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kigatsukeba

part three | chapter index

megumi x reader, aged up!megumi (and others), early twenties, working as sorcerers, post shinjuku showdown arc but megumi doesn't have his face scars, megumi trying and failing to be in control of his feelings, gojo's gone, bonded through trauma, friends to fwb to lovers, drinking/getting drunk, jealousy, confusing feelings, megumi sucks at feelings, miscommunication, misinterpretation, megumi being stubborn, reader being clueless, slowish burn, idiots in love, jerking off, a bit of size kink ngl, megumi is older here so he’s taller (like 6'2?), he's also buffer (he's toji's son guys, c'mon), reader is described as smaller/shorter than him, takuma ino mentioned, smut, unprotected piv, nasty sex (multiple times), but also love making, confessions, aftercare, a bit of angst, but there's fluff here too, megumi's down bad, not beta'd

w.c: 15,860

Megumi was on his knees, looking up at you like you were something holy. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch but was about to ruin anyway.

His hands came up slowly, smoothing up the backs of your calves, your thighs—big palms warm and steady, sliding up the trembling lines of your legs. When he reached the curve of your hips, he squeezed—just a little—and you gasped, your knees buckling. He grunted low in his throat, steadying you easily.

He wanted to remember this. The way you quivered. The way you looked down at him like you couldn’t believe this was real. Fuck, he barely could either.

“Stay with me,” he murmured.

The first kiss he pressed to your inner thigh was soft. Reverent. The second was rougher—his teeth scraping lightly over the sensitive skin just beside the thin piece of cloth between your legs. You whimpered, hips twitching forward.

Megumi growled low under his breath. He slid his hands up further, hooked his thumbs into the sides of your panties—he swore under his breath. You were soaked. The little scrap of fabric clung to you, wet and warm, and he groaned low in his throat, head dropping forward for a second like he was trying to get a grip.

You gasped when he peeled it down—slow, dragging the drenched lace down your legs—and you had to grab at the door behind you for balance. You didn’t get a chance to think.

He hooked one hand under your knee, lifted your leg carefully, and slung it over his broad shoulder—holding you open for him, steadying you with ease against the door with his hands locked tight around your hips.

The scent of you—hot and wet and dizzying—had been burning through his head since he stepped you out of your dress. But now, with your thighs open around him and your slick glistening against his mouth, it was devastating.

The shift in position brought you higher, made you tilt into him, made the slick, desperate heat in your core impossible to ignore. You let out a choked sound. He looked up at you once. Only once.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured, low and syrupy. “Good.”

And then he buried his face between your legs.

The first drag of his tongue over you was slow—obscene. A long, lazy stroke from your entrance to your clit, like he was tasting you properly before he let himself get messy.

Megumi exhaled against your cunt and did it again. And again. He wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t teasing. He was devouring—sloppy and steady and slow enough to hurt. His mouth was hot, open, pressing sully, languid kisses to your folds, his tongue flattening, circling, licking with maddening control.

You cried out softly, hips jerking against his mouth. Every time you squirmed, he adjusted—hands tightening around your hips, anchoring you still. His fingers dug into your skin, sure and possessive.

“Easy, baby,” he muttered against you, the vibration making you jolt. “I’ve got you. Let me take my time.”

He went back in. Long, slow licks—deliberate. Savoring. Fucking savoring you like he’d starve if he didn’t take his time. He mouthed at your clit lazily, sloppily, wet sounds filling the small, dark hall around you. His breath came rough against your skin. Every slick pull of his tongue made your body shudder harder, your hands scrambling against the door for purchase.

You whined—high, wrecked—arching your hips helplessly into his mouth. He groaned, deep in his chest. Megumi shifted his hold, dragging you closer, pushing his tongue deeper, fucking you slow and steady with it until your thighs were shaking against his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he mumbled, lifting his head just long enough to pant the words against your skin. “Give it to me.”

He dragged his tongue flat against your clit again, then wrapped his mouth around it, sucking slow and firm. Your head hit the door with a soft thud. Your body trembled, strung tight. You grabbed at his hair without thinking—threading your fingers through the dark strands, holding on for dear life as he worked you over, messy and patient. Megumi moaned into you when you tugged, the sound vibrating through your whole core.

He was drenched in you already—his chin slick, his lips shiny. He didn’t care. Didn’t even hesitate.

You sobbed, thighs clenching helplessly around his shoulders.

“Keep them open for me, princess.” he whispered again, dizzy, half-gone. “God, you taste so good.”

He wanted to taste all of you. Drink you in. Memorize you. He kissed your clit like it was a mouth, wet and without rush, licking around it until your thighs started to tremble, your breath catching in tiny, broken gasps. He could feel your heel scraping the door, your back arching, your fingers tugging. He loved it. Loved how you were unraveling without anything but his tongue.

He licked up into you—calm and deep—and then back up again, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking soft and firm until you were crying out, high and desperate, hips jerking into his mouth.

“Atta, girl,” he breathed. “Let me have it.”

You could barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. Your whole body was burning—pussy leaning helplessly against his mouth. Your heel scraped uselessly against the wood as your balance faltered—but Megumi held you easily, bracing your body against his own with his broad shoulders, his mouth never leaving you for a second.

He was losing himself in it. Losing himself in you.

Every desperate twitch of your body, every breathless cry, every sweet, broken moan of his name—it all carved deeper into his chest, until there was nothing left but the need to keep you like this.

Shaking. Squirming. Coming apart for him and no one else.

You were so close—he could feel it in the way your thigh clenched around his shoulder, in the way your hands tightened, in the little whines falling constantly from your lips.

“Gumi—”

He groaned at the sound, anchoring you tighter, nudging his face deeper between your thighs. His nose pressed into you, his breath hot and ragged, and then—when he couldn’t take it anymore—he opened you with his mouth and pushed his tongue inside.

You cried out. Megumi moaned.

He fucked you with his tongue—slow thrusts, deep as he could manage, curling it up inside you while his mouth sealed tight around the rest of you. He tasted everything. Felt every flutter of your walls, every desperate clench as you tried to rock your hips into him.

“Fuck—fuck, please—”

He couldn’t tell if you were begging him to stop or begging him not to. Didn’t care.

He wanted to make you fall apart like this. With nothing but his mouth. No hands. No fingers. Just his tongue buried inside you, fucking slow and dirty and deep. The slick, obscene sounds of it filled the narrow foyer—wet and rhythmic and so fucking intimate it made his cock throb painfully in his pants. You were panting now, trembling above him, your fingers pulling at his hair, your leg tightening around his shoulder like you couldn’t decide if you needed to get away or hold him closer.

He knew what you needed.

He drew back just far enough to circle his tongue over your clit—languid, teasing strokes—before licking down again, spreading you with his tongue, pushing inside, twisting just to feel the way your whole body responded.

The way you gasped. The way your thighs tensed. The way your pussy fluttered around nothing the second he pulled back.

“God,” he breathed, voice hot against you. “You’re perfect like this.”

You made a broken sound in your throat.

He didn’t speed up. He didn’t add more. He just stayed steady. Tongue working you with calculated ruin, licking and kissing and sucking you apart one flick at a time.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Come on my mouth.”

He sealed his lips over your clit and sucked—deep and slow—while his tongue moved in deliberate, firm strokes, slick and confident.

When you finally started to fall—when the first tremor rolled through your thighs and your body arched hard against his mouth—he growled, low and filthy, and sucked harder, pushed deeper, chasing you straight through it.

You came against his mouth with a broken cry, hands clutching at his hair, your heel digging into the door for leverage you couldn’t find.

And still—still—he didn’t stop. Kept licking you, slower now, dragging out the aftershocks, tasting every last bit of your release with reverent attention.

He worked you through it, his tongue lazy and heavy, coaxing every last ripple out of you until you sagged helplessly against the door, boneless, wrecked. When he finally pulled back, his mouth was swollen, chin slick, eyes dark and wrecked.

He licked his lips—slow—and smirked up at you from between your wobbly thighs.

“One,” he murmured, voice shredded and hot. “Still promised you at least two more.”

You were trembling.

Still pressed against the door, one leg slowly sliding down from where it had been slung over his shoulder—heel clicking weakly against the floor. Your balance was gone. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, broken pulls of breath. Your hand scrabbled weakly for the wall. You couldn’t even stand. Your body sagged against him, shaking so hard your muscles spasmed in small, uncontrollable shivers as your knees gave out beneath you.

Megumi caught you easily—large hands steadying your hips, letting your weight fold gently into his chest. He didn’t speak. Just breathed against your temple, one hand sliding up your spine to soothe you. You buried your face in his neck without thinking. His skin was warm, the faint salt of his sweat clinging to the edge of his jaw. His heartbeat pounded slow and heavy under your mouth. Then, slowly, he bent at the waist.

When he crouched down, keeping you locked safely in his arms, you gasped in confusion. You blinked, dazed, watching as he knelt again—not with heat this time, but with reverence.

He reached for your foot, lifted it carefully. Balanced your weight against his shoulders with one hand and the other moved to your shoe. They were sleek, closed-point stilettos. Elegant. Sharp. He’d been watching them all night.

His fingers brushed over your skin—warm, sure, reverent—and you shuddered harder. He cradled your foot in one hand like it was precious. The shoe slid off smoothly—just a little pressure at the heel, and it loosened—thumb dragging lightly across your arch as he did it.

He set the shoe aside in the dark without looking. Then he repeated the same slow, devastating process on the other foot. Precise. Gentle. No rush. Just quiet attentiveness. Like grounding you mattered more than taking you apart—as if it was the most sacred thing he’d ever done.

There was no flourish. No unnecessary touch. But it was intimate all the same—precise, careful, like he was unwrapping something delicate. You made a helpless, wrecked noise against your throat.

He straightened again, kissed the side of your head once, kicking off his own shoes by the door, socks a moment later. It wasn’t performative—it was reflex. His movements were methodical. Respectful. Like ritual. Like care. Cleanliness. Consideration. And something older in him—politeness ingrained.

You swayed slightly in place, still dizzy. Then his arms were around you again. One swept beneath your knees, the other across your back. He lifted you with no effort, pressing your bare skin against the clean lines of his shirt. You curled into him without thinking, breath catching softly as you clung to the nape of his neck.

“You don’t have to—” you tried to argue.

“I want to.” his voice left no room for protest.

And then he was carrying you to your bedroom. Slow, steady, cradled against his frame. The light was off, but moonlight pooled faintly through the window, painting soft stripes across the sheets.

He sat first, keeping you balanced in his lap. His thigh bracketed under your ass, his chest broad against your shoulder, his mouth brushing your temple once—twice—like he couldn’t help himself. Your skin was hot against his button-down.

A moment later, he laid you gently onto the bed, sliding you across the sheets so that you were propped up against the pillow, legs sprawled open, and your breath still unsteady.

He got on top of you, barely an inch in the space between you and you couldn't stop your breath from getting caught in your throat. Because he reached for his collar.

It was slow, like torture. No fumbling, not a sliver of rush, just that sharp control he always carried himself with. His fingers worked the first button free—deliberate. You watched his knuckles flex, his wrists roll, each precise movement dragging the black fabric open, inch by inch.

The second button slipped.

Then the third.

Another button. And another. The tip of his thumb brushed your sternum—accidental, maybe. But it made your breath catch in your throat.

You whimpered quietly. Gripped the front of his shirt without meaning to. He smirked. A slow, rare, almost cruel thing.

“You gonna behave?” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. You could only nod, dazed.

He popped the last button free. Slid the black shirt off his shoulders with an easy roll—you watched it fall to the floor, leaning back just enough to look.

Broad chest. Sharp collarbones. A strong, lean build—light muscle stretching under pale skin, a long line of toned abs vanishing into the waist of his slacks. A faint trail of dark hair led below the waistband, drawing your eyes in before you could stop them.

He was gorgeous. You would never grow tired of it. But more than that— real now. Now it was just skin. Warm, firm, endless skin pressing into you, heating you from every direction. Bare in a way that made your breath catch.

You touched him, palms warm against his chest. He inhaled at the contact—deep and slow—and kissed your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Unrushed. His body curled down beside yours, one knee slotted between your thighs, and you felt the weight of him everywhere—his hand resting lightly on your stomach, his lips brushing slow across yours, again and again.

You whimpered quietly, overwhelmed. He leaned down to kiss you. No hunger this time. Just heat. Lazy, lingering kisses. The kind that whispered I’m not done with you yet.

“Take your time,” he whispered against your lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Minutes passed. Or maybe more. You didn’t know. He kissed you until your body softened beneath him again. Until the shaking eased. Until you melted.

Eventually your breathing slowed. The tremors in your legs quieted. You kissed him more confidently, mouth opening to his, your tongue dragging along his bottom lip until he groaned softly—wet, familiar. His hand began to move again. Down your side. Over your stomach. You gasped, already sensitive, already wet.

His mouth moved to your throat. He licked there, bit lightly at the skin just under your jaw, kissed the place after.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, whining softly, making him smile against your skin. Lazy. Dangerous.

His hand dipped between your thighs. Two fingers skimmed along your entrance, gathering your slick—finding you soaked and swollen and so fucking ready. You whimpered when his fingers stroked you.

“Still so sensitive,” he said, nuzzling your jaw.

He circled your clit with the pad of his thumb—gentle, slow. You arched into the touch instinctively, a soft moan spilling from your throat. Then he kissed your neck—dragging his mouth along the warm slope of your throat, biting lightly at the base, and sliding his fingers into you with maddening patience. No warning now. No teasing. Just a slow, filthy slide straight inside.

You cried out. Your body clenched hard around him. His fingers were long—slim, practiced, moving with a rhythm that made your breath catch instantly. He kissed the soft curve of your chest—his tongue dragging over the swell of your breast, sucking one nipple into his mouth just as his fingers curled deep inside you.

“So wet,” he breathed. “Fuck.”

The curl of them inside you was devastating—a long, dragging pressure that made you see stars behind your eyes. His thumb circled your clit again. Not frantic—perfect. You couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from your mouth.

“Gumi—please—”

“God, you feel incredible.” he murmured, tongue flicking over your nipple.

“I’m gonna stretch you out a bit,” he mumbled low against your skin, his fingers curling deeper, unrushed but persistent. “You’re so fucking tight. I want you ready for my cock when I finally give it to you.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch. Just bit down lightly on your chest and curled his fingers deeper.

You gasped, your entire body clenching around his fingers, and you felt the weight of his words sinking in deep. The thought of him filling you—stretching you, claiming you—made your entire body tremble.

His fingers worked you steadily, pressing against the soft walls, stretching you further as you moaned softly with each slow thrust. You weren’t used to the feeling of his fingers inside you like this—long, slim, but relentless. Each slow stroke was measured, pulling you closer to the edge with every inch.

You nearly came undone all over again.

“F-fuck—Gumi—”

“Mm,” he hummed around your skin. “There?”

He adjusted the angle. Hooked his fingers up and in—dragged them along a spot that made you see stars. You gasped so hard your chest arched off the bed.

“God, you’re so wet,” he almost whimpered. “I need you ready.”

You gripped his shoulders. Clawed at him. Desperate.

“You’re gonna come again,” he whispered. “I’m not stopping until you do.”

You choked on a breath. He watched your face now. Watched the way it changed every time he curled his fingers just right—watched your mouth fall open, your eyebrows pinch, your lips tremble.

He bit down lightly on your breast—enough to make you gasp, not enough to hurt. Kissed the mark after. Then trailed up to your jaw, licking a line beneath your ear before kissing the corner of your mouth again.

His fingers never stopped. In and out. Deep and lazy. His thumb circling your clit in slow, steady pulses while the slick sounds of you grew louder between you. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Your hips rolled into his hand, helpless. You opened your eyes—barely—and found him watching you from just above your chest, his mouth swollen, his cheeks flushed, his eyes so dark it didn’t feel fair.

“I could do this all night,” he offered, voice hoarse. “You feel too fucking good.”

You moaned, head rolling back.

“Want to see you come on my fingers.” he said, tone shredded. “Wanna feel you clench on my hand.”

He kissed your chin, your cheekbone, your temple.

“Wanna watch you come again.”

He licked over your nipple again—sucked it gently while curling his fingers deep, pushing right against that devastating spot inside you until you were panting, shaking again.

“You gonna let me?” he murmured. “Let me wreck you like this?”

You nodded, choked on it.

“Words,” he said, voice lower now.

“Y-yes—please—don’t stop—”

He kissed you hard. Filthy and open. And his fingers kept moving—dragging, curling, stroking every inch inside you he could reach while his thumb worked your clit with perfect, slow pressure.

You were spiraling again. You could feel it. The edge coming closer, your body building toward it, heat tightening low in your belly. And Megumi—above you, around you—kept watching, kept whispering against your skin.

“I love watching you fall apart.” he grunted, voice ragged. “Gonna feel even better when I’m inside you.”

Your body was already there—edging closer and closer, pressure coiling so fast it hurt. And still, Megumi stayed steady. Watching you. Loving it. His face hovering just above yours, his expression so calm and wrecked it made your head spin.

“You’re mine like this,” he whispered. “All of you.”

The edge was so close. So much closer than you thought it would be. And when he curled his fingers just right, thumb grinding softly against your clit, his mouth brushing your nipple again—

It hit.

The orgasm slammed through you, full-body. Your legs snapped tight, your cunt clenching so hard around his fingers it made you sob. You moaned something raw—his name or just a sound—and he caught it with his mouth, kissing you through it.

“That’s it,” he praised. “So fucking pretty like this.”

You heard the slick sound of his fingers moving inside you still—easing you through the waves as your whole body shook under him. He kissed your ribs. Your hip. Your shoulder. Then—very slowly—he slipped his fingers from you. You whimpered at the loss.

He brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean, slow and filthy, his eyes never leaving yours. He kissed your jaw. Your mouth.

“Good girl,” he mumbled against your lips. “Still clenching around nothing.” he chuckled as he looked down.

He ran two fingers through your folds again, spreading you open with an absent sort of reverence. He stared—quiet, focused, like he was still trying to memorize every inch.

“I need to stretch you a little more,” he declared, voice hoarse.

You whimpered. Your hips twitched forward.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he added, pressing a kiss to the top of your thigh. “You feel too good for me to rush it.”

You were still twitching from the last orgasm, but your body ached now in a different way. You were so open. So wet. And it still wasn’t enough.

“Please,” you whispered.

He groaned, giving in with so little fight.

He rose slowly, and you watched the muscles flex along his stomach as he moved—long, smooth, sure. His hands went to the waistband of his slacks.

“Top drawer?”

You nodded.

Megumi leaned forward—kissed your mouth, your cheek, then opened your nightstand. The foil packet crinkled in his hand. You watched, dazed, as he undid his belt, popped the button of his pants, and dragged the zipper down.

Your mouth parted as he kicked the rest of his clothes to the floor. His cock was thick, flushed dark, curved slightly toward his stomach, already leaking at the tip.

