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simplymygojo · 5 days ago

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ONE OF YOUR GIRLS ~ JASON TODD

Jason Todd is the unnaturally attractive TA in your college class. Your really hot TA that just found out you’ve been selling essays to your classmates

Contrary to what the majority of your English module thinks, writing an essay is really not that hard.

It just isn’t. You’ve written them at three in the morning with zero hours of sleep, in libraries, in bed. Even on the toilet on a particularly gruelling deadline. Everyone has those things they’re just good at, and yours has always been anything English related. Novels, poetry, sonnets. It’s partly why you’d even chosen this extra module for the year. You had an extra space to fill and you knew it wouldn’t impede on any work for your degree. It's an added plus that you enjoy it as much as you do, and an extra added plus that you’re earning money for it.

Maybe it's unethical to prey on the lesser-minded people in your class. It’s definitely an interesting discussion on the laziness that plagues Gotham College, but you’re not one to complain about it. At least it's you writing it, a human, and not some AI website that will single-handedly destroy the environment. You’re doing the world a service, if anything. And you only charge fifteen dollars per essay, which isn't bad. You do have some rules when it comes to writing. For example, you only will write four essays per coursework submission, mainly because there's only so many points you can make without just repeating yourself. So if the students decide they want to bid against who those five essays will go to, that’s not exactly your fault. Some of the more difficult assignments really gets the ball rolling. You guess an empty bank account is better than failing.

It’s all good fun until you get caught.

It’s not the professor that catches you. Mr Owen is a sweet man, and you think that even if he did realise what you were doing, he wouldn't have the heart to tell you off for it. He’d probably just be happy one of his students was having so much fun in class that she was doing other people's work. No, instead, it’s his highest graded ex-student, now TA, Jason Todd.

Jason is only three years older than you, having graduated last year, and was now helping out Mr Owen. You’re sure it’s for experience, or to fill up his CV for some work experience, but you don’t complain. The few classes he teaches every few weeks have been great. He’s good. Really good, actually, which he’s surprising because the first time you saw him you’d thought he might’ve mistaken the lecture hall for the bodybuilding classes on the third floor.

Jason is entirely too attractive to just be a TA. You’ve, embarrassingly, scoured every modelling agency in Gotham you could find, because there is no way somebody who looks like that would just slum it in an Intro to English class. The defined lines of his chest and arms you can see over the button-ups he wears to class, the perfect poster-boy hair that always falls just right over his face. And you’ve heard the rumours about his motorcycle, which adds about ten points to his overall attractiveness. You’ve never seen Jason smile once, always looking over the class with that bored expression over his pretty face. He’s situated right next to Mr Owen at the front, his own desk that’s always cluttered with papers and pens.

You have no idea how he caught you. There are only about forty students in the module but still. You’re careful with what you write, making all your work different enough from the exemplary essays you hand in under your name that you were sure nobody would ever find out. Until, of course, Mr Owen is handing back your most recent submissions, and you find a sticky note tapped to the back of yours. Your brows furrow, confused, and you peel it off carefully to read it.

“You made the same point about Angelou’s simplicity in three different essays. If you’re going to keep writing them for half the class, don’t get sloppy.”

Your face heats almost immediately, your stomach sinking with a horrible feeling. You stuff the note under your paper, eyes immediately darting to where Mr Owen is still handing out the papers. But he’s not looking at you like he’s about to report you to the student board. He’s just rambling on about the new poet you’d all be looking at. He doesn't even look in your direction once he’s walked off. And when you consult the note again, you find that the handwriting looks nothing like his almost illegible scrawl. This is blocky and neat, and you feel that same swooping feeling in your gut when you realise who’s handwriting it is.

And sure enough, when you do look up, Jason Todd is looking back at you with the smallest (and first) smile you’ve ever seen on his face.

You start praying that some impromptu tsunami will burst through the windows of the hall and whisk you away. It’s just your luck that the one time you want Gotham to deliver one of its life threatening incidents, the world outside is calm, the sun bright with mid-day light and the campus buzzing with students. You are decidedly not looking in Jason’s direction. You can live the rest of your life without seeing that smug look on his face again.

You sort of feel like you’re about to throw up from nerves, but there’s something worse than the threat of expulsion bothering you; his stupid little comment. You’re not sloppy. He’s got some nerve calling you that. You’d love to see him come up with five different essays on the same fifteen line poem. Hell, you’d settle for three.

You fidget uncomfortably for the next ten minutes. The room feels hotter all of a sudden, and you tug at the collar of your sweater. You don’t even know what to do. Will Jason report you? Or just keep leaving passive aggressive notes all over your essays? Your sloppy essays. Surely Owen will catch on, and then god knows what will happen.

Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall and you see that you only have twenty minutes left. You can definitely make it through without any incidents. And then you can run out of the classroom before Jason Todd can even look your way. It’s fine. Fine.

Your thoughts are interrupted as Jason suddenly stands. He’s tall too, and when he takes the two boxes from Mr Owen’s frail hands your eyes don’t miss the way his arm flexes beneath today's light blue button up.

“Thank you, Jason. Just to my office, please.” He nods, pointing to the other two boxes on the floor. “Feel free to take someone with you.” Mr Owen gestures vaguely towards you and the others sitting in the room.

You hear movement behind you and you can only imagine everyone sitting eagerly in their chairs to be picked by the hot TA. You, on the other hand, are very content in staring really hard at the table in front of you and avoiding all forms of eye contact, which is harder since you’re sitting in the front row. It works, for about ten seconds, before a loud thud jolts you, an embarrassing noise escapes your throat.

“Do you mind?” Jason’s voice is deep and low, a lilt of Jersey accent curling around the syllables.

You could say no. But he knows what you’re doing and the way he’s looking at you with his hands braced on the desk is kind of intimidating.

