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shinreiplays · 1 day ago

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close to you | zayne li (m)

summary: it’s been a while since you’ve been back in linkon city - staying in one place is hard when you’re one of the most celebrated pediatricians of your time, after all. your constant movement is disrupted when an unexpected invitation to be an honorary professor at linkon university has you packing your bags and settling into a new apartment, excited to create new memories in the city you once called home. there’s just one problem with your carefully laid-out plans, though: a well-known cardiac surgeon who’s going to be co-teaching some classes with you - the same cardiac surgeon who just so happens to be your ex-fiancé. info: cardiac surgeon!zayne x afab!pediatric surgeon!reader | exes to coworkers to lovers | angst, fluff, smut | 24k words warnings: angst, fluff, hurt with comfort, smut, mc has insecurities abt work abilities and worthiness, zayne says hurtful things he doesn’t mean, reader has an evol linked to body energy - specifically soothing/calming emotions, they go back and forth bc they don’t know how to talk and that’s a big plot point, mentions of yvonne and greyson (yvonne is mc’s best friend!), zayne is a yearner but doesn’t know how to properly show it, reader drinks alcohol, reconciliation before it’s broken, another warning for angst, vague description of surgery and car accident, a description of a panic attack including: [heavy breathing, lightness of head, near blacking out], the comfort part of hurt with comfort, reconciliation but it’s real this time, smut, the slightest whisper of dom!zayne x sub!afab!reader, office sex, desk sex, clothed sex, f!receiving!fingering, m!receiving!handjob, zayne’s a tease, unprotected sex, g-spot stimulation, biting but it’s literally once, shared orgasms, zayne cums inside, fluff, happy ending :D author's note: good lord it's done LOL (;-;) i cannot ever shut the fuck up when it comes to dr. zayne li so i hope you enjoy this :D if you liked it, leave smth in my ask box!! i rlly appreciate it <3 disclaimer: will edit soon for any mistakes!! if you are a minor and you're seeing this, i ask that you turn away and do not read. this is an 18+ story and minors are not welcome. if you are uncomfortable with any of the topics listed in the warning, please do not read this story! banner by my beloved miss l, @snowvee <3 ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ playlist linked here!

You don’t think you’ve ever been this excited over west-facing windows before in your entire life.

All throughout your life, you never had the chance to see golden hour and sunsets as much as you would like. Your life prior to this new apartment had been spent huddled over a lab counter and running back and forth in hospital corridors, ensuring your work was done with efficiency and care. Sunrises are your constant companion and you think they’re nice, but there’s just something about sunset.

The warmth it leaves on your skin as it dips below the horizon and the sun-kissed haze it leaves in your apartment…it fills you with a sense of accomplishment and peace.

You’ve done it, ____. You’ve successfully created a new space for yourself - free of some of the memories that plague you at night.

Your eyes trace the lines of marble on your kitchen countertops, giddy with thoughts about all of the meals you can cook and wines you can have on the counter during dinners with friends. The idea of reviving your social life after moving for so long and connecting with certain people has your heart fluttering, although your concentration is broken when your phone buzzes on the counter.

You slide your finger along your phone’s screen without another thought, your smile immediately growing when you see who it is.

“Hi, Yvonne!”

You watch as her signature bangs pop up on screen, followed by her sparkling eyes and sweet, dimpled smile. Yvonne is one of your closest friends from college: one of two people who were able to drag you away from your textbooks and into a mall or a karaoke room during the weekends. She was there with flowers and snacks after you defended your thesis perfectly to become a fully fledged pediatrician, and you were present with her favorite chocolates and a reservation to her favorite restaurant when she passed her nursing exams with flying colors.

Simply put, she’s your rock and you don’t think you’d be able to exist without her.

“My favorite pediatrician’s back!” She cheers, and you laugh when you see her spin in her office chair. “How do you like your new apartment?”

“The west facing windows are incredible.” You pick up your phone and flip the screen so that she can see the sunset through your wall-length windows, and she gasps at the magnificent view.

“It’s gorgeous!” She rolls her chair closer to her phone, and you giggle when she presses her nose up against the screen so she can really squint at the painting-like sky you’re currently showing her. “Wine and dine nights are about to be so good at your apartment.”

“I’m just excited about the kitchen island and the second bedroom,” you sigh in response, picking up your phone and walking around with it. You walk towards the front of your half built shoe rack, sliding on some shoes as you continue your chat with your friend. “How’s work been so far?”

“Same old,” she responds. You watch as she unties her hair from its slicked back bun, shaking her head vigorously and massaging her scalp so that she can release the tension. “I was the charge nurse today, but we thankfully didn’t have any new admits.”

“That’s good!” You grab your leather tote bag and sling it over your shoulder, making sure your keys are on your wrist before you shut the door to your new home behind you. “When are you off, by the way? I have to go to the university to pick up my materials and meet with Dr. Chung, but we need to meet up in person.”

“I’m free a week from now if that’s okay? It gives you time to set up your apartment and get the first couple of classes out of the way.”

You hum at her words, nodding and giving her a thumbs up. “That sounds good! Now go and don’t let the doctors get you down.”

Yvonne laughs at this, waving as she hangs up the call.

There’s a pep in your step as you walk to Linkon U - your new apartment in the university district of Linkon City. There’s a pleasant vibe as you listen to your favorite song, strides unhurried as you take in your new workplace.

When you’ve been far away from everything you used to know, you don’t realize just how small things were until you step back into your previous environment and really take it all in. That’s the case for you as you walk into the health department - smiling fondly at the trophy display case by the entrance of the grand hall. You let your eyes wander as your feet take you into the vague direction of the administration offices, until-

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

You shake your head and smile sheepishly, breathing in deeply to calm your nerves at bumping into your new colleague. You find that it’s a big mistake, however, because it’s the smell you find yourself craving.

The crisp smell of pine body wash and jasmine detergent, mixed with something that makes you know that it’s him.

You feel yourself heat slightly as you dare to look up, embarrassment and something more heady roiling in your stomach as you stare directly into the golden flecked green of Zayne Li’s eyes. They’re carefully blank, his mouth pressed into a straight line and posture so rigid you would think he’s had a ruler permanently tucked into the waistband of his pants so he’s always straight-backed.

But you know that’s not the case.

No…you know that it’s because of how things ended between the two of you.

You wipe your mind of a kneeling man and salty tears streaking your cheeks as you carefully school your features into a pleasant, albeit lackluster smile. Your hands gently grasp at the shoulders you’ve dreamed of and you step to the side as you move past him, focusing on the small plaque with Dr. Alistair Chung: Head Director of the Linde School of Medicine engraved on it so you don’t lose your composure being in such close proximity to the man who’s never left your mind.

“It’s nice seeing you again, Dr. Li.”

And you mean it. He may not act like he cares, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to.

With that, you nod your head once before walking towards Dr. Chung’s office.

To your surprise, however, Zayne begins to follow you.

To Dr. Chung’s office.

You barely have time to process what’s happening before walking into the office, Zayne closing the door behind the two of you softly. You watch as your old mentor lifts his eyes from the file he’s poring over before sitting up sharply, a warm smile gracing his face as he registers who stands in front of him.

“Ah, Zayne! You’ve found Dr. ____!”

“Hi, Dr. Chung.” You barely hesitate to walk over when he lifts his arms out to you, and he envelops you in a hug that has your heart softening and anxiety calming when you step away from him and back by Zayne’s side.

“Look at the two of you!” He laughs joyously, clapping his hands. “Why, it feels like just yesterday that the two of you were undergrads entering the graduate program!”

You force a laugh from your throat, though it dies awkwardly when you realize Zayne is stone-faced next to you. You clear your throat once again, grasping at something to try and make the atmosphere of the room feel somewhat normal.

“I sometimes look back on those days. Some days with fondness, other times with pain” you say. Zayne’s breath stutters next to you but you ignore him, giving Dr. Chung a real smile. “I get the same amount of sleep from back then but I still look back on those days fondly.”

“Likewise, my dear.” He winks at you quickly before clearing his throat and picking up the document he was previously reading. “We’re thankful and honored to have you serving as an honorary co-professor here at Linkon University - your intellectual prowess and care for knowledge will surely be beneficial to the classes you’ll be overseeing this spring semester.”

You pause at his words, heart stuttering slightly when you hear the prefix “co-” in front of “professor.” What does that mean, exactly? Aren’t you supposed to be leading this semester’s medical intro class by yourself?

“Dr. Chung, I don’t mean to intrude,” you begin softly, but with enough assertiveness that you efficiently cut off his ramblings. “What did you mean by co-professor?”

Beside you, Zayne’s breath sharpens and his previously frosty demeanor goes even more rigid if possible - making your anxiety come back with a vengeance.

No…no-

“Well, Dr. ____, it means you’ll be hosting this semester’s course with another doctor.” Your jaw clenches tightly when Dr. Chung’s tone takes on a teasing sort of lilt, his eyebrows wiggling jokingly at you. You force a fake laugh, trying to quell your rapidly beating heart before asking the question you know the answer to, even if your heart sinks straight to your ass.

“Who am I co-teaching with?”

Zayne exhales sharply, as if he’d been waiting for you to finally prod at the snoring bear in the corner of the room. Dr. Chung looks at you with mild surprise, eyes flickering between the two of your bodies before laughing once more.

“Why, ____, did Zayne not tell you? You two are going to be co-professors!”

Fuck…you’re going to be teaching with Zayne?!

You whip your head sharply over to the root of your surprise and growing issues, and you note with little satisfaction at the sheepish tilt of his eyes.

“Is this really necessary, Dr. Chung?” Your voice is tight and you clench your fists so that you can still your emotions, taking a deep breath and schooling your face into its usual pleasant one. “Does Zay- Dr. Li not have his own courses to teach here at Linkon University?”

“On the contrary, Dr. ____.” You can see the bewilderment on Dr. Chung’s face as he regards the tension between the two of you, and he has the grace to look slightly embarrassed as he continues on. “You’re the leading expert on pediatrics in this region - particularly the study of how Evols can affect a child’s many systems. The seminar this semester will be cardiac and pediatrics focused, and Dr. Li requested yo-”

“If it’s a big deal, we can split the lectures so that you teach the pediatrics part and I teach the cardiac unit.” Zayne’s quick to cut off Dr. Chung’s reasoning, and you don’t miss the wicked gleam in Dr. Chung’s eye and Zayne’s rapidly reddening cheeks as he regards you once again. There’s a depth to his eyes that draws you in - eyes that have been your constant companion in your dreams, eyes that you’ve wanted to look at you with soft tenderness.

You know you can’t have those eyes in your life, though.

You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding before smiling up at Zayne, a bland sort of grin with no teeth and emotion. “It’s all right, Dr. Li. We want to be efficient with this, and it’s easier to explain Evol’s effects on the heart within the realm of pediatrics if we’re both in the room.”

If you were a different person not fully accustomed with Zayne and his emotions, you wouldn’t have seen the invisible war he wages between the facts and his heart flickering on his face. But having known him and his emotions for years at this point, you can see it happening in real time: the way his eyes move back and forth as he scans your face before lifting to the ceiling slightly in thought, the way his hands twitch ever so slightly, and the way his tongue quickly darts out to wet his lower lip. It’s little things you’ve tried to rid yourself of in your time apart from him, but you’re forever cursed with the knowledge in your head.

After what seems like a millenia, Zayne sighs softly and shakes his head. “All right, if you’re okay with it we can do the joint lectures.”

His tone holds a gravelly undertone, and a small part of your stomach erupts in a frenzy of butterflies. You open your mouth to speak but you’re prematurely cut off with a loud ringing coming from his pocket.

Zayne breaks his eye contact with you to reach into his pockets, and he slides his thumb across the screen without even looking. You watch as he answers his phone, face going from curious to severe before settling into a calm that you recognize; the sort of calm you feel when something urgent happens at the hospital.

Zayne hangs up his phone, and he looks at Dr. Chung apologetically. “Called in for emergency heart surgery, something related to a Metaflux fluctuation that triggered an underlying condition.”

Dr. Chung’s eyes sparkle and he nods his assent at Zayne. “Go on, Dr. Li.”

Zayne turns on his heel and begins to walk out. You force yourself to keep your head on Dr. Chung’s nameplate as you hear the door open, but before the door closes shut you hear him pause.

“It was nice seeing you, ____.”

A soft click signals his departure, and you shake yourself off internally.

What a meeting, and it isn’t even your first day lecturing yet.

How the fuck are you going to survive this?

“I think I need to take my leave as well, Dr. Chung.” Your eyes dart back to the man’s bemused smile, and you sigh internally to yourself. What does he know that you don’t?

You nod to him once more before turning on your heel to leave, but-

“You know, Dr. ____…we still have that permanent head of pediatrics position open.”

Dr. Chung’s voice stops you in your tracks, hand hovering above the door knob to his office. You turn your head back to look at him with a bewildered expression. “Sir?”

“It’s been empty for years,” he continues. He peers at you through his glasses, and you suddenly feel like you’re back in grad school - standing in front of him and a panel of your professors skillfully answering questions regarding your thesis. “I can’t think of anyone better than you to lead our pediatrics department.”

You shake your head at this, a bashful expression overtaking your face. “Respectfully, no thank you, Dr. Chung. I don’t think I’m fit for hospital politics - I’d rather be hands on with my care.”

“You, not fit for it?” The laugh that escapes his chest isn’t in a derogatory manner - in fact, it’s full of disbelief that you even think of yourself in that way. “Ms. ____, you fearlessly defended your thesis some years ago before going on to win heaps of awards and researching new scientific breakthroughs for diseases that plague young children. You’ve accomplished feats most of my colleagues barely even get to touch by the end of their career, and you’re still at the first couple of years in your glowing career. Why, you and Dr. Li are of the same caliber! Why are you so afraid of giving yourself time to rest?”

You flinch at the mention of his name as a comparison to your own, but you try to hide your sudden shock as you shake your head harshly. “No, I don’t think I’m quite right for it yet.”

Dr. Chung’s eyes soften at your sudden walls, and he sighs. “Seems I hit a nerve.”

You avert your eyes as he gets up from his chair, approaching you with gentle steps. He stands in front of you and holds out his hand, and after a bit of hesitation, you give him your own. He holds it gently as he regards you with a familial kindness - one that makes your heart ache ever so slightly.

“____, there’s no shame in stopping and resting.” He squeezes your hand and you fight back tears as you squeeze back. “Let me tell you, you’ll never be right for anything - but you can always let yourself grow in your new home and learn. That’s the beauty of our field.”

You bite your lip, willing yourself to get your emotions together before you look up at him and smile as brightly as you can manage. “The semester hasn’t even started yet! Let me get through the courses first - and let me navigate working with Dr. Li while also doing my dailies at Akso and balancing observations. If anything changes I’ll give my response by the end of the semester.”

Dr. Chung sighs, shaking his head. “All right. But just know that by the end of the semester, I will be sending you a couple of insistent emails.”

With that, he lets you go and you wander back down the hallway you came from. As you walk aimlessly, you catch sight of the office door the two of you were by. A shiny nameplate sparkles with the name Dr. Zayne Li, Head of Cardiology engraved on it, and you sigh at your past self’s lack of awareness.

You should have known.

You know it’s foolish of you to think, but is he thinking of you as he’s washing up and preparing for the sudden emergency surgery sprung up on it? Did you consume his thoughts as much as he did in your time apart?

Or have his feelings for you eroded into nothingness?

You shake your head once more, squashing down the disappointment that settles in your stomach before making your way out of the academic office wing.

You don’t have time to think about him. You have lectures to write.

You can’t fight the nervous butterflies that erupt in your stomach when you walk into your assigned lecture hall the following week.

You’ve done a lot of hard things through your career; you can practically do high risk surgeries and retake the Doctor’s Exam in your sleep if you needed to. Public speaking was never really your forte, though - which is hilarious considering you’ve had to speak at international conventions and teach lectures before this.

The more you analyze your feelings, though, you realize that they’re good butterflies.

You don’t know why it feels so different this time. You’re still the same you - maybe with more degrees and an even bigger lack of sleep when you were in undergrad but still, it’s you. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re in a familiar environment that feels so new.

Maybe it’s the person you’re going to be teaching with.

You can’t allow yourself to falter, so you swallow your nerves and open the lecture hall’s computer - waiting for it to boot up so you can access the slides you’ve carefully put together.

You hear the tell-tale sign of the door creaking open, and you hum as you log into your work account. “Hi! Class isn’t in session yet-”

“I would hope not, I don’t want to be late.”

Your stomach drops slightly when you note the soft, slightly frosty tone of your co-lecturer. You clear your throat and steel yourself, looking up to see Zayne holding a stack of neatly stapled papers and his own bag. He sets his bag next to yours on the hook behind the desk before setting the syllabi down onto the desk in front of you.

The air around you suddenly feels too thin, and you reach for a packet so that you can distract yourself from the thin line his mouth is pressed into and how his white shirtsleeves are pushed up to his elbows and hug his biceps in the way you so love- loved. You ignore the way your hands shake as you flip the paper, noting the class schedule and when exams would be before nodding once.

“Glad we both agree on the content schedule.” You cringe internally at how your voice wavers, and you clear your throat once again before scanning the class recommendations once more.

“When would we do observations?” You lift your gaze from the paper and look at him pointedly, tapping at the dates listed. “There aren’t any concrete dates, and with exams and other classes we should let them know in advance so there isn’t any confusion.”

“We should schedule it around our personal timelines.” Zayne’s voice is clipped as he pulls out a pen pouch from his bag and sets it on the desk. “We need to make sure that no major procedures are impeded on when we bring med students around.”

“That’s practically impossible with how fast things change in the hospital and you know that to be true, Zay- Dr. Li.” You catch your near slip and you clear your throat, grabbing a pen and writing down five potential dates. “How do you feel about these?”

Zayne takes the paper from your hands, and you try to fight the shiver that threatens to race down your back when his hands lightly graze against the back of your hand. The tips of his fingers are as callused as you remember and though they barely brush across your knuckles, you fight the gasp that bubbles up against your lips and disguise it as a really shitty cough.

You watch as he purses his lips, scanning through his personal timeline in his head before nodding once in agreement. “All right.”

Your heart sinks at how quickly he agrees - his clipped, almost bored voice letting you know that he intends to spend the least amount of time with you so that he can be rid of you quickly. Did he really disregard you that much - does he really not care for the past couple of years you’ve spent together, even if the ending was horrible?

“I know you don’t want to work with me, especially with how things ended.” You mumble as you avert your eyes so you don’t have to see his expression. “We just have to last the semester and then…well, I’m not sure. But I’m sure you’ll be rid of me by then.”

“What makes you think that?”

His voice is quiet, severe, devoid of any and all emotion that endeared you to him - but he still moves a little closer so that he’s encroaching on your territory. Not enough where he’s all you can feel, but enough that it sends a shiver up your spine when you smell his signature pine and jasmine scent.

“I don’t know.” Your honesty is bare for him to take in, and you swallow thickly when you realize just how vulnerable you’re being with him. This isn’t something that should be happening right now - not with students on their way to the lecture hall right now.

And you definitely shouldn’t be sharing feelings with your fucking ex-fiancé.

“It doesn’t matter.” You swallow thickly before schooling your expression into the bland smile you always seem to have when you’re around him these days. The fire in his eyes gradually dims before frost takes over his expression again because he knows.

He knows that you’re not going to listen to him, not this time.

So you turn back and wave hello to the incoming medical students.

And if they sense the frost between the two of you, they don’t dare to say anything.

“...And that’s how I ended up in this situation.”

“Holy shit, ____.”

“Yeah.” You’re careful as you flop back onto your couch so that you don’t spill the wine you’re holding, rubbing your eyes as you process all that transpired in the past couple of days.

“This is the romance story of the ages.”

Your eyes snap open from shock at Yvonne’s half joke, and you toss a cat shaped couch pillow at her head. “Yvonne! He’s my co-lecturer!”

Yvonne laughs at your reaction as she holds her hands up, half in surrender and half so that she doesn’t spill wine all over your couch. You think she’ll stop the teasing, but…

“You know, most if not all of the health college’s heads set up betting pools on when you and Zayne would start dating.” You groan at her words, throwing another pillow at her laughing head.

“You’re making that shit up!” You slouch on your couch, folding your arms dramatically.

“Am not!” She gasps. “My nursing professors put a lot of gold in the pool for the month of March because of White Day.”

You feel a hot flash of embarrassment when you remember how he had bought you a box of chocolates and a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and you rub a hand at your temple when you recall the classmates and professors that had flocked around you and asked who it was from with a touch of too much intensity. “Oh gods…”

“Now that I think about it, I think Dr. Chung won the whole thing. No wonder he’s so insistent on you working at Akso and becoming the Head of Pediatrics.” Yvonne moves to sit down next to you, placing her wine glass on your coffee table before settling her head on your shoulder. You place your head on top of hers, letting her presence be a safe space for mulling over your thoughts.

“That damn Dr. Chung,” you grumble, much to her amusement.

“It could be worse, ____.” Yvonne’s voice takes on a tone of comfort, and you sigh as you close your eyes. “You’re just lecturing a couple of classes and doing a set of observations with Zay- Dr. Li. Make it through that, you can make it through anything.”

“You can call him Zayne,” you mumble back. “Hearing his name won’t kill me.”

“Well, it sounded like making a little bit of eye contact with him was going to set off cardiac arrest.” Her voice is back to teasing and you make a noise of frustration.

“It was charged and intense!”

“Just say you were eye-fucking him and go, ____!”

The absurdity of Yvonne’s statement makes the both of you burst out laughing, you clutching your stomach as high pitched squeaks escape the both of your lips. There’s something about the two of you absolutely giggling your heads off at something so preposterous that eases your nerves with your current situation at hand.

Maybe it is that easy. All you need to do is survive this semester and then you can transfer to a different city and work in a different hospital and university. Maybe Dawnlight City or somewhere near the Arctic in a sleepy little town.

Somewhere far away enough where you don’t have to be reminded of all of your memories and history involving Zayne.

“All of this would be a lot easier if things weren’t the way they were.” It’s a quiet statement, tinged with a fraction of the sadness that lurks deep in your soul. You want to blame it on the wine, but you know that it’s something that’s been festering within your body ever since that night.

“It’s not on you, ____.” Yvonne’s voice is firm and she squeezes your hand tightly as she bumps you lightly with her shoulder. “It was a mutual agreement to keep the engagement private and you guys were so happy. Transferring to a different hospital was reasonable and you did it so you could move on - no one faults you for that, ____.”

You freeze slightly when you hear move on - a phrase loaded with implications and uncharted feelings.

Have you moved on? You reflect back on your life and you find that things have gotten easier for you. You have a new step stool that’s only allowed in the kitchen because you picked up his annoying habit of placing your dishes on the highest shelf even though you’re shorter than him. You have a car and are more comfortable driving, no longer as reliant on public transportation or your friends. You’ve grown to like eggplant parmesan, too.

But those are little things in your life that you’ve done to fill his absence. You still see and feel flashes of him when you least expect it: in cloyingly sweet lattes that remind you of late night study sessions, in lavender bouquets that surround you with the smell of your first kiss, and with the chibi snowman sitting on your nightstand - the same one you don’t have the heart to throw away because he made it for you when you were bedridden with the fever and he didn’t want to leave you alone, even though he had his own thesis defense rehearsal to prepare for that night.

As much as you’ve tried to move on, you know that you’re just plugging in the gaps for the spaces he used to live in. Deep down, you know that there’s no moving on from him - from the man who wrapped you with his own coat with laughter even though you were the one who insisted on leaving without a jacket, from the one who wiped your tears away and cried with you after you experienced your first loss as a doctor, from the one who tapped his finger three times against your nose before you went to sleep.

No, you can’t move on. Not when you’re still so deeply and irrevocably in love with Li Zayne.

“I haven’t moved on.”

The whisper hangs in the air above your heads and Yvonne stiffens ever so slightly, taking in your confession.

“You’re not over Zayne?”

Her response is a quiet gasp, and you sigh as you rub your hand over your face before shaking your head once, twice, three times - confirming the truth that’s been bubbling in your chest ever since you moved away all those years ago.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been over him.”

“Shit, ____.”

“Yeah,” you mumble.

You let yourself reflect back on that rainy night - the night where everything fell apart for the two of you. He had just been promoted to head of cardiology at Akso - draining his time and his affections from you. You had started seeing him less and less, dark circles forming under his eyes and his cheeks growing gaunter by the second. The two of you had gone back and forth on the subject until everything just…snapped.

“I never see you anymore, ____.” It was lethally quiet after you had said the unspoken truth, venom injected into your tone. “You’re working yourself to death, you’re going to bed when I’m waking up and it’s not good for you-”

“I’m working for us.” Zayne’s voice was icy and he had balled his hands into a fist so tightly you were afraid of him accidentally breaking his own skin. “Weddings are expensive and this is all for you-”

“I don’t want it to only be for me, Zayne! This is supposed to be for us!”

It had burst out of your chest, and in the heat of your anger you had marched up to him and pointed your finger in his chest. “You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’ve distanced yourself from me. We don’t even sleep in the same fucking bed anymore, Zayne!”

Zayne’s anger had rolled over, clouding his judgement as he pushed you away from his body. Your hands had fallen to your side as he said the words that have since been engraved in the twisted, self-hating part of your brain with a coldness that had your entire body shaking. “Sometimes there are more important things than you, ___.”

The living room had gone eerily still, the words punching your gut before you had even processed what he said. There was a breathlessness that had consumed every fiber of your being, and the only thing you remember saying in response to his wide eyes and kneeling position as he clung to your legs and begged for forgiveness over and over again was a simple “We’re done.”

You had pulled off the diamond ring that was nestled on your finger and thrown it at him before walking out of his apartment into the rain, wandering aimlessly until you somehow made it onto Yvonne’s doorstep. She had answered in a mild panic and she held you as you sobbed.

And now you’re in the same position, holding hands while feeling empty.

“Have you talked to him since that day, ____?”

Yvonne’s soft musings break you out of your stupor, and you shake yourself of the past as you process her words. “What was that?”

“Have you talked to him at all?”

“No.” You pull away and rub your cheeks with your hands, hoping that the sensation pulls you away from the dark haze still threatening to consume you. “How would I even approach that conversation? Leaving was the best thing for the both of us.”

Yvonne hums and watches you as you pick up your wine glass and drains it of its remaining liquid. You sigh and wipe the back of your mouth, your thoughts flying out of your mouth as you pour yourself more wine and force yourself to smile. “It’s just a couple of months doing lectures and observations with my ex who I’m still in love with. All I need to do is keep trucking along and not look at him too long and I’ll be okay!”

“You’re deflecting again, ____.” Yvonne’s voice is deadpan, but you can see the glimmer of concern that flashes in her eyes as she reaches over and takes your wine glass and the bottle away from your hands. “And what makes you think he doesn’t feel the same about you?”

You shake your head rapidly at this, refusing to even entertain the idea with her as you try to reach for the bottle once more. “No, I think he was pretty clear when he said other things were more important than me.”

“That’s a big fat lie and you know it, ____.” You scowl and petulantly cross your arms when Yvonne shakes her head and places the bottle and glass on the side table next to her. “No more wine for you, you’re going to have the worst headache tomorrow if we don’t stop now.”

“It’s a good bottle,” you grumble, although you know she’s right.

She rolls her eyes and settles back down next to you, her tone measured as she starts on her train of thought. “You of all people know Zayne the best. He wouldn’t be teaching classes with you if that were the case - fuck, ___, he probably wouldn’t have even approved your guest professor spot if he wasn’t okay with you.”

“Maybe there was no one else available with the same type of expertise?” Your half-hearted joke dies on your throat at the glare Yvonne throws in your direction, and you shrink back as you prepare for her overprotective best friend mode.

“Of fucking course there’s no one else with your expertise, ____!” She heaves a breath, and you sigh heavily.

“Yvonne, no matter how much I want to be with him again, Zayne’s moved on from it. The best I can do now is bear it and try to move on too.”

“You just…just talk to him, ____.” You look at her in bewilderment and Yvonne throws her hands up, shaking her head in exasperation. “I’m not saying I’m defending him or that you need to get back together with him, just…talk to him. He’s changed to the point where even I can see it, and I was his number one hater.”

“You don’t think he’s moved on?” Your voice is tinged with nerves, and Yvonne shakes her head empathetically.

You sink back into your cushions as you mull over your new knowledge, and you feel dangerous feelings of hopes spark in your chest. If Yvonne, the nurse he’s closest to, thinks he hasn’t moved on, then…

“All right, I’ll talk to him.”

This is it.

This is the day you talk to Zayne and try to make things semi-normal with him again.

It’s also the first date of in-hospital observations, and you’re extra conscious of it in the way you triple check that you have your ID badge and stash multiple pens in your pockets for your students. Sure that you’re ready, you walk into Akso Hospital’s cardiac ward in your scrubs and most comfortable shoes, holding a box full of mini cakes labelled “for the ward with the most heart!”

Is it a little bit cheesy? Yes, but you need cheesy if you’re going to get back into a certain cardiac surgeon’s good graces.

For how long you’ve spent in Akso’s cardiac unit in the past, you still can’t remember the exact way you need to take to end up at the cardiac ward’s offices. You were always with Zayne, and he was the one who picked you up and led you to his office so you never really bothered to learn the directions you needed to take because he was always there with you.

You’re certainly cursing your past yourself out for not paying attention now.

You scan your surroundings, lighting up when you see a receptionist’s desk towards your left. You walk around the family waiting room and approach the desk, scanning for a familiar face. You’re a little disappointed, however, when you see a new receptionist.

A handsome looking new receptionist.

As you approach the desk, his head lifts and his eyes widen before giving you a friendly smile, waving hello to you. You give a cordial smile back, letting your feet stop in front of the table and plopping the box in front of you so that you can give your hands a break.

“Hi, I’m looking for the cardiac ward’s offices. I’m meeting a doctor and some students there for observations today?” You cringe when you hear the tilt of a question on your tone, but the receptionist beams at you and nods.

“Yes, of course! And what was your name again?”

“Dr. ____, pediatrics.” You hold out your hand, and he smiles as he grabs hold and shakes it firmly.

“Michael,” he replies easily, and you feel your stomach clench uncomfortably at the way he holds your hand for longer than necessary. You cough and pull yourself back, schooling yourself into a generally nice attitude as you regard him.

“Do you happen to know if anyone else is in the office right now?” You shift your weight around, trying to think of a reason to get going. “It’s fine if it’s the other doctor I’m following for observations today, but I want to get this to the other doctors of the ward before the day starts.”

“Hmm…” Michael’s voice tapers off as he scans his computer before shaking his head empathetically. “Nope, no one’s in right now. I can certainly take the desserts from you, though!”

His laughter fills the air, and you choke out a laugh just so you can try and feel less awkward. You grab at your box though, just to ensure that he doesn’t grab them from your grasp. “Ah, no, it’s okay. I’ll just get going, then-”

“Are you sure?” You feel yourself die a little bit when Michael stands from his desk, walking around and placing an unwanted hand on the small of your back. “I can walk you over-”

“That won’t be necessary, Matthew.”

The voice breaks the awkwardness, and you find yourself filling with cold relief as you turn around and find Zayne walking into the waiting room. He’s pulling on a white coat over his scrubs, and you try to suppress the dangerous thoughts that flare in your head when you see the slight way his fingers twitch at the sight of Michael’s hand on your back.

“Dr. Li!” Michael smiles, although you can see the tightness in his eyes as he registers Zayne using a wrong name. “I was just going to take Dr. ____ to the ward’s offices-”

“And I’m here now.” Zayne’s standing next to you before you know it, swatting his hand away and replacing it with his own. You relax slightly, unconsciously stepping closer to Zayne’s solid body as you give Michael a fake apologetic look.

“Thanks for your help!” Your tone has a soft sarcastic edge - one that has Zayne loosing a soft breath as he begins to push you away. Your movements are stopped though, when you feel a hand wrap around your wrist and tug you back.

“Wha-”

“I was going to help you!” Michael’s voice is tight as he throws a barely disguised look of annoyance at Zayne, who’s jaw ticks dangerously when he sees how Michael holds your wrist. “Zayne doesn’t need to take you-”

“On the contrary.” Zayne grabs Michael’s wrist and yanks him off of you, your eyes widening at the sudden display of calculated aggression from him. Zayne steps from your side and all but pushes Michael back to his seat, the latter’s cheeks burning bright red as he sits defeatedly back at his desk.

You watch carefully as Zayne steps back by your side, noting the way his jaw ticks dangerously when he regards Michael’s sweating face once more. Scoffing just loud enough for you to hear, he places his hand back on the small of your back and tilts his head back to Michael in a dismissive show of goodbye.

“It’s Dr. Li to you, Matthew. I suggest you remember respect.”

With that, the pressure on your back grows stronger as Zayne gently pushes you in the direction of the offices.

Once you’re out of earshot, you step away and regard him curiously. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“You were uncomfortable and Michael messed up some important appointments, I could have done worse.” Zayne’s tone is bored but you can hear the tightness in his voice as he swipes his keycard. He pushes the door open with his foot, and you’re greeted with the sight of a doctor you vaguely recognize and Yvonne, who looks like she’s about to fall asleep on her feet.

“Dr. ___, everybody.” You look at Zayne curiously, but he doesn’t give anything else away as he ushers you towards the two empty chairs at the head of the table. You shake your head at Yvonne’s small smirk, but the smirk only widens when Zayne pulls the chair out for you and gestures for you to sit.

“I’m Greyson!” The doctor with ruffled brown hair and thick glasses smiles at you sweetly as he shakes your hand, and you widen your eyes at Yvonne who’s face suddenly flushes once she sees you’ve come to your realization:

This is the doctor she has a crush on.

You’re never going to let her live this down.

“____,” your voice is warm as you shake his hand, and you give a small wave to Yvonne who’s suddenly avoiding your gaze sheepishly. Your smile grows even wider and you open your mouth to tease her subtly, but you’re interrupted with a cough.

You turn your head to look at Zayne, who’s looking at the box still in your hands with curiosity and something softer - a look he reserved only for you in the past. You watch as his eyes scan your penmanship on the box, and your heart stutters when you see the small upward tilt on his lips.

“‘For the ward with the most heart?’ There better not be a real heart in there, ____.”

“No, not at all.” You pull the lid of the box open, and you watch as Zayne’s face shifts from relaxed to something unreadable.

In the box are little tea cakes, reminiscent of the ones you and him would pick up for your coworkers. You had randomly picked out a variety when you picked them up this morning, but as you look at the innocent little cake jars you feel yourself freeze.

These were the same flavors you and him always gravitated towards when the two of you were still together.

