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ratatoilett · 2 days ago

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Five Rules for Dating My Uncle (According to a Five-Year-Old)

Pairing — Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

Synopsis — You meet Sukuna through your Sunday book club for preschoolers at the library, and Yuji, his energetic, matchmaking nephew, immediately decides you should be together. So he gives you a list of “rules” if you want to date his uncle.

Content — modern!au, fluff, implied smut, Sukuna is down bad, uncle!Sukuna.

Word count — 5.8k

Sunday mornings smell like old books, glue sticks, and whatever flavour juice box one of the children has crushed into the story rug this week. The children’s wing of the library glows in the soft wash of early summer sunlight, the kind that filters through dusty skylights and kisses the tops of tiny heads with gold.

You’re sitting on the big round rug in your favourite pair of jeans and a brightly patterned cardigan that a five-year-old once called “a unicorn sweater”, legs tugged beneath you. The picture book in your lap is open wide, illustrations of cartoon animals parading across the pages as you read with practised flair. You gesture with your hands, shift your voice up or down depending on who’s talking in the story: pirate giraffe today, because why not?

The kids are enraptured. Or at least, half of them are. One’s sucking their thumb. Another is attempting to braid your hair from behind with sticky fingers. But most are giggling, especially Yuji, who’s practically vibrating with excitement every time you lean into a dramatic voice.

You’re a teacher by trade, second grade, but on Sundays, you volunteer here, holding a weekly story-time club for preschoolers at the community library. No lesson plans, no assessments. Just pure, chaotic joy. You do it for them, but also, quietly, for yourself.

Yuji Itadori is one of your regulars. Five years old. Big heart, bigger energy. All questions and elbows and wide-eyed commentary. He always arrives early, stays late, and insists on giving you a sticker after every session “for your teacher badge,” which he’s convinced is invisible and magic. Today’s sticker is a glittery dolphin with a bent tail, and you wear it proudly on the front pocket of your cardigan like it’s a medal of honour.

You're still helping a toddler locate Where Is the Green Sheep? (again) when Yuji bolts out of the room for his pickup. Usually it’s his dad or a tired-looking babysitter, but today—today, it’s someone new.

Yuji returns a few minutes later, charging back into the reading room like a storm, one small hand latched firmly around the wrist of a man he’s clearly strong-arming toward you. The stranger is tall, striking, even. His presence eats up the air in the doorway.

“All right, all right, I'm coming,” the man mutters, low and rough like his voice hasn’t woken up yet.

You glance up from where you’re crouched beside the book bins, and pause. The man beside Yuji looks like someone who does not spend a lot of time in children's libraries. Dressed in black despite the heat outside, all sharp lines and coiled tension, he has a jaw like a comic book villain and eyes that flick around the room like they’re measuring exits. His hair is swept back, carelessly elegant. Tattoos curl out from under the sleeves of his shirt, inked patterns that almost draw your gaze too long.

Yuji, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, points directly at you. “You two need to meet.”

The man freezes. You straighten. He looks like someone who hasn’t been 'introduced' to anyone in years.

“Uh,” you say, offering a friendly smile despite the sudden thud of your pulse. “Hi?”

Yuji beams between you like he’s conducting a wedding ceremony.

“This is Uncle Sukuna. He’s daddy’s brother. He never smiles at people. But I think he’ll smile at you.”

The man, Sukuna, apparently, raises a brow. There’s a beat of silence and then the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to sigh.

“Sorry,” he says, deep voice laced with restrained amusement. “He’s been watching a lot of rom-coms with the babysitter lately. The animated ones, mostly. With matchmaking animals.”

“You’ll like each other,” Yuji adds. “I can tell. You read good and your hair smells like strawberries.”

You blink. “Thank you?”

Before you can fully recover, Yuji pulls a folded piece of paper from his backpack, creased, slightly damp, and covered in crayon. He shoves it into your hands like a sacred scroll.

“Here. These are the Rules for Dating My Uncle. You gotta read them.”

You cough into your hand to hide the laugh. Sukuna groans audibly.

“You’re not serious,” he mutters.

Yuji points at him sternly. “I am. You’re sad sometimes, and she would make you not-sad.”

You glance down at the paper.

It reads:

Must like dogs.

Must be good at reading stories.

Can’t be scared of his mean face (he’s not mean).

Has to make him eat dinner that’s not just ramen.

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You look back up. Sukuna's watching you carefully now, his posture still, guarded, but not cold. There’s something wary in his eyes. Protective. Like a man who’s used to doors slamming before he even reaches them.

“I didn’t know I was applying,” you say lightly, folding the list with a small, amused shake of your head.

Sukuna’s lips twitch into an almost-smile, there and gone again like a ripple in still water. His gaze flicks down to the crayon-covered page in your hands, then away, his shoulders shifting like he’s preparing for impact.

“You can toss it,” he says, voice rougher now, quieter. “If the kid’s little matchmaking stunt is making you uncomfortable.”

Yuji immediately gasps like he’s just witnessed a federal crime. He puffs his cheeks and clutches onto Sukuna’s leg like a determined barnacle.

“Uncle Kuna! You can’t say that!” His small fists tighten around black denim, face scrunched in betrayal. “It’s my real plan. And you said I could believe in my plans now!”

Sukuna looks down at him with a sigh that isn’t nearly as annoyed as it tries to be. One big hand drops absently onto Yuji’s wild hair, smoothing it back with a kind of unconscious affection that tugs at something in your chest. He doesn’t argue, though. Doesn’t scold. Just lets the boy press his cheek against his thigh and pout like it’s his full-time job.

You try not to smile too wide, but you know it shows. You can feel it warming your cheeks as you gently push a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes lingering on the two of them.

There’s something oddly quiet about Sukuna’s expression now. No scowl, no sarcasm. Just a steady kind of watching, like he’s memorising something without meaning to. You meet his gaze for only a second, but it feels fuller than it should. Weighted. Like he sees something in you that he's not sure what to do with.

You look away first.

Gently, you tuck the note into your handbag, fingers lingering just long enough for Yuji to notice.

“I’ll think about it,” you say softly, offering the boy a small wink.

Yuji lights up. He lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a squeal, spinning in a circle like he can’t contain the joy in his limbs. “That means yes! That means maybe-yes! That means probably-yes in movie rules!”

“I said think,” you remind him with a teasing lilt.

“But you smiled,” he says matter-of-factly, pointing. “You only smile like that when the giraffe gets the bananas back or when someone brings you those strawberry candies. So it’s a yes.”

You glance at Sukuna again. This time, there’s a real flicker of amusement in his expression, just a small tilt to his mouth, the barest crinkle near one eye.

He shrugs. “He’s... weirdly observant.”

“He gets that from you?” you ask.

He huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. “Nah.”

The moment stretches, gentle and tentative, but heavier than a simple meeting.

The Sundays begin to blur together.

Not in a bad way. In the kind of way that sneaks up on you, slow, subtle and familiar. Like the scent of cedar from the library's story rug, or the whisper of little sneakers scuffing along the floor as preschoolers circle the reading nook like orbiting planets. The world spins the same, but something small has shifted in its centre.

Yuji is still a whirlwind, still hands you stickers that somehow always end up glittering on your sleeve, your sweater, your water bottle. But now, he’s being picked up more often by him, Sukuna.

Every week, it’s the same line, almost like a practised excuse. “Jin’s working late again.” Or, “Jin asked me to keep him a little longer this weekend.” Sometimes it’s just, “He’s been better with me lately.”

You nod each time, smile politely. You don’t press. After all, it’s not your business what Yuji’s family dynamics are, except the way he tugs Sukuna’s hand like he’s tethered to something unshakeably steady. And the way Sukuna always shows up on time, every time, even when his eyes look tired.

At first, it’s small things; his gaze lingers longer when he walks in. He never interrupts, just watches quietly as you finish up the last pages of whatever tale you’re spinning that week. Sometimes you catch him smirking under his breath at your more dramatic sound effects. Sometimes he pretends not to.

Yuji’s always thrilled to see him, crashing into Sukuna’s legs with full-force hugs that make the older man stumble, just a little. He never minds. And then, every time, he stays. Just a few minutes at first. Then longer.

You’re usually cleaning up, stacking books, collecting sticker sheets, refolding the same felt blanket three times because the toddlers insist on wrapping themselves in it like burritos. Sukuna doesn’t help, exactly. But he leans on the edge of the low bookcase, arms folded across his chest and… talks.

At first it’s just about Yuji. Something he said. Something he broke. Whether he should be allowed to eat cereal shaped like ghosts for dinner. But then the conversations stretch. They slip into the spaces of your lives like spilled tea, spreading without warning, warm and a little messy.

He asks about your teaching job. About your students. About how you “put up with this many kids voluntarily on your day off.” You roll your eyes, but you answer with a smile.

In return, you learn he works in security, sort of. Freelance. You’re not sure exactly what that means, and he doesn’t elaborate. You don’t push. You just ask what kind of music he listens to when he drives Yuji home. (Heavy. Screaming guitars. Though Yuji apparently insists on bubblegum pop instead.)

Somewhere between the third and fourth week, you find yourself staying longer too. The last parents pick up their kids. The other volunteers leave. The lights dim overhead, one row at a time. But you’re still there, crouched on the rug gathering story cards, while Yuji is curled up in a beanbag flipping through a comic Sukuna brought him.

“He used to read them with his mom,” Sukuna says one Sunday, almost offhand. You pause, just for a second.

“I didn’t know.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “She passed a while back. Yuji doesn’t really talk about it much. But sometimes he’ll reread the same issue ten times in a row.”

There’s a softness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Not exactly sadness, more like reverence. Like holding something fragile and old that still matters. You nod. You don’t say I’m sorry. You just sit with it.

That night, you find yourself pulling the folded list from your handbag. It’s still there, still sticky. The crayon’s a little smudged now. But you haven’t thrown it away. You never even thought about it.

You trace your fingers over rule five:

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You wonder what Yuji saw in you that made him trust you with it.

The next Sunday, you notice Sukuna watching as you slide the list back into your bag after checking for your keys. His gaze lingers; not on the list, but on the way your fingers handle it gently, like a promise not yet spoken.

He says nothing. But when he says goodbye that day, his voice is softer than it’s ever been.

Then autumn arrives not with a shout, but with a slow hush, leaves curling at the edges like old book pages, skies bleeding grey, wind pushing around the corners of the library in sudden, impatient gusts.

That Sunday, the rain is relentless. It taps against the skylights in soft bursts, like a shy child knocking. You arrive damp at the edges despite your umbrella, cheeks pink from the chill, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands. The kids are rowdy from being cooped up indoors all weekend, sticky-fingered and stir-crazy, but you meet their chaos with your usual calm, rounding their attention back to the book in your lap with silly voices and warm patience.