The foil crinkled in his hand, quiet and precise, but your body still jolted at the sound. You were trembling. Boneless. Drenched in the ache of everything he’d already taken from you—and everything he hadn’t yet.

Your breath caught as he rolled the condom down—his hand steady, precise, fingers trembling just barely at the end—kneeling between your legs like something ancient, something reverent.

Your thighs spread wide, your knees brushing the sides of his ribs, your calves trembling where they curled around his waist. He looked down at you—eyes so dark they nearly gleamed, chest rising slow and heavy—and for a moment he didn’t move.

Just stared. Just drank you in.

“Ready?” he asked, voice hoarse. You nodded.

And then he pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance. You sucked in a breath. He was thick. You could feel it already, the blunt weight of him teasing at your folds, gathering slick as he eased forward. His eyes fluttered shut. His jaw clenched.

“Fuck, you’re still so wet.” he rasped. “I’m gonna go slow,” he said. “I want you to feel every inch.”

And then he began to push in.

Stretch.

You gasped. Your walls fluttered around him, struggling to take him in.

“Fuck,” Megumi whispered, voice breaking. “You’re already clenching.”

He slid in—inch by inch—your body pulling taut around him, impossibly tight. It wasn’t pain. It was pressure. Heat. Thick. Full. So deep you could barely breathe. When he bottomed out, hips pressed flush to yours, he stayed still. Letting you adjust. Letting you feel it.

“Gumi—”

“I know.” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Just breathe.”

“Megumi…” you whined, voice breathless, desperate.

“Shh,” he breathed back, eyes dark as he looked down at where he was buried inside you. “Just let me feel you first.”

Your hands flew to his biceps—digging into the muscle, clinging to the heat of him as your body yielded. He cursed again, under his breath this time, his mouth brushing your shoulder as stayed there. Buried to the hilt. Still. You were full. So full. Every breath felt stretched to the breaking point.

“Too much?” he asked.

You shook your head against the pillow, fingers clawing into his arms. “No, just—don’t move yet.”

He stayed right there. Letting you adjust. Letting your body memorize the shape of him. When you nodded, when your hips rolled up just slightly into his—he exhaled a sharp breath through his nose and began to move.

The first few strokes were deliberate, slow glides in and out that had you gasping, your whole body shivering from the pressure of him rubbing every sensitive spot inside you. His pelvis dragged across your clit with every thrust, and your thighs twitched at the contact. Your body trembled under him, and he watched every reaction—every twitch of your brow, every shiver in your thighs, every gasp you couldn’t swallow.

“God, baby. Look at me.” You did.

He kissed you—deep and wet—tongue slow in your mouth as his cock slid in and out of you with that unrushed, devastating rhythm. Then slowly—so slowly—he pulled back, and thrust in again. Hard.

Your whole body rocked beneath him. The drag of his cock inside you was unbearably good—your slick clinging to him, your walls fluttering from the pressure alone. And the pace he set—steady, slow, deep—was maddening. Controlled. Intentional.

He was savoring it. Savoring you.

You reached for his shoulders, clinging to the bulk of him as he leaned forward, his chest brushing yours. Your legs bent instinctively around his waist, drawing him deeper.

You were soaked, your pussy clenching around him, squelching with every stroke—and he loved it. You could see it in his face. The way he looked down between your bodies. The way his lips parted when your walls sucked him back in. He whispered to you the whole time. Half-coherent things.

“So tight—fuck, you feel perfect—can’t believe I get to feel you like this—”

You moaned aloud.

He pressed deeper. His hips met yours in smooth, gliding thrusts, and your clit caught softly against the hard plane of his lower abdomen—your pelvis brushing against his with every stroke.

You whimpered.

Megumi’s rhythm didn’t change, but his breath did—sharper now, strained. His arms caged around your shoulders, keeping you still as he fucked into you slowly, deliberately, grinding your clit with every roll of his hips.

You were already building again—your walls clenching tighter, your mouth falling open, heat pooling deep in your belly.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Take it. You’re doing so fucking good.”

Your body was tipping over—every nerve alight, every inch of you raw and wet and stretched and full. He was so deep you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Megumi grunted low in his throat and pressed a hand to your belly—right above your pelvis, firm and sure.

You cried out. A bulge rose under his palm with every thrust.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice cracking. “That’s me. Right here. Deep inside.”

You nodded frantically, overwhelmed, tears springing to your eyes from the sensation.

His pace never faltered. Just kept grinding deeper, every stroke brushing your clit, his stomach dragging delicious pressure over it, tighter and tighter.

“Please,” you gasped.

And he gave it to you. A slight shift—just enough pressure, just the right angle—and the sensation sharpened.

You broke on a cry, your body jerking up into him as your climax slammed into you. Your cunt fluttered around him, pulsing hard, milking his cock with every ripple of release. He groaned—long and low—his mouth dragging down your neck, catching on sweat-slick skin.

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He pulled back and slid in again—deeper this time, faster now, chasing something hot and desperate. Your thighs fell open further. You couldn’t keep your hips from moving. Couldn’t stop the broken little sounds that left your mouth every time he bottomed out. Without warning, he hooked your calves over his shoulders—one at a time—and pushed deeper.

The mating press folded you under him, your knees nearly to your chest, his body heavy and firm above you. He rocked into you—hard and deep—and you screamed.

“Megumi—oh my god—”

This angle was devastating.

“So fucking deep,” he breathed. “You feel insane.”

The drag of his cock inside you was intoxicating, every inch of him feeding the hunger that was building between your thighs. You could feel him buried inside, the pressure building as he nudged the deepest parts of you.

His thumb circled your clit, soft, gentle strokes, pushing you higher. His mouth hovered above your chest, kissing softly down your sternum as he worked you open, taking his time. The friction of his dick rubbing against your sensitive walls had you gasping, already on the edge.

“Fuck, this angle…” Megumi groaned. “It’s like you were made for me.”

His hips jerked, driving deeper with each slow, perfect thrust. His fingers dug into your thighs as he pushed inside, stretching you further than you thought possible, the weight of his body sinking into yours with every move.

He picked up the pace, finally. Harder now. Rougher. The slap of skin echoed between you as he fucked you through your high, chasing his own. You were already trembling again. You were right there. Again.

“I’m not stopping,” he said. “You’re gonna come again. Come with me this time. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You cried out—louder now, wrecked.

“I—can’t—”

“Yes, you can. Be good. Let go.”

He wasn’t letting up. He wanted it. He needed it.

His pace stuttered. His rhythm turned desperate. Each thrust punched a breath out of you, the wet sounds of your bodies filling the room.

“I’m close,” he breathed. “Baby—I’m right fucking there—”

You were too.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice strained. “Don’t look away. I want to see you.”

You did. You forced your eyes open and locked them with his. And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t know it was coming. You didn’t expect it. But the way his cock stretched you, the way his thumb teased your clit just right, and the angle he’d pushed you into—it set everything off.

The first wave hit you like a storm. Your body tensed, your legs trembling, your clit throbbing hard against his hand as you came, crying out his name. You thought you were finished, thought it would fade away, but then another wave hit. Your body clenched around him, impossibly tight, like it couldn’t handle the overwhelming sensation.

You could feel it. That pulsing, wet release. You felt it leave you in a rush, soaking his cock, his thighs, the sheets under you. Your hands scrambled for him, your voice breaking apart—

“Megumi—oh—oh—!”

Megumi froze. Eyes wide. Mouth slack. His dick buried to the hilt inside you, twitching.

Then—he grunted. Loud. Guttural. Helpless.

“Holy shit—fuck, baby, that was—”

He was staring at you now, eyes locked on your face, his cock twitching as he watched you come undone around him.

“You just soaked me,” he whispered, awestruck.

He pulled out slightly, just to watch the mess clinging to his shaft—slick and shining, still leaking over your thighs. Then he slammed back in, moaning as he chased his own release now, raw and frantic, fucking you through the aftershocks. His name tore out of you again, voice wrecked.

“Did that feel good?” he asked quietly, though it wasn’t a question—it was a plea. He wanted to hear it from you. He needed to know he’d broken you.

You nodded, gasping for air, barely able to find your voice. “It—oh god, it was too much—”

His hands gripped your thighs again, pulling you deeper into him as he started to move again, the weight of his cock filling you once more. His hips were slow at first, just sinking in, the deep, powerful strokes setting the pace. But then he found that rhythm—grinding his navel against your clit again with each thrust, filling you up, hitting all the right spots as he fucked you deeper, harder.

You barely registered the words that fell from your lips anymore. They were just sounds—broken cries, low moans, gasps. He was relentless, though. He didn’t stop. He just kept pushing into you, groaning with each stroke.

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “I can’t get enough of you.”

You didn’t even know what to say anymore. It was too much. But you needed it. Every inch of him, every stroke, everything he gave you.

You could feel him getting closer now, his rhythm faltering slightly as he picked up speed, his cock slamming into you harder, faster. You squeezed your eyes shut, body clenching again, desperate to hold on, to feel it all.

And when he finally reached his peak—his body tensing, his breath choking off—he didn’t pull back. He stayed deep inside you, grinding, thrusting as he came. His hands moved to your stomach, pressing down gently to feel the bulge of him inside you.

You felt the flood of warmth in the condom, the tension in his body locking him in place as he shuddered above you, hips twitching, your name falling from his lips like a confession.

When it was over, you both lay there. Breathing hard. Trembling. Still connected.

He slowly unhooked your legs from his shoulders, kissed your ankle before setting it down. Then he leaned forward, his chest pressing into yours, arms bracketing your head. His face hovered close to yours, flushed and damp.

He looked stunned. Breathless. You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. He kissed your cheek, then your mouth. Soft. Dazed.

“You’re…” he started—and laughed quietly, breathless. “You’re unreal.”

You blinked up at him, still twitching.

“Did I…?”

“You fucking squirted,” he said, wonder still thick in his voice. “All over me.”

You groaned and tried to hide your face.

He caught your chin.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, voice soft. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And then—he kissed you again. He looked down at your bodies—at the mess. At the sheen of you soaking his lower stomach. His expression faltered, then softened—completely undone.

“I want to make you do that again,” he whispered.

You swallowed. Your chest ached from how hard your heart was pounding.

“I think you could,” you whispered back.

Then his eyes lifted to yours. And he smiled. Like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

He stayed inside you for a few seconds longer, his body heavy above yours, his hands planted firm against the mattress. His head dipped low near your shoulder, lips brushing your collarbone.

You felt his chest rise and fall—quick, shallow, like he still hadn’t come all the way down yet. You weren’t sure you had either. Then, slowly, he pulled back. Eased out of you with careful hands.

You winced.

“Sorry,” he murmured, immediately touching your hip. “You okay?”

You nodded, blinking up at the ceiling, dazed. “Yeah. Just… everything’s sensitive.”

He nodded once, kissed your temple, and climbed off the bed. You didn’t even have the strength to look over your shoulder when the bathroom light flicked on. The faint sound of water. A drawer opening. The hum of his breath steadying behind the door.

Your limbs still tingled. The sheets were damp beneath your thighs. You couldn’t bring yourself to move. When the bed dipped again, it startled you. Megumi had returned—naked from the waist up, his hair slightly damp at the edges from where he’d splashed water on his face. He carried a warm cloth, a fresh towel, and moved like he’d done this before—not rushed, not nervous, just… focused.

He settled between your legs and met your gaze, pausing.

“Let me take care of you?”

You nodded. And he did. Carefully. Quietly.

He cleaned between your thighs first, slow strokes that made your legs twitch. You hissed softly when the cloth brushed your clit—still swollen, aching—and his eyes flicked up immediately.

“Too much?”

“No,” you muttered. “It’s okay.”

He continued, gentler now, wiping your stomach, the insides of your thighs, then folding the cloth away and replacing it with the soft towel—dabbing carefully where your skin was still flushed.

His jaw was tight while he worked. His expression unreadable. Like touching you like this did something to him. Like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to feel. When he was done, he tossed the towel to the floor and looked back at you, just for a moment. Then he reached under you with one arm, cradled your back, and shifted you up the bed. Pillows fluffed. Sheets straightened. He laid you down gently like something he’d built with his hands and wasn’t ready to step away from yet.

You didn’t realize how cold you’d gotten until he pulled the blanket up over both of you. Megumi slid in behind you, warm and solid, wrapping his arm around your waist. His breath found your neck, and for a few minutes, that was all there was.

Silence.

You blinked slowly, your body caught somewhere between exhaustion and awe. His hand slid up your side, fingers featherlight, then paused over your ribs.

“I think my soul left my body at some point,” you offered quietly.

Megumi’s breath caught. Then—he laughed. A short, genuine thing that pressed into your spine like warmth.

“Which part did it happen?” he asked, voice low.

You smirked faintly. “I don’t know. Somewhere between you pressing on my stomach and me… embarrassing myself.”

He went still for half a second.

“You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

You turned your head just slightly, enough to catch his eyes over your shoulder. He looked serious. Not teasing. Just honest.

“I’ve never seen anything so sexy in my entire life,” he said, voice quiet but sure.

Your face flushed. You looked away.

“…You looked kind of stunned.”

He scoffed lightly, breath warm against your skin. “I was stunned.”

A pause.

“I didn’t know it was even possible to come that hard,” you added, quieter.

Megumi didn’t reply right away. He shifted closer behind you, chest pressed to your back now, his arm tightening just slightly around your waist. There was something else in the air now. Not tension, exactly—but weight. Gravity. Like everything you’d both been holding back all this time had finally spilled over, and neither of you quite knew how to clean it up.

Still, you didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

His lips brushed the edge of your shoulder, a barely-there touch.

And in the quiet between the heartbeats, you thought:

He stayed.

Even long after the tremble in your thighs had faded.

Even long after the adrenaline gave way to something gentler. Something unnamed.

Even when sleep tugged at your lashes and you weren’t sure what the hell tomorrow would bring—

Megumi didn’t pull away.

—

Wednesday nights always carried a quieter kind of stillness.

The city wasn’t asleep, not exactly—but there was a softness to it. Streetlights glowing warmer, sidewalks emptier. Everything a little slower than it would be on a Friday. A little more hushed.

The sky was dusky—just past golden hour, that soft lavender stretch of early spring evening where everything felt gentler than it should. The breeze was soft when you stepped onto the curb outside the theater—just enough to lift strands of your hair and make you wish you’d pulled it back, cool in that early spring way, where the sun had already set but the air still held some of the day’s warmth. It was the kind of spring evening that didn’t need a jacket—but you wore one anyway. Out of habit. Out of the uncertainty that always came with early April.

The air outside the theater smelled like warm butter and sugar. Popcorn grease, synthetic chocolate, the bite of cola fizz—cloying and nostalgic, exactly how a weeknight horror marathon should. The entrance buzzed faintly, all soft neon and reflections in the glass. You spotted Nobara immediately—scrolling her phone, standing just off to the side of the doors, leaning against a poster case advertising the marathon: Six Horrors. One Ticket. Endure Everything.

She was wearing a light cropped jacket over a sleek top, wide-leg jeans hugging her hips, glossy hair pushed back with a pair of sunglasses she clearly wasn’t using. She wasn't wearing an eye patch today, the glass eye matching her real one almost perfectly—the scar around her eye barely visible now. Shoko was a god.

You waved as you approached. “Tell me you prepped for cinematic trash.”

She didn’t look up. “I brought gum and low expectations. I’m ready.”

You smirked and reached for the door.

“You look like you’re about to get scouted for a streetwear campaign,” you said as you walked in.

You glanced down at your own outfit—a pale blouse tucked loosely into faded denim, your favorite off-white sneakers scuffed just enough to be charming.

“You look cute,” she said, finally glancing at you. “In a tragic final-girl kind of way.”

“High praise.”

“I thought so.”

You nudged her shoulder. “Let’s get inside before all the good seats are taken.”

She stopped you with a tilt of her chin. “Wait—Yuuji and Megumi are grabbing snacks. We’re waiting.”

You paused mid-step. “What?”

Nobara gave you a look like you’d asked her if the sky was blue. “Yeah. Yuuji begged to come when he heard it was a horror marathon, and then Megumi agreed when he realized we were all going.”

That made your stomach do something complicated.

“He agreed?” you echoed, trying to keep your voice even. “Megumi?”

“Yeah,” she said, already turning toward the corridor that led to the screening rooms. “Said it was better than sitting at home. Whatever that means.”

You followed automatically, the soft squeak of your shoes against the floor suddenly loud.

Better than sitting at home.

The words looped in your head, uninvited. You weren’t sure what to do with that.

“Did he seem… okay?” you asked, quieter, wincing as the dumb question left your lips.

Nobara snorted. “He’s Megumi. He’s always exactly as okay as he wants people to think he is.”

You nodded, like that didn’t mean anything. “Right. Of course.”

Nobara started walking. “Come on. I want candy before the lines get bad.”

The lobby was buzzing with the scent of popcorn and synthetic sugar, the hum of the soda machine underscored by the low chatter of people loitering before their showtimes. The snack bar wasn’t crowded, but the few people waiting gave off the kind of restless energy you always associated with late-night movies. You spotted them near the far end of the counter.

Yuuji was unmistakable—bright hair, oversized clothes, grinning like he hadn’t seen you just yesterday at lunch. And of course, he was holding up the line—gesturing animatedly at the pretzel options while balancing a soda under one arm. He wore a red t-shirt under a denim overshirt, hair ruffled like he’d jogged there. His face lit up the moment he saw you.

He waved dramatically. “The warriors have assembled!”

Next to him—half a step back, quiet, hands in his pockets—stood Megumi. He looked slightly annoyed in the way he always did when Yuuji was in full chaos mode.

He wore a navy cable-knit sweater, its weave thick and textured, sleeves pulled down to his wrists. His jeans were a light-medium wash, worn-in but neat, and the tops of his brown Chelsea boots showed just beneath the cuff. He looked comfortable—more casual than you were used to seeing him—but still impossibly put-together. Clean lines. Subtle restraint. Not a thread out of place. His hair had that usual soft fall across his forehead, and his face was unreadable—until his gaze lifted. Found yours.

Held.

Your breath caught, just for a second.

He looked away.

“Perfect timing! We’re building our survival pack.” Yuuji practically beamed.

“Jesus,” Nobara muttered beside you. “He’s really letting Yuuji go full gremlin.”

You joined the line behind them, and Yuuji immediately turned to chatter about how six horror movies was “barely a challenge” and how he once stayed up for twenty hours to marathon every season of a crime documentary series.

While he launched into his snack strategy, Nobara rolled her eyes and told him to buy “literally anything edible and sour” for her.

You felt Megumi step a little closer beside you, just outside the buzz of the group.

“Hey,” he said, low enough that the others wouldn’t catch it.

You turned, pulse fluttering. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, then handed you something quietly—tucked between his fingers, like it wasn’t even worth mentioning.

Your favorite candy.

No comment. No smile. Just the offer.

You stared for a beat, then took it, your fingers brushing his.

“They were almost out, figured you’d want it.” he said simply. “Yuuji almost bought it. I had to threaten him.”