You nod, getting up with little grace. You nearly trip as you round the desk, and quickly grab the two boxes. Jason holds the door open for you with one hand and carries the last two boxes with the other. He’s definitely showing off. But whatever. The walk to Mr Owen’s office takes about seven minutes. So fourteen there and back and then however long it takes to dump the boxes in his room and leave. You can do that.

You’re not even sure why he asked you to do this. There were about fifteen willing people almost falling out of their seats to help him. And you were definitely not one of them.

Your trainers squeak against the tiled floor, and your hands are starting to tingle from the lack of blood flow. The boxes are heavy, and you try and readjust them to ease the pain a little.

“You alright there?” Jason speaks up besides you.

You glance at him from and find that he’s looking back with an amused expression on his face. Of course he’s not struggling. You’re sure those biceps could carry about six boxes all on their own.

“Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is clipped and sharp, and he bites back a smirk.

The two of you fall back into silence. Not for long though, because that smooth voice carries out across the empty corridor again.

“Your essay was good.”

Your face feels hot again. This time when you reply, you keep your gaze firmly away from him.

“Thank you.”

“It’s very refreshing to see such original work.”

Oh, what a prick.

“I mean, most of your class, it’s the same regurgitated ideas.” You only hum in response, and it doesn’t deter him.

“Honestly, it’s just sloppy. But I-“

“My work is not sloppy!” You nearly yell, turning to him quickly.

Jason’s brows lift in surprise, but he quickly schools his expression to something a little satisfied, that makes your irritation spike more. It’s maybe what he wants, and it’s definitely inappropriate, but you’ve never been very good at concealing your emotions.

“I’d like to see you write five different essays on the same topic for only fifteen bucks a paper. And on Mary Angelou no less! That poem was fifteen lines long!” You scowl, shuffling the boxes in your arms again. “There is only so much that I can say. And I don’t think my points were very sloppy.”

You two have stopped in the corridor now, and Jason looks completely unbothered by the boxes you two are lugging about, while you are ignoring the burn in your biceps.

“Fifteen bucks a paper?”

You pause a little. You’re surprised that’s all he had to take from your outburst. You feel a little silly for yelling, and your voice comes out quiet when you speak again.

“Sometimes more. There’s a bit of a betting pool going around.”

He snorts, and it’s strange seeing it on his usually stoic face. “What’s the highest you’ve charged?”

“Thirty five. It was for the one on Finnegans wake.”

Jason laughs properly at that, and you can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips. He continues walking and you follow after him. But only after hesitating for a little.

“That’s not half bad. Good money for a college student.”

You scoff. “It’s great money. Takes me a few hours to cough out the essays and I get a minimum of sixty every time.”

Jason only nods in a way you think might be impressed. Luckily, you finally reach the office, and he holds the door open for the two of you. You quickly walk in, the boxes landing on Owen’s desk with a heavy thud. You huff, rubbing your hands on the rough material of your jeans and squeezing them to get your blood flowing. You lean against the wall as you watch Jason flit about the room, shoving the boxes in the far corner and grabbing some papers from his desk. He doesn’t say anything while he does it, and it causes the nerves stuttering in your chest to increase.

You bite at your lip. “You- You’re not going to tell Owen, right?”

Jason looks up from where he’s rifling through one of the desk drawers. He fixes you with a steady gaze, tilting his head just slightly.

“I probably should. But I won't.”

You visibly relax, exhaling heavily. “Really? Why not?”

“Half the people in your class are just here to fill an empty class. People like you are actually good at what they do.”

Jason seems to find what he’s looking for, sliding the papers under his arm as he shuts the drawer with a click. “Letting you carry on this little side hustle means I get to read actually interesting work. Even if they are getting sloppier.”

You glare at him and he smirks, walking over to open the door once more. You don’t leave just yet.

“You can’t call me good and sloppy in the same breath.”

“I think I just did.”

You huff. “Fine. You’ll see. The next four essays won’t be sloppy.”

God. You could live the rest of your life without ever hearing that word again.

———

You and Jason develop a little system.

You find out, after meticulous analysis over some of your friends papers, that all the essays are graded by Jason. It’s all in that same familiar scrawl, and after some not so subtle staring after a submission day, you see Mr Owen dumping all of the classes’ work on Jason’s desk. So you feel a bit of relief at not being caught and expelled.

It’s after your little interaction in the office that you start to find even more post-it-notes taped to the back of your paper. And it’s names. Names of all the papers you’ve written, which Jason seems to always find with alarming accuracy. The notes he leaves in the margins of your own works start to feel less like the professional scrawl you're used to, but a little more teasing.

“Excellent point. Johnson’s essay had one alarmingly similar.”

“You use ‘ergo’ a lot.”

“I agree. Patterson is overrated.”

You act like you hate it. Sigh and roll your eyes when you feel his heavy gaze from the front of the room when you’re being given feedback. Your seat is almost perfectly aligned with his desk so it’s hard to miss. When you’re daydreaming during the especially long lectures, and your eyes trail over to him, and sometimes you catch him looking back.

Some days, while you’re leaving class, you linger by his desk, and the two of you talk. At first, you were just insulting the copy of War and Peace on his desk. You’d called him performative and he called you annoying. But you two talk more as the days go by, sometimes not about English, but about each other.

It’s fine. This is just- Actually, you don’t really know what this is. You don’t think it’s not allowed, college wise. He’s only three years older than you, and he’s technically not actually your teacher, so it’s not completely weird if you’re developing a little crush on him.

But you don’t act on it. You never do, because there’s a distance between the two of you you’re both too nervous to cross. You don’t know how much of this is just for fun, and you’re not about to embarrass yourself by assuming anything further.

But things change one day.