Yuji’s extra cuddly today, curling beside you with his head against your arm during the final story. You don’t mind. You’ve come to expect that his love is physical, loud, and immediate.

Sukuna arrives just as you’re tying a tiny sneaker. His presence fills the doorway as usual, tall, imposing, tattooed and dark in contrast to the pastel chaos of the children’s section. But something’s different today.

He’s holding something in his hand and his expression is bordering on guarded.

Yuji spots him first. “Uncle Kuna!” he cheers, scrambling upright and flinging himself at the man with familiar, fearless joy. Sukuna catches him easily with one arm, as if the boy weighs nothing, setting him down just as fast.

“Hey,” he grunts, voice softer than usual, eyes already on you. His other hand is still in his pocket.

You offer him your usual smile, warm but unsure, like something in the air has shifted and you’re not sure which way the wind is blowing.

You’re picking up books, sorting them into their proper bins, when he steps closer. Not much. Just enough.

“Here,” he says, and it’s so abrupt you almost drop the stack in your arms.

He holds out a folded scrap of paper.

The rain outside drums louder.

You take it without thinking. Your fingers brush his just briefly, warm and calloused and unsure, and something tightens low in your stomach. You unfold the paper slowly. A phone number, scribbled in hasty, sharp numbers. No name. Just the number, like he couldn’t bring himself to write anything else.

You glance up, blinking.

Sukuna’s eyes flick away almost immediately, his jaw tense.

“Thought—” he clears his throat. “Thought if you ever wanted to talk. Or if Yuji forgets something. Or if you get sick of reading about talking vegetables.”

Your lips part, then curve into a soft, disbelieving smile. It’s almost endearing, watching a man like him—towering, broad-shouldered, covered in ink—look just a little uncertain. Like this paper weighs more than it should.

“Thanks,” you say gently, voice barely above the hum of rain. “I’ll text you.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch Yuji watching. Backpack slung over one shoulder, dinosaur keychain bouncing, his big eyes round and uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn’t say anything, not this time. Just hugs Sukuna’s leg and looks away, chewing his lower lip like he’s holding a secret.

You tuck the paper carefully into your pocket.

Sukuna meets your gaze once more before they leave. You nod. He nods back. It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. But your heart beats faster anyway.

You text him that night. Nothing clever, nothing rehearsed.

Hi. It’s me. From the sticker battlefield.

The typing bubbles appear quickly.

Good to hear from you. And then another message: Dinner Saturday? No Yuji. No talking vegetables.

You don’t hesitate: Yes. I’d like that.

You stare at the screen for a long time after, your thumb hovering over the home button. Then you reach into your bag, pull out the now-fraying piece of crayon-marked paper.

Yuji’s Rules for Dating My Uncle. You’ve read them so many times they’re etched into your memory. But tonight, your eyes linger on the last one once again.

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You press the paper flat on your desk and smooth a finger across the wrinkled corner, your smile quiet, but real.

Saturday comes too quickly and somehow not quickly enough.

Your heart beats like it’s trying to warn you of something, too fast, too loud, but not unpleasant. There’s excitement under the nerves, the kind that curls in your stomach and rises to your cheeks as you check your reflection for the fifth time. Your make-up is subtle but intentional, and your hair falls just right tonight, smooth, soft, styled carefully like a secret you want him to notice.

You chose your favourite Italian place, the one tucked into a quiet corner downtown with soft lighting and ivy crawling up the brick walls like something from a storybook. It smells like rosemary and fire-roasted tomatoes and fresh bread when you step inside, and the cozy warmth of it wraps around you instantly, brushing away the chill of the night air.

You spot him before he sees you.

Sukuna is waiting just past the host stand, dressed in a dark, well-fitted jacket and a simple charcoal button-up beneath. His tattoos peek out slightly from the open collar, sharp and striking against the curve of his throat, but it’s his expression that makes your breath catch.

He looks good. Really good. But more than that, he looks almost hesitant. Like he’s not sure he belongs here, but he showed up anyway.

When his eyes finally find yours, they soften.

“Wow,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. “You clean up nice.”

You laugh, quiet, flustered. “Thanks. So do you.”

He steps forward and pulls the chair out for you without a word, like it’s instinct. Like this version of him, attentive and steady, is just as real as the one who stands like a shadow in the corner of the library.

He orders you red wine without asking, but not presumptuously, like he remembered when you mentioned it once in passing, and it stuck. That alone surprises you more than it should.

And then, somehow, the tension melts away. The conversation flows, easy and natural. You talk about your students, about the ridiculous puppet show you had to do last week because the story-time kids demanded “more drama.” Sukuna chuckles, really chuckles, and admits Yuji made him re-enact the same three-page comic five times last weekend.

“You had voices and everything?” you tease, tilting your head.

He huffs. “Did one voice. It was supposed to be the villain. Ended up sounding like a gremlin with bronchitis. He loved it, though.”

You laugh, full and delighted, and he watches you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. Not the candlelight flickering between you, not the clink of wine glasses at nearby tables: you.

The food is amazing, but you barely taste it. Because every time his voice dips low in thought, every time his hand brushes the table too close to yours, your heart stumbles in your chest. He listens when you speak, really listens. And sometimes when you pause, you catch him just looking, like he’s filing away every detail of this moment in case it never happens again.

By the time dessert arrives, a slice of panna cotta drizzled in berry sauce, you’re glowing. Not just from the wine. From him.

You take a slow bite, licking a dot of cream from the corner of your lip before leaning forward, eyes teasing.

“Well,” you say, setting down your spoon. “At least I can check off Rule Four.”

His brows rise, intrigued. “Which one’s that?”

You grin. “Make sure Uncle Kuna eats something besides ramen.”

There’s a pause. His mouth opens, then closes. He looks away, and for the first time since you met him, Sukuna almost blushes. His ears tinge the faintest pink beneath the low restaurant light.

You cover your mouth with your hand, giggling. “Wait—seriously? You would’ve ordered ramen if you could have?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Ramen’s perfect. Efficient. No one’s ever disappointed by noodles.”

“I might be,” you tease, leaning in again.

He matches your gaze then, and for a second, the air between you tightens, warmer, weightier. His voice is low when he answers.

“Noted.”

After your first date, Sukuna finds his way into your life the same way dusk seeps into the sky: slowly, silently, but without ever asking permission. And once he’s there, you can’t remember how your days looked without him filling the edges.

He still picks up Yuji almost every Sunday, like clockwork. He still leans against the bookshelf near the reading rug, arms folded, face unreadable but eyes always on you. The other volunteers joke that you’ve got a "scary admirer,” but you only smile, a secret tucked behind your lips.

Because they don’t see what you do.

They don’t see how, once Yuji’s buckled in the backseat, Sukuna lingers outside his car and brushes your hair behind your ear without saying a word. They don’t feel the warmth of his palm as it settles at the small of your back, grounding. Or the way he lets out the smallest breath of relief when you kiss his cheek goodbye.

And now, now you see him more than just on Sundays.

Sometimes it’s Wednesday night dinners after your longest work days. He shows up in his dark jacket, hair still damp from a shower, carrying takeout containers and an unreadable comic for Yuji “in case he drops by.” Sometimes it’s Saturday mornings when he brings you coffee and leans against your kitchen counter while you toast bread barefoot in your sleep shirt, trading soft smiles and shared silence.

Sometimes, it’s just being near each other. The closeness of his fingers brushing yours while you fold laundry. His voice low and warm against the shell of your ear when he reads over your shoulder. His breath catching when you run your hands across the ink of his ribs, tracing stories he still hasn’t told you yet.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not fast.

But it’s real.

You still can’t quite name what pulls you to him. There’s no single reason, no one defining moment. It’s the accumulation of small things, steady things.

It’s the way he listens when you talk, even when you ramble about nonsense. It’s the way he notices everything, the way your brow furrows when you’re thinking, the way you turn pages with your thumb tucked just so. It’s the way he calls you "sweetheart" under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening.

His steadiness is not quiet. It’s present. And you didn’t know how much you needed that, someone who sees you in the chaos and doesn’t flinch.

The first time he kissed you properly, not a chaste brush in passing, but a real kiss, deep and slow and intentional, it left you dizzy for hours. His hands were firm on your waist, his mouth reverent, and when you whispered his name like a prayer, he held you tighter like he needed the reminder that this was real. That you were real.

And now, lying curled beside him in the warm hush of your bedroom, you feel something in yourself loosen that had been tense for far too long.

His bare chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. One arm is wrapped around your waist, hand splayed at your hip, grounding you to him like a vow. His fingers occasionally trace lazy, absent-minded shapes into your skin as you lie there in the afterglow of everything unspoken but fully felt.

The soft, golden light of your bedside lamp spills over the sheets, turning his tattoos into rivers of shadow and ink. You run your fingers across the one over his heart, and he catches your hand, presses his lips to your knuckles like it’s instinct.

“I didn’t think I’d ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

You don’t press. You just shift closer, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me neither.”

And somehow, that’s enough. No fireworks. No declarations.

Just his steady heartbeat under your ear, his arms around you, the faint scent of cedar and rain still clinging to his skin. Your body against his, fitting like you were made to lie beside him.

You’ve let him into your life. And more and more, he’s letting you into his.

Winter comes and goes in quiet intervals, mornings wrapped in knit scarves and coffee steam, nights curled against Sukuna beneath your favourite blanket, his hand resting easily on your thigh like it’s always belonged there. Snow falls, melts, falls again. The holidays pass in a blur of cocoa-stained kisses, Yuji’s snow angels, and Choso’s grumbling when Sukuna nearly burns dinner. You spend New Year’s Eve on the couch with him, tangled together, warm, safe. It’s the first time in years he says he didn’t feel like the clock struck midnight alone.

And then it’s early spring when the air still carries a bite, but hope tugs at the breeze, and the library windows are cracked open just enough to let in the soft scent of damp earth and blossoms. Another Sunday morning slips by in bright colours and sing-song voices. The preschoolers are wired after too many jelly beans and fruit snacks, and your throat is hoarse from all the reading and laughing and directing of tiny hands and wandering feet.

Yuji’s one of the last to leave today, tucked into a hoodie with a smiling dinosaur on the front and smudges of marker down his sleeve. His father, Jin, arrives for pickup for once, tired, polite, and smiling faintly as he waves you a quiet hello from the doorway. You nod back, wiping down the last of the table.

Yuji takes one look at his dad, then hurries over to you. You expect the usual wave, the quick, cheery “Bye!” with a lollipop in hand.

Instead he hugs you. Tightly.

His little arms wrap around your legs, and he presses his head gently to your stomach. It stuns you for a second. The room quiets. You rest a hand gently on the back of his head, fingers carding through his messy pink hair as he exhales slowly, like he’s holding in something far too big for his body.

