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simplygojo · 6 days ago

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Friend-Of-A-Friend ⸺ Chapter Nine

author's note ⸺ HEY Y'ALL I LIED LAST WEEK SORRYYYY!! Here is chapter nine...Sorry for the delayyy I am planning a trip to ASia for a wedding <3 LOVE U PLS GUYS LMK UR THOUGHTS ON THIS I LOVE THE DRAMAAA pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, smoking mentioned(weed + cigs), themes of substance abuse, taglist at end, 4k, this is an 18+ series - mdni

divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter

**Monday, 10:03 a.m.**

“… and if we can get those decks consolidated by end-of-day, we’ll be in a good place for the client check-in on Wednesday.”

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of a mouse somewhere near your left ear.

A bulky early-2000s style keyboard clacking distantly to your right.

The gentle, yet oh so persistent hum of the conference room's overhead light—just enough to give you a headache without actually qualifying as a noise complaint.

You blinked slowly at the screen in front of you. A slideshow you did not make. Fonts you did not choose. Bullet points someone definitely wrote with way too much enthusiasm for phrases like "brand narrative integrity" and "consumer-forward visibility."

The meeting had technically started four minutes ago, but the pace of it had already gone syrup-slow. Everyone pretending to care about the quarterly roadmap. Everyone nodding a little too earnestly.

Your eyes darted to the bottom of your screen.

Slide 3 of 37.

Ughhh.

“…thinking we could pivot to something more user-centric. Thoughts?”

You weren’t sure who had said that or what it was in reference to. You watched the mouse cursor drift lazily across the shared screen, circling a graph that didn’t matter. Your eyes glazed over.

Your camera was off, thank god. You were slumped half-sideways in your chair, the lopsided croissant you’d eaten on the train still threatening mutiny somewhere in your chest.

The coffee in your paper to-go cup had already gone tepid. You took a sip anyway, taking into consideration how exhausted you felt—Regretted it immediately.

“…if we could circle back on the Q2 assets sometime this week—maybe a quick sync before close of business Thursday?”

A brief silence. Then a chorus of agreeable hums. Someone said, “Yeah, totally.” Another voice chirped, “Sounds good.”

You felt a laugh bubble somewhere behind your ribs—not real amusement, just a small, spiralling hysteria at the sheer cliché of it all.

You closed your eyes for one half-second too long.

And there it was—uninvited but not unwelcome.

The memory arrived all at once.

The door. The rain. Him.

He had just stood there for a second—on the other side of your doorway. Rain still clinging to his coat, hair down and heavy with water, dark strands stuck to the curve of his cheek.

The hallway behind him had been cold and dim. But the light from your apartment had spilled forward into it, warm and low, and when it hit him like that—

God—That image of him felt like it was plastered onto your retinas.

The rain had soaked through everything, clinging to him in a way that felt indecent.

The more you thought about it, the more you’d come to a simple conclusion—he’d looked good like that. Rain-damp and quiet, his voice a soft hey that had settled low in your stomach and stayed there.

You hadn’t expected to notice it. The flush on his face, the way he’d touched the back of his neck, the slow drag of the towel through his hair.

Coat open. Hair heavy and wet, that slow way he blinked, like the light took a second too long to register. Water dripping from his collarbone to the fabric below.

Back in the walls of your cubicle, someone said, “Can we flag that for the legal branch before sending up? Just to be safe on any future liability issues.”

A few murmured yeahs followed—some yellow ‘thumbs-up’ emojis flew around the screen, you decided to send a thumbs up too, what the hell, why not.

You reached for your coffee again. This time, pinching your nose with one hand and taking it like a shot to avoid tasting how awful it was.

Thank god weed doesn’t give you hangovers, or you’d be absolutely screwed.

Still, there was something off about your composure this morning. Not tired, not hungover.

You had made a promise to yourself, after everything that went down in school, that you would stop smoking—initially, you meant mostly the weed, you just decided you may as well throw the cigs in there too, start a new ‘era’.

Well…you ended that era last night.

By the time he had even lit it, you’d already committed to the lie. No turning back.

Your thumb brushed his knuckles as you took it from him, smoke curling into the dark—and behind your eyes, that slow, familiar warmth had already begun to gather.

Not that it mattered now. What’s one night? One shared filter, one familiar haze. An old habit, quietly resurrected under city light and the kind of silence you didn’t want to break.

You shifted slightly in your chair, hoping that shifting your body might shake him loose from your thoughts.

It didn’t.

The air in the office felt stale, over-warmed from too many bodies and not enough ventilation. Somewhere nearby, a coworker was chewing with their mic still on—wet, deliberate bites that made your eye twitch.

Your phone buzzed once on the desk. Then again.

You flipped it over, glancing down just in time to catch:

Gojo: So. Gojo: Suguru’s texted me three times already this morning

Buzz.

Gojo: Direct quote “went over to her’s. smoked. felt like old times.” Absolutely no follow-up. He’s so dramatic

Buzz.

Gojo: Anyway Gojo: We’re smoking again now??

Buzz.