Mr Owen is out sick, and so Jason is in charge of the lecture. The room is immediately more awake, everyone sitting on the edge of their seat to witness Jason in action. He usually sits back for Owen’s lectures, more focused on observing the class or typing whatever he does on his laptop. The lessons he runs are far and few between, so everyone is excited to see his teaching methods in action again.

Or just to see him. There’s a lot of girls you don’t normally see so close to the front sitting in the same row as you. You’re sure it has something to do with the email Owen had sent last night warning about his absence.

“So. Who actually read The Wasp Factory?” He asks, hands holding him up on Owen’s desk. He’s wearing a white shirt, and the material stretches over the hard lines of his arms.

There’s a bout of movement across the room, and you watch the girl sitting two seats next to you almost shoot out of her chair with how fast she sticks her hand up. Her lips are glossy and sticky, her shirt unbuttoned a little too low. Personally, you think it’s a little overkill, but Jason eyes land on her out of all the other eager-to-please students, so maybe she’s doing something right.

“You’ve read the first five chapters, right?” He asks, and she smiles brightly.

“Yes, sir.”

Jason nods. “Would you consider Frank a reliable narrator?”

It’s an easy question. Even your best customers can answer that. The girl seems to think the same, but just as her mouth opens to respond, Jason keeps talking.

“Frank demonstrates a vivid and unusual imagination from the beginning, and we know that his father is part of the reason. Frank even believes his own father, the source of all his education, to be unreliable with the information he provides him. Do you think both of them could be considered as unreliable narrators, or does the blame fall on the narrator we see, Frank?”

He doesn’t stop for breath once, words coming out untainted and smooth. The girl stammers a little, mouth opening. Jason’s face is expressionless. The room is quiet for a beat too long, and your face creases, cringing a little.

“Today would be nice.” You mumble under your breath.

Well. At least you thought it was under your breath. But it actually was loud enough that both the girl and Jason heard you. You watch his lips twitch with a barely concealed smile, and the girl turns to glare at you. Your face heats, guilt seeping into your skin. You really hadn’t meant for anyone to hear, and she doesn’t take the apologetic look you give her very seriously.

“Bitch.” She says, and Jason holds up his hand.

“No, since she’s so eager to talk, maybe she can try to answer my question.”

It’s a challenge. Careful brown eyes study you and you straighten slightly under his attention, aware of the rest of your class also looking your way.

“Well. I think that both Frank and his father are unreliable narrators, but in a different sense. I think as a reader, it’s obvious that Frank is going through a personal crisis because of Eric’s arrival, and his invasion of this world Franks created for himself leads to a personal crisis, which lets us finally see the truth he hides from us. His father, while not actively lying to the reader, spends Frank’s entire life lying to him, and so inadvertently lying to us. So I think that they’re both to blame. Sir.”

You tack on the honorific at the end for fun, and maybe to poke fun at the girl next to you. Maybe you really were a bitch, but there's a weird curl of jealousy settling in your chest that you can’t really explain, and it’s making you act like an idiot. Jason raises one eyebrow, just for a second, before he nods.

“Good work.” He lingers for just a second too long, staring right at you, before he turns to the rest of the room. “Now, what do we think the wasp factory actually symbolised?”

The rest of the lecture goes by uneventfully. You keep to yourself, doodling on the corner of your notebook, staring at Jason when he’s not looking your way. Teaching is a good look for him, you think. He’s good at holding the class's attention, and the matter-of-fact way he talks to you makes it feel more like a conversation than a lecture. When it comes time to pack up, you linger a little, avoiding the gaze of your new friend as she practically storms out the hall. The room is nearly empty when you make your way around the table, but before you can walk out, your name is called. By Jason, no less.

You head darts towards where he's seated at his desk. “Yes?”

“Can I talk to you for a second?” He fiddles with a pen in one hand, twirling it between his fingers.

You nod, hand tightening over your backpack strap. “Yeah, sure.”

When you make your way to the front of his desk, he slides over a leaflet to you. You begin reading it, but he explains what it is anyway.

“I’ve got this conference tomorrow. Well, it’s more like a community thing. Free classes for upcoming students to see what the course and university is like so that they’ll sign up for it next year.”

You glance up at him. “I’m already a student, if you couldn’t tell.”

He hums. “Oh, I’m well aware.”

You think it’s best for you not to dwell too much on that statement, and the teasing lilt of his voice. “I mean, would you be interested in coming down and helping out?”

Your finger pauses where it's hovering over the corner of the leaflet. “Me?”

Jason leans back in his desk chair. At some point in the lecture he’d unbuttoned his sleeves, and the fabric was folded up messily up by his elbows. His arms lean on the armrest and you will yourself to look up at his face. His hair is curlier than when he’d come in, the humidity frizzing it up and making it look ruffled, but you think it’s cute.

“You’re intelligent. Very intelligent, and one of the best students in this class.” He speaks with such conviction, and your face heats at the compliments.

“Owen can’t make it and I’d like to have a student there for the people coming to talk to. Might be easier to talk to a pretty face like yours instead of mine.”

Jason thinks you’re pretty. What a great day today has been.

You slip the leaflet back on his desk. “I’d love to. Do I need to bring anything?”

“No. Maybe just a book if you want to seem smart.”

It’s not a date. It’s really not. So there is no reason for you to be as happy as you are, or for you to be smiling as much as you are. You adjust your backpack once more. “Thank you for the offer, Mr Todd.”

He winces at the name, waving you off. “Please. Just call me Jason. We’re practically the same age.”

“Really?” You muse. “It feels a little unprofessional to just call you Jason.”

Jason’s tongue poke the side of his cheek, a smile curling against his lips. “You know, you might be right. You wanna call me sir again?”

Your face burns and you laugh a little nervously. “No, no, Jason is fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You quickly walk out, desperate to get away from that teasing face.