“I’m glad you kept my list,” he whispers into your sweater. “You made Uncle Kuna not-sad anymore.”

Your chest tightens. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, soft and sudden. You bend down, crouch to his level, and cup his cheeks lightly as you meet his gaze.

“Oh, darling…” you say, smiling through the lump in your throat.

Yuji nods fiercely, as if there’s no doubt in his mind. “He laughs more now. And he doesn’t yell when my brother breaks something.”

You laugh at that, blinking fast to keep from crying. “Yeah? That’s good.”

“He lets me watch cartoons without saying they rot my brain,” Yuji adds, very seriously. “That means he’s not grumpy anymore.”

You smooth down his hoodie, then ruffle his hair, voice gentle. “I think a lot of that is because of you, you know.”

Yuji tilts his head. “But you love him.”

You suck in a small breath, because it’s not a question. It’s not a guess. It’s a child’s certainty.

And you realise, somewhere in your bones, that it’s true. You do. In the quiet, patient, warming way that love blooms after being watered slowly, not rushed. Not forced. But real.

Yuji grins and scampers back to Jin, who lifts him easily into his arms and gives you a respectful nod. They leave, and the library is quiet again.

You sit down on the edge of the rug, palms resting on your knees, staring at the scuffed corner of the bookshelf. And then, without even needing to think about it, your mind goes to him. To Sukuna.

To how he looks when he first walks in your door after work, tie loose, brow furrowed from the day, but relaxing the second he sees you. To how he always moves closer to you in his sleep now, pulling you in before he’s even awake. To how he chuckles more easily, with his whole chest. How he’s started remembering people’s names. How he ruffles Yuji’s hair instead of sighing at him. How Choso only rolls his eyes now when Sukuna mutters, “What did I say about the microwave?”

And through it all you're there. A constant. A presence that doesn't push, doesn't demand, but simply is.

You don’t say anything about the list anymore. But it still lies on your desk, slightly curled, covered in smudges and taped once in the corner where it tore.

You keep it there like a compass. A silly, sticky artefact of what brought you here. Of what grew from it.

Sometimes, in the quiet lull between dinner and bedtime, when the house is heavy with warmth and the softness of shared comfort, you catch him looking at it.

Yuji’s list sits exactly where you left it on the corner of your desk in the small nook of your apartment you’ve fashioned into a workspace. It’s wedged gently between a half-burnt vanilla candle and a ceramic mug filled with mismatched pens and broken pencils. The paper has curled at the edges with time, stained faintly by what you suspect was juice from the Sunday Yuji brought it to you, and the marker writing is smudged in places, tiny fingerprints pressed into the ink like a child’s seal of sincerity.

You’ve never told Sukuna that you kept it. Not aloud. But he sees it. And you see him.

He never stops long, just a few moments as he passes by on the way to refill his glass or grab something from the coat rack. He’ll pause, hands in his pockets or fiddling with his phone, his eyes resting on the list like it holds a secret he hasn’t fully let himself unpack.

You’re never sure what’s in his mind when he stares at it. Amusement? Gratitude? But the expression on his face is neither cold nor mocking. It’s quiet, the way a heavy breath is quiet. Like there’s weight behind it he doesn’t quite know how to hold.

And you, well, you pretend not to notice. Until tonight.

The apartment is dim, lit only by the warm pools of amber from the floor lamps and the flicker of a documentary playing quietly on the TV. You’re curled up in your favourite spot on the couch, a knitted throw wrapped around your legs and the last half of a glass of wine cradled between your hands. The rain taps against the windowpane, steady and soothing, like the universe is giving the night a rhythm to fall asleep to.

Sukuna crosses the room from the hallway, bare feet silent on the wood flooring, still dressed in the black t-shirt and soft grey sweatpants he changed into after work. His hair is damp from a shower, pushed back haphazardly, and there’s something disarmingly domestic about the sight of him like this, relaxed and unguarded, like he belongs here in your living room. Like he always has.

But he stops. Right in front of your desk.

Your breath stills the moment you see his gaze fall on the list.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, heart thudding softly in your chest. He doesn’t touch it this time, just stands there, the muscles in his back tense under the cotton of his shirt, his head tilted slightly like he’s reading each line over again. Slowly. Carefully. Like the words still mean something.

Like they always did.

Your stomach flutters, not with nerves, but with something deeper. Something like ache. Like understanding.

Because it’s not just a list. Not anymore. It’s the thread that pulled you here. The little absurdity that bridged the space between a quiet, stubborn man and the woman who would come to love him.

He reaches out, fingers just brushing the corner. You hear the faintest sound, the paper crinkling beneath the weight of his hand, and then he draws back.

His eyes lift and they find yours.

He looks startled at first, caught. His shoulders stiffen, jaw tensing as if he’s expecting you to tease him, or worse, ask him what he’s doing.

But you don’t say a word.

Instead, you smile. Small. Warm. The kind that says, I see you. I see all of you and I’m not going anywhere.

Sukuna breathes out through his nose, barely a sound, but you feel it. The way something in him softens. Like muscle uncoiling. Like something brittle finally being let go.

He moves toward you, slow and steady, and when he sits beside you on the couch, the cushions dip with his weight. He says nothing, but his arm comes around you like instinct, drawing you into the side of his body. His touch is solid and sure, palm firm over your waist, like he needs the grounding as much as you do.

“Still can’t believe you kept that thing,” he murmurs finally, voice low and slightly rough from disuse. His breath tickles your temple.

You shift closer, nestling into him, letting the heat of his body seep into yours. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He huffs. A real laugh, faint and sharp-edged. “Tch. Kid got lucky.”

You glance up at him, smiling into the curve of his jaw. “Maybe we all did.”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly. But his hand moves, up your side, along your ribs, fingers tracing soft, thoughtful lines into your shirt like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

And you feel it. All of it. The gratitude he doesn’t know how to say. The tenderness he’s still learning how to hold. The quiet, relentless love that’s taken root inside both of you without fanfare or permission.

He shows you in how he listens. How he waits. How he touches you at night, not with hunger alone, but with reverence. How he learns your patterns and preferences, the books you reread, the sound you make when something moves you, the way your eyes crinkle when you’re smiling for real.

He shows you in the way he says your name, and in the way he says nothing at all, just presses his forehead to yours in the dark, arms around your body, like he’s finally found home.

And you—you love him.

With your hands. With your laughter. With the way you kiss his shoulder when you pass behind him in the kitchen. With the way you hold space for him even when he doesn’t know how to ask for it.

You keep the list on your desk like a compass.

Because even if it began as a joke, sticky, messy and childlike, it carried something true. Something sacred. And now, all these months later, Sukuna is still here. And you are still his. And the list is no longer a beginning.

It’s a promise.

#this is my romcom #fr #so cute #—jjk recs

3K notes · View notes

ratatoilett · 9 days ago

Text

After You - Satoru G.

about. after a devastating accident pulls you back to tokyo, the last person you expect to see again is gojo satoru — the man who shattered your heart a year ago. You swore you'd never forgive him. But he’s showing up in quiet mornings and rainy afternoons, offering everything you used to love. And no matter how hard you try… you still notice him.

pairings. Gojo x Fem!Reader

words. 12.69k

content. angst, exes to lovers (maybe), slow burn, heavy emotions, crying gojo, yelling reader, emotional breakdowns, single tulip at your door, “don’t touch me”, “oh, toru”, soft flashbacks, hospital scenes, self-sabotage, character growth, gojo on his knees, regret-filled apologies, comfort scenes, pacing in a hotel room, rainy confessions, “i miss you”, sleepless nights, soft touches, holding back tears, emotional tension, love that still lingers

notes. stay up for part two??? winkwink, yll deserve a treat after this.

They say when something awful happens, time slows down.

But for you, it didn’t.

It struck fast and cruel, like the sharp snap of a branch underfoot.

One moment you were rinsing toothpaste from your mouth, scrolling mindlessly through notifications, and the next, your phone was shaking in your hand, someone on the other end barely holding their voice together.

You don’t even remember what they said exactly — only that he was in surgery, and it didn’t sound good.

That was enough.

You were already grabbing whatever clothes you could find, already booking the next flight to Tokyo, already letting your vacation days burn for something that didn’t feel like a break at all.

It had been a while since you heard his voice. Longer since you’d seen his face. But the second you heard the words accident and critical, something inside you collapsed without permission.

You hadn’t cried yet.

Not really.

There wasn’t time for it — only motion, only urgency, only movement that felt like survival.

The grief hadn’t hit.

Not fully. But something close to it was blooming beneath your skin, a cold, buzzing panic that had followed you all the way from your apartment to the terminal to the cab ride now speeding toward the hospital.

You try not to think about who else might be at the hospital.

You haven’t asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to.

The name lingers at the back of your throat like smoke — like a wound you’ve trained yourself not to touch. Even now, even after all this time, even after all the healing you’ve faked in Kyoto, you can’t say it.

Not even in your head.

Not without feeling your jaw clench, your pulse kick up, your entire body remembering the sting of something you were never supposed to feel.

You wish you could say you’ve moved on.

That the distance between then and now had softened the memory.

That you don’t still flinch when certain songs come on, or when someone with white hair brushes past you too fast on the street.

You wish you could say it doesn’t still live in you — that night, that voice, the sound of betrayal dressed in a whisper.

But it does, and it haunts you every damn time.

And that’s why you don’t let yourself say the name.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not when you’re this close to the hospital, this close to seeing him — the one who didn’t hurt you. The one who never left, even when you did.

Suguru.

His name doesn’t sting.

His name doesn’t tremble when you think it.

He was steady, kind. Always there in the background, holding pieces no one else noticed you’d dropped.

The thought of him lying still in a hospital bed makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t have words for. You’ve known him since your first year of high school — back when the world felt too big and the future felt too far. He was the calm between louder voices, the one who made space for you when everything else felt like too much.

You owe him everything. So when the hospital comes into view — tall, gray, humming under fluorescent lights — you square your shoulders and remind yourself why you’re here. Not for ghosts. Not for memories. Not for names you can’t bring yourself to say.

You’re here for the boy who never let you fall alone.

You’re here for Suguru.

And if something else is waiting for you inside those walls?

You’ll deal with it when it finds you.

The hospital lobby is too bright. That’s the first thing you notice. Too white, too sterile, too cold. The kind of place where time moves weird — where minutes drag and hours vanish and the people sitting around you are all waiting for answers they’re scared to hear.

Your bag hangs heavy off your shoulder as you step through the sliding glass doors. The air smells like bleach and something metallic beneath it. You don’t look around. You just head to the front desk, voice barely steady as you say Suguru’s name.

The nurse gives you a room number and tells you gently, “The surgery ended half an hour ago. He’s stable for now.”