You huffed a laugh. “Chivalry lives.”

You slipped the candy into your bag and tried not to think too hard about how warm the packet felt in your hands. "Thanks.”

He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

But it felt like one.

The four of you regrouped near the ticket scanner. Nobara handed over her stub with the ease of someone who'd done this routine a dozen times. Yuuji was already balancing popcorn and soda, narrating his snack choices like a sports commentator.

“Oh my god,” Nobara muttered. “I told you this was too much!”

“I bought rations,” Yuuji called out before she could say anything else. “For the war we’re about to face!”

“Of course you did,” she muttered, but her face was amused.

“I got one popcorn, two sodas, a water—because balance—and some kind of chocolate thing that might kill you from the sugar rush.”

“Sounds on-theme,” Nobara said, plucking her soda from the tray. “You have no restraint.”

“I got all the essentials!” he declared, scandalized. “This is restraint. You should’ve seen the tray I almost got.”

You trailed just behind Megumi as you entered the dark hallway toward your screen.

The theater was dark, half-filled, buzzing with the kind of energy only truly awful horror could summon. Nobara walked ahead, scanning the seats like she was evaluating real estate.

“This row,” she said. “Not too close, center-aligned, legroom.”

She slid into the aisle seat, muttering something about escape routes. Yuuji took the seat beside her, cradling the popcorn like a newborn. Megumi hesitated just behind them, glancing once toward the upper seats—then settled into the third seat in the row. Your seat was waiting. You slipped in beside him without a word.

The moment you sat, your elbow brushed his—soft knit against your arm—and he didn’t shift away. Just settled back. There were four seats between your group and the next person. Enough privacy to feel insulated. Comfortable.

The room buzzed quietly around you. Megumi shifted slightly in his seat, thigh brushing yours for a second as he got comfortable. He didn’t move away. Neither did you.

The scent of the snacks was warm in the dark. The screen flickered softly. You looked down the row—Nobara stealing popcorn from Yuuji’s lap, Yuuji complaining with his mouth full and Nobara shushing him with practiced ease.

You sat back, hands in your lap, heart still stubbornly out of rhythm. It was nothing. Just a group outing. Just four friends at the movies.

But you caught yourself thinking—if his shoulder brushed yours again, if his hand rested close enough to touch…

No one would notice.

And maybe—just maybe—he was thinking the same thing.

Maybe it was nothing. Just coincidence.

But maybe not.

The thought made your skin buzz. You fixed your eyes on the screen. Tried not to think too hard. But that tiny, ridiculous part of you—that had been mostly quiet since Monday, since his body had pressed into yours and his voice had cracked on your name—suddenly wanted to believe it was on purpose.

Wanted to believe maybe, if the lights stayed low, and no one was paying attention…

You might feel him lean just a little closer.

—

By the middle of the third movie, your brain had started to blur the blood-soaked plotlines together. your body had settled comfortably into the rhythm of the marathon—legs curled loosely beneath you, your drink long gone, your focus fully locked on the screen.

The acting was bad. The logic was worse. It was bad. Objectively. The plot made no sense, the effects were cheap, and the villain was somehow both underdeveloped and too much. But you liked it. You liked all of it. The pacing. The tension. The overdone sound design and the predictable gore.

The energy in the theater had shifted from snide commentary to a sort of reverent focus—as if everyone had decided to stop mocking the movie and simply give in. You had.

The too-cold AC, the rise and fall of dramatic strings, the flicker of flashing red and green light washing over your skin. Your heart rate barely ticked up when a shriek rang out from the screen or another pair of limbs got lopped off in slow motion.

Beside you, Megumi hadn’t moved much. He didn’t say anything during the second film, hadn’t reacted to anything louder than a footstep. But you’d felt him the entire time—the weight of his leg close to yours, the occasional brush of his sweater against your arm. He was probably hating the whole thing.

You loved it. You didn’t care that the plot was nonsense or that the actors had all delivered their lines like they were reading cue cards for the first time. You liked the rhythm of it. The predictability in the unpredictability—when the music dropped and the silence stretched just a second too long before—

The roar of a chainsaw ripped through the speakers, high and shrill and unapologetically loud. On screen, the killer barreled through a barn door, face dripping in makeup blood, arm swinging a blade so over-the-top it might’ve been crafted from aluminum foil.

You grinned, quietly delighted. And that’s when you felt it. A shift beside you. A flicker of heat against your cheek. And then—

Megumi’s voice, low and quiet and far too close to your ear.

“You’re actually into this stuff?”

It wasn’t the question—it was the way he asked it. Soft. Just for you. His mouth close enough that the shape of his words skimmed your skin.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you smiled at the screen and murmured, “What, too much for you?”

You felt, more than heard, the small exhale of amusement he let out. Close. Warm. Gone too quickly.

“No,” he said. “Didn’t peg you for the gore-and-scream type.”

“You’ve known us for how many years?” you murmured back. “You’re acting brand new.”

“Just confirming,” he said. “In case you all outgrew the part where screaming equals fun.”

“I like knowing who makes it out,” you whispered, eyes still on the screen. “It’s a good reminder.”

He didn’t answer right away. But you felt him shift, just barely, like the words had landed somewhere he wasn’t expecting. And just like that, he leaned back again, sinking slowly into the shadows beside you. His thigh brushed yours once more—light, almost thoughtless. But it didn’t move.

Neither did you.

The rest of the movie passed in flickers and shadows. Your hands shifted on the armrest—closer. His leg angled slightly toward yours. You caught him glance at you once, during a long, silent pan of the killer stalking a cornfield.

You didn’t look back.

But your pulse had started to move a little faster. Not from the movie. From him.

By the end of the third movie, Yuuji had slumped slightly in his seat, one hand half-buried in the popcorn bucket. Nobara was fully reclined, knees up on the empty seat in front of her, one arm crossed over her chest, eyes still locked on the screen like she was mentally rewriting the script herself. She yawned, then reached for her drink with the kind of tired dignity only she could pull off.

You sat forward, slowly, rubbing the back of your neck. Your shoulder brushed Megumi’s as you moved. He didn’t pull away. You turned to him just slightly—intending to make some offhand comment, maybe joke about the chainsaw scene again—but then you stopped.

Because he was already looking at you.

And then he moved—quiet and deliberate. Just a tilt of his arm. An open space between his side and his elbow. A subtle invitation.

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t a question out loud. He wouldn’t say it like that. But you knew what it meant.

You leaned in, slow and careful, and settled into the curve of him. Your head rested lightly against his chest, the thick cable knit of his sweater soft beneath your cheek.

His arm came around you a beat later, loose but sure. He didn’t pull you tighter. Didn’t press. Just held you there—quiet, steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The fourth movie started up in the background—screams and synth and a thudding bass line that barely registered.

You stayed exactly where you were.

And so did he.

—

The fifth movie had barely started when you slipped quietly out of the theater, easing past Yuuji’s slumped legs and Nobara’s soda without disturbing either. The cool hallway air hit your skin like a breath of relief after hours of recycled popcorn air and overacted screaming.

You padded down the carpeted hallway, quiet in your sneakers, and slipped into the bathroom. The cool water against your hands helped wake you up, the silence oddly still after the hours of screams and flickering color.

When you stepped back into the lobby, the lighting felt almost harsh—soft overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly, the hum of vending machines off to the right, and not much else.

Except him.

Megumi stood near the snack counter, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the overhead menu with the kind of disinterested focus he probably used in line at the grocery store. But he looked good. Stupidly good. That navy sweater stretched across his back, jeans sitting low on his hips, his brown boots worn in just enough to look lived-in—planted solid on the scuffed floor.

He hadn’t noticed you yet. And maybe you watched him a second longer than you meant to. You crossed the floor quietly, letting your voice carry as you stepped up beside him.

“Didn’t think I’d find you out here.”

He looked over. “You disappeared.”

“I’m allowed to pee,” you said with a grin.

He didn’t rise to it. Just nodded toward the counter. “Figured I’d check if you were getting anything.”

“I was just gonna grab water,” you said. “But if you’re eating—”

“We could split something,” he offered, already looking at the menu.

You moved a little closer, peering over his shoulder. “Fries?”

“I can live with fries.”

You stepped forward with him in line. The counter ahead was half-empty. A few employees moved slowly behind the glass, refilling trays of nachos and lukewarm fries.

As you looked up at the overhead board, you didn’t notice the group of guys leaning against the other end of the counter—four of them, maybe five. Loud enough to be heard, though not enough to interrupt the quiet mood. Their laughter was low, their glances sideways.

You didn’t notice them.

But Megumi did.

You shifted a little closer. “God, do you remember the last time we got fries after a movie? We were still in school. That awful night in Harajuku. Yuuji ordered three large sodas and then left all of them on the train.”

He didn’t respond. You didn’t notice.

“He tried to lie about it too, like they just vanished. I think Nobara threatened to knock his head into the next prefecture.”

Still nothing. You were mid-sentence when his gaze flicked toward them again. One of the guys was looking at you too long. The others had that same tilt of posture—angled toward you like they were deciding something.

You didn’t register any of it. But you noticed the shift in him. How he turned toward you slightly. How his jaw tensed for half a second.

Then he reached for you—slow, deliberate. His fingers touched your chin first, guiding your face up to meet his. Your words died on your tongue.

And then he kissed you. It wasn’t a soft test or a hesitant ask. It wasn’t for show. It was quiet, full, and certain. His fingers curved beneath your jaw, his other hand finding your waist like it had been waiting for this moment—like it knew exactly where it belonged. His body pressed close, solid and warm, chest brushing yours through the thick knit of his sweater.

You froze for only a second, then sank into it, hands lifting on instinct to grip the nape of his neck. He kissed you like he didn’t care who saw. And when he finally pulled back, your heart was thudding somewhere up in your throat.

Your voice came out barely above a breath. “What was that for?”

He held your gaze. No hesitation. Just a slow blink, the barest flicker of something warm at the corner of his mouth.

“Just wanted to.”

Then—without explanation, without apology—he slipped his arm fully around your waist and drew you into him. His other hand settled at your hip now, low and grounding, the hard lines of his body pressed into yours. Not performative. Not forceful.

Just his.

The noise of the lobby faded out around you—the soda machine humming faintly, the buzz of the light overhead. Distant footsteps passed from another hallway, but none of it touched you.

Your fingers curled against the hem of his sweater. His head dipped slightly toward yours. He didn’t kiss you again. Not right away. But you didn’t need him to. Not with the way he was holding you like that. Like he wasn’t planning to let go.

—

The house lights came on the moment the sixth film cut to black, washing the theater in harsh, stale fluorescence. Nobara groaned like she’d aged ten years.

“That was straight-up psychological warfare.”

Yuuji stretched his arms over his head. “I feel like I survived a trial. Like I should get a badge.”

“I want my time back,” Nobara said, slipping her bag over her shoulder. “I want my money back. I want my standards back. I’m officially brain dead.”

Yuuji yawned so hard he didn’t even try to cover it. “I’m scared to sleep now. Not because of the ghosts—just because of what I’ll dream about those movies.”

“I’m gonna have flashbacks,” Nobara said, already halfway down the aisle. “Not to the horror. To the dialogue.”

You stood slowly, blinking against the sudden brightness. “Come on, the lake monster was kind of fun.”

“It looked like a soggy sponge,” she shot back.

You laughed and followed the others toward the lobby, still a little unsteady from the weight of the last few hours—and from Megumi’s warmth still lingering along your side. He was already up, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his empty water bottle. He didn’t say anything, just looked back once to make sure you were following.

You filed out into the lobby with the others, blinking against the fluorescent lights. Everything looked too sharp after so many hours in the dark. The floor was littered with stray popcorn kernels, someone’s crumpled hoodie, and a soda spill that had congealed into something tragic.

“I need protein,” Yuuji muttered. “And actual light. I haven’t seen the sun in, like, a week.”

“It’s 2:30 in the morning,” Nobara replied. “You’re not seeing the sun for a few hours more.”

Megumi was already heading for the exit, keys out. “I’ll drive.”

“No shit you’ll drive,” Nobara said, slipping on her coat. “None of us are functional.”

You followed the group into the parking lot. The night air was cooler now, the pavement still holding a faint warmth from earlier. Megumi’s car chirped as he unlocked it. Without thinking, you moved toward the passenger side door. He didn’t stop you.

“Dibs on the front—too slow,” you said to Nobara, just to be safe.

“I wasn’t gonna fight you for it,” she muttered. “I want to lie down and die in the back seat.”

“Same.” Yuuji added. “Can we get food on the way? I know it’s 2AM, but—”

“No,” Nobara and Megumi said at the same time.

Your pink haired friend groaned and slumped into the seat. “Why are all of you so mean when I’m vulnerable?”

Once you were all in, Megumi started the car. The interior lights dimmed automatically, and for a moment, no one spoke.

“Nakano, right?” he asked Nobara, glancing into the rearview.

“Yeah. Left at the combini.”

Yuuji perked up from where he was already half-asleep. “Are we sure we can’t detour for food?”

“I’ll throw you out the window,” Nobara said.

“You’d miss me.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

You hid a smile, staring out the window as the car rolled into motion.

The city at night felt gentler somehow—less crowded, less sharp. The breeze through the cracked windows brought the scent of faint cherry blossoms and asphalt, a strange mix of spring and exhaustion.

Nobara cracked her knuckles. “That fifth movie had potential. If they had removed the script, the cast, and the ending, it would’ve been solid.”

“They killed the dog for no reason,” Yuuji muttered.

“That was personal,” you agreed.

Megumi said nothing. You glanced over at him, half-expecting him to meet your eyes. But he was focused on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift like always. Your heart did something quiet and nervous.

The car was quiet again after the next red light.

“Megumi,” Nobara said suddenly, “rate the movies. Worst to best.”

He didn’t look over. “They were all bad.”

“No. Rank them. I want suffering in order.”

He exhaled, barely audible. “Fourth. Then second. Sixth. First. Fifth. Third.”

Nobara blinked. “Wait. You thought the third was the best?”

“The acting was the least unbearable.”

Yuuji laughed. “That’s such a Megumi answer. No ‘this one had heart’ or ‘the monster design was sick.’ Just, ‘the suffering was slightly less acute.’”

When he finally pulled up outside Nobara’s apartment, she opened the door and stretched like a cat. “Thanks for the ride, chauffeur. Don’t crash on the way home.”

She leaned down slightly, poking her head back in. “Text me if either of you wakes up in a cold sweat.”

“Text me if you start seeing lake monsters,” you said.

“I already do,” she muttered, jerking her thumb at Yuuji. “Night, losers.”

And with that, the door thunked shut behind her. The silence that settled after she left felt different. Heavier.

You glanced at Megumi, who still hadn’t looked your way. Yuuji was already half-asleep in the back, humming faintly to whatever lo-fi beat Megumi had turned on during the ride.

Your heart picked up again—for no good reason. Maybe he’d drop you off last. Maybe he’d come up. Maybe he’d say something about earlier. About the kiss. About the way he’d held you like he’d meant it. Maybe he'd stay the night.

When he made the turn you weren’t expecting—your street, not Yuuji’s—your chest went cold.

You turned to look at him. “Oh. You’re dropping me first?”

His eyes stayed on the road. “Made the most sense.”

Your throat felt suddenly tight. “Right.” you said, trying not to sound surprised. “I thought…”

Megumi kept quiet—just slowed near your building. You hesitated, fingers tightening around your bag.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just let his fingers tap the wheel once. “You good?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Thanks for the ride.”

He nodded. “Night.”

Just like that. No pause. No flicker of his hand. No suggestion of more.

You opened the door slowly, stepping out into the stillness of your block. The car’s interior light flicked on behind you, pale and warm. Yuuji mumbled something from the back—maybe a sleepy goodbye. You didn’t respond.

The door shut with a soft click. You stood on the sidewalk and watched the taillights blur into the dark, waiting—stupidly, stubbornly—for the car to stop. Or slow. Or reverse.

It didn’t.

And you stood there, alone on your sidewalk, wondering if you’d imagined all of it.

—

The week that followed was… normal. Annoyingly normal. Life didn’t stop—just smoothed over like it hadn’t split open at all.

You ran errands in the morning. Did laundry. Trained. Had lunch with Yuuji, who told you about a cursed tree in Aichi that screamed when someone picked its fruit. You responded with half-laughs and polite questions, but your mind was somewhere else the entire time.

Missions. De-briefs. Late lunches grabbed from street stalls or convenience stores between cursed sightings. You shared quiet trains, walked the same winding Tokyo streets with Yuuji’s laughter spilling between you and Nobara’s pointed commentary filling the gaps. The routine stayed the same.

Steady. Familiar.

So why did it all feel different?

He’d kissed you.

Not like someone testing a boundary. Not like a mistake.

He’d kissed you like he’d needed it. Like he’d been holding back so long it nearly broke him.

Worse than the silence was the way it all felt so… normal.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Like the sex hadn’t happened.

Like you hadn’t spent a night trembling under him, letting him wreck you slow with his mouth, his fingers, his cock—whispering things into your neck in that voice that barely held itself together.

A week since that kiss. A week since the way he pulled you into him like he’d finally let something snap. Since the way he tasted like heat and silence, like restraint breaking open.

And then—nothing.

Not distant, not cold. Just—Megumi. Thoughtful. Sharp. Careful. Sometimes funny. Always respectful. Quiet. Steady. Occasionally dry-witted when Nobara said something outrageous. Occasionally warm when Yuuji needed reassurance. Responsible. Focused. Still partnered with you more than anyone else.

Life had gone on. Missions were assigned. You trained. Ate. Laughed when you were supposed to. Nodded when your name was called. He was there through it all—at group lunches, beside you in staff briefings, lingering at Yuuji’s side when Nobara made another sarcastic dig.

And he was perfectly normal. Not distant. Not awkward. Not cold. Just maddeningly, unfalteringly normal. You talked like nothing had changed, even though it had. Even though your body remembered things your mouth couldn’t say. His hands. His mouth. His voice, low and hoarse against your skin.

You remembered the way he’d held you like he couldn’t believe he got to.

But he didn’t bring it up. Not the kiss. Not the sex. Not a single thing.

The longer it stretched, the more your mind twisted.

You caught yourself watching him in the smallest ways—his hands when he reached for his tea, the edge of his mouth when he smiled at something Yuuji said, the faint crease between his brows when he was reading a mission brief.

Wondering too much. Overanalyzing every shift in his face, every blink, every word. Was that a look? Did his hand brush yours on purpose? Why hadn’t he said anything?

Once, during a field assignment in Shibuya, he’d reached for your arm to steady you on a crumbling slope. His hand had been warm around your elbow. The pressure firm, protective.

And he’d dropped it the second you found your footing.

Gone.

Like it never happened.

None of it gave him away. Not one hint.

You talked about assignments, schedules, what Nobara wore to a sorcerer gala that she absolutely was not invited to. He laughed once when Yuuji nearly walked into traffic, called you out for mispronouncing the name of a cursed tool, even handed you his half-finished drink during lunch when yours was too sweet.