You hold your breath as Greyson makes his way closer, picking up a small jar of earl grey cake piled high with a light whipped cream. Greyson looks towards Zayne with an inquisitive quirk on his brow. “Isn’t this your favorite flavor?”

“I-” Zayne begins, but you clear your throat and snatch the cake from Greyson’s hands.

“They’re meant to be shared!” Your voice wavers, and you shoot a pointed look at Yvonne who you can tell is trying not to die from embarrassment for you. Yvonne, getting the hint, moves to stand next to you and peers into the cake box.

“Chocolate raspberry!” She picks up the little jar and playfully elbows you, resulting in a little oof escaping from your mouth as she inspects the cake with glee in her eyes. “You’re the best, ____.”

“I like that flavor too!” Greyson moves towards Yvonne in an attempt to steal the little jar, but Yvonne moves away with ease and sticks her tongue out at him childishly.

“Get lost, Greyson! I claim this one!”

Their bickering fades when you feel another presence next to you, though you can tell it’s not as frosty. You turn your head towards Zayne, who’s looking at you with an undecipherable expression on your face.

“You didn’t have to get the cakes.” You feel your stomach drop at the tone of his voice - one that doesn’t give away his emotions. Why is he so hard to read now? Are all of your plans going to shit before you can even move them into motion?

“I wanted to.” You let your eyes dart away to compose yourself, and you find yourself scowling at the sight of the little cake jars. Maybe he didn’t want them at all? Why are you always second guessing yourself with him? “It’s okay, though. You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to, I can take them-”

“Who said I wouldn’t eat them?”

A soft pressure encircles itself on your wrist, and your body stills as a comforting cold starts at your wrist and grounds yourself in your present. You look up to see Zayne’s softening gaze, clearly reading through your facade.

“I’m grateful you got them for me- us.” Zayne’s lips tilt up once more, and you feel yourself melting slightly at the sight. “The ward appreciates it, ____.”

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I wanted to get us off on the right foot, with observations and whatnot.”

You inject your voice with your hidden implications, and you watch Zayne debunk it in real time. You wait with bated breath to see if he’ll accept your tentative olive branch-

-and you exhale in relief when he nods slightly.

“After today’s observations.”

As if on cue, your first students knock on the office door and Yvonne and Greyson stop their bickering to open the door. You nod at him once before pulling away and putting on your best professor smile.

And this time, it’s not as forced as it used to be.

Observations are going well.

You and Zayne had been efficient with introducing Greyson and Yvonne to your class as the accompanying doctor and charge nurse for this set of rounds. You had been thorough with your students’ expectations: take diligent notes, let the four of you handle the brunt of the work, and respect the patient’s privacy.

The first couple of rooms had been peaceful, full of patients who were doing well and willing to chat with a select number of students. You watch with a soft smile as Zayne leads this demonstration with one of your students, an elderly patient giving your group a smile and a thumbs up as you herd them out of the room.

Soon enough, you reach the last room. You scan the patient’s file, frowning when you see the information written on the page. You take Zayne’s lax position as a chance to approach him, walking up to his height and tapping the paper in your hands.

“I don’t exactly know how this file came up in the approved files for observations, are you sure this is okay?” You ask as he scans the profile. His eyes widen and he looks at you, the concern you feel in your stomach mirrored in his eyes.

“Escalated emotions leading to spiked heart rate…” he muses softly, and he scans over the rest of the information before he nods to himself and looks back at you. “As long as we maintain a calm environment for her and direct our students to do the same, it should be okay. We have to be careful though.”

You can’t shake off your unease, but you nod with him. “It’s important for them to see different situations. I’ll take this one.”

With both of your approval, you and Zayne lay down the rules before opening the door to the patient’s room.

Your eyes soften when you see the patient on her bed - a girl no older than the age of ten. She has an apprehensive look on her face that she disguises with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and your heart aches when you note her slightly shaky hands.

You put on your own smile, one you hope that puts her at ease as you approach the bed. You feel Zayne’s eyes bore holes into the back of your head as you sit at the edge - breaking obvious protocol, but different scenarios call for different solutions.

“Hi, I’m Dr. ____! What’s your name?” You see her shoulders loosen ever so slightly at your soft tone, and you take it as a win as you hold out your hand for her to shake.

“Mine’s Grace,” she responds, and you melt when you feel the slight tremor stop as she shakes your hand.

“Well, Grace,” you begin, pulling out your files and selecting her file. You make a big show of flipping through the pages, and she giggles at your theatrics as you find her case details. “It says here you’re due for a heart transplant because of an Evol-related accident. Can you tell me some details and how you’re feeling right now?”

Grace clears her throat, a sudden seriousness taking over her face and making her older than she appears. “I’m 100th on the waitlist. I’ve been on the waitlist for two years, ever since a Wanderer attack created Metaflux waves so strong it affected the chemistry of my body. I feel…tired. Doctors keep telling me I’ll be okay but I don’t feel it.” She suddenly looks at Zayne, her eyes sharp as she regards him. “Am I going to die, Dr. Li?”

Your students pause their frantic notes, and you can feel the energy of the room go down at the sudden morbidness even though you and Zayne barely blink at her question. Maybe because the two of you are accustomed to situations turning all of a sudden, but you know that this won’t end well if you don’t redirect now.

“You’re not going to die.” Your voice is still soft but much more serious as you reach out and grasp Grace’s hand once more, letting her sink her nails into your hand so that she can grasp at her reality.

“I’m dying, Dr. ____.” You can hear the telltale sounds of tears welling up in the back of her throat, and you’re quick to wrap her in your arms as she begins to cry. You can tell that this is her breaking point and you’re cursing yourself out in your head for even bringing students into this room.

“I’m scared to die,” she sobs into your chest as you stroke her hair. Her heart rate begins to pick up on the monitor, and Zayne’s eyes flash as he hears the sound. You know immediately you need to try and get it under control - her heart spiking could lead to dangerous effects.

You will yourself into a calm place in your mind as your hands move up and down in soothing movements. The room grows quiet when your hands begin to emit a soft glow, and you whisper softly into Grace’s ear as you direct your Evol into her body.

“Dr. Li, what’s Dr. ____ doing to the patient?”

You ignore the student’s question and focus solely on Grace’s breathing, guiding her body’s energy into a tranquil place that allows for her heart rate to settle and for her tears to subside. All the while, you rub circles into her shoulder and whisper, “You’re not going to die, Grace. Dr. Li and I will make sure of it, sweetheart.”

Grace’s breathing evens out, and she pulls away with a soft sigh. Her eyes are slightly swollen, but her face looks serene, even a little bit sleepy as she gives you a small smile.

“Thank you, Dr. ____.” Her brow furrows when she looks at your face and you automatically reach up to make sure your smile isn’t slipping off your cheeks. “You look…different now.”

You know. You can feel it in the throbbing of your skull and how your cheeks probably lost some color but you shake your head, pushing away slightly and ignoring the way your hands shake.

“I’m okay, sweet girl.” You give her hand a soft pat before standing up, wobbling slightly on your feet. You brush off the concerned gasps and murmurs, instead electing to look at the bright EXIT sign above the door so you don’t accidentally make eye contact with the other doctor in the room.

“Dr. Li will finish up this round of observations.” Your voice trembles yet leaves no room for argument, and you ignore everyone’s worried glances at each other as you make your way to the door. “Reflections due midnight this Friday online.”

You’re dashing out of the door before you even hear a confirmation, briskly walking the halls of the ward so that you can try to find a quiet spot to collect yourself.

Your Evol isn’t a secret - in fact, it was quite well known in the medical world and the Hunter’s Association. You had been tested rigorously when you were younger because having the ability to control emotions could be dangerous in the wrong hands, but the results came back stating that you could only calm and soothe.

The results didn’t mention how it affected you, however. If done at too intense of a frequency when your energy’s low, it could cause damage to your own emotional being. Stop while administering the Evol and you risk permanently affecting the receiver’s psyche. Do it too many times with no adequate rest and you’re basically irreparable.

Hilarious that you can’t fix your own troubles with your Evol.

You somehow find your way back to the office you were in earlier and you swipe your key card against the sensor, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the sensor beeps red. You try to swipe again and almost kick the door in frustration when it beeps red at you once more, and you’re ready to fall asleep on the wall when a hand on your shoulder stops you.

You let the cool touch guide you away from the door, and you don’t speak as Zayne pushes the door open and gently ushers you inside. Somewhere in your tired mind you can feel the sour mood of the room, but you’re thankful that he doesn’t speak as he pulls out a chair and all but pushes you to sit on the hard plastic.

Your eyes slowly drift shut as you massage your temples, hoping the ache goes away soon so you can run off and take a nap. All the while, he’s a quiet yet agitated flurry of movement, filling a paper cup with water and pulling a chair closer to you so he can sit in front of you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Zayne says as he settles down. There’s a dull clack as he sets the paper cup in front of you a little too harshly, and you barely crack your eyes open to find it before grabbing onto it and taking a small sip. You find that the water helps alleviate the ache, so you take a bigger gulp as you eye him with a bit of annoyance.

“It was a mistake bringing the students into her room so I found a solution to help ease her anxiety.” There’s no warmth in your tone and Zayne sighs in frustration because he knows you’re right - it was an oversight on both of your parts, you just happen to be the one who fixed it.

“We could have found a solution together,” he responds, and you fight back the bitterness that settles on your tongue at the worry that finds its way into his expression and voice.

“Why does it matter?” You don’t mean to sound angry, you really don’t, but being with the man you still hold incredibly complicated feelings for is clouding your judgement and manifesting itself in this way. “Who are you to care?”

The implications of your words hang heavy in the air, and Zayne’s mouth snaps shut as you avert your gaze.

Why is he still so worried about you?

Isn’t he the one who said that there were more important things than you?

Why is your heart aching right now?

“This is stupid,” you grumble, and you push yourself up from the seat even though you wobble slightly. “I’m going to go home and take a nap.”

You sidestep his chair and walk for the door, reaching for the doorknob and pretending not to hear the scrape of his chair against the floor-

-but he stops you, pushing you back down into your chair.

Zayne doesn’t speak, simply opening the box of cakes still on the table and pulling out the earl grey cup with whipped cream - the same cake he was eyeing earlier. With a newfound gentleness, he sets the cake down in front of you alongside a small fork before grabbing your paper cup and going back to the water dispenser to fill it up.

“You’re always drained after using your Evol so you need to get your blood sugar up.” His voice is still concise and clear, but there’s a softer look in his eyes as he hands you back your water cup and lets your hands muddle together. “Eat, ____.”

His fingertips linger on the back of your hand and you watch a war of emotions flash in Zayne’s eyes before he sighs heavily, allowing his hand to reach up and run along the underside of your jaw. The room goes too still and you’re suddenly overaware of him - of his jasmine and pine scent, of the calluses on his fingertips as his thumb barely ghosts over your lips, and the myriad of emotions that flash in his eyes.

Your hand reaches up before you can stop it, and you rest your palm against his own hand. Your breath trembles, but you still find it in yourself to tap your pointer finger three times: a signal only the two of you know.

His eyes widen, but his thumb taps against your bottom lip once…twice…

“-Zayne, there you are!”

He pulls away too soon, and you’re cursing Greyson in your head for walking in on the two of you all of a sudden. Greyson’s eyes widen at the scene but Zayne’s pulling away before you can even blink, quick to stand and move next to Greyson while his hand flexes ever so slightly.

“I want the cake jar empty and a text saying you’re home and asleep by the time I come back.”

And with that, he leaves the room - leaving you flustered and warm all over.

The next few weeks are…infuriatingly pleasant, to say the least.

There’s an unspoken agreement of peace between you and Zayne. While things obviously haven’t gone back to how they were when you were…together, there’s an air of familiarity that you both sink into with an alarming quickness - and to be honest, it has your head spinning.

It’s the lunches sent to each other’s offices without another word alongside neat stacks of assignments, sticky notes of “Do you agree with this grading?” written in penmanship only the two of you understand.

It’s coffee runs early in the morning at the times you always went: 7:00 am, and while you may not talk to each other the silence is comfortable with glances from your end when you think he isn’t looking.

He’s actually staring at you when you actually aren’t looking, with a yearning that would have made your heart stop if you had caught sight of it.

And it’s the subtle touches that catch the attention of students and faculty alike - creating a flurry of rumors that he somehow is oblivious to but you’re completely aware of.

“Did you see the way he moved her away with his hand on her back? That was so romantic!” You’re passing by a group of your students after class, and your head immediately whips to the girl who sighed that statement.

“What was that, Lisa?” You’re not trying to tease or put her on the spot, you just kind of want her perspective on the situation because you were hyper aware of it, too. You watch as both of her companions snicker and she flounders for an answer, cheeks turning pink and games cast to anywhere but your scrutiny.

“N-nothing, Dr. ____!” She bows hastily and all but runs away, her friends bowing at you as a farewell gesture before chasing after her. The laughter that leaves their lips makes you shake your head, and you can’t help but smile to yourself as you walk to your temporary office in the academic advisory wing.

Your office is barebones, but there’s a little blind box figurine on your desk that marks it as your own. You smile at the silly little figure checking its watch while carrying a briefcase, placing your own bag down and pulling out a thick stack of reflections and a red pen. You flip your office sign so that it says you’re in before settling into your chair and reaching for the first packet because you know in your heart that the chances of you receiving a visitor are slim to none.

The minutes pass in quick succession and you’ve gotten into a groove as you reach for another reflection. You’re so engrossed in the soft violin of the classical music you have going on in the background that you almost miss the knock on your door, but being alone for close to an hour has you attuned to any abnormal sounds.

“Come in!” Your voice cracks slightly from lack of use and you feel yourself heat from embarrassment, but your posture relaxes only slightly when you see that it’s Zayne walking through the door with a plastic bag in one hand and his work bag in the other.

“Have any of our students come in yet?” He asks as a greeting, and you shake your head while ignoring how your heart annoyingly speeds up when you hear him say “our.”

“I’ve gotten through about half of the reflections, I’ll be continuing with them so I can try to finish before the end of the night.” Zayne slightly grimaces when you say that, and you watch with a quirk in your brow as he pulls a chair so that it’s next to yours behind the desk.

“Come eat first.” His voice is soft as he pulls the plastic bag container towards him, untying the knot before pulling a takeout container and utensils from the bag. With his free hand he lightly sweeps the papers from the desk, ensuring that the space is clear before he sets the container in front of you.

You regard him curiously as you pry open the container, and you feel yourself soften when you see the thick soy garlic noodles with a side of broccoli and orange chicken. It’s been your go-to order for ages now, and your stomach grumbles happily as you turn to look at him.

Zayne’s settling into his chair with his own container, eyeing his classic platter of fried rice and char siu pork with an evident hunger. You pick up your platter and begin to pick up food with your utensil, laughing softly to yourself when you see that he’s even asked for extra garlic with the broccoli - just the way you like it.

“What is it?” He asks, but deflect by shaking your head as you place a piece of chicken in your mouth so that you can ignore how your stomach clenches in an odd way.

“I forgot how good this takeout is,” you reply. His eyes scan your face but you pretend that nothing’s brewing in your mind as you continue to eat through your food.

“It is, isn’t it.” His voice tapers out, and he settles for eating beside you. With the soft music in the background and the academic atmosphere, it almost feels like you’re back in grad school with him - taking a break in between the chaos of your schedules and finding solace in his presence. You swallow thickly around some noodles at the thought, fighting the breath that threatens to leave you by grabbing your water bottle and taking a deep swig.

“Remember when we were presenting the first drafts of our research projects to the academic board?” Zayne’s surprisingly the one to break the silence, and you tilt your head to look at him curiously as he places his now empty container back on your desk.

“And Carter was violently hungover but still tried to pass that presentation off as his work?” You scoff, placing your own container onto the desk. Zayne chuckles at your annoyance - you never liked Carter, and you’re thankful Zayne was able to switch his research project before the studies got too serious.

“Nice to know he still gets on your nerves.” There’s a teasing edge to his voice but you simply roll your eyes as you lift your arms up above your head so you can stretch out your back.

“He ruined your first semesters of grad school, of course I still hate his guts,” you reply, letting a soft moan slip through your lips unknowingly when you feel a crack along your spine. You feel yourself flush a little at the unwarranted sound, and you look over to Zayne to see if he caught it.

Judging by the slight tick of his jaw, he did.

You stand up too quickly, clearing your throat and beginning to reach your hands out so that you can clear your desk, but a hand on the small of your back stops you dead in your tracks.

“Zayne, wha-” you begin, but Zayne’s quick to settle you back into the plush cushion, turning you around in your office chair so that you’re facing the wall. You scowl petulantly, but his hand on the head of your office chair restricts your movement.

“Stay there,” he says, and though he tries to sound nonchalant you can hear a strained undertone that has your heart racing.

“I can clean my own desk,” you try to argue, but your mouth falls shut when you feel a whisper of ice forming on the back of your chair due to his fingers digging into the leather a little too tightly.

“I brought the food, I will clean up.”

You cross your arms, trying to remove the cross crease of your brow as you hear him place the containers into the plastic bag. Your toe taps against the floor as he ties the bag shut, sighing to himself deeply before letting go of your chair and allowing you to spin back around to face the desk.

You both fight to ignore each other’s glances, Zayne throwing the trash away in the garbage can outside of your office while you drink water to keep yourself alert and clear-minded. By the time he walks back into your office you’ve both composed yourselves and you’re reaching out to grab the next stack of reflections to be graded. You expect him to pick up his bag and leave, but to your surprise he’s settling back down in his seat and pushing his sweater sleeves up.

“Are you going to go home?” He asks as he unbuttons the top of the shirt underneath his sweater, and you shake your head in response while putting everything you can in ignoring the appearance of his arms.

“I want to finish these reflections.” You tap your pen against the opening page, eyes widening when you see whose paper you’re about to grade. “Lisa Zhao, huh…”

“What about her?” Zayne’s rolling his chair closer to your’s, hovering his head above your shoulder just enough so that he can also read her proposal.

“It’s nothing, really. She was just muttering something about romance and her friends were laughing at her.” You fight to focus your attention on the words printed on the paper, but Zayne’s presence has your head spinning in a way you can’t decide if you like or not.

“Odd,” he replies. You turn to look at him head on, but your heart stutters painfully at the sight that greets you.

His eyes are slightly unfocused behind his thin rimmed glasses, hair pushed up just enough where you can see the concentrated crease of his brow. Against your better judgement your eyes drift lower to his chest, and you gasp softly when you see his bare neck and a little bit of his chest because of the way he’s leaning beside you.

“-!” A soft noise escapes your lips when his nose slightly brushes against your’s, and you push your chair away from him so that you can try and catch your breath. There’s a sudden shift in the air and you need to gather your wits and tell him to leave because if you don’t you might do something you might regret like pull him in for…you don’t know but you don’t want to find out.

“Are you all right, ____?” There’s genuine concern in his voice, you know, but you suddenly feel so angry at him.

“What game are you playing?” You push yourself out of your chair, trying to fight the way your vision swims from the sudden movement as you glare at the way he stands from his chair.

“What do you mean?” He asks, although you can tell by the carefully neutral tone of his voice that he knows - of course he does, when he knows every little thing about you.

“The food,” you begin, lifting a finger for each reason you can come up with. “The soft touches on my back and across my knuckles, taking care of me after the first set of observations, coffee in the morning the way we like…Zayne, what’s happening?”

Your voice breaks off at the last word, and you reach up to rub at your face to quell the frustrated tears that begin to pool in the corners of your eyes.

You’ve admitted it to Yvonne and to a tiny part of yourself: you’re scared. Scared of how easy it is to fall back into this routine, at how you and Zayne are too quick to bury your past and return to almost-normal with a frightening comfort that has you believing you’re still his.

And therein lies the issue: you’re absolutely not Zayne Li’s and it’s going to ruin you and the feelings that have just blossomed tenfold since you first re-met him in Dr. Chung’s office.

“I…I want to take care of you.”

It’s a quiet confession that has your heart racing. You bury your face in your hands even tighter, but a gentle sweep of his thumb across your knuckles has you loosening your grip. When he sees that you won’t peek up to look at him, he sighs and taps his thumb against your knuckle once.

“The lines between us are blurred right now, and that’s my fault.” He admits. You lift your head up slightly, and he exhales in relief when your hands begin to lower. His own hands are there to replace them, and your fingers wrap around his wrists as he gently massages your cheeks with his thumbs.

“All I know is that when I saw your name on the potential list of candidates to co-teach, I wanted it to be you immediately.” He taps your cheek, and your eyes slowly drift shut at his comforting contact. “I knew things couldn’t go back to the way they were immediately but…but I know I want to try.”

“Everything has been so hot and cold with you.” Your voice has dropped to a whisper, and against your own wishes you feel a tear slide down your cheek. “I don’t know what to believe or expect. Will I get cold, avoidant Dr. Li? Or will I get Zayne?”

The room stills as he absorbs your words, music long done from how long it’s been. Even though you know it’s way past your office hours, you know that anyone could walk by and see this compromising position. That alone is enough to begin to untangle yourself from his embrace, but his hold on your face tightens just slightly enough for you to stop.

“I haven’t been the clearest with you, but I want you to know that I want to make amends with you.” His forehead comes to rest against yours, making your grip on his wrists tighten at the contact.

The two of you stand like that for just a moment, and you feel something in your chest ignite when his pointer finger taps your nose gently. You pull away to look at his flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips - a look you know is mirrored on your own face.

“Can we even get to that point?” Your voice bares all of your fears and emotions to him, and you can see the exact moment Zayne’s heart cracks slightly in his chest.

“I’ll spend the rest of this semester and whatever time you allow trying and making it up to you if you’ll let me,” he murmurs in response.

You look up at him, noting the sincerity in his face and the myriad of emotions that lie beneath the surface. They reflect and resonate with you because they’re exactly the ones you feel in your own body.

It feels a little different now, though. You feel a little bit lighter and ready to try.

And by the way Zayne’s face breaks out into a breathtaking smile when you nod in his grasp, you know he feels the same way, too.

As it turns out, his trying includes inviting you to a karaoke party with the rest of the cardiac unit.

“Don’t worry,” Yvonne reassures you as she helps you put on your favorite necklace. “Zayne made sure to not include Michael tonight! It's just the cardiac ward’s available doctors, nurses, and you.”

“You’re making that sound like it’s a bad thing,” you reply teasingly, and Yvonne laughs as she slides on her heels.

“It’s definitely not, especially when you look this hot!”

A burst of confidence makes itself known in your chest, a smile spreading across your face as you look at the floor length mirror by your bedroom door. Your navy blue dress is appropriate enough to wear to a work function but the low back and silky fabric makes you feel bold, even with the white cardigan you end up pulling on.

Yvonne pouts as you button the top closed, shaking out her loose hair and messing with her bangs so they look tastefully messy. “C’mon, ____! Let Dr. Zayne see his beautiful lady, take the cardigan off!”

“It’s cold!” You laugh in response. You wiggle your eyebrows teasingly and she groans because she knows what you’re about to say. “You’re all covered up though, no Greyson?”

Yvonne’s face flushes a light pink, and you can’t help but laugh at the way she scans her white off-the-shoulder long sleeved top and black flowy pants. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“So he is coming.” Yvonne groans at your giggles, shaking her head and making her way to the front door of your apartment with an alarming quickness.

“We have a cab to catch, ____!” You follow after her, laughing all the way down the elevator ride and on your way to the karaoke bar.

The good mood continues when you enter the building, arms linked with Yvonne as you scan the rooms the cardiac ward rented out. Soon enough, you find a screen that says Akso Hospital’s Ward with the Most Heart, and your heart flutters as you enter the room because you know Zayne named it after your lame joke.

You say hi to the nurses and doctors that approach you and Yvonne, giving hugs and accepting compliments for your outfits. You put your cardigan and purse next to Yvonne’s on the designated table before being whisked away to the bar in the corner of the room, away from the karaoke screens and crowd of cardiac surgeons belting a ballad with increasing passion.

Yvonne waves the bartender over, ordering two cocktails while you surreptitiously scan the room for a certain raven-haired head of cardiology. Zayne was never one to spend too much time at work events, even if he’s the one helping plan and pay for said events. If you remember correctly, you and him would show up for an hour at most before doing…other activities.

Your skin heats very briefly, and Yvonne eyes you curiously as she hands you a pink cocktail. “What is it, ____?”

“Just remembering something,” you murmur before lifting the glass up to your lips. You wince at the slight alcoholic sting but you find it’s much easier to drink, making you look at Yvonne suspiciously as she rapidly downs her own drink.

“The tab’s on the hospital,” she answers as a reply to your curious stare, holding her hand up again for another drink. You shake your head and laugh, placing your mostly full glass on the counter before waving the bartender over to you as she pouts.

“Can we get two glasses of white?” You ask, and before Yvonne can protest you shake your head. “The goal is to feel good, not get fucked up. Your cocktails will fuck us up.”

“Okay, okay, ____,” she sighs, and you hand her a glass of white wine before making her promise she’ll go easy on herself.

You hear cheers and greetings on the microphone, and you turn around to see Zayne and Greyson entering the room. Your breath catches in your throat when you see Zayne - eyes wandering down his frame before you even realize what you’re doing. Your fingers tighten ever so slightly on the stem of your wine glass when you see the neat lines of his tan slacks and the way the embroidered birds on his sweater ripple across his chest when he turns his body to scan the room.

His eyes catch yours and you’re rendered breathless as you scan his face. There’s a hint of weariness behind his thin rimmed glasses, hair slightly more mussed than how he usually has it done. But his eyes flash with something dangerous before his lips tilt up ever so slightly, making you squeak as you turn back to the bar.

“What is it?” Yvonne’s eyes widen as you down your wine in one gulp before reaching for the cocktail you had left untouched. She yelps as you try to down it too, but you’re only able to get a little sip before she successfully pries the glass from your palm.

“I need more if I’m going to make it out-” you say hastily, raising your hand but Yvonne stops you and orders two waters.

“Okay, so we’re going to drink water and gather ourselves because we should not be letting men dictate our feelings,” she declares steadily, and you sigh heavily before begrudgingly drinking the cold water. The coolness of the liquid clears your head, although it doesn’t stop the soft buzz that’s still coursing through your veins as you finish the glass. You and Yvonne place the empty glasses on the bar, eyeing the mounting energy in front of the karaoke screens as everyone jumps up and down to a classic party song.

“I think it’s a mistake for me to be here!” By now you’re having to shout for her to understand you through the din, and she shakes her head empathetically as she grabs your hand and begins to drag you to the floor.

“No it isn’t, ____!” She begins to dance, spinning in a circle and making you laugh as you begin to sway your body back and forth to the beat as well. “You’ve worked hard with observations and teaching, it’s time for you to relax!”

You’re quick to let loose, letting yourself open up a little and dance with Yvonne and the other nurses of the cardiac ward to a fun pop song. You go for a little spin during the height of the song, the girls cheering you on as your skirt billows slightly around your ankles and making you feel really, really good.

The dancing continues and you move from crowd to crowd, smiling and dancing with your coworkers. You lose Yvonne in the crowd but you don’t mind it, finding your way to the edge of the crowd and dancing with the first group you had been with. Soon enough, the next karaoke singer chooses a slower song - the crowd groaning but still finding partners to dance with. You take it as a chance to move back to the bar so that you can take a break and try to find your best friend. There’s a wide smile on your face as you order a glass of water, gulping it down greedily before placing it back on the counter and leaning against the solid wood.

“Having fun?”

You tilt your head to the side to find Zayne standing next to you with his elbows propped on the bar behind him, his sleeves pushed up past his forearms and hair even more mussed than when you first saw him. There’s a softness on his face as he regards you, and you feel your knees go slightly weak when you see him scanning your figure with a slow, calculated sweep of his eyes.

“Yes.” You don’t mean for it to sound so breathless, but you find yourself growing bolder when his jaw tightens ever so slightly. You gather your courage and slide yourself closer to him, your fingers reaching up to push his hair back from his face. His hand twitches on the bar, fingers tightening on the wood as the tips of your nails softly graze his forehead before you smile and pull your hand back to copy his stance. “Are you?”

“Somewhat,” he sighs, and you fight your shiver as he moves himself closer so that he can tilt his head towards you. The rational part of your brain is telling you that it’s just so that you can hear him better, but the majority of your brain is melting - especially when he lays his arm flat across the bar so you’re half in his embrace.

“Oh?” You fight to keep your breathing even as you tilt your head up to regard him. “I saw that you and Greyson came in late. Is everything all right in the cardiac ward?”

Zayne’s eyes light up at your words, and you watch with a soft feeling in your heart as he begins to speak once more. “We found a donor so we were organizing who would be doing the surgery and whatnot. It took longer than expected, I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“I’m glad you’re here now,” you reply. You playfully bump his shoulder, your smile widening when you see the corners of his lips tilt up. “Now you get to relax!”

“It’s hard for me to relax.” His head dips down lower so his lips are right by your ear, and you feel yourself shiver at the way his mouth barely brushes your skin. Eyes threatening to slip shut, you reach up and wrap your fingers around his bicep - earning yourself a low groan and another thrilling sensation racing up your spine.

“And why’s that?” You’re tilting your body so that you can place your palms on his shoulders, smoothing the barely creased fabric so that you can put some semblance of normalcy at this clear flirting going on between the two of you. Zayne gets the hint though, and with a bemused smile forming on his lips he places his hands on your waist to pull you closer.

“Too loud.” His right hand picks up your own absentmindedly, and he begins swaying you around in a circle. Your feet follow along without a second thought as you stare up at him - in tune with him from the times he led impromptu dances during late nights in the kitchen while you two were still together. There’s a pang in your chest when you come to that realization, but it’s quickly soothed away with a gentle squeeze on your waist that has you melting even closer to him.

“It certainly is,” you hum back as you allow him to give you a little spin. The skirt of your dress whooshes around your ankles and you giggle softly when he directs your spin back into his safe embrace. His hands are quick to settle on your hips, long fingertips brushing against the warm skin of your spine and making you gasp softly as he regards you with a sudden heat in his stare.

“There’s another reason why I can’t relax,” he confesses softly. His fingers trace up to the middle of your back, tapping three times slowly as he pulls you closer. The swaying slowly stops until it’s the two of you just…staring at each other, noses brushing and eyes unblinking as one of his hands reaches up to cup your face.

“What’s that?” It’s a breathless, rhetorical question that you both know the answer to. It’s a question that has equal parts desire and anxiety pooling in your stomach at how he may respond, your heart beating so loudly you wonder if he can hear it above the din of his coworkers singing horribly on the mic.

“A beautiful vision before me.” It has you gasping as his nose slides against yours, lips barely brushing. “She’s dressed in navy blue silk and she’s made it hard for me to think rationally since I saw her name on a list of potential candidates to teach with.”

“Zayne-” you begin to whisper, but his lips are quick to bend down and press against yours. Your eyes immediately flutter shut at the contact, arms tightening around his neck as you pull him closer to you. His hands are no better - pulling you as close as you can get as he angles your head up to deepen your kiss. His tongue darts out to swipe against your bottom lip and you whimper against his mouth, allowing for him to bite against your lip softly.

Your head spins as he slowly comes to a stop, pulling away ever so slightly. Your eyes open lazily, and you find that he has a hazy look in his own eyes, scanning up and down your face in a way that has you smiling up at him.

“Hi,” you begin softly. Your fingers trace soft circles at the base of his skull as you tilt your head up at him so you can watch his expression carefully. “How are you?”

It’s like his body temperature goes down in a millisecond, eyes widening rapidly as he all but pushes himself away from you. You watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, hands shaking and gaze avoidant as he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and clears his throat.

“That was a mistake.”

Your heart cracks.

It’s like you’re watching in the third person, powerless to stop what’s about to happen to you. Your hands itch to reach out to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, hold him close, something, anything - but you do nothing and watch as he takes one step back.

And then another, before he’s turning on his heel.

He barely spares you a glance as he briskly strides out of the room, taking the warmth from your body until you’re shivering by yourself, cold to your hollow core.

You don’t know how long you stand there, lips tingling and heart shattering in your chest as your hands flex by your side, trying to process it all. Being kissed by the man you’re in love with and then being brushed away without another explanation…what’s happening? Did you do something wrong?

You barely register Yvonne pulling on your wrist, guiding you out of the room before stuffing the two of you into a cab. Your head spins and yet you feel nothing at all, staring straight ahead blankly because if you open your feelings to her you’ll fall apart and you don’t know if you’ll be able to repair yourself.

You’re back in your apartment with Yvonne sitting you on your sofa when the first tear falls. No sounds escape your mouth but it’s enough for Yvonne to panic, placing the glass of water she filled for you on the table as she hastily sits in front of you to cup your face and brush your hair back from your temples with her fingers.

“Are you okay, ____?”

That one sentence is enough.

You begin to sob, collapsing into her arms as your cries shake your entire body. She’s silent except for the occasional soothing sound, rubbing her hands against your back as she attempts to help you weather the storm of pain that’s thundering through your chest.

You know there’s no making it out of this one, though.

Not when the hands you crave are the same ones that took your heart and crushed it in between his skilled fists.

You assign your work through an online medium the following week.

Dr. Chung had been confused when you asked for a week to yourself, but he had been quick to put two and two together when he entered the room with a stack of material and you all but ran out of the office.

There had been an email a couple of hours later with a simple message: Talk to him, Dr. ____. Please.

You left it open on your desktop, simply electing to stare out of the windows at the beginnings of sunset.

Was it really a mistake? You don’t think so. You wanted- want him with every fiber of your being, so much that it feels like he’s robbed you of the air you so desperately crave when he walked away last Friday.

Yvonne had been furious once she found out the full story, seething and yelling on your behalf while you sat eerily still on your couch. She had prepared meals for you, sometimes even feeding you spoonfuls when she returned to find your food barely touched. You could sense a shift halfway through the week where she wasn’t as angry, though - more reflective and quiet.

“What is it?” You asked when you find her staring off in the sunset.

“Nothing, ____,” she murmured back, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

You find yourself reflecting back on that change and why Yvonne is suddenly too quiet. Is there something she doesn’t know?

Against your will you find yourself thinking back on that kiss. For a split second it felt like everything was going right - on the path of reconciliation and maybe even love. Just for a singular moment everything felt perfect, like your world was spinning properly and the crack in your chest felt whole.

But now? Now you even feel more broken.

It’s the last day of your leave and you’re desperately trying to pick yourself up. Despite being off from both work and teaching at Linkon you barely got any sleep, staring up at your ceiling at night because being asleep meant dreaming about the man who both haunts and comforts you.

You’re sorting through the last of your graded papers before putting them into a manila folder and packing them in your bag, rubbing your eyes as you do so. You’re trying as hard as you can to focus on your objectives at hand but you find your eyes wandering to your phone and reaching out to grab it. You scowl when you realize what you’re doing, shaking your head and returning to packing your work bags.