You nod, but your chest doesn’t unclench.

They tell you you’ll have to wait until the doctor clears visitors. So you’re directed to the family waiting room — tucked in a quiet hallway at the end of the cardiology wing. You’re almost afraid to open the door.

But you do.

And the second you step in, you see her.

Shoko sits in the corner of the room, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, a tissue clutched loosely in one hand. Her eyes are red, but her face is still. Blank. The kind of blank that only comes after hours of holding it in.

She looks up when she hears you enter.

And for a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just cross the room and kneel in front of her, the lump in your throat rising the second your eyes meet.

She was the one who called you.

Shoko hadn’t always been part of your circle. She came halfway through high school — quiet at first, almost cold, until she wasn’t. You didn’t expect to grow close to her, but she stuck. A sharp tongue, a good heart. You shared notes, lighter moments, hungover mornings. Somehow, she became someone you trusted. And now she’s here, holding herself like she’ll fall apart if she breathes too hard.

You reach for her hand, and her fingers curl tightly around yours.

“I got the call at 2AM,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. “They said it was bad. That there was… blood. And broken ribs. And—” She stops. Her mouth opens, then closes again. “They didn’t tell me if he was going to make it.”

You squeeze her hand. “He will.”

She lets out a breath, shaky and half-laugh, half-sob. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, even though your voice cracks. “Because he’s Suguru. He’s stubborn as hell. He doesn’t know how to leave.”

Shoko nods, but her lips are trembling now, and when her eyes meet yours again, whatever strength she was holding onto snaps.

The tears fall quietly. No sound at first — just her face crumpling as she leans forward and buries herself in your arms.

You hold her. Tight. The way you wish someone would hold you. Your hand finds the back of her head, and your other arm wraps around her shoulders as she finally breaks. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.

You try to whisper something — It’s okay. You’re not alone. I’m here. But your own voice wavers, and before you can stop it, your cheeks are wet too.

You don’t even know who you’re crying for.

For Suguru, who didn’t deserve this.

For Shoko, who held everything together alone for hours.

For yourself, for everything you left behind and everything you’re being forced to feel all over again.

You cry quietly, tucked into each other like the world outside the waiting room doesn’t exist. You’re not ready to face anything beyond these walls — not the doctors, not the machines, not the possibility of seeing him.

But for now, you don’t have to.

You have Shoko. And she has you.

And maybe that’s enough, just for this moment.

The waiting room stays quiet after that. Just soft footsteps from nurses in the hallway, the buzz of an old TV on low volume, and the occasional sniffle from Shoko as she tries to get her breathing under control. You don’t say much. Neither of you need to. You just sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, hands wrapped around bad vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt water and anxiety.

You checked your phone a few times, but there’s no point. No missed calls. No new updates. Just time dragging its feet, and your knee bouncing without rhythm. At some point, you both gave up and wandered down the hall to the little hospital kiosk — bought crackers you never opened, a bottle of tea, a rice ball you didn’t touch. The cashier didn’t ask questions. You looked too tired for small talk.

The hours stretched thin after that.

Shoko eventually closed her eyes for a bit, curled up awkwardly in one of the waiting chairs, her lab coat draped around her like a blanket. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. You just sat there, chewing your lip raw and staring at the hallway.

And then — finally — the door opens.

You shoot up before your brain catches up. Shoko’s eyes snap open too, and you both stand at once when the doctor walks in.

He looks tired, like he’s been on his feet for hours, but there’s a calm in his posture. A professionalism in his voice that makes you cling to every word.

“He made it through surgery,” he says. “There was a lot of internal bruising, several fractured ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The bleeding was significant, but we got to it in time. He’s stable now. Still unconscious, but responsive to touch. We’re keeping him under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

You nod too quickly, almost like it’ll make the information easier to digest. Shoko’s breath hitches beside you.

“You can see him,” the doctor adds. “But keep it short, please. He needs rest.”

You thank him, voice barely audible, then follow the quiet sound of his footsteps down the hall. The fluorescent lights feel too bright again. The tiles echo under your shoes.

When he stops at the room, something in your chest twists.

The doctor opens the door, gives a polite nod, and leaves.

You step in.

The beeping is the first thing you hear — soft and steady. Machines monitoring a rhythm that, hours ago, almost stopped entirely. The lights are dimmed low, and the smell of antiseptic clings to everything.

Suguru looks... small.

Not physically. He’s still tall, still long-limbed, still very much the person you remember. But there’s something in the way he’s lying there — skin pale, an oxygen line resting under his nose, his arm bandaged and strapped with IV lines — that makes your heart lurch into your throat.

You take slow steps to the side of his bed. Shoko hovers beside you, her hand covering her mouth like she’s trying not to break again.

There’s a chair near the headboard, and you take it.

“Hey,” you whisper. Your voice feels too loud, even though it barely comes out.

His eyes are shut. There’s a bruise just beneath his cheekbone, faint yellow mixed with violet. You wonder if he even knows you’re here.

Shoko steps closer, brushing a hand over his hair, like maybe that’ll wake him. She doesn’t say anything either. Just stares down at him like she still can’t believe it’s real.

You swallow thickly and rest your hand near his — not touching, but close enough that he’d feel it if he shifted.

“You scared the shit out of us,” you murmur.

Still nothing.

But he’s breathing. That’s enough. For now, that’s enough.

You lean back in the chair and press your palm to your chest, trying to quiet the chaos inside you.

He’s here. He’s alive.

And as long as he is — you can keep going.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in silence, just watching the slow rise and fall of Suguru’s chest. His skin looks pale against the sheets. His lips are chapped. There’s a machine next to him that lets out a soft hiss every few seconds, and the sound digs under your skin like a pin.

Shoko stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. She hasn’t cried again, but you can still see the weight in her face — like something’s pressing down hard on her shoulders and she’s too stubborn to fall under it.

You speak first, voice low. “Do they know what happened?”

She blinks, like the question had to filter through layers of static. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, the cops called me after I got here.”

You wait.

“They said it was a truck. Some delivery driver lost control—snow slicked road, poor brakes. It was too fast. Hit Suguru on the driver’s side.” She swallows. “They said he probably didn’t even see it coming.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap. The thought of Suguru alone in a car, unaware, unable to stop what was coming—something about it twists in your stomach and won’t let go.

“They said if the ambulance came two minutes later…” Shoko doesn’t finish.

You don’t ask her to.

The silence after is full. Not empty — just packed with things neither of you want to name. So you stare at the beeping monitor instead, and try to focus on the rhythm. It helps. A little.

Then Shoko’s phone rings.

She looks down, already irritated before she even sees the screen. But when she does, her lips press into a thin line. Her jaw flexes.

You don’t need to ask.

You already know.

It’s like your whole body freezes. Like your bones remember something your mind worked so hard to forget. You feel your pulse spike, chest tightening, the cold creeping in from somewhere deep inside.

“I should get this,” she mutters, eyes flicking toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t even nod. But she’s already turning away, already answering.

“Where are you, Satoru?” she snaps, low and sharp, the words like glass.

And just like that, it’s back.

His name.

Said out loud for the first time in a year. Like it never left the earth. Like it hasn’t been rotting quietly in the dark corners of your memory. It lands heavy, sharp — like someone carved it straight into your skin without asking.

You inhale too fast. Look away. Pretend to focus on Suguru’s hand.

Shoko paces a little, voice hushed now but tense. “No—don’t pull that. Don’t—Satoru, you should’ve been here hours ago. He could’ve died.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

Not now. This isn’t about him. This isn’t why you’re here. You came for Suguru — because he’s your friend. Because he’s family. Because he never broke you.

But you can hear Shoko’s voice still, even as she walks toward the hallway, trying not to disturb you.

“Yeah. She’s here. What the hell do you expect me to say to her?”

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens, and the room suddenly feels smaller — like the walls are pressing in, like the air’s been sucked out. You stare at Suguru harder, like maybe he’ll wake up and give you something to cling to. A joke. A complaint. A tired smirk.

But he’s asleep. And he is coming.

You push your chair back, quietly. The scrape of the legs on the tile is soft but enough to break Shoko’s focus for a second. She glances back, still holding the phone against her ear, and your eyes meet.

You don’t say anything.

You just need to leave before you fall apart.

You need air. You need to walk. You need to remember how to exist without his name ringing in your ears.

Because four years ended on a Tuesday.

Just like that.

And now he’s coming back into your life like the silence he left behind wasn’t loud enough.

You won’t break.

Not for him.

Not again.

You don’t wait for her to come back in fully.

You’ve already grabbed your bag from the floor, fingers fumbling for the zipper, pretending you’re not moving too fast, pretending your heart isn’t crashing against your ribs like a trapped thing.

Shoko steps into the room slowly, her phone still in her hand, like she’s trying to approach you without startling you.

“Y/N—” she starts, but doesn’t get the whole sentence out.

You’re already swinging your bag over your shoulder. “I need to check in. I haven’t… I haven’t rented anything yet. I need to figure that out.”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, I was thinking of staying somewhere for a few weeks. Like that Mimaru place in Ueno East. The one with the little kitchen. I think I saw a listing still open. I need to book it now—while I still can.”

You’re not making sense. You both know it. But your voice keeps pushing forward, carrying you through the panic, through the fog, like if you just keep talking, none of this will catch up to you.

Shoko steps in front of you before you can reach the door. “Y/N.”

You won’t look at her.

She exhales hard, trying again. “He’s coming. Satoru’s on his way.”

Your eyes snap up. The name, again. Spoken like it doesn’t hurt. But it does. It cracks something inside you, sharp and instant.

“I know,” you say flatly. “That’s why I need to go.”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I came here for Suguru,” you say, louder now, your voice starting to shake. “Not for him. I didn’t ask to see him. I didn’t want to see him. I can’t.”

Shoko’s expression tightens. Her eyes soften, but her jaw sets with a kind of stubborn kindness only she could pull off.

“This isn’t about you and him right now.”

Your laugh is bitter, short. “No? It feels pretty damn close.”

“I’m still mad about it,” she snaps. “Do you think I forgave him? I haven’t. I still want to punch him every time I remember what he did to you. But this isn’t about him. Or about you. This is about Suguru. He needs both of you here. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head. “I can’t be in the same room as him, Shoko.”

“Then don’t talk to him.” Her voice is quieter now, but firmer. “Don’t look at him. Just stay. For Suguru. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stare at her, trying to find something to fight with — a reason, an excuse, anything that doesn’t sound like I’m scared, because that’s what it really is. You’re scared. Of how he’ll look at you. Of how your voice might betray you. Of the way your heart is already acting like it remembers him — and it shouldn’t.

Shoko sees it. All of it. You don’t say a word, but your silence screams.

