, shrieking with laughter while he pretended not to be terrified of falling. You wonder what it was like, growing up with someone like that; with someone who looked at Satoru and saw more than the smirking exterior, who loved him before he learned to weaponise his charm.

“Is this where you guilt-trip me into being nicer to you?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “You being mean to me is the only thing that keeps me grounded.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not when your chest is doing that awful thing again—that fluttery, traitorous ache that started as irritation and now feels like something worse. “Do you ever stop being—” you begin, but you don’t finish.

Because he lets go. Just like that.

Your breath catches, skates faltering as your arms instinctively reach for him—but you don’t fall. Your legs wobble, sure. Your equilibrium protests. But you’re still upright, and still moving, slowly and awkwardly and without grace. And he’s just standing there, a few feet away now, watching you with a look that’s proud and amused and terribly fond.

“You’re doing it,” he says, and the words hang in the air like steam, like warmth in the cold.

You stare at him. “You tricked me.”

“Obviously.”

“You let go.”

“I did.” Satoru’s smile is maddening. “But look. You’re fine.”

You aren’t sure if you’re grateful or angry or both. The lake is wide around you, open and echoing, and your arms feel empty without his to cling to. But you’re skating. When you reach him again—because of course you make your way back, clumsy half-glides bringing you close enough to grab his coat again if you want to—he doesn’t move away.

“I hate that you’re right,” you mutter, breathing hard.

“I’m always right.”

“You’re never right.”

“You’re right,” he says solemnly. “I’m only ever hot and devastatingly charming.”

You shove him. It doesn’t do much; he’s solid, annoying, smug. But he laughs, and it echoes across the lake again, bright and honest. Then his hands find yours once more. “Next time,” he says, leaning in close, “we’ll try a spin.”

You gawk at him like he’s insane. “I will murder you on the ice.”

“I’d die happy.”

You should pull away. You should say something cutting, something that reestablishes the boundaries he’s always so eager to toe. But you don’t, because he’s warm even through your gloves, and the sky above you is bleeding into a soft lavender dusk, and his breath is a whisper against your cheek when he adds, “You were really brave today.”

“Don’t make it weird,” you mumble.

“Too late.”

You close your eyes, just for a moment. Without warning, you tug his hand and take a step back on the ice, away from him. It’s shaky. Messy. Maybe even stupid. But you don’t fall, and when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already following.

You don’t end up at the ice hockey team’s practice on purpose. It’s all a matter of circumstance: you’d forgotten to bring your keys, and Satoru had practice immediately after classes, so you decided to pay him and Nanami a visit because you’re meticulous and already ahead of all your assigned readings, so you have some free time anyway.

Your boots squeak faintly against the rubber mat lining the entrance as you step inside, the sharp scent of ice and that weird rubbery tang from equipment stinging your nose. It’s colder than you expect it to be—not just chilly, but biting—and you hug your coat tighter around yourself, muttering under your breath about your own stupidity for forgetting your keys.

Through the glass panels that separate the stands from the rink, you catch sight of the team already in warm-ups, skating brisk laps along the boards. Nanami is easy to spot, with his clean-cut form and too-serious expression, weaving between teammates. Satoru, in contrast, is a blur of motion and colour—grinning, flippant, always moving like he’s daring gravity to catch him. You know it’s him even with the helmet on. There’s something unmistakable about the way he skates, fast and loose like he was born with blades for feet and no sense of self-preservation.

You slip into the bleachers, choosing a middle seat and tucking your hands between your thighs for warmth. Your breath fogs in front of you in soft clouds. Below, the players yell instructions at one another, the thud of pucks hitting boards punctuated by the scrape of blades on ice. You expect to be bored within ten minutes, but strangely, you’re not.

You catch yourself watching Satoru more than you should.

He’s wearing a dark jersey with the number six on the back, paired with white hockey pants. He skates like he owns the ice, like the world is some elaborate game designed for his entertainment, and he’s the only one who knows all the rules. He’s obnoxiously good, of course. His passes are sharp and clean, his puck handling seamless, like the stick is an extension of his arm. He doesn’t celebrate the goals he scores, but you can tell he enjoys each one. It’s in the way he glances towards the stands after every shot, like he’s half-expecting applause. Like maybe—just maybe—he knows you’re watching.

And, of course, the one time you lean forward with genuine curiosity, Satoru catches your eye. You immediately sit back and pretend to examine the very interesting metal railing in front of you. When you look up again, he’s skating backwards towards the centre line, grinning like a lunatic. You roll your eyes.

Practice drags on, but in that weird hypnotic way that makes time pass fast. The drills shift from technical to scrimmage-style, players darting about, sticks clashing, shouts echoing through the space. Nanami plays with all the joy of someone forced into it by obligation, but you admire his skill all the same. Satoru, on the other hand, is infuriatingly smooth, darting past defenders and spinning to block shots.

At some point, you begin to lose feeling in your toes. You pull your legs up into your seat and burrow deeper into your coat. Satoru scores another goal with a fancy little flick of his wrist and has the nerve to wink at you through the glass. You flip him off, and he beams like you’ve handed him a bouquet of roses.

When practice ends, the players skate to the benches, pulling off their helmets and guzzling water. You consider leaving before Satoru can come find you, but by the time you make the decision, he’s already peeled off his gear and is jogging toward the stands, a towel slung around his neck and his hair a snowy mess of sweat-damp curls.