There’s a knock on your front door and you walk towards it without another thought, peeking your head out so that you can let Yvonne into your apartment. You freeze, however, when you see a bouquet of lavenders.

Your eyes wander up, and you feel them widening when you see his tired eyes and serious face, though it softens considerably when he sees your face from by the door.

“Can I come in?” Zayne asks quietly.

You let him in without another word, turning and settling your body onto a barstool by the kitchen. You will yourself to take deep, steady breaths as he places the lavenders on the counter and props himself directly across from you, focusing your vision on the tip of his chin so that you don’t completely crumble under his steady gaze.

“How are you?”

Your laugh is humorless at the question, fingers tapping on the counter as you spill the truth from your lips. “Shit.”

There’s a shallow intake of breath from him, but you don’t allow him to speak as you continue on with your thoughts.

“It’s hard feeling okay when you reconcile with your ex-fiancé over the course of a few months, learning how to live and breathe and work with someone who’s somehow still your everything.” Your vision wavers but you swallow your tears, finally pushing yourself up from the counter and walking around. “It felt like things were finally going right when you said you wanted things to work.”

Your eyes finally look up at him and you feel yourself rendered speechless when you see the expression on his face. He looks every bit vulnerable and hollow as you feel in your chest, eyes shining and lips pressed in a thin line.

And you don’t know why, but you feel hot rage consume your body at the sight. How dare he look broken when he’s the one shattering you.

“But then you kissed me and it was the best kiss of my life.” Your voice rises as you step closer to him, poking your finger at his chest as your anger begins to affect your reasoning. “You kissed me like you meant it and everything felt like it was back in place for a split second until you pushed yourself away and said it was a fucking mistake.”

“____-” he tries to begin, but your voice rises to a yell as you finally let everything spill from out of you and into the air, even if it means permanently ruining whatever foundation the two of you still had.

“You said we would try. You said you would make it up to me.” You can’t quite stop your tears now, but your voice is still steady even if your hands shake. “Do you not mean it?”

“I do.”

There’s a brokenness in Zayne’s voice as he reaches out to cup your face, and against your better judgement you press your palms against his. He tilts your face up to look at him and you’re rendered breathless from the vulnerability on his face - open for you to see his deepest feelings.

“It was a mistake because we were only just starting again,” he says, voice thick with pain and unshed tears. “That kiss was something I’ve dreamed about since you left all those years ago - something I’ve craved to do when I’m alone with you. But I know that it’s not right to kiss you - and it’s not fair to kiss you for my own greed.”

Your breath stutters in your throat, chest aching as you absorb his words. Taking your silence as permission, he continues. “I’ve hurt you far too many times and I…I don’t deserve you at all.” His breath is shallow, washing over your face as he leans his forehead against yours. His finger taps your cheek three times in quick succession, a featherlight touch that makes you think you conjured it up. “Please, ____…let me make it up to you. Let me earn your forgiveness.”

You freeze.

You want nothing more to make things right, to patch things over and go back to the way things were. But can you ever truly go back to how things were? With how much has been said and what’s been done in between your bodies, laying at your feet?

Can you even forgive yourself if he shatters the remaining parts of you? Fix what’s been broken for the third time if it happens again?

There’s no way that this is going to end well for the both of you, so you resign yourself to the sad ending that’s been written out for the both of you long ago. The fire of your anger is gone, replaced with your salty tears as you look into his eyes and say, “I’m still in love with you, Zayne.”

His breath hitches.

You step away, keeping eye contact as you curl your hands into fists to keep yourself steady. “I’m still in love with you, but I don’t think you realize the gravity of how much I do. I love you enough to come back to Linkon and teach, even if I was apprehensive at first. I love you to try and fill the gaps you left. I love you enough to try again over and over again, even if it costs me every single time.”

You shake your head, a sob escaping your chest as you hold your hand up so that he can’t step any closer to you.

“I love you enough to know that I’ll shatter myself over again, but I can’t keep breaking.” Your voice shakes as you register him moving to stand in front of you. Your breath hiccups when you see him slowly sink to his knees, wrapping his hands around your thighs while tilting his head up so he catches your eyes.

“Forgive me, ____,” he all but begs, and you’re transported back to that first time he broke your heart. To when he knelt and groveled for forgiveness, only for you to push your diamond ring into his hands and run out of your shared apartment.

There isn’t a ring now, but there’s still the desperation on his face and tears streaming down your cheeks as you reach out and place your hand on his cheek delicately. He pushes his face into your hand, breathing deeply and kissing your palm as if it’ll help - but you know it’s far too late.

You’re not going to let your heart break for a third time.

“Please leave.”

Your hands emit a soft glow, allowing for Zayne’s emotions to calm down enough for him to understand your words. His eyes widen as he registers the soothing emotion wash over his body, gaze flickering as you continue to soothe his emotions - a sort of parting gift.

A way to soothe him in the way you’ll never be able to be comforted.

He’s on his feet to pull your hands away but you take it as an opportunity to push him out of the door, him going with no resistance due to the shock of you using your Evol on him. You’re barely able to open the door and unceremoniously push him out before you collapse against the door, trying to stop your relentless flow of tears.

You cry for what feels like hours, mourning the loss of the person you love with your entire being. You try to tell yourself that it’s for the best - you can’t keep letting yourself get hurt, he can’t keep apologizing and trying to make it up to you.

But when you sink into sleep that night, you can only see gold flecked emerald and warm hands brushing your tears away, tapping three times before leaving you empty.

You feel like you’ve lived lifetimes ever since that night.

You had sent a curt email to him with Dr. Chung CC’ed, dividing the last of your classes and finals schedule evenly so that you wouldn’t have to cross paths with him again. Your students had been confused, but your steady voice and sharp gaze had put a stop to all prying.

You had effectively closed yourself off, simply going through the motions and giving non-committal hums whenever Yvonne asked a question or if you were with a group of friends. You spent most of your time on your desktop, rifling through open positions in Chansia City and refining your resume.

You don’t think you can stand to live here, not when your heart still aches for him. You need to just get out and force yourself to move on, even if it means moving oceans away.

You’re almost there, you tell yourself. You’re sitting in the pediatric ward’s offices, grading some final papers and eyeing your pager warily. You had come in early even though you were technically scheduled for the night shift, but you had shooed away the attending doctor scheduled for the morning and have since been using the empty hours to grade papers and try to distract yourself from the aching in your chest.

Your pager beeps the same time one of your charge nurses bursts through the door, breathless and shaky. You eye the code, feeling a sense of tired calm wash over you at the CODE BLUE flashing on the screen.

“Evol-related car accident,” your nurse gasps, and you’re up out of your seat and walking briskly towards the scrub down room before she even finishes giving the summary.

You enter the surgery with a clear understanding: your patient (female, age 6) has a punctured organ due to being in a car accident caused by a Wanderer attack. Her mother is currently in surgery as well, but her wounds are more severe. Nevertheless, you put all of your focus on your patient as you begin the operation.

The hours pass, your charge nurse noting the time as you extract shrapnel and tie sutures as gently as you can. Your fatigue begins to eat at your concentration, hands shaking as you call for a different pair of scissors but you force it down, honing your laser sharp focus so that you can save this little girl's life.

After twelve hours of work you tie the last stitch, making sure that it’s clean before nodding to the assisting surgeon. He nods at you once more before beginning the removal procedure, instructing the other nurses and anesthesiologist in the room on how to transport the patient to the ICU. All the while you bow to them in thanks, mustering a small yet genuine smile as you express your thanks for their help.

Your scrub down is slow and methodical, taking your time to clean yourself off so that you can look half-decent when you report the results to what family may be waiting in the waiting room. You briefly think of your patient’s mother - is she okay? Did she make it through? You desperately hope so. Losses are never easy to digest and share, so you hope with every bit of your being that she made it out okay, too.

You’re in the waiting room before you can even register you’re there, your tired mind guiding your body on autopilot. You clear your voice before announcing, “Is the family of Lilian Hsu here?”

Immediately, a harried looking man jumps to his feet and rushes to stand in front of you. His eyes are bloodshot as he reaches out to grip one of your hands in between his own shaking one’s, and you allow him to grip at you as he looks at you with primal eyes.

“Is Lili alive? Is my little girl okay?” Mr. Hsu blurts out, frame shaking as he stares at you with all the hope in the world. You nod slightly and his face crumples, tears beginning to race tracks down his cheeks as he begins to sob.

“There were some complications with the Evol-laden shrapnel so we had to make sure her body’s chemistry wasn’t too affected.” His breath hitches but you’re quick to placate him with a soft squeeze on his hand. “Her vitals are stable and nothing seems wrong so we were able to wrap up with no other complications. She’s in the Children’s ICU right now.”

“Oh, thank gods,” he breathes, squeezing your hands once more. “Thank you, Dr. ____, you saved my little girl’s life-”

“Is the family of Amy Hsu here?”

The voice is more somber, and you turn to see Greyson with a tired look on his face. He nods at you in greeting, but you feel something in you sink when you see the grim line of his mouth and the way his eyes shine with unshed tears.

Oh no.

Mr. Hsu senses it too, and his face crumples as he realizes what happened.

“I’m sorry,” Greyson says softly.

That’s all it takes. Mr. Hsu collapses onto the floor, hysterical sobs beginning to wrack his body as he processes the news that was just given to him. The earth-shattering news that his wife is gone but his daughter’s alive…

You bite your lip, tears welling in your own eyes - from sheer exhaustion or empathy for him, you don’t know. Your head spins and you know that you could easily just leave, find an empty hospital room, and go to sleep. It would be so easy to walk away for anyone else, so why can’t you?

Empathy and compassion. Service for others before yourself.

The Hippocratic Oath reverberates through your brain, and before you’re even processing your actions you’re kneeling in front of Mr. Hsu and wrapping him in your arms. Using the last bits of energy you can muster, you begin soothing him while wrapping him in your Evol.

“I’m sorry,” you susurrate quietly, hands stroking up and down his back. He clings onto you and sobs into your neck, and you fight the tears in your eyes and the fuzziness of your vision as you continue to target his energy - soothing the pain and bringing forth a semblance of peace for his turbulent mind. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The hallway is silent, charge nurses and patients watching with equal parts curiosity and horror as your hands begin to emit a stronger glow. You push down the feelings of regret and sadness that spiral in you as a result of expelling the man’s own sadness, although you can tell by the way your hands shake and your breath leaves in exhausted puffs that you might exert yourself past the point of no return.

In the back of your mind you hear frantic steps behind you, and you register an ice cold voice injected with…something, you’re not quite sure. “Stop her, now.”

“Dr. Li, once she starts she can’t stop.” Greyson’s voice is timid and tinged with concern, but you thank him in your brain - he knows better than to deter you from doing your job. “If she does, you know it risks permanently affecting the receiver’s emotions.”

“I don’t care-” the voice above you wavers in and out as you fight to maintain your concentration. You briefly note how the man’s breathing evens out and his sobs subsiding, though you notice your breath is leaving you in unsteady puffs as tears course down your cheeks.

Keep going, keep going. Even through the pain of it all. Endure.

“She’ll risk bleeding her own energy dry and it will affect her psyche permanently and I can’t live with having her go through that-”

The argument above you rages on, but you soldier on. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Your voice leaves in gasps as you continue to give your all. The man slumps onto your shoulder, his breath steady as he dozes off but you continue to inject your Evol onto him so that you can spare him of the pain of a splintering, broken heart. It’s the worst feeling in the world, one you don’t want anyone to live with because you’re living with one right now.

Spare the hurt. Take everyone’s pain and keep it to yourself. Rid the world of its sadness and strife, even if it means you’ll suffer for an eternity.

You barely register the man being lifted off of you through the heaving, shuddering sobs that shake your entire body. With nothing else to support your weight you fall to the floor, curling into a ball and digging your nails into your palms as you scream from the sheer anguish coursing through your veins.

“Everybody move out of my way!”

It’s agonizing, the hollow feeling in your chest spreading through your entire body and the tiny voice in your brain telling you that you’ll never amount to more, be able to do more - that no one will ever be able to help you with what plagues you. Your breathing stutters and your head spins as your vision fades in and out, and you thank the universe that it's finally sparing you of the pain of your broken heart and the knowledge that you'll never get to fully repair yourself - and that you’ve pushed away the one person you want.

No, need. You had the best thing in the palm of your hands, but you pushed him away - thinking it was for the best. He slipped in between your fingers and you’ll forever live with that regret. You vow to run again, if your energy isn’t forever ruined. Spare you and him of the pain that somehow always emerges when the two of you are together.

You find comfort in that fact. Your vision begins to darken and your eyes slowly shut.

Finally, some rest.

Your ears ring and you’re about to slip into the abyss-

-but ice wraps around your hands, pulling you through a pine forest and into the warmth of a hearth with jasmine flowers in a vase.

“-hear me?” A familiar voice swims above you, and against your better judgement you fight your impending black out. “-breath out your mouth, my love.”

The tone is gentle, full of an emotion that you’ve craved during many of your sleepless nights. You begin to follow the voice’s commands, taking an unsteady and short breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.

“-my chest, ____. The rhythm will help-”

Right. You put everything you can into the rhythm of the hearth’s beat, allowing for the steady presence to guide you back to your senses. The ringing of your ears slowly subsides, although exhaustion settles deeply into your bones as your breath hiccups.

“You’re doing well, ____. Keep breathing, my love.” The feeling of hands rubbing up and down your back has you melting against a solid chest, and you feel deft fingers pull at the clip on top of your head. Your hair falls down and the fingers rub against the back of your skull, making your eyes slowly flutter shut at the soothing contact.

“Zayne…” It leaves you in a breathless gasp, and you half curse your stupidity in your exhausted brain because how do you even know it’s him? But you’re placated with a finger tapping three times against your nose, a sure-fire sign that it’s him.

“Are you with me, ____?” His voice is soft, although it’s colored with something heavy. Still, he rubs his thumbs against your temples as he ponders something. “Can you tell me the major chambers of the heart in clockwise order?”

It’s an easy question, yes, but you know it’s his way of checking if you’re back with him. You scramble through your tired mind, trying to piece the answer together and you finally whisper: “Left atrium, left ventricle, right ventricle, right atrium. Aorta on top.”

“Good.” There’s a tired undertone in his voice that has you leaning against his chest, fingers blindly gripping at his scrubs. All of a sudden, you’re being lifted into the air, and you gasp and wrap your fingers tighter against his coat as you fight the fatigue that addles your brain.

“-in my office,” Zayne begins, and you register that you’re going in and out of consciousness. You continue to fight your brain so that you can listen in, but the strong scent of pine and jasmine coupled with the steady rhythm of his heart engulfs your senses and you feel yourself begin to shut down. “-not disturb, I’ll be the one to make sure Dr. ____ is okay. No pagers, no questions-”

You don’t register anything else, the steady steps carrying you to an unknown location lulling you into a trance-like state. Maybe he’ll dump you on a hospital room bed and leave you there.

“No I won’t.” Zayne’s voice is severe, and you feel hot embarrassment in the fact that you’re mindlessly babbling out your thoughts. “You’re staying with me, ____.”

You don’t say anything else, simply curling up against his chest and holding onto his shirt tightly. His grip on your remains steadfast, and he continues to walk until he comes to a stop. You vaguely hear the beeping of a keycard paired with his foot kicking something, and before you know it you’re in a pleasantly cool room.

You feel yourself being gently laid down on a plush sofa and you sigh as you sink against the soft pillows. You feel him begin to untangle himself from you, but you grip onto his shirt as a feeble whimper escapes your lips.

“Stay.”

It’s a helpless plea, a hopeless request, and your one greatest desire in this entire world. You want Zayne to stay with you, in this moment and for the rest of your lives. You don’t know if this will be fleeting or forever, but you’ll take the fleeting touch if it means you can have it in your brain forever.

The moment feels like a lifetime, but not even a minute later Zayne slides onto the couch with you. He arranges himself so that he’s laying on his back and you’re wrapped in his arms on top of him - the both of your favorite cuddling positions, one that has tears welling in your eyes once again.

One of his hands reaches up to massage the back of your head and you sigh against his neck, your fingers gently stroking the skin of his jaw. His chest rumbles in response to your contact and you nuzzle yourself further into his neck, breathing in the scent that’s brought you back from over the edge time and time again.

Your eyes begin to drift shut when his chest moves up, a soft humming in his chest as he whispers something. You strain your ears and you hear it: “I don’t deserve you, ____.”

“Mmm?” you mumble sleepily.

“I don’t deserve you,” Zayne says again. His fingers never stop in your hair and on your back, but you feel something new. A wetness on your forehead, sliding down to meet the previous tear tracks that still lay on your cheeks.

“Zayne?”

“I’m sorry, ____.” A shuddering gasp lifts your body, and your arms tighten around his neck as he tries to swallow his tears so you can hear him clearly. “I don’t deserve you, but I will make it up to you forever if you’ll let me. Please let me.”

“What if we aren't meant to be?”

It’s a soft whisper, but your fears are laid bare for the both of you to analyze. You want so desperately to make this work, but you don’t know if it’s meant to be after what’s happened.

His arms squeeze you tighter, his voice thick with tears yet steady with conviction. “We are, ____. I will work and beg and apologize and kneel at your feet until you forgive me and we build something new. We don’t have to force it - we'll go at your own pace and I will follow until you’re ready because you’re the most important thing in my life.”

His words sink into your skull, and for the first time you find tranquility instead of turbulence. Your lips brush against his pulsepoint once again before you whisper the single word that dictates your future with him:

“Okay.”

You barely feel his breath of relief and the tender kiss he brushes against your forehead as a peace that you haven’t felt in a while envelopes your bones. You snuggle further into his chest and allow yourself to finally succumb to sleep - lulled into a kind part of your brain by Zayne’s fingers in your hair.

Before you finally surrender, though, you hear it:

“You will always be my heart, my love. I hope I can earn yours again.”

It’s finals week, and your body feels lighter than it’s felt in a while.

There’s a soft smile ever-present on your lips, and it’s something that’s aided your students somewhat. When faced with a gentle smile, they relax and do better on their tests.

You tell yourself it’s to make them feel at ease, but you know it’s for another reason entirely.

Zayne’s back in your life, finding ways to show his fondness and apologies in your everyday life. It’s subtle but for you it makes a world of difference - texts asking about your day, your favorite food delivered at your apartment and the pediatric office, and flowers addressed to you and Yvonne because he knows that earning your forgiveness means earning hers tenfold.

She had scoffed the first time he had sent her a bouquet of peonies, even though her eyes sparkled when she saw her favorite flower. “Why’s he sending me some?”

You had sniffed your own bouquet of jasmines and lavender, pointing to the card that was attached to her bouquet. “Read it and tell me what it says!”

She had grabbed the card and you carefully watched her reaction, her eyes widening before filling with tears. You had been filled with alarm, reaching out to hug her but she had shaken her head and held the card tightly.

“What a jerk, making me cry…” She had mumbled, but the smile on her face let you know that his apologies were working on her, too.

There were also the talks after lectures and in between check ups - any time you could find each other, really. They were serious, filled with tears but also with a comfort that you two were finally talking - not skirting around the issues that made your foundations crack in the first place. While things are still a little soft, you find that the cracks are filled with gold - making the foundation of your relationship stable with new meaning.

Your thoughts stop with a knock on the lecture hall door, and you lift your head to see Dr. Chung waving his hand at you with a friendly smile. You scan your students in the crowd; most of them have their heads down, teeth gnawing at their lips and brows furrowed in concentration at the test you and Zayne had put together. Sure that they won’t need you immediately, you nod at Dr. Chung and make your way out of the lecture hall.

Once outside, you regard him curiously as he produces a manila envelope from his side and presents it to you with a flourish. There’s a gleam in his eyes that has your heart pounding as you open the envelope shakily, pulling out the neat packet of papers and reading “OFFER OF PERMANENT POSITION WITH THE LINDE SCHOOL OF MEDICINE AND AKSO HOSPITAL.”

“I told you I would pester you about it during finals week,” he teases with a smile as you look at him with wide eyes.

“I-” you try to begin, but he’s quick to cut you off with a reassuring squeeze on your shoulders.

“You are leagues above the medical world and it would be an honor to have you with us, Dr. ____.” His voice is full of warm conviction, giving you a wide smile as you flounder for words. “I’d also like to be happily retired when you and Dr. Li have children.”

“Alistair!” You ignore formality for a scandalized whisper of his name, but he only laughs as he pats your arms reassuringly.

“I did put a lot of money on a betting pool back when the two of you were in undergrad and won it back tenfold,” he replies cheekily. Dr. Chung gestures to the packet once more, eyes full of hope as he scans your face. “So? Are you ready to step into the shoes that have always fit you perfectly and send me into an early and reassuringly calm retirement?”

Your hands shake, but your smile is steady as you look at him.

You’ve always known the answer, you think.

There’s a knock on your door as you finish inputting final grades for the semester later on in the week.

You quirk your eyebrow when you eye the door, not expecting any visitors or students. It’s Friday, and by the time the sun sets below the horizon students and faculty alike are off to hot pot restaurants and karaoke bars to celebrate the end of the semester and the beginning of summer break. You know you’re supposed to be alone - you saw each of your coworker’s lamps flicker off one by one, their laughter echoing through the empty hall as they waved goodbye to you or tried to goad you into a night out.

You’re definitely supposed to be alone.

Still, you clear your throat and answer. “Come in!”

Your eyes widen when you see Zayne, an unusual ruffledness to him as he shuts the door and flicks the lock closed behind him. He’s wearing blue scrubs, white coat draped over his arm and hair mussed as he looks at you with an intense stare that has your body beginning to melt from the inside out.

“Alistair said you accepted the offer.”

It spills out of his mouth almost unwittingly, and your lips tilt up at the corners when you see how his cheeks flush. Still, his eyes never waver from yours as you stand up from your desk and smooth the thin blue cotton of the long summer dress you had pulled on earlier in the morning.

“Yes,” you confirm as you walk around your desk to stand in front of him. His posture relaxes at your simple word, jaw releasing its tension as his gaze softens.

“Do you know what that means?” He asks. It’s gentler, full of unanswered questions he wants to know the answers to because you know that he needs to know your thoughts.

You reflect back to your analysis of the document, immediately noting that Zayne was signing on as one of the two directors of the Linde School of Medicine.

The reason why you know that is because your name was slotted next to his as the permanent head of pediatrics and a potential candidate for the position of interim director.

“Yes,” you say again. You’re standing in front of him now, head tilted up as you regard his gaze curiously. “I read all of that in the packet. I even gave it to my personal lawyer to ensure that there was nothing problematic in the agreement-”

“I’m sorry, ____, but you know that’s not what I mean right now.”

Zayne’s voice trembles as he steps forward to meet your body, dropping his white coat onto the floor. He cups your face in his hands and tilts your head up so that he can look directly into your gaze. You melt into his touch, reaching up to hold his hands in place with a gentle pressure.

“I need to know if you’re okay working with…me,” his voice is gravelly and filled with anxiety, something that makes your heart clench at the vulnerability of his words. “I need to know that you’re okay working with me and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable when we just started mending things between us-”

“Zayne.”

It’s your turn to interrupt him and he shuts his mouth immediately, leaning down to press a kiss against the palm of your hand. You smile at the contact, letting him kiss your hand to alleviate his anxiety before clearing your throat and starting.

“I’m more than okay with it.” Your pointer finger taps against his cheek once, making his eyes widen as you step closer so that your chests are barely brushing. “I wouldn’t have accepted the position and scheduled the seemingly endless meetings and interviews for the interim director position if I wasn’t okay with it.”

He breathes a deep sigh of relief at that, sinking his face further into your hand while you tap your thumb against his chin.

“You’re comfortable with me?” He asks, eyes full of yearning as he moves his hands to settle on your hips. He pulls your body flush against his, making you lose your breath as you stare into your favorite shade of emerald. “Are things…”

“I’m more than comfortable.” Your finger drags a line past his Adam’s apple up to his jaw, eliciting a shaky breath from his lips when you run the tips of your fingers up to his hair to play with the inky strands. “In fact, things are going pretty swimmingly from my vantage point.”

Your pointer finger traces a dangerous line from his jaw to the edge of his mouth, and your eyes hood ever so slightly when you tap his bottom lip once.

“My question is,” you whisper as you tiptoe up to meet his face. “Does the doctor who hasn’t left my mind since I moved back feel the same way?”

A beat passes - a singular moment when you feel his heart beating in tandem with yours. His eyes widen at the implication of your words, registering your hidden meaning before a true smile spreads across his lips.

That one smile solidifies everything for the both of you. He leans down and presses his lips against yours, stealing your breath and the last bits of all rationality away from your mind.

You’re quick to respond to the movements of his lips, running your hands up the back of his head and gripping the inky strands of his hair in between your fingers. A deep rumble reverberates through his chest when your nails scratch his head slightly, making him step back and press you against your desk.

You gasp when you feel the smooth wood against the small of your back, the pressure making your eyes roll back into your head and grip his hair tighter. He pulls away though, eyes flying open at the little sound. He immediately moves to cradle your face in his hands, tilting your head in his touch as he scans you for any sort of hesitation or sign of hurt. “Are you okay, my love?”

“I am,” you reply, melting at the slip of his pet name. He doesn’t notice, simply peppering your face with soft kisses until you’re giggling in his hold and wrapping your arms around his neck tighter.

“Good,” he says with a soft twinkle in his eye. His hands reach behind your back, and your eyes widen at the sound of papers and your little plastic cup of pens clattering to the floor before you squeal, your arms around his neck tightening when he lifts you by one arm up onto your desk.

“Zayne, what-” you try to begin, but he simply leans back down and kisses you deeply, stealing your breath away and eliciting a soft moan from between your lips. He groans in response, spreading your legs apart on the table and bracing his left hand on the wood behind your back while pulling your leg up with his right hand up around his waist. He steps in between the newly formed space, allowing his hips to roll slightly against yours in a way that has you whining from the contact.

Your hands move, tilting his head to the side so that you can kiss him deeper. A stroke of your tongue against his bottom lip has his mouth falling open, allowing for your tongue to push in slightly to brush against his. Simultaneous gasps escape your mouths at the same time, and he pushes himself deeper into your mouth so that he can get a taste of you directly from the source.

Soon enough though, the need for air has you pulling away, leaning your forehead against his as you both catch your breath. You giggle breathlessly when you see the marks your skin left on his glasses, the cloudiness making it difficult to see the real emotion on his face. Your hands begin to lift to pull at them but he beats you to it, simply grabbing at the thin frame before tossing them somewhere to the side.

“Your glasses!” You try to yelp, but he leans down to nip at your bottom lip, making your mouth fall open once more.

“They were getting in the way,” he grumbles, and you laugh as you allow him to recapture your mouth with his once more.

The kiss this time is slower but just as needy on your end, the brush of his lips soothing the worried part in your mind. He discards any lingering doubt in your head, cementing him as yours - and the giddy feeling swallows you whole.

His lips make a path from the corner of your mouth to your jawline, soft presses of his lips making your skin heat from his touch. The stimulation has you whining, tugging on the collar of his scrubs to try to get them off of his body. Your needy movements make him chuckle darkly and he pulls away just enough so he can pull the top and his undershirt off of his body, giving you access to his glorious body.

“Zayne,” you murmur softly, drinking in the sight of his body once more. It’s a sight you’re intimately familiar with but it still has molten desire pooling in your stomach, and you let your eyes wander past the planes of his chest and the chiseled softness of his abs before biting your lip at the sight of the thin, dark hairs that lead below the waistband of his scrubs.

“What are you thinking about, pretty lady?” His breath catches when your hand presses on the skin above his heart. He shuffles closer to your body which allows you to press a kiss directly on his heart, and you smile to yourself when you hear a soft gasp above your head.

“You,” you say back, grabbing his hand and letting your fingers trace the fading scars on his forearm. His breath hitches in his chest when you bring his arm to your lips, gently ghosting your lips along the skin reverently.

“Is that so?” He gently pulls his arm away from you, instead placing his palms on your thighs and giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Yes,” you breathe, wrapping one arm around his neck to pull him closer. Your other hand trails down his chest and past his abs, fingers toying dangerously with the elastic waistband of his thin scrubs. You smile sweetly up at him as his eyes flash dangerously, playing innocent while your hand slips underneath his scrubs to cup his bulge above his boxer briefs.

“You’re still a little minx,” he groans. You laugh as you begin to massage the tent in his pants, but you gasp when he pulls your thighs up to his waist, making your back fall against your desk.

“Zayne, what-” you try to begin, but your words die in your mouth when he slides your skirt up past your thighs so that it pools at your waist. He gently pulls your hand from his pants so that he can spread your legs even more, folding them so that they’re up in the air and he has a clear view of your dainty white panties clinging against the silken folds of your core.

“Pretty,” he says softly, running a single finger up against your slit. Your mouth is too dry all of the sudden, falling open at the muted stimulation of his finger rubbing your clit above your panties. Your wetness drenches the thin fabric even more, and it has you grinding your hips against his single finger while mewling in a bid to feel even more.

“Still impatient and needy for me, my love?” He places one of your legs on his shoulder, letting you wrap the other one around his waist as you grind against his hand - desperate for his bare skin against the place you need him the most.

“Yes,” you breathe. You pout up at him and he laughs, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss as you continue to grind yourself against his hand. The pleasure builds in the pit of your stomach and continues to rise, but you huff in frustration when you feel it plateau instead of bringing you closer to the edge of your end.

“Zayne,” you gasp, looking up at him imploringly. His eyes flash at your need and without another word he moves his hand, pulling your panties to the side and finally allowing you to grind your bare pussy against the warm skin of his hand. A small cry leaves your mouth, head tilting back as you rock your hips against the palm of his hand.

Zayne looks down at the goddess that is you, writhing on your desk as you chase your high. The ruffled straps of your sundress fall down your shoulders, accentuating the way your breasts heave as your chest rises and falls with the onslaught of pleasure wreaking havoc on your body. If the two of you weren’t in the academic offices and he had more time on his hands, he would have torn your dress off a long time ago, pinching your nipples with his skilled fingers until your eyes went cross-eyed and all that left your mouth were moans and babbles of his name.

Another time, he thinks to himself when he sees the scrunch of your nose. There are plenty of other times to shower your body with love.

Your eyes snap open when he pulls his hand away from your core, a noise of protest beginning on your lips as to why he moved away. It quickly dies, however, when you see him pull his straining cock out of his scrubs. He pushes you down onto your desk once more, jacking himself with your wetness rapidly so that he’s ready too. All the while, he looks down at you with a heady glance, leaning down to kiss you once more.

“Are you still on the pill?” He asks breathlessly. He slides his cockhead against your pussy, and you both moan when he slaps his tip against your clit.

“Yes,” you confirm, eyes going hazy when he drags his cock down to your sopping hole. The tip catches slightly and you whine, tightening the hold your leg has on his waist. “Z-zayne!”

“I got you, my love,” he groans back, and you cry out softly when he begins to push himself into your pussy.

Your head lolls back, eyes rolling back into your skull with each thick inch he gives you. Even with how slick you are, the pleasurable stretch still burns - enough to make you pant when he rolls his hips.

“W-wait-” you gasp, and he’s quick to stop his pace, leaning down to press his nose against your neck. He leaves soft kisses against your pulse point and across your collarbones as you breathe deeply, trying to get used to the feeling of him pulsing inside of you after so long.

Soon enough, though, the burn gives way to nothing but heady pleasure, and you roll your hips against his to sink him further into your cunt. His hand tightens on the leg he has propped on his shoulder, eyes looking down at you with worry as he checks to make sure that you mean it.

“Are you sure?”

You nod once, and while he knows that you do mean it his eyes darken mischievously. He rolls his hips slowly, leaving you moaning as you attempt to roll your hips back to meet his - even with his sturdy grip on your hips.

“Use your words, Dr. ____.” His authoritative voice and use of your title has you clenching down on him, making you whimper and him grip your calf even tighter so that he doesn’t lose his mind. He groans as he thrusts shallowly once more, drinking in your moans that fill the air. “Use your words to tell me what you need.”

“You!” You all but cry out. “P-please Zayne, I need you fully in m-me-”

“Good,” he huffs. He kisses your ankle before sinking his cock all the way into your soaking pussy, making your back arch as you moan. He pulls out slowly, letting your walls pulse sporadically around his cock until only his cockhead remains in your cunt, making you whine at the emptiness. There’s only a whisper of respite from the fullness, though, before he pushes himself back in and elicits a cry from your swollen lips.

“Shh,” he murmurs, moving down to kiss you deeply. His hips never stop their pace, pistoning in and out of you at a relentless speed that has you seeing stars. “You don’t want anyone to catch us, right?”

“I-it’s late night though-” you try to begin, but your mouth falls open when he presses himself all of the way and nudges against your g-spot.

“There she is,” he says with a grunt, thrusting once again so that he can continue to press against that spot. “I was wondering when I would meet her again.”

“-ah!” You cry out in response. Your head falls back as the pleasure continues to wash over your body, bringing you closer and closer to the precipice of your orgasm. Zayne, seeing you begin to near your end, maintains his pace, reaching down to rub and pinch your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

The added stimulation makes your nose scrunch, moans and whimpers the only thing you can manage as your pussy spasms rhythmically around him. Your stomach tightens, and you’re barely able to gasp out his name before he leans down to kiss you once more, stealing your breath away.

“Cum with me, ____,” he breathes, and he swallows your cries with his lips when you finally fall over the edge.

The pleasure is overwhelming, crashing onto you as you dig your nails into his shoulders and making him groan. It leaves you seeing stars in your eyes, your head spinning as you try to control your breathing. You vaguely register your cries of his name and moans falling from your lips, but you can’t find it in yourself to care at how loud you're being - not when it feels this good.

Zayne, all the while, ruts his hips against yours - the pulsing of your slick walls driving him mad and prolonging your pleasure. A whine of his name has his moaning, cumming into your wet heat as he sinks his teeth in the skin between your shoulder and neck to try and keep a hold of himself. You gasp at the bit of pain, letting it mix with the heady pleasure of your orgasm until everything fades away, leaving just you and him in the afterglow.

“Mmm,” you moan softly as he kisses the bite he left on your neck, shivering slightly when he licks the tender skin.

“We’re going to need to make this our office,” he says softly against your neck. The statement makes you throw your head back to laugh, and he chuckles softly alongside you as he gently lowers your leg from his chest to wrap around his waist.

“You’re right,” you tease in response. “Can’t let anyone else have this office after what we did here.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, moving his head up to kiss you once more. You let him press the sweet kiss against your mouth, a stark juxtaposition to the way your shaky legs are still wrapped around his waist.