Gojo: Thought you came over to my side?? Gojo: Clean lungs? moral superiority?? Green juice and judgment???

You exhaled slowly through your nose, thumb hovering.

You: It really is not that deep.

Gojo: That’s what they all say before they’re bumming lighters and talking about “missing the ritual” Gojo: Seen it a thousand times You: K. Well I don’t think this is something you need to lose sleep over Gojo…I’m at work attempting to pay attention You: So bye bye!

You swiped downward on your screen and quickly turning on DND mode before you could be bothered by his texting habits.

The black screen caught your reflection—eyes tired, jaw tight, the faintest trace of a smirk still lingering at the edge of your mouth. You set the phone down. Shifted your focus back to the meeting.

Well—Tried to.

And—yeah. You did kind of miss the ritual.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

**Monday, 6:07 p.m.**

The subway car was too hot.

Your coat stuck awkwardly to one side of your body, and someone’s elbow was wedged with absolute conviction against your ribs.

The car jolted. You swayed along with it.

Someone’s tote bag kept hitting the back of your knee with each sway of the train, and the guy next to you was breathing way too confidently for someone who obviously hadn’t brushed their teeth today.

You did not have it in you to judge. Not today.

The air was thick with collective resignation. Monday exhaustion. The kind that pressed in from all sides, like wet cotton.

Your forehead itched, but you couldn’t raise your arm to scratch it without elbowing the woman scrolling TikTok behind you. Instead, you shifted your weight, pressed your shoulder harder into the metal pole, and tried not to sigh audibly.

You had been a little bummed today. Nothing tragic—just one of those dumb, tiny disappointments that shouldn’t matter and yet somehow did.

One of your coworkers had been out sick, which meant no homemade bread on the corner of the office kitchen island. No little Ziploc bags of sourdough or rye to take home, all lovingly baked and evenly sliced. No absurdly good focaccia with salt crystals big enough to break a molar.

You had spent the first half of the day thinking about that bread. And then the second half of the day, realizing it wasn’t coming.

A tragic arc, honestly. A true Shakespearean fall.

The subway lurched again and a collective sway passed through the car like a wave. You closed your eyes, let your head bob with the jolts of the commute. The movement outside blurred into smears of white light, tinny station announcements rising and falling in the distance like some garbled chorus.

Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. Then again.

You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t need to. You already knew.

Gojo had probably sent another unsolicited monologue about lung purity and self-betterment.

You’d let him rot in DND purgatory. At least for now. Till you had the energy for him

Your reflection in the dark subway glass stared back at you—tired, vaguely wilted. Your eyeliner had migrated slightly southward.

The train hissed and stuttered to a stop. A voice over the PA said something unintelligible. The doors opened, and half the car shifted like a living thing, bodies brushing past each other with silent, city-trained apathy.

You moved with them.

Out onto the platform. Up the stairs. Into the strange blue air of early evening—where everything smelled like oil and wet concrete and someone’s cheap cologne.

It wasn’t until you turned the corner onto your block that you let yourself fish out your phone. A few texts from Gojo, exactly as expected. You ignored them.

And then, below those—

One new message.

Geto: [Spotify link]

Just that.

A blue hyperlink tucked beneath his name.

The cooler evening air caught the collar of your coat. Wind pressed lightly against one side of your face. Despite the weather finally starting to warm up, that lakefront breeze was persistent.

You kept walking, thumb hovering over the message for a beat too long before tapping.

The app lagged.

A black screen. The little wheel spinning – evidence of your shitty data plan.

You adjusted your grip on the phone. Slipped it into your palm with more care than necessary. The sound of your shoes echoed faintly off the concrete walls of the narrow side street—quick, metered steps. A soft gust carried the scent of someone’s dinner from a cracked apartment window overhead.

The playlist loaded slowly.

Cover image first: that old blurry photo you'd used years ago—some grainy snapshot of a rainy street corner you thought looked poetic in college. And then the title. Still there. Still lowercase, still pretentious. Songs you’d rearranged a dozen times over the years.

It played automatically, the first song of the playlist playing softly in your headphones, the familiar warm, looping guitar, steady drums that you played around your apartment.

Confused, you slowed your pace, causing the man behind you to passively-aggressively walk past you while shaking his head in frustration.

Before you had any time to think, his name was at the top of your screen.

Underneath it, the second message:

Geto: Thought I recognized last night's playlist…

No emoji. No follow-up. Just that.

Your fingers froze around the phone and you stopped in your tracks.

A strange pressure gathered behind your ribs as you put two-and-two together.

He actually listened to that playlist?

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

**2 Years and 5 Months Ago: Gojo & Geto’s House 1:37 am**

The party had started loud.

Someone had spilled beer on the welcome mat. Someone else had duct-taped glowsticks to the ceiling fan, which you kind of liked.

Gojo was already shirtless in the kitchen for some reason no one had asked about, he always got like this when he and Suguru hosted parties — the little attention seeker.

You liked house parties.

People handed you drinks with way too much vodka. The couch never cost you ten dollars to sit on. And at 3 a.m., you could order pad thai without judgment.