“You stalking me now?” he calls up, voice echoing through the cavernous space.

“I forgot my keys,” you reply flatly. “Trust me, if I had other options, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Aw,” he says, leaning on the railing in front of you. “So you missed me.”

You stare down at him, unimpressed. “You smell like a wet dog. I can smell it all the way up here.”

“Still came to see me, though.”

You open your mouth to reply with something scathing, but the words don’t quite come. Not when he’s standing there with flushed cheeks and a grin that’s more sunshine than snow, squinting slightly because of the overhead lights. Not when you remember, fleetingly, that Riko once told you her brother was really quiet, and you remember, again, that he changed after she died. The thought vanishes before you can dwell on it.

“We’re out of milk, by the way,” you say instead.

Nanami skates over. His jersey is soaked through, but his hair remains irritatingly neat under his helmet. He slows to a stop beside the boards, stick tucked under one arm, and gives you a nod in greeting. You nod back.

“She came all the way out here just to tell me we’re out of milk,” Satoru says.

“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale and gesture vaguely in his direction. “Why do you talk like that?”

“He talks like that because he has no concept of shame,” Nanami says.

“You wound me, Nanamin.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response—just raises a single brow and skates off toward the locker room. You watch his retreating figure for a second, then glance back at Satoru, now balancing precariously with one arm out.

“You are so dramatic,” you mutter, standing and starting down the bleachers.

“I prefer being called expressive,” Satoru calls after you, hopping off the railing and jogging to meet you at the base of the stairs. He smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and whatever chemical funk lives permanently in every locker room, but he’s grinning so widely you almost forget to wrinkle your nose. Almost.

“I can see your hair freezing,” you say as you fall into step beside him. “That’s disgusting. Go shower.”

He throws an arm around your shoulders; the gesture makes your skin bristle from the chill still clinging to his clothes. “But you like me gross,” he says, bumping your side with a playful swing of his hip.

You scoff and shove him off, barely managing to keep your balance as your boots skid slightly on the damp rubber flooring. “I like you better when you’re not radiating the scent of boiled socks.”

“So specific,” Satoru laughs. “Were you composing that one in your head the whole time I was on the ice?”

“No,” you mutter. “It came naturally. Like an allergic reaction.”

You follow him through the back hallway toward the locker rooms. It’s quieter here, the sounds of the rink replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. The linoleum floor is scuffed and water-stained, and everything smells like damp towels and disinfectant. You slow your steps, lingering near the door to the players’ lounge while Satoru pushes through the locker room entrance.

He peeks back before disappearing inside. “You waiting out here, or are you coming in for the full experience?”

“I value my life,” you deadpan.

“Suit yourself,” he singsongs, tossing the towel from his neck over your head before ducking inside with a grin. You yank the towel off with a sound of disgust and drop it on the floor. A few minutes pass. You idle on your phone, scrolling through old messages, then flick over to your calendar. Everything’s already done: papers outlined, deadlines logged, readings colour-coded and annotated. You’re bored.

Ten minutes later, the door creaks open and Satoru emerges, hair damp and pushed back from his face, now in grey sweats and a university hoodie two sizes too big. He looks softer like this, more human, like he could’ve been anyone else, if the world had been a little gentler.

“What?” he says, catching you staring.

You blink. “Nothing.”

He tosses his duffel bag over one shoulder and jerks his chin toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s hit the store. You said we’re out of milk, right?”

“And bread,” you add as you fall into step beside him again. “And you used the last of the eggs and just… put the empty carton back in the fridge.”

“False accusations. I plead innocent.”

“You plead lethargy.”

03. conflict resolution (the eternal affliction).

Christmas comes and goes, and the new year begins with you and Satoru deciding to sell the TV. It had been half-broken for weeks anyway—Satoru insisted it gave the screen a “vintage haze,” but you insisted it gave you migraines. So, on the second day of January, in a rare moment of mutual decisiveness, you both posted a picture of it on Facebook Marketplace with a joke caption, and watched the replies pour in. Some poor soul came to pick it up that evening, and just like that, your living room was quieter than it had been in days.

Maybe you needed the quiet. The holidays had been a blur of noise—family phone calls, missed trains, clinking glasses, and Satoru’s very enthusiastic and very drunk rendition of Last Christmas that made your upstairs neighbour leave an aggressive Post-It on your door.

Now, it’s snowing—thick, slow flakes that coat the windows and silence the city. You’re curled up on the couch with two blankets and a cup of peppermint tea you don’t really like, watching Satoru fiddle with the thermostat.

“It’s broken,” he says for the fifth time, shirt riding up slightly as he bends down to look behind the radiator. “I’m gonna sue the landlord.”

“You say that every week,” you reply, blowing on your tea. “You’ve never sued anyone in your life.”

“I could,” he says indignantly, standing upright. He looks infuriatingly good in sweats and a hoodie, even with socks that don’t match and a piece of tape stuck to his elbow from when he tried to fix the window seal this morning. “You don’t know what I get up to when you’re asleep.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re usually asleep before me.”

Satoru points a finger at you. “Exactly. That’s what I want you to think. But maybe I’ve been moonlighting as a lawyer in the dead of night. Ever think about that?”