She takes a step closer.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in a year,” she says quietly. “A whole year, Y/N.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I missed you.”

Her voice is so soft, it lands right where your defenses are thinnest. You look at her — really look — and you see it in her face: everything she’s carried, everything she’s held together without you. You weren’t the only one who lost something when you left.

The room stays still for a long beat.

And you?

You just hold your bag a little tighter. Because you’re not sure what else you can hold onto right now.

You’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes, screen dim, thumb barely scrolling. You’re not reading anything. Not really. You just need something to look at that isn’t the door. Something to occupy the space inside your chest that’s been on high alert ever since Shoko stood up and said, “I’ll go get him.”

You didn’t ask her to.

But you didn’t stop her either.

Suguru hasn’t moved. His breathing stays slow, steady, the beeping of the monitors calm like he’s just napping after a long night. Every few minutes, your gaze drifts from your phone back to him. You wonder what he’d say if he were awake. You wonder if he’d be pissed or grateful. Maybe both. He was always better at reading people than you were.

You check the time again. The hallway outside is too quiet.

And then — footsteps.

Two pairs. Light, but unhurried. The sound of them makes something cold unfurl in your stomach.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to.

He’s here.

You knew he was. You felt it before Shoko even said she was going to meet him at the entrance — probably so the nurses wouldn’t assume he was some random six-foot-two man barging into the ICU like he owned the place. Because that’s what he looked like. Always did.

Even now, when Shoko opens the door and walks in first, your spine goes stiff.

And then he enters.

You don’t raise your eyes at first. You feel it instead — the way the air in the room shifts like it always used to. The weight of him. The gravity. It always demanded your attention.

And slowly, inevitably, you look up.

The same white hair. Tousled, like he ran his hand through it on the way here. No blindfold. No sunglasses. Just those eyes — the ones that used to soften when they looked at you, like you were something holy.

They’re just blue now. Plain and clear and impossible to forget.

You don’t mean to stare.

But in that second, you remember everything.

The way he used to walk you home, flicking your forehead and laughing at how dramatic you were. The way he used to kiss the top of your head like it was second nature. The night you fell asleep in his lap while he crammed for a test he never studied for. The four years of being so stupidly, completely his.

And then — the night you weren’t enough.

The night he told you everything and cried while you sat there, feeling like something hollow and discarded. The night you walked out of his apartment with a suitcase in your hand and everything else in pieces.

Your eyes drop back to Suguru, and you don’t look again.

He almost says something. You hear the breath catch in his throat, like he’s reaching for your name.

But Shoko is faster.

“Don’t talk to her,” she says under her breath, cutting her eyes toward him like a warning. “Give her space.”

A beat. And then he exhales — long and quiet, like it knocked something loose in his chest.

You keep your eyes on Suguru.

Because you came for him. Not for this. Not for him.

Satoru bites it back. Sighs, low and tired. Rubs the back of his neck.

Because she’s right.

You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not a word. Not a look.

He hurt you — ruined everything — in one night.

And now?

Now you’re sitting there like the four years he loved you never happened at all.

But you’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

And he’s still the one who destroyed it.

You hadn’t meant to remember.

But sometimes, when the room gets too still — when the hum of the fridge starts to sound like silence, when the chair beneath you feels too familiar — it creeps back in. All of it.

The mornings first.

You used to wake up in a sun-drenched room that wasn’t yours, pressed beneath heavy sheets and even heavier limbs. Satoru always slept like he was trying to pin you to the mattress. A leg flung over yours. Arms around your waist. Sometimes his face buried in your shoulder, breath warm on your skin as he mumbled nonsense in his sleep.

He was terrible at waking up.

Always five alarms deep, groaning, dragging himself out of bed like gravity only worked on him. But for you? He made coffee. Every time. Milk and one sugar. Sometimes he forgot the sugar and tried to kiss it back into your mouth later, laughing when you told him he tasted like regret and half-burnt toast.

You used to study together — or at least, you tried to. Satoru got bored easily. You’d be neck-deep in notes while he stacked highlighters into towers or played with your hair, asking what you thought you’d name your future dog. Somehow, you always let him distract you.

Some nights you sat in the tiny ramen shop near the corner of your dorms, sharing pork broth and teasing him about getting extra noodles when he was already full. He never listened. Always said, “If I die, at least it’s with miso in my veins.”

He was loud in crowds, but soft with you. Always softer with you.

Fingers brushing yours under tables. A kiss to the side of your head as you walked. His hand resting on the back of your neck when you leaned forward — like he needed the contact, even in silence.

He took pictures of you when you weren’t looking.

And then laughed when you caught him.

You fought sometimes. Of course you did. Over nothing and everything — who forgot to text, who didn’t show up on time, what he said that came out too sharp. But he always came back. Always found you.

The rooftop of the engineering building. The lawn under the cherry blossom trees in spring. That 24-hour diner you hated but he loved, with neon lights that made your skin look like paper.

He made you laugh until your ribs hurt.

He danced with you in the hallway once, music playing from his phone speaker, swaying clumsily in socked feet on polished floor. Told you, “This is what people mean when they say forever.”

And you believed him.

God, you really did.

You memorized the shape of him — the curve of his grin, the dip of his collarbone, the little mole near his jaw he always forgot about.

He was your first home that wasn’t a place.

And for a while... it felt like enough.

It felt like always.

You didn’t just love him.

You chose him.

Again and again, even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everything else told you not to.

It wasn’t just coffee in the mornings and laughter under cherry blossoms. It wasn’t just the warm way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

It was the night he drank too much after bombing a midterm he swore he didn’t care about. You were halfway through your own exam — thirty minutes in, pen moving furiously — when your phone started buzzing in your lap. Over and over. Shoko. Then Nanami. Then finally, a stranger.

The bar manager’s voice was sharp. Impatient. “Is this Y/N? You need to get down here now. He’s making a scene.”

You didn’t finish the test.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t even grab your jacket.

You just ran.

All the way to the cheap bar two blocks off campus where Satoru was slumped in a booth, laughing too loud, eyes glassy, one arm hanging off the edge like he was too big for the world. People were staring. A manager was yelling. Telling you they should call the cops. That he wasn’t your problem.

But he was.

He always was.

You apologized until your voice went hoarse. Helped him up even though he was twice your size. Held his hand like it could shield you both from the embarrassment burning up your cheeks. Got him home, into his room, into bed, and stayed by his side the whole night while he muttered half-coherent regrets into the pillow.

You missed the exam.

Your professor didn’t let you retake it.

Your parents didn’t understand either.

“You're throwing your future away for some boy?” “He can take care of himself, Y/N — why is it always you picking him up?” “He’s not your responsibility.”

But you loved him.

And that made it worth it.

At least back then, it did.

He had this way of holding your face when you cried. Like nothing else existed. Like your sadness deserved reverence. His thumbs would brush under your eyes, soft and steady, and he’d whisper things like, “If it hurts, I’ll make it stop. You just tell me how.”

He made you believe he could fix anything.

That nothing could go wrong as long as you had him.

He’d show up to your apartment with cheap takeout and a new playlist, saying, “You looked tired in your texts. This is recovery food and sonic healing.”

He’d kiss your knuckles in the middle of arguments, just to calm you down.

He’d carry your backpack after class even when you said it was fine. “It’s not about weight,” he said once, “it’s about letting you know I’m here.”

And God, you let him be there.

Even when it cost you sleep.

Even when it cost you grades.

Even when it started to cost you you.

Because being with Satoru made you feel like you were bulletproof — like nothing could touch you, not the world, not failure, not loneliness. He filled your days with so much light, you didn’t realize how dim you were becoming just to keep him shining.

You gave him everything.

Even the ugly parts. The selfish parts. The ones you’d never shown anyone else.

You gave him the parts of you that you now wish you’d saved.

Because at the time, you thought he’d keep them safe.

And for a while… He did.

It had been raining that week too.

Not softly. Not romantic or warm. Just endless, grey, and cold — the kind of weather that felt like it was leaking through the cracks in your life.

Things had been rocky for a while. A month, maybe more. Missed calls. Short replies. Less eye contact. More space between your bodies in bed.

You told yourself it was stress. Finals. His internship. The late nights, the shift in his tone when you asked where he’d been. You told yourself not to spiral.

Until the night he came home at one in the morning.

The dorm was dark. Just the little desk lamp you kept on while studying, your notes spread out in front of you, highlighter ink staining your fingertips. You were barely awake. Shoulders tense, eyes sore.

You didn’t even hear the door unlock.

You only noticed when the floor creaked — and then there he was, dripping rainwater on the hardwood, wiping his shoes half-heartedly on the mat.

He looked exhausted.

But not in the way you did.

You stared at him for a second.

Then said quietly, “You didn’t text.”

He ran a hand through his hair, didn’t look at you. “I figured you were busy.”

“I was. Still am.”

And when he finally turned his head, you saw it.

Just a flicker of it. Half-hidden beneath the line of his jaw, peeking out from the collar of his hoodie.

A kiss mark.

Faint. But real.

You froze.

He didn’t notice — or maybe he did. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t say anything.

But you did.

“…What’s on your neck?”

His mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Your neck,” you repeated, voice thin. “What is that?”

He didn’t answer.

And you knew.

You knew.

You pushed back your chair. Stood. Let the question fall again, louder, uglier, something in your throat already cracking:

“Who was it?”

He scoffed.

Like it was ridiculous.

Like you were.

“Seriously?” he said. “You’re going to start this now?”

“Start—? Are you fucking kidding me—?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, already walking past you toward the kitchen. “God, I was drunk.”

Your chest burned.

“Drunk?” You followed him. “You let someone put their mouth on you and you’re calling it not a big deal?”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t mean for it to happen, alright?”

Your voice splintered.

“So it did happen.”

That made him pause.

And when he turned around, something in his face was wrong. Not defensive. Not even sorry.

Just tired.

Like this conversation bored him.

“Look,” he said, “I was overwhelmed. You don’t— You don’t understand what it’s been like lately. Everything’s too fucking much, alright? I can’t breathe around you anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You’re always hovering,” he snapped. “Always checking in. Always making things heavy. You act like I’m your responsibility or something. I didn’t ask you to give up your classes for me. I didn’t ask you to pick me up from every shitty bar or cover for me with your parents—”

“I did that because I loved you,” you choked.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like guilt. Like pressure. Like I can’t mess up without you holding it over my head.”

You stared at him.

And you realized something, in that moment.

He didn’t just betray you.

He resented you.

Everything you did — the nights you skipped sleep, the classes you missed, the way you fought for him harder than you ever fought for yourself — he hated it. He hated being held up like that. He hated the version of you that refused to leave, even when he gave you reasons to.

And he hated how small it made him feel.

“Then why didn’t you just say it?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want me anymore?”

Satoru looked away.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t apologize.