Way better than the bars.

It must’ve been after 1 a.m. by the time you ended up on the living room couch—your usual post, worn-in and sagging at the center.

The room was dim, lit mostly by string lights sagging in the corners. A bassline thudded through the drywall, probably coming from the Bluetooth speaker Gojo kept threatening to take into the shower with him.

Geto sat to your right, one knee drawn up on the cushion. The joint balanced between his fingers glowed faintly, orange and steady. He passed it to you without looking.

Outside the window, the sky had gone ink-black. Inside, someone was playing a drinking game too loudly in the kitchen.

Geto leaned back a little, socked foot nudging the coffee table.

“Is this your music?” He asked, after a long moment.

You nodded, exhaling a refreshing cloud of smoke. “I think Gojo gave me the aux without realizing it.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “Didn’t sound like his usual headache-inducing mix.”

You smiled, tipping ash into a mug that wasn’t technically an ashtray but had seen worse.

Geto shifted slightly, leaned his elbow on the back of the couch. His voice stayed even, and carried a casual tone. “You have a playlist, or do you just shuffle by vibe?”

You let the question settle between you. A warm beat passed, the joint still resting between your fingers.

“I have a few playlists.”

“Mhm.”

Your head turned slightly toward him, eyes narrowing just enough to catch his profile in the dim light. “Why?”

“Send me one,” he said.

His gaze stayed forward, attention seemingly on nothing. One hand draped loosely across his knee, fingers curled like he couldn’t be bothered to tense them. “I want to listen later.”

You scoffed, sharp and instinctive. “No.”

His brow lifted in quiet surprise at your quick reaction, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly.

“C’mon. One. Just one.”

You pulled your feet up on the couch cushion, crossed them beneath you, and tucked your cold feet under your knee. “Nope.”

A soft laugh rumbled low in his chest—short, almost self-contained. It barely broke the air between you, but you felt it anyway. The sound of it made the room slightly warmer.

“Seriously?”

“I don’t share those,” you said, pinching the joint between thumb and index, then tipping the ash into the mug beside the couch. The ember flared as you took another hit, your fingers twitching slightly to adjust for heat.

“Says who?”

“Says me.” You paused, voice thinning with something not quite defensiveness. “They’re personal.”

His leg shifted. The knee nearest yours bumped gently into your shin, casual but deliberate. A light contact.

“Oh, so personal,” he said, feigning gravity. “What, are they all, like, secret love ballads?”

You exhaled, smoke leaving your lips in a slow ribbon. “Hmm, wouldn’t you like to know?” You said, your voice long and shaped by the drag you’d just taken.

His grin broke then, easy and bright. This one cracked his face open fully—teeth and all. A flash of something fond in it. He turned to you properly now, the space between your knees barely there.

“Don’t be greedy,” he murmured, lazy in his seat.

Your eyes stayed forward, locked on the mess of red solo cups littering the floor across the room, but the corner of your lip tugged. “I’m not being greedy.”

He leaned back a little deeper into the couch, spine melting into the threadbare cushions like he belonged there. Which he kind of did.

His hand draped loose over the backrest, fingers dangling near the top of your shoulder, the distance between them and your skin a live wire. He smelled faintly like weed and clove and something older—familiar.

“Yeah?” He exhaled smoke through his nose, grin tugging wider. “Could’ve fooled me.”

His hand flexed a little behind your shoulder, arm still draped lazily over the couch. The look he gave you was all teeth and warmth, just bordering on cocky.

“C’mon,” he said, voice dipping just under the music—huskier now, scratched faint at the edges like the smoke had caught somewhere in his throat. “You gonna pretend we don’t know each other like that?”

There wasn’t enough air between you.

Not with the way the couch dipped. Not with the way his voice scratched low from smoke, but still came out smooth.

Your gaze flicked up—just once. Just enough to catch the weight of his eyes on you, heavy and patient. Then dropped again.

You blinked once, slowly.

A flicker of something moved through your chest—tight and inconvenient. You swallowed it down. Turned toward him slightly.

Your lips parted. The joint burned low between your fingers, forgotten for a moment. Your thigh brushed his when you shifted, but he didn’t move. If anything, he angled closer.

You inhaled. Letting the smoke linger in your lungs before speaking. “It’s not about that.”

“No?” His smile was soft now, barely there. “What’s it about?”

Your voice came quieter this time. “It’s just…y’know…you build your music collection throughout your whole entire life. Like, your whole life. It’s not just songs that you like. Each playlist is a collection of memories. Stuff you never intended to share.”

A beat passed.

The joint burned low between your fingers. You held it out toward him, offering it to him rather than saying anything else, but his eyes weren’t on the joint.

They lingered instead—on the way your leg had started to lean into his, just slightly. The way you hadn’t moved.

That look of his—half-lidded, lazy, but pinned so squarely on you it felt like a touch. His head tilted faintly to one side, hair falling in front of his cheekbone, and when he grinned this time, it was full—slow and real. A little lopsided. Something that wasn’t a common expression of his.