He pulls away softly, and you push his slightly sweaty hair up above his brow so that it isn’t plastered onto his forehead. You tap your finger three times against his nose, and you feel yourself soften at the breathtaking smile that overtakes his entire face.

“Me too, my love,” he murmurs back, tapping your nose three times - like the two of you have always done. He leans over you to kiss you once more, filling you with that pure feeling of love that has you smiling against his mouth.

And by the way he smiles against your mouth, you know he feels that same love for you too.

August means the start of a new academic year at Linkon University.

You hear the nervous chatter of the fresh-faced medical students currently seated in the lecture hall outside of your shared office and you turn to look at your handsome co-lecturer with a half serious expression on your face while you watch him struggle with his tie. You step closer and help him fix it, straightening out the crooked fabric before smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles on his perfectly pressed white button down.

“Don’t grill them too hard, Dr. Li.” You say softly, amusement coloring your voice as Zayne lets out a scoff. “You want them to want to continue med school.”

“No promises, my love.” He swoops down and kisses you - the kind that steals your breath away and makes you weak in the knees. You kiss him back, smiles forming on your mouths as you relish in the quick contact before pulling away.

“Ready?” He asks, and he offers his arm out to you as you gather your stack of syllabi and notes. You beam at him and place your hand in the crook of his arm, nodding once.

“With you? Always.”

And the two of you walk out of your office and into the lecture room - taking your first steps toward your shared future together as the head lecturers and directors of the Linde School of Medicine.

a/n #2: i'm going to take a nap LOL but i hope you enjoy!! <3

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shinreiplays · 1 day ago

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Zayne Waking Up From Nightmares — Headcanons

🩵My Zayne Masterlist🩵AO3 Link🩵Ko-Fi🩵

He never makes a sound, but you always know.

Zayne’s nightmares don’t wake you because he thrashes or screams. No—he stiffens. His breath comes short and controlled, like he’s trying to suffocate the panic. It’s the way his body changes—coiled like a spring, drenched in cold sweat, even if the room is freezing. You’ve learned to sense it in your sleep like muscle memory.

He always sits on the edge of the bed.

He never wakes you on purpose. When it gets bad, he peels himself out from under the covers and sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, silently trying to regulate his breathing. One hand occasionally rubs at the back of his neck. The other sometimes covers his mouth like he’s trying not to cry.

The first thing he says is always your name.

Not loudly. Barely audible. He says it like a lifeline—testing to see if you’re awake. “…Y/n?” Just once. And if you stir even a little, he immediately tries to play it off, but he sounds like shit. You never let him get away with that.

He melts the moment you reach for him.

Even a sleepy, mumbled “come here” has him turning toward you like gravity’s pulling him. He folds into your body like he’s trying to crawl into your chest and stay there forever. His arms lock around you tight, and your scent alone is often enough to start grounding him.

Your touch is everything to him.

Running your fingers through his hair? He’s done. Fingertips trailing down his spine, gently scratching his scalp, rubbing lazy circles at the base of his skull—all of it makes his breathing slow. You can feel him unclench beneath you. He doesn’t speak at first. He just listens to your heartbeat with his face pressed to your chest.

He apologizes. Quietly. Every time.

“I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing.”

“It was just a silly dream.”

You hush him. Every time. He’s not a burden. And you always remind him of that.

He clings like it’s involuntary.

Even when he’s calming down, he keeps you close. If you try to shift, his hand will instinctively tighten around your waist or slide up your back. Sometimes, if you’re lying on your side, he’ll curl up around you like a cat and bury his face between your shoulder blades like he’s hiding.

If he can talk about it, he will—but only with you.

Zayne doesn’t confide in anyone. Not really. But with you—once he’s calm—he’ll sometimes whisper fragments: the sensation, the faces, the helplessness. He doesn’t describe the nightmare in full, but you always understand the weight of it.

He says thank you when you think he’s already asleep.

Just when your own eyes are drifting shut again, you’ll hear his voice, low and quiet:

“…Thank you. For being here.”

And he means it. With his entire soul.

The next morning, he’s even softer.

He brings you breakfast in bed. He brushes your hair out of your face with such tenderness it hurts. His hand rests on your thigh while you talk. If it’s a day off, he keeps you in his lap for hours while reading, fingers lazily tracing your skin just to remind himself you’re real.

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shinreiplays · 1 day ago

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zayne’s cuddles

a/n: literally no one asked for this. maybe i love him too much. anyways this is just how/if zayne would cuddle u

i can see him enjoying cuddling (or physical affection) because he’s usually so busy and when he gets to spend time with you and cuddle with you all of his stress goes away

he just wants to be near u :((

so he likes to hold you against him and breathe in ur scent whether thats the scent of your hair or just your skin in general

it’s a bit funny seeing how much he clings to you when he gets the chance

in public, he isn’t too big on pda but people still know that he’s taken

but at home sometimes my goodness Dr Zayne definitely isn’t anywhere to be seen because now u just have a big clingy Zayne

on some occasions when he got home from work and he’s tired he doesnt mean to but he falls asleep easily, usually on the couch beside you

and you just end up playing with his hair or something

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shinreiplays · 2 days ago

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Zayne: Crystallised Love

He missed you so much.

Pairing: Zayne x female!reader

A/N: soft!Zayne, he's a yearner, fluff all the way

•°○☆○°•❄️•°○☆○°•❄️•°○☆○°•❄️•°○☆○°•

Zayne was tired. Rightfully so as well, seeing as this week had been full of nothing but seminars, meetings, surgeries, and endless rounds of the ICU.

And to make things worse, you were gone the entire week on a mission outside Linkon City. His only source of comfort, his Jasmine, had been taken away from him for far too long.

His office felt too silent, too dark for him to focus on anything other than your absence. He needed to feel you, to hold you once more, and let his exhaustion melt into the soft sweetness of your comfort.

However, you weren't here. And you wouldn't be here for another day or two, he realised as he carefully took off his glasses and let out a deep sigh. Placing the frames on the table in front of him, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Soft crystals of snow had started to descend from the ceiling, and he was too exhausted to stop it.

Right as he was starting to feel the control slipping through his fingers, the door creaked open. "Yvonne, how many times do I tell you to knock-" Zayne froze in the middle of his chiding when he opened his eyes and, instead of finding the nurse, found you standing there, with a gorgeous smile on your face.

"A little birdie told me a certain surgeon missed me." You pretended to be coy as you closed the door behind you, and Zayne watched, at a loss of words, as some of the crystals landed softly in your hair, creating a soft white halo on your hair.

Angel. My angel.

His throat felt tight as he slowly got up from his chair, his eyes never leaving your face as he stepped closer to you. It was as if he was committing the sight of you into the hardwiring of his brain so that he could never forget just how beautiful you were.

Standing inches away from you, his hand hesitated before slowly reaching up, his fingertips resting on the curve of your cheekbone. Your lips lifted in a soft, affectionate smile as you leaned the entirety of your cheek in his palm, your hand coming up to hold his in place.

"Zayne." You call out in a whisper, and Zayne inhaled sharply at the sound of your voice. He missed it, missed the way his name slipped off your tongue like silk. Missed the way your eyes shone like galaxies as they were trained on him, looking at him as if he was the only person in the world.

"Jasmine." His voice felt tight, winded by the love he felt for you.

God, he missed her.

He loved her.

"I'm here, Zaynie." You whisper, and the snowflakes that had been falling around them froze in place, as if time had stopped.

Not waiting a second longer, his free hand moved to cradle your cheek as he leaned down, pressing his cold lips to your warm ones. Instantly, all his exhaustion, his feeling of helplessness, melted like the ice crystals on your hair.

"I missed you, Zayne." You whispered in between the soft kisses he pressed on your lips, curling into him as he moved his arm to wrap around your waist.

There was no urgency in the way he kissed you. He was taking his time, conveying all that he felt for you in the simple act of affection.

When you finally pulled away, breathing a tad bit heavily, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "I missed you too." He whispered, gently pushing a lock of your hair behind your ear.

The crystals, which had previously been frozen in the air, slowly started moving back towards the ceiling, disappearing into thin air with soft, tinkling pops.

His eyes followed their movements before he glanced back at you, a small smile on his face.

"You're my control, Jasmine. My sanity, my everything. Without you, I'm nothing."

He whispered, your breath catching in your throat at the reverent way he spoke of you.

Not finding the words that were worthy to answer that confession, you pulled him in for another kiss. He reciprocated, and that was how Yvonne found you both minutes later as she opened the door.

"Dr. Zayne-" She paused, noting that neither of you had noticed her opening the door, too lost in your own world.

Smiling to herself, She carefully closed the door, walking back to the nurse's station with a smile on her face.

The patient files she wanted Zayne to oversee could wait.

•°○☆○°•❄️•°○☆○°•❄️•°○☆○°•❄️•°○☆○°•

Hope you enjoyed it! Have a great day, everyone~

PS: The tag list is open. Comment on my pinned post if you wish to be tagged in the next posts 🩵

💌: @fallthelong

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shinreiplays · 2 days ago

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The way my jaw dropped 😳 🥵

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shinreiplays · 3 days ago

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gojo satoru was spoiled, sure. but he wasn’t used to being cared for.

he had people who answered to him. people who revered him, feared him, respected him. his clan, his school, his students. everything he wanted, he could have. everything he needed, someone got for him.

but then there was you.

you, who didn’t flinch when he joked too loudly or smiled too wide. you, who didn’t tiptoe around his legacy like it was made of glass. you, who leaned into him instead of away, who called him “satoru” like he was just a man, not the strongest.

and when you touched him, it wasn’t reverent or worshipful or like you owed him anything. it was simple. kind. natural.

like reaching to fix his collar on a windy morning.

like putting his favorite tea on the stove before he even asked.

like dragging him to bed when he passed out on the couch, glasses skewed, mouth slightly open.

“come on,” you’d mutter, soft but firm, “sleep properly, sato.”

and he’d blink up at you, half-lidded and drowsy, and feel something sweet settle in his chest.

you didn’t do these things because he asked. you didn’t do them because he was gojo satoru. you just�� cared.

it rattled something in him.

once, you made him lunch and packed it for him in a neat little box. he opened it during a break at jujutsu tech, laughing at a text from you about something dumb his students did.

inside, there was his favorite food. a little sticky note with a doodle. a stupid pun you’d written.

don’t fight anyone on an empty stomach!!

he sat there, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, and just stared.

he thought about how no one had ever done that before. not like this. not with that silly, mindless affection. not because they wanted to make his day better.

and that night, when he came home, he found you on the couch in your pajamas, phone in hand, hair messy from the way you curled up against the cushions.

he walked over without saying a word, dropped to his knees in front of you, and laid his head in your lap.

you blinked down at him. “…long day?”

he nodded, face pressed against your stomach, arms winding around your waist.

“thank you,” he mumbled.

you snorted. “for what?”

he didn’t answer. just closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of your laundry detergent, your skin, your home.

he’d always had everything he could ask for. but until you, he didn’t know what it meant to be loved for nothing. for free.

and god, did it make him want to give you the world.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ i love satoru 😔

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shinreiplays · 3 days ago

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save a cow ride a boy or what um save a uh ride a horse no its save a uhh guys who we saving

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shinreiplays · 4 days ago

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LOVE & OTHER VARIABLES — SATORU GOJO

pairing — tutor!satoru gojo x cheerleader!reader

summary — you're the star cheerleader who can't solve an equation to save your life. he's the brilliant physics student who can't figure out how to talk to girls. but when he becomes your last hope to save your failing math grade, you discover there's more to him than theorems and thick glasses. between tutoring and cheerleading, you find yourself falling for the nerd who gets flustered at a simple hello but kisses like he's studied the subject for years. turns out love might be the most complex variable either of you has ever tried to solve.

word count — 9.2 k

genre/tags — college AU, friends to lovers, opposites attract, tutor/student, nerd/cheerleader, academic setting, slow burn, protective!satoru, implied virgin!satoru, mutual pining, sweet fluff, idiots in love

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, mentions of unwanted advances/harassment from a side character

author's note — hey lovelies ! surprise early valentine's day gift, because what's better than falling for your adorably genius tutor? grab your headphones, play "so high school" by taylor swift, and enjoy this story of sweet pining and study room makeouts. sending love to everyone spending their evenings with textbooks and studying. may your grades be high and your tutors be hot <3

masterlist + support my writing + art credit: @/3-aem

Satoru Gojo dealt in hard numbers, precise calculations and proven theorems. He could solve complex differential equations in his sleep and had memorized pi to a hundred digits just for fun. But there was one variable he could never quite figure out,

You.

You were everything he wasn't — popular, athletic, the kind of person who lit up a room just by existing. As captain of the college cheer squad, you moved through campus like you owned it, laughter and admiring glances followed you like a natural.

Satoru, on the other hand, preferred the quiet of the physics lab, the hushed rustle of pages in the library stacks. Quantum mechanics made more sense to him than the messy equations of human interaction.

So when Professor Nanami assigned him to be your maths tutor, Satoru thought it must be a glitch in the Matrix, a logical impossibility. You needed to maintain your GPA to stay on the squad, and apparently, he was the department's best shot at making that happen.

You recognized him the moment you walked into the study room — that quiet guy from your math class who always sat in the back, the one who seemed to solve complex equations like they were simple addition. You'd seen him around, of course, but you'd never really paid attention before. He was just... there. Part of the academic backdrop of college life, like migraines and coffee stains.

But now, as he looked up from his meticulously organized notes, something shifted. Maybe it was the way the afternoon light caught his white hair, or how his round glasses couldn't quite hide the startling blue of his eyes. Had they always been that blue? And when he spoke, his voice was deeper than you expected, rich and warm like honey.

"Uh, hi," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I'm Satoru. Nanami-sensei said you needed a tutor. Maths, right?"

He stood from his chair, nearly knocking over a stack of textbooks in his haste to shake your hand. His hand, when you took it, was surprisingly warm and soft, though his grip was a little too tight, and you couldn't help but notice how he towered over you even with his slightly hunched posture.

Up close, you found yourself noticing things you'd somehow missed during all those lectures — like the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of his stubble, or the way his hand swallowed yours whole. Even the sweater vest he wore (which should have been insanely uncool) somehow worked for him in a way you couldn't quite explain.

"So… where do you want to start?"

And just like that, it began. Twice a week, tutoring sessions, afternoons that slowly evolved into something neither of you could quite solve for. Because here's what Satoru's calculations hadn't accounted for — the way you'd scrunch your nose when concentrating, the sudden brightness of your smile when you finally understood a concept, or how your perfume would make it impossible to focus on derivatives.

And your variables? They never included the endearing way he'd push his glasses up when flustered, how his eyes would light up when explaining complex theories, or the fact that beneath that nerdy shell lurked a wickedly sharp sense of humor.

But perhaps some equations weren't meant to be solved. Perhaps they're meant to be experienced, one tutoring session at a time.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

"Okay, explain to me again why I can't just try random numbers until something works?" You were sprawled across the library table, exhausted after hours of studying. Your head ached from staring at equations for so long, textbooks and papers strewn about in complete chaos.

Satoru rubbed his own tired eyes behind his glasses, but his voice remained patient as ever. Even after spending the entire afternoon explaining the same concepts, he hadn't shown a single sign of frustration. "Because that's not how calculus works. You need to understand the underlying principles—"

"But the underlying principles hate me." You dropped your head onto your textbook with a groan. "Can't we just agree that whoever invented all this shit was a sadist and call it a day?"

"Newton invented calculus," he said, then immediately regretted it when he saw your expression. "Though, uh, Leibniz developed it independently around the same time, which actually led to a controversy in the mathematical community—"

"Satoru," you cut him off, but there was fondness in your voice. "You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" He pushed his glasses up.

"Your nerdy thing where you get all excited about math history." You sat up, propping your chin on your hand. "It's cute, but it's not helping me understand why this limit doesn't exist."

He nearly dropped his pencil. Had you just called him cute? No, you'd called his nerdy rambling cute. There was a difference. Probably. He'd have to analyze that later.

"Right, um, the limit." He cleared his throat, trying to remember how to form coherent sentences. "Think of it like a cheerleading routine."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Just... bear with me." He sketched a quick graph. "When you're doing a flip, there's a point where you're neither going up nor coming down, right? That's kind of like this limit—it's approaching a point where the function isn't quite doing either thing."

"Did you just... learn cheerleading terms to explain calculus to me?"

Heat crept up his neck. "I may have watched some videos. For educational purposes."

"That's..." you trailed off, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite calculate. "That's actually really sweet."

"Oh... uhm, I'm just trying to be a good tutor," he said, but his heart was doing something strange, something he'd never felt before. It definitely defied all known laws of physics.

"Well, Mr. Good Tutor," you leaned closer, and he caught another whiff of your perfume, "explain it to me again. Using more cheer analogies."

And so he did, drawing parallels between derivatives and tumbling passes, using formations to explain functions, and somehow, the math started making sense. By the end of the session, you'd not only grasped the concept but had also taught him the proper terms for various stunts. A fair trade, he thought, even if the librarian had shushed you both multiple times.

As you packed up your books, you paused, twirling your pencil in a way that completely distracted him from his thoughts. "Hey, we have a big game this Friday. Against State. I'll be cheering, obviously."

"Oh." He began cleaning his glasses, a nervous habit you'd come to find oddly endearing. "That's... good luck?"

"I'm inviting you, dummy." You rolled your eyes, but your smile was warm. "You should come watch. See how the other half lives."

"The other half meaning...?"

You gave him a look. "People who don't spend their Friday nights solving equations for fun."

"I... um..." A faint blush rose on his cheeks as he fumbled with his glasses. "I've never really been to a game before."

"Then it's time you finally have the full college experience." You shouldered your bag, then leaned down to write something on his notebook. "Here's my number. So you can text me when you get there. I'll make sure to wave at you during our halftime routine."

Before he could manage a response that wasn't completely pathetic, you were gone in a swish of pleated skirt and floral perfume, leaving him staring at your phone number like it was a problem set from the deepest reaches of abstract algebra.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

Satoru spent the next three days debating whether or not to text you, writing and rewriting messages that never got sent. What was the protocol here? Was there a specific formula for how long to wait? Should he reference tutoring to keep it professional?

In the end, you'd asked someone in his physics course for his number and texted him first,

You: Hope you're still planning to come to the game tomorrow! Look for me in the front of the formation.

He stared at his phone for so long his screen went dark. Then, taking a deep breath, he typed:

Satoru: Should I bring my textbook to study during halftime?

Your response was immediate: NO omg spare me! No books allowed! Just come watch me flip through the air.

Satoru: I'll try to come. Is there a dress code?

You: Great! Promise I'll make it worth your while & No dress code. But if you ask me, I'd say wear something blue. It suits your eyes.

Suits my eyes? he thought, a strange warmth spreading through him as he starred at the text. He��d never considered his eyes particularly noteworthy. They were just…blue. Nothing like yours, which were…well, yours were something else entirely. He couldn't quite describe them, but they were captivating, drawing him in like an infinite decimal, endlessly fascinating and impossible to fully comprehend. His own eyes, by comparison, felt plain, almost…functional.

Stop. He was overthinking this. It was just a game. He was just going to watch you cheer. That was all.

And that's how Satoru found himself standing in front of his mirror on Friday night, wearing the only casual clothes he owned — dark jeans and a blue button-down his sister had forced him to buy. Though he kept his favorite sweater vest over it. He'd even attempted to style his usually messy white hair, but it still fell in his eyes no matter what he did.

Walking into the packed stadium felt like stepping into another world. He had never been to a college game before — his weekends usually involved physics journals and quiet library corners, not roaring crowds and marching bands.

He found a seat near the front, as your text had instructed, and immediately spotted you warming up with the rest of the team. The energy you brought to math was nothing compared to this. Your movements were precise, athletic, stunning. Your uniform shimmered under the stadium lights and your smile could have lit up the entire campus.

When the game began, he tried to follow the action on the field, he really did. But his eyes kept gravitating towards you, leading your squad through each cheer. He found himself analyzing the physics of your movements — the perfect parabolic arc of your jumps, the calculated precision of each flip, the way you seemed to defy gravity itself when thrown into the air.

But it was during halftime that his brain truly short-circuited. Your squad took the field for their main routine, and there you were, front and center, exactly as promised. He watched in awe as you were lifted into complicated formations, your movements so graceful they made his carefully ordered world tilt on its axis. When you pulled off a series of flips that seemed to defy gravity, he actually found himself calculating the rotational velocity in his head, just to make sense of how you'd done it.

You spotted him in the crowd during one sequence, flashing him a smile that made him forget every equation he'd ever memorized from his mental hard drive. Your eyes met his just before you were launched into another stunt, and he swore his heart momentarily flatlined, a zero on the number line of his existence, until you landed safely.

Even from the bleachers, he could see how the effort brought a lovely pink blush to your cheeks, and yet you made it all look so effortless. You were radiant, breathtaking in a way that no mathematical formula could ever quantify. And in that moment, watching you shine in your element, Satoru realized he was in serious trouble.

After the routine, you broke away from your squad and made your way up to where he sat. Your face was still flushed, loose strands of hair clinging to your neck, and even slightly out of breath, you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"So?" you asked, dropping onto the bench beside him. "How'd I do? Any notes on my rotational mechanics, professor?" Your attempt at a teasing smile turned into a slight wince as you rolled your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" His hands hover uncertainly near your shoulder.

"Just a bit sore. That last lift was..." You rolled your shoulder again, grimacing.

Without thinking, Satoru shrugged off his sweater vest and draped it over your shoulders. "You'll catch a cold." He noticed how the cooling sweat had left your arms covered in goosebumps. His vest was ridiculously large on you, but something about seeing you wrapped in his clothes made his heart do strange things in his chest.

"My hero." You smiled tiredly and pulled the vest tighter around you. It smelled like him, like clean laundry and whatever subtly pleasant cologne he wore. "But you didn't answer my question. What did you think?"

"I think you broke all known laws of physics out there. Your trajectory during that last flip sequence was..." He caught himself rambling on about angles and momentum and quickly changed course. "You were amazing."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, the simple gesture making his breath catch. "Thanks for coming. It's nice to see a familiar face in the crowd."

"You have plenty of people watching you," he said , hesitantly letting his arm settle around your shoulders when you shivered slightly. "The whole stadium was cheering for you."

"Yeah, but..." you paused, and he could feel your smile against his shoulder. "Somehow, seeing your face out there made me the happiest. Especially since I know this isn't really your scene."

"I'm glad I came," he said. "Though I did bring flash cards, just in case."

Your laugh was warm against his neck. "Of course you did, you giant nerd." There was unmistakable affection in your voice that made his pulse quicken.

"Someone has to keep your GPA up." He was proud that his voice remained steady, even as you snuggled closer into his side.

"Mmm, about that..." You stifled a yawn. "I might need extra help with derivatives next week."

"Of course." Satoru tried to ignore how right it felt to have you leaning against him. "Same time as always."

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

The following week, something had shifted between you. Maybe it was because he'd seen you in your element, or because you were still wearing his sweater vest (which you'd "forgotten" to return), but the usual study room felt different somehow. Warmer. More intimate.

You'd chosen to sit closer to him than usual, close enough that your arm brushed his whenever you reached for your calculator all while the light, floral scent of your shampoo kept pulling his focus away from the equations.

"So, if we take the derivative here…" he began, but lost his train of thought when you leaned closer to see what he was writing, your ponytail brushing against his shoulder.

"Like this?" You picked up your pencil to attempt the problem, your free hand absently playing with the sleeve of his sweater vest you wore.

He had to clear his throat before speaking. "Almost. Here, let me show you." His hand covered yours as he guided your pencil through the correct steps, and he couldn't help but notice how soft your skin was, or how neither of you pulled away even after the equation was solved.

"You're a really good teacher, you know?" you said quietly, your hand still beneath his. "I actually understand this stuff now."

The proud smile you gave him made his heart flutter in his chest. Somehow, making you understand calculus felt more significant than any academic achievement he'd ever earned.

"You know," you said, finally pulling your hand away from his to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, "you help me so much with all this. I feel like I should do something for you in return."

His glasses fogged up slightly as he rushed to respond. "Oh! No, you don't have to—I mean, this is... I enjoy—"

"Come on, there must be something." You turned in your chair to face him. "Oh! Do you need help meeting someone? Like, dating-wise?"

Satoru nearly chocked on air. "What?"

"Yeah! I mean, I could introduce you to someone! Actually, Sarah from my squad was just saying how smart guys are totally her type—"

"I'm not—" he started, then stopped, his cheeks flushing. "That is…I'm already…there's someone I…"

"Oh? Tell me! Who's the lucky girl?" You tried to keep your voice light and cheerful even as something heavy settled in your chest. You weren't sure why the thought of Satoru being interested in someone made your stomach twist so uncomfortably. After all, it made sense — he was brilliant, kind, and underneath those sweater vests and thick glasses, he was actually really handsome. Of course he'd have feelings for someone.

"It's... complicated. She's way out of my league. Popular, athletic, beautiful..." He trailed off, adjusting his glasses.

"Satoru Gojo," you said, poking his arm, ignoring the way your heart seemed to sink with each word he spoke about this mystery girl, "are you holding out on me? Come on, spill! Who is she? Maybe I can help—" Even as you offered, you realized you really, really didn't want to help him get together with anyone else.

"We should probably get back to derivatives," he cut in quickly, his face now completely red. "Don't you have a exam next week?"

"Right. Yeah. The exam." You turned back to your textbook, trying to focus on the equations that suddenly seemed blurry.

You found yourself stealing glances at him as he explained the next problem, wondering about this girl who had caught his attention. Was she in one of his advanced physics classes? Someone who could actually understand all the complex theories he got so excited about? The thought made your chest ache, like a bruise blooming beneath your ribs.

Satoru seemed equally distracted. His usually clear explanations were interrupted by nervous pauses whenever your hands accidentally brushed. He kept adjusting his glasses, and somehow managed to knock over his pencil three times in the span of five minutes.

"Sorry," he mumbled after the third time, both of you reaching for the pencil at the same time and quickly pulling back when your fingers touched. "I'm not usually this... I mean, I should be more..."

"It's okay." You smiled, even though your heart felt heavy. "We all have off days. Even brilliant tutors."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and in his blue eyes, you saw a question hanging in the air between you. For a moment, it seemed like he might voice it, but then he quickly looked away, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Maybe we should call it a day." You needed to get out of there, needed space to process why knowing he liked someone hurt so much. "I think my brain is full of derivatives anyway."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Was it your imagination, or did he sound disappointed? "Same time next week?"

"Yeah," you managed, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You were still wearing his sweater vest, you realized. "Oh, I should give this back—"

"Keep it," he said quickly, then immediately looked like he regretted speaking. "I mean, if you want to. For studying. It might help with... derivatives."

"Derivatives. Right." You hugged the vest closer. "Well, thanks for today." You hesitated at the door, fingers playing nervously with the soft fabric of the vest. "Oh, um... we have another game next Friday. Against Eastern. If you're not too busy, maybe you could come? You don't have to, obviously, but it was nice having you there last time."

"I'll be there." And those simple words made you feel lighter than air.

"Great," you said. "And good luck with... you know. Your crush and everything."

You hurried out before he could respond, missing the way he watched you leave with a longing expression, or how he whispered "You have no idea" to the empty study room.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

The next Friday came quickly, and true to his word, Satoru was there in the same spot as last time, his blue eyes following your every movement. The game was going well, the energy in the stadium electric, and your squad was nailing every routine.

Then came the halftime show.

Everything started perfectly — the music, the formations, the stunts all flowing together just as practiced. You caught Satoru's eye just before your final sequence, his presence somehow both calming and exciting at the same time. But then something went wrong.

Your base thrower put too much power into the toss. You felt it the moment you left his hands. Too much height, too much force. Your trained body tried to adjust in the air, but the angle was off. Instead of landing cleanly in the waiting arms of your teammates, you came down awkwardly, taking most of the impact on your left side.

The crowd gasped. You bounced up immediately, muscle memory and pride making you finish the routine with a smile, even as pain shot through your shoulder and hip. Your squad mates shot you concerned looks, but you waved them off.

But as soon as the music ended and the crowd's attention returned to the game, you felt the full effect of the fall. Your vision swam slightly, and your left arm didn't want to move quite right. Still, you maintained your smile, not wanting to worry anyone.

After the game, you tried to slip away unnoticed, your shoulder still hurting from the bad landing, when Jake — your base thrower — cornered you near the locker rooms.

"Hey, wait up!" Jake had been trying to get your attention for weeks, his throws getting more aggressive as if he wanted to prove something. "You okay? That last stunt was pretty intense."

"I'm fine," you said curtly, taking a step back. "Though maybe next time try not to throw me into orbit?"

He moved closer, using his height to crowd your space. "Come on, don't be like that. I was just trying to make you look good out there. You know I'd never hurt you on purpose." His voice dropped lower as he leaned in. "Maybe I could make it up to you? There's a party at my place tonight..."

"I said I'm fine." You tried to step around him, but he blocked your path with his arm against the wall. "Jake, back off."

"Why are you being so cold? Everyone knows you're the best flyer on the squad, I was just trying to show that off. Besides," his eyes narrowed slightly, "I've seen how you've been spending time with that nerdy tutor. What's his deal anyway?"

"That's none of your—"

"Is there a problem here?"

Satoru's voice cut through the scene, surprisingly firm for someone who usually stumbled over casual greetings. He stepped between you and Jake, and for the first time, you realized just how physically imposing Satoru actually was. His usual oversized sweaters and shy demeanor had always made him seem smaller somehow, but standing next to Jake, you could see that Satoru was actually taller, his shoulders just as broad. Something about the way he positioned himself — protective, solid, unmovable — made your heart race.

"This is none of your business," Jake snapped, but you noticed how he took a small step back, clearly reassessing the situation now that he was face-to-face with someone who matched him physically.

"When you throw my friend at dangerous velocities and then proceed to intimidate her?" Satoru's voice was cold in a way you'd never heard before. "That makes it my business."

"Your friend?" Jake scoffed. "Since when does a nerd like you—"

"Back. Off." Each word was precise, and though Satoru's voice remained quiet, there was steel beneath the softness. He shifted slightly, making sure you were completely shielded behind him.

Something in his tone must have registered because Jake finally stepped back, holding up his hands. "Whatever, man. Didn't realize she had a bodyguard." He shot you one last look before walking away. "See you at practice."

The moment Jake was gone, Satoru turned to you, his stern expression melting into concern. "Are you okay? That landing looked bad, and now this... Do you need to report him? I can go with you to—"

"I'm okay," you said. "Just sore. And annoyed. Jake's been... difficult lately."

"He shouldn't have thrown you like that. The angle was completely wrong and the force way too much. I calculated the trajectory and it was at least thirty percent more power than necessary for—" He caught himself rambling and adjusted his glasses. "Sorry. I just... I was worried."

You couldn't help but smile at how quickly he'd switched from intimidating protector back to your adorably nervous tutor. It was also…endearing. And it did something strange to your insides, a fluttery sensation, like a thousand tiny butterflies had suddenly taken flight in your stomach. It was a feeling you couldn't quite name, but it made you want to lean closer to him, to thank him, to…something. You weren't sure what.

"Don't apologize. It's cute when you get all mathematical about things. And... thank you. For stepping in like that."

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly flustered by your praise. "Um, are you... hungry?"

You smiled. "Starving, actually."

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

You and Satoru headed to the diner around the corner from the stadium, a cozy, retro place you loved — all chrome and neon, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox humming in the corner. You slid into a booth while Satoru ordered milkshakes and burgers for both of you, and somehow you weren't surprised that he remembered your favorite flavor from that one time you'd mentioned it during a study session weeks ago.

You talked about everything. Silly stories, your cheerleading, his lab accidents and he even revealed that he rock climbed in his spare time, which, you realized, explained a lot. You found yourself laughing more than you had in ages, and every time you made him laugh in return, that warm feeling in your chest grew stronger.

Before you knew it, two hours had passed, your milkshakes long empty and the burgers nothing but crumbs. The diner had mostly emptied out, the neon lights outside casting colorful shadows across your table.

"Is that what you want to do?" you said as your eyes fell on the physics textbook peeking out of Satoru's bag while you stole one of his remaining fries, "After college, I mean? Something with physics?"

"Yeah, I'm hoping to get into the quantum physics program. They only accept a few students each year, but their research on quantum entanglement is insane. They're working on this project with superconductors that could change how we think about wave function collapse. And their particle accelerator facility is one of the best in the country, so I really hope to..." he trailed off, suddenly looking shy. "Sorry, I'm probably boring you."

"No, not at all!" You found yourself genuinely interested in the way his whole face brightened when talking about physics. "It's nice seeing someone who knows exactly what they want."

"What about you?" he asked softly, pushing another fry your way. "Any plans?"

You sighed, slumping back in the booth. "Honestly? I have no idea. Something that doesn't involve math, that's for sure." You tried to laugh it off. "Maybe communications? Or business? I just... sometimes it feels like everyone else has it all figured out."

"You're actually better at math than you think. You just approach problems differently. More creatively. Like how you connected those derivatives to your cheer routines last week? That was smart."

You felt your face warm at his words and fidgeted with your straw wrapper. "You're just saying that because you're my tutor."

"I'm saying it because it's true." The firmness in his voice made you look up. His blue eyes met yours with an intensity that made you feel truly seen. "And whatever you choose to do, you'll be amazing at it. You're brilliant in ways that can't be measured by math."

Something in your chest squeezed at his words, at how completely sincere he sounded. No one had ever looked at you quite like that before, like they could see past the cheerleader uniform to something more. You opened your mouth to respond, but found yourself at a loss for words. Seeming to sense your nervousness, Satoru cleared his throat and changed the subject. "So, um... about earlier. Does that happen often? With Jake, I mean?"

You let out a heavy sigh. "Jake's been... persistent. We went on one date last semester. Probably the worst decision I've ever made. He spent the whole time talking about himself and got angry when I wouldn't kiss him goodnight." You stirred your melting milkshake absently. "Ever since then, he's been acting like he has some kind of claim on me. Using our stunts to show off, getting too close during practice."

"Has he hurt you before? During practice?"

"Not exactly, but..." you hesitated. "Sometimes the way he throws me feels more like he's trying to prove something than actually do the routine right. Like today."

"You should report him. What he's doing isn't safe. If he's letting his personal feelings affect—" Satoru's hands tightened around his milkshake glass. "Sorry, I just... I don't like the idea of him putting you at risk."

You paused at the sudden intensity of his words, and somehow they made your heart melt like ice cream on a summer day. "You're so sweet," you said quietly.

"I'm just worried," he replied, then quickly added, "As your tutor, I mean. Can't have my student getting injured."

"Right. As my tutor," you echoed, trying to ignore the strange ache at his words. "Of course."