But he never touched you. Never looked at you like he had in that movie theater, never said a single word about that kiss. Or anything else.

You tried not to act different either. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t press. Just joked when the others did, stayed professional when you needed to, and tried—desperately—not to care that the person who had kissed you like he couldn’t stop himself was now acting like it never happened.

Another week passed. You had dinner with Nobara. Ran errands with Yuuji. Got partnered with Megumi for two local missions in a row. He was careful. Precise. Perfectly focused.

It burned.

Maybe he hadn’t meant for it to happen again. Maybe that night was just… tension. A one-time indulgence. A scratch of an itch he didn’t have anymore. The kiss? Maybe it was a whim. Maybe you were the one who had made it more than it was. Maybe it had been casual for him. You’d convinced yourself that maybe he needed release, needed closeness for one night, and now he was back to baseline. And you were just—what you’d always been. A friend.

You told yourself you were just giving him space. Time. Letting him lead. You didn’t want to seem needy or insecure or like you couldn’t handle something as simple as sex between friends.

You told yourself a lot of things.

Maybe you’d read too far into everything. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. And it wouldn’t be fair to ask.

This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. You hadn’t defined it. Hadn’t demanded anything. Hadn’t even asked if it would happen again.

So you swallowed it.

Buried the ache when you sat beside him and he didn’t touch you. When your fingers brushed and he didn’t react. When he leaned back in his seat with his usual silence and gave you a soft, blank smile that made your chest burn anyway.

And you carried on. Same friends. Same rhythm. Same him. Except it wasn’t the same anymore—not for you.

You couldn’t stop remembering the way he looked at you in the dark. The way he sounded when he was inside you. The way he held your body like it was something he’d never meant to have and couldn’t bear to let go of.

You couldn’t stop wanting it again. You just didn’t think he ever would.

So when your phone buzzed at 9:47 PM that Thursday night, you weren’t expecting anything. You were freshly showered, hair damp, legs tucked under your blanket on the couch. A half-watched show played low on the screen. The text lit up your phone like a flare.

[you home?]

Your breath stuttered. You blinked at the screen. Typed back before your brain could catch up.

[yeah, why?]

No reply. For exactly eight minutes. Then the buzzer rang.

You stood frozen in your living room, hair still half-wrapped in a towel, your heart slamming so hard it echoed in your ears.

He didn’t text again. Just waited. You threw on a hoodie over the soft shorts you wore, wiped your palms on the hem, and buzzed him in.

The knock came seconds later.

When you opened the door, Megumi stood there in black— hoodie, jeans. Casual. Hands in his pockets. No words. His hair was a little messy from the wind, eyes dark and unreadable. He looked like something had been keeping him up for days.

“Hey,” you said, soft.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you.

Then: “Can I come in?”

You stepped aside. “Yeah.”

He walked past you without a sound, like he’d been here a thousand times before. The door clicked shut behind you. You turned to ask him something—what was this, what are you doing, do you ever think about that kiss—

Instead, you asked, “Is everything alright?”

He was closed now. Closer than you had realised. He reached up—gentle now—and brushed your hair behind your ear. His hand lingered at your cheek.

His voice came low in the space between you. “Is this okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me to go,” he said softly. “I will.”

You didn’t.

His mouth found yours with zero preamble—there was nothing tentative about it.

His lips crushed against yours, one hand sliding up the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist like he didn’t trust you wouldn’t disappear if he didn’t hold. You gasped softly, lips parting under his, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been imagining this exact sound for weeks. He kissed you like it had been building.

Your fingers curled into his chest, clutching at him like you could pull him inside you.

When he broke for air, his voice was ragged. “You trust me?”

You breathed. “Always.”

He kissed you once more, softer now, and then—

“Kitchen,” he murmured against your lips. “Counter. Now.”

You blinked. “What?”

His voice dropped another octave. “Please.”

There was no build-up this time. No slow lean-in. Just his mouth on yours—hot, open, almost desperate. You kissed him back with everything you’d been holding in for weeks. Your hands in his chest. His arms around your waist.

He groaned softly into your mouth, one hand dragging down the length of your spine. You didn’t realize he was walking you backward until you back bumped the kitchen counter.

You gasped. “Megumi—”

He kissed your jaw. “Let me.”

His hands slid under your sweater. Gripped your thighs.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he muttered. “Been thinking about this, way too fucking much.”

Then—quietly, urgently—he broke away.

“Turn around.”

His voice was low. Hoarse. Not demanding, just... full.

When you turned, he helped—hands warm at your hips, guiding you up. You lay flat over the marble, chest and stomach against the cool surface, arms folded under your cheek. The hoodie rode up a little as you shifted to get comfortable, the hem of your shorts dragging higher.

Your feet didn’t reach the floor. They dangled. Bare, twitching slightly as you caught your breath.

Your breath caught. “Megumi—?”

“I’ve been thinking about this every night,” he mumbled against your nape. “You. Right here.”

He leaned back again, nudging your thighs apart.

“Legs open,” he said, so quiet you barely heard it.

You did what he asked.

“Just like that,” he whispered.

You looked over your shoulder—just in time to see him pull out a chair.

And sit.

“Stay there,” he said. “Don’t move.”

He dragged your shorts down slowly, one side at a time, eyes never leaving your body. Then your underwear. Then nothing.

Just open air. Cold marble. His breath. Warm. Focused.

“Been going insane,” his tone was pure awe. “Thinking about this.”

Your stomach flipped. You were spread out across the counter, laid bare.

“Good?” he asked, voice rough but careful.

You nodded, cheek pressed to the counter. “Yeah.”

“I can’t wait anymore.”

You reached behind to brace yourself, breath shaky.

“What—what are you doing?”

He looked up, eyes dark.

“Eating.”

And then his hands curled around your thighs, spreading them apart. Positioning you.

“I—I didn’t expect—”

“Shhh.” he pleaded. “Just let me taste you,”

“You—” You twisted slightly. “You came all the way here just to—”

“Yes.”

Your cheeks flushed hot. The kitchen suddenly felt too still. He sat there, calmly. Like he had all the time in the world.

His thumbs spread you open. And then his mouth was on you. No warning. No hesitation. No teasing.

Your whole body jerked.

“Megu—”

His hands pressed firmer. “Relax.”

It wasn’t just a command. It was a promise.

Then his mouth sealed to you like it was instinct. He licked like he was savoring something he hadn’t earned—slow, deliberate swipes between your folds, tongue curling around your clit, then slipping back to fuck into you with slow, hot strokes.

You choked on a sound. Your elbows slipped forward. He adjusted his grip immediately, pulling your hips toward the edge of the counter again. One hand gripped your thigh, the other smoothed over your lower back, holding you still. Every part of you was under control.

You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t reach him. Only feel—his breath, his mouth, the warm rasp of his voice when he finally spoke.

“I missed this.”

You whimpered.

He groaned low in his throat and licked again—deeper this time. Then higher. Then slow, perfect circles over your clit that made your knees buckle. His hands held you steady. His chair scraped a little closer. He sat there like he could stay all night.

Every movement was precise. Intentional. His tongue fucked into you, long and deep, while his nose nudged your ass cheek. You bit your arm, nearly sobbing as your knees buckled.

“You taste,” he murmured between strokes, “so fucking good.”

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft skin, holding you open and helpless. You gasped, hips lifting slightly off the counter.

“Fuck, Megumi—”

His grip tightened. His tongue circled again—then again—until your toes curled and your stomach clenched tight.

“You’re shaking,” he mumbled against your skin.

“You’re—fuck—you’re making me—”

“Good.” His voice was dark. Hoarse.

He leaned in further. Wrapped his arms beneath your thighs, lifted your legs just enough to pull you toward the edge. Your calves rested on his shoulders now, heels kicking slightly in the air.

Your legs dangled—helpless, trembling—and he licked into you like a man possessed. Tongue fucking you slow and filthy, mouth sealing over your clit in long, sucking pulses until tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

You whimpered. “You—you’re just gonna sit there and—”

“Eat,” he said. “Yeah.”

He kissed your inner thigh. “You’re the only thing I’ve wanted all week.”

Then he dove back in.

Sloppier this time. Sucking gently at your clit, then teasing it with the tip of his tongue until your legs kicked helplessly in the air behind you. You tried to brace yourself, nails scratching the marble, the position making every nerve more sensitive—your ass tipped up, thighs trembling, chest pressed hard against the counter.

His hands didn’t leave you. They held your thighs open, kept your hips still, thumbs pressing gentle circles into your skin like he was soothing you—like you were something to be handled carefully even as he devoured you.

And he did.

Devour you.

You squirmed, soft moans leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

“Don’t run,” he said, voice rasping against the backs of your thighs.

“I—I’m not—” you whined. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He exhaled hot against your pussy. “Not done.”

He just groaned—low, deep in his chest—and latched onto your clit with his mouth, sucking until your vision blurred. Kept you open with his lips and hands until you were grinding helplessly into his face, trembling like you couldn’t stop.

His tongue pushed inside you again, spreading slick heat through your core. He took his time, no rush, every movement precise—controlled, but slow like punishment. Like something he needed to prove. Something he was still holding himself back from.

You moaned into the marble, legs twitching. “Too good—”

His voice came rough against your skin. “Then let it be.”

He licked upward—slow and steady—then circled your clit with the flat of his tongue, over and over until your thighs began to shake. The sound of it was obscene.

“Fuck—Megumi—please—”

He grunted, and you could feel it—hot and guttural against your skin.

He didn’t speak again. Just kept you where he wanted you, licking messily, tongue flicking and stroking and tasting you through every soft gasp and stuttered moan. It built and built—pressure curling hard and hot at the base of your spine.

When you came—hard, sudden, overwhelming—it was like your whole body unraveled in his mouth. You cried out, forehead pressed to your arm, thighs clenching helplessly around his head, hands clawing at the slick marble for something to hold.

But he didn’t stop. He licked you through it—slower now, tender. Cleaning you. Savoring you. Only when your hips twitched from sensitivity did he finally pull back.

“Too much—‘Gumi—fuck—”

His face was flushed, lips pink and glistening, his hair mussed from your thighs.

“Megumi…” you managed.

He kissed the inside of your knee. “Still with me?”

You nodded, dizzy.

“Good.” He stood. “C’mere.”

You let him lift you gently off the counter. Your legs buckled, and he caught you immediately, laughing under his breath.

“Okay, I maybe overdid it.”

You glared at him weakly. “You think?”

He bent down—you felt his lips at your lower back, then your spine—helped you step back into your underwear and shorts, smoothing the fabric up over your hips with maddening care. He kissed the back of your neck. Just once.

Then hooked an arm under your legs and another behind your back—and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“Wait, I can walk—” you started.

“You’re shaking,” he said simply.

He carried you to the couch, sat with you for a second before carefully laying you down. Your head rested against a pillow. He tugged the throw blanket over your legs, fixed your sweater where it had ridden up. Brushed the backs of his fingers along your cheek.

You stared up at him, dazed. “You’re… really good at that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yeah.”

He didn’t try to stay. But he lingered. Adjusted the throw blanket. Ran his hand once down your arm.

He swallowed. His gaze softened. You leaned up, and this time you kissed him.

It was slower. Warmer. He melted into it just slightly, one hand curling at your hip like he didn’t want to stop.

When you broke away, he brushed your hair back gently, studying you like he couldn’t help it.

“I have a mission in five hours,” he said, smiling faintly. “Didn’t plan on staying. Just…”

You saw the rest of the sentence in his eyes.

Had to see you.

You didn’t push. He bent down. Kissed your cheek. Then your forehead.

“I’ll text when I’m back.”

You nodded, throat tight. He stood slowly. Looked at you for a long moment, like he wanted to say something else.

Then crouched down briefly as Satoru padded into the room. Megumi scratched gently behind his ears.

“Keep an eye on her for me, yeah?”

The cat purred, tail curling around his leg.

Megumi rose again, and you watched as he stepped toward the door—quiet, calm, unreadable. But before he opened it, he glanced back at you one last time.

The door clicked shut. And then he was gone. Leaving behind the ghost of his mouth, the echo of his voice, and the warmth you hadn’t realized you’d missed until it nearly broke you.

—

A few days passed, and everything went back to normal again. Or close enough to pretend.

You still hadn’t talked about it—the kitchen, his mouth, the way he’d left you trembling on your couch with nothing but a soft “I’ll text you.” And then the text did come, but it was simple. Casual. Like he hadn’t tasted every inch of you with reverence a few nights ago.

And yet, here you were. Sitting next to him again. Same routine. Same silence.

Same quiet burn that made it hard to sit still.

It was early—barely past six. The city hadn’t fully woken yet. Pale morning light crawled along the streets as Ijichi’s car rolled to a stop in a sleepy industrial neighborhood miles outside of downtown Tokyo—mostly rusting warehouses and quiet stretches of asphalt, the kind of place too empty to feel real at this hour, fog hanging low.

The mission briefing had come in quiet, barely at dawn.

A cursed signature spotted outside one of the old refineries on the edge of Chōfu. Just strong enough to warrant precaution, but weak enough to not need a team. You and Megumi had taken the assignment without much thought. Low-risk. Quick check.

You sat in the back seat, your knee drawn up, head tipped toward the window. Megumi beside you. Close, but not close enough to touch.

Ijichi had stepped out a few minutes earlier, muttering something about the sighting zone and going ahead on foot. Said he’d take a while. You nodded, adjusting the cuffs of your jacket. Megumi leaned back against the headrest, long legs bent slightly where the front seat cut into his knees.

“I’ll walk the area, see if anything’s flaring up,” he’d said, adjusting his collar. “You two can nap if you want. I’ll be a while.”

Then he’d closed the front door gently behind him and disappeared between a row of leaning fenceposts and half-buried traffic cones.

Now, the car was still. The silence stretched.

Megumi's eyes were closed but not asleep. His hair was still damp from his morning shower, and he smelled like his usual, dark cedar and quiet citrus—bare, clean, him.

He hadn’t said much since you climbed in that morning—just a soft greeting, a nod when you offered him coffee. It was like always.

You leaned your head back, then whispered, “I think Ijichi should retire.”

Megumi’s eyes stayed closed, but his brow twitched slightly.

You smiled to yourself. “I mean, after what happened in Shibuya? I know he's dependable and all, but I don't think the man has a shred of cartilage left in his knees.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t open his eyes. He moved instead.

You caught the rustle of his jacket sleeve as he leaned forward, arm stretching toward the center console. You turned your head just in time to see him press something.

The divider began to rise. A soft mechanical hum filled the space as the smoked glass slid up smoothly between you and the empty front seat.

You blinked. “What are you—”

Then—click. The back doors locked.

Your breath caught mid-sentence. Slowly, you turned to look at him. He was sitting back again, this time more squarely toward you, one leg angled, arm draped along the edge of the seat. His lashes were low, eyes fixed on you like he hadn’t looked away in minutes.

He said nothing. Just watched. The morning silence tightened like a noose.

You shifted slightly, breath shallow. “...What are you doing?”

A beat. Then, soft, barely audible, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

The words hit like a match to dry leaves.

You sat still. The air between your bodies was electric—warm and tight, like it could snap with the smallest movement. He leaned in slightly, voice low.

“I tried not to. But I can’t sit this close and pretend.”

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up.

“If you don’t want—”

“I didn’t say that,” you breathed.

And that’s when his hand came up, slow and quiet, resting against the edge of your seat between you—not touching you yet, but close enough that you felt the heat of him through the space.

He was watching you like a man trying not to fall apart.

The tension didn’t break. It bent.

You weren’t sure how he’d gotten so close—how his fingers had found your thigh, how the kiss had started so quietly, without any warning—but the second his mouth was on yours, you felt it: the exhaustion, the ache, the caffeine on his tongue. His mouth warm and soft against yours like it was just another morning habit. His fingers skimmed up your jaw, caught in the edge of your hair.

The kiss didn’t burn. It simmered—lazy and heady, half-asleep, like neither of you had fully woken up and this was the first thing your bodies remembered how to do. It wasn’t greedy. It was indulgent. A quiet kind of want. Like his body had already decided and your mouth was just catching up.

Megumi didn’t rush, he never truly did. He kissed you like it was inevitable, like you’d both known the quiet would eventually give way to something else. You inhaled sharply as his fingers skimmed the top of your thigh, nudging your legs apart just enough to fit between them. The heel of his palm pressed gently between your knees, his breath still brushing yours.

He kissed you again—deeper now—and shifted closer, guiding you gently until your back was pressed against the car door. The cold of it made you gasp. His hand trailed up higher, fingers gliding over the seam of your panties, featherlight.

Your hands flew up to his chest. ““Megumi—Ijichi could be back any second—”

Your knee jerked in. You squirmed just enough to try and shift your hips away, but his hand clamped you tighter—not mean, not too hard. His fingers curled and pinched the side of your thigh, a sharp thing, more warning than cruelty.

Megumi smirked—a rare, crooked thing—right before he leaned down to kiss along your jaw. His voice came out rough, quiet, amused, muffled against your skin, but it left no room for arguing, like he wasn’t going to entertain you the thought of stopping.

“Let me have my breakfast.”

The words hit your stomach like heat and you let out a pathetic little sound as it was the only thing your brain could muster.

He kissed you again, brief and soft, before ducking lower. You let your head fall back against the door as his hands gripped your hips, adjusting your position. One palm hooked behind your knee, guiding it up—awkwardly, carefully—until your leg bent over his shoulder. Then the other. His fingers curled into your skin, dragging you closer.

He didn’t care how cramped the space was. One of his knees was pressed into the floor of the car, the other wedged awkwardly, bent against the center hump between seats at an angle that had to hurt. The leather under you creaked faintly. His body was all sharp lines and tight corners, shoulders nearly too wide for the space, barely fitting between your legs—broad, steady, filling the tight space like it didn’t faze him.

Megumi’s palms slid under your ass, his long fingers spanning the backs of your thighs as he secured your legs on his shoulders and lifted you—actually lifted—just enough to angle you right, to bring you flush to his mouth, your skirt pushed up and your panties tugged to the side like he’d done this in his head a hundred times already.

The pressure on your back pushed you slightly against the door. Your hands flailed for something to hold. The ceiling of the car felt too low. The windows too dark. The seatbelt buckle pressed awkwardly into your spine. None of it mattered.

His mouth met you with a low exhale. The first lick was unrushed. Firm. A long drag through your folds that made your hips jolt in his hands. He didn’t pause. Didn’t ease into it. He just groaned low in his throat and buried himself, licking deep through your pussy, tongue flicking and dragging and pushing like he had every intention of making a mess out of you before the sun had fully risen.

“Fuck—Megumi—”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t pause. He just gripped the underside of your thighs tighter, mouth opening wider against you as his tongue flicked over your clit, then slid back down to your entrance. He sucked slowly. Licked deeper. It was filthy, almost reverent.

You felt it all—every shift, every drag, every wet sound echoing off the sealed walls of the car. His body twisted again, adjusting the angle, one arm sliding under your ass to lift your hips higher into his mouth. The pressure hit different now.