You waited for him to say something that could undo it. Even now, even bleeding — you waited.

But all he said was:

“I didn’t think it would get this far.”

That was the moment something inside you died.

The part that still believed in him.

The part that thought maybe you were different. That the four years, the late-night confessions, the mornings wrapped in each other — that it all meant something solid. Something real.

Instead, you stood there in a room full of shattered promises, rain pounding against the windows like it was trying to drown out the silence between you.

You grabbed your coat.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t reach for your hand.

Didn’t chase you down the hallway or beg you to stay.

Because you weren’t his anymore.

Not after that.

Not ever again.

The hotel room is too quiet.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, a cup of coffee resting warm between your palms. The city outside your window is buzzing — lights flashing, cars passing — but in here, it’s still.

Still enough for old ghosts to come knocking.

Your laptop sits forgotten in your lap, the screen dimmed out minutes ago, maybe longer. You don’t remember what you were typing. You barely remember what you were thinking. All you know is that your brain hasn’t stopped spinning since the hospital.

Since you saw him.

It wasn’t the face that undid you — though even now, you can see it in the reflection of the black screen. White hair. Blue eyes. The shadow of a man you used to love more than you loved your own future.

No — it was the memory.

It came back fast. Uninvited.

One minute you were standing in that sterile room next to Shoko, pretending you didn’t feel him looking at you. The next, you were back in that tiny dorm, the rain against the window, his voice in your ears again like a curse.

"I didn’t think it would get this far."

That.

That was the part that still makes your throat close.

Not the cheating.

Not even the kiss mark on his neck.

But the way he made your love feel like an accident.

Like some burden he didn’t ask for. Something you did wrong.

And you hate him for that.

You fucking hate him.

You hate how those words still live in your chest like splinters. How even now, a year later, after therapy and silence and pretending you’re healed, the memory still makes your coffee taste bitter.

You stare down into the mug.

It’s lukewarm now. You should get up. Reheat it. Do anything other than sit here and replay what broke you.

But your body won’t move.

Because there’s a part of you — the part you thought you buried — that still wonders what you did to deserve it.

That part is quieter now, sure. Duller. But it’s there.

It whispers things you don’t want to hear.

That maybe you were too much. That maybe loving someone that hard was suffocating. That maybe if you had just—

You stop yourself.

You swallow it down.

Because no. No — fuck that.

You didn’t break the promise. You didn’t kiss someone else. You didn’t turn four years into a footnote just because things got hard.

He did that.

He chose that.

And no amount of blue eyes or half-hearted apologies will ever change it.

You press the coffee to your lips, even though it’s cold.

Even though it tastes like memory.

And somewhere in your chest, the hate sits quietly — not burning, not loud. Just there.

Heavy, unmovable and earned.

The hotel room was too still.

Too quiet without Shoko's tired sighs or your footsteps moving from the kitchen to the bathroom. No clinking mugs, no charger cords stretched across the bed, no rustling of your oversized hoodie as you curled up with your laptop. Just... silence. And the heavy hum of the air conditioner that sounded too much like guilt.

Satoru leaned back against the headboard, still fully dressed. Jacket unzipped, shoes on, fingers twitching at his sides like they were looking for something to hold onto. But there was nothing left to hold.

You were gone.

And he felt it — finally, in full.

He stared at the bedside lamp, too dim. The walls, too blank. His chest, too fucking empty.

It had taken him a long time to realize what your absence meant. Months, maybe. At first, he called it space. Told himself he was giving you room to “cool off,” to “think.” As if you were the one who needed to apologize.

But then a week passed.

And another.

And then… it hit him.

Not in a dramatic way. No thunderstrike. No collapse.

Just little things.

Like how no one reminded him to eat before heading out to meetings.

How his keys were always missing now, and you weren’t there to laugh and say “Left side coat pocket, dumbass.”

How his apartment stayed cold all the time. How the bathroom floor was always wet. How the playlist in his car kept skipping over the songs you used to sing quietly along to — not because he removed them, but because he couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore.

And then it hit harder.

The way his laundry piled up. The way his calendar never got updated. The way he showed up late to everything, forgot birthdays, left unread emails for days.

You used to handle those things. Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to.

Because you loved him.

And Satoru hadn’t even realized.

He hadn’t seen how much of his life you filled — how much of his chaos you softened with a simple glance, a kiss to the shoulder, a quiet, “Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got this.”

He took it all for granted.

Your steadiness. Your small routines. The way you made his favorite tea when he was too exhausted to lift a finger. How you made to-do lists for him and stuck them to the mirror in neon pink sticky notes that always ended with “♥ please don’t forget.”

He remembered the time he was sick for three days and you stayed up, head foggy from your own fever, just to make sure he drank water. The time he failed a certification test and you said nothing — just let him lay in your lap and cry, fingers stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

You never asked for thanks.

You never asked for anything.

And he gave you everything but loyalty.

Now, sitting in this goddamn hotel room with the overpriced minibar and the empty second pillow, he finally saw it.

He would’ve given his blood, his name, his stupid pride — anything — just to hear you laugh again.

That soft, slightly breathless laugh when he said something dumb. The kind that made your nose scrunch and your eyes soften like he was the only boy in the world.

And now it was gone.

You were gone.

And he’d never hated himself more than in this moment — not when you cried, not even when he walked out of your apartment for the last time.

It was now, in the silence.

In the knowing.

That he let something extraordinary slip through his hands — and he did it thinking he’d still have time.

He thought he could fuck up and still be loved.

He thought you’d always come back.

And he was wrong.

So devastatingly, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

There’s a knock at the door.

Sharp. Twice.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone, let alone a hotel staff member asking if he wants fresh towels. But then the door handle turns, and only one person on earth would be both ballsy and polite enough to knock before breaking in.

Nanami.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly, stepping inside.

Satoru doesn’t respond. Just stares ahead at nothing, still slouched against the headboard, still in yesterday’s clothes, still silent.

Nanami doesn’t expect a hello. He just sets down the takeout bag in his hand and walks over to the chair by the window, shrugging off his coat.

“You haven’t left this room in two days,” he says. “Shoko told me.”

Satoru exhales. A bitter, tired sound.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Nanami says, crossing one leg over the other. “But this is pathetic. Even for you.”

Satoru finally shifts — just enough to glance over.

“You came here to insult me?”

“No,” Nanami says coolly. “I came here so you’d stop marinating in your own regret like a dying poet.”

Satoru snorts.

Then falls quiet again.

A beat passes. The air is thick.

Then, without looking over, Satoru mutters:

“…You think she’ll take me back?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away.

He leans back in the chair. Eyes him for a long, quiet second.

“No,” he says, flatly.

Satoru flinches. Just a little. Like he was hoping for something softer, even from him.

But Nanami’s never been one to sugarcoat truth.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Satoru rubs a hand down his face. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“She won’t even look at me,” he says, voice low. “At the hospital, she just sat there. Like I was invisible.”

Nanami nods.

“She should.”

Satoru glances at him, brows drawn.

And Nanami continues, tone calm but cutting.

“She loved you like you hung the stars. Gave you her time, her future, her energy — all without asking for anything back. And you... what? You broke her. Because what — you got scared? Bored? Tempted?”

“I fucked up,” Satoru says, almost choking on the words. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t act like I don’t care—”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Nanami cuts in. “I’m saying caring doesn’t undo what you did.”

Satoru looks away.

Silence again.

Until finally—

“I miss her so much, Nanami.”

And this time it’s not snark. Not deflection. It’s raw. Soft. A wound speaking directly.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, eyes glossing over. “I keep checking my phone like she’s going to message. I keep thinking I’ll bump into her at that stupid bento shop she likes. I—”

He breaks off. Exhales shakily.

“I remember everything. The way she’d wake me up by pulling the blanket off. The way she’d tie her hair in a lazy bun and still look prettier than anyone else. She used to hum when she studied. I used to hate that sound but now it’s the only thing I want to hear.”

Nanami stays quiet.

Lets him spill.

“I didn’t think she’d really leave,” Satoru says, quieter now. “I thought… no matter how bad it got, she’d still—”

“But she did,” Nanami interrupts. “She did leave. Because she had to.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. Stares at the floor.

And Nanami softens — just a little.

“She loved you,” he says. “Maybe still does. But don’t confuse love with forgiveness.”

Satoru doesn’t reply.

Nanami leans forward. Folds his hands together.

“If you want her back,” he says slowly, “then fix yourself. And not for her — for you. Because the man she loved wouldn’t have done what you did. And right now, she’s mourning him.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

And in the quiet that follows, he finally understands—

You didn’t just walk away.

You grieved him.

The version of him that held you up when the world got too loud. The boy who remembered your drink order, who studied your face like scripture, who promised you forever and meant it — once.

And now, if he ever wants you back...

He has to become him again, or lose you forever.

It started small.

The morning after Nanami’s visit, Satoru was out of bed before nine for the first time in a month.

No excuses. No dragging. He just got up.

He shaved. Trimmed the chaos that had started taking root under his jaw. Cleaned out his inbox. Replied to four different emails that had been blinking red for a week. Caught up on overdue reports. Folded the wrinkled laundry that had been thrown over the back of his couch since god-knows-when.

Old Satoru wouldn’t have done any of that.

Old Satoru would’ve rolled over, groaned, and told the world to wait.

But the old Satoru didn’t have to see you in the hallway every morning with your clipboard and your unreadable face, your footsteps quick and careful, your eyes never lingering for long.

The old Satoru didn’t know what it felt like to be invisible to the only person he still cared about.

The first few days passed slow.

Suguru still didn’t wake up. Shoko said it was normal — healing was complicated. But Satoru started showing up every evening, sitting quietly by the window, watching you from across the room as you read or dozed or just… stared.

You never acknowledged him.

He didn’t expect you to.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping.

On the third day, he brought coffee.

Two cups.

He walked into the room like it was casual, like it didn’t mean anything, even though his heart was fucking racing. He held out the one you liked — same brand, same custom syrup pump you always asked for — and waited.

You didn’t even look at it.

Just reached into your bag, pulled out your own drink, and set it next to you without a word.

Satoru stood there for a second, awkwardly holding two coffees like a dumbass.

“…Yeah, okay,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “I mean, I’ll take both. That’s fine. I’m kind of sleepy anyway.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat down in the corner and drank both.

It was bitter. It stung. But he drank every drop.

Later that night, he got back to his apartment and opened up his calendar for the first time in ages. Started color-coding deadlines. Deleted all the mindless things that used to fill his days — the parties, the after-work bar crawls, the late-night games that ended in blurry mornings and hangovers.

He started doing things differently.

Up early.

Work first.

Texting Nanami back on time. Saying thank you to the admin assistants. Actually sitting in team meetings without slouching and zoning out.