The walk back to your dorm was quiet but comfortable, the night air cool against your skin. Satoru walked close enough that your arms occasionally brushed, sending little sparks through you each time. You found yourself walking slower than necessary, trying to stretch out these last few moments with him. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly nervous.

"Thanks for everything tonight. The rescue, the dinner, just... everything."

"Anytime," he said softly, the streetlight catching his blue eyes, making them seem impossibly bright beneath his white lashes.

Before you could overthink it, you rose on your tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm under your lips, and you could feel him freeze at the contact. When you pulled back, his face was completely red, one hand touching the spot where you'd kissed him like he couldn't quite believe it had happened. His glasses were slightly fogged up, and something about how adorably flustered he looked made you brave.

"Can I ask you something?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them. "Have you... I mean, do you have much experience? With girls?" You immediately wanted to die of embarrassment. "Sorry, that's so personal, you don't have to—"

"No!" he blurted, then winced at how loud that came out. "I mean, not really. I've been... focused on academics mostly. And girls don't usually..." he trailed off, adjusting his glasses in that nervous way of his. "Why do you ask?"

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. "Can I..." You swallowed hard, gathering every bit of strength you had. "Would it be okay if I kissed you?"

His eyes widened behind his glasses, lips parting in surprise. For a moment, he seemed to be running calculations in his head, processing your words like data input. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

Rising on your tiptoes again, you gently pressed your lips to his. He was completely still at first, seemingly frozen in shock, and for a terrifying moment you thought you'd made a horrible mistake. But then his hand came up to cup your face, surprisingly steady for someone who'd been so nervous moments before, and suddenly he was kissing you back.

And oh — for someone with "not really" any experience, he kissed like he'd been thinking about this for ages. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss with a confidence that made your knees weak. Your hands fisted in his sweater vest as his thumb stroked your cheek, and you couldn't help the small sound that escaped when he gently caught your lower lip between his.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathing hard. His glasses were completely fogged up now, but you could still see the intensity in his eyes behind them. He hadn't moved away completely, his hand still cupping your face, your bodies close enough that you could feel the slight trembling in his breathing as you tried to process how your adorably awkward tutor had just given you the best kiss of your life.

"See you at our next tutoring session?" His thumb brushed your cheek one last time before he slowly pulled back.

You could only manage a nod, your mind still fuzzy from the kiss. As you watched him walk away, occasionally glancing back at you with that sweet, slightly dazed smile, you realized math had suddenly become your favorite subject.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

You'd been staring at the same equation for ten minutes now, but none of the numbers made sense. How could they, when all you could think about was that kiss from the other night? The way Satoru's hand had felt on your face, how confidently he'd pulled you closer, the soft brush of his thumb against your cheek—

"Are you okay? You seem distracted."

His voice snapped you back to reality. You were in your usual study room, but everything felt different now. The space seemed smaller somehow, more crowded. The fact that it was unusually warm for spring didn't help. Satoru had rolled up the sleeves of his button-down to his elbows, his sweater vest abandoned over the back of his chair. You'd never realized how distracting forearms could be until now.

"I'm fine!" you said too quickly, forcing your eyes back to your textbook. "Just... struggling with this problem."

"Here, let me show you." He leaned closer and reached for your pencil, his hand brushing yours in the process. You both froze at the contact, the air between you growing thick with unspoken thoughts.

"Sorry," he murmured, but didn't move away. This close, you could see the faint freckles dusting his cheeks and nose, how his blue eyes darted briefly to your lips before returning to the textbook.

You weren't sure who was actually more distracted. You, who couldn't stop thinking about that kiss, or him, who kept adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat whenever your hands accidentally touched. The usual comfortable silence of your study sessions had turned electric, charged with everything neither of you were saying.

"Maybe we should take a break," you suggested, your voice coming out slightly breathless when he reached across you to grab an eraser, his arm brushing your shoulder.

"Right. Yeah. Good idea." He leaned back in his chair, both of you falling quiet. You could practically see him thinking, the way he always did before solving a complex problem, while your own thoughts kept drifting back to that kiss, to how surprisingly confident he'd been—

"About the other night—" you both started at the same time, then laughed nervously.

"You go first," he said, adjusting his glasses.

You took a deep breath. "I liked it." Your face felt hot, but you forced yourself to continue. "I mean the kiss. It was good. Like, really good. Which kind of surprised me because you said you didn't have much experience, and I was wondering..."

"If I lied?" He gave a small, self-ironic laugh. "No, I meant what I said. I haven't... I mean, there haven't been many girls. Actually," he cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at you, "there haven't been any. Girls, I mean. Before."

Your eyes widened. "Wait, was that your first kiss?"

"No! I mean… I've kissed a few girls before, but nothing serious. I was always too focused on academics to really... pursue anything."

Pursue anything? What did that even mean? Your mind was already racing with thoughts of how much you wanted to pursue everything with him. The study room suddenly felt too small, too warm. You stood up abruptly, needing to move, to do something with this nervous energy coursing through you.

After pacing a few steps, you turned back to him. "Would you... want to kiss me again?" The words came out in a rush, and you immediately wanted to take them back when you saw his stunned expression. "Sorry, that was probably too forward. If you don't want to, that's totally okay, I just thought—"

Your rambling stopped as Satoru stood and walked to the door behind you. He turned the lock with a soft click that made your breath catch. When he turned back to you, there was that confidence again, the kind that made you weak in the knees.

And then you were against the bookshelf, his hands cupping your face as his mouth found yours. This kiss was different from your first — more urgent, less hesitant. One of his hands slid into your hair, the other dropped to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss.

You gasped against his lips, your hands gripping his shirt as he kissed you like he'd been thinking about this all day — which, based on how distracted you'd both been during studying, he probably had.

He pressed your back further against the bookshelf, the force of his kiss sending several books tumbling to the floor. Neither of you paid any attention. You were too focused on his hand tightening in your hair, the surprising strength of his grip on your waist.

Then, without warning, his hands slid down to your thighs, and he lifted you effortlessly. You gasped in surprise. All those times you’d wondered about the strength of his broad shoulders hidden beneath his sweater vests… turns out you hadn't been imagining things. He carried you to the study table, setting you gently on the edge.

You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively as he stepped between them, one of his hands bracing on the table beside you while the other cupped your face. His kiss deepened, his tongue tracing your lips before slipping inside. "Is this okay?" he murmured against your mouth, always thoughtful even in moments like this.

You nodded, pulling him closer by his shirt. "More than okay."

"Would you want me to—I mean… can I... try something?"

Try? What does he want to try? Your pulse quickened and you simply nodded, not trusting your voice, already breathless from how he said 'try' like you were his favorite research subject.

His lips found yours again as he gently pressed you back against the table, your math notes scattering forgotten to the floor. His mouth moved to your neck, drawing a soft gasp from you while one hand traced down your side with surprising confidence, his body fitting perfectly between your legs. And you began to wonder, for someone who claimed to be inexperienced, Satoru seemed to know exactly what he was doing — and if this was him being inexperienced, heaven help you when he gained some confidence.

His mouth then traveled lower and lower, lifting one of your legs up over his shoulder so that he could kiss down your inner thighs and your last coherent thought, before his lips were on you, was that some lessons were definitely best learned outside textbooks.

Everything that followed were barely contained curses and moans as Satoru pushed two fingers inside, pressing deep and slow while his tongue worked on you. It wasn't long before you came, you back arched, pressing closer to him as you reached your climax, your thighs involuntarily closing around his head. But he was quick to react, grabbing your thighs and spreading them apart, his tongue still on you, drawing out every last shudder of your orgasm until you thought you couldn't take it anymore, your fingers tightening in his hair, not sure if you wanted him closer or to pull him off you.

It took you a few moments to come back to reality. Your breathing heavy, body still trembling as you tried to process what just happened. Your brilliant, sweet, cute, nerdy math tutor had just made you cum on that table in the study room of your college in a matter of minutes — and it was better than any long sex you'd ever had with anyone else.

Satoru slowly eased his fingers out of you and kissed your thighs again, as if he couldn't get enough of you. You didn't say anything for a long time, so he must have been getting nervous, because then he asked, "Was that... okay?"

You pushed yourself up on your elbows to look at him. He adjusted his glasses, which were clearly covered with something liquid you were sure came from you, in that adorably nervous way of his.

"Okay?" You let out a breathless laugh. "How are you so... I mean, where did you learn to...?"

"I'm good at… studying."

You were silent.

"Hah?"

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

The days following your tutoring session in the study room felt like walking through a dream. Neither of you had explicitly talked about what happened — what it meant, what you were to each other now. Your study sessions continued like always, like he hadn’t made you cum on this precise table with his mouth just a few days before. So much for being inexperienced.

Satoru remained surprisingly composed, if a bit more touchy than before. His hand lingered on your lower back when he leaned in to check your work, his fingers brushing strands of hair behind your ear when you concentrated. You caught him watching you with that intense blue gaze more often, though he'd quickly look away and adjust his glasses when you met his eyes.

You figured he was waiting until after your upcoming exam, not wanting to distract you more than he already did. Though honestly, how were you supposed to focus on math when all you could think about was his hands, his mouth, the way he'd— okay, let's not go there.

At least cheerleading practice had gotten better. Jake had done a complete 180° shift in behavior. No more aggressive throws, no more hovering around after practice, not even the usual suggestive comments. It was almost unsettling how quickly he'd backed off, though you weren't about to question the peace.

It was during one of your regular study sessions, while you were working through practice problems for your upcoming exam, that Satoru finally brought it up.

"How has Jake been lately?"

"Oh, uhm… actually, really good. Well, not good exactly, more like... absent?" You tapped your own pencil against your textbook thoughtfully. "He barely speaks to me anymore, which is weird considering how persistent he was before. It's like someone scared him off or..." You paused, the pieces suddenly clicking together. "Satoru, did you say something to him?"

He pushed his glasses up, a tell you'd learned meant he was either nervous or hiding something. "We may have had a conversation."

"A conversation," you repeated flatly.

"About physics." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Specifically about force, momentum, and the potential consequences of their misuse."

"Satoru!"

"What?" He finally looked up at you, and there was that flash of confidence again, the kind that made your heart flutter. "I simply explained some basic principles. Like how someone with my understanding of applied physics could theoretically calculate exactly how much force it would take to—"

"You threatened him with physics?" You weren't sure whether to be horrified or impressed.

"It was more like an educational discussion." His blue eyes met yours, surprisingly serious. "I don't like seeing people I care about being put in dangerous situations."

Your heart stuttered at his words. People he cared about. That was... something. Maybe not a definition of what you were to each other, but definitely something.

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite your racing pulse, "you care about me?"

His hand stilled on the page. For a moment, he just looked at you, and the intensity in his gaze made you forget how to breathe. "Didn't what happened in this room last week make that fairly obvious?"

Heat rushed to your face at the memory. "We haven't really talked about that."

"No," he agreed softly. "We haven't."

The air between you grew thick with longing. Your practice problems lay forgotten as you both gravitated closer, drawn together like opposing charges in one of his physics equations.

"I wanted to wait," he admitted. "Until after your exam. I didn't want to..." He swallowed hard as you shifted closer. "To distract you."

"You're always distracting," you whispered, close enough now to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. "With your stupid glasses and your physics metaphors and the way you explain math like it's poetry."

His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek in that way that made you melt. "We should probably talk about this properly."

"Probably," you agreed, already leaning in.

"After your exam," he murmured against your lips.

"After my exam," you echoed, and then his mouth was on yours, and for a while, neither of you did much talking at all.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

You almost floated through the library's quiet halls, clutching your exam results to your chest. The paper was slightly crumpled from how many times you'd unfolded and refolded it, just to make sure the grade was real. Third highest in the course. You. In maths. It felt surreal.

The library was nearly empty, everyone else either at the game or starting their weekend celebrations. You should have been there too, in your uniform leading cheers, but your shoulder still hurt slightly from that bad landing last week. As much as you hated missing a game, the forced rest had given you extra time to study, which clearly paid off.

Besides, you knew exactly where to find him — the same spot where he always studied on Friday nights, tucked away in the far corner between the physics and mathematics sections.

Sure enough, there he was, surrounded by his usual fortress of textbooks. His white hair caught the warm light from the desk lamp, falling into his eyes as he bent over what looked like quantum mechanics homework. He hadn't noticed you yet, and for a moment you just watched him, feeling your heart swell with affection for this brilliant, ridiculous man who had somehow made you understand derivatives.

"Guess who got an A?" you announced, dropping into the chair across from him.

Satoru's head snapped up, his blue eyes widening behind his glasses. "You got your results?"

You slid the paper across to him, unable to contain your smile. "Third highest in the course. Can you believe it?"

He scanned the paper, and the pride that bloomed across his face made your chest tight. "I can absolutely believe it." His smile was soft, genuine. "You worked so hard for this."

"I had a pretty amazing tutor," you said. "Thank you. For believing I could do this even when I didn't."

"You did all the work. I just helped you see what was already there." But as he spoke, you noticed something in his expression — a tightness around his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders. Now that your excitement was settling, you could see his exhaustion.

"Are you okay? You look... stressed."

He let out a long breath, running his hand through his already messy white hair. "That obvious, huh?" He gestured to the complex equations covering his notebook. "I've been working on this quantum mechanics assignment. There's this one problem that's just..." He trailed off, frustration evident in his voice.

"Wait, something the great Satoru Gojo can't solve?" you teased gently, but your smile faded when you saw the genuine worry in his eyes. "How long have you been working on this?"

"Since..." He glanced at his watch and winced. "Before sunrise?"

You looked at the dark windows, realizing the sun had long since set. "You've been here all day?"

"Had to get it right." He stifled a yawn. "It's an important assignment and I just can't seem to get it right."

"You need a break."

"But I'm so close, I can feel it. If I just—" His words cut off as you disappeared under the table. He looked down, eyes widening behind his glasses as you crawl under the table to his side and settled between his legs.

"What are you..." His voice caught as your hands slid up his thighs. "Someone could—"

"The library's empty." Your fingers were already working on his belt. "And you need to relax."

"This is a terrible idea," he said, but his breathing had already grown uneven.

"Then tell me to stop." You looked up at him through your lashes, enjoying how his pupils dilated. Instead of answering, his hand slid into your hair, and you took that as permission to help him forget about quantum mechanics for a while.

His breath hitched as you undid the button of his pants, the zipper sliding down with a soft hiss. His cock was bigger than you'd thought, and your eyes widened slightly as you took in the sight, your fingers tracing the length, feeling his veins beneath your touch. Why is it always the quiet guys with the biggest cocks?

You moved slowly at first, wanting to give him the full experience if this was to be his first blowjob ever, your breath ghosting over him before you finally took him into your mouth. You started with just the tip, your tongue swirling around it, tasting his precum, before licking along the sensitive underside of his shaft, and then sealing your lips around him.

"Oh god, that's... that's—fuck it’s so good." His head tilted back, eyes closing, his voice strained with the effort of keeping quiet.

His hand tightened in your hair, not pushing but holding, gently guiding your movements. With his other hand, he gripped his math notes on the table, the pages crinkling under his tight grasp as if they were his last hold on sanity.

You took him deep and Satoru swore he could see stars. His moans became more urgent, less restrained. "Yes, just like that, oh fuck, feels so good." His words broken by throaty moans that he tried to muffle with his free hand pressed against his mouth. "You're going to make me—oh god, so close."

His thighs tensed under your hands, his breathing becoming ragged. You could feel every shudder, every twitch of his body. "I'm gonna— I'm—" His words cut off as his orgasm hit, his body tensing, his hand holding your head firmly but gently as he spilled into your mouth, his cum hot against your tongue. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," he gasped, a series of curses tumbling from his lips and amidst the swearing, you swear you caught a fragment of a mathematical theorem, though you might have misheard.

Afterwards, his body trembled, his breathing heavy and uneven, his grip on your hair loosening as he slumped back in his chair, completely spent. "God, that was... fuck, that was amazing."

"Still thinking about that assignment?" you asked innocently, emerging from under the desk to find him looking like a mess, with his face flushed, glasses askew, and his white hair a bit damp around his forehead as he tried to regain his breathing.

"I... I can't even remember my own name right now." He pulled you into his lap for a kiss. His thumb traced your cheek as he kissed you gently, making your heart flutter in your chest.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

A few weeks later, your head rested comfortably in Satoru's lap as you watched him read through his graded quantum mechanics assignment. Warm sunshine filtered through cherry blossoms above, casting dappled shadows across your shared blanket beneath the old tree on a lazy spring afternoon on campus. A gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh grass and early flowers, ruffling his white hair as he studied the papers held above you.

His glasses caught the sunlight, making his blue eyes look like summer sky caught in glass. Your own textbook lay forgotten beside you on the blanket. You were more interested in watching Satoru and the slight smile that played on his lips.

"So?" you finally asked, reaching up to poke his cheek. "How did you do?"

He looked down at you. "Perfect score." He tilted the paper so you could see the bold A marked in red at the top.

"I knew you could do it!" you exclaimed, reaching up to cup his cheek. "My brilliant quantum genius." You sat up, turning to face him properly, your knees brushing his thighs on the blanket. "I am so proud of you. But I didn't expect less from my tutor."

He leaned into your touch, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Speaking of tutoring, have you checked your final grade for the semester?"

You had, actually — multiple times, still not quite believing it. "A solid A. Turns out I'm not so bad at maths."

"You were always good at it," he said softly, brushing a fallen petal from your shoulder. "You just needed someone to help you see it differently." He paused, adjusting his glasses in that endearingly nervous way of his, the lenses catching the golden afternoon light. "Though I have to admit, I'm a little sad our tutoring sessions are over."

"Who says they have to be?" You leaned into him. His arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. "I'm taking Advanced Calculus next semester."

His eyebrows shot up. "Voluntarily?"

"Well," you played with the collar of his sweater vest, "I heard the TA for that class is really cute. Bit of a nerd, but in a hot way. Plus, I have it on good authority that he's dating this amazing cheerleader…"

"Is he now?" His hands tightened on your waist. "Sounds like a lucky guy."

"Oh, he is." You leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "Though not as lucky as she is."

He caught your chin and tilted your face up to his. "I love you," he said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he hadn't just made your heart stop with those three words.

"I love you too," you whispered back, and when he kissed you, it was sweet and warm like the spring sunshine itself, perfect and precious as the moment suspended around you, there beneath the trees where your love had grown from equations into something far more beautiful.

You intertwined your fingers with his, loving how perfectly they fit together, and couldn't help but smile at how perfectly everything had worked out. Who would have thought that one failing grade in maths would lead to this? To finding love in derivatives and fun in mathematics, to discovering that the quiet genius in the back of class would become your everything?

But then again, maybe it was all just simple math: one struggling student plus one brilliant tutor, multiplied by countless study sessions, divided by shy laughter and hesitant kisses, equals a love story that even mathematics couldn't complicate.

And that was an equation you were more than happy to solve.

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author's note — thank you so much for reading !! to be honest, i've been feeling pretty stuck lately with my longer series, doubting my writing and wondering if i'd lost my spark or so. but i think this story is quite cute and i had so much fun writing it. there's just something so sweet about those library crushes, and falling in love between the pages of textbooks. hope you enjoyed it too !

for more stories check out my masterlist. your support means the world to me. until next time, lots of love & happy early valentine's day <3

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shinreiplays · 6 days ago

Text

HOW TO FAKE DATE A DOCTOR — SATORU GOJO

pairing — doctor!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary — for six months, you've watched dr. satoru gojo order the sweetest coffee on your menu every morning at exactly 7:15 AM. for six months, you've convinced yourself his intense stares must mean he's spotted something medically concerning about you—maybe a suspicious mole or concerning symptom. but when a desperate white lie about a fake boyfriend results in him volunteering to play the part at your family's christmas dinner, what begins as a simple pretend relationship might just turn into something real.

word count — 9 k

genre/tags — coffee shop AU, holiday romance, fake dating, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, fluff, idiots in love, reader is a med student and barista, gojo is a cardiologist, age difference (reader is 25/gojo early 30s)

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, non-graphic medical talk

author's note — hey lovelies, welcome to my first attempt at a holiday romance. this was meant to be a short drabble but somehow turned into this 9 k words of pure fluff and pining. it's my little christmas gift to you all hehe. whether you're celebrating with family, working holiday shifts, or just enjoying a quiet day, hope this makes you smile. thank you for reading, and merry christmas !! <3 (credit/art)

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You first noticed him six months ago.

It wasn't just because he was strikingly handsome, with hair the color of fresh snow and the bluest eyes you'd ever seen, though that certainly didn't hurt. It wasn't even because of his white coat and the stethoscope casually draped around his neck, marking him as one of the doctors from the nearby hospital.

No, what caught your attention was the way he looked at you.

Every morning, like clockwork, the bell above the door would chime at precisely 7:15 AM, and Dr. Satoru Gojo would walk into your café. He'd order the sweetest drink on your menu (always with extra whipped cream), and while you prepared it, his eyes would follow your every movement.

It wasn't creepy or uncomfortable. And it definitely wasn't flirting — at least, you didn't think it was. Perhaps he saw something, a suspicious mole you'd never noticed, and now he was trying to figure out how to tell the coffee girl she’s dying without ruining her morning rush.

That had to be it.

You’d catch his gaze lingering when he thought you weren't looking. Sometimes, he'd tilt his head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It made you wonder what he was thinking. Was he judging your latte art? Probably. You were still working on that.

But when you turned around to give him his iced vanilla latte with extra whipped cream and three shots of caramel (it never varied, not once in six months), he'd break his smile to you, his gaze softening for a second, and then his fingers would brush against yours as you handed him the paper cup.

He always thanked you with “Much appreciated”. It made your heart skip a beat, if you'd be honest. Not that you read all too much into it of course. And so for six months, this had been your routine.

5:30 AM: Arrive at the café.

6:00 AM: Open up, prep for the day.

7:13 AM: Start making his drink because you knew he'd walk in exactly two minutes later.

7:15 AM: Heart fluttering slightly as your hand brushed his as you gave him his order.

10:00 AM: Shift end.

10:30 AM: Rush to classes.

Some mornings, he’d arrive in wrinkled scrubs, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to him. Other days, it was a tailored dress shirt, sometimes with a matching tie. But the routine never changed.

Same order, same time, the same easy smile that would soften slightly when you remembered his order without him having to say it. Not that it was hard to begin with.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” Maki would say, nudging you with her elbow as Dr. Gojo left. You’d roll your eyes, but a faint blush crept up your neck anyway.

Between customers, you'd try to squeeze in some studying. The early morning shift wasn't exactly ideal, but it paid better, and you needed every cent you could get for your pre-med textbooks. Those things cost more than your rent, it felt like.

Your anatomy textbook usually lay open behind the counter, hidden from customers' view but accessible during slower moments. Sometimes, when the morning rush died down, you'd catch Dr. Gojo's eyes flickering to the pages as you made his latte. His expression would shift slightly, but he never commented on it.

You wondered sometimes if he was judging your highlighting technique (chaotic at best) or your margin notes (mostly question marks). He must have gone through all this years ago, probably with much more grace than your current fumbling through medical terminology.

The café job barely covered your expenses — between tuition, rent, and those damn textbooks — but at least it was flexible with your class schedule. Your manager understood when you needed to switch shifts for exams, and the free coffee helped during all-nighters.

Your coworkers thought you were crazy for taking such early shifts. "No one should be awake at 5:30 AM," they'd say. But they didn't understand the quiet peace of morning prep, the satisfaction of perfect latte art, or the way certain blue eyes would crinkle at the corners when you got his order just right.

It was a small thing, a fleeting smile, a brush of fingertips, but it was enough to make the early mornings, the aching feet, the constant struggle, almost worth it.

Not that you stuck to this schedule just for him. Obviously not. The extra dollar per hour for opening shift was the real motivator. The fact that it coincided with Dr. Gojo's apparent coffee schedule was just... coincidence.

Sometimes, during chaotic study sessions between customers, you'd catch him watching you mouth medical terms to yourself as you steamed milk. His eyes would linger on your textbook, then flick back to your face with that same intense look that made you wonder if he was counting your remaining days or something—or still trying to figure out if that one mole on your cheek was turning malignant.

The morning you had your anatomy midterm, your textbook sat next to the register, full of sticky notes and frantic annotations. You saw him notice it, saw something shift in his expression as he took in the obvious signs of exam stress. That day, he left an extra large tip with a small note that just said "Good luck."

It was probably just pity. He'd been through med school. He knew the hell you were going through. That had to be it. Absolutely. No other explanation.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway, as you added the note into your wallet, shoving it down next to a crumpled grocery list and a faded movie ticket stub, as if burying it under a pile of mundane objects could somehow bury the flutter in your chest.

For six months, this had been your life. Balancing early mornings, late classes, endless studying, and the mystery of a doctor who looked at you like you were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

So when he finally broke pattern that random rainy monday morning, it wasn't with some dramatic revelation about your health you’d imagined. Instead, he tilted his head slightly while waiting for his usual and said, "You changed your hair."

You nearly dropped the caramel syrup. After six months of intense stares and loaded silences, after convincing yourself he was cataloging your symptoms or contemplating your mortality, he was commenting on your hair?

"Oh." Your hand instinctively went to the ends you'd trimmed over the weekend. "Yeah, just a few inches."

"It suits you." He said it so casually, like he hadn't just shattered half a year of mysterious doctor mystique with three words. Then, with that same matter-of-fact tone, "The pathophysiology textbook you were reading last week—Robbins, right? It’s really good. Especially the part about metaplasia. Interesting stuff."

And just like that, the spell was broken. No terminal diagnosis. No earth-shattering revelations. Just a doctor who apparently noticed haircuts and had opinions about medical textbooks.

The sudden normalcy of it all was almost jarring. For months, you’d been half-convinced he was silently cataloging your every freckle, every mole, every perceived imperfection, convinced he was about to deliver some devastating news. Now? He was talking about metaplasia. It was almot—anticlimactic.

And, if you were being honest, a little embarrassing. All those covert checks in the reflection of the espresso machine, all those frantic Google searches for “atypical nevi”—for this?

You almost wanted to laugh.

After that day, your morning routine shifted slightly. He still came in at exactly 7:15, still ordered the same diabetis-inducing latte, still watched you work with those intense blue eyes the color of glacial ice. But now he'd occasionally comment on your study materials, or mention an interesting case that related to whatever chapter you were currently highlighting.

"Cardiac arrhythmias today?" he'd ask, spotting your textbook. "Had a case of atrial fibrillation yesterday. The patient presented with…" He’d then launch into a quick explanation, sketching a diagram on a napkin that somehow made more sense than three hours of lecture on the same topic.

Your coworkers were almost disappointed by this development. "That's it?" Maki had said when you told her. "Six months of smoldering looks and he just... helps you study?"

But somehow, it felt right. The mysterious doctor with pretty eyes turned out to be just a man who noticed details and perhaps had a soft spot for struggling med students.

He still made your heart do that stupid flutter thing when his fingers brushed yours during the handoff, but now you had a perfectly logical explanation for that of course—the vagus nerve or some other equally fascinating cardiovascular phenomenon he'd just explained.

That had to be it.

Some mornings, when the café was quiet and you were stumped by a concept, he'd even linger a few minutes after getting his order. He’d lean against the counter, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, gesturing with his cup while breaking down complex medical theories into digestible pieces, somehow making autoimmune disorders sound as simple as iced latte recipes.

"You'll make a good doctor," he said one morning, completely out of nowhere and your cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

Your relationship—if you could even call it that—settled into something comfortably in-between. More than customer and barista, less than friends, but with a rhythm all its own. He'd quiz you while you made his usual, turning morning coffee runs into study sessions.

"Name three complications of chronic hypertension," he'd say while you pumped caramel into his cup.

"Increased risk of heart attack, stroke, and kidney disease," you'd reply, adding the extra shot of espresso he never actually ordered but always appreciated.

"Good. Now tell me about secondary causes."

One random Tuesday morning, however, the bell didn't chime at 7:15. You glanced at the clock, then back at the door.

7:16.

7:17.

A knot of unease tightened in your stomach. It was ridiculous, really. Why did you even care? He was just a customer. A regular customer, yes, but still just a customer. It wasn't like you were waiting for him or anything. You were just—used to the routine. That was all.

But despite your attempts at rationalization, a small, nagging worry began to gnaw at you. Had something happened? Was he okay? You found yourself staring at the door, your hand hovering over the espresso machine, your usual movements faltering slightly. You even messed up a latte, the foam swirling into a sad, lopsided blob instead of the usual pretty rosetta.

At 7:20, just as you were about to convince yourself he’d just overslept and that you were being completely ridiculous, the bell finally rang. He rushed in, slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed. "Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice a little rushed. "Crazy morning at the hospital."

He looked like he’d run all the way, which was odd. Why would he run? It’s not like his coffee was that important. Right? And yet, your stupid heart did a little flip at the sight of him, a traitorous swell of warmth blooming in your chest. He made it. He was here.

He stayed extra long that morning. After the rush died down, he listened to you recite your flashcards, correcting your pronunciation of medical terms with a patience that made you wonder if he moonlighted as a professor. It was a strange sort of intimacy, this shared moment of slow study amidst the busy morning rush and the soft hum of the refrigerators.

And you never wanted that morning to end.

Your coworkers had stopped teasing you about him—mostly—and started asking if he could explain their own health questions instead. Then came the random stormy Wednesday that changed everything.

The morning had started normally enough—he arriving at 7:15 sharp, you already having his sugar latte ready. But the sky had opened up while he was waiting, rain drumming against the café windows. It wasn’t a gentle shower. It was a deluge, the kind that turned streets into rivers in minutes.

"Did you bring an umbrella?" he asked, watching you glance at the downpour.

"No," you sighed, already dreading the soggy walk to campus. "I checked the forecast last night—it said sunny all day." You internally cursed the weather app.

"When does your shift end?"

"Huh? Oh, uhm 10 AM. I have microbiology at 10:30."

His lips twitched into a faint smile and he left without another word. You tried not to feel disappointed—what had you expected? It's not like he could control the weather.

But at 10 AM sharp, as you were pulling your jacket tighter and preparing to make a run for it, you spotted him through the rain-streaked windows. He was standing outside the café in his white coat, holding a large dark blue umbrella.

Your heart definitely did more than flutter this time.

"Ready?" he asked when you emerged, as if waiting in the pouring rain for some barista was perfectly normal doctor behavior.

"You didn't have to—"

"Can't have my favorite barista catching pneumonia," he said. "Besides, I'm heading that direction anyway." You knew for a fact the hospital was in the opposite direction.

The walk to campus was suddenly—intimate. It was strange being this close to him. You’d seen him every morning for months, but always across the counter, a safe distance separating you. Now, you were walking side-by-side, the scent of his cologne so close it made it hard to focus on anything but his proximity, to say the least.

"So, what are you studying in Microbiology?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"We're covering bacterial pathogenesis this week," you replied, and the conversation drifted naturally to a discussion of how different pathogens could affect various organ systems like it was normal small talk.

As other pedestrians passed, their own umbrellas bobbing and weaving, he’d subtly pull you closer. Each time he did, your breath would catch in your throat, and a fresh wave of warmth would wash over you. You were grateful for his height, because you were certain your cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red.

It was absurd, how flustered you were by such a simple act, but the feeling of his arm occasionally brushing against yours, the shared intimacy of the small space beneath the umbrella, was enough to send your heart racing.

Desperate to focus on something else, you blurted out, "What kind of doctor are you, anyway? I never actually asked."

"Cardiology," he replied simply.

“Cardiology,” you repeated, the word lingering on your tongue. A doctor of the heart. When you reached the medical sciences building, he paused, lowering the umbrella slightly. The rain had begun to ease, but the air still smelled wet and clean.

"Thanks," you said, meeting his gaze. "For the umbrella escort."

"Anytime." That soft smile again, the one that made your heart do a stupid little skip again.

As you watched him walk away, umbrella tilted against the rain, you realized something had shifted. Maybe you weren't quite friends, maybe you weren't quite anything definable, but whatever this was—it felt like the beginning of something. Something more than just sharing an umbrella on rainy days.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

Winter arrived on a random thursday morning, transforming rain into snow and turning your early morning walks to work into arctic expeditions.

It was during one of these frigid mornings, while you were preparing Dr. Gojo's usual order and the steam from the espresso machines fogging up the frost-covered windows, that your phone rang. Your mother's contact photo flashed on the screen.

You answered with your phone pressed between ear and shoulder, still working the machines. "Hi, Mom."

"Sweetheart! I was just planning Christmas dinner. You're bringing someone this year, right? That nice boy from your anatomy class you mentioned?"

You winced, catching Dr. Gojo's raised eyebrow from where he stood at the counter. "Mom—"

"Because Aunt Marie's daughter just got engaged, and you know how she gets—"

"My boyfriend's actually busy with hospital rotations," you blurted out, immediately wanting to punch yourself. "He's, uh, very dedicated to his work."

"Boyfriend? Why didn't you tell me? What's his name? What does he—"

"Sorry, Mom, huge line forming, gotta go!" You hung up, letting your forehead thump against the coffee machine with a groan.

"That sounded stressful," Dr. Gojo commented, amusement clear in his voice.

You looked up to find him watching you with that slight smile that always made you shiver. "Just my mom being... my mom." You resumed making his latte. "She's convinced that at twenty-five, I'm practically a spinster."

"Ah." He tilted his head. "And this fictional boyfriend with hospital rotations?"

Your cheeks heated. "Seemed easier than explaining why I'm still single. Between work, classes, and studying, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date." You handed him his usual. "Plus, now she'll stop trying to set me up with every eligible male she meets through her book club."

"A creative solution," he said, taking a sip. "Though hospital rotations over Christmas? Sounds like a terrible boyfriend." A playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, well, imaginary men are often disappointing." You started wiping down the counter, needing something to do with your hands. "At least this way I'll have a few weeks of peace before I have to tell her we broke up."

"Sounds like you've done this before," he observed, watching you attack an imaginary coffee stain with perhaps too much force.

"Is it that obvious?" You sighed, abandoning your fake cleaning. "Last year he was studying abroad. The year before that, he was sick. I'm running out of excuses, honestly. Pretty sure my mom's stopped believing me, but she plays along because it's less awkward than admitting we both know I'm lying."

He made a thoughtful sound, then pulled out his prescription pad (why did doctors always carry those around anyway?). You watched, confused, as he scribbled something down and slid it across the counter.

"Here," he said. "My number. Call me during Christmas dinner."

You stared at him. "What?"

"Well, your imaginary boyfriend should at least make an effort, don't you think?" His eyes held that familiar amusement. "I'll tell your mom all about my very important hospital rounds, maybe throw in some medical words. Make it convincing."

You stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Was he… offering to pretend to be your boyfriend? You couldn't quite process what was happening.

"You know," he said, after you'd probably been quiet for too long, "some of us actually do work hospital rotations over Christmas."

"I know, I just—" You stopped, realizing how her words might have sounded. "Oh god, I didn't mean to imply… I know you probably have to work during the holidays too, I wasn't trying to—"

"Someone has to make sure all those Christmas dinner caused heart attacks are properly treated," he interrupted, that familiar, almost-smirk back on his face, easing the tension in your shoulders. "Though I do get Christmas morning off this year."

You couldn't tell if he was trying to make you feel better about your lie, your accidental insult, or just sharing information. With Dr. Gojo, it was often hard to tell. After a moment of stunned silence, you managed, "Are you… sure?"

"Perfectly.”

"Thank you," you said, finally finding your voice as you picked up the slip of paper. "Really, thank you."

"Anytime," he said, that familiar, soft smile gracing his lips. "Consider it a Christmas gift. From your very dedicated, albeit fictional, boyfriend."

As you watched him leave, coffee in hand and snowflakes catching in his white hair. Even if he was probably going to tease you endlessly about your fictional, workaholic boyfriend for weeks to come, a small, stupid part of you was already looking forward to it.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

The Christmas dinner was a random Friday night.

The table, laden with enough food to feed a small army, was surrounded by the usual suspects and the dinner turned out to be exactly as excruciating as you'd expected. You'd barely made it through the appetizers before the interrogation began.

"So, this boyfriend of yours," Aunt Marie started. "What did you say he does again?"

"He's a doctor," you said into your mashed potatoes.

"A doctor!" your mother brightened. "You never mentioned that part."

Your cousin Sarah leaned forward. "What kind of doctor? Where did he study? How did you meet?"

You were considering faking a sudden illness when your phone buzzed. Dr. Gojo's name lit up your screen with a video call request. You hadn't even suggested a video call—he was truly committing to this.

"Oh, that's him now!" Your mother said, clapping her hands together. "Put him on speaker!"

Before you could protest, you were surrounded by a sea of curious relatives as you answered the call. The screen filled with Dr. Gojo's face, and—oh god—he was actually in scrubs, in what looked like a real operating room.

"Hey, my love," he said as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and the casual nickname hit you like a train, making you forget your own name. You felt your cheeks flush and it didn’t help that he somehow managed to look unfairly handsome even under the surgical lights. "Sorry I couldn't make it. We had an emergency valve replacement come in."

"Are you... actually in surgery right now?" you asked.

"Just finished!" He tilted the phone slightly to show a glimpse of a team of medical staff behind him, all of whom waved. One even gave a thumbs up. "Thought I'd catch you before dessert. Is that your family I see?"

Your entire extended family crammed themselves into frame, cooing and waving at your "doctor boyfriend" who was dedicated enough to call from work.

"Oh my god, he's gorgeous," your cousin said.

"Dr. Gojo," your mother pushed forward, "we're so disappointed you couldn't join us. Though of course, saving lives comes first!"

"Please, call me Satoru," he said, flashing that unfairly attractive smile of his. "And I'm more disappointed than anyone. I was really looking forward to trying your famous apple pie that your daughter keeps telling me about."

Your mother clutched her chest, delighted. You had never once mentioned her apple pie to him.

"Are those Christmas decorations I see in the OR?" your aunt squinted at the screen.

And indeed, there were actual Christmas lights strung up in the background. Either this hospital was very festive, or he'd gone to ridiculous lengths for this act.

"We try to keep the holiday spirit alive, even here," he said, then suddenly looked off-screen. "Oh, looks like we have another emergency coming in." Dramatic beeping noises increased in the background. "I'm so sorry, but duty calls. It was lovely meeting you all!"

"Such a dedicated young man," your mother sighed after you ended the call.

"So handsome too," Aunt Marie added. "Those eyes!"

You slumped in your chair, caught between mortification and amusement. He really didn't have to go that far—the Christmas lights in the OR? The perfectly timed “emergency”? The entire surgical team playing along? It was almost impressive.

Your phone buzzed with a text: 'How'd I do? The lights were my colleague's idea. They says Merry Christmas, by the way. Your family seems nice.'

Another buzz, a separate message: 'Also, I expect a slice of that famous apple pie at the café tomorrow. After that performance, I think I've earned it.'

You typed back: 'You are absolutely insufferable. That was completely over the top.'

His response came almost instantly: 'Is that any way to talk to your dedicated doctor boyfriend who just saved a life AND charmed your entire family? I'm hurt.'

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Your phone buzzed one more time: 'By the way, your cousin already found my hospital's public contact info and sent a friend request. Should I accept? I feel like a committed boyfriend would.'

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. He was absolutely loving this.

Way too much.

The next morning, you weren't surprised when he showed up at his usual 7:15, despite it being his day off. What did surprise you was that he was still wearing scrubs. They were rumpled, like he'd been wearing them for a while.

"Please tell me you didn't actually work all night just to make that video call more convincing," you said as he approached the counter.

"You know, I am a doctor in real life, right? This isn't just a cover for your mom." He smirked. "But anyway, just finished an actual emergency shift." He glanced at the paper bag you had waiting next to his usual sugary coffee. "Is that… what I think it is?"

"Your well-earned reward for yesterday's Oscar-worthy performance." You handed him both coffee and pie. "Though I still can't believe you got your entire surgical team to play along."

"Bold of you to assume I had to ask." He took a bite of the pie and his eyes widened slightly. "Okay, your mom's reputation is deserved. This is actually amazing."

"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts, because—" You hesitated, took a deep breath, and decided to just rip the bandage off. "She invited you to dinner. Tomorrow."

He paused mid-bite. "Oh?"

"I told her you're probably busy—"

"What time?"

You stared at him. "What?"

"What time is dinner?" He took another bite of pie, looking perfectly casual about the whole thing. "I actually have Sunday evening off, and this pie has convinced me your mom's cooking is worth experiencing in person."

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?" He shrugged. "I've already met them virtually. Might as well complete the experience. Unless you're worried I'll embarrass you?"

"I'm worried you'll be too convincing again," you said. "My mom's already planning our wedding, by the way. She told me this morning that your 'dedication to work' proves you'd be a good husband."

"Well, I'd hate to disappoint a future mother-in-law."

"This isn't funny!"

"It's a little funny." He leaned against the counter, grinning. "Come on, one dinner. I promise to be slightly less charming this time."

"Somehow I doubt that's possible," you said before you could stop yourself.

His smile widened. "Was that a compliment?"

"That was a complaint about your inability to do anything halfway." You busied yourself with wiping down the already clean counter. "But fine. Sunday at seven. Try not to bring Christmas lights this time."

"No promises." He pushed off from the counter, taking his coffee and pie. "Oh, and by the way?"

"Hmm?"

"I accepted your cousin's friend request. She's already invited me to your family's New Year's party."

He was halfway to the door when he paused, turning back with an expression that was softer than his usual teasing smile. "You look pretty today, by the way. The new sweater suits you."

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. You hadn't even realized he'd noticed you'd changed from your usual work shirt into a cozy sweater for your afternoon classes.

He was out the door before you could stammer out a response, leaving you to wonder what exactly you had gotten yourself into. And why one simple, genuine compliment made your heart race more than all his dramatic boyfriend performances combined.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

Sunday evening found you pacing a worn path in the carpet by your parents' front door, checking your phone every two minutes. 7:15 came and went—apparently his almost unnervingly precise timing only applied to coffee runs.

You tried to convince yourself it was fine, that doctors had unpredictable schedules, but a nervous flutter had taken up residence in your stomach.

At 7:20, your mom’s worried, "Maybe he got called into surgery?" was interrupted by the doorbell. You took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress, and opened the door.

Standing there was Dr. Gojo—Satoru, you supposed you should call him now—looking slightly disheveled in a way that somehow only emphasized his unfairly attractive features. His white dress shirt, though slightly untucked at the waist, bore the clear signs of a hurried ironing, and he was carrying what looked like an expensive bottle of wine—definitely not the kind you’d find at the corner store.

"I'm so sorry," he said, running a hand through his already slightly tousled white hair. "Emergency consultation ran late, and then traffic was—"

"It's fine," you interrupted, a wave of relief washing over you. He’d actually come. "Really. You didn't have to—"

But the rest of your sentence disappeared into a surprised squeak as he stepped forward, closing the small gap between you. He leaned in and gently pressed a kiss to your cheek, his free hand settling naturally on your waist, just above your hip, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

"Hi," he whispered against your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Missed you today at the café."

You stood frozen, brain short-circuiting from the casual intimacy of it all. This wasn't part of the plan. You hadn't discussed... this. The way his hand felt warm through your dress, how his cologne made you slightly dizzy, how natural it felt to have him this close. It was as if your body already knew this was right, even if your mind was still scrambling to catch up.

"I... you..." Words. You needed words. "You're late."

He pulled back just enough to give you that familiar amused look. "And you're blushing."

Before you could even process that observation—or the fact that your heart was currently attempting to beat its way out of your chest—your mother appeared behind you. "Satoru! We're so glad you could make it!"

He smoothly stepped past you to greet your parents, all charm and apologies for his lateness, seamlessly weaving a plausible story about a last-minute emergency consult and unexpected traffic. He shook your father’s hand with just the right amount of respectful firmness and charmed your mother with a compliment about her festive decorations. All while he left you standing in the doorway, slightly dazed, trying to remember how to perform basic human functions like breathing and blinking.

The slight smirk he threw over his shoulder as he joined the others in the living room told you he knew exactly what he'd done.

Insufferable man.

The dinner was simultaneously the longest and shortest evening of your life. Satoru slipped into the role of doting boyfriend with an unsettling ease, weaving medical anecdotes (carefully tailored for a non-medical audience) and charming compliments into the conversation like he'd been rehearsing for weeks. He even managed to compliment Aunt Marie’s notoriously sweet cheesecake without visibly wincing.

He sat close enough that your legs brushed under the table, his hand finding its way to your knee during your mother's third attempt to bring up wedding venues (she was already browsing bridal magazines online, you’d noticed). The casual touch, which should have made you incredibly nervous, instead felt strangely good, like a shared secret between the two of you in the midst of the family chaos.

"And how did you two actually meet?" your aunt asked over dessert.

"She makes the best coffee in the city," Satoru answered smoothly, his thumb drawing absent circles on your thigh beneath the tablecloth. "Though it took me months to work up the courage to say more than my order."

You nearly choked on your wine. He was mixing truth and fiction so seamlessly you almost believed it yourself.

Every story he told had just enough reality to make you question your own memory. He mentioned how you study between customers, but added details about imaginary conversations. He even talked about your first "date" with such specificity that you found yourself half-believing it had happened.

His hand never left your leg for long, occasionally squeezing gently when your relatives’ questions became too invasive. Somehow, he’d effortlessly positioned himself as both the charming guest and the attentive boyfriend, deflecting awkward questions with a disarming smile. And you’d never been so grateful for anything in your life as you were for him breaking the pattern on that random, rainy Monday morning.

"He even helped me with pathophysiology," you found yourself saying, leaning into him slightly, enjoying it. Two could play at this game.

"She didn't need much help," he replied, his voice laced with a warmth that sounded genuinely proud. It made your heart flutter. "Just someone to hold her flashcards while she made my ridiculously sweet coffee."

Your father, who hadn't said much all evening, finally smiled. "She works too hard sometimes."

"She does," Satoru agreed, his hand sliding just a fraction higher on your thigh under the table. "Though that's one of the things I admire most about her." A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you quickly looked away, focusing on a particularly uninteresting spot on the tablecloth. This is getting out of hand.

As the conversation shifted to some other topic—something about your uncle's questionable golf swing—you leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for him to hear, "You're awfully charming."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping lower so that only you could hear. "Funny, you don't seem to hate it." You felt your cheeks burn even hotter now.

By the time dinner ended, your mother was completely smitten, your aunts were bickering over who would host the next family gathering (with Satoru as the guest of honor, of course), and your cousin had somehow convinced him to follow her Instagram—and had already tagged him in three separate stories.

It was all too smooth, too perfect, too real.

The way he helped you clear the table, his hand brushing the small of your back in a casual, yet intimate touch as he passed. How he effortlessly recalled every detail you’d ever mentioned about your family, from your grandmother’s obsession with crossword puzzles to your father’s love of bad puns. The soft, lingering looks he gave you when he thought no one was watching, filled with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher.

"You're very good at this," you said as you stood side by side at the sink, washing dishes after dinner.

"At what?"

"Playing pretend."

His hands paused for just a moment. "Who says I'm pretending?"

The wine glass you were drying slipped from your suddenly nerveless fingers. You managed to catch it before it shattered on the tile floor, but not before making enough noise to draw his attention.

"Hey." His hand was immediately at your waist, steadying you. "You okay?"

"Fine! I'm fine, just—" You set the glass down carefully, very aware of how close he was standing. When you turned to face him, you found yourself effectively trapped between his broad frame and the hard edge of the kitchen counter. "Slippery hands. From the... soap."

"Hmm." His eyes searched your face, and for a fleeting moment, you thought—you could have sworn—his gaze flickered down to your lips before returning to meet your eyes. "You know, for someone who spends all day handling hot liquids, you've seemed very clumsy tonight."

"Maybe I'm just… distracted.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he leaned infinitesimally closer, his eyes fixed on yours. One hand came up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his fingertips grazing your skin, the contact sending a shiver down your spine. "By what?"

"You're doing it again," you whispered.

"Doing what?"

"Being too convincing."

A slow, almost hesitant smile spread across his face. It was a smile that reached his eyes, a smile that felt utterly real, utterly intimate, making your heart stutter in your chest. "Perhaps," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath against your skin, "maybe I'm not trying to convince anyone anymore."

You could feel his breath ghosting over your lips, the slight tremor in his hand where it rested on your waist, the way the kitchen suddenly felt too warm, too small, too—

"Who wants coffee?" your mother's voice carried from the dining room, making you both jump apart. Satoru cleared his throat, taking a hasty step back, his hand dropping from your waist.

The rest of dinner passed in a surreal haze, neither of you quite able to forget the charged moment in the kitchen. What was that? You kept replaying the scene in your mind. His hand on your waist, his breath on your lips, the sudden shift in his eyes. It had felt… different. More real than any of the playacting.

It wasn't until your aunt, after a drawn out round of goodbyes and air kisses, finally got up to leave that anyone noticed the shift in the weather. "Oh my goodness," your mother gasped, pulling back the curtains. "When did it start snowing?"

Outside, the world had transformed into a winter wonderland that would've been charming under different circumstances. At least a foot of snow covered everything, still falling heavily in thick, white sheets.

"The weather alert says it's going to continue all night," your father reported, checking his phone. "They're advising against any travel. Roads are already getting bad."

Your mother immediately switched into hostess mode. "You absolutely can't drive in this, Satoru. These roads won't be plowed until morning, at the earliest."

"I'm sure I can—" he started.

"Absolutely not," she interrupted. "You'll stay here tonight. Both of you."

You nearly choked on air. "Mom—"

"Don't be silly, dear," she said, already bustling towards the hallway. "You can take your old room, of course. It's all made up. Satoru," she called over her shoulder, "I'll go find some spare cloths for you." Then, turning back to you, she added, "And honey, you still have some things in your old room, so it'll be just like old times!"

Old times? What old times? Your childhood bedroom with those old embarrassing school photos and faded posters of your first boyband crush that you’d somehow never gotten around to taking down? This was not part of the plan. This was definitely not part of the plan.

He wasn't supposed to see that side of you.

As you counted down the seconds until you completely died from embarrassment your parents bustled off to prepare the rooms, leaving you and Satoru alone again. He leaned against the window, watching the snow fall, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Convenient weather we're having," you said suspiciously.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying I somehow arranged a snowstorm?"

"At this point, I wouldn't put it past you."

His laugh was soft and warm. "As flattered as I am by your faith in my abilities, even I can't control the weather." He glanced at you. "Though I have to admit, this is working out better than my original plan of pretending my car wouldn't start."

"You're impossible," you groaned.

"So I've been told." He pushed off from the window, moving closer. He stopped just inches away, until you could feel the heat from his body. His gaze dropped—or you thought it did, your pulse quickening at the mere possibility—to your lips for the briefest of moments before returning to meet your eyes. You blinked, trying to clear your head. No, it couldn't be. "Though I notice you're not exactly complaining about the situation."

Before you could formulate a witty retort (or even a coherent thought, for that matter), your mother’s voice rang out from upstairs, effectively putting an end to whatever was about to happen. "I found some spare clothes, Satoru! And honey," she called down, "your old band t-shirts are still in your dresser!"

You covered your face with your hands. "Please forget everything she's about to show you."

"Now how could I possibly pass up the chance to see teenage you's fashion choices?"

You peaked through your fingers to find him smirking, looking far too delighted by this turn of events. This was going to be a very long night.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

"I really can sleep on the floor," Satoru offered for the third time, shifting his weight awkwardly in the doorway of your childhood bedroom. He looked around, taking in your teenage decorating choices, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"Don't be ridiculous." You tried to sound casual as you smoothed down the NASA bedsheets you'd had since high school on your small bed, that suddenly looked barely big enough for one, let alone two adults. "We're both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird."

He was quiet for a moment, and when you glanced up, you found him studying your teenage self's wall decorations with poorly hidden amusement. It was a chaotic mixture of faded movie posters (mostly featuring heartthrobs from your early teens), band posters (an ambarrasing One Direction poster taking center stage), and a poorly crafted periodic table, complete with hand-drawn elements and color-coded categories.

"Nice periodic table," he finally said.

"Shut up," you muttered, throwing a pillow at him. He caught it easily, because of course he did. "Some of us were nerds before med school."

You turned to your old closet, pulling out one of those oversized band t-shirts you'd lived in during high school. You gripped the hem of your sweater, suddenly very aware of his presence in the small room.

You could feel his eyes on you, a weight on your back, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. You paused, your fingers frozen on the soft knit. "Um… could you…?" you trailed off, not wanting to meet his gaze.

He didn't say anything, didn't move. You could practically feel his gaze burning into your back. Finally, you turned, holding your band t-shirt protectively in front of you. "Seriously. Turn around."

He blinked. "You know, I am a doctor. I've seen it all."

"Still," you insisted, your cheeks flushing. "Turn. Around."

He sighed, but finally turned his back, though the lingering amusement in his eyes told you he was still enjoying the situation immensely.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered, pulling the t-shirt over your head. You smoothed it down, then took a deep breath.

"I would never," he said.

"You can turn around now."

He turned, his face carefully composed, though a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. His eyes traveled from the hem of the shirt to your face, making your heart stutter. "You look… cute."

"You're a terrible liar.”

You both settled into bed with careful movements, lying rigid as boards, backs facing each other in a vain attempt at maintaining some sort of personal space. The mattress, however, had other plans. It dipped under his weight, creating a subtle slope that kept trying to draw you toward the center—toward him.

Your childhood bed, which had seemed perfectly adequate when you were sixteen, now felt absurdly small. You pressed against the edge, but it was no use, there couldn't have been more than a few inches between your back and his. You could feel the heat of his body, warming the small space between you, his every breath, the subtle shift of the sheets when he moved.

The silence stretched, filled only with the sound of falling snow outside your window and your own heartbeat. It felt so loud, you were certain he could hear it.

"Thank you," you finally whispered into the darkness. "For tonight. For all of it. You didn't have to do any of this."

The bed shifted as he turned over. After a moment's hesitation, you did too, finding yourself face to face with him in the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through your old curtains. His hair was disheveled from the pillow, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it.

"It was fun," he said simply, his breath warm against your cheek.

A small laugh escaped your lips. "Fun? My mom interrogated you about your entire medical history, my dad made you look at his coin collection for an hour, and my cousin tried to show you every embarrassing photo of me from middle school."

"The braces years were particularly charming."

You kicked his shin lightly under the covers. "Shut up."

He grinned, the warmth in his eyes visible even in the dim light. "I mean it, though. Your family is… lively."

"That's a polite way of saying chaotic."

"They care about you. It's nice."

You studied his face, searching for the truth in his words. "Why did you really come tonight? You could have easily found an excuse to avoid this disaster of a family dinner."

"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to?"

"No," you said. "Nobody wants to spend their evening being questioned by my parents and subjected to my aunt's weird baking."

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more serious. "Maybe I wanted to understand you better. See where you came from. Meet the people who made you... you."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Why would you care about any of that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

You stared at him, suddenly very aware of how close you were, how little space there was between you in this too-small bed. "No," you whispered. "It's not obvious at all."

"Then I must be doing a terrible job of showing you."

Your heart was racing now, your voice barely audible. "Showing me what?"

Before you could respond, he shifted, until he was hovering above you. Your breath caught at the change, at how his white hair fell forward framing his face, at how his eyes seemed to hold entire galaxies in them.

And then he kissed you.

The kiss was nothing like the casual touch of lips from before. It was soft, sweet, and achingly tender at first. He moved against you slowly, his lips parting slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You met his silent invitation, your own lips parting in response. One hand cupped your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, while the other braced against the mattress, supporting his weight.

Then, with a soft sigh, he deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a gentle urgency that made your heart ache with a longing you hadn’t known you carried. He pulled you closer, just a fraction, the kiss becoming more urgent, more demanding, yet still laced with a surprising tenderness.

You could feel the rapid thump of his heart against your own chest but then, just as suddenly as it began, he pulled back, breaking the kiss. He didn't move far, though, remaining close enough that you could still feel his breath on your face, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Still think I'm just playing pretend?"

This time, you didn't hesitate. You were the one who moved forward, your hand sliding into his hair, the soft strands tangling around your fingers, pulling him back down to you. His surprised intake of breath was quickly lost as your lips met again.

This kiss was different—deeper, more urgent, six months of watching and waiting poured into a single moment. He made a low sound in his throat as your fingers tightened in his hair, urging him closer.

His own hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers pressing gently into the sensitive skin there. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your band t-shirt.

"I've wanted to do that since the first time you rolled your eyes at my coffee order," he said against your lips, his voice rough in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

"That long?" You tried to sound teasing, but it came out breathless instead.

He smiled against your lips. "Longer, probably." He pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your jawline. "Though watching you try to diagnose yourself with every terrible disease I mentioned was pretty entertaining, too."

You groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Never," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your temple. Then, quieter, more intimate, "But I've got plenty of time to make it up to you."

His lips trailed down your neck, each gentle press sending shivers through your body. When he reached the collar of your t-shirt, he paused, his fingers toying with the hem. "Can I?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he slowly, teasingly, pushed the fabric up, revealing your stomach inch by inch. The first brush of his lips against your bare skin made you gasp, your fingers tightening reflexively in his silky hair.

He took his time, pressing kisses to your belly, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. His tongue darted out, tasting your skin, leaving trails of fire in its wake. Your back arched, subtly at first, but with increasing urgency as his lips and hands explored your skin.

His fingers, still toying with the hem of your shirt, finally slipped beneath the fabric. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his thumbs brushed over your nipples, you couldn't suppress the moan that escaped your lips. "More," you whispered, the word barely audible, but he heard it, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your sleeping shorts. Your heart raced, your skin flushed, every nerve ending racing with the promise of what was to come.

He dragged the fabric down your legs, the cool air hitting your heated skin making you shiver. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider, and lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, his kisses trailing down your inner thigh. And then his mouth was on you, and the world fell away.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

The next morning felt like stepping into a dream—a world where Dr. Satoru Gojo, the man you’d spent six months convinced was silently diagnosing you with rare diseases, was actually just a man utterly smitten with you.

It was as if a blurry lens had finally snapped into focus, revealing a picture so obvious you almost laughed. All those intense stares, the carefully timed coffee shop visits, the way he’d linger at your counter, even helping you study—it had never been about mysterious illnesses or professional concern.

He’d simply been trying to be near you, and you’d been too busy inventing medical mysteries to notice.

And the most embarrassing part? How obvious it had been to everyone else. Your coworkers’ knowing looks finally made sense, as did your mother’s immediate acceptance of him as your “boyfriend.” Even his colleagues had been in on it, helping stage that ridiculous Christmas video call just to make you smile.

When you later confessed your obliviousness to your coworkers, their reactions ranged from “Finally!” to a bewildered “Wait, you mean he wasn’t actually your boyfriend this whole time?”

Over breakfast, as he effortlessly charmed your mother into accepting a third helping of pancakes he casually dropped the bomb to your mom, “I actually rearranged my entire consultation schedule to match her shifts. I don't even like coffee."

Your mind went blank for a moment. He… what? Then, the implications crashed down on you. He’d rearranged his entire work schedule just to see you. And he hated coffee. He’d only ever ordered those sugary lattes because… because of you.

A blush crept up your neck, and you couldn't believe how adorably dense you’d been.

He met your gaze then, his blue eyes softening in that way that always made your heart flutter. Only now you understood what that look truly meant. He hadn’t been studying you. He’d been cherishing you with his gaze. He’d wanted to see you, to be near you, to simply be with you. And the realization made you ridiculously, undeniably happy.

Satoru walked over to you from where he stood next to your mom and leaned down, his breath warm against your temple, and pressed a soft kiss there. You closed your eyes, savoring the simple touch. God, you wanted more. You wanted him closer, his arms around you, his lips on yours again, just like last night.

You'll probably never get enough of that.

He pulled back slightly, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. His gaze held yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. Then he whispered three words that made your world stand still, "I love you."

Three little words.

But those three words little changed everything.

It felt as though time itself had stopped. He loves me, the thought echoed in your mind, a fragile, beautiful sound you couldn't quite believe was real. You’d imagined this moment countless times in secret, tucked away in the quiet corners of your heart, but you'd never truly believed it could happen.

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his hand, the sweet scent of pancakes, and the soft morning light filtering through the kitchen window, you knew you’d never been happier in your entire life.

And most importantly, you didn't have to pretend anymore. He wasn't just someone you were pretending to date for your family's sake. He was actually your boyfriend. Really, truly your boyfriend. And what had once felt like a performance suddenly felt very much like coming home.

But the best part? At exactly 7:15 the next morning, he still walked in, ordered his usual diabetes in a cup, and watched you work with those intense blue eyes. Only now, when you handed him his drink, he'd pull you close for a kiss that tasted of caramel and cinnamon.

"You know," he said one morning, watching you make his order, "for someone smart enough to get into med school, you were remarkably dense about this whole thing."

"Says the man who spent six months staring instead of just asking me out."

"I was building suspense."

"You were being creepy."

"Maybe," he said, then smilled. "But it worked, didn't it?"

And really, you couldn't argue with that. Though you did make his next latte extra sweet, just to watch him pretend to enjoy it.

After all, some things were worth suffering through overly sugary coffee for.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — if you're familiar with a certain story on my blog, then no you didn't see this story, and this is definitely not a healthier version of another couple, and i absolutely do not have a thing for medical AUs, okay thank you.

anway, this was supposed to get spicier, but time got away from me because i really wanted to share it with you all for christmas so this is only suggestive, but i hope you enjoyed it either way. & thank you so much for reading this far !! your support means everything to me.

wishing you all a very merry christmas !! hope your holidays are filled with sweet coffee, warm embraces, and maybe even a handsome doctor of your own <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here!

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @shervinss @chiyokoemilia

@janbannan @bloopsstuff

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shinreiplays · 8 days ago

Text

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — HE ALMOST LOSES YOU FOR GOOD

a/n: here's the angst you all voted for <3 i am not entitled to any and all emotional compensation

ZAYNE

The hospital room is sterile. Dim. The kind of place that muffles even time.

Machines beep in soft, steady rhythms, a cruel imitation of life. And in the center of it all, you lie motionless. Bruised and bandaged, wires and tubes snaking from your body like ivy trying to hold you here. Like even the machines are begging you not to let go.

Zayne doesn’t say a word.

He sits by your bedside with his hands clasped tightly around yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. There’s dried blood under his fingernails. Not yours. Not his. Someone else’s. It doesn't matter. Nothing does right now except the weak pulse beneath his fingertips and the raspy rise and fall of your chest.

You’d been gone too long on the mission. Comms lost. Then the call came. Injured. Critical. Zayne had made it to the hospital faster than anyone could track his movements. Like some primal force had torn him through the world just to reach you.

He hadn’t let go of your hand since.

He doesn’t blink as he watches your face. There’s no outward panic in his expression — Zayne never shows that — but his jaw is locked so tight it looks like his teeth might crack. His knuckles are white. Every so often, his fingers tremble. He tells himself it’s fatigue. He tells himself it’s nothing.

But inside, he’s cracking.

“You’re stronger than this,” he murmurs. His voice is gravel, low and rough like it hurts to speak. “You’ve survived worse.”

The door opens quietly. A nurse slips in to check your vitals. Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps holding your hand like if he lets go, you’ll slip through the cracks in the world. Like he’s the only thing tethering you here.

Then everything starts to go wrong.

It begins with a blip. One shrill, high-pitched note that slices through the room.

The machines shriek. Lights flash. Your body arches once, violently, and then collapses like the life is draining from it. Code blue echoes down the hallway as a team rushes in like a tidal wave. Hands everywhere. Orders shouted.

Zayne stands in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t let go.

“Sir, you have to leave—”

“No.” His voice is calm, deadly. Final.

Two nurses try to pry him back. One grabs his shoulder, another his arm. He tightens his grip on your hand like it’s the last lifeline he has.

“She needs space, Zayne!” a doctor yells, panic spiking. “We need to shock — move him!”

And finally, they drag him back.

Zayne stumbles, not because he trips, but because his legs don’t want to leave you. His hand is ripped from yours like tearing velcro from a wound. The doors slam in his face.

And he’s alone.

Alone with nothing but the glass window and the chaos beyond it. He presses both palms to it, leaning forward, forehead against the cold surface. His breath fogs the glass.

"Don’t do this," he whispers, more to himself than to anyone else. "Don’t you dare."

Inside, your body jerks with each charge. CPR. Adrenaline. Voices barking numbers he can’t make sense of. One of the nurses glances at the window and sees him — sees the man who always has it together, now looking like he might fall apart if they lose you.

Zayne’s fists press to the glass. His lips move, no sound comes out.

Then—

The shrill flatline halts. Beeps begin again. Slow, weak… but there.

A pulse.

Zayne’s breath catches so sharply it’s like someone stabbed him with relief. He staggers back half a step before dragging his hand down his face, eyes red, though no tears fall.

The door doesn’t open. No one waves him in. But he sees the doctor nod faintly. You’re alive. Barely.

And that’s all he needs.

Hours pass. Maybe more. They finally let him back in once you’re stabilized. You’re still unconscious, but you’re breathing on your own now. The bruises still paint your skin in sick colors, but your chest rises without machine aid.

Zayne sits beside you again, hands folded in his lap this time, like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you just yet.

“I thought I lost you.” The whisper breaks through the silence, rougher than before. “I never panic. You know that. But when I saw that line go flat...”

His voice breaks.

Just a crack.

But it’s there.

He bows his head, resting it on the edge of the bed, eyes closed. One hand finds yours again, hesitant at first, then firm.

“I can’t do this without you. So don’t you dare make me.”

A moment of silence.

Then — your hand twitches.

It’s small. A flicker. But it’s real.

Zayne jerks up. His eyes dart to your face. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime… you groan.

Weak. Barely audible.

He releases a shuddering breath, and it almost sounds like a laugh. But it’s wet, broken. He brings your hand to his lips and presses it there for a moment, breathing you in like proof.

You’re not safe yet. It’s still touch and go. But you’re here.

XAVIER

You don’t remember falling.

Not the explosion. Not the heat. Not the way your body hit the earth with a sickening thud.

But you do remember the voice.

“Stay with me. Please — stay…”

You remember that voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard it before. And you remember the warmth of lips pressed to your temple, trembling hands brushing blood and ash from your cheek. The words that tumbled out didn’t sound like him. Not the Xavier you knew — always so reserved, so gentle, so soft in his restraint.

This Xavier? He was on fire.

———

When the other Hunters arrived at the edge of the smoking field, the world had gone too still.

The enemy had been neutralized, but the cost — the cost was crumpled in Xavier’s arms.

Your body was splayed across his lap, your suit torn, chest rising only in shallow, ragged jerks. Blood coated your side — too much of it. Your hand hung limp, fingers curled around nothing. Debris lay scattered like forgotten pieces of a battle that should’ve ended differently.

And Xavier — Xavier was hunched over you like he could shield you from death itself.

“Come on, come on, please — just stay with me,” he whispered, again and again, his forehead pressed to yours, his glasses crooked and fogged. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been screaming but had run out of air. “You promised you wouldn’t do something like this again. You promised.”

He didn’t notice Jenna approaching until the captain stopped a few feet away, boots crunching softly over broken glass and scorched dirt.

“Xavier.”

No answer.

“Xavier, the med evac is en route. Let me—”

“No.” His arms tightened around you, voice sharp for the first time in hours. “She’s still breathing.”

Xavier didn’t care who saw him now.

He cradled your head in his hand, the pad of his thumb brushing your temple in an endless rhythm like a lifeline. “You’re going to be okay. Just stay awake. Stay with me. You hear me?”

Your body didn’t respond. But your lashes fluttered for half a second, and Xavier choked on a sound that might have been a sob.

“I can’t—” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t do this without you.”

His lips brushed your temple again. He wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Again and again. Like a prayer. Like the universe would listen if he just repeated it enough.

“Come back to me. Please.”

It wasn’t a demand. Not even a request.

It was a beg.

And for a man like Xavier — a man who spoke more with his silences than words — to fall apart like this? It shook everyone to their core.

The others quietly made space around him. Not one of them dared interrupt. Because in that moment, there were no ranks, no roles. Just one boy, desperately trying to hold his world together before it slipped from his fingers.

RAFAYEL

You didn’t hesitate.

The moment the sniper’s scope glinted from the rooftop across the gallery, you moved — muscles fueled by instinct, not thought.

The shot rang out.

And you were already there. Between him and the bullet.

The impact knocked you backward into Rafayel’s chest with brutal force. You didn’t even feel the pain at first. Just pressure. Heat. Then cold. Your legs crumpled, and he caught you as you fell.

His hands were around your waist before he even realized why they were wet.

“Hey,” he breathed, looking down.

And then he saw it.

The blood.

Dark, thick, and seeping far too fast through the back of your uniform. His gloves were stained. His fingers trembled.

His heart stopped.

“No — no, no, no—” His voice broke as he sank to the ground with you still in his arms, cradling you like you were something made of porcelain. “You didn’t just — you idiot, why would you—?!”

Your head lolled against his shoulder. You tried to smile.

“Instinct,” you murmured weakly. “It’s… what I do.”

“Not for me.” His voice cracked. “Not for me. Not if it means this.”