That grin had no business being on a face so calm.

“Fine.” You said, finally giving in as you tugged your phone from the pocket of your jeans.

The screen lit your face faintly blue as you thumbed through your music app, already knowing which one you’d send.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched. And that might’ve been the first time you noticed the quiet gravity of his gaze—how present it made him feel, even without words.

A second later, his own phone buzzed in his lap. He glanced down at the notification.

You lifted your eyes, deadpan. “And don’t get all weird about it. It’s like...not even a sliver of my soul. Practically a crumb.”

Geto huffed a laugh, crooked and pleased, thumb still hovering over the screen. “Oh, just a crumb? That’s all I get?”

You nodded confidently, “Mhm, one’s more than enough.”

He grinned, the kind that pulled deliberately at one side of his mouth. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“I do,” you said, exhaling smoke toward the sagging lights. “And I’m not using any of those skills right now.”

He leaned back again, face tilted toward the ceiling like he might laugh, but didn’t. Just smiled—quiet and real and a little tired around the edges.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

**Present Day**

Your thumb hovered above the screen again. Not moving. Just… resting there.

The song played on—its chorus quiet but insistent, winding its way through your earbuds like it knew something you didn’t.

You looked up absently, eyes catching on nothing in particular: a wet glint on the sidewalk, a flickering lamplight across the street, your own faint reflection in the glass window of the laundromat.

The world felt off-center suddenly, like someone had rotated it a few degrees clockwise while you weren’t looking.

You remembered sharing your playlist with him that one night. You were both so crossed—in your usual spot together on the couch. You protested, but despite all of your best efforts, you sent him the link to one of the playlists.

And then—he’d never said anything. Not really.

Maybe a polite “thanks,” some comment about the song titles being cryptic. You’d assumed he hadn’t listened. Or if he had, not more than once. Maybe not even all the way through.

But now…

Now you couldn’t stop thinking about him hearing it again. Recognizing it.

Of all the songs you played. Of all the nights.

It had taken you hours to curate that playlist. You'd aimed for something lowkey—comfort music, stuff you knew inside out, the kind of songs that felt like woodgrain and soft light and a warm couch you could sink into.

Not something you expected him to notice. Not something to place so easily.

And most definitely not something he would remember over two years later.

Suddenly your whole chest felt… out of sync. Too hot, too tight. You started walking again, slower this time, even though you were less than a minute away, you were in no rush.

You hadn’t realized you were still holding the phone until the screen dimmed in your palm. You tapped it back awake. Then stared.

Geto: Thought I recognized last night’s playlist…

There was a part of you—an unhelpful, fluttering part—that wanted to write back:

MY playlist?? How many times have you listened to it? You never even brought it up again after I shared it?????

But you didn’t.

Instead, you slipped your phone back into your coat pocket, let your fingers curl around it. Like that might settle something in you. Like it might slow the strange, quiet tremble that had started under your skin.

The music played on, and you let it.

Same guitar loop. Same steady drums. But your thoughts did not flow with the music as usual, no, they were stuck on Suguru.

After a few moments of overthinking, your feet brought you to your apartment.

The door clicked open beneath your hand, hinges sighing the way they always did. A slow breath passed through your lips as you stepped inside, the soft shuffle of your shoes against the mat filling the silence.

The music still played—muffled now, one earbud still tucked in, the other hanging limp against your collar. A gentle guitar loop unfurled through the wires, slipping into the apartment with you like something remembered.

You didn’t bother turning on the lights.

The early evening gloom had settled in—soft and blue, the kind that bled into the corners of rooms and made everything feel like it belonged in a dream. Or maybe just the part after waking.

Coat still on, you walked toward the kitchen. No purpose at first—just movement. Just something to do with your limbs. But then your eyes landed on the sink.

Those two damn space animal mugs, sitting exactly where you'd left them the night before byv the sink.

They weren’t remarkable, not in shape or colour. But they now, for some reason, evoked a different reaction in you.

Your chest gave the faintest ache. Not sharp. Just a weight, settling in beneath the ribs like a familiar guest.

The music threaded on, drums steady. The chords moved in slow circles. You’d chosen this playlist for comfort. But now it felt like carried too much.

Your fingers moved to the tap, as if that might help.

Warm water, soft foam. The sponge moved on instinct. One mug. Then the other. But your body felt distant from the motion—like it was happening a few steps outside of yourself.

His voice lingered in your ears—not in the music, but beneath it. Not a word-for-word memory.

More like the frequency of his speech. The vibration of his words. That low, amused tone he used when something caught him off guard—in a good way.

Your chest pulled tighter.

It didn’t make sense, how many ways the past twenty-four hours had folded themselves around you. How easily he slipped into all the quiet parts of the day. The parts that used to feel yours alone.

Your eyes glanced to the balcony door.

The sheer curtain stirred faintly in its frame, catching a breeze you couldn’t feel from where you stood.

Outside, the city smudged against the glass—dull orange streetlights, a shifting silhouette of branches, a flicker of someone else’s life a few floors down.