—

It feels weird coming into college on a Saturday. The halls are crowded with fresh faces, all beaming with excitement and hands full of the college freebies. There's stalls set up outside the classroom doors, with what you assume is other student volunteers smiling behind them. That’s probably what Jason wants you to do today. He hadn’t given you much information, but you’ve come in eager all the same. You weave through the crowd, muttering apologies as you make your way to Owen’s room. It’s empty, apart from a few of the students who have showed up early, and you immediately spot Jason at the front of the room.

He’s wearing a black turtleneck that hugs his chest, and a sleek pair of trousers held up with a fancy sort of belt. Jason looks good. You think he’s dressed up a little more than usual, but you can’t judge him too much because you are too. It’s nothing too special, just a nice button up and jeans. It’s a big step up from the usual lumpy sweaters you come in with. It makes sense, though. This isn’t the same class of students he sees three times a week, but instead people he actually has to make a good impression for.

You just stare at him for a few seconds, still standing by the front door and clutching the strap of your bag. He looks up suddenly, and a small smile graces his lips at the sight of you.

“You came.” He makes his way around the desk and stops in front of you.

Jason’s taller up close. And he smells good. Something spicy and crisp.

“Of course.” You gesture behind you. “Do you want me to set up one of those stalls outside?”

He makes a face. “Oh, no. You’ll be in here with me.”

His hand meets the small of your back as he leads you to his desk. You ignore the warmth that spreads over your skin at the contact, and dump your back beneath it. You sit down on his chair and spin yourself around.

“So this is what you see during all the lectures.” You ponder, fiddling with his penholder.

Jason huffs a laugh. He leans against Owen’s desk, and he studies you. “You look nice.”

Your eyes dart up to his, red dusting your cheeks. The compliment is barely a thing, but you feel flustered none the less. “Oh. Thank you.”

Jason moves on quickly. “So. The whole point of today is to give these guys a taster of what these classes are like if they were to sign up when they’re enrolled. I won’t need your help with the lessons per say, but since you’re a second year and you’ve been an eager student all year, you’re here if they need to ask anything.”

You nod. “Am I supposed to chat you and Owen up to them?”

He laughs. “Well, I’d hoped you wouldn’t need to. You like the class enough that you write five essays at once for it.”

You glare at him as he smiles cheekily. When you turn to the room, you find it’s been slowly filling up while you’ve been talking, people quickly taking up the seats. It feels different from up here, all their faces trained on the two of you, and Jason watches you carefully.

“Nervous?” He asks.

“No. If you can do it then this will be a breeze.”

It sort of is a breeze. The first half is just like your lessons, and he’s found a short poem to go through with the class. It’s the same type of engaging content he keeps you all hooked with, and you watch the students eat it all up. Sometimes, when there’s a particularly stupid comment made, he glances at you slightly, like it's a private joke between you two.

The second half is more for questions, and you’re surprised how many people want to talk to you. It’s a mix of high-school students and people starting next year, all queued up in front of the desk. They ask you about campus, the student accommodations. Some of them ask about your major and your studies, and some about Owen and Jason.

You’re well aware that he’s sitting quite close to you, but even if he wasn’t, your response would be the same. You sing his praises, complimenting his teaching methods and feedback. You tell them he’s a great TA and you’re sure that when he commandeers his own classes you’ll be in the front seat. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze from where he’s sat beside you.

The class was coming to a close, and most people had left. The majority of the students had prepared their questions, so you get through them quickly. This guy, however, seemed intent on wasting your time. He was one of the upcoming first years, and he was leaning incredibly close to talk to you. You’re not stupid enough to not realise when someone’s flirting with you, and you smile weakly, a little nervous to tell him you aren’t interested.

“You know, maybe if I get your number I could text you any other questions I have.” He grins and you laugh weakly.

“Look, I-“

“You can direct them to me.”

You didn’t even realise Jason coming up behind you, and his presence is sudden, hands resting on the back of your chair.

“My name should be in the college directory, which is available online.”

His tone is clipped, and the boy in front of you doesn’t look too happy at his words. You don’t really care though, because Jason’s fingers brush against your shoulders and the contact keeps you distracted.

Jason and this guy are doing some weird alpha male thing in front of you, and you let it play out. The boy loses, and walks out, despite still looking a little agitated at the rejection. The rest of the room quickly clears up after, and then it’s just you and Jason.

You sigh, stretching a little. “Well. I think that went well. Do you-“

Your words trail off, because the second the last person is out, Jason strides towards the door and locks it. Your mouth snaps shut as he does so, a flutter of something curling in your chest. He walks back over, this time stopping in front of you. You’re separated by the desk, and you wish he would’ve just come stand with you. The chair is soft beneath you, and your hand grips the soft fabric. He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher. Just when you go to ask him if he’s okay, he begins speaking.

“Why do you think student-teacher relationships are such a popular trope in romantic literature?”

Oh. So maybe you aren’t the only one who’s been feeling the tension between the two of you. He asks the questions with the same air he asks questions in class, so you don’t hesitate to reply.

“I think it’s the power dynamics, and also the forbiddeness of it all. The taboo. It’s interesting to see people make the risky decision of being together knowing the consequences if they’re caught.”

He nods. He walks around slowly, and you turn in your chair so you’re facing one another. You have to look up to see him clearly, and you wonder if he can hear how loudly your heart is beating.

“I think people also like the desperation. The student has some sort of emotional relationship with the mentor, so.” Jason steps closer and you're surprised you’re even able to speak with this proximity.

“They’re just eager to please in any way they can.” You finish, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

Jason hums. His hand comes up to rest on your shoulder. When you don’t push him off, it trails up, ghosting over your neck to settle on your chin, fingers gentle as they raise your eyes to look up at him properly.

“Is that you?” He murmurs. “Are you eager to please me?”

It feels like more than just a question. It feels like he’s asking for permission.