He didn’t tell anyone why.

Didn’t say your name.

But they all noticed.

Even the higher-ups. The ones who used to roll their eyes when he sauntered in late with sunglasses and a grin.

“About time you cleaned up,” one of them muttered when he handed in a project two days early.

Satoru didn’t react.

He just nodded.

And went back to work.

Then came the rain.

The kind that turned the city into a blur of umbrellas and blurry headlights.

He was already waiting near the hospital entrance, standing under the awning, sipping a warm can of coffee from the vending machine when he saw you coming from the crosswalk — no umbrella, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to your ear.

Instinct moved him before logic could stop it.

He jogged forward, umbrella open, arm already outstretched as he stepped into your path.

“Here,” he said gently. “Let me—”

You looked at him.

And then walked faster.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a sharp, desperate speed-walk that ended with you darting under the building overhang, water dripping from your sleeves.

He stood there in the rain like a statue, still holding the umbrella, watching your back disappear into the building.

And he swallowed it.

Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak.

He just walked back to the vending machine.

And bought another can of coffee.

Because even if you didn’t want his help, even if you didn’t want to be near him — he did want to be better.

Not just for you.

But because he hated the version of himself you had to leave.

Back at work, things changed more.

He started showing up to staff meetings early. Left detailed notes for people who missed presentations. Picked up projects he usually would’ve pawned off. He even reached out to Suguru’s old team — offered to help cover while they waited for him to recover.

He said it was out of obligation.

But everyone knew.

It was guilt. It was hope.

It was you.

A week passed like that.

With silent coffees. Awkward hallway glances. You ignoring him in every room. And Satoru not asking for more than that.

He didn’t deserve it yet.

But he was trying.

God, he was trying.

He was halfway through a meeting when his phone buzzed.

He didn’t even glance at the caller ID. Just grabbed it, eyes still on the spreadsheet his coworker was rambling about — until he heard her voice.

“Hey,” Shoko said. She sounded… different. Lighter. Like something huge had just cracked open.

“He’s awake.”

That was all she needed to say.

Satoru didn’t respond — didn’t even bother with a “thanks” — just stood up mid-meeting, shoved his laptop shut, and practically ran out of the office with his blazer flapping behind him and a half-apology to Nanami trailing off in his wake.

The drive felt like a blur. Like time didn’t matter. The whole world melted around the edges, and all he could think about was Suguru. Awake. Breathing. Alive.

By the time he pushed through the hospital doors, his pulse was racing.

And when he reached the room—

He stopped.

You were already there.

And for the first time in a year, he saw it.

Your smile.

Not polite. Not forced. Real.

It was soft, crooked, slightly teary — the kind of smile people only made when they thought they’d lost something for good and finally got it back.

You were leaning over Suguru’s bed, whispering something that made him grin, bandaged and groggy but alive, eyes warm even through the haze of meds. Your hand was resting near his — not touching, but close enough to feel like home.

And then—

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Suguru muttered with a hoarse laugh.

Satoru blinked.

And then that grin — the old one, the bright, obnoxious, Satoru fucking Gojo grin — stretched across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he said, stepping inside like he hadn’t just been holding back tears in the hallway. “Took you long enough, Sleeping Beauty.”

Suguru snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s my kiss, then?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re not my type.”

Satoru laughed. It came out louder than he meant, unfiltered and boyish and almost too much — but Suguru chuckled too, and suddenly, it felt like college again. Like rooftops and vending machine snacks and stupid inside jokes that never really left them.

They bantered for a while — something about Suguru's gross hospital food, how Shoko would definitely milk this for free drinks, how Nanami probably scolded the surgeon about punctuality. You giggled under your breath once or twice.

And then—

He looked at you.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

Your eyes found his.

And you smiled.

Small. Hesitant. But bright.

Like maybe… maybe this didn’t have to be permanent.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left.

Something worth rebuilding.

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat — just for a second. Just long enough for his chest to swell, full of something warm and familiar and just a little bit fragile.

Because after all the silence, all the avoidance, all the cold hallway glances and slammed doors in the rain —

You were looking at him again.

And smiling.

And for the first time in over a year, Satoru felt alive.

Shoko and you had already gone.

Just one visitor at a time, per the doctor’s rules — the earlier exception was rare and temporary. So now, it was just Satoru and Suguru. Quiet between them. The hospital room had dimmed, the sun finally starting to fall behind the skyline, painting the walls soft orange and grey.

Satoru sat by the window, legs stretched out, fingers loosely linked in his lap.

Suguru cleared his throat, careful of the soreness still in his ribs.

“She smiled at you.”

Satoru blinked. Looked up. “Huh?”

Suguru smirked faintly. “Just now. You didn’t notice?”

He had.

Of course he had. He’d been thinking about it since the moment it happened.

“I noticed,” Satoru murmured.

Suguru looked at him for a moment longer. Then, without preamble, he asked, “You’ve talked to her at all?”

Satoru sighed. Shook his head.

“She won’t speak to me,” he said, voice low. “Barely looks at me. I’ve tried. Not with words, not yet. But... I’ve tried.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Tried how?”

That’s when Satoru leaned back in the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and really spoke — for the first time in what felt like years.

“I stopped waiting for her to forgive me,” he said. “Started working on being someone who deserves it. Even if I never get it.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly.

“I started showing up to work early. Got ahead of deadlines. I picked up your old assignments, handled team rotations, replied to every message Nanami ever complained I ignored. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day she ran in the rain to avoid standing under my umbrella.”

Suguru blinked.

“She what?”

“Yeah,” Satoru laughed once, bitter. “I waited at the hospital entrance like some fool with an umbrella, and she just looked at me… and ran. Didn’t say a word.”

Suguru tried not to smile, but it tugged at his lips anyway.

“I’ve been bringing her coffee sometimes,” Satoru added. “Doesn’t take it. She brings her own now. Same order, but not from our place.”

Another pause.

“I know I don’t deserve her,” he said. “And I know what I did was—” He stopped. Breathed. “It was more than a mistake. It was selfish. Cowardly. I broke something that took four years to build just because I didn’t know how to sit with my own fear. She gave me everything. Even when she was tired. Even when I didn’t thank her. And I...”

He trailed off again. This time, when he looked up, his voice cracked a little.

“I’d give anything to hear her call me Toru again.”

Suguru looked at him for a long time. The kind of look only someone who’s known you your whole life can give — layered with exhaustion, history, love, and disappointment.

“I hated what you did,” he said plainly. “Still do.”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“But,” Suguru added, “I’ve also never seen you like this.”

Satoru blinked.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You’ve always had your charm, your talent, your big talk. But this... this quiet version of you, the one who's finally earning things instead of expecting them handed over with a smile — she would’ve loved to see this.”

“I’m too late,” Satoru said, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his lip. “She’s moved on. Or worse — she’s numb to me.”

“I don’t think she’s numb.”

Satoru looked at him.

“I think she’s scared,” Suguru said. “You broke her, Satoru. And people don’t just bounce back from that. But I also think... if she didn’t still feel something, she wouldn’t have come back to see me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Another beat.

“You want her back?” Suguru asked.

“With everything I have.”

“Then don’t rush it. Don’t corner her. And don’t try to be the man you were before. Be the man she should’ve had all along.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “What if I don’t know how?”

“You do,” Suguru said, with a tired, certain smile. “You’ve already started.”

And for the first time in months, Satoru didn’t feel like he was drowning in regret.

He felt like maybe — just maybe — he was finally learning how to swim.

You just needed five minutes.

Five minutes away from the machines and the disinfectant, the humming lights, the weight of watching Suguru sleep like if you looked away, he’d disappear again.

So you stepped outside. Coffee in hand. Hoodie pulled up. The sky above Tokyo already dimming into something slate grey, the kind of quiet that warns you rain’s on its way.

You were halfway down the path to the little hospital garden when it happened.

A stranger — tall, in a rush, barely looking — bumped into you shoulder-first. Your hand jolted. Coffee sloshed over your sweater, hot and bitter and ruining the one piece of comfort you had on your body.

“Oh— shit, I’m sorry,” the guy muttered, already walking backward, not even waiting for you to respond.

You stood there, stunned. Chest heaving just slightly. Coffee dripping down your sleeves. Fingers clenched. And not because of the spill — not really.

It was everything else. It was the year that gutted you. The ache that didn’t leave. The fact that you still woke up thinking about someone who ripped you in half like it was an accident.

And then, of course—

“You okay?”

You froze.

Your heart didn’t. It stuttered like it remembered something you didn’t ask it to.

He jogged the last few steps toward you, eyes flicking to your shirt, the wet stain already starting to cool against your skin.

“I’ve got clothes in my car,” he said, breath a little rushed. “I can grab you something, a hoodie or—”

“No. Forget it.”

He blinked.

You didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but it just came out. Too fast, too raw.

“I was just—trying to help—”

“Well, don’t.”

Silence.

You hated this. Hated how his face fell just slightly, like he thought this was going to be the moment. Like he thought a fucking coffee stain was his chance.

You looked at the ground. Then at your hand. Then at him.

“Stay away from me. Okay?”

He didn’t move.

You clenched your jaw.

“I mean it.”

The wind picked up then — brushing past both of you, pulling your sleeves tighter against your arms. A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

Just stood there, watching you like you were the last thing in the world he had left.

You turned around.

And walked back toward the hospital doors.

And behind you, the rain started to fall.

You’d been back and forth from the hospital so often the nurses started to smile at you with tired recognition. Suguru was awake now — groggy, healing, but talking. That alone gave you something to hold onto.

But not enough to block him out.

Because lately, Satoru didn’t hide anymore.

He used to linger. Hang back. Leave a coffee on the bench like it was some apology in disguise.

Now?

Now he waited.

Held doors open for you. Walked behind you in the hallway — not too close, not enough to make you speak, but just there.

The day after the coffee spill, he showed up to the hospital with a bag of clothes.

Not from his car. Not his oversized hoodies or a stupid t-shirt you used to wear to sleep.

New. Folded. In your size. With a little tag still clipped to the collar.

“I didn’t know what color you liked anymore,” he said, holding the bag out. “So I got black. That was always safe, right?”

You didn’t take it.

Not then.

But when you left for the day, it wasn’t in the trash. It was sitting beside the hospital chair, and somehow — somehow — it made its way back with you.

Two days later, it was raining again.

You forgot your umbrella that time. Too distracted. Rushed out.

He didn’t speak when he met you at the exit, already holding his over your head.

Didn’t smile either.

Just walked beside you.

Both of you quiet under the small circle of plastic shelter, boots splashing through puddles. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask for it.

That night, you sat at your hotel desk and stared at the wet umbrella in the corner like it was some kind of ghost.

By the third day, he started showing up with food.