You moaned softly, your body already starting to tremble, your toes curling, vision blurring around the edges.

It was too much.

Too early.

Too fucking good.

You clenched your fist against the seatbelt buckle. He didn’t speak. Didn’t make a sound. Just ate you with terrifying focus. His tongue slipped inside you again—slow, insistent. Then circled your clit, soft and perfect, until your legs twitched around his head and your jaw dropped open around a broken gasp.

“Oh my god—”

He pressed closer. Pinned you there, groaning against your cunt, the sound low and quiet like everything he did, but it vibrated through you like a shockwave.

You weren’t sure how long it lasted. How long he licked, sucked, and stroked you with his mouth until your thoughts dissolved. But when it broke—when your orgasm tore through you, fast and heavy and hot—it took your breath with it, loud in your chest even though your voice barely made it past your lips.

You shook through it, legs twitching, hips bucking into his face before falling back limp. And he still didn’t stop. He licked you through it. Slower now. A little softer. A little cruel.

When he finally let you go, easing your legs down, the leather seat felt cold beneath your skin. You blinked at the ceiling, breath sharp and uneven, trying to gather the pieces of your mind.

Megumi sat back in one slow, compact movement, the leather squeaking faintly. And without a word—without even asking—he reached up and gently caught your face in his palm. Eased you down. Your cheek met the fabric of his uniform, your head pillowed against his thigh, knees curled beneath you. You barely realized what was happening before his fingers were in your hair—stroking once, then again. Thumb grazing the edge of your ear.

You blinked up at him, dazed. Still flushed. Still confused. Still… untouched. You didn’t understand. Was he not going to…?

You waited. No belt unbuckled. No fingers shoved in after. No greedy grip of your waist. Just his mouth. And this. This stillness. You’d come, again—and he hadn’t. And it made no sense.

Your heart was still pounding. Your body humming. And still—

Still he hadn’t taken anything. Why?

You blinked again. He’s not going to fuck me? Again? This was the second time now. Slow, thorough, completely one-sided. You stared at the dash. Mind spinning.

What is this? Isn’t this supposed to be casual? Friends with benefits? Why does he only do this? Why won’t he take more? Why doesn’t he fuck me? Does he get off on this? Does he think I don’t want more? Is he just trying to be nice?

You wanted to ask. But you didn’t. He hadn’t touched himself. Hadn’t even looked like he was going to. You didn’t understand.

What is he getting out of this?

Wasn’t this supposed to be about taking what you needed? So, why does he only do this? Why won’t he take more? How could he keep giving without taking?

You couldn’t ask and he didn’t offer. So you laid there, skin still buzzing, the weight of him warm and steady beneath your cheek, and let the questions blur—even though they burned through your stomach, sparking at your throat, your body had other plans. The low-grade tremble still in your legs, the warmth of his hand at your scalp, the pulse of release still echoing between your thighs…

You were still sticky with slick. Your panties shoved to the side. And Megumi just sat there—quiet, solid, stroking your hair like this was the end of something, not the beginning. You closed your eyes and before you could untangle even one thought, sleep pulled you under.

He never shifted. Didn’t speak. Didn’t stop touching you. And when Ijichi’s steps returned—distant, steady—neither of you moved.

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manicpixiedreamkira · 2 months ago

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kigatsukeba

part two | chapter index

w.c: 14,831

The soft, amber light slanting through the curtains was what woke you.

It spilled across the bed in long, golden streaks, painting Megumi’s simple navy sheets in hues too warm for the clean, cool stillness of his room. With a low groan, you sat up, the soft fabric of a familiar black t-shirt sliding over your skin as you moved—his shirt, the one you'd slipped on that morning—falling to your thighs and holding the faint, lingering warmth of his body.

You shifted, one hand drifting absently to your hip—and bit back a tiny squeak. Your panties were on again, warm like they'd just come out of the dryer not too long ago.

You remembered falling asleep bare. Tangled up in him. Skin against skin. A flush crept into your cheeks, your heart giving a startled flip. He must’ve—you bit your lip—he must’ve dressed you.

You turned, eyes scanning the room, and there it was: your slip dress, freshly laundered and hanging neatly on a hanger hooked over the closet door.

He’d done all of it—quietly, carefully—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Made sure you were warm and safe and... and his, in all the ways that mattered but none of the ways that would let him keep you.

You tucked your face into your knees for a second, hiding the ridiculous, giddy grin that tugged at your mouth. God, you thought, squeezing your thighs together, he’s going to kill me.

You stay there for a moment longer, soaking in the comfort of it—the small, tender care stitched into every action—as the memories hit you in soft, hazy waves. The feel of his mouth on your skin. The wrecked sounds he'd pulled from you. The way he’d come, untouched, just from tasting you—from needing you that much.

And after, how he’d collapsed against you—spent, lightly trembling, pressing close like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go.

Your heart gave a slow, painful squeeze.

You swung your legs off the bed, the cool floorboards kissing your bare feet, and sat there for a moment—breathing him in, the lingering scent of cedar and citrus clinging to your skin.

A faint, savory scent drifted into the room—something warm and hearty, sharp enough to make your stomach tighten with sudden hunger. You pushed yourself up carefully, smoothing the t-shirt down your thighs, and padded toward the door. The apartment was mostly quiet, but the soft sounds of cooking floated from the kitchen: the clatter of a spatula, the low sizzle of something frying.

You crept forward, peeking around the corner. The kitchen was bathed in soft, dusky light, the last stretch of sunset streaking pink and orange through the windows.

And there he was.

Megumi stood at the stove, barefoot, as he stirred something on the burner. And he was shirtless. The low waistband of his sweatpants clung to his hips, slouching just low enough to reveal the deep V of his hip bones.

He moved fluidly, almost thoughtlessly—shaking the pan with one hand, flipping what looked like slices of chicken breast seared to a perfect golden brown. A pot simmered gently on the back burner, the smell of garlic and something rich and earthy filling the air.

Your breath caught—not at the sight of him half-naked (though God, that was enough to make your head spin)—but at the quiet, unconscious ease of him.

Scars mapped his back in pale slashes—crisscrossing his ribs, curling under his arms—brutal reminders of a life lived far too violently.

He hadn’t heard you yet.

You watched him move for a second longer—graceful in that unthinking, efficient way he always had.

This—

This was what you wanted. Not the sex. Not just the sex.

This.

The way he cooked for you without asking. The way he put you back into his clothes when you were too wrung out to dress yourself. The way he kept touching your life—quietly, steadily—like he was already stitched into it.

You swallowed hard and stepped into the room. He heard you immediately—shoulders stiffening, pan tilting precariously for a second before he righted it with a muttered curse.

His eyes dragged down the length of you—from the messy tumble of your hair to the bare stretch of your legs under the shirt—and then back up, locking onto your face like he couldn't look anywhere else without losing whatever fragile thread of control he was clinging to.

His ears flushed pink.

"You’re up," he said, awkwardly, like the words got tangled in his throat.

You smiled, soft and a little shy. "Yeah. Smelled food."

He turned quickly back to the stove, stirring the pan with unnecessary force.

"It’s nothing fancy," he muttered, voice rough. "Just... thought you’d be hungry. You were out all day..." He trailed off, face going even redder.

"What time is it?" you asked, stepping further into the room, your bare feet whispering across the tile.

"Almost seven."

“Smells good,” you offered, trying for casual.

“Chicken stir-fry,” he said shortly. “Rice is almost done.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice small.

He shrugged—a sharp, jerky motion—and grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, dishing out a portion before handing it to you wordlessly. You took it carefully, your fingers brushing his for the barest second—the touch crackling up your spine like static.

You sat at the little kitchen table, curling your legs under yourself, and dug into the food gratefully. It was simple—chicken, rice, a handful of vegetables seared just enough to stay crisp—but it tasted like heaven after everything you hadn’t eaten in the last who knows how many hours.

Megumi slid into the seat across from you, still carefully not looking at you. You ate slowly, both of you picking at the food like neither quite knew how to fill the growing space between you.

He cleared his throat once, then again.

Then, softly:

"I’m sorry," he said finally, voice low and rough.

You blinked, chopsticks halfway to your mouth. “For what?”

He looked down, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

"For... everything," he said finally, grimacing. "Last night. The way I’ve been acting. I just—" He broke off, dragging a hand through his messy hair, leaving it even worse. You tilted your head, swallowing a bite of rice.

"What happened, anyway?" you asked gently. "You’ve been acting strange ever since..." You trailed off, watching the stiff line of his shoulders.

Megumi set his chopsticks down carefully, exhaling a slow, rough breath.

"I’ll tell you," he said after a long beat. "Just... not right now."

You studied him—the tense set of his shoulders, the way he picked at his food without eating—and nodded slowly.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The tension eased in his shoulders—just a little. Like he hadn’t realized he’d been bracing for a fight.

For a while, you just ate, the sun sinking lower outside, the kitchen filling with soft, golden light.

The meal finished quietly, comfortably.

You stacked the plates, wiping your fingers with a napkin, before you finally spoke again.

"So," you said, trying for lightness, “does this mean you agreed?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Agreed?”

You shrugged, feigning casualness you absolutely didn’t feel.

“To us… hooking up,” you said, forcing the words past the dry hitch in your throat. “No strings. Friends. With… benefits.”

For a long beat, Megumi just stared at you—something raw and searching in his gaze. Then he gave a low, almost self-conscious laugh, raking a hand through his messy hair.

"I can’t..." he started, voice low and raw, "I can’t resist you."

The admission hit you like a punch.

He shoved a hand into his hair again, frustration crackling off him in waves.

"But if we’re gonna do this... I need time," he muttered.

“Time?” you echoed, amused.

“To think,” he said, dead serious. “To come up with… I don’t know. Rules. Or something.”

You snorted—the sound half-disbelieving, half-affectionate.

“Of course you’d need rules,” you teased, grinning. “God, you’re such a responsible guy.”

You meant it as a tease—light, familiar—but the way Megumi looked at you after? The way his eyes burned into you, dark and heated and desperate? It wiped the smile clean off your face.

His gaze dragged over you—slow, deliberate—lingering on the bare stretch of your thighs, the hem of his t-shirt clinging soft to your hips. His jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring slightly.

You didn’t mean to look—but your eyes dropped, just for a second.

The front of his sweats was tented slightly—his cock straining against the soft fabric, thick and heavy and unmistakably hard.

You swallowed, heat licking up your spine.

Megumi’s hands flexed at his sides—like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Your whole body tensed, a soft, involuntary tremor working up your spine. You licked your lips without thinking—and Megumi’s eyes tracked the movement like a predator scenting blood.

For one dizzy, reckless second, you thought he was going to take you right there—haul you out of your chair, bend you over the table, fuck you until you forgot your own name

But instead, Megumi shoved back his chair abruptly, standing up with careful, deliberate movements.

“I’ll, uh… drive you home,” he said, voice tight.

You stared up at him, blinking—your heart thudding, your whole body aching with something sharp and sweet and unfinished. Megumi couldn’t quite meet your eyes—his jaw clenched tight, his hands fisted at his sides—but there was nothing harsh in it. Just… desperate restraint.

"But—" you started, voice breaking.

He shook his head once, sharp and final, already gathering the plates into the sink like he needed the distraction.

"Come on," he said, not looking at you. "Before it gets too late."

You stood slowly, smoothing the hem of his t-shirt down your thighs, and nodded.

“Okay,” you said softly.

You watched him, heart a tangled, aching knot in your chest. And realized: he wasn’t pushing you away because he didn’t want you. He was pushing you away because he did. More than he knew how to survive.

—

A week passed.

Seven long, dragging days of silence.

No calls. No texts. No Megumi.

You tried—really tried—not to let it gnaw at you. You told yourself he was just busy. That he was thinking things through. That he needed space. That he was taking the time he’d said he needed.

You told yourself you understood.

But with each day that ticked by without a word, the knot in your stomach pulled tighter.

By the fourth day, when even Yuuji and Nobara started exchanging suspicious looks every time you casually asked if they’d seen Megumi around, you knew you weren’t fooling anyone.

By the fifth, you’d stopped pretending altogether.

You missed him.

Not just the warmth of his hands or the low rasp of his voice murmuring against your skin—though you missed that too, painfully—but the quiet steadiness he brought with him. The way he made the world seem a little less heavy just by existing beside you.

You missed him—all of him—and it terrified you.

Because maybe he’d decided it wasn’t worth it. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he realized it had been a mistake. That disappearing was easier than facing you.

You told yourself you wouldn’t reach out. You told yourself you wouldn’t be that girl—the one who chased after someone who clearly didn’t want her.

Still, you kept your phone close. Just in case.

Saturday night found you curled on your couch in an oversized sweater and worn sleep shorts, a mindless show murmuring in the background as you scrolled absently through your phone.

You weren’t really watching. You weren’t really doing anything at all—just slowly allowing the hope you hadn’t admitted you were still clinging to finally die. Which was why, when a knock came at the door, you jolted so hard you nearly dropped your phone.

You blinked, heart lurching into your throat, frowning at the door.

You weren’t expecting anyone. No deliveries. No plans. Maybe a neighbor? A mistake?

Another knock—soft, tentative.

You padded over cautiously, peeking through the peephole—

And your heart stuttered.

Standing there, shifting a little awkwardly on your doorstep, was Megumi.

Black hoodie pushed to the elbows. Joggers slouched low on his hips. His hair a mess, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He rocked on the balls of his feet, hands buried deep in his pockets, looking utterly, achingly out of place.

He looked… devastating. Soft and nervous and heartbreakingly handsome.

You stared for a second longer, stunned—then scrambled to open the door.

His eyes lifted the moment it opened—like he couldn’t help it—weeping over you, from your bare legs to the sweater swallowing your frame.

“Hi,” you said, breath catching, fingers tight on the doorknob—like it might keep you from falling over.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, like it scraped its way out.

You took him in—the flushed tips of his ears, the way his shoes scuffed against the floor—and your heart slammed against your ribs.

He cleared his throat, glanced away, then forced himself to meet your eyes.

“I, uh…” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out. With me.”

You blinked. Surely you’d misheard.

“You’re asking me on a date?” you asked, incredulous.

His cheeks flushed, but he nodded once—sharp, determined.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I mean. If you want.”

You stared at him, thrown off balance—confusion tangled with the giddy surge rising in your chest.

“A date?” you repeated, voice a little shaky. “I mean… isn’t that kind of… serious? For, you know. Friends with benefits?”

You winced the moment it left your mouth—the bluntness, the stupidity of it—but Megumi just shook his head, exhaling a breath like he’d expected the question.

“I know,” he said, softer now, steadier. “I thought about that. A lot.”

You shifted, arms crossing protectively over your sweater, watching him carefully.

“And?” you prompted.

He sighed in a slow breath, like he was trying to find the right words.

“I took some time,” he said, voice rough but sincere. “Tried to figure out what I wanted. What would make this…” he hesitated, then forced himself to continue. “…not something I’d regret. Or mess up.”

You swallowed hard. Megumi shifted his weight, finally dragging his gaze back to yours.

“And I realized… if we’re doing this, we’re doing it our own way. Not by some stupid idea of what friends with benefits is supposed to be.”

You barely breathed.

“My way means I get to…” he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking very young, very vulnerable. “…treat you the way you deserve. Not just… take. I like being around you,” he said, almost stubbornly. “I care about you. I want to… to cherish you. Even if it doesn’t mean anything deeper. Even if it’s just… our thing.”

He paused, ducking his head for a second before glancing up at you through messy bangs.

“And I owe you,” he added roughly. “For being an asshole.”

You stared—at the tension in his frame, the flicker of real fear and stubbornness in his eyes—and something melted deep inside you. Completely, helplessly melted.

You stood there, stunned—warmth pooling in your chest, in your stomach, making your fingers curl into the sleeves of your sweater.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say yes fast enough. A tiny, giddy laugh bubbled up in your throat, and you bit your lip to stifle it. Megumi shifted again, looking nervous at your silence.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “If you think it’s weird or—”

“I’d love to,” you blurted.

He froze, staring at you—a slow, hesitant smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

You laughed—soft and disbelieving and overwhelmed all at once—covering your mouth with your hand.

“Isn’t this a bit old-fashioned?” you teased. “You could’ve just called.”

Megumi gave you a look—somewhere between sheepish and exasperated.

“I wanted to see your face,” he said simply.

The words hit you like a punch to the chest—knocking the breath clean out of you.

“You,” you said, shaking your head, “are… ridiculously good.”

He flushed deeper, scowling faintly. “I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut in, smiling wide.

You didn’t mean to say it. Not like that. Not yet. But he heard it anyway—and he smiled.

A small, devastating, beautiful smile.

You smiled back—even wider and a little breathless—your whole body buzzing with relief and something dangerously close to joy.

“Come in,” you stepped aside.

He ducked his head, trying to hide the grin tugging at his mouth, and stepped past you.

Almost immediately, a soft brush of fur wound around his ankles. The little white blur weaving figure-eights around his legs meowed once, loudly, demanding attention. Megumi froze, startled, looking down—and you couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up.

“That’s Satoru,” you explained, closing the door behind him.

Megumi’s brows lifted slightly. “Satoru?”

“Shoko found him,” you said quickly. “Under her car. She couldn’t keep him and thought… Well, he reminded her of Gojo-sensei. Bright blue eyes. White fur. She asked me to keep the name.”

You hesitated, watching him carefully.

You braced yourself, half-expecting something sharp or sad to cross Megumi’s face—something pained. But instead—

He crouched down, scooping the cat up without hesitation, cradling the soft white bundle against his chest. Satoru immediately headbutted his chin, purring so loudly it filled the room.

Megumi laughed softly—the sound so rare, so warm, you felt it all the way to your bones—and tucked his face against the soft white fur for a moment, nuzzling into the cat’s side. When he straightened, his expression was soft—a softness you hadn’t seen in a long time—gentled by some private grief you both shared, but not broken by it.

The sight made your throat tighten painfully.

“I think,” Megumi said finally, voice low and thick, “he’d be honored.”

Your chest squeezed painfully—too full, too much—but you smiled through it, tucking your face against your shoulder for a second to compose yourself.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

And there—standing there in your small living room, the ghost of a beloved memory purring between your hands—you had to blink back the sudden sting behind your eyes.

“So,” you said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “wanna go get takoyaki?” Megumi blinked, caught off guard.

“Takoyaki?”

“There’s a stand just a couple blocks down. Best late-night food in the city, and you’re buying. Consider it part of your apology.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Fine,” he said, dry but fond.

You ducked into your bedroom to change, tossing on a pair of fitted jeans and some other soft, oversized sweatshirt—comfortable, easy—smoothing your hair quickly in the mirror before padding back out.

Megumi was crouched near the cat, lazily stroking a hand over Satoru’s back as the kitten purred in loud, determined bursts.

Your heart ached a little at the sight, but you just grabbed your keys and sneakers, calling over your shoulder, “Come on, before they sell out.”