The track was ending—fading into the brief silence between songs. You stood in it, feeling the way it clung to your skin.

And then the thought came, uninvited but unmistakable.

“God,” you muttered, barely above a breath. “I could really use a sesh right now.”

The words hung in the air for a moment—half a joke, half a prayer—and then you turned, the tile cool beneath your socks as you padded down the hallway, the music still playing quietly behind you, like it knew exactly what kind of night this was becoming.

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simplygojo · 13 days ago

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Omg my favourite moot…THANKS POOKIE I HOPE UR DOING WELL

Friend-Of-A-Friend ⸺ Chapter Eight

author's note ⸺ This chapter was very personal to me and I hope that many of you find this somewhat relatable in your own ways. I LOVE Y'ALL!! Lmk your thoughts on this chapter once you read it <3 Also exciting news: I will be publishing a nerdjo x reader multi-chapter fic in June!! So stay tuned!! pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, smoking, drug use, themes of substance abuse, taglist at end, 3.7k, this is an 18+ series - mdni

divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter

“But—” His gaze found yours again. This time, he didn’t look away.

And you felt it. The weight of it.

His thumb drifted along the curve of the mug, slow and deliberate, the motion steadying in a way that suggested he wasn’t quite at rest.

“Is it so wrong if I just wanted some good company?”

Your heartbeat faltered at his words. There was no bravado in it. No performance. Just a small truth, placed gently between you like an offering.

You were his idea of good company.

Your fingers curled tighter around your own mug, warmth pressed into your palms but not quite reaching the center of you. Your heart kicked up—not loudly, but like a shift in tempo you could feel in your throat.

He was still watching you, eyes steady, but there was something vulnerable in the way he waited.

Your lips parted on a breath that felt quieter than the room deserved.

“No,” you said, your voice low. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

The smallest smile passed between you—his first, yours answering. Not wide, not bright. Just enough to acknowledge something unnamed.

You shifted slightly, enough that your knee brushed the edge of the coffee table. The mugs between you sent up gentle curls of steam, barely moving.

“That’s what university friends are for, after all.”

His smile faltered—barely.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth, a breath that didn’t quite follow through. If you hadn’t been looking right at him, you might’ve missed it altogether.

But it was there.

His gaze dipped—not away, not shy, just lower. Toward his hands, still resting around the mug, though his grip had loosened. The steam touched his chin, rose past his cheek, caught briefly in the ends of his hair.

The air between you held still, suspended.

He nodded once, slowly, in that way people do when they don’t quite agree but don’t plan to correct you. A soft hum followed, the sound barely reaching the space between you.

Outside, the rain thickened, blurring the world past the window into motionless grey. Inside, your eyes were still on him—watching the way his shoulders eased against the back cushion, the way his thumb returned to that same slow trace along the mug, steady again.

Not at rest. But steady.

Whatever had flickered across his face, it was gone—tucked back into that familiar calm. But something in the room had shifted, just slightly. Not tense. Not cold.

Just… stilled.

A tightness gathered in your chest—not sharp, not sudden. Just a low, creeping pressure, settling in the space between your ribs. Like you’d said the wrong thing without realizing it. Like a misstep in a dark room.

You tried to place it, tried to trace it back, but the moment had already passed.

Geto didn’t look at you right away. His gaze had drifted again, this time toward the balcony door, where the glass was misted faintly from the temperature shift.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Unhurried. “Do you still smoke?”

Nope.

“Yep, thin's changed.”

You quit smoking right after graduation. Both cigarettes and weed.

You had always been pretty good at doing things ‘cold-turkey’ as they say. It hadn’t even been dramatic—just a slow detachment, a habit you didn’t need anymore.

But tonight didn’t feel like a night for the truth.

Plus, you'd already lied...

His eyes flicked back to yours, studying your answer for a beat longer than necessary. If he noticed the lie, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he gave a small, satisfied nod.

“Good,” he said, rising from the couch with the kind of ease that made you think he’d been waiting for the moment. “Been needing a smoking buddy…let’s go out. Well…I guess only if your balcony’s covered.”

He stood, brushing past the table with a steady, measured step. No rush—just done sitting still.

You pushed out a dry laugh and got to your feet, nodding toward the balcony. “Don’t worry. It’s covered…one of the best things about this place.”

He gave a small nod, subtle but certain.

As he moved across the room, you followed without thinking, footsteps quiet on the floor. The air between you had gone heavier—not hostile, just dense with something unnamed, something that felt like it should be acknowledged but wasn't.

At the balcony door, he hesitated, one hand resting on the frame, his back turned to you.

Without saying anything, you stepped up beside him, he turned his head just slightly, just enough that you caught the edge of his profile. The dip of his brow, the faintest press of his lips—not quite a smile, not quite not.

Then he slid the door open.

The sound was soft: the low shuffle of glass against its track, the hush of the rain deepening. A wind, cool and wet, brushed into the room like breath.

You followed him out.

The balcony was small, barely more than a ledge dressed in an old chair and a potted plant that hadn’t quite made it through last winter. But the overhang held, and the air under it was dry enough, close enough.