The more logical part of your brain tells you that this is probably stupid. He’s not your teacher, technically, but there’s probably some regulations about a TA and a student going any further than just that.

But unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the less reasonable part of your brain seems to be louder. At some point during the lesson, he’d undone the first two buttons of his shirt, and his hand is curving against your jaw, and you wonder what it would feel like for them to touch other parts of your body. Jason always looks good, but right now he’s looking at you like it’s taking every fiber of his being not to do something reckless. And honestly, you feel like you’ve done enough eye-fucking during class. You deserve this, really.

Your answer slips from your lips before you can really stop it. “Yes.”

He drags you to your feet, pressing you against the wall behind you two, the chair rolling and crashing into something you can't see. His eyes bore into yours, bright and a mosaic of blues you never really noticed. But you’ve never been this close to him before, one breath away from kissing.

Jason swallows roughly and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob. “We shouldn’t be doing this, you know.”

His hand is warm where it grips your jaw. “The taboo, remember? That’s what makes this so hot.” You try to sound teasing but you just sound breathless. Desperate.

His lips twitch into a smile, and he hums. “Do you wanna be good for me?”

You nod quickly, and in one swift motion he’s capturing your lips on his own. They move against yours steadily, his hands sliding down to grip your hips and push you against him harder. He tastes like the mints he leaves on his desk, and you sigh, heat coiling in your gut. Your arms trail up to drape around his shoulders, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. You whimper in the back of your throat as his teeth graze your bottom lip, his tongue deepening the kiss. Jason presses a knee between your legs, and your hand in his hair tightens. He groans, breaking the kiss, his breath as heavy as yours. His nose bumps the side of your face, and he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“How did you know I liked you?” You ask, hands sliding down the smooth material of his shirt.

“It’s hard to miss you ogling me every lesson. Your seat is practically right in front of my desk.” He mumbles against your skin, and you can feel his smirk as he kisses down your jaw.

You frown. “You ogle too. Don’t think I missed that.” You quip and he huffs a laugh.

“So bratty.” He sighs. Jason looks down at you, eyes shining, and brushes a lock of hair out of your face.

“Let me take you out.” He suddenly says.

His lips are glossy from kissing you, and there’s a dusting of red over his cheeks and the tips of his ears. This close you can see a scar that runs down his sharp jaw, and smattering of freckles on his forehead. You’re not sure how you and your grandpa sweaters have landed a man like this.

“Really?” You sound a little in awe and he laughs.

“Yes, really. As much as I’d like to bend you over my desk, I think you deserve much better than that.”

“You- Well, yeah.” You nod, not trusting what else might come out of your mouth.

Jason presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “There’s always next time, though.”

guys i have a Jason Todd itch.. watching the superman movie has put me in a dc mood!! And also someone requested college Jason and idk if this counts but.. lowkey teacher x student is kinda lengers to me

ANYWYA Hope u all enjoyed!

#dc recs

687 notes · View notes

simplymygojo · 11 days ago

Text

Cross posted on A03 under the same username! Here's a comprehensive list of all chapters and the summaries. Will be updated with each chapter. Current Total Word Count: 54,818

Chapter One - 4,107 Words

Jason Todd forgot a lot of things after the Lazarus pit's putrid green waters helped restore him back to life. He wished that Dick hadn't said that name, your name. Reigniting feelings and memories. As memories he thought were long lost start to return, can he continue to be in your life without dragging you down with him? Can he be in your life without you knowing who he is? He doesn't know, but he wants to try.

Chapter Two - 2,654 Words

At only nine years old Jason's caught crying outside by a strange girl.

Chapter Three - 4,707 Words

A camera flash catches Red Hoods attention, and it gives him the perfect excuse to go visit you.

Chapter Four - 2,659 Words

As children, you and Jason become quickly inseparable. Spending nearly every single day in one another's company, reading, drawing, going to school, all of it.

Chapter Five - 4,557 Words

Jason visits you for the second night in a row, finding lingering whispers of his past in your present.

Chapter Six - 3,325 Words

Math is not your strong suit, and through your teacher wanting you to get better, you and Jason make a new friend. A friend close enough that the two of you plan a surprise party for Jason’s tenth birthday.

Chapter Seven - 4,396 Words

Jason manages to ask your opinions on all the bats, and later, Tim and Stephanie drag him out to lunch with them

Chapter Eight - 2,259 Words

Jason's mother disappears, an eviction notice appears

Chapter Nine - 5,132 Words

Stephanie runs into you trying to save a puppy from a gutter

Chapter Ten - 2,398 Words

Jason is caught taking the tires off the batmobile, and Sammy gives you an action figure to protect you.

Chapter Eleven - 5,535 Words

Jason and Stephanie have a confrontation, Damian expresses concern, you extend an invitation to return after the painting is finished

Chapter Twelve - 3,078 Words

Jason goes on a “walk”. The walk ends up leading him to the outside of your window.

Chapter Thirteen - 6,370 Words

A warning comes from an unexpected stranger, and Damian call your art “adequate”

Chapter Fourteen - 3,567 Words

Three Scenes, a movie, Jason almost gets "the talk", and Wayne Manor becomes the victim of a brutal paint war.

Chapter Fifteen - COMING SOON!

#dc tbr

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simplymygojo · 24 days ago

Text

wanted: dead or wed m.list

pairing — cowboy satoru x bandit reader

synopsis : satoru’s just passing through—dust in his lungs, a bullet wound in his side, and no intention of staying anywhere too long—when you crash into his life like bad luck with a pretty face. you’re trouble from the start, all sharp looks and sharper secrets, but he’s never had much self-control when it comes to danger dressed like desire. what begins with blood and bad timing turns into something else entirely—something he can’t name, can’t escape, and sure as hell can’t walk away from. you’re the last thing he needs, but the only thing he wants, and if that makes him a fool… well, he’s been worse.

status : ongoing (1/5 chapters, 8.4k word count) ✦ tags -> wild west au, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, dubcon elements, forced proximity, captivity, power imbalance, morally ambiguous character, horny at first sight, feelings later, toxic dynamic at first, eventual healthy relationship (i swear), gojo satoru is down bad, slowly falling into domesticity, eventual smut, eventual fluff, banter, unresolved sexual tension, other additional tags to be added

gen. m.list | read on ao3?