The night air was cool when you stepped outside, the sidewalks gleaming faintly from an earlier rain. Streetlights flickered to life above you, painting the pavement in soft amber hues. Megumi walked close enough that your arms brushed every so often, the contact sending quiet little jolts through your skin. Neither of you mentioned it.

The takoyaki stand was still bustling, the rich smell of batter and bonito flakes wafting through the air. You ordered a plate to share and snagged one of the small outdoor tables tucked under a striped awning.

Megumi sat across from you, his posture stiff at first—like he didn’t quite know how to relax—but slowly, as you both dug into the steaming, golden balls of dough, he started to ease. You popped a piece into your mouth, burning your tongue slightly, and laughed through the sting. Megumi watched you—a faint, amused look on his face.

“So,” you said around a mouthful of octopus and batter, “about those rules?”

Megumi straightened like he was being called to report.

“Yeah, I figured it’s better if we’re clear from the start.”

You smirked, leaning your chin into your hand.

“Lay it on me, Fushiguro.”

He cleared his throat—obviously having thought this through more seriously than you expected. Even for him.

“First,” he said, voice a little too formal, “we always use protection.”

You nodded solemnly, even as your lips twitched.

“Second,” he continued, “if either of us engages in sexual activity with another partner, we cease our arrangement immediately.”

You blinked—a little surprised by how clinical he sounded—and then snorted into your drink. Megumi flushed faintly.

“What?” he muttered, defensive.

“Engages in sexual activity with another partner,” you mimicked, grinning. “God, you sound like you’re giving a public health lecture.”

He scowled, but there was laughter in his eyes.

“I’m serious,” he said stubbornly. “It’s about being safe. And… fair.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing harder, but nodded.

“I get it,” you said softly. “I agree.”

You didn’t say it out loud—didn’t dare—but the thought of anyone else had never even crossed your mind.

It was Megumi or nothing.

“Third,” he said, pausing briefly to take a sip of water, “this stays between us. No telling Yuuji, or Nobara, or Shoko. Especially not Nobara. She’d make it her life’s mission to screw with us.”

You laughed, unable to help it. “Smart man.”

Megumi smiled, slow and genuine, before sobering slightly.

“And last,” Megumi said, his voice turning a little quieter, “we’re honest.”

You blinked, the laughter fading from your mouth.

“If something changes—jealousy, attachment, whatever—we talk about it. Immediately. No pretending, no hiding it.”

Your heart flipped painfully, but you kept your face open, listening.

“And,” he added, after a beat, “if it stops feeling good—for any reason—we walk away. No guilt. No forcing something that doesn’t work anymore.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling the weight and tenderness packed into his words.

“You really thought this through,” you murmured.

He shrugged, looking faintly embarrassed.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, almost under his breath. “Even if it means… walking away before it gets ugly.”

Something heavy and bright lodged itself in your chest. You smiled—soft, real—and reached across the table to brush your fingers against his.

“I agree with your rules, Megumi,” you said, voice warm. “All of them.”

He relaxed visibly, the tension easing from his shoulders.

“There’s one more,” Megumi said after a moment, picking at the edge of the paper napkin.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head.

“No drunk confessions,” he said wryly. “No drunk hookups. If we’re gonna cross any new lines… we do it sober.”

You blinked—then grinned, wide and uncontrollable.

“Responsible and romantic,” you teased lightly.

Megumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but you saw the faint flush painting the tips of his ears.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

You leaned your chin into your hand, watching him—feeling the steady, glowing heat spreading through your whole body. Something cracked open in your chest—something big and soft and terrifying. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just smiled—big and bright and helpless.

You both dug back into the food, talking and laughing more freely now—about the terrible TV shows you were watching, Nobara’s latest hair disaster, the fact that Yuuji had somehow broken yet another set of weights at the gym. The night air cooled further, but you barely noticed—too wrapped in the soft, buzzing warmth building between you.

Megumi laughed more than you’d seen him in months. Maybe years. And you found yourself hoarding every sound, every fleeting smile, like they were something precious.

When you finally finished, Megumi stood and offered you his hand without thinking. You took it—your fingers fitting into his so easily it made your heart ache—and let him pull you to your feet.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, but not tense. Megumi’s hand brushed yours every few steps, like he couldn’t quite stop himself from reaching for you, even if he didn’t dare actually hold on.

By the time you reached your building, your chest was aching in the best way—full to the brim and bursting with something that felt terrifyingly close to hope.

Maybe this was crazy. Maybe it would hurt eventually.

But right now—

Right now, it felt perfect.

—

Megumi stood near the door, looming tall in the low light—all broad shoulders and long limbs, tension wrapped tight across his frame. He shifted slightly, one hand braced against the doorframe like he needed the support.

“I should go,” he said, voice rough and low.

You smiled—slow and easy—leaning casually against the doorframe. He was so tall up close—big in a way that made your breath catch—all lean muscle and solid heat, towering over you without even trying.

“Or,” you said lightly, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, “you could come in.”

He went still—like you’d struck him—then laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“I better not,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful. “If I stay, I’m not leaving.”

You grinned wider, emboldened by the way his voice strained at the edges.

“Is that a threat?” you teased, letting your hand skim up his chest—feeling the tense, hard lines of muscle beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie, the breadth of his shoulders dwarfing your palm.

He huffed a low, breathless sound—almost a laugh, almost a groan.

“It’s a promise,” he said, voice thick.

You tilted your head up, studying him—the way he stared down at you, torn between need and stubbornness.

“You’re that sure of yourself?”

He snorted a soft, self-deprecating laugh.

“I’m sure of you,” he muttered, gaze dropping to your mouth for a second before he forced himself to look away. “I wanna take you out properly first. Real date. Real apology. Then… whatever you want.”

The words hit you square in the chest—warm and dizzying.

God, he was cute like this. Sweet and stubborn and so obviously down bad he couldn’t see straight.

You bit your lip, pretending to consider. “Okay.”

“Then at least,” you whispered, voice sweet and dangerous, “give me a goodnight kiss.”

Megumi groaned under his breath—a broken, helpless sound. He hesitated—barely—his hands twitching like he wanted to grab you and haul you against him. You smiled slyly and, rising onto your toes, curled your fingers lightly into the front of his hoodie, tugging him down toward you.

He bent easily—helplessly—his bigger frame folding around you as he lowered his head. Then—because he was a man with no chance against you—he caved. His hands found your waist in one swift, needy movement, pulling you flush against him as his mouth crashed into yours. He kissed you like he couldn’t help it—like he needed it—a low, desperate sound rumbling deep in his chest.

It started gentle—just the brush of his mouth against yours—but you weren’t feeling particularly patient. The kiss deepened immediately—messy and gasping, mouths open, tongues sliding together in slow, desperate strokes.

You moaned softly into his mouth, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer, closer, until you felt the hard line of his cock against your hip. It was intoxicating—the sheer size of him, the way he practically caged you against the door, heat rolling off him in waves.

Before you could think, you were tugging him backward, stumbling toward the couch, lips never parting. He let you guide him, too wrecked to resist, until the backs of his knees hit the cushions and you shoved him down with a playful little push.

He landed with a soft grunt, blinking up at you—dazed, flushed, wrecked. You straddled his lap in one smooth motion, thighs bracketing his hips, your hands finding the hem of his hoodie and slipping underneath, feeling the hot, taut skin of his stomach.

He cursed low under his breath, head tipping back against the couch, hands clutching desperately at your thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his mouth from yours to pant against your cheek. “You’re making this impossible.”

You grinned against his skin, nuzzling your nose along his jaw.

“Maybe that’s the point,” you whispered, nipping lightly at his skin.

He shuddered—a full-body tremor—before grabbing your hips, stilling you. He groaned again—a wrecked, guttural sound—and buried his face in your neck for a second.

“Please,” he said, voice raw. “Let me do this right. Just… just for once, let me do the right thing.”

You froze—heart twisting painfully at the naked desperation in his voice. He wasn’t asking for distance because he didn’t want you. He was asking because he wanted you too much.

You pulled back, studying his flushed face, the way his chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths.

“Okay,” you said softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Okay, Megs.”

He exhaled, sagging into the couch like a man on the edge of collapse. You shifted, letting your hands wander—tracing slow, teasing lines across his broad chest, down his ribs, over the hard muscle hidden beneath his hoodie. His breath hitched sharply.

“Well,” you said, voice feather-light, “we’re not having sex tonight.”

He nodded quickly—too quickly—trying to regain some semblance of control.

“But,” you added, fingers teasing along his waistband, “at least let me return the favor.”

Megumi frowned, confused. “What favor?”

You smiled sweetly, already slipping your hands lower—fingers dipping under the hem of his sweats. It clicked just as you brushed against the hard line of him, already straining against the fabric. His eyes widened—darkening immediately, mouth parting in a soft, startled sound.

“Fuck,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop you.

You kissed him again—slower this time, gentler—mouthing at the corner of his mouth, his jaw, down the tense line of his throat. He let you, hands falling helplessly to his sides, clutching the edge of the couch like he could anchor himself there. You slid off his lap and onto your knees between his thighs, your hands finding the soft layers of cotton at his waist again.

Megumi made a soft, choked-off noise—half protest, half plea—but lifted his hips obediently when you tugged them down just enough to free him. You swallowed hard, heat blooming low and heavy in your stomach.

He was beautiful—thick, long, flushed, already leaking precum from the tip. And all for you. Your mouth watered at the sight.

You wrapped one hand gently around the base of him, feeling the way he twitched helplessly in your grasp. His breath stuttered—a sharp, embarrassing sound—and his fingers tangled in your hair, trembling slightly.

“You’re not playing fair,” he rasped, voice ragged.

You just laughed softly, breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of his tip, before lowering your mouth onto him.

“You don’t have to,” he rasped again, but it was barely a protest.

You just smiled up at him—slow and sure—and whispered, “I want to.”

You leaned in, licking a slow, teasing stripe up the underside of his cock, savoring the way his whole body jerked.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped, hips twitching helplessly. His hands tangled further in your hair, gripping tight but not guiding, just holding on.

You took him into your mouth slowly, stretching your lips around the thick weight of him, moaning softly at the taste—at the sheer heat of him. Megumi choked on a whimper, his hips bucking weakly before he caught himself.

You worked him carefully—dragging your tongue along the sensitive vein on the underside, swirling around the flushed head, hollowing your cheeks on every slow pull. Every sound he made—the broken gasps, the strangled moans—shot straight through you, pooling hot and aching between your legs.

“You’re… fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he panted, hips rocking helplessly up into your mouth despite himself.

You moaned around him—the sound sending a shudder through his whole body—and took him deeper, feeling him hit the back of your throat. He whimpered—an actual, pitchy whimper this time—his thighs trembling against your shoulders.

“Shit— Baby, fuck, I’m not— I can’t—” he gasped, voice wrecked beyond recognition.

You pulled back just slightly, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head again—and that was it. With a broken, desperate cry, Megumi came—hot and fast, spilling down your throat.

You swallowed carefully, savoring every shaky, helpless twitch of his body, every ragged, wrecked sound he couldn’t contain. When you finally pulled off, he was slumped completely into the couch, eyes half-closed, chest still heaving. You smiled—wide, warm, giddy—wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Megumi cracked one eye open, looking utterly destroyed, and muttered hoarsely, “You’re… evil.”

You laughed, crawling back up into his lap, nuzzling into the warm curve of his neck.

“You love it,” you whispered against his skin.

He groaned weakly—not a denial—and pulled you closer, pressing his face into your hair.

“Stay,” you whispered against his shoulder. “Just stay tonight.”

He didn’t even hesitate this time.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “‘Course.”

You tugged him to his feet, half-dragging his sleepy, loose-limbed body toward your bedroom. He barely got his sweats pulled back up before you collapsed onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and half-suppressed laughter.

Megumi groaned softly, immediately dragging you into his chest, burying his face in your hair. You closed your eyes, breathing him in—cedar and soap and the faint, sweet salt of sweat—and let yourself believe, just for tonight, that you had all the time in the world.

—

You woke slowly—the world coming into focus in soft, golden pieces. Outside, the city murmured in distant, muted hums—but in here, everything was still.

Warm.

Heavy.

Safe.

You were cocooned, the weight of Megumi wrapped around you—all solid muscle and slow, steady breathing—the heavy warmth of him anchoring you to the world.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just… felt. The slow rise and fall of his chest against your back. The thick, steady thrum of his heart under his hoodie. The way his arm was slung over your waist, keeping you tucked tightly against him even in sleep. His body was so much bigger than yours—all lean mass and long limbs, the breadth of his chest swallowing you up easily.

You turned carefully in his hold, moving slow enough not to wake him. Your thigh slid over the thick muscle of his, and you shivered at the heat radiating off his skin even through the soft cotton of his sweatpants. Face to face now, you took him in—the mess of dark hair falling over his forehead, the soft slack of sleep smoothing his normally sharp features.

He looked… younger like this. Unburdened. Human in a way he rarely let himself be seen.

He smelled like sleep and soap and faintly of you—familiar and dizzying all at once. You let your fingers ghost over his side—light, almost hesitant—tracing the raised edges of old scars hidden beneath the soft t-shirt. You knew what most of them were without having to look. Knew the story written in his body better than you wanted to. Silent reminders of everything he had survived—everything that had carved him into the man he was now. Your chest ached, and you swallowed hard, blinking rapidly.

Still, your hand moved higher, following the smooth slope of his chest, feeling the steady, grounding rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. You wanted to memorize this—every inch of him. The warmth. The way his body curled instinctively into yours even in sleep. The safety you felt wrapped in him.

You shifted again, pressing your forehead lightly against the broad plane of his chest.

It was stupid, probably. Dangerous, definitely. But you felt it anyway. You were so completely, devastatingly his. And somehow, impossibly, you thought maybe he was yours too—at least for now, in the haziness between sleep and something else.

God, he was beautiful. Not just handsome—though he was that, painfully so—but real. Solid. Here.

Megumi stirred against you, a low, soft noise rumbling in his throat. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a sleepy possessiveness that made your stomach flip. You froze, heart pounding, as he pressed his face into your hair—inhaling deeply like he could breathe you into his bones.

“Mmh,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Stay.”

The word—rough and almost pleading—shattered something inside you. You tipped your chin up, brushing your nose lightly against the underside of his jaw.

Megumi hummed—a low, lazy sound—and finally cracked one eye open. The sight hit you like a punch: messy hair, heavy-lidded dark eyes still soft with sleep, mouth red and kiss-bruised from the night before. He looked wrecked. Beautiful.

Yours.

“Morning,” you whispered.

He grunted—a low, noncommittal sound—but his mouth quivered in a lazy, wrecked smile.

“Too early,” he muttered, voice scraping low in his throat.

“Pretty sure it’s almost noon,” you teased.

He tsked—a sound of lazy protest—and shifted, nudging his knee between your legs, forcing you to spread them around his thigh. You gasped softly, more from surprise than anything, but the slow, delicious press of him against your core made your breath catch.

Slowly, lazily, he pressed a kiss against the curve where your shoulder met your neck—featherlight, more breath than contact. You tilted your head instinctively, giving him more space, feeling a soft, helpless noise escape you. Megumi chuckled—a low, rumbling sound against your skin—and kissed his way back up your throat, nipping lightly at the edge of your jaw.

“Thought we had rules,” you murmured, breathless, teasing.

He hummed, his hand sliding lower, cupping your hip through your sweatshirt.

“We’re just cuddling,” he said, almost innocently, even as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your waist.

“You’re not very good at innocence,” you mumbled against his skin.

��Not trying to be,” he said, dragging his nose along your temple. “Never was.”

He shifted again—slow, lazy—grinding his thigh just a little between your legs. You moaned softly before you could stop it, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Megumi groaned in answer—low and desperate—and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “you feel so good.”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his mouth halfway. The kiss was slow—sweet and sleepy and messy—mouths parting with soft, wet sounds, teeth nipping playfully.

His hand roamed lower—palming your ass lazily, pulling you tighter against the heavy line of him. You whimpered into his mouth, feeling the slow, thick throb of him against your thigh. Megumi pulled back just enough to look at you—pupils blown wide, face flushed.

“We’re not doing anything,” he whispered, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

You laughed quietly, sliding your hand up to cup the side of his face.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you whispered back.

He smiled—slow and crooked and devastating. For a long moment, neither of you moved—just breathing each other in, hearts thudding out a slow, reckless rhythm. Finally, Megumi shifted, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“We should eat,” he said, voice hoarse.

You whined, threading your fingers through the messy tangle of his hair. “Only if you make breakfast.”

He grunted—clearly not thrilled at the idea of moving—but nodded, his arm tightening around you for one last squeeze before letting go. You pulled back slowly, missing the heat of him immediately.

But when he looked at you—hair a mess, eyes soft, mouth still pink and wet from your kisses — you knew one thing for certain:

You weren’t going to survive him. And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t want to.

—

Breakfast—or brunch, really—had passed in a haze of soft laughter and casual touches. The kind of morning that slipped under your skin and stayed there, warm and stubborn and sweet. And now—too soon—you found yourself standing at your door again, leaning against the frame while Megumi tugged his hoodie over his head, tousling his hair even more than it already was.

He looked unfairly good like that—all mussed and flushed from sleep, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his sweatshirt, the lazy slouch of his body radiating pure, unintentional heat. You watched him for a second longer than necessary, biting your lip. He caught you staring and huffed a soft breath through his nose, looking at you with that small, fond exasperation he reserved just for you.

You shifted your weight against the doorframe, fingers fiddling with the loose end of your sleeve. It took longer than it should have to work up the nerve, but you finally cleared your throat, forcing casualness into your voice.

“So,” you said, trying for casual and failing miserably. “About that date you promised.”

He blinked, surprised by the sudden shift, then cocked an eyebrow at you—playful.

“Aren’t you eager,” he teased, voice low and rough with amusement.

You didn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” you said, dead serious. “I am.”

Megumi froze for half a beat—caught completely off guard—and then barked out a short, rough laugh, his head dropping forward briefly like he couldn’t quite believe you.

He stepped closer—slow and deliberate—until you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. You felt it then—the sheer size of him, the way his frame seemed to block out the world behind him, the quiet gravity he carried without even meaning to. You swallowed—hard—but didn’t back away.

He stared down at you for a moment—like he was trying to memorize you—and then his mouth softened into a real smile.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

“Seriously,” you said, softer now, reaching out to brush your fingers lightly against the hem of his sleeve. “I want to go.”

Megumi’s expression changed—something softer, deeper flickering through his eyes.

“I know,” he said, his voice quieter too, steadier. “I want to take you.”

The simple honesty of it made your throat tighten. You toyed with the edge of his hoodie, your fingers brushing his wrist, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your touch.

“So?” you asked, smiling up at him, trying to hide how much it mattered. “When?”

Megumi tilted his head slightly, regarding you with a small, secret smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Tomorrow night,” he said finally. “If you’re free.”