You blinked slowly, lashes fluttering like paper-thin wings. “You’re safe. That’s all I… that’s all I need.”

“No, no, don’t say it like that. Don’t say it like we’re done—” His hands gripped your face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the panic in his movements. “Look at me. Look at me. Don’t you dare look away.”

Your eyes were struggling now. Heavy. Too heavy.

“Raf…” you whispered, voice catching. “You’re… crying…”

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. The tears were falling freely now, carving silent trails down his cheeks. You weren't sure if it was due to the blood loss, but his tears looked ethereal, something akin to pearls.

His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts. His usual poise — gone. His charm — shattered. All that was left was a man breaking open in real time, clutching the person he thought he'd never lose again.

“You don’t get to do this,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, nose brushing your temple. “You don’t get to leave me again. Not after last time. Not after everything.”

“I’m… sorry…”

“Don’t say sorry. Say you’ll stay.”

You were cold. He could feel it — through the warmth of his body pressed to yours, your skin had gone frighteningly still.

“Say it,” he begged, his voice growing hoarse. “Say you’ll stay. Lie to me if you have to. I’ll take anything. Anything.”

Your hand twitched in his.

Just barely.

And he held on like it was the last real thing in the world.

The were others that arrived seconds later — shouting, movement, chaos. Rough, barked orders. The paramedic's hands on the wound. Thomas' voice trembling as he called for med evac.

But Rafayel never let go. He wouldn’t let go.

Even as they tried to lift you onto the stretcher, he held your hand like it was the only lifeline keeping him from collapsing.

“You stay, you hear me?” he murmured, lips brushing your knuckles. “You’re mine. You’re my light. Don’t you dare take that from me.”

They pulled him back.

He followed the stretcher all the way to the transport, ignoring the blood on his clothes, the way his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.

You had protected him with your life.

And now, he would use his to fight for yours

SYLUS

The lights in the bar were soft and golden, warm against the sound of clinking glasses and smooth jazz that curled through the air like lazy smoke. Sylus was lounging at the booth across from you, a smirk dancing at the edge of his lips, one arm thrown over the back of the booth like he owned the place.

You were laughing at something he said — something teasing and perfectly crafted to make your cheeks warm — when the first shot shattered the glass behind you.

Everything went still.

Then it exploded into chaos.

Screams. Panic. More gunfire. The crowd scattered in a storm of bodies and overturned tables. Sylus was on his feet in a second, hand moving to his holster, eyes scanning with razor focus—

Until he turned and saw you collapse.

Your body hit the floor with a sickening thud, a flash of red blooming against your side.

His mind blanked.

“No — no, no, no — hey!” He was already kneeling beside you, hands trembling as they hovered over your wound. Blood seeped fast through your shirt, hot and slick against his skin. “Damn it, this isn’t funny. Get up.”

You blinked slowly, pain blooming in every nerve, and tried to smile. “Guess I… ruined the mood, huh?”

“Shut up,” he snapped — only his voice cracked halfway through, sharp and raw. “Don’t joke like that.”

His usual arrogance, that swagger, the way he always acted like the world bent to his will — it was gone. Torn away like your breath was from your lungs.

You reached for him, your hand barely lifting before it dropped again.

“Sylus…”

He scooped you into his arms in one clean motion, ignoring the pain that flared in his knees as he pushed off the floor. His grip was tight — too tight — but he didn’t care. You were bleeding. Your breath was shallow. And you were too damn still.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice low but frantic, slipping through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to leave me here, not now. We aren’t supposed to end like this.”

Your head lulled against his shoulder. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t you dare say sorry,” he growled. “Save your breath. You can apologize when you’re yelling at me again tomorrow.”

The remaining attackers were either down or retreating. Luke and Kieran were clearing the room. But Sylus didn’t look at them. Didn’t ask for help. He carried you through the smoke and broken glass like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Blood soaked through his shirt, warm against his chest. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His signature smirk — now a ghost.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he murmured, forehead brushing yours. “I let my guard down. I let you down.”

“Don’t say that…” you whispered.

“Why not?” he hissed. “I’m always talking. Always running my mouth like nothing can touch me. Like nothing touches you. But look at you. Look at you.”

Your eyes fluttered. “Still…handsome, though.”

A broken sound escaped him — half laugh, half sob.

“Of course you’d say that now.”

You were slipping again. He could feel it.

“No,” he said, firmer this time, the weight in his voice shaking with each syllable. “You listen to me. You are not going out like this. Not in some second-rate ambush at a bar I don’t even like. You owe me a better ending than this.”

Your breathing was faltering.

And Sylus’s heart was plummeting with every stuttering beat.

“Don’t make me beg,” he whispered, trembling now. “Don’t make me— please. I’ll give you anything. Everything. Just open your eyes.”

As soon as his body was through the familiar doors of his apartment, Sylus collapsed onto the floor, hands gripping your skin so tight it left imprints — a physical manifestation of just how close he was to teetering off the edge.

"Sweetie, please," he rasped, fingers desperately — blindly — for the rhythmic beat just under your jaw, a sign that you were still here, still with him.

Then came guttural noise that came out his mouth when he finally found it.

You were alive. Barely. But alive all the same.

CALEB

He had lost people before.

That was the reality of command. Of war. Of the Farspace Fleet.

Caleb had saluted coffins, sent letters to families, given orders that cost lives. He had smiled through the ache, cracked jokes at funerals to keep others from crying, swallowed guilt like medicine that never worked.

But not you.

He was never supposed to lose you.

———

The report came in during a skirmish.

It was brief. Incomplete. Chaotic.

“Alpha Team down. Casualties unknown—[static]—one Hunter critically injured. Confirmed ID: [static]—[Your Name].”

He stopped breathing.

The world blurred around him. Voices, orders, lights — they faded into background noise. All he heard was your name and the word critically.

He was running before he realized it. Shouting. Pushing past medical teams. Hands trembling as he shoved through the infirmary doors and—

There you were. Unmoving. Broken.

Hooked to machines that breathed for you, pale against the stark white sheets, red still seeping through the bandages wrapped around your torso.

Caleb froze.

It felt like the floor had vanished beneath him.

“Colonel.” A medic’s voice. “You shouldn’t be here—”

“Don’t.”

His tone cut through the air like a blade. The medic stopped mid-sentence.

Caleb stepped forward, slow, like every inch was agony. He reached for your hand, then stopped, hovering.

You looked… gone.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Hey, Pipsqueak. What the hell is this, huh?”

He sat beside your bed, hands finally closing around yours.

“You’re not allowed to go before I do,” he said, trying to smile — but his voice cracked. “That’s the deal. I get the cool, tragic hero exit, and you get to roll your eyes and talk about how dramatic I am at my own funeral.”

No answer. Just the quiet beep of your heart monitor.

Caleb let out a shaky breath. “You always made fun of me for being too sentimental. Said I wear my heart too loud. Maybe that’s true. But it’s yours. Always been yours.”

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them.

And this time, he didn’t.

“You should’ve seen me when the call came in. I broke rank. I barked orders like a lunatic. I left my post. They’re probably writing up the paperwork for insubordination right now.”

He laughed — sharp, broken.

Then silence.

A long, still silence that stretched until it hurt.

He squeezed your hand harder.

“I’ve lost good soldiers,” he whispered. “Too many. But you weren’t just another name in my report. You weren’t just a Hunter. You’re…”

His voice faltered again. His lips parted, trying to shape the truth, but it hurt too much.

“You’re my heart.”

A soft tremor ran through his shoulders. He dropped his forehead to your hand, clutching it like it could keep him from unraveling.

“You can’t do this to me. I wasn’t ready. I’m not ready to lose you. I’ll never be ready.”

He didn’t know how long he stayed there—murmuring, begging, slipping confessions into the spaces between your breaths. Time didn’t exist in that room. Only fear. Only grief.

Only you.

Then—

A twitch.

Barely perceptible. But his breath hitched.

He looked up fast, wide-eyed. “Hey… hey, was that—?”

Your eyelids fluttered.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he whispered, voice catching like a prayer. “Come back to me. Just a little more.”

Your lips parted. A small sound escaped. A rasp. Not a word, but it was you.

Caleb exhaled a shuddering breath, a tear sliding down his cheek, one hand flying to brush your hair back from your face. “That’s it. You’re here. I’ve got you.”

You blinked up at him slowly. “C-Caleb…?”

He laughed — wet and breathless — and pressed your knuckles to his lips.

“Yeah, Pips. I’m here. And I’m not letting go.”

He didn’t care that he was crying. That he looked like a man torn in half and barely stitched together by hope.

You were alive.

And that was all he needed.

3K notes · View notes

shinreiplays · 8 days ago

Text

CALLING YOU HOME — SATORU GOJO

pairing — pilot!satoru gojo x air traffic controller!reader

summary — captain satoru gojo is the most infuriating pilot you've ever had the displeasure of guiding through tokyo's airspace. for months, he's turned every radio call into an opportunity to flirt, compliment your voice, and generally make your work life insufferable. you've never seen his face, but you're convinced he's exactly the kind of arrogant pilot you never want to deal with outside work. if only your heart would stop racing when you hear his voice.

word count — 16.5 k

genre/tags — aviation AU, pilot x air traffic controller, annoyance to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, workplace romance, voice kink if you squint, long distance relationship (kinda), he falls first and falls so HARD, i love him in this ugh, yearning endboss, dramatic love confessions bc we need

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, mentions of grief/loss (death of family member), strong language, aviation emergencies, and satoru gojo being criminally sweet over radio frequencies.

author's note — friendssss i really hope u like this one bc i am obsessed lol. grab your headphones, play your favorite music and prepare for takeoff <3

masterlist + support my writing + ao3 + artwork by @3-aem

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land.”

You didn’t even need to check the screen. You’d recognize his voice anywhere, even in your nightmares—warm, cocky, and already grinding on your nerves like nails on chalkboard.

“Miss me, honey?”

Your pen snapped in half. Around the control tower, heads turned in your direction. Maki, your longest colleague and friend, pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Even Ijichi raised an eyebrow from his station. You hated them all a little for how they all enjoyed the situation so much.

You closed your eyes, counted to three, and then hit the transmission button. “Flight 447, you do realize you’re on a public frequency, right? Everyone can hear you.”

“As long as you’re listening, Control, that’s all that matters.”

“Lucky me,” you muttered, pulling up his flight information on the screen. Scattered clouds drifted past the tower’s angled windows, casting fleeting shadows over your cluttered workstation. “Also, you’re late, Captain.”

“By two minutes. Come on, that’s hardly anything.”

“More than enough time to get on my nerves.”

“I love it when you talk to me like that.”

Behind you, someone coughed—probably trying to hide a laugh.

“And I love it when you stop talking,” you shot back.

His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. “Someone’s feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?”

“Coffee’s fine. It’s the pilot that’s giving me a headache.”

“Mmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.”

There it was again. Beautiful.

Always beautiful. Never ‘ma’am’ or ‘tower’ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, or—God help you—honey. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.

You’d corrected him once early on. “Use proper radio protocol,” you’d said, but all he replied was, “Sorry, Control. Slipped. Won’t happen again, pretty.”

It had happened again. And again. And again.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you said, frustrated.

“Your voice tells me everything I need to know. And I’m betting you’re even more beautiful than you sound.”

“Is that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?”

He laughed. “Ouch. You’re brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?”

“Flight 447, you’re cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while you’re busy thinking about how charming you are.”

“Copy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasn’t thinking about myself.” His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. “I was thinking about you.”

Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once more—grinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face.

You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.

“Looks like I’ve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.”

More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.

You looked out the tower’s window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot you’d ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.

It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europe—the very same routes you’d specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda.

The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine?

You loved them.

These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.

These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longer—the last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilots—the ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.

While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flights—tight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shit—you got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.

Until Captain Satoru Gojo.

The first time you handled Flight 447’s approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone who’d been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.

“Tokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.”

You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.

Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxed—and, unfortunately, talkative.

God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what should’ve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.

“Flight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.”

“Descending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know that—”

“Flight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.”

He sighed. “Copy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”

It started professional enough—well, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control ‘beautiful’—but overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Did you miss my voice, honey?”

“Until next time, beautiful.”

Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldn’t help himself—like he’d physically explode if he didn’t borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.

He’d never even seen you. Didn’t know your name, wouldn’t recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldn’t even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.

And oh my God, the rambling—the fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.

“You know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesn’t it?”

You already felt your soul leaving your body.

“Although I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. You’ve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like that—”

Sometimes he’d yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that you’d rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichi—an actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victim—would sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojo’s rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.

“Flight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.”

A pause. “Oh. Um. Flight level 380. Sorry—Is the other controller… did she…?”

“Flight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, “Your boyfriend’s looking for you” while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report you’d already read four times.

You’d complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yaga’s office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.

Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojo’s voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and given you that look—the one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

“Has he ever caused a delay?” Yaga asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“Missed a radio call?”

“No, however—”

“Failed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Has he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?”

You’d opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.

Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.

“The guy’s annoying but harmless,” Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.

Harmless. Right.

Harmless if you didn’t count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.

But damn it—you worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. You’d studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes.

You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergencies—all while being always fucking calm and polite.

Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and that’s what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.

Okay, forget about the calm part, too.

It didn’t help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Maki—who handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilots—had already labelled Gojo your ‘work husband’.

And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, she’d make kissy faces in your direction and sing, “Oh, your boyfriend’s calling,” to which you’d reply “He’s not my boyfriend.” Or worse, she’d lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when you’d finally ask him out. Of course, she knew he’d hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, “She’s right. When will you finally ask me?”

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.”

“Left 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your… well, I can’t see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.”

Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and you’d have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.

And it didn’t help that everyone loved him, of course.

Everyone except you, apparently.

The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. You’d see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled in—like teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.

You’ve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick “just in case” she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover.

Even the janitors—the fucking janitors—somehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, who’d been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.

It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.

You’d never actually seen him. In the months he’d been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrived—or you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.

Everyone said he was stupidly pretty—so damn dreamy and everything. You could’ve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didn’t. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.

Which only made it worse.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment you’d stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backup—who was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.

So when Flight 447’s call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.”

You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. You’d scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.”

“Left 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?”

Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.

“Just doing my job, 447.”

“Ouch. That’s definitely tension. Let me guess—computer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I know—the coffee machine spat out mud again, didn’t it?”

You blinked at your screen. How could he possibly—

“Flight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.”

You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. “You… brought me something?”

“Mhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.”

You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“I know enough,” he said, still annoyingly casual. “I know you prefer late international routes because they’re usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because I’ve heard you complain—more than once—that no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, I’m guessing no one’s done that in a while, so now the good machine’s off to maintenance again, and you’re stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.”

A pause.

“And I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because I’ve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, you’ve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like you’re not seconds away from strangling them. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?

You didn’t respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.

“Flight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Wait, that’s it? No ‘thank you’ or ‘wow, you’re so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseas’? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.”

Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. “You declared chocolate at customs?”

“Had to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.”

“You told customs agents I was special?”

“I told them the truth. …Though I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.”

“You what?”

His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. “Relax, beautiful. Customs agents don’t exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.”

“So we’re not dating? Huh. That’s news to me.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.”

“My job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.”

“See? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.”

You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Maki—finally free from her emergency—was trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.

“Flight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, okay, I’m switching,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. It’s got your name on it. Well… your call sign, anyway. Couldn’t exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and there’s a little something extra in the box, too.”

Your finger froze over the transmit button. “What kind of extra?”

“Just a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.”

The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.

Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. “Did he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?”

“Apparently.”

“And declared you his girlfriend to customs?”

“I hate him.”

“And there’s something extra waiting for you at the gate?”

You gave her a warning look. “Stop that.”

“You realize most guys don’t even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless they’re into you.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Sure,” she said. “So creepy that you’re smiling about it.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.” She leaned closer. “And you’re totally going to check the gate during your break.”

You turned back to your screen. “I have work to do.”

“Right. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?”

“I’m not—”

Your radar lit up. “Tower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.” Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar.

You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.

Or whatever extra he brought.

Not even a little.

Okay, maybe a little.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone else’s problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythm—slower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.

“Off to investigate your love offerings?” Maki called as you headed for the elevator.

“Gate operations check,” you tried, but you couldn’t fool her.

The box was sitting right there at the international gate desk—impossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.

“Oh! You’re Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to ‘the controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.’” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s so romantic.”

You stared at the box. It was bigger than you’d expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.

“Did he… say anything else?”

“Just that you’d had a rough day and deserved something sweet.” Hana sighed. “He’s so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.”

Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.

“Right. Well. Thanks.”

Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.

“Holy shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?”

“It’s just chocolate.”

“Just chocolate?” Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. “These are, like, forty bucks each. There’s at least thirty pieces in here.”

Ijichi gave a low whistle. “Your pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone who’d never even seen your face.

“Oh my God, try one,” Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. “Don’t be shy.”

You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.

“Girl, you are so lucky,” Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. “A hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?”

“He’s probably not even attractive. I’ve never actually seen him.”

Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.

“Wait,” Maki said slowly. “You’ve never seen him?”

“Our shifts don’t overlap. I’m always in the tower when his flights come in.”

“Oh my God.” Maki turned to her computer. “I’m looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?”

“Tower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,” crackled your headset.

You grabbed your radio. “Flight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.”

You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around.

As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and that’s when you noticed the ‘something extra’. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.

“For the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.” — S

You shivered.

Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You’d barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you’d thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when he’d called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.

Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and you’d agreed—more or less voluntarily—to stay and help out.

The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.”

It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. He’d just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.

“Flight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.”

“Copy that. Left 270. Long night down there?”

You rubbed your eyes. “Medical emergency earlier. You’ll be in the hold for about an hour.”

“Roger. Hey—did you get the chocolates?"

Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. “Yes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.”

“But good?”

You exhaled. “Really good.”

“Knew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?”

You checked your watch. “Fourteen hours.”

“You shouldn’t be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but you’ve got to take care of yourself too, you know.”

You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didn’t sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concerned—and it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didn’t even have the energy to fight him on it.

“Someone had to cover.”

“Not at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I don’t mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.”

“I did eat something a few hours ago. I’m okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.”

“Is she okay?”

“Baby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that they’ve named her Sky. It’s kinda cheesy.”

“That’s beautiful.” His voice was soft. “You helped bring a little life into the world tonight.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“It’s not just your job, you know that,” he said gently. “It’s you being the person people count on when it really matters.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know why I always ask for this route?”

“Because you like to annoy me?”

He laughed quietly. “Because your voice is the best part of my day. Doesn’t matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal with—the moment I hear you on frequency… I know I’m okay. I know I’m home.”

You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small.

It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojo’s soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse.

You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, “Why? Why are you being so… like this? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know you’re calm even when the tower’s on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.”

You could barely breathe.

“You deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

“You’re so stupid,” you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.

“You’re exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.” A pause. “You know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.” His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. “I’d love to show you someday.”

“Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said without hesitation. “I wish you were my girlfriend.”

You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didn’t help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldn’t settle, and worst of all, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information?

Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happen—this slow unraveling of the careful distance you’d built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit

“You’re insane.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldn’t still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.

“What? No comeback?” he teased. “You really must be tired.”

“I hate how you say stuff like that,” you mumbled into your sleeve, “when you know I’m too tired to fight back.”

“Sounds like good timing, then.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,” he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. “It’s really cute.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?”

“Sounds like you want me to ask you.”

“I don’t.” You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Good,” he said. “So no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.”

A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You don’t even know me. Why are you so persistent?”

It was silent for a while—so long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.

“Because for months, your voice has been the only thing that’s felt like home,” he said. “Every flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just a pilot who’s spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what it’d be like to hear you say my name—my real name—just once, but I…”

The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.

“Flight 447—”

“Can I ask you something? And you can say no.”

“…What?”

“Do you want to switch to a private frequency?”

You shouldn’t. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.

“Frequency 121.9,” you said.

“Copy that. Switching now.”

Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.”

“I’m here.”

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “Tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to your voice.”

You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

“Start simple. What did you have for breakfast?”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Coffee.”

“Just coffee?” He groaned. “That’s terrible for you. You need read food.”

“Says the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.”

“I make great scrambled eggs, actually,” he said, a little smug. “Secret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.”

“You cook?”

“Mhmm. And I make the best carbonara.”

“According to who?”

“According to me. And I’m a very reliable source.”

You smiled again. “Very humble, too.”

“Absolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when you’re not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?”

You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of ‘Wonderwall’. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts.

It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even.

You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest.

You hadn’t realized until now how much you’d come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequency—but this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.

You were quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you become a pilot?”

A breath passed. Maybe two.

“I had a little sister. She died when she was twelve—leukemia.” He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. “She was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to see—the Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.”

You didn’t move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.

“She never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise I’d see the world for her. That I’d go to all the places and tell her about them.” Another shaky breath. “So I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the clouds—she’s with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.” His laugh barely held. “Probably sounds crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night air’s chill. “So the postcards from Zurich…”

“I brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe you’d like it too.”

“Flight 447,” you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.

“She would’ve liked you,” he added. “She always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like home—even when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.”

You were silent for a while, unable to find words.

“Control? Can I ask you something else?”

“…Yeah.”

“Would you like to go out with me?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stood—legs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.

“I…” you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?”

Then Kai’s voice cut through your main frequency. “Control Seven, runway’s clear for your holding traffic.”

You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Flight 447, you’re cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.”

“Roger, cleared for approach runway 24L.”

You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, “Land safe, Satoru.”

Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.

“You’re so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that I’ve finally heard you say my name like that?”

Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“See you on the ground, Control… and sleep easy tonight.”

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

After that night, everything changed.

What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447’s call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile anymore. “Good morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.”

“How’s that terrible tower coffee treating you today?”

“Still tastes like mud. But it’s keeping me awake.”

“You really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.”

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Will do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?”

You caught yourself still smiling after he’d switched frequencies.

Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didn’t even say anything—just raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.

Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, he’d offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoru’s voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.

The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. He’d tell you about the cities he flew to—the morning mist over Prague’s cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.

“There’s this little bakery in Prague,” he said once. “Sells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear they’re really good.”

You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you could’ve been there with him.

One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. “I saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,” he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. “Over Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they don’t do it justice, but… I tried.”

“Your sister would’ve loved that.”

“Yeah. She would have.” His voice grew soft. “I wish you could have seen them too. With me.”

You hadn’t planned on any of this. You didn’t know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadn’t even seen his face.

At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You weren’t sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next… you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.

He’d compliment your voice and your hair he’d never even seen, and you’d toss something sharp right back at his ego. He’d ask about your day like it mattered, and you’d ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky.

Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didn’t matter. Stopped pretending you didn’t wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something he’d been waiting all day to say.

“You sound tired today,” he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.

You stifled a yawn. “Double shift. Someone called in sick.”

“That’s the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?”

You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldn’t remember.

“That settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, we’re going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”

“Is that a request or a demand, Captain?”

“It’s a promise.”

Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you weren’t abusing the system—you just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.

When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.

“Can’t sleep up there?” you’d ask when his voice came through the static.

“Autopilot’s handling the boring parts. Thought I’d check on my favorite insomniac instead.”

“I’m not an insomniac,” you’d say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. “I’m working.”

“It’s 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.”

“Someone’s gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.”

He never missed a beat. “Just one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.”

And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you weren’t Control Seven—you were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everything—but somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.

You didn’t have a name for what was growing between you—but it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.

Those conversations could last hours—him circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. He’d tell you about passengers he’d met, you’d share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. He’d describe the view from his cockpit, you’d explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we’d met differently?” he asked one night.

“How do you mean?”

“If I wasn’t a pilot, and you weren’t up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.”

“Would you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?”

“Probably.” He laughed. “Though I might have started with the weather like a normal person.”

“I don’t think you know how to be normal, Captain.”

You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasn’t there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, you’d feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.

“Miss me?” he’d tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.

“You wish.”

“I do, actually. Horribly.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “The frequency’s been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldn’t believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.”

“Liar. You were bored as hell.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little to late for that, Control? It’s this big since you said my name that one time.”

You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.

“…I missed you.”

You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.

“Approach is waiting, Captain.”

A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadn’t given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it yet.

“So,” he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, “about that date…”

Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.

“I know a little café in Shibuya. It’s away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.”

“We are colleagues, Flight 447.”

“Colleagues who happen to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Colleagues who work together professionally.”

“Colleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.” His voice carried that familiar teasing note. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.”

“The worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.”

You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“The café’s called Blue Mountain,” he said before switching. “Saturday afternoon. If you’re free.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time he’d called you beautiful.

You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.

And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man you’d never even seen in person.

It didn’t make sense. Pilots are arrogant. That’s a universal truth you’d learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.

Satoru was a pilot.

Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way—given your heart to people who’d seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didn’t. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.

But now here was him—persistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy he’d constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.

You didn’t know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didn’t know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didn’t even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.

For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency he’d tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.

Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities you’d never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.

But this wasn’t real. Whatever this was—chemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndrome—it couldn’t be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.

He’d never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didn’t know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.

This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.

But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadn’t even had the chance to exist?

You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.

You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people he’d met in Dublin and that little bakery he’d found in Budapest, that he’s sure of you’d love.

And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend who’d left him because she couldn’t handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, who’d always expected him to run the family’s company, and how they still didn’t understand why he’d chosen to spend his life in the sky.

You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed moments—your failed engagement to a man who’d wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was ‘too stressful’, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” you said softly after confessing how you’d chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancé thought was too difficult for you.

“I'm glad you told me,” Satoru’s voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. “I love listening to your voice, especially when you’re being honest about things that matter.”

“Satoru…” you said, without thinking—his name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.

“Say that again.”

“Your name?”

“Yes,” he breathed, the single word aching. “Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.

“Satoru,” you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.

On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.

“Satoru?” you asked. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

A beat.

“About how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.

You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadn’t heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t even begun to process, let alone given permission for.

Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didn’t know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.

After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.

“Did I scare you with that?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“I mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.”

“This is insane. We’ve never even met.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to me. Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.

“Satoru…”

“I know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when you’re tired, and what makes you laugh when you’re trying not to. I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating—because I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldn’t. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.” A pause. “What else do I need to know?”

“What I look like, for starters.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“No, because it’s your voice I think about at night. That’s what drew me in. The rest… it never mattered.”

You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have coffee with me. Say you’ll give me a chance to see the woman I’ve fallen for.”

Your breath caught again. “Fallen for?” you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.

“Yes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.”

Your hands lifted—without thinking, almost desperate—and pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closer—pull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadn’t said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.

“I…” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I have to—” You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. “Ijichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.”

“Everything okay?” Ijichi’s voice sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just need a bathroom break.”

You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldn’t go away, chest rising and falling too fast.

What is happening?

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t just… fall for your voice. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. You hadn’t even met him. You didn’t know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didn’t know how you looked when you weren’t exhausted. And yet—

Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one who’d made the confession.

This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But why—God, why—did you want to kiss him back so badly?

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You took a week off without telling him.

It was cruel—you knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didn’t feel like space. It felt like ache.

You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadn’t visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they haven’t in years.

And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just… thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.

You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession.

Completely, hopelessly fallen for.

You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But you had.

Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents he’d never meet again.

You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasn’t real, but because you’d wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things.

So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didn’t. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didn’t, and the ache only grew stronger.

By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If he’d call them ‘beautiful’ too.

By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.

You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.

Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone else’s voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.

Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. “Your pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.”

You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.

****

You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyo’s sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.

The call came at 3:42 AM—all available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.

You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages.

A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyo’s airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.

Flowers.

A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath in a clear glass vase.

“He sends them every day,” Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. “Asks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.”

You couldn’t speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut.

Six days.

He’d been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.

“You okay?” Maki asked.

“I’m good,” you managed, swallowing hard. “I need to—” But there was no time.

“Tower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.”

For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.

“Flight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.”

“Flight 726, negative climb, maintain 12,000. Traffic conflict. Standby for alternate routing.”

Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didn’t shake. At least, not on the outside.

A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the tower’s windows.

And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen.

Flight 447.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, and—” He paused—like he’d caught the shaky breath you hadn’t meant to let slip through. “Control, is that you?”

It shouldn’t have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. There’s a gap in the storm cell at your two o’clock.”

“Roger, left 090, down to 6,000.” A beat. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.

“Flight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.”

“Negative, we’re already committed to this approach. We’ll ride it—”

Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.

You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.

“Flight 447, come in.”

No response.

“Satoru, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only white noise.

Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice should’ve been.

Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. “Flight 447, please respond.”

Then, finally, cutting through the noise, “Control. I’m here. Lost comms for a moment there.”

You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs.

“What’s with the silence now,” he whispered softly. “Were you worried about me, love?”

Love.

He’d never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honey—but never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like you’d been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.

He is alive. He is safe. And he’d called you love.

“Flight 447, confirm you’re okay.”

“We’re fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious he’d thought he’d lost.

As if your absence had mattered.

As if he’d missed you the way you’d missed him.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just… don’t go quiet on me again, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m coming home when you’re not the one guiding me there.”

You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?

And the worst part was how easily he said it—like you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasn’t just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.

“I won’t,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week off—it felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, he’d been looking for your voice.

“See you on the ground, beautiful.”

And then the line went silent.

Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because you’d been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him.

What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?

He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didn’t know how to say any of it.

You watched his altitude drop.

8,000 feet.

6,000.

4,000.

Each number bringing him closer to solid ground—closer to you.

Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The plane’s wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.

Your heart flatlined.

“Maki, can you cover for me?” you asked, voice tight, already moving.

She looked away from the window. “What? Yeah, but—”

You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didn’t matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.

Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didn’t slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphalt—one heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.

Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.

You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.

It was stupid, so stupid. You didn’t even know what he looked like. But then—

You saw him. For the first time in your life.

He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilot’s uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue you’d somehow always known they’d be. And then—

And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.

Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertainty—you knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.

The voice you’d fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like he’d just found something he’d been searching for his entire life.

And now he’d found you.

You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing.

You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at you—those impossible blue eyes you’d imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than you’d let yourself believe.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. “Would you like to go out with me?” you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.

Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindrops—or maybe tears, you couldn’t tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.

Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.

Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the world—suspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

A few weeks later.

“Careful with that,” Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. “Unless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.”

You were perched in the captain’s seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than you’d imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.

“You actually understand all of this?”

“Each and every switch, gauge, and warning light.” He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captain’s seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. “See this? It’s the primary flight display—shows our altitude, airspeed, heading. That’s the navigation display, weather radar here…”

You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like this—the way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.

“And this,” he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, “shows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.”

You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“That’s not what that screen shows.”

“No? Then why can’t I look away from it?”

“You’re stupid.” But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. “Show me something else.”

“Demanding little controller.” His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. “These control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systems…”

You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.

“These are the autopilot controls.” His hand moved again. “This button engages the system—basically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan we’ve programmed.” His finger moved to another switch. “This one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.”

“But here’s the most important thing.” Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy night—completely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.

“I still can’t believe Hana managed to get this shot,” you said, taking it from him. “She really thought ‘Oh, what a perfect time for a picture’ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.”

Satoru laughed. “But aren’t you gald she took it?”

“We look absolutely stupid.”

Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.

“You look perfect,” he said, leaning closer. “And you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.”

“I did not have a meltdown—”

“You ran across an active runway. In a storm.” He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. “My professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just saying—” He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. “For someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.”

“I was worried about you.”

His smile softened. “You didn’t have to.” He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. “No matter how rough the storm or the landing, I’m never really lost—not when I know you’re there. You always guide me home safely.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stupidly in love, yeah,” he murmured—and then he kissed you.

What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.

“Controller,” Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. “What exactly are you starting here?”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.

“Clearly.”

You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captain’s seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldn’t stand another second apart.

“My break’s over in fifteen,” you murmured against his lips. “And the plane’s grounded for another hour. No one should be around.”

He pulled back just enough to give you a look. “Wait… did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?”

“Maybe.”

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

“I’m just making efficient use of our time, Captain,” you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. “Isn’t that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?”

His laugh came out breathless, strained. “Pretty sure this isn’t in any manual I’ve read.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.” You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. “You’re good at handling unexpected situations, aren’t you?”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.

You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.

“Why do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?”

Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.

“Says the man undressing me in his cockpit,” you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.

“I can’t believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.”

“You’re cute when you’re being all professional and nerdy.”

“You’re terrible.”

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.

“Careful. Don’t want us getting caught, right?”

You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didn’t take long to push aside everything that wasn’t necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoru’s hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.

His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.

Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldn’t help but think about how it all started. This was where it began—thirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment he’d called you beautiful, it had always been leading here.

As if inevitable.

Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From ‘Flight 447’ to ‘Satoru.’ From guiding him home to finally being home.

And that felt pretty damn good.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

Six months later.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,” came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. “Flight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?”

“Even better. Let them all know how lucky I am.”

Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoru’s radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy who’d accidentally walked into a lingerie store.

The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, he’d brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman he’d chatted with during his layover—and it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you he’s a good cook.

From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant you’d surely kill again, but it didn’t matter as he’d secretly replace it in the middle of the night so you’d think you’d finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges he’d handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.

And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. You’d started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.

“You know you don’t have to bring me something from every city,” you’d told him after he’d brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.

“Let me spoil my girl,” he’d replied simply, watching you take a bite. “Besides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.”

The radio banter had only gotten worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

“Tower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.”

“Flight 447 keep it professional or I’m diverting you to Osaka.”

“Oof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, you’ll never see what I brought you from Rome.”

Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. ‘Flight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphere’ was Maki’s current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for ‘Requesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for you—again.’

Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.

Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.

“Your apartment’s bigger,” you’d pointed out, when you finally made it official.

“Yours has the better balcony. But mine’s closer to the airport.”

“So, your place then. But I’m bringing my good coffee maker.”

“And won’t let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? You’re heartless.”

But the real adjustment wasn’t space or schedules. It was learning each other’s bodies with the same intensity you’d spent months learning each other’s voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.

Some weekends you didn’t even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide where to focus first.

“I used to fantazise about this,” he murmured between kisses.

“About what?”

“This.” His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. “What you’d sound like when you weren’t trying so hard to be professional… imagining the sounds you’re making now, how you’d moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.”

You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.

“Yeah?”

He smiled against your mouth. “You have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.”

Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. “Good thing we’ve got time now to find out.”

“Yeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,” he whispered—just before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.

And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio.

In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly.

How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.

You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.

You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each other’s bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.

“You know,” he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, “I spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to find out what happens when I do this—” His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what you’d been reading. “While you’re trying to be all professional.”

“That’s unfair.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.

“Bored up there, Captain?”

“Never bored when I’m talking to you. Though I was thinking…”

“Dangerous pastime for you.”

“We’re both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.” His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. “Feels like the perfect date to me.”

You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.