— chapter index

01 — sweet thing with a switchblade

satoru meant to pass through, not pick up stray trouble on the side of the road. but one stab wound and a botched ambush later, you’re bleeding into his life with pretty eyes and sharper lies—and he can’t seem to let you go.

more to come.

taglist: @sleepykittyenergy @caffine-exe @miffyliebe

taglist is open, comment on this post if you want to be added <3

#jjk tbr

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simplymygojo · 1 month ago

Text

This is Me Trying

pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

synopsis: your friend takes you out to a street race to meet her boyfriend and his brothers

a/n: street racing Jason Todd won't leave my brain. I'm going to do my best to keep reader as ambiguous as possible. Updates will probably be slow between work but I will also be posting this to my AO3 which i will link here. I hope you enjoy ♡

next: part 2

“I just don't see the entertainment in it, is all.” You try to explain to your friend. She had finally, finally, dragged you to one of her boyfriend's street races. You could see the appeal to them. Hot people racing dangerously and illegally in cars or on motorcycles, what's not to like? Aside from the fact that you only get to see them take off and then they're gone. A whole ten seconds of oggling.

“It's not just the race,” your friend smiles as she drags you along the sidewalk. It's dark out, almost midnight already, groups of people walking alongside you to the meet up.

“Its also the after party. You will have fun. I promise. Maybe you'll meet someone.” She shrugs, you roll your eyes. And yet you follow along like a puppy dog to humor her all the same.

It's crowded, almost overly so. Suffocating in a way. But your friend finds her boyfriend easily like she has a GPS radar on him. He's handsome, because of course he is. Dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, dark brown skin. Dick, she said his name was. This is your first official time meeting him.

He's friendly and polite and his smile was bright enough to power up Superman if he really put his mind to it. You doubt it would be hard for him. You stand off to the side a bit awkwardly as the two talk for a second, catching up. You hear him mention his brothers.

There's more of him?

You can hear your friend and Dick talking quietly to each other before you catch;

“Yeah, I mean.. Jay's here tonight. I could introduce them.” Dick mumbles with a smile and you notice him burying his face into the side of your friend's hair. Ugh.

“Jason?” A younger voice pipes up, you turn your head to take in the newcomers. “If you hate your friend you could just say that, there is no need for torture.” Dick laughs before introducing his younger brother, Damian.

He says they're adopted but you find that hard to believe when they look almost identical. Aside from the fact Damian has green eyes instead of blue. Both black hair and dark skinned. Damian speaks more properly, you notice, with a hint of an accent you can't quite place.

“I dunno man,” another speaks. Tim, you find out his name is. “Jason's been in a pissy mood all day. I wouldn't-”

“It's fine, it's fine! It'll be good for him. He needs to make new friends.” Dick insists.

They're talking about you as if you're not even there - not giving you a chance to speak for yourself on if you want to meet this Jason person or not. Your friend laughs. You glare.

Damian and Tim share a look before shaking their heads and that doesn't look promising at all. You're regretting your agreement to come along but your friend places a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“I've met Jason before, he's nice.” But you know what her definition of “nice” is. It's far different than your own.

“Yeah, mhm.” You respond with a half hearted smile.

But the group walks further into the crowd. More cars and motorcycles come into view. You learn that Dick races with a 1979 trans am, one that he rebuilt with his brothers. The five of you walk by it and it's impressive. You find out that Tim is, apparently, still hesitant on racing while Damian claims he's too young - Dick teased him for being scared which earns him a chop to his throat.

‘If Jason is like these three then he can't be so bad.’ you think to yourself.

Until you see him. The small group stands in front of a heavily modded black and red Honda CBR600RR. It's nice. Clean. You stare at the bike until a gruff voice cuts you out of your thoughts.

“What, Dick?” Jason's expression is one of pure irritation as he tunes his bike.

He's tall and built like a brick shit house. Your mouth almost goes dry. Black hair with a white tuft in the front with a broad chest, beefy biceps, and piercing blue eyes. Oh boy.

“Just showing the angel around,” Dick slings an arm around your friend's shoulder. “And her friend.” Dick gestures to you. Tim and Damian step aside, a parting of the sea. You stand silently, almost dumbfounded, until you find your voice again.

“Uh, hey-” You try.

“No. I don't want to talk to people.” He cuts you off.

Oh.

“Told you,” Damian snickers quietly to Tim with a crooked smirk who shakes his head with a snort of laughter that he tries to cover with his hand. Your friend gives you a sympathetic look.

Great.

“C'mon, Jay. Don't be rude, I was trying to introduce- ” Dick tries again.

“Ain't got time. Race starts soon.” Jason grunts as he stands to his full height and holy shit is he intimidating. “Sorry, little birdie.” He comments as his gaze sizes you up. But he turns away before you can even get a word in.

‘Nice my ass.’ You think to yourself with an eye roll off to the side. Dick shoots you a sympathetic smile before he leads you and your friend away from Jason back towards his trans am.

“Worry not. That was him being polite.” Damian turns his smirk to you. Lovely.

It's a warm night in Gotham already and the crowd of people definitely doesn't help. “So it's always like this?” You ask your friend as you watch groups of people walk by laughing and talking. She nods in response.

“It's fun! I didn't think the racing scene in Gotham was this big but it kinda makes sense I guess.”

“I never even knew there was a ‘racing scene’.” You comment in response which gets a small laugh from Dick.