He remembered your old orders — which you hated him for. Because it meant he remembered everything else too. Where you used to sit in cafés. How you hated olives. That weird way you always had to drink something cold with something hot.

He knew all of it.

And he used it.

Not to manipulate you. Not to beg.

Just to be there.

You tried to ignore it. You did.

You’d leave the food untouched sometimes, let the hospital staff take it, or give it to Shoko. You acted like it didn’t bother you.

But it did.

Because it meant he still knew how to take care of you.

And part of you hated how much you noticed.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way he didn’t laugh like he used to. The way he looked at Suguru — with real warmth, like he was scared to blink and lose him — and the way his gaze would flick to you after, like he was already bracing for heartbreak.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t joke.

He just… showed up.

Every time.

And it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t feel it too.

Not forgiveness.

But the ache.

The memory of what he used to be — what you used to be — before it all shattered.

And the quiet, unspoken truth that he was trying now, when it might already be too late.

You weren’t expecting anyone to be there.

Not outside your door. Not after a long, emotionally draining day at the hospital, not after hours of trying to convince yourself that you were fine. That ignoring him was working. That time was doing what it always promised to do — make things easier.

But there he was.

Leaning against the wall outside your hotel room, like he had nowhere else to go.

A single tulip in his hand.

Your favorite. The kind you used to tell him reminded you of quiet mornings and fresh starts. Of spring.

He looked up the second your footsteps approached — like he’d been listening for them. Waiting.

You froze.

He straightened up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

Just held out the flower.

You blinked at him. Your fingers tightened around your hotel key.

“Who told you I lived here?” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You stepped closer to your door, ignoring the way your heart slammed in your chest. You tried to brush past him, to get your key in the lock, but—

“It’s just a flower,” he said quietly. “It’s not a promise. Not a trap. Just something you used to like.”

You stilled.

Just for a second.

And then, slowly, without looking at him, you took the flower.

Walked inside.

And tossed it to the floor.

Didn’t even look to see where it landed — just stepped over it, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But he did.

The second you turned around, he shut the door behind him, slow and careful like he knew you were ready to kick him out the second you had the breath to do it.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you snapped, voice sharp, brittle.

He didn’t flinch. “I just— I needed to see you.”

“You have been seeing me, Satoru,” you said, stepping back like his presence alone was suffocating. “Hospitals. Hallways. Coffee stands. I told you not to talk to me.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’ve been everywhere.”

Your voice cracked. Just barely. But enough to make you hate the way your throat tightened.

You looked away.

He stepped forward once. Hesitant. Like he was moving through water.

“You deserved more than a quiet apology. More than coffee cups and umbrellas. You deserved—”

“I didn’t ask for anything from you,” you snapped, eyes burning. “I didn’t want flowers. I didn’t want closure. I wanted distance.”

He looked like he was holding himself together with thread.

“You think showing up with my favorite flower is going to fix anything?” you laughed — bitter, breathless. “You think being visible makes up for what you did?”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue.

But he didn’t.

Because you weren’t done.

“I came here to forget. I came here to make sure I never softened again— and all you’ve done since Suguru opened his eyes is push yourself back into places you don’t belong.”

“I never stopped belonging to you,” he said.

The room went still.

You stared at him. Heart thudding. Eyes hot. Rage swallowing you whole.

But somewhere, under all of it — you noticed the way he looked at you like this was the last time.

Like every second he stood in that room hurt, nd you hated it.

Because no matter how hard you tried — You still noticed, and that was the worst part.

You didn’t mean to scream.

But it ripped out of you like it had been clawing at your chest for months, desperate for air.

“Get out of my fucking life, Satoru!”

His eyes widened — but he didn’t move.

“I don’t fucking need you,” you yelled, your voice breaking, fists shaking at your sides. “I never will again.”

He didn’t believe it. You knew he didn’t. Not with the way your throat closed mid-sentence, not when your eyes were already stinging.

And that only made it worse.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” you spat, pacing the small room, barely able to breathe. “Why can’t you just—just stay away? Why can’t you let me go?”

Your hands shot up to your forehead, wrists pressed to your skin like you could hold the emotions in if you squeezed hard enough. But it didn’t help.

Nothing did.

Because you were crumbling.

“I don’t want to feel like this again,” you gasped, pacing tighter circles now, stumbling through your own grief. “I don’t want to be soft again, Satoru—don’t you get it?”

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart pounding, tears now streaming down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to notice anymore. I didn’t want to see you and remember how good it used to be. I didn’t want to feel that pull again. Because I know myself—”

You sobbed. A sharp, guttural sound that broke through your teeth.

“I know I’ll always have something for you. Even after everything.”

He stepped forward — slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

But when his hand reached out toward you—

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you shrieked, jerking back like he’d burned you.

He froze.

“You don’t get to do this,” you cried. “Not after what you said. Not after what you did to me.”

Your voice cracked again, trembling, wet, filled with everything you swore you’d never let him hear.

“You can’t just fucking bring me coffee and expect I’ll forgive you,” you hissed. “You don’t get to barge into my life again with your sad fucking eyes and think I’ll forget what it felt like to be nothing to you.”

The yelling stopped, but your sobbing didn’t. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stumbled back against the wall, as if holding your own body together was the only thing keeping you standing.

“You know how hard I love,” you whispered, voice shaking like glass. “You know it’s hard for me to say no to you.”

Your head fell forward. Shoulders trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why are you still coming back into my life,” you choked, “when you already tore it apart?”

You looked up at him, vision blurred, throat aching.

“You weren’t the one who gave everything only to realize our relationship was a fucking accident.”

He flinched at that.

“You weren’t the one who carried that.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your chin. “You knew how to get me. You always knew. One sorry. One fucking flower. One ‘please,’ and suddenly I’m right back where I started.”

You laughed through the tears — bitter, hopeless.

“The resentment. The hatred. It just—goes quiet. Like my whole world starts spinning again, just because you showed up.”

Your hands dropped to your sides. Exhausted. Done.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Satoru.”

And he just stood there.

Soaking in the wreckage.

Because for the first time—

You weren’t holding back.

You didn’t expect him to move.

Not at first.

He stood there, staring at you like you’d just ripped open his chest and finally saw what was left inside. His jaw clenched. His lips parted, then shut again — like he didn’t know where to start. Like he knew anything he said might make it worse.

But then—

His voice.

Soft. So soft it barely made it past the space between you.

“I didn’t know how empty I was until you left.”

Your stomach twisted.

He took a step forward. One foot, then the other — careful. Heavy.

“I thought I could handle it. That if I gave you time, maybe I’d stop missing you. That maybe it would hurt less.”

He shook his head.

“But it never did.”

You stayed still.

He looked down. Fingers twitching at his sides, knuckles pale.

“I tried to be better. I tried to become the kind of man you’d be proud of. Not because I thought it would fix things—” His voice broke, barely audible. “—but because I needed to believe I could still be someone good… someone worth the way you loved me.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked up again, blue eyes shining under the weight of his own shame.

“I used to think I was the strongest man alive,” he whispered. “And then I lost you. And I’ve never felt weaker.”

The first tear rolled down.

He didn’t wipe it.

Didn’t flinch.

His lips just pulled into that soft, pouty line you’d seen so many times — when he was tired, or sad, or trying not to cry. His mouth trembled.

“I miss you.”

He said it like a prayer.

“I fucking miss you.”

And then — slowly, quietly — he sank to his knees.

Like his body couldn’t carry the weight of it anymore.

He knelt in front of you, looking up with eyes red and full of longing. His hands limp in his lap. His head tilted up, lips trembling, tears streaming down now — silent, steady, shameless.

Your heart cracked in half.

He was beautiful like this. Broken, yearning, soft in a way only you ever got to see. No bravado. No charm. Just the real Satoru — the boy who used to cling to your pinky finger in public like it made him braver. The man who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling how he didn’t know how to love right, but he was trying for you.

You didn’t realize you were reaching for him until your thumb wiped the tear from his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly — like he couldn’t believe you touched him.

And still, he kept talking. Barely holding his breath between words.

“I think about you every morning I wake up. Every time I order coffee. Every time I hear someone laugh the way you used to in the car when I played stupid songs.”

He shook his head, more tears slipping out.

“I don’t want anyone else. I never did. Even when I fucked up—god, even then—there wasn’t a second I didn’t regret it.”

You stayed standing.

But your hand… lingered.

Fingertips brushing against the skin beneath his eye, now damp and warm.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Just knelt there.

Crying for you.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve it. But just… don’t hate me anymore.”

And you could see it in him — every single piece of him cracked wide open, still loving you, still begging you to love him back.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just stared down at him — knees on your hotel floor, eyes wet, face flushed, holding back nothing for once.

It would’ve been easier if he stayed the Satoru you hated. The one you left behind. The one who shattered you.

But he wasn’t.

He was this Satoru. The one crying at your feet like his entire world was on pause, waiting for your voice to bring it back to life.

And suddenly, the fear that had kept you cold for so long — the armor you wore so well — began to crack.

You opened your mouth.

It didn’t come out strong.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

His head lifted — just enough to meet your eyes. His bottom lip quivered. The quietest breath left his mouth.

“I know.”

You let your hand drop from his cheek. Watched it hang at your side, useless.

“I’m scared of losing myself again,” you murmured. “Of giving everything and watching it fall apart like it never mattered.”

He shook his head quickly, kneeling taller, hands still trembling in his lap.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’m not that man anymore. I don’t want anything else. I don’t care about perfect or easy or clean. I just—”

He looked up at you like you were oxygen. Like he was afraid to blink.

“I’m half a heart without you.”

You exhaled — sharp, shaky, gut-deep.

“And I’ve been walking around like I’m fine, like I’m whole,” he went on, voice trembling, “but I’m not. I’m fucking not, Y/N. I haven’t been since the night I left your doorstep.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes stinging.

“I think about it every day,” he whispered. “How cold you looked. How strong you were for letting me go. And I’d give everything just to go back and make you feel safe again.”

Silence.

You let it linger between you.

And then, with the gentlest breath — a thread of sound caught between sorrow and love — you said it.

“Oh, Toru…”

The moment it left your lips, his hands found your waist.

His arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, like prayer.

And he pressed his face to your stomach, forehead resting against the fabric of your shirt as he sobbed — not loudly, not violently, just finally.

Your hands trembled as they threaded into his hair.

You held him.

You held him like you used to — with everything you were. With love and hurt and history all tangled in your fingers. Your thumb stroked the nape of his neck. Your other hand stayed pressed gently to his crown.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because something heavy — something unspoken and unbearable — lifted from both your shoulders.

It didn’t make it simple.

It didn’t make it right.

But it made it real.

And in that moment — knees to floor, arms wrapped tight, breath stuttering between you — love didn’t feel like weakness anymore.