You take a long sip of your tea to hide your smile. “You can’t even read the rental agreement without getting a headache.”

“You said you’d never bring that up again!”

“You were crying, Satoru.”

“It was printed in a size 10 font, what do you want from me?”

You laugh. Outside, the streetlights blur into glowing halos. Inside, it’s dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of peppermint and laundry detergent, and something you can’t quite place—Satoru, probably, who always smells like something slightly sweet, like sugar cookies and whatever shampoo he uses when he forgets yours isn’t his. You look over the rim of your mug at him. His hair’s messier than usual, falling into his eyes. You’ve told him to get it trimmed. He hasn’t listened.

“It’s still getting colder,” you say quietly, watching the snow. “You think we’ll get snowed in?”

Satoru flops onto the couch beside you, his body warm where it presses against your blanket-wrapped one, his knee knocking lightly into yours. “God, I hope so,” he mutters, tugging the throw off your legs to cover himself. “We could use the time off.”

“You don’t even work a real job,” you remind him.

He frowns, the expression exaggerated and pouty. “Excuse me. I’m a public servant. I’m out there risking life and limb every day, for our stupid old landlord. Or did you forget who shoveled the steps this morning?”

“Badly,” you point out. “You missed half the landing.”

“I was conserving energy,” he says primly, “in case we do get snowed in. You’ll be thanking me when it’s day four of no groceries and you’re chewing on the couch cushions.”

You scoff, curling your feet under you. “We’ve got food. I made sure.”

“I saw.” He grins, tilting his head to rest against the back of the couch, blue eyes sparkling. “I saw you hide the good snacks in the cereal box. You’re so sneaky.” Satoru reaches for the remote out of habit, then remembers the TV is gone. “Oh. What are we supposed to do now? Talk to each other?”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “We could play cards.”

“We could commit tax fraud.”

You nudge his leg with yours. “Satoru.”

“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “But only if I get to cheat.”

“You always cheat.”

“You always let me.”

He says it quietly, but he looks at you like he’s talking about something else entirely. Maybe he is. You set the mug down carefully, your fingers too warm now to keep holding it. You’re suddenly aware of everything: how his thigh brushes yours, how he’s slouched so far down the cushions that his hoodie’s ridden up again, showing a sliver of pale skin and the waistband of his sweats; the scar on his hip he told you he got from an ice hockey accident; the way he shifts when you don’t say anything, like he feels your gaze and likes it.

The peppermint flavour in your mouth goes sticky and sweet.

“I’m bored,” he says again, softer. “You wanna do something stupid?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Like take a really hot shower. Together. For environmental reasons.”

You huff, trying not to laugh, even as your stomach does a slow somersault. “Very eco-conscious of you.”

“Exactly. I’m a hero.”

You roll your eyes, but the thought lingers—his body wet and close, fogging up the glass, your cold skin pressed to his. It lingers longer than it should. You lean your head back against the couch and try to chase it away, but Satoru leans closer, propping his chin on your shoulder, voice lazy and low, as he says, “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

You shoot him a look, about to say something, but it dies on your lips. He’s close. His eyes are sleepy but sharp, his breath warm where it brushes your cheek. You blink slowly. You think you could kiss him and he’d let you. You think if you said please, he’d let you crawl into his lap and never leave.

“I don’t even like peppermint,” you deflect, mostly to yourself.

“Riko used to say you always drank it in winter.”

“It’s supposed to feel festive.”

“You’re festive,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like the words slipped out without thinking.The snow falls harder. The pipes groan, and the heater hisses weakly. You pull the blanket higher around your neck. “You’re not warm enough,” he observes.

“Thanks for the update.”

“I’m just saying. We could fix that.”

“Is this you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?”

You stare at him. He’s gorgeous like this—half-lazy, half-serious, the kind of effortless pretty that shouldn’t be allowed in sweats and two-day-old hair. You think about the way his voice goes low when he’s teasing you, like it is now. The way he always runs a hand down your back, firm and gentle, when he knows your day’s been long. It’s unbearable, sometimes, the want. The wanting him like this.

“I could be convinced,” you say quietly.

“Oh, yeah?”

He doesn’t move right away; he watches you—searching, maybe, or waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t. He shifts to face you more fully, and leans in slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away. His fingers brush your jaw, warm and careful, and then he kisses you.

It starts soft, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. You answer with a small sound at the back of your throat, leaning in, tilting your head, letting your mouth part just slightly under his. Satoru deepens it with a low noise that vibrates between you, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to anchor your close. His lips are warm, his mouth sweet—peppermint and the leftover hint of something honeyed from dinner. He kisses like he does everything else—wholeheartedly, a little cocky, and all-consuming. Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as he presses in.

His other hand slides beneath the blanket, settling against your waist. You’re still bundled up in layers, but you feel the heat of his palm through the cotton. Your whole body reacts to it: shivering, softening, leaning closer. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just barely, his nose brushing yours. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown, a flush high on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. “You sure?” he asks roughly. “Because I’ll stop. I’ll stop right now if—”

You kiss him again, quick and firm. “I’m sure.”

Satoru lets out a breath, then nudges the blanket off both of you. The cold air hits your skin for half a second before he’s pulling you onto his lap, coaxing you into straddling him. You go willingly, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. It’s clumsy at first—your feet slide, your knee bumps the coffee table—but he steadies you with both hands on your hips, and it stops being funny.