You smiled—maybe a little recklessly.

“I’m free.”

“Good,” he murmured, stepping closer, crowding into your space in a way that made your entire body buzz. “Because I’m not waiting another week,” he added, voice low and rough, “just to kiss you again.”

And then he did—kissed you, slow and sure, stealing the air from your lungs and the ground from under your feet. When he pulled back, you chased after him instinctively, and he chuckled softly, dropping a kiss onto your forehead like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll text you,” he promised, voice rough with something that sounded dangerously close to affection.

Megumi smiled—smug and sweet and absolutely lethal—and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Before you could pull him back in again, he turned and slipped out the door—leaving you flushed and grinning stupidly against the frame, your heart pounding loudly enough to drown out the rest of the world.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

—

The day slipped by in soft, slow pieces. It was a Monday—technically a workday—but you were off-duty today, just on call in case any curses reared their heads.

For now, your biggest concern was the tiny white cat kneading your ribs with determined little paws and the steady, fluttering pulse of excitement low in your belly. Satoru was curled atop you like a living, rumbling blanket, his white fur blending into the old throw covers you were snuggled under. His nose twitched with every breath, little paws flexing against your stomach in tiny, unconscious stretches.

You dragged your fingers through his soft fur absentmindedly, your mind a million miles away—thinking about tonight.

The date.

With Megumi.

You still couldn’t quite believe it.

The thought alone sent a nervous, giddy flutter through your chest that you couldn’t smother, no matter how hard you tried. Your phone buzzed sharply against the coffee table, causing both you and Satoru to jolt slightly.

You reached for it, shifting carefully so you didn’t dislodge your demanding little passenger.

Nobara. You swiped to answer.

“Hey,” you said lazily.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Nobara demanded immediately. “Wanna hang out later? I’m bored out of my mind and Yuuji’s off somewhere being an idiot.”

You bit your lip, heart skipping.

“Uh… can’t,” you said, a little too fast. “Got stuff.”

There was a suspicious pause on the other end.

“Stuff?” Nobara repeated.

You winced.

“Mmhmm,” you replied, noncommittal.

“With who?” she pressed.

You rolled your eyes, smoothing a hand over Satoru’s twitching back.

“Just… stuff. Alone. Important stuff.”

You could practically hear her squinting through the phone.

“Uh huh,” she said, clearly not buying it.

Before you could scramble for a better excuse, she sighed dramatically.

“Fine, whatever,” she muttered. “But Wednesday—you, me, shitty horror movie marathon. You owe me.”

You snorted, adjusting yourself beneath the increasingly grumpy cat.

“You’re spending way too much time with Yuuji, I swear,” you teased, laughing hushedly.

Nobara scoffed immediately.

“Ew, you take that back,” she snapped, making you laugh harder.

“Fine, fine,” you said, still grinning. “Wednesday it is.”

Nobara hummed—but then, too casually, added, “By the way… did you ever get a hold of Megumi?”

You stiffened.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, too quickly. “All good.”

Nobara made a vaguely interested noise, but thankfully, didn’t push.

“Cool. Tell him to stop being a reclusive little shit sometime.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, relief flooding your chest. “Will do.”

“Cool,” she said. “See you Wednesday.”

You hung up fast, tossing the phone back onto the couch and letting your head fall back. Satoru blinked up at you with lazy, unimpressed blue eyes before stretching out and sprawling heavier across your stomach. You sighed, sinking further into the cushions.

Barely ten seconds later, your phone buzzed again—but this time, your heart jumped in a very different way.

A text from Megumi.

You scrambled for it, thumbs clumsy with sudden nerves.

[still up for tonight?]

Your chest squeezed tight with something sweet and anxious.

[absolutely.]

His reply came almost instantly.

[picking you up at 7.]

You tucked the phone against your chest, grinning helplessly up at the ceiling.

Seven o’clock.

You had time.

Enough time to panic quietly and change outfits seventeen times.

You nudged Satoru off your stomach—ignoring his indignant meow—and launched yourself off the couch, already mentally sorting through your closet.

—

You started getting ready around five. Standing in front of your closet—towel wrapped around you, hair still damp, you scanned your options with a critical eye.

Pants felt too casual. Shorts felt too playful.

You needed something in between—something you could dress up or down depending on whatever secret plan Megumi had cooked up. Your fingers landed on a black dress tucked neatly to the side.

You pulled it out and smiled.

Soft, comfortable fabric that hugged your curves without strangling them—falling just below your knees, simple and clean. A round neckline that dipped just enough to tease without revealing too much, held up by thin straps that bared the graceful slope of your shoulders.

You slipped it on, smoothing the material down, admiring how it clung to the right places but still left plenty to the imagination.

Understated. Effortless.

Perfect.

Unless he was planning to take you rock climbing—which seemed statistically unlikely for Megumi.

He’s going to lose his mind, you thought, a little giddy.

Shoes were trickier. You eyed your Doc Martens… then the black pointed-toe heels sitting neatly by the door.

You hesitated.

The boots were tempting—easier, safer—but you thought about standing on your toes last time, clinging to Megumi’s hoodie just to kiss him properly. You snorted, shaking your head.

Heels, then.

You put them on, laughing softly to yourself. Maybe this way, you wouldn’t have to climb him like a tree just to get what you wanted.

As you slipped them on, you felt the shift immediately—posture straighter, legs longer, a little more confident with every step. You glanced at yourself in the mirror one last time—dress hugging your body like a second skin, heels making you feel just tall enough to meet him halfway—and smiled.

Not perfect. Not polished. But you looked like you. And tonight, that felt like enough.

You were just smoothing the fabric nervously over your hips when a soft knock echoed at the door. Your heart flipped, landing somewhere dangerously high in your throat.

Okay, you thought, moving toward the door, here we go.

You pressed a hand lightly against your stomach, breathing through the jittery buzz rattling under your skin, and opened the door.

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

Megumi stood there, tall and composed, dressed in black—simple but sharp. A button-down tucked neatly into slacks, sleeves pushed carelessly to his forearms, the faintest mess to his dark hair that made him look sharper somehow, more dangerous.

He looked—and it physically hurt to admit it—like sin wrapped in elegance.

For a second, neither of you spoke. His eyes flickered—fast, sharp—over the slip of your dress, the curve of your bare shoulders, the slow, careful rise and fall of your breath. And something in his chest twisted so hard it left him dizzy.

You looked… You looked like something he would ruin just by wanting too much.

“You…” he started, voice rough around the edges. Then he shook his head, lips tugging into something half-smile, half-surrender. “You look beautiful.”

You smiled—small, guarded—and smoothed your palms nervously against the sides of your dress.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, voice lighter than you felt.

“Ready?”

Megumi held out his arm without thinking about it, and you stepped into him easily, tucking your hand into the crook of his elbow. His skin was warm beneath the fabric of his shirt, his muscles taut and wired under your fingers.

Outside, Megumi led you toward his car without a word, his hand briefly, almost accidentally, settling at your lower back as you stepped over the curb. A simple gesture. Easy to excuse. But it sent a sharp, hot line straight down your spine anyway.

He opened the car door for you without a word—the small, quiet chivalry of it making your chest ache stupidly.

You slid into the seat carefully, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs, and he closed the door behind you with a soft click.

He circled around, slipping into the driver’s seat—the engine humming softly to life—and shot you a sidelong glance.

“You hungry?” he asked, voice low, casual.

You nodded, smiling.

“Starving.”

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—gone almost before you caught it.

—

The drive to your location blurred by under the hush of city lights, the smooth purr of the engine filling the spaces you didn’t know how to.

You glanced at him when you thought he wasn’t looking—the way his hand rested steady on the wheel, the set of his jaw, the tightness riding his shoulders like a second skin.

Megumi didn’t speak much. He answered your small comments with low, measured hums, keeping his focus pinned outward—on the road, the lights, the traffic—as if anchoring himself there could stop the wild, lurching pull in his chest every time your thigh brushed lightly against your seat.

You were close enough that the soft scent of your perfume slipped into the car, wrapping itself around him until it was all he could breathe.

He gripped the wheel tighter and kept his eyes forward.

This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

It wasn’t supposed to feel anything like this.

This was supposed to be simple—a clean apology, a clear line drawn before either of you stepped over it again.

But already he knew.

Already he could feel it unraveling, slow and inevitable, from the second you smiled at him through the open door like you weren’t holding a loaded weapon to his heart.

—

Harajuku was busy as usual, the neon reflections smudged across the wet streets like careless brushstrokes. You could recognise this neighbourhood in your sleep—the countless times you went shopping through these streets with Nobara in high school.

The car eventually slowed onto a narrower street, lined with restaurants and soft, glowing shop signs. Megumi eased into a spot along the curb, killing the engine with a practiced flick of his wrist.

You glanced around, noting the small clusters of people weaving through the street, the smell of grilling fish, rice and tobacco thick in the air.

“No parking closer,” he said, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “You okay walking a bit?”

You smiled, unbothered.

“I don’t mind.”

You pushed your door open and swung your legs out carefully, adjusting the hem of your dress.

Before you could stand fully, a hand appeared—open, steady—offered without expectation. You glanced up to see Megumi waiting, his expression unreadable but his eyes warmer than you remembered.

You placed your hand in his without thinking. His fingers curled around yours immediately, firm and careful, and helped you up.

He didn’t let go.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t careful, either.

Just… necessary. Like something you were both pretending you didn’t notice.

You bit back a grin as you fell into step beside him, your heels clicking softly against the pavement.

Megumi said nothing about it—about the way your hands stayed tangled together—but you felt his thumb trace absent-minded patterns along the back of your hand, slow and steady.

You squeezed his hand lightly, and he squeezed back—just once—before relaxing again.

He was quiet beside you, steps measured, shoulders loose—every inch of him looking composed and in control.

You didn’t know, couldn’t know, how hard he was working to keep it that way.

How your hand in his—small, soft, trusting—was wrecking every defense he had left. Something sick and ugly bloomed under his ribs, because all he could think about was the way you had looked last night—mouth wrapped around him like a curse—and how he was still too much of a coward to admit what he really wanted from you.

The thought hit him so sharply he stumbled on it, lost half a step, had to cover it by tugging his sleeves higher up his arms like the fabric was suddenly too tight.

He was already too deep and you didn’t even know it.

Maybe you never would.

He was wrecked.

Screaming inside.

Because he knew—deep down, in the parts of his heart that took over so suddenly after years of being dormant—that he was torturing himself.

Because this felt too much like a real date.

Because you felt too much like something real.

You squeezed his hand gently once more, feeling his shoulders tense before relaxing again.

“You okay?” you teased, voice light.

He shot you a sideways look—dry, fond.

“Yeah,” he said, his thumb brushing another slow, reckless arc across your knuckles. “Just… concentrating.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out easy and bright.

And in that moment he couldn’t give two fucks about what his heart could or couldn’t take.

Megumi knew he was making a mistake. Every step he took beside you felt heavier, sinking him deeper into something he wouldn’t be able to crawl out of clean.

This wasn’t just casual. Not for him.

It wasn’t going to be just bodies tangled in the dark. It wasn’t going to be simple, or easy, or safe.

He would ruin himself for you without hesitation—and you didn’t even know it.

But he kept walking anyway.

You navigated like that through the busy streets, lights blurring and blending around you, until he stopped in front of a small, elegant building tucked between brighter storefronts.

A pair of paper lanterns glowed over the entrance, casting soft golden light across polished wood and stone.

The scent of fresh rice and sharp wasabi drifted out as a couple exited, speaking low and happy in each other’s ears.

Megumi opened the door for you—again without hesitation—and you stepped inside together, the quiet hum of the restaurant wrapping around you like a second skin.

The hostess greeted you immediately, bowing politely.

Megumi gave his name for the reservation in that low, steady voice, and you caught the quick flicker of her glance at him—the barest widening of her eyes—before she smiled and said she would be back in a moment.

You stole another look at him while they prepped your table—the way he stood there, calm and collected in his all-black ensemble, his hand still casually resting against the small of your back.

Like he belonged there.

Like you belonged with him.

And maybe—for tonight—you did.

The hostess was standing in front of you in an instant, ready to lead you through the narrow space toward a small table near the back—half-secluded, tucked under the soft halo of a hanging paper lamp.

You slid into your seat carefully, smoothing your dress under the table. He sat across from you, posture clean and contained, his hands loose but ready to clench if either of you said the wrong thing.

For a few moments, you both pretended to study the menus. Pretended you weren’t watching each other out of the corners of your eyes. Pretended that this was still salvageable. Still safe.

Megumi felt the tight, careful distance between you stretch thinner and thinner across the table.

And still he stayed quiet. Still he stayed good. Still he kept his hands folded neatly in front of him when what he wanted—what he ached for—was to reach across the table and cover your hand with his. Feel the weight of you again. Hold something that was never really his to take.

This was too real.

Sitting across from you, your dress brushing against your thighs, your mouth curved into an easy smile—it felt like something he wasn’t allowed to want. Something he should have walked away from the second he realized he couldn’t survive it.

You looked at him, bright-eyed and oblivious, still thinking this was just a way to save what you had.

And Megumi—

Megumi sat there quietly, hiding the ache beneath his ribs, telling himself he’d endure it if it meant staying close to you for even a little longer. Even if it hollowed him out from the inside.

—

The restaurant was quiet in the way nice places usually were—calm, low-lit, hushed voices behind paper-paneled dividers. Nothing rushed. No clatter of dishes, no neon buzzing above your heads. Private. Comfortable.

The kind of place chosen with quiet intention.

You sat across from Megumi, legs crossed neatly beneath the table, hands curling around the menu. Neither of you had said much since sitting down. But it wasn’t the kind of silence that felt awkward. It was the kind that came from familiarity—the kind that had space for breath and time and thought. You’d always been able to sit in it with him. Let it stretch without demanding more.

Still—you both needed this.

A sense of neutral ground before everything inevitably shifted again.

Neither of you touched the sake list. You hadn’t needed to remind each other—hadn’t needed to say anything at all. No alcohol. No excuses. Because whatever was going to happen between you, it was going to happen clear-eyed. Owned. Chosen. Present. That was the rule.

It made every moment sharper. Every glance. Every ghost of a touch that didn't quite reach.

When the waitress came by, you both ordered green tea instead, the faint bitterness grounding, steadying.

Megumi sat with his hands folded loosely on the table, shoulders relaxed, his expression as unreadable as ever—but his eyes flicked up to meet yours more often than they used to. And held longer when they did.

You sipped your tea slowly, letting something hazy settle behind your ribs. Comfort. Safety. History. Something that wasn’t going to survive tonight intact.

“You still hate raw uni?” you asked, out of the blue.

He looked up slowly and blinked. “Despise it.”

A grin pulled at your mouth.

“Yuuji tricked you into eating it once,” you said.

Megumi sighed. “He said it was mango.”

You laughed. “I’ve never seen you make that face again.”

“I was betrayed,” he said, as dry as ever—but the corner of his mouth curved just slightly, like the memory had cracked something open.

You rested your chin lightly in your hand, letting yourself stare.

“Remember our first mission together? The abandoned school on the coast?”

“The one Nobara swore was cursed because the classroom doors opened too fast?”

“And Yuuji tried to exorcise them anyway. Just… in case.” you chuckled.

“He made up a chant,” Megumi muttered. “O spirits of questionable carpentry…”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed loud enough to earn a glance from the waitress. It had been so long since you laughed with him like this. It caught in your chest like a bruise blooming backward—painful and welcome.

“We were so stupid,” you sighed softly.

Megumi tilted his head, a glimmer of something warmer in his eyes. “We were trying.”

“You were always serious,” you mused. “But you took care of all of us. Even when it wasn’t your job.”

He looked down at his tea.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmured.

You stared at him, the words lingering in your chest. Heavy and soft all at once. There was a silence then—not uncomfortable, not tense. Just full.

“So,” you inquired, smiling faintly, “did you ever think we’d end up here?”

Megumi raised an eyebrow, setting down the menu. “Here meaning—Harajuku? Fancy sushi? Or just… alive?”

You giggled, the sound breaking some of the stiffness between you.

“Alive, definitely,” you said, grinning. “But also… this. You and me. Dinner that’s not takeout between missions.”

He huffed something close to a real laugh, glancing away like he didn’t trust himself to meet your eyes for too long.

“You were a mess back then,” he said, voice dry.

“You were worse,” you shot back easily. “I seem to recall a lot of ‘brooding in the corner’ energy from you.”

He smirked—small, reluctant. You hadn’t seen that expression on him in a long time.

“It’s called being cautious,” he retorted, mouth twitching at the edges. “Unlike a certain idiot who ran headfirst into every cursed object she found.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging his shin under the table with the pointed toe of your heel.

“Yeah, well—someone had to make your life interesting.”

A quiet smile tugged at his mouth, soft and a little crooked.

“Do you remember that one mission in Shizuoka?” he quizzed. “The beach town with the cursed painting?”

You raised an eyebrow. “The one that was just a creepy guy in cosplay?”

His mouth twitched. “The one that turned out to be a school art teacher obsessed with cursed object replicas. Yeah.”

You laughed—quiet and warm, the sound slipping loose without effort. “Yuuji still has that stupid cursed brush.”

“He keeps it in a shoebox under his bed,” Megumi said dryly. “Claims it improves his handwriting.”

You covered your mouth, stifling another laugh.

“It doesn’t.”

He shook his head, his eyes crinkling faintly.

“Summer training camp in Kyoto? Our first year?” you tilted your head at him.

“The one Gojo forgot to tell the faculty we were coming to?”

“Where we had to sleep in that busted storage room for two nights before someone noticed.” you managed to say through your chuckles.

He let out a quiet breath—something between a scoff and a laugh—and shook his head.

“And Yuuji tried to grill fish over that weird cursed stove we found in the shed.”

“That thing exploded.”

“It growled first,” Megumi corrected.

You bursted giggling, soft and sudden, the noise catching you by surprise.

Megumi’s eyes warmed faintly at the sound, and for a moment he just watched you. The way your shoulders curled a little forward when you laughed, like you were trying to soften it. Like it still felt dangerous to be that unguarded.

“The cursed tool Gojo tried to teach us how to use that one time?” Megumi pressed, determined to pull another laugh from you.

“The one that almost took Yuuji’s hand off?”

“That one,” he let out a quiet huff of a chuckle, shaking his head. “Pretty sure it took out half the training field too.”

You tittered softly, the melody threading warm through the dim air.

“Gojo just shrugged it off,” you added. “Like it was part of the lesson plan.”

“He said something about ‘experiential learning,’” Megumi muttered, taking a slow sip of his tea. “And then left early to get takoyaki.”

You covered your mouth to muffle your chirps.

It was stupid, really. These old memories—small, chaotic, messy—still alive between you. Still something you could touch without it burning your hands.

You leaned forward a little, the candle catching the gleam in your eyes.

“Did you know he used to let Nobara and me cheat at drills if we brought him sweets?”

Megumi snorted under his breath, a sound so rare and unguarded it made your heart hitch.