“Strange how this all started, don’t you think?” you mused during a quiet moment. “Two voices falling for each other over radio frequency.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. It’s just… kind of crazy, isn’t it? All of this.”

He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was different—nervous, almost fragile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Will you marry me?”

Your heart stopped.

“I know it’s not how this is supposed to go. I know it’s not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, you’re down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what he’d just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

He let out a heavy breath. “God, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.”

You blinked back tears, smiling. “Just come home safe, you idiot.”

“Always,” he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. “Your voice guides me home, remember? It always has.”

You thought you’d mapped every corner of him after six months of living together—every habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.

But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.

You’d known he came from money—the expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartment—but you hadn’t grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his father’s company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.

“I was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,” he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. “We could take one of the jets.”

“Wait wait wait… you have access to a private jet?”

“Technically, I have access to several.”

Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.

The first time he took you somewhere—a long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom season—you finally understood why he’d fallen in love with flying.

Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.

“So this is what you see every day?” you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.

“This is what I used to see.” He glanced over at you. “Now I only see you.”

It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.

Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudi’s wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot spring—finally experiencing all the places he’d described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.

“Your sister would have loved this,” you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.

“She would have loved you,” he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. “She always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.”

“Remember when you used to tell me about this place?” you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery he’d told you about months ago over the radio.

He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. “I remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what you’d say about the cobblestones, or if you’d laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.”

You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. “And now?”

“Now I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.” He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. “Now I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I don’t have to imagine anymore.”

Each trip revealed new layers of him—and new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitasking—okay, autopilot might have helped—his hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two.

“I used to get hard just from hearing your voice,” he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.

“Just from my voice?”

“Especially when you’d get that stern controller tone. ‘Flight 447, maintain current heading.’” His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

“Show me what it did to you.”

He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much he’d wanted you during all those professional exchanges.

The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan.

He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.

Years passed like this.

At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.

But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when he’d surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.

“Where to next?”

“Anywhere you want,” was always his answer. “As long as we’re flying together.”

And through it all, some things remained beautifully constant—the flutter in your stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yes—I want everyone to hear it.”

“Flight 447, you’re the worst.”

His laugh crackled through the radio. “I love you,” he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.

And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passed—he always came back to you.

After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.

The End

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3

and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga

@nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @chiyokoemilia @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy

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shinreiplays · 8 days ago

Text

THREE LITTLE WORDS — SATORU GOJO

pairing — satoru gojo x gn!reader

summary — for twenty-four years, satoru gojo has carried three little words on the tip of his tongue, never daring to speak them aloud. growing up as the strongest sorcerer comes with its burdens, and loving someone means putting them at risk. but when you're about to marry someone else, satoru finally realizes that sometimes the biggest risk is never taking one at all.

word count — 7.4 k

genre/tags — childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, protective gojo, idiots in love

warnings — no explicit content (only kissing), mild violence mentions, references to injuries, angst, alcohol use, mentions of arranged marriages, family pressure, reference to assassination attempts

author's note — hey lovelies, with everything that's going on rn, i wanted to write something cute to maybe make someone smile today. there's a little bit of angst in this (sorry, yk me), but mostly it's (bitter)sweet moments. and i tried to keep it somewhat canon-compliant, but maybe not really. and i've written this with gender-neutral pronouns to ensure everyone can see themselves in this story. if you notice any places where i might have slipped up, please let me know.

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Three little words.

Just eight letters that had lived on the tip of Satoru Gojo's tongue for what felt like forever, desperately wanting to spill from his lips every time he saw you.

Three words that had haunted him through the years, through scraped knees and graduation gowns, through first dates and near-death experiences.

I love you.

Simple words that carried the weight of universes, that could change everything — or destroy it all. And so, he'd held them back, let them sit heavy in his chest, like a weight that pressed against his lungs with every breath.

Because loving a Gojo wasn't easy. It never had been.

Love had always been a foreign concept to him. Growing up in the Gojo clan meant learning about power before learning about affection, mastering close combat before understanding emotions.

Love was abstract, complex, something other people seemed to grasp naturally while he watched from behind barriers of privilege and power.

But with you? With you, it had been as clear as breathing.

It hadn't been the dramatic, earth-shattering revelation movies always promised. Instead, it was quiet, constant, like realizing the sun had always been there, warming his skin. It was in the way you shared your lunch without being asked, how you never flinched when his powers flared, how you rolled your eyes at his dramatics but smiled anyway.

Love had been the easiest thing in the world when it came to you. Understanding it, feeling it, living it — that part was simple.

It was everything else that was complicated.

Because Satoru knew what happened to people the Gojos loved. He'd seen it, lived it, carried the weight of those consequences since before he could walk. Love, in his world, wasn't just about feelings — it was about target signs and weaknesses, about giving your enemies a roadmap straight to your heart.

And your heart? That was something he couldn't bear to put at risk.

So he had learned to swallow those words, to tuck them away behind smirks and jokes and casual touches that never lasted quite long enough. He had become an expert at loving you silently, at pouring all those unspoken feelings into small acts of protection, of care, of presence.

Some days, the words would claw at his throat like living things, desperate to escape. On those days, he'd find himself watching you — the way you moved, the sound of your laugh, the simple fact of your existence in his complicated world — and the urge to confess would be almost unbearable.

But then he'd remember all the attempts on his life, all the enemies who would love nothing more than to hurt him through you, all the danger that came with the name Gojo, and the words would retreat back into his chest where they lived like a constant ache.

Loving you had been the easiest thing Satoru had ever done. Keeping that love silent had been the hardest.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 6 ⁺ 　 . ✦

The first time Satoru realized he wanted to say those words to you, he had been six years old and you were crying because some older kids stole your favorite crayon. You had both been sitting in the reading corner of your kindergarten classroom, and your tears were making his chest hurt in a way he didn't understand.

"Don't cry," he had said, reaching out to pat your head like his mom did when he was sad. "I'll get it back for you."

You had sniffled, looking up at him with those wide, watery eyes that made his little heart skip. "But they're bigger than you."

He had puffed up his chest. "So? I'm stronger."

Before you could stop him, he had marched right up to the group of second graders during recess. They towered over him, but Satoru hadn't cared. He was a Gojo, after all, and Gojos didn't back down.

Ten minutes later, he had been sitting in the principal's office with a bloody nose and a black eye, but clutched triumphantly in his hand was your favorite crayon. The principal had called his parents, of course. There was talk of his "concerning behavior" and "excessive force," but all Satoru could think about was how your whole face had lit up when he handed you back that crayon.

That night, as his mother tucked him into bed, she had asked him why he did it. And he simply said because you were sad.

His mother had given him a look that he wouldn't understand until years later. "The Gojo men have always been weak to those they love," she had told him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He had wanted to tell you then, as you colored together the next day, carefully sharing that rescued crayon. The words had bubbled up in his chest like soda fizz, but he had swallowed them down. Because even at six, he knew that being around him meant trouble, and he didn't want to see you cry again.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 12 ⁺ 　 . ✦

Middle school had brought new challenges and new reasons to keep those words locked away.

Satoru had started to understand what it meant to be a Gojo — the weight of the name, the expectations, the suffocating responsibilities that seemed to grow heavier with each passing day.

You were still there, though, somehow always by his side despite the chaos that surrounded him. When other kids whispered about his family, about the strange things that happened around him, you just rolled your eyes and shared your lunch with him like nothing was wrong.

He had nearly said it one autumn afternoon when you were both sprawled on your bedroom floor, supposedly doing homework but really just talking about nothing and everything. The late sunlight had caught your features just right, and you were laughing at something stupid he had said, and the words had almost slipped out.

But then his phone had rung. It had been his father, summoning him to an urgent clan meeting.

Another reminder of the life that awaited him — endless meetings about maintaining the Gojo name, about upholding traditions centuries old, about sacrificing personal happiness for the sake of the clan's future.

As he had sat in that austere meeting room, surrounded by stern-faced elders discussing bloodlines and duties and arranged marriages, all he could think about was your laugh from earlier that afternoon. How free it had sounded, how untainted by the weight of expectations and tradition.

How could he tell you he loved you when being with him meant dragging you into this world of rigid traditions and suffocating responsibilities? When loving him meant you might have to give up everything you held dear?

So he had swallowed the words once again, buried them deep, even as they burned in his chest like embers that refused to die. Because he would rather suffer in silence than watch the weight of the Gojo name dim the spark in your eyes.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 16 ⁺ 　 . ✦

High school was when Satoru had started deliberately pushing people away. He had built walls of arrogance and casual flirtation, keeping everyone at arm's length while making it look effortless. He dated casually, never seriously, and cultivated a reputation as someone who didn't do relationships.

Everyone had bought it except you.

You saw right through him, just like you always had. You called him out on his bullshit, threw erasers at his head when he was being particularly obnoxious, and somehow still showed up at his house with his favourite sweets when he was sick.

"Your ego's getting too big for this classroom," you'd tell him whenever he started showing off. He'd just grin and make it worse, because your exasperated sighs had become his favorite sound.

During lunch breaks, while others gathered around his desk trying to get his attention, you'd just roll your eyes and steal food from his plate. He'd pretend to be annoyed, but he had started packing extra of your favorites, just to watch you light up when you found them.

High school had also been the time when the clan's pressure had threatened to crush him. Every day brought new expectations, new techniques to master, new reminders that he wasn't just Satoru but the future of the Gojo clan.

He never told you, but your presence had kept him sane. You had been the only one allowed to see him practice with his cursed technique, sitting on the sidelines of the training grounds doing homework while he worked himself to exhaustion.

On the days when the pressure of being the strongest got too heavy, you'd wordlessly share your earbuds with him, letting him rest his head on your shoulder while some silly pop song played between you. And you'd hold his hand, and he'd squeeze back so tight it almost hurt.

In those moments, the words had been right there, sitting on his tongue. But he couldn't. Not when your friendship was the one pure thing in his complicated life.

But the words had nearly escaped one night when you were both sneaking back into town after a concert two cities over. You had been wearing his jacket because you forgot yours, and you were singing off-key to some pop song on the radio, and his heart had felt so full it might burst.

But then he had spotted a car that had been following them for the last twenty minutes, and instead of confessing, he had to lose the tail while pretending everything was fine. You never noticed, too caught up in your impromptu karaoke session, and he had been grateful for that at least.

He had driven you home in silence after that, the words buried so deep he could barely breathe around them. You had fallen asleep against the window, blissfully unaware of how close he'd come to changing everything between you.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 18 ⁺ 　 . ✦

College had brought a new kind of torture. Because then he had to watch you date other people, normal people who didn't have assassination attempts over breakfast or cursed energy that could level cities.

He still kept you close, though. He couldn't help it. You were his gravity, his true north, the one constant in his chaotic life. You were still the person who brought him coffee during all-nighters, who listened to his ridiculous theories at 3 AM, who somehow knew exactly when he needed a hug even though he'd never admit it.

The campus had whispered about it — about how the untouchable Satoru Gojo let you into his space so easily, how you were the only one who could barge into his dorm at any hour without fear of consequence.

They wondered what made you special, what kind of hold you had over him. If they only knew how many times he had bitten back those three words when you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder during late-night study sessions, or how his heart had nearly burst when you'd chosen to spend the evening with him instead of going to that party your crush had invited you to.

The words had almost broken free during your sophomore year, when you had shown up at his door at midnight, crying because someone broke your heart. He had held you while you sobbed, stroked your hair, and plotted seventeen different ways to destroy the person who hurt you (he had only acted on three of them, and nobody could prove anything).

He remembered how you had curled into his side that night, hiccupping through tears about how you "just wanted someone who understood you."

The irony had burned in his throat — he understood you better than anyone, had mapped every constellation of your moods and meanings, had memorized every shade of your smile.

But understanding wasn't enough when being with him meant inheriting all his complications.

You had fallen asleep in his bed that night, wrapped in his favorite hoodie, and he had spent hours just watching you breathe, his heart aching with how much he wanted to keep you there forever.

When morning came, you had smiled at him over coffee and thanked him for being "the best friend anyone could ask for," and each word had felt like a knife between his ribs.

He had wanted to tell you then, had wanted to show you how you should be loved — wholly, fiercely, eternally. But he knew he couldn't offer you the normal life you deserved, so he had swallowed the words again and just held you tighter.

Instead, he had channeled all those unspoken feelings into being the kind of friend you needed. He walked you home from late parties, threatened anyone who looked at you wrong and pretended it didn't kill him every time you gushed about a new crush.

What you had never told him was that each crush faded as quickly as it came, because somehow they all fell short of the impossible standard he had unknowingly set.

He became an expert at loving you from arm's length, at being everything you needed while hiding how much he needed you.

The worst part was how naturally it all came to him — how easy it was to be the one you turned to, to be your safe harbor in every storm. Because loving you had always been as natural as breathing, even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

College became an impossible balance of keeping you close enough to stay in your life but far enough away to keep his heart from completely shattering.

He dated casually, built up his reputation as someone who didn't do commitment, all while knowing that the only person he'd ever wanted to commit to was right there, wearing his hoodies and stealing his fries and completely oblivious to how much power you held over him.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 22 ⁺ 　 . ✦

After graduation, you had both somehow ended up in the same city. Different jobs, different lives, but still orbiting each other like you always had.

You dated other people, and so did he (sort of), but you still met for coffee every Wednesday and dinner every Sunday, still texted each other random thoughts at inappropriate hours.

Those Wednesday coffee meetings had become sacred. He'd show up at your workplace, two cups in hand — one with less sugar but lots of milk, the way you liked it, and his own ridiculously sweet like his smile, as you always teased.

He had memorized your schedule, knew which days you worked late, which mornings you had important meetings. On the nights when your job kept you at the office past midnight, he'd lurk nearby, pretending he just happened to be in the area when you finally emerged exhausted.

You'd roll your eyes but accept his offer to walk you home, and he'd fight the urge to take your hand every step of the way.

Sunday dinners were even worse for his heart. Sometimes you'd cook (badly), sometimes he'd order in (expensively), but it always felt so domestic it hurt.

The way you'd steal bites from his plate, like you always used to do, how you'd curl up on his couch afterward like you belonged there, the casual way you'd rest your feet in his lap while watching movies — it was everything he wanted and nothing he could keep.

The words had nearly escaped during one of those Sunday dinners, when you were both a little drunk on wine and nostalgia, laughing about all the trouble you had gotten into growing up. You had looked at him with such fondness, such understanding, and he had almost broken.

"Remember when you punched that guy at the bar who wouldn't leave me alone?" you had asked, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter.

"Which time?" he had replied, only half-joking. There had been several instances, each one burning in his memory because how dare anyone make you uncomfortable.

"All of them," you had laughed, reaching over to poke his cheek. "My hero."

The word had squeezed his heart like a fist. Hero. If only you knew how selfish his protection had always been, how each act of defending you had been as much about his own possessive need to keep you safe as it was about your wellbeing.

You had shifted closer on the couch then, laying your head on his shoulder in that casual way that always made his breath catch and his fingers had itched to run through your hair, to tilt your face up to his, to finally close the distance he'd been maintaining for so many years.

The words had risen in his throat like a tide. But then his phone had buzzed with an alert about another threat, another mission, another reason why loving him was dangerous, and he had bitten his tongue until he tasted blood.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 25 ⁺ 　 . ✦

It had gotten harder as the years passed. Harder to watch you live your life, harder to keep pretending he didn't want to be more than your best friend, harder to keep those three words locked away.

He had started taking more dangerous missions, throwing himself into his work with reckless abandon. Because if he was busy fighting curses and saving the world, he couldn't think about how much he wanted to kiss you, to hold you, to finally let those words free.

At least, that's what he had told himself as he accepted increasingly risky assignments, each one a little more dangerous than the last.

The other sorcerers had started calling him reckless. But how could he explain that facing down cursed spirits was easier than facing the way you looked at him with such concern? That physical pain was a welcome distraction from the constant ache in his chest?

But you were still there, still calling him out when he was being stupid, still patching him up when he came back injured, still looking at him like he was someone beyond his name and his power.

He always saved one small injury for you to tend to — a scrape here, a bruise there — even though his reversed cursed technique had already healed the worst of his wounds. It had become your ritual, you'd patch him up at your apartment, your coffee table covered in supplies that he didn't really need, both of you pretending this wasn't an elaborate excuse to be close to each other.

"You're going to get yourself killed one of these days," you had muttered one particularly bad night, hands trembling slightly as you cleaned a gash on his forehead that would have healed on its own in seconds. But he had let you fuss over it anyway, selfishly savoring every gentle touch.

The words had almost broken free one night when you were stitching up a particularly nasty wound on his side. Your hands had been gentle but your lecture was harsh, telling him off for being so careless with his life.

He could have healed it himself — you both knew that — but he had wanted your hands on him, even if they came with a scolding.

"You're not immortal, you idiot," you had said, and there were tears in your eyes that made his heart clench. "I know you think you're invincible, but you're not. What am I supposed to do if something happens to you?"

The raw emotion in your voice had nearly undone him. He had wanted to tell you then that he only acted so reckless because loving you from afar was slowly killing him anyway. That every mission, every fight, was just another way to exhaust himself enough that he wouldn't do something stupid like confess his feelings and ruin everything between you.

Instead, he had just made a joke about being too pretty to die, and pretended not to notice when you wiped your eyes. But he had caught your hand as you turned away, held it perhaps a moment too long, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in what he hoped felt like reassurance.

Your apartment had become his retreat those days. He would show up at odd hours, sometimes bleeding, sometimes just exhausted, and you would let him in without question. You never asked why he came to you instead of using his technique to heal himself. Maybe you had known, just like he had, that these moments weren't really about the injuries at all.

There had been nights when he'd fall asleep on your couch, lulled by the sound of you moving around your apartment, by the domestic comfort of knowing you were near. He'd wake up to find himself covered with a blanket, a glass of water on the coffee table, and his heart would ache with how much he wanted this to be his everyday reality.

Sometimes, in his weaker moments, he'd catch himself watching you as you worked on your laptop, curled up in the armchair across from him. The soft glow of the screen would wash over your features, and he'd think about how easy it would be to cross that small distance, to finally tell you everything he'd been holding back.

But then he'd remember the last mission, the close calls, the enemies who were getting stronger and bolder, and he'd force himself to look away. Because loving him had always come with a price, and he wasn't willing to make you pay it.

So he had buried those feelings deeper, thrown himself into more missions, and pretended that the ache in his chest was from the fights and not from loving you so much it physically hurt.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 28 ⁺ 　 . ✦

The breaking point had come, as these things often did, on an ordinary day.

You had both been in your apartment, having one of your regular movie nights. You were wearing old sweatpants and one of his hoodies that you had stolen years ago, there were takeout containers scattered across your coffee table, and you were arguing about whether the movie's plot made any sense.

It had been so normal, so comfortable, so perfectly you and him that something in his chest finally cracked.

Because he had realized, watching you gesture wildly about the movie's plot holes, that he had been an idiot. He had spent over two decades trying to protect you by keeping his distance, but you had been in danger this whole time anyway. Because everyone who knew him knew that you were his weakness, his soft spot, the one person who could bring the great Satoru Gojo to his knees.

And you had stayed anyway. Through every fight, every danger, every close call, you had chosen to stay in his life. You had patched his wounds, celebrated his victories, mourned his losses, and never once asked for anything in return except his friendship.

That night, he had decided tomorrow would be the day. No more waiting, no more excuses. He would finally tell you everything.

He had barely slept, spending hours picking out the perfect flowers, hoping they would help say everything his heart had been trying to tell you for years. He had practiced the words in his mirror, ran through a dozen different speeches, each one feeling more inadequate than the last.

But when he had arrived at your apartment building that morning, flowers clutched in sweaty palms and heart thundering in his chest, he had seen them through your living room window. You weren't alone. Someone else was there, someone who had made you throw your head back in laughter, who had pulled you close with an ease that made his chest constrict.

He had watched, frozen on the sidewalk, as you reached up to brush something from their cheek, the gesture so tender it had felt like a physical blow. The flowers in his hands had suddenly felt like they were made of lead.

Satoru had stood there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, watching you be happy with someone else, watching you shine so brightly for another person. Then, with movements that felt mechanical, he had dropped the flowers in a nearby trash can and walked away.

Three words, still unspoken, had burned in his throat with every step.

For weeks after that, he had thrown himself into missions like a madman, taking on the most dangerous assignments he could find. Anything to avoid thinking about how he had waited too long, how he had lost his chance.

But then you had called him one night, voice slightly slurred from wine, asking him to come over. And like always, he couldn't refuse you.

That's how he had found himself back in your apartment, watching you pace back and forth, ranting about how empty it all felt. How you had tried to move on, tried to find what everyone said you should want — a normal relationship, a simple life, someone safe.

"But it's not right," you had said, running your hands through your hair in frustration. "Nothing feels right. They're nice, they're perfect on paper, but—"

"But what?" he had asked, his heart in his throat.

"But they're not you," you had whispered, the words hanging in the air between you like suspended stars.

A movie had still been playing in the background, forgotten as you both stood there, years of unspoken feelings spilled on the floor. The weight of your confession had made it hard to breathe, and for a moment, just a moment, he had let himself imagine what it would be like to close the distance between you, to finally say the words that had lived in his heart for so long.

But then his phone had buzzed in his pocket — another threat, another reminder — and reality came crashing back.

"You can't," he had said, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" You had taken a step toward him, and he had forced himself to take one back, watching hurt flash across your face. "Satoru, I've waited—"

"Then stop waiting," he had cut you off, hating himself for the way his words made you flinch. "This isn't—we can't—" A pause. "Do you know how many attempts there have been on my life this month alone? How many enemies would love to know that the great Satoru Gojo has someone he—" He had caught himself before the word 'loves' could escape. "Someone he cares about?"

"I'm not afraid—"

"Well, I am!" The words had burst from him with more force than he'd intended, making you both freeze. "I am terrified, okay? Because everyone I've ever—everyone who gets close to me ends up with a target on their back. And you—" His voice had softened despite himself. "You deserve better than that. Better than looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life, better than wondering if each goodbye might be the last."

"That's not your choice to make," you had said quietly, and the resignation in your voice had been worse than anger would have been.

"Yes, it is. Because I'm the one who would have to live with it if something happened to you because of me." He had straightened his shoulders, pulled on the mask he wore for everyone else — cold, untouchable, removed. "Go back to them. Find someone normal. Someone safe. Someone who can give you the life you deserve."

"And what about what I want?"

"Sometimes what we want isn't what's best for us." The words had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

You had looked at him for a long moment, tears gathering in your eyes, and he had dug his nails into his palms to keep from reaching for you. Finally, you had nodded once, sharp and hurt.

"Get out."

He had turned to leave, each step feeling like he was walking through concrete. At the door, he had paused, his hand on the handle.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered, not turning around. Because if he had looked at you then, his resolve would have crumbled entirely.

The soft click of the door closing behind him had sounded like the end of everything.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 30 ⁺ 　 . ✦

Two years of carefully maintained distance had felt like an eternity. The clan's pressure had mounted with each passing month — meetings about bloodlines, about duty, about carrying on the Gojo name. His parents had finally put their foot down, presenting him with a list of "suitable" candidates from other prestigious families.

Satoru had turned it into something of an art form, really — how to be just obnoxious enough, just impossible enough, that each carefully selected partner would run screaming for the hills without him technically refusing anyone.

"This is getting ridiculous," his mother had sighed after the seventh failed meeting. "Are you going to chase away every eligible human on this earth?"

Yes, he had wanted to say. Because none of them were you.

You still texted occasionally — surface-level messages about holidays or birthdays, the kind of distant politeness that felt wrong after decades of intimacy. He had saved every message anyway, re-reading them late at night when missions left him too restless to sleep.

Your contact photo was still the same one from college, you resting your head on his shoulder, laughing at something he’d said. He couldn’t bring himself to change it.

Sometimes he'd catch glimpses of you around the city. You'd cut your hair, changed jobs, moved to a new apartment. He knew all this from the careful distance he maintained, from the reports he definitely didn't ask Ijichi to give him.

You seemed... fine. Happy, even. It was what he'd wanted, he told himself. You, safe and happy, even if it was without him.

The invitation had arrived on a Tuesday.

The envelope had been cream-colored, expensive. His name written in elegant calligraphy that had made his stomach drop before he'd even opened it. Inside, the words had blurred together, except for the ones that mattered.

You were getting married.

To someone safe. Someone normal. Someone who could give you everything he couldn't.

The invitation had sat on his coffee table for days, taunting him. He'd catch himself staring at it during his morning coffee, during late-night mission reports, during every quiet moment when his mind wasn't occupied with staying alive.

Your handwritten note had been worse than the formal invitation.

'I'd really like you to be there. Please come.'

His phone had been in his hand before he'd realized it, your number still muscle memory after all this time. The cursor had blinked at him mockingly as he'd tried to formulate a response.

'Congratulations,' he had finally typed, each letter feeling like a small death. 'I'll be there.'

Because of course he would be. He'd sit there and watch you marry someone else, would paste on a smile and give a toast if asked, would pretend his heart wasn't being ripped from his chest with every word of the ceremony.

It was what he deserved, really. He had pushed you away, had made the choice for both of you, had convinced himself it was for the best. This was the consequence of his protection, the price of keeping you safe.

He had gotten drunk that night, alone in his apartment, surrounded by the ghosts of all the words he'd never said. The three most important ones still burned in his throat, unspoken after all these years.

His phone had buzzed with your reply. 'Thank you. It means a lot.'

Four words that had somehow hurt worse than the invitation itself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The day of your wedding had dawned grey and miserable, as if the weather itself was matching Satoru's mood. He'd been away on a mission until the last possible moment, taking out his frustration on cursed spirits with perhaps more violence than strictly necessary.

He had arrived at the venue late, soaked from the rain, his suit probably ruined. But he'd promised to be there, and he'd never broken a promise to you before. He wasn't about to start now, even if it killed him.

But when he had made his way inside, he'd immediately sensed the chaos inside. Hushed, worried voices had carried through the open doors. "Has anyone seen them?" "The ceremony should have started twenty minutes ago." "Check the dressing room again!"

But Satoru had known exactly where to find you.

The venue's grounds had stretched back to a small lake, and there, beneath an old maple tree whose leaves provided little shelter from the rain, you had stood. Your wedding outfit was getting steadily soaked, but you hadn't seemed to notice or care, staring out at the rippling water.

He had approached slowly, drinking in the sight of you. Even with dirt stained cloths and dripping hair, you had been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Everyone's looking for you," he had said softly.

You hadn't turned around. "I know."

"Three hundred people in there wondering where you've gone."

"Three hundred and one, now that you're here." Your voice had been quiet, almost lost in the rain. "Why are you here, Satoru?"

"You invited me."

"That's not what I meant." Finally, you had turned to face him, and the look in your eyes had made his heart stutter. "Why are you really here?"

He had taken a step closer, drawn to you like gravity, like always. "You know why."

"Do I?" Your voice was so small. "Because I thought I knew, once. I thought I knew a lot of things. But then you pushed me away, told me to find someone safe, someone normal." You had gestured toward the building behind you. "Well, I did. So why are you here?"

"I—"

He had caught sight of a small cut on his cheekbone in a puddle's reflection — the one injury he hadn't healed, the one he'd kept out of habit, out of the memory of your gentle hands patching him up all those years.

Your eyes had followed his, landing on the cut. Without seeming to think about it, you had reached up, fingers ghosting over the wound like they had a thousand times before. The familiar gesture had nearly broken him.

"Don't marry them," he had whispered.

"What?"

"Don't marry them," he had whispered again. "Please."

"Why not?" The question had been barely a whisper. "Give me a reason, Satoru. One real reason why I shouldn't walk back in there and marry someone who actually wants me."

"Because—" The words had stuck in his throat, years of habit holding them back.

"I love you," he had whispered, the words falling into the rain-soaked space between you, and suddenly he could breathe again. Twenty-four years of holding back, of swallowing those words, of carrying them like stones in his chest — and now they were free, floating in the air between you like butterflies finally released from their cage.

"I love you," he had said again, stronger this time. "I've loved you since we were kids. I've loved you through every fight, every mission, every time I tried to push you away for your own good. I've loved you so long I don't remember what it feels like not to love you."

"You—" Your voice had broken. "You idiot. You're telling me this now? When there are three hundred people waiting inside? When I've spent months trying to convince myself I could love someone else?"

"I know. I know, and I'm sorry, but—"

"Shut up," you had breathed, and then you had pulled him down by his lapels and kissed him.

He had kissed you back like a drowning man finding air, like coming home after a lifetime of wandering. Your lips had been cold from the rain but soft against his, and when you had melted against him, he'd felt something in his chest finally slot into place.

Years of careful control had shattered like glass, and he had wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground in a surge of desperate joy. You had gasped against his mouth, and he had taken the opportunity to deepen the kiss, pouring decades of longing into it.

He had spun you around, your hands threading through his wet hair as he held you against him like he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly. Rain had continued to fall around you, but neither of you had noticed or cared.

His hands had splayed across your back, holding you impossibly closer as he kissed you like a man starved, like he was trying to make up for every kiss he should have given you over the years.

When you had broken apart, you were both breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together as the rain continued to fall around you. Your fingers had still been twisted in his jacket, and his hand had still been cradling your face like you were something precious, something he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to touch.

The weight of all those unspoken words, all those careful distances he'd maintained, all those moments he'd held himself back — it had all lifted away like mist in the morning sun. For the first time in twenty-four years, he had felt truly, completely free.

"You're so stupid," you had whispered, but you hadn't moved away. "There are three hundred people in there, expectations, plans, a whole life I'm supposed to—"

"Run away with me."

"What?"

"Run away with me," he had repeated, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Right now. Let me take you anywhere you want to go. Let me spend the rest of my life making up for lost time, for every moment I was too scared to love you the way you deserved."

"Satoru—"

"I know it's selfish," he had continued, words tumbling out like he couldn't hold them back anymore. "I know I have no right to ask this of you, not after pushing you away. But I can't— I can't watch you marry someone else. I can't spend the rest of my life wondering what if, knowing I let you go without fighting for you."

You had laughed, the sound wavering between tears and joy. "You really are the most impossible man I've ever met."

"Is that a yes?"

"My parents will never forgive me."

"I'll win them over."

"The clan will be furious."

"Let them be."

"Everyone will talk."

"Let them talk." He had cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the rain and tears on your cheeks. "I don't care about any of that. I just care about you. About us. Everything else… we'll figure it out together."

"Together," you had repeated softly, like you were testing the word. "You won't push me away again? Try to protect me by leaving?"

"Never again," he had promised. "I'm done running. Done pretending I don't love you more than anything in this world. Done letting fear keep me from the only thing that's ever really mattered."

You had searched his face for a long moment, and he had let you see everything — all the love, the fear, the desperate hope he'd kept hidden for so long.

Finally, you had smiled, bright and real, the smile he'd fallen in love with all those years ago. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Take me away from here," you had said, and his heart had soared. "Show me what it's like when Satoru Gojo finally stops holding back."

He hadn't needed to be told twice. In one fluid motion, he had swept you into his arms, your surprised laugh warming something deep in his chest.

"What about everything inside? My things, the guests—"

"I'll send Ijichi to handle it," he had said, already walking away from the venue, from the life you'd almost had without him. "Right now, all that matters is you and me."

"And where exactly are you taking me?"

"Anywhere you want," he had promised, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Everywhere. We have a lifetime of moments to make up for, after all."

You had wrapped your arms around his neck, tucking your face against his shoulder. "I love you too, you know. In case that wasn't clear."

He had tightened his hold on you, something fierce and protective and overwhelmingly tender swelling in his chest. "Say it again."

"I love you, Satoru Gojo," you had whispered against his neck. "I always have."

As he had carried you away from the venue, the rain had finally begun to let up, sunlight breaking through the clouds. A new beginning, he had thought.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Looking back, Satoru couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. All those years wasted, all that time spent pushing you away when he could have been holding you close. He'd thought he was protecting you, but in reality, he'd just been protecting himself from the terrifying vulnerability of being truly, completely loved.

Because that's what you did — you loved him entirely, unconditionally, with a fierce devotion that still took his breath away. You loved him through the dangerous missions and the late-night emergencies, through the clan meetings and the political drama. You loved him through the nightmares and the victories, through every high and low that came with being Satoru Gojo.

Life wasn't perfect, of course. There were still threats, still enemies who thought they could use you to get to him. But they had learned, quickly and painfully, that you weren't some helpless weakness to exploit. You were his strength, his anchor, his reason for coming home safely every time.

Those old fears seemed ridiculous now. Because yes, loving him came with dangers — but you had always known that, had always chosen him anyway. And together, you were so much stronger than apart.

The clan had been furious about the wedding scandal, of course. But it was hard to maintain their anger when you handled every social situation with grace, when you proved yourself more than capable of standing beside the strongest sorcerer in the world.

Eventually, even the most traditional elders had to admit that perhaps the Gojo heir had chosen well after all.

Your old routine had shifted, evolved into something even better. Now when you patched up his wounds (the ones he still deliberately saved for you), he could kiss you afterward. When you fell asleep during movie nights, he could pull you close instead of maintaining that careful distance. When you brought him coffee during all-nighters, he could show his gratitude with more than just words.

The best part, though? The absolute best part was being able to say those three words whenever he wanted. And he said them constantly — whispered them against your skin in the morning, called them across rooms just to see you smile, breathed them into quiet moments like prayers.

"I love you" when you handed him his coffee, exactly how he liked it.

"I love you" when you rolled your eyes at his dramatic entrances.

"I love you" when you fell asleep on his shoulder during clan meetings.

"I love you" when you patched up injuries that didn't need patching.

"I love you" for no reason at all, just because he could, just because the words had lived in his heart for so long that letting them free still felt like a miracle.

And every time — every single time — you said it back, like you'd been waiting just as long to be able to say it freely.

Sometimes, on quiet nights when you were both home safe, he'd watch you doing something mundane — reading a book, making tea, existing in his space like you'd always belonged there — and the gratitude would hit him so hard he could barely breathe. Gratitude that you had waited, that you had loved him through his fears and his mistakes, that you had given him the chance to love you properly.

Because that's what he did now — loved you properly, openly, with everything he had. No more holding back, no more careful distance. He loved you the way you deserved to be loved — wholly, fiercely, eternally.

And every day, for the rest of his life, he made sure you knew it. Three words, eight letters, repeated like a promise, like a prayer, like the most important truth he'd ever known.

I love you.

And every day, for the rest of your life, you said it back.

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author's note — after editing this, i realised it's more angsty then intended but oh my i'm sorry, i can't help it. but i hope it made you smile anyway. thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to read this story. your support means the world to me. in these challenging times, please remember that even the darkest nights eventually give way to dawn. sending lots of love your way <3

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