Your faces are inches apart. You can see every speck of silver in his eyes, the pink curve of his bottom lip, the threadbare collar of his hoodie that dips just low enough to show the line of his throat. Your fingers slip under the hem of it, and he shudders.

“This okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods, but adds, “Don’t ask like that. Like I’d ever say no to you.”

You kiss him again. His hands move—up your back, under your shirt, leaving trails of heat where they go. You’re both flush with warmth now, the kind of warmth that fills your chest and settles low in your belly. The radiator’s broken, and your tea’s gone cold, but it doesn’t matter, not with his body beneath yours, not with his mouth at your neck now, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the place where your pulse beats.

“Satoru,” you whisper, and he groans softly against your skin like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week. You tighten your fingers in his hoodie, tugging just slightly, and he lifts his head to look at you. You run your hands down his chest, over the soft cotton. “This has got to go.”

He grins, crooked and flushed. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”

You tug the hoodie up, and he raises his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. His hair is mussed even further, sticking up in a dozen directions, and you can’t help smoothing it down with your hands. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the planes of his chest scattered with faint scars.

“You’re staring,” he says, softer now.

“You’re pretty,” you reply, just as quiet.

His smile falters—not in a bad way, but in that way it does when you say something that actually gets to him. He swallows, reaches up, and brushes your hair back behind your ear. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when I’m trying to be cool.”

“You’re never cool,” you whisper, leaning in again. “I’m on birth control. Just so you know.”

His laugh is rough, but it dies in his throat the second you crush your mouth to his again—all heat, no patience now, just the wet slide of his tongue against yours. His hands are already pushing under your shirt, fingers tracing every rib, until his thumbs drag slow circles under your breasts. You arch into his touch.

“Off,” he says, yanking your shirt up. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away, leaving you in just your bra—some flimsy lace thing he’s already eyeing like he wants to tear it off. The cold air hits your skin, but you barely feel it, not with the way his gaze burns over you. His hands are on you again instantly, palming your tits through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper. His thumbs flick over your nipples, already stiff, and you gasp when he leans down to lick a hot stripe over the fabric.

“So beautiful,” he says, teeth catching the edge of the cup. He tugs it down, freeing one breast, and seals his mouth over it with wet, filthy pulls of his lips while his tongue flicks the peak. You moan, thighs clenching, already grinding down against his lap where his cock strains against his sweatpants.

“Satoru—” Your fingers twist in his hair, holding him to your chest as he switches sides, biting lightly at the other nipple through the lace before dragging the cup down to give it the same treatment. His free hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your pants, and you shudder when he presses the heel of his palm hard against your clit.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groans against your skin, fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles. “Can feel it through your pants.”

You’re panting now, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction. He undoes the string of your pants with one hand, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear. His breath hitches when he sees how wet you are, glistening and swollen.

“Look at that,” he rasps, dragging two fingers through your folds, spreading your slick. He slides one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, teasing. “Already so fucking tight—how’re you gonna take me?”

You whine, hips jerking, trying to him deeper, but he just chuckles, adding a second finger, curling them just right to make you gasp. He pumps them slowly, his thumb circling your clit in time, until you’re trembling, your thighs shaking around his wrist.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers free with a filthy sound. You nearly sob at the loss, but he unbuckles his jeans, shoving them just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking. 

“Ride me,” he orders, voice rough.

You don’t hesitate. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and lower yourself into him inch by inch. The stretch burns, the way he fills you so perfect, it steals your breath. Both of you groan as you take him to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, and his head falls back against the couch with a groan. His hands roam your body—squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to grip your ass, urging you faster. You comply, bouncing on his cock now, the slap of skin echoing in the room. Every thrust drags him against that perfect spot inside you, and you can feel the coil of pleasure tightening, your clit throbbing with each movement.

“Gonna come,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “Satoru, I’m—”

“Let go,” he urges, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. “Come on my cock.”

The orgasm crashes through you—your back arches, your walls clamp down on him, and you cry out, shuddering as pleasure rips through every nerve. He fucks you through it, his hips jerking up to meet your frantic movements, until he groans and spills inside you with a low moan.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and spent. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. He tilts your chin up, after a moment, kissing you slow and lazy.

“So,” he mumbles against your lips. “About that shower.”

“Yes, please.”

He peels you off the couch with a groan, your legs shaky, your skin still fever-hot where his come drips down your inner thighs. The bathroom tiles are cool under your bare feet as he guides you in, his palm never leaving the small of your back, like he can’t stand not touching you for even a second.

Steam fogs the mirror before the water even hits your skin. Satoru adjusts the spray with a rough twist of his wrist, testing it with his fingers before pulling you under the warm heat. The water sluices over your shoulders, your breasts, his hands following its path like he’s trying to watch every inch of you with his touch instead.

“You missed a spot,” you tease, breath hitching when his thumbs drag over your nipples, already stiff again from the contrast of heat and his calloused fingers.

“Fucking smartass,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it—not when his cock is already thickening against your hip, the tip flushed and leaking. He crowds you against the tile, his mouth searing a path down your throat, sucking bruises into the tender skin below your ear. Water beads on his lashes when he looks up at you, fingers hooking under your knee to hike your leg over his hip.