“Oh yeah, the scene’s huge here. It's fun and illegal, two things that every Gothamite loves.” He jokes.

“So, do you race for fun or.. is there a pool involved?” You ask Dick. The most knowledge you had about street racing was from the Fast and the Furious movies.

“For fun!” Dick beams. “Okay, well- winning the pot is nice, obviously. But personally? I do it for fun.” The answer makes sense to you. Dick gives off the vibes of an adrenaline junkie with the energy of a golden retriever.

“And Jason?” You ask, pretending to simply be curious. Dick stops for a second before he smiles at you. He looks at you like he knows something you don't.

“He races-...” Dick cuts himself off, his eyes roam off to the side as he chooses his words.

“Jason races to forget.” Tim finished for Dick who simply nods in response.

“Cliche.” You respond.

“Very.” Damian agrees. He looks less than impressed. “For him racing is simply a way to focus solely on the rush. Nothing else.”

#dc tbr

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simplymygojo · 1 month ago

Text

BENEATH THE MASK

Jason Todd is your cute coworker at the shelter you work at. Red Hood is the hot vigilante who saves you from being mugged

—————————————————————————

Your job right now is to wash the incredibly dirty dog in front of you. Not to ogle Jason from across the shop.

Your hands are pruning from being in the water too long, the suds crawling up your arms. The dog in question is Poppy, a brown retriever that keeps biting at the water, which only makes it spray all over your top, which is now thoroughly soaked. You huff, wiping your face on your shoulder.

“Poppy, please stop doing that, you’re making me all wet.” You scold.

She just barks up at you, shaking to rid herself of the water all over her. You sigh. It's sort of hard to be annoyed at her when she’s so cute. You suddenly feel a presence behind you, and a heavy arm leans on your shoulder.

“Don’t think you should be talking about that at work.

You roll your eyes almost immediately at the low drawl too close to your ear, but a smile dances at the corner of your lips. “Shut up.”

You’re not sure when Jason appeared behind you, but you’re not complaining. You don’t know what you’d call what's going on between you guys. You saw a TikTok a few weeks ago that said workplace crushes are only a thing because of the close proximity, but you don’t think that's the case.

Jason was a hard person to figure out. For starters, he is completely too attractive to be volunteering at a lousy shelter like this. Judging by the defined muscles on his arms you get a delicious view of when the air conditioning is on the fritz, you think he’d be more suited to be a superhero or a bodybuilder. He’s also very attractive. A sharp jaw, doey brown eyes and curly hair that falls over them softly. The little strand of white that peeks through the brown, and all six feet of him is too much for you to handle.

Jason was quiet at first. Not much of a talker, but luckily you could talk for the whole of Gotham, and he’d warmed up over time. He didn’t have much of a choice. Most of the other workers are either sixty and bored or sixteen and trying to fill out their Cvs with some work experience. You were the only person similar in age and had almost all the same shifts as him, too.

You’d ask him for help with extra rowdy animals, go on smoke breaks together. It was fun. You’re friends now, maybe something more. Nothing makes you laugh as much as his dry humour does, that little smirk he always gives you after making something flutter in your stomach.

Poppy barks loudly. Jason reaches down and scratches her behind her ears. She immediately goes limp, and you scowl.

“This dog. Why does she listen to you and not me?” You mope.

He wiggles sudsy fingers at you. “I have the magic touch.”

“Freak."

You turn on the water again and start hosing her down. Jason takes a pointed step backwards to avoid the spray. He’s leaning on the wall behind you, and he’s being absolutely no help as you slug your way through her last wash.

Once she’s washed and dried, you hand Jason the leash to put her back in her cage. You dry off your hands, the smell of the berry soap you guys use seeped into your skin.

“So,” Jason hums. “You wanna go on break?”

“I think the boss will kill us if we both leave at the same time again.”

Jason groans. “He’s not even here. It's just me, you and that old lady in today.”

You splutter a laugh. “Her name is Doris. And don’t call her that.”

“I’m not lying, she is old.”

Jason digs in his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. He shakes it in front of you and you bat him away. It’s a filthy habit you both have, and you’d have thought someone as athletic as him would be against it. He’s not though, evident by the expectant way he’s looking at you.

“Come on. I know you need it. I could see you seething from all the way over there.”

“What I need is new clothes.” Your wet shirt sticks to your skin, the breeze in the room cooling it quickly. You shiver a little.

You pout. “I can’t believe I have to be in this all day.”

You should have learnt by now, really. This isn’t the first time you’ve showered along with the animals.

In one swift motion, Jason pulls his hoodie off and over his head. You watch a little too intently as his shirt rides up, revealing the sharp outline of his stomach and his abs and his v line, before it unfortunately falls back down. He holds out the hoodie to you, running a hand through his hair to fix it.

“You don’t have to-”

“Just take it.”

You don’t need much convincing, so you do, a little smile creeping on your face. “Fine, fine. Turn around so I can change.”

Jason pouts. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you perv.”

He complies, and you quickly chuck your shirt off and pull on his hoodie. It’s warm and worn and it smells like him, and you sigh contentedly. Jason watches you with an amused sort of look on his face.

He shakes the cigarette in your face. “Now can we go?”

You bite your lip, looking back at the shop, contemplating his offer. It’s empty, to be fair. It’s twelve in the afternoon on a Tuesday, so slow is an understatement for the state of the shop right now. And Doris probably has it covered.

You snatch the cigarette out his hand and he flashes pearly white teeth at you. You both squeeze in the little alley behind the shop, passing the cigarette between the two of you. You make a horrible joke about the fact you guys are technically kissing, and Jason just rolls his eyes.

You look around aimlessly, until your eyes fall on a newspaper strewn on the floor. You tilt your head to read the title, and gasp a little.

“Hey, look.” You pick it up, ignoring Jason’s noise of disgust. “It’s about that Red hood guy.”