Geto faced the street, resting his elbows on the railing, the rain just beyond the reach of his sleeve. You took your place beside him, resting your back on the cool railing and crossing your arms over your chest.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The city below was muted—just the hush of tires through water, the hum of distant traffic, the occasional splash of a passing bus.

You could hear the rain more than you could see it. A sheet of sound, steady and relentless.

He exhaled slow, then reached into his coat pocket.

You weren’t surprised when he pulled out a box of cigarettes and slid one out. It looked nearly untouched—he must’ve bought the box today.

He held the dart loosely between two fingers, almost uncertain.

“I try not to smoke anymore,” he murmured. “I don’t do it as often now. Just...sometimes.”

You didn’t ask what sometimes meant. You didn’t need to.

The wet air kissed your cheeks, your jaw, and you welcomed it—something grounding, something that didn’t ask anything back.

He lit the cigarette with a practiced flick of his lighter. The flame flared, brief and golden, then died.

He didn’t smoke right away. Just held it there, watching the tip, watching the rain.

“So, how was your weekend?” He asked, voice low, roughened just slightly by disuse and rain.

You glanced at him, then down at the cigarette between his fingers. You gave a small nod toward it—a silent ask.

He looked at you, eyes catching yours for a beat before passing it over without a word.

You took it gently, brought it to your lips and nhaled slowly.

The taste hit the back of your throat—acrid, familiar, not exactly missed. But there was a strange comfort in it. A muscle memory. Something from a version of you that used to exist, still flickering somewhere in the corners.

You exhaled toward the street, smoke curling into the wet air, disappearing into rain.

“It was good,” you said, still looking outward.

He shifted slightly, fishing into his coat pocket with his free hand. The sound of crinkling cellophane, then the softer, telltale click of a lighter again.

When you finally looked over, he wasn’t watching you—he was focused on the joint between his fingers, bringing it to life with a slow inhale.

The smell changed almost immediately. Warmer. Thicker. Earthy, familiar, and oddly grounding.

He took a drag, held it, then exhaled slow—upward, toward the overhang above your heads. The smoke gathered there a moment, then faded with the breeze.

“Mostly just…chores around the house. Ran a few errands. Ended up being pretty convenient that I cleaned, y’know, since you went ahead and invited yourself on over.” You cast him a sideways glance, the hint of a smile tugging at your mouth.

He chuckled without looking at you, low and genuine, flashing a glimpse of perfect teeth. “Well, now you’re making it seem like I’m not welcome here.”

Your smile deepened, barely. You took another drag, slower this time, eyes back on the city.

“I didn’t say that.”

The words hung there between you, light on the surface—but underlined with something quieter, something real.

“Trade you…” He said, gesturing lazily with the joint between two fingers, eyes flicking to your lips—or I guess more likely the cigarette resting between your lips.

You gave a soft hum, considering. The rain had thinned to a mist now, no longer loud, just steady. A hush against the concrete.

You took one last drag, then you pulled it from your mouth and turned to hand it to him.

It wasn’t until it left your fingers that you noticed it—that faint, smudged stain on the filter. A soft pink, barely there, pressed from your tinted lip balm. Innocuous. Ordinary.

But his eyes found it instantly.

Just a flicker. A pause.

His gaze caught on the mark as he took the cigarette from your hand, and you saw something subtle shift in his face. Nothing overt—just the smallest tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly tighter around the paper.

He didn’t comment. Didn’t even meet your eyes right away.

He took the cigarette, turned it gently between his fingers, then brought it to his lips in one smooth motion. Inhaled once, eyes still lowered, as if reading something written in the imprint you left behind.

You accepted the joint in return, the warm tip grazing your palm as it passed between you.

You didn’t say anything, just raised it to your lips, took a puff.

The pull was easy—too easy.

The taste was sharp, earthy at the edges, thick in a way that settled fast like a fog behind your eyes.

Warmth slid in low through your ribs, slow and syrupy, like a door creaking open somewhere you hadn’t meant to revisit.

You held the smoke a second longer than necessary. Let it press into your lungs. And when you exhaled, it left like a sigh you didn’t know you’d been holding onto.

The relief came quickly. Expected in a way that unsettled you—not loud, not dizzying, just nice. Just good. A gentle hum beneath your skin, a softness in your chest, like the evening had finally remembered how to breathe.

And for a moment, you didn’t mind how much you liked it.

Your head tipped slightly back, eyes half-lidded to the street below, and you let the feeling settle. The rain was still falling, but quieter now—like background music, like it had always been there. The city lights blinked lazy and soft through the mist.

You took another drag.

Slower. Deeper.

And it hit the same—pleasant, indulgent, that precise kind of calm that was once your to answer to everything.

It almost made you smile.

Almost.

But when you glanced at him again, he was watching you.

Not in the obvious way. Not full-on.

Just that same glance from the corner of his eye, lazy on the surface—but heavy underneath.

And when he brought the cigarette back to his mouth, it was deliberate. You knew it must’ve been.