“Turn around,” he orders, voice frayed with want.

You obey, bracing your palms against the slick wall as he presses flush against your back. His cock nudges between your thighs, not quite inside it—just rutting against your slick folds, teasing. The head catches on your entrance, the stretch just shy of unbearable, and you whimper, pushing back.

Satoru chuckles, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head aside. His other hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your slick over your clit. “Still dripping,” he says, circling that swollen bud just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “Like you’re fucking made for me.”

You gasp when he finally pushes inside—slow, deliberate, stretching you with every inch until his hips meet your ass. The water cascades over both of you as he starts to move, deep, rolling thrusts that have you arching, your nails scraping against tile.

“Look at you,” he groans, tightening his grip on your hip. His other hand leaves your hair to grab your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you harder. “Taking me so fucking good.”

It’s too much—the drag of his cock against your walls, the slap of skin, the way his teeth sink into your shoulder. You’re babbling, half-formed pleas and his name, your thighs trembling with every thrust.

“Gonna make you come again,” he grits out, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing circles. You come with a cry, your walls fluttering around him as your climax crashes over you. Satoru fucks you through it, his hips stuttering as his own release hits—a harsh groan against your neck as he spills inside you.

He holds you up when your legs give out, turning you in his arms to kiss you slow and filthy under the spray. His tongue licks into your mouth, while his hand drifts down to your ass.

“Clean now?” you mumble against his lips, dazed.

He laughs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Dirty as hell.” His other hand slides between your thighs, gathering the mix of water and come dripping down your skin. “Gonna have to do this again.”

You shiver as he brings his fingers to your mouth, watching your lips part to suck them clean.

Spring is sprung, but nothing changes between you and Satoru. It’s as if the two days you spent snowed in right after New Year’s are just that—two days that exist outside of your usual periphery, kept locked away in the recesses of your mind like a dream you can’t decide whether to revisit or forget. The world has thawed and so, seemingly, has he. No more late nights curled together on his couch. No more cereal-for-dinner declarations or tangled limbs under too-warm blankets. That strange liminal space you existed in, suspended in the hush of snowfall and the hum of radiator heat, disappears as soon as the city begins to bloom again.

Instead, things shift back into old rhythms.

You start finding mismatched socks in the laundry again. His cereal bowls accumulate in the sink in quiet protest of dishwashing. You bicker over the thermostat settings like you always used too—Satoru insists that 24°C is the perfect temperature while you’re constantly reaching for the dial to turn it down. He steals your phone charger without asking. You use his shampoo out of petty revenge. He hogs the bathroom mirror every morning, combing through his hair with a devotion that borders on tragic. And you… you go back to pretending that none of it ever meant anything more.

You try not to notice how careful he is now, how his gaze lingers a little too long but his fingers don’t. How he keeps his distance—playfully, almost purposefully. As if closeness is a privilege that’s been revoked. As if intimacy was a mistake that neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

And because it’s easier this way, you don’t ask.

Instead, you both fall into the easy charade of Just Roommates, the same performance you perfected before that blizzard rewrote the script. It’s familiar, comfortable—until it isn’t.

Because one night, he doesn’t come home.

You notice it sometime around 11:30 P.M. His shoes aren’t by the door, his keys aren’t clattering into the dish like they usually do. The apartment is quiet in a way it hasn’t been for months. You try not to worry. He’s an adult. He disappears sometimes. That’s just Satoru being Satoru. But something in your chest prickles with unease, and your thumb hovers over your screen for a good five minutes before you finally open your messages.

You: hey, you coming home tonight?

No reply. The text sits there, read but unanswered. You sit on the couch for another half hour, idly scrolling, not really seeing anything. Your eyes keep darting to the door like he might waltz in with some dumb excuse and a bag of chips. When the clock hits 1:04 A.M., you give up pretending and text Nanami.

You: do you know where satoru is?

Nanami: hold on. Nanami: yeah. unfortunately. 

Two seconds later, an image pops up.

It’s a picture taken at a frat party—one of those messy, overcrowded events where the music’s too loud and the floor’s sticky with God-knows-what. There’s a blur of colour and movement, people crowding the frame, but it’s not hard to spot him: Satoru, in the centre of it all, unmistakable even with the grainy quality of the photo. He’s half-sitting on the back of a couch, red solo cup in hand, sunglasses perched uselessly on the bridge of his nose despite it being well past midnight. His head is tilted toward a girl beside him—brunette, bright lipstick, her arm draped over his shoulder.

You stare at the image for longer than you mean to.

The girl’s laughing. Satoru’s smiling. And not that small, soft sort of smile he gives you when he thinks you’re not looking, but wide and lazy, the kind he usually wears when he’s trying to charm his way out of something.

Your stomach curls, cold and unpleasant. You shut your phone off. The apartment is still too quiet. You brush your teeth with shaking fingers, climb into a bed that feels a little too big, and press your eyes shut like that might block out the sudden ache in your chest. 

It shouldn’t matter. You’re just roommates.

You think about the girl he’d brought home that day, three days into your moving in. You’d felt bad for her, knowing that she was just a notch in his over-filled stick. Is that what you are, too? Just another person he slept with? His little sister’s best friend, who’s never been the same after she died, just another name on his list?