“I knew,” he said. “I just didn’t care enough to snitch.”

You smiled at him—tenderly through the haze of the past.

“You always were good at letting us be idiots,” you observed.

He shrugged, eyes dropping to the table for a beat.

“Someone had to keep you alive,” he murmured.

The words weren’t sharp.

Just simple.

True.

Your smile faded a little, the warmth between you shifting into something heavier, something thicker.

“Thanks for that,” you noted quietly.

Megumi’s hand flexed slightly where it rested on the table, like he almost moved—almost reached for you—then thought better of it.

The silence settled again, softer now.

“How about that mission with the warehouse full of cursed larvae?”

Megumi huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head. “Don’t remind me.”

You chimed in. “I still have scars from that.”

“You deserved them,” he teased dryly. “You walked in without waiting for backup.”

“I had a plan.”

“You had a death wish.”

You laughed, and so did he—just a breath, quick and rare, but it lit something in your chest all the same.

“I think that was the mission where Yuuji got the bright idea to use a fire extinguisher as a cursed weapon,” you added.

“He nearly concussed himself,” Megumi quipped, lips twitching. “And he still brags about it like it was a strategic win.”

You smiled, letting the memory settle around you like old fabric—well-worn, familiar. The moment between you built slowly—quiet and soft, woven with small stories, shared laughter, harmless teasing.

He told you about the time Gojo tried to prank Kusakabe by switching out his tea for sake during a staff meeting, and forgot which cup was which.

“Didn’t he end up drinking it himself?” you pried, grinning.

“Yeah,” Megumi remarked, lips twitching. “Then tried to teach class drunk and fell asleep halfway through the sparring demo.”

“That was the class he made Yuuji wear the panda costume, wasn’t it?”

“God. That thing.” Megumi winced.

“He claimed it helped with ‘fear resistance.’”

“And made him more ‘approachable.’” he chipped in.

You beamed again, easier now, the chime catching in your throat a little. Your eyes felt damp, but not from sadness.

Megumi watched you.

You ended up talking about Nobara next, about her stubbornness, about the time she’d broken her wrist during training and still insisted she could fight, her threats of violence every time she was made to study.

About Yuuji, dragging everyone out for ramen after missions, smiling so wide it felt impossible not to match it. About his endless pranks.

And about Gojo.

The name hung heavier between you, but you didn’t dodge it.

Not tonight.

You found yourself laughing—really laughing—leaning into the warmth that sprouted slowly between you, so natural you barely noticed it until it was already there.

You mentioned a photo Nobara had found a few weeks ago—an old one from your first year. Gojo had taken it. You and Megumi blurry in the background, Yuuji posing with something flaming and ridiculous in the foreground.

Megumi stirred his tea, eyes watching the slow swirl of the liquid.

“I miss that,” you stated. “All of us. Back when things were still… manageable.”

He went quiet. His gaze dropped to the cup in his hand, expression unreadable. You knew what you’d done—what you’d invoked. And still, you waited.

“I think that’s the last time we were all together, before…” he trailed off.

He didn’t need to finish it. You nodded once. Quiet. Heavy.

“It still feels recent,” you remarked. “But also… far.”

“It is both,” he replied softly.

You didn’t speak. Not right away.

“Freshman year feels like another life,” he muttered. “Some days it doesn’t feel real. Other days it’s the only thing that does.”

Your chest tightened.

“Sometimes I still think I’ll see him at the school gate. Or that he’s just late. Just somewhere else for a while.” Megumi scoffs. “I still expect him to be around the corner sometimes, or barging into a mission briefing with something insane.”

His gaze dropped to the table once more. He sat still, almost too still.

“I can still hear his laugh sometimes,” you murmured. “In those stupid moments. Like when Yuuji trips over his own feet or Nobara makes fun of me for running from rats. I hear it.”

“He was the reason I could be at Jujutsu High at all. The reason Tsumiki and I weren’t left at our own luck. She'd be God knows where… I'd be stuck with that fucking family.”

You nodded, listening.

“He bought my uniforms. Paid my school fees. Covered every meal for years before I ever knew how to say thank you. And when I finally did… he just made a joke about how expensive I was.”

You smiled, lips pressed tight against the ache.

“He used to show up at Tsumiki’s school plays,” he mumbled eventually, voice low. “Even when I told him not to. Always in sunglasses. Always late. But he was there.”

His hands were still, palms pressed lightly to the lacquered tabletop.

“He taught me how to fight,” he stated. “But more than that—he taught me how to choose. What to walk away from. What not to. What mattered.”

You let the silence hold him, because you knew he needed it.

Megumi swallowed. “He was the first person I ever saw treat power like a responsibility, not a privilege. And I still—”

His jaw locked. His hand curled tighter around the cup.

You gulped, throat thick and dry with sorrow. He finally looked up at you, and his voice changed—softer, rasping a little at the edge.

“When he died…” he paused. “I thought I’d feel angry. Or lost. But it was more like something foundational just… gave out.”

The words came slow, like they cost him. “It’s hard to talk about him.”

“I know,” you replied.

“You’re the only person I can talk about him with like this,” he said quietly.

The shift was gentle, but immediate.

You lowered your hands to your lap, your expression softening. “Why?”

He shook his head slowly. “It’s not that I don’t miss him. I do. Constantly. But usually when people bring him up, it’s like… all they see is how he died.”

“And with me?”

“With you,” he asserted, voice low, “I can remember how he lived.”

You didn’t speak right away. Just looked at him—at the curve of his mouth, the steady line of his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t flinch under yours.

“I still feel it,” he declared, softer now. “The dread. The guilt. But when it’s you, it’s easier to remember the good parts too. Not just… the ending.”

You let the moment breathe between you.

“It wasn’t just that he was powerful,” Megumi went on. “It was that he made space for us. Me. Tsumiki. You. He made room for us when no one else did. Even when he was reckless. Even when he was impossible.”

A pause.

“He wasn’t perfect,” he continued eventually, “But he was… ours.”

“I think he’d be glad we still talk about him,” you offered. “That we still remember.”

“I think,” Megumi murmured, “he’d be making inappropriate jokes about this dinner.”

You huffed softly, smiling into your tea.

“He’d make fun of me for this,” Megumi tossed in with a faint smirk. “For getting sentimental.”

“He’d cry. Loudly. In public. Just to embarrass you.”

Megumi huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.

“I don’t know if it ever gets easier,” he said quietly, “but with you it’s… bearable. Even good, sometimes. It doesn’t feel like… like dragging a knife through it.”

The air between you felt heavier, softer.

“Thank you,” he added after a moment, the words simple but so heavy they pinned you in place.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For not making it feel like a eulogy. Just… like remembering someone we knew. Someone who was ours.”

You swallowed around the lump rising in your throat.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you declared.

“I know,” he asserted. “Still do.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer than he should have, the air between you taut with something that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the impossible space that had grown smaller and smaller between you over the years.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to answer that kind of raw honesty.

So you just smiled, soft and a little unsteady, and said: “You’re welcome.”

And he smiled back.

You didn’t reach for his hand. You didn’t need to. The space between you felt full, and for a moment, that was enough.

—

The food came. You ate slowly, the conversation turning back to softer things—missions with Kusakabe, Nobara’s absolute refusal to follow any instruction she didn’t agree with, Yuuji’s brief obsession with boxing after watching a late-night documentary.

“I remember thinking Kusakabe hated us,” you said, picking at the last piece of sushi.

“He probably did,” Megumi replied, smirking faintly. “We weren’t exactly easy.”

“You were.” you shrugged—a raw honesty in your tone this time. “You were focused. Thoughtful. And terrifying when you got serious.”

That made him laugh—just a breath—but it shook something loose inside you.

“I'm glad you thought so highly of me.” he chuckled. “Truth is I didn't know what the fuck I was doing either.”

You giggled. “I had a crush on you, you know. Back then.” you added, bringing back up the little confession you let slip when this whole thing started—just in case he was too tuned out to catch it fully, just in case he had forgotten.

He blinked. “I didn’t.”

You beamed, eyes lowered. “I wasn’t subtle.”

“I was,” he muttered.

Your gaze lifted.

He looked away.

And just like that, the tension between you swelled again—rising from the floor, the walls, the candlelight, curling warm and dangerous around your ribs.

Dinner stretched long into the evening, plates cleared away, tea growing cold in abandoned cups.

Still, Megumi didn’t move to leave. He lingered—fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table, asking questions he already knew the answers to just to keep hearing your voice.

You told him about a mission last year where you and Yuuji got trapped underground for twelve hours, eating protein bars and playing stupid card games by flashlight. He listened, head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth at the parts you made dramatic just to make him roll his eyes.

Megumi then asked you about an old mission—one from your second year that had gone sideways because of a misread sigil—and listened to you recount it with amused embarrassment. His eyes softened when you talked about Kusakabe, and how you still remembered the way he sighed every time Yuuji opened his mouth during briefings.

“Do you miss it?” you pried. “Before everything?”

Megumi didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t miss being younger,” he stated finally. “But I miss being… less aware.”

You nodded. “I miss thinking I knew what I wanted.” you said softly. “I used to think I’d be a teacher someday.”

Megumi looked up. “You?”

You huffed a small giggle. “Only because Gojo once said I had the attitude for it. And I didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.”

“Both,” he affirmed without hesitation.

You tittered, and he caught it again—the sound, the flash of your smile—and it made something under his skin hum like an exposed wire.

God, how long had it been like this? He didn’t understand it—how it had crept up on him, this thing in his chest that pressed harder every time you were near.

All these years—you had always been there. Always familiar. Always close enough to reach for and never quite touched. When had it changed? All these years beside you, and somehow it had only taken root now. Or maybe it had been growing all along, silent and patient and waiting for him to look.

A flicker of memory—Yuuji years ago, chirping, nudging him too hard during a walk back from a mission, saying something like “man, you’re practically her shadow, you know that?”

Megumi had shoved him off with a glare. Brushed it off—laughed it off, even.

He wasn’t laughing now. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he just hadn’t let himself see it—hidden, buried under missions and responsibility and the quiet certainty that he didn’t get to have things like you. Until now, when it was already too late.

Still, he didn't move to leave—shoulders loose but too still, like part of him wanted to stretch the moment out longer, hold it there between you. Not just because he particularly enjoyed it. Because he knew what was waiting once you left. The final nail in the coffin—and he was as excited as terrified.

He knew he was being selfish, sitting there, dragging it out. He knew it—and still he stayed. Across the table, you simpered at him—soft, patient—and Megumi felt it again, that stupid, traitorous ache inside him.

The waitress returned with the check, bowing gently. The spell broke. It felt too soon. Too final. Like someone had yanked a thread loose too hard and now it was unraveling.

He reached for his wallet before you could even move.

“I’ve got it,” he announced.

You touched his wrist lightly, fingers brushing his skin in a way that wasn’t casual.

“You always do,” you murmured.

Time was up.

—

The car ride back wasn’t silent. It was waiting. Every red light felt longer. Every gear shift too loud. The engine low and smooth beneath you, your bodies still too aware of how close they were.

You shifted in your seat, your dress whispering softly against the leather. Your legs crossed, then uncrossed, a stretch of your skin exposed every time the streetlights cut across the glass. You didn’t shift to hide it. You didn’t need to.

Megumi didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for the radio. He drove with one hand on the wheel—knuckles pale against the dark interior—the other resting on his thigh.

Every glance at you was a fight.

You smelled like the soap you used, like faint perfume and skin and something warmer now, something that wasn’t just memory anymore but promise. He could feel you watching him—small glances, flickers—and knew you were feeling it too. The weight of it. The inevitability. Every mile closer to home wound the tension tighter and tighter between you, until the only thing louder than the hum of the car was the desperate pounding of his own heart.

When he glanced at you, once, your eyes were already on him. But you didn’t smile. You looked… calm. Ready. Like you knew the moment he stopped the car, everything would change. And you weren’t afraid of it. He didn’t know if that terrified him more—or if it was the fact that he wasn’t, either.

The gravity had already shifted. You were just waiting to hit the ground.

—

You made it up the stairs with your breath already caught in your chest, fumbling with your keys, your heels clicking too loudly in the quiet.

Megumi followed just behind—silent, tall, composed in a way that made your skin feel too tight. You could feel him without looking. The heat of him. The pressure. The way his presence always filled every corner of the space he stood in.

He could still taste your voice in his ear from dinner, still feel the weight of your laughter behind his ribs, still see the shape of you sitting across the table—wrapped in soft fabric, legs crossed, mouth shining from the tea. The dress clinging to you like it had been sewn for his hands to take apart.

You paused at the door. Your fingers trembled a little as you unlocked it. The bolt clicked. You pushed the door open halfway. And then—just as you turned to him—his voice stopped you cold.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in this time?” he said, tone dark with amusement, a rare, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The sound of it—quiet, low, teasing in a way that was completely uncharacteristic—ripped a whimper straight out of you.

You turned to face him fully, heat flooding your face. He was leaning slightly against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other braced above your head. It made your knees nearly buckle.

Even in heels, he loomed over you—broad-shouldered, long-limbed, the shadow of him spilling into your apartment before he even stepped through. He watched your cheeks burn red. Watched your lashes flutter. Watched your fingers tighten around the doorknob like you might melt.

You grabbed his wrist, dragging him inside with a force that surprised even you, shoving the door closed behind him—but he didn’t let you take him far. His hand came up, catching you easily at the hip, spinning you so your back hit the wood with a soft thud—breathing in the sound you made when you landed there.

His palm splayed wide across your waist—his fingers spanning the space easily, like you were something breakable in his hands. Your body under his hands was unreal—warm, alive, straining forward into him.

Even through your heels, you barely reached his collarbones. He had to dip his head to speak close, to kiss your temple. He didn’t mind. He loved that he had to bend to reach you. Loved the way your body folded under his like it had always meant to.

He hovered just close enough to feel the tremble in your limbs. To feel your breath catch. His body stayed close but didn’t press, holding just enough distance to make you ache.

“Slow down,” he murmured, voice dark silk against your ear.

Your hands fumbled for his shirt, tugging him closer, trying to yank him down. He let you for a moment, just long enough for your fingers to fist the fabric. Then he leaned in over you and kissed the corner of your mouth, maddeningly slow. Like he was testing the shape of you, like he had all night to learn your taste.

You arched into him, mouth parting. But he didn’t deepen it. Not yet. Instead, his hands skimmed along your hips, up your sides, over the fabric of your dress. You shivered at the friction of his palms dragging up the tight, body-con material.

“You wore this for me?” he murmured, voice husky.

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

“It’s tight,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost reverent. “Fuck.”

“It’d be off in thirty seconds if you’d stop teasing me.”

His lips curved against your jaw. “You think I’m teasing you now?”

You were already flushed. Already wet. Already squirming.

You reached for the straps of your dress, dragging them down your shoulders fast, half-crazed with need. But Megumi caught your wrists—gently, but firmly. Pushed the straps back into place. Smoothed them over your skin with careful fingers.

You let out a small, wounded groan and he laughed softly, unsteady and quiet. He almost kissed you for it.

“Gumi,” you gasped, “come on—”

“Oh. I'm Gumi now?” he smirked, dropping his forehead lightly against yours. “Are you trying to be cute to get what you want?”

“You’re not calm,” you accused, trying to wriggle forward against him. “You’re pretending.”

He bent down again—bigger than you in every direction, boxing you against the door, shadowing you completely.

“I’m savoring,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the hollow under your ear. You whimpered as he kissed a line up your neck, slow, lazy, like he was tasting you inch by inch.

How could you not feel it? How hard he was shaking under the surface? He wasn’t calm. He was on fire.

“How are you—” your voice caught in your throat, “—how are you still in control?” It almost made him laugh. His control was performance now, a costume—threadbare and useless.

His mouth brushed your ear.

“I’m not,” he stated, exhaling. “I’m just holding on long enough to make you feel everything.”

Your knees buckled slightly. He caught you again—easily, carefully—his large hands firm around your hips, steadying you.

“I want you trembling,” he whispered. “Shaking so bad you can’t think.”

You moaned, soft and ragged.

“I’ll take this dress off when you’re begging me to,” he went on. “Not a second before.”

You whimpered, mouth falling open, your entire body already pressing into his, trying to close the distance he kept teasing wide again.

He caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your face to look at him. His eyes were dark, fevered, wild with the effort it took to stay controlled.

“Be patient, baby,” he demanded. “I’m gonna have you come on my tongue… and my fingers… before you even think about taking me.”

You shivered violently, your thighs pressing together instinctively. He chuckled, feeling it.

“I'm gonna break you in for me,” he breathed into you. “Gonna be soaked before I even take this off you. Dripping down these gorgeous fucking legs.”

You pushed up on your toes, kissing his jaw, his cheek, his mouth—anything you could reach. Your hands clutched at his shirt again, dragging him down, chasing the heat. And he let you. Let you press against his chest, tug at his sleeves. But when you ground your hips into his—he stilled you with a hand at your waist. Firm, grounding.

He knew—knew—he could have you against the wall in seconds if he wanted. You’d let him. You’d beg for it. But he wanted more. He wanted to own the look on your face when you unraveled. Wanted to memorize the way you said his name when there was nothing left in you but need.

His lips brushed yours—slow, coaxing—until your mouth opened to him, and then he kissed you properly, tongue stroking slow and deep, like he was claiming every inch of your mouth with quiet, patient ruin. You were melting. Panting. Whimpering. And still, his hands moved only in measured strokes—over your sides, your waist, the curve of your ass, slow enough to drive you insane.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, between kisses. “Let me take care of you.”

You nodded, barely aware you were doing it. Your body—hot, trembling, aching—pressed into him shamelessly now.

When his fingers finally caught the hem of your dress, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent. When he finally peeled it from you, he didn’t yank it. He unwrapped you.

He bunched the body-con fabric slowly, slowly up your thighs. It hugged you like a second skin, and he cursed under his breath when it caught at the swell of your ass. You were so fucking beautiful. Every curve poured into that dress like it had been designed to drive him insane.

He eased it up higher—hands warm on the backs of your thighs, over your hips, around your waist. You whimpered when he lifted it over your chest, and he kissed the center of your collarbone to keep you quiet. The dress came off over your head with care. The fabric whispered to the floor, like a secret you’d finally let go of.

You stood there against the door in nothing but your heels and your panties.

Megumi stepped back, just slightly, to look at you. And fuck, the way he looked at you—It was like worship. Like devastation.

His chest rose and fell too fast. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to touch but still holding back, still drinking you in like he could memorize every inch of you with his eyes alone.

You shifted, squirming under the intensity of it, one hand brushing instinctively over your stomach. He caught your wrist gently, pulling it away.

“Don’t,” he said, voice shaking faintly. “Don’t hide from me. You’re fucking perfect.”

Your knees wobbled as you swallowed a moan. “Gumi…”

His eyes lifted to yours—dark, glassy, hungry.

“You don’t even know,” he said, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Then he sank to his knees in front of you—this time, not to worship.

To devour.

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