He twisted the cigarette between his fingers, aligning it perfectly to the spot. That same spot. The one your lips had marked.

He inhaled again, slower this time.

A deeper pull. And though he didn’t say anything, you saw it—the way his eyes fluttered shut just slightly, the way his brow smoothed. Like whatever sharpness had caught in him earlier had been gentled. Calmed.

Maybe it was the nicotine. Maybe it was you.

You looked away before your gaze could make the moment into something it wasn’t meant to be.

Your hand rested on the damp railing again, fingers curling against the chill of the metal, still faintly buzzing from the hit. The high was spreading in that quiet way it always used to—like warm hands up your spine, like pressure leaving your bones one vertebra at a time.

You hadn’t touched this stuff in over a year.

Hadn’t even really thought about it, not seriously.

But now, in the dim orange spill of streetlights and the hush of rainfall, it was like no time had passed at all. The joint burned evenly between your fingers. Your muscles remembered this. Your breath did.

You blinked slowly, eyes heavy-lidded, the weight behind them not unpleasant. But you could feel it in your chest, too—a tug. A whisper of something you hadn’t wanted to hear again.

Still, you took another hit.

And didn’t stop yourself.

Beside you, Geto leaned forward slightly, arms braced on the railing. His cigarette dangled lazily between two fingers now, smoke curling up past his wrist in slow spirals. You watched the city together in silence, not speaking, not needing to.

But it didn’t last long.

Eventually, you broke it—soft, careful, your voice curved with a lazy edge.

“So,” you murmured, watching headlights crawl through the wet street below, “how was your weekend?”

His lips quirked, barely.

“Do anything better than chores and errands?” You teased.

He glanced sideways at you, the corner of his mouth still curved like he was trying not to smile too much.

There was a pause.

Then: “Mm… not really.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Not even one thrilling adventure?”

He gave a soft huff of breath, the closest thing to a laugh, and looked back out at the street.

“Not even one,” he said. “Unless you count reorganizing my spice rack.”

You snorted, quiet and amused, smoke catching faintly in your throat.

“Very thrilling.”

“Reckless, even,” he added, and you heard the warmth in it. The ease. “How’s the job hunt going?”

Your fingers tightened at the question, just slightly.

Instead of answering, you lifted the joint to your lips again.

The inhale came slow. Heat filled your lungs, stretching the seconds out. Let the silence stretch just enough to feel like control, not avoidance.

Then came the exhale, steady and quiet, smoke lifting into the air like it might carry the dreadful question away.

“It’s… going,” you said finally, voice soft.

Not a lie, exactly. But not much of an answer either.

He nodded once. Didn’t push. Just shifted his weight on the railing again, the movement quiet, patient.

You watched his profile from the corner of your eye—how his brow stayed smooth, how he didn’t look at you like he was waiting for more. Just listening. Just holding the space.

You wet your lips, thumb rolling over the seam of the joint between your fingers.

“I sent out a bunch of stuff last week,” you added, more to the night air than to him. “But, to be honest with you, I don’t even know what I’m applying for.”

That made him glance over—not sharply, not surprised. Just a soft turn of the head, eyes dark and steady under the lazy curve of his lashes.

“None of these jobs are…” Your fingers opened slightly. Then closed again. “They’re not things I want to do. I don’t even know what I do want. I just—” You broke off, shrugging. “—can’t tell if I’m lost or just tired.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It moved, slow and full like a tide pulling back.

Geto didn’t rush to fill it. He leaned his arms on the railing, wrists loose. His voice came after a beat—low, unintrusive.

“That’s not nothing. Knowing what you don’t want is at least something.”

His tone wasn’t placating. No hollow comfort. Just a truth, offered to you quietly.

You exhaled through your nose, not quite a laugh. “Well it feels like nothing. Doesn’t really help when every realistic job option sounds like a slightly twisted version of the same thing.”

He nodded again, slow this time. The city noise buzzed beneath you both—distant horns, a siren off somewhere, the soft shuffle of wind over brick.

“People make it sound like you’re supposed to know,” he said. “Have a plan. A five-year vision. Some neat little road map with checkboxes.”

His mouth curved, faint and crooked. “But most of the people I know just picked something and hoped they’d grow into it…You don’t have to want something extraordinary,” he added. “You just have to want something that feels yours.”

His soft-spoken words landed like pressure on a bruise—quiet, but hard. Your jaw tightened before your head turned away from him.

“The thing is, Geto, lots of people did grow into it. Gojo’s out here in his glass-walled office, pitching brand deals and loving every second of it. Shoko’s practically sleepwalking through med school and still managing to thrive. Even you—you’re doing actual good in the world, and don’t pretend like you couldn’t have walked into any job you wanted after university.”

A breath caught in your chest and didn’t know where to go from here.

“I just don’t want to pick wrong,” you said.

“And be stuck. Like—I keep having these dreams where I wake up and everything around me is beige. Beige house. Beige job. Beige life!” You paused and finally looked at him again.

“A completely beige life! And it’s mine. And I chose it. And there’s no way out.”