Maybe it’s your own fault. You knew what he was like.

The morning after, you don’t reach for your phone. You don’t check to see if he came home sometimes after you fell asleep. You don’t look for his shoes by the door. You just go about your day like you’ve got somewhere to be.

It’s easier this way. To keep moving. To stay busy. To pull your focus away from the image etched into the backs of your eyelids: the shape of him in someone else’s orbit, grinning like he didn’t have your heartbeat tucked between his palms only a few weeks ago.

When you finally do check your phone, there’s no apology. Just a half-hearted “my bad lol” text that arrives sometime around 10 A.M., flippant and thoughtless, as if it never even occurred to him that you might’ve waited up.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t push. The silence becomes your new rhythm.

Where once there was casual ease between you, there is now only space. Deliberate, careful space. You start closing the door to your room whenever he’s home. You keep your headphones in, even when you’re not listening to anything. You stop making dinner for two. You stop leaving him notes on the fridge. He seems to notice, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe he’s too oblivious to put the pieces together. Or maybe this is just easier for him, too.

You start planning your exit. You don’t tell him. You don’t know how to. You start searching on your laptop late at night, under the covers like it’s something shameful. Studio apartments, room shares, sublets posted by strangers who spell everything in lowercase. Nothing looks promising, but you scroll anyway, determined to find something, anything, that doesn’t have him in it.

You start making lists in your notes app. Things you’ll need: a kettle, your own set of plates, a bathroom rug. Things you’ll miss: the way he sings when he’s in the shower, the sound of his laugh echoing down the hallway, the smell of his shampoo. And then there are the things you don’t let yourself write down. Like the way his arms felt around you that night on the couch. Or the look in his eyes when he thought you were asleep. Or the fact that, for a brief few moments this winter, you really, truly believed he could be something more.

You don’t talk about any of it. Not to him, not to Nanami, not to your friend who sits next to you during class. You just swallow it down like a bitter pill and keep moving.

Some nights, he comes home late and you pretend to be asleep. Some mornings, he lingers in the kitchen a little too long, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything, but you never do. You sip your coffee in silence, watch the steam curl up, and keep your eyes fixed on the window. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to him. It’s that you don’t trust what you’d say.

Because the truth is this: you’ve overstayed your welcome, not just in this apartment, but in the idea of him. You let yourself want, and now you’re paying for it.

And Satoru—he’s still Satoru. Beautiful and reckless and untouchable in the ways that matter most. He flits around you like he doesn’t notice you pulling away. Or maybe he does, and he’s letting you go. So you send in applications. You tour a too-small studio with cracked linoleum and convince yourself the peeling walls are “charming.” You lie on your bed at night and stare at the ceiling and imagine what it’ll feel like to live in a place where his laugh doesn’t echo through the walls.

Spring has sprung. The world is warm and blooming again. But you—you’ve never felt colder.

When you tell Nanami you’re moving, he doesn’t chide you for it. Just shrugs, and asks if you want any help with packing. You nod, grateful, and ask if you can accompany him for their ice hockey practice that evening. You need to give Satoru your keys back, and you would prefer to do it with your friend next to you.

The rink is always colder than you expect. Even in the early blush of spring, when your jacket is too light and the wind a little gentler, the ice rink clings to winter. Nanami doesn’t say much on the walk over. He’s not the type to pry unless invited, and you’ve been… quiet, to say the least. A silence cushioned in resignation more than sadness. As if the version of yourself who cried into her pillow over Satoru in January has finally dulled into someone softer, steadier.

You sit in the bleachers with your arms tucked close to your chest as Nanami skates onto the ice. The boys are already roughhousing, and Satoru—he’s grinning. Always grinning.

You spot him the moment he hops the rail. His hair is a mess under his helmet, and his jersey hangs a little lopsided over his pads, but there’s that same carefree energy, as though nothing in the world has ever really touched him. Not even you.

You fold your fingers around the keys in your coat pocket and press them tight into your palm. Practice is what you’ve come to expect. Fast. Loud. A blur of bodies in motion, blades on ice, the occasional thud as someone crashes into the boards. You watch the way Satoru moves—like he owns the rink, like gravity is just a suggestion. You realise, belatedly, that you are looking. Maybe too hard.

When the whistle blows and the scrimmage ends, the team filters off the ice in staggered waves, peeling off helmets, slapping shoulders, shouting about drinks and dinner plans. Nanami nods at you from the bench, motioning that he’ll meet you outside. You’re halfway down the bleachers when you hear his name.

“Hey!” Satoru’s voice cuts through the buzz of conversation. You turn. He’s jogging over with that same impish grin, helmet under one arm, hair sweat-damp and eyes far too blue. “You came.”

You blink. “Yeah.”

“You missed me, huh?” he teases, bumping your shoulder with his. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you love watching me play.”

There it is—that familiar tilt of his head. A part of you wants to smile back, the way you always do. Fall into the rhythm again. Pretend.

But not this time.

You pull your hand from your coat pocket and extend it toward him, fingers curled around the small, silver ring of keys. “Here,” you say simply.

Satoru stills. He looks at your hand like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing, like the keys might bite him if he takes them. “What…?” his voice falters. “What’s this?”

“Your spare,” you reply. “I’m moving out.”