Jason stands a little straighter from where he had been leaning against the wall. He peers over you shoulder to see what you’re reading, but loses interest quickly.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Come on, it’s kinda cool. He’s out there saving the night while we wash dogs!”

Jason snorts. He lets the cigarette fall to the floor, crushing it with the back of his shoe.

The article is actually not painting Red Hood in a very positive light. They call him a vigilante, an anti-hero, condemning him for thinking he’s got a right to dish out justice how he sees fit. You read this all to Jason, who’s looking at you with a careful look on his face.

“They have a point.” He says. “What do you think?”

“I think I need that.”

His brows furrow in confusion, a laugh leaving his lips. “What?”

“I said I need that. Have you seen those abs?”

You hold up the newspaper to him. Even through the blurry image, clearly taken in haste, the built figure of this masked man is very visible. You jab your finger at it.

“They are literally protruding out of that suit. Hence, I need that.”

“You’re so-“

“Really. I could show Red Hood a very good time.”

“Okay.” The tips of Jason’s ears are a bright red, and you’re a little confused why all this talk has got him so flustered.

He must sense the fact you’re about to tease him for it, because he stands to his full height. “Come on, you perv. Stop creaming over Red hood and get back to work.”

“You brought me out here!”

————

Talking about showing Red hood a good time is all well and done until he’s standing right in front of you.

It’s your own fault, really. The sun sets too early, just as you finish work, and despite Jason’s insistence that he could drop you home, you assured him you’d be fine walking. You’d lived in Gotham your whole life. You knew how to walk home without getting mugged, even if it was too dark out.

Apparently not, judging by the knife being held towards your throat.

It’s later than you intended to stay out. You’d stopped by the grocery store to grab a few things for dinner, and the plastic bag slips from your hand and crashes against the floor. You’re regretting it now, seeing as you just wasted fifteen dollars on food you’re not even going to get to eat.

In all honesty, you’re scared. As much as you trying to not show that to the person in front of you, your hands are shaking and your chest feels tight. If you die in some dingy alley literally five minutes away from your house you’re going to be really fucking pissed.

He growls in a low tone for you to give him your wallet. Just as you’re about to comply to his demands, hands slowly reaching for your purse, he’s hit by something, or someone, as he goes careening into the dumpster beside you. Your mouth drops open a little, and your head turns so fast you think your neck might snap.

And there he is, in all his glory.

That shitty newspaper picture definitely did not do him justice. He’s tall, towering over you. He’s not looking at you, gaze trained on the man now slowly rising from the floor. His abs really do protrude out of his suit, and you’re glad you’re not the one on the receiving end of whatever the hell is about to happen. His hands, covered in leather black gloves, grip a gun with practised ease, and though you can’t see his face under that mask, you can feel how pissed he is.

The mugger seems to be smarter than he looks, because the second he looks at Red Hood and the barrel of his gun, he cowers, hands shaking as he holds them up.

“I’m- I’m sorry, man, Jesus!” He cries.

You scowl. Your confidence seeps back quickly with the vigilante standing beside you. “Why are you apologising to him? I’m the one you tried to mug!”

Red Hood makes a noise beside you that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

The flimsy covering on the mugger face has slipped off, and he looks young. Too young to be out holding people at knife point. You feel bad almost instantly, despite that fact he was the one about to stab you. You sigh irritably, digging in your purse. You pull out a twenty dollar bill. The kid looks confused and you tut, shaking it at him.

“Take it. Come on. And stop mugging people. Get a job.” You snap.

He still looks confused, but nobody is stupid enough to say no to free money. He takes it out of your hands carefully.

“Thanks.” He says it more like a question and you just usher him away.

He skitters off, giving you one last look. You mumble some choice words under your breath, digging in your purse for your phone. And that’s when you remember you’re not standing alone.

Your eyes flicker toward him. And he’s looking right at you. Of course, you think he is. His eyes aren’t visible, none of his face is. Your gaze also flickers to his exposed arms, the curl of his bicep and the material that is stretching over it.

“You can take a picture if you’d like.”

His voice is full of static, low and gravelly. It makes sense, you figure, to keep his identity a secret, which is why he sounds so robotic. He does sound sort of familiar, but you don’t dwell on that too much.

You laugh nervously, a furious blush spreading across your face. “No, that- That’s fine.”

“What are you doing out this late?”

You narrow your eyes at him a little. “Sorry, dad.”

He tilts his head. “Don’t get bratty with me. You’re the one who almost got mugged.”

“I-“ You ignore the heat that pools in your gut at his teasing tone, and try to look annoyed. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s is. Wouldn’t be if you’d gotten home earlier. Not a lot of people get mugged when it’s light out.”

You snort a laugh. “Yes they do. We’re in Gotham, in case you forgot.”

You kneel down to grab your fallen groceries, and he immediately does the same. You work in tandem and silence, quickly putting everything back. You get up with a heavy sigh.

“I should’ve taken that ride home.”

Red hood looks at you quizzically. Again, you think. You wish you could see his face. You wonder if he’s just as attractive without it on.

“My friend from work offered to drop me home,” you explain. “And I said no. Like an idiot.”

He nods slowly. He slips the bag out of your hand easily.

“Sounds like a good friend. Why’d you say no?”

He’s nosy, this anti-hero.

Truthfully, you were nervous. You won’t deny your crush on Jason, and you’re not sure how well you would have faired on the back of his motorcycle, hands wrapped around his waist and body pressed against his.

You struggle with what to say. You wonder how willing Red hood will be to give you relationship advice. “He’s..”

“You don’t like him?”

“No, I- I think I like him too much.” You mumble. “That, and his motorcycle is too scary.”

“Motorcycles are cool.” You think he’s pouting a little.

You giggle. “Sure, sure.”

Red Hood tells you