Wow, you did not expect to say all that…

He didn’t answer right away.

The glowing end of the lip-stained cigarette pulsed once more before he pulled the last drag, fingers steady even as smoke curled between them. Then he flicked it over the edge of the railing and leaned forward on his elbows, voice low.

“You’re allowed to change your mind, you know.”

The joint had gone out between your fingers—it was basically dead anyways—and you weren’t going to bother relighting it.

“But that feels like failing,” you said.

Something about saying it aloud made your stomach twist, like you’d just admitted to a crack in the foundation that everyone else had somehow managed to patch up.

He shifted his weight slightly, forearms braced on the edge of the balcony. The cotton of his sleeve brushed yours—just barely—but he didn’t pull away. And we both know you didn’t either…

“Is there nothing you’ve ever had a dream of?” He asked, voice soft but steady.

You blinked. Let the question hang there, raw and too close.

“I don’t know,” you said eventually, eyes fixed on the blurry constellation of taillights below. “I used to want things. Or I thought I did. But now it’s like—I can’t tell what was mine and what was just… momentum. Expectations. Stuff I thought I was supposed to want.”

His expression didn’t shift, but something in the line of his body—shoulders easing, jaw relaxing—held quiet understanding.

“I wanted to be a lawyer once,” you added, not sure why. “Not because I liked the idea of it. I just… thought it sounded impressive. Like something that made people listen to you.”

He nodded. No judgment. Just an acknowledgment, a gentle thread of attention.

“And you know,” you continued, voice tapering off at the edges, “now that I’m thinking about it…I think I just really wanted people to listen to me.”

You didn’t expect a response, and none came. Just the soft sound of traffic below, the distant hum of someone’s TV flickering through a half-open window.

“I don’t even really need to be thinking about this on a Sunday night,” you said, almost to yourself.

He made a small sound beside you—something between a breath and a murmur—and then, gently:

“It’s okay.”

You didn’t look at him, but the quiet weight of it settled somewhere behind your ribs.

You stubbed out the joint on the railing, letting the butt of it fall to the empty street below, then pushed open the balcony door. Warm apartment air met your skin, the faint smell of old incense and herbal undertones from the soaked tea leaves still sitting on the counter.

Geto followed you inside. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.

Inside, the apartment felt dim and close, like everything was exhaling at once. You stretched your arms overhead, spine cracking with the movement.

“I’m gonna hate myself tomorrow, usually I’m in bed by 10pm,” you muttered, scrubbing a hand down your face and glaring at the clock on your oven: 11:44pm

He leaned against the back of the couch. “You working in-office?”

“Unfortunately,” you said dryly. “Which means I get to play subway sardines at 8:30 a.m. again.”

He made a low noise—sympathy or shared suffering, you weren’t sure. “I’ve got a client downtown at nine. If I leave late, I’ll spend the whole ride with my face in someone’s armpit.”

“God. That’s bleak.”

“It’s reality.”

You pulled a face, half grimace, half grin. “We should unionize.”

Geto laughed—quiet and unhurried, the sound low in his chest. It wasn’t loud or showy, but it curled at the edges like warmth creeping in from a cold windowpane.

He tipped his head back slightly, the light from the kitchen catching on his jaw, and when his bloodshot eyes met yours once more, there was such a warmth in his clouded gaze that you could feel it spreading through your chest.

“God, you’re pretty funny,” he said, voice like dry silk, soft but certain. Not teasing. Like he meant it. Like it was something he’d only just noticed, and was tucking away for later.

Your cheeks flushed—a slow bloom of warmth that caught you off guard. You looked down, caught between annoyance and something softer.

“Glad you finally caught on,” you muttered, voice low.

He smiled then—a slow, quiet curve of his lips that carried a thousand unspoken things. It wasn’t a showy grin, but the kind that softened the space between you, folding the silence into something almost tangible.

After a moment, he shrugged into his jacket, the damp fabric clinging briefly before settling over his broad shoulders.

The weight of it shifted as he moved, a subtle reminder of the rain outside lingering with him.

You stepped toward the door, fingers grazing the cool metal handle.

Pulling it open, a wash of the pale, sterile hallway light spilled in, pushing back the amber glow and lingering scents of your apartment like a slow tide retreating.

He stood framed in that sudden contrast—his silhouette sharp, hands tucked casually into his pockets. His eyes caught yours for a flicker, quiet and steady, before he stepped out into the dim corridor.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice low but clear.

“Goodnight,” you echoed, the word hanging soft between the closing door and the returning quiet.

And when your smile finally fell, a few moments after the door clicked shut, the ache in your cheeks was still there—like your face hadn’t gotten the message that he was gone.

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#yall 🍋 is the only person I have post notifications on for…

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simplygojo · 13 days ago

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Hey all!!!

Not sure if anyone has noticed BUT I WAS GONE FOR LIKE 3 WEEKS!!! I had to go out of country and a few other things, but we are SO BACK!!!

I will be posting chapter 9 this week!!! I PROMISE!!

Anyways I have missed y’all <3