He doesn’t take the keys right away. He stares at you, the confusion sharpening into something quieter, something more serious. “You’re serious.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

You don’t say I wouldn’t have watched you skate around like nothing ever happened if I wasn’t. You don’t say I wouldn’t have dragged myself back into this space, this icebox version of our past, if I didn’t want to close the door for good.

He finally reaches out and takes them, curling his fingers slowly around the metal like it might dissolve. You notice the way his smile has faded. The rink is suddenly very quiet.

“I see,” he says. It’s the most subdued you’ve heard him in weeks.

You take a step back. “Good game, by the way.”

You walk away.

04. the end (happily ever after).

“You can’t leave until the end of the month,” Satoru says by way of greeting, toeing off his shoes at the entrance. “You signed the lease with me. You have to stay until April.”

You pause halfway through stacking one of the moving boxes, fingers curled around a stack of your dog-eared books. “Are you seriously quoting the lease at me right now?”

Satoru shrugs out of his jacket. “I’m just saying. It’s legally binding.”

You set the books down a little too hard. “What, so now you care about the rules?”

“I’ve always cared,” he says.

“No, Satoru. You care when it’s convenient. You care when it means getting the last word. You don’t get to act like this now, after weeks of pretending I don’t exist.”

“I wasn’t pretending—”

“You stopped coming home,” you snap, the words catching in your throat like thorns. “You stopped showing up. You stopped talking to me.”

“I needed space,” he says, and you laugh—cold and bitter and hollow.

“From what? From me? From whatever happened that weekend?”

He says nothing. Just shifts his weight and stares at the floor like the grain of the wood might suddenly rearrange itself into answers.

You swallow. “Right. Of course. That weekend didn’t mean anything. Just like everything else.”

“Don’t do that,” Satoru says quietly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what we are,” you retort defensively. “Were. Because you clearly figured it out a long time ago and didn’t bother telling me.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” Your voice shakes. “Then what about the girl from the party, Satoru? What was that?”

His head jerks up. “What girl?”

You cross your arms. “Nanami showed me a photo. Some frat party. You and some girl. You looked—happy.”

Something flickers across his face—confusion first, then something like hurt. “You mean Misaki?”

“I don’t know her name. I just know you were smiling. With your arm around her. And I know I don’t sleep with people I don’t care about. So maybe it didn’t mean anything to you, but it did to me. And you were just going to go back to your life like nothing happened, I wish you’d said so before I gave a damn.”

“Misaki,” he says again, stunned. “She’s dating Hajime.”

You blink.

“She’s my teammate’s girlfriend. He wanted a photo of all of us for her birthday because she’s moving to Osaka. That’s it. We all posed for a stupid picture, and then I left. I didn’t even want to go.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But your chest still aches with weeks of uncertainty, with that night you nearly cried yourself to sleep on the mattress you were already half-packing away. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I thought I already fucked everything up,” he admits. “You stopped talking to me. You looked right through me. I thought I crossed a line, and you regretted it.”

You shake your head, disbelieving. “You—you thought I regretted it? Satoru, I—” You cut yourself off. Swallow it down.

He steps forward, hands out like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed anymore. “I didn’t want to risk making it worse. But then you stopped coming to practice. You stopped leaving your door open. You were just… gone.”

“The only thing we ever had in common,” you say, “was Riko.”

His face falls.

“She’s dead, Satoru. And maybe… maybe we were just trying to hold on to each other because she was the one who tied us together.

“No.” His voice is firm. “No, that’s not true.”

You look away. “Isn’t it?”

“Maybe at first,” he says. “But not anymore. Not for a long time.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I had more time. I miss you. Every day. I miss going grocery shopping with you. I miss your hair in the drain and your mugs on the counter and the way you used to fall asleep on the couch back when we still had the TV. I miss you,” he repeats, quieter this time, “so no. You can’t leave. Not until I get to ask you out properly.”

For your first date, Satoru sneaks you into the campus ice rink at one in the morning. 

“Nicked the keys from the coach,” he says. “Don’t tell Nanamin.”

The air inside the rink is biting and crisp, even colder than you remember from the times you’d come to watch practice. Satoru flips the lights on, flooding the empty arena with a soft, almost romantic glow—clean white against the polished glass, shadows stretching long along the bleachers. You stand near the edge of the rink, hugging your coat tighter around your body.

“I can’t believe you stole from your coach for this,” you say, though you’re smiling.

Satoru shakes the keys at you. “Borrowed. It’s borrowing if I return them.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m endearing,” he corrects, walking backwards towards the ice, arms spread wide. “And this is your first official date. Has to be memorable.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is soft and melty, like it always is around him now.

He’s already laced into his skates, having arrived with them slung over one shoulder. You, on the other hand, have to sit at the benches while he kneels in front of you to help you with yours. His fingers are quick and practiced, tugging the laces snug before double-knotting them with a flourish. It should be embarrassing—being fawned over like this—but there’s something reverent in the way he moves, like this is a ritual of his own making, and it tugs at something in your chest.

“You do this for all your first dates?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but failing. You’re too aware of the way his breath fans over your thighs, or the way his touch lingers just a little too long against your ankles.

He glances up at you, bright eyes amused. “You’re my first. Be gentle with me.”

The ice is smooth, freshly resurfaced. Satoru leads you to the centre, gliding effortlessly, show-offy as ever. He does a little spin, throws both arms in the air like he’s just scored, then turns and offers you a hand.

“You know I can’t skate like that.”

“Lucky for you,” he says, stepping closer and tucking his fingers through yours, “I happen to be very good at holding people up.”

You’re wobbly at first, your legs unsure, and he skates backward slowly, pulling you along. His hands are steady on your waist, his smile wide and proud. And once you find your rhythm—still shaky, but upright—you circle the rink together, the only sounds the soft hiss of blades on ice and your laughter echoing against the rafters.

It’s surreal. You’ve seen him like this before: in his element, cocky and sure of himself on the ice. But it’s different now, because now, every glance he throws your way feels like it means something. Halfway through, he slows to a stop and pulls you in close. “You know,” he says, softer now, “I used to dream about this.”

You blink up at him. “About breaking and entering university property?”

“No,” he says. “About you. Being with you. I used to imagine all the ways I could maybe get you to see me the way I saw you. And it always started with something like this.”

You flush. “Satoru…”

“Do you remember,” he says, nudging his forehead against yours, “after the snowstorm? When I told you I wouldn’t regret it?”

You nod.

“I meant it,” he says. “I still mean it.”

The kiss comes naturally, like exhaling. You’re both half-frozen, and he tastes like mind and cold air, but it’s perfect anyway—slow and warm and just a little clumsy, because you’re still in skates and your balance is terrible, and he laughs into your mouth when you nearly topple over.

“I’ve got you,” he says, arms anchoring you close.

When you eventually sit on the benches again, sipping hot chocolate from a thermos he’d smuggled in his bag, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Next time, I’ll bring you here in the daytime like a normal person.”

You hum, smiling against the rim of the cup. “But I think I like this version better.”

Satoru’s fingers find yours and squeeze. “Me, too,” he says.

The final buzzer sounds.

The crowd erupts around you—horns blaring, feet stomping, voices swelling into an anthem of unbridled celebration. On the ice, bodies collide in a heap of jerseys and helmets, gloves flung into the air like confetti. The scoreboard flashes a victorious 5 – 4, and you swear your heart’s beating just as fast as the game-winning slapshot Satoru landed in the final two minutes.

You stay seated in the bleachers, slightly breathless, fingers clenched around the hem of your coat. The whole rink pulses with energy. You could cut the adrenaline with a knife. Students are screaming their heads off. Someone nearby throws a foam fingers into the rink. Your ears are ringing and your eyes are locked on the number 6 jersey, skating lazy circles while his teammates swarm Nanami in a dogpile near the goal.

Satoru Gojo.

You watch him turn, searching the stands. The grin on his face is dazzling, sweat-slicked hair sticking out of his helmet in damp tufts. He lifts his stick over his head like a banner, pointing it directly at you when he finds you in the crowd.

Your heart stutters. You’re not even embarrassed about how wide your smile stretches.

He doesn’t even wait for the rest of the ceremony.

Not ten minutes later, he’s climbed the barriers and jogged up the bleacher steps, ignoring the photographers, the shouts of “Gojo! Pictures!” and Nanami’s loud, “Get back here, Gojo!” He finds you in the fifth row, standing now, half-shocked and half-laughing, and barrels straight into you.

“Hey—” you start, but then he’s kissing you.

It’s not the first time—God knows it won’t be the last—but something about it makes the rest of the world dissolve. Your hands find the sides of his face, fingers catching on the straps of his helmet, as he presses you back gently against the guardrail. He tastes like mint and ice and sweat, and his smile never fully disappears against your mouth.

“I knew you’d come,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough with exertion. “Could feel it.”

You swat him lightly on the chest, breathless. “Of course I came. It’s the finals.”

“You didn’t come to the semi-finals,” he teases, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Thought I’d been demoted.”

“You were in the sin bin for half the game,” you retort. “Not exactly sweetheart behaviour.”

He grins against your cheek, pulling back just enough to look at you. The crowd’s still losing their minds around you, but neither of you seem to notice. His helmet’s off now, clutched in one hand, and his forehead leans against yours.

“You came tonight,” he repeats. “That’s all I needed.”

It hits you, then, just how many people are watching. Phones are out. A chant’s already building in the lower rows—Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!—but he doesn’t care. He kisses you again like you’re the only person in the arena.

Maybe you are.

“God,” he says, breathless as he pulls away, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that after a win.”

You smile, fingers curled loosely in his jersey.

“Well,” you whisper, tugging him closer, “guess you’ve earned it.”

[mangowetwipes]

i love when tragedies are like “the love was there. it didnt change anything. it didnt save anyone. there were just too many forces against it. but it still matters that the love was there”

[mangowetwipes]

Living-Room Matsunaga-san / Living-Room Matsunaga-san (2017)

(An authorised English translation is available from INKR)

[mangowetwipes]

don't move. i'm coming over to chew on you

[mangowetwipes]

[mangowetwipes]

i’ve pretty much always hated the idea of being a housewife and i’ll never be one but i do love my partner that much that i get it now. lmao

[mangowetwipes]

[mangowetwipes]

[mangowetwipes]

men are so much hotter when they’re yearning and suffering because of it

[mangowetwipes]

musings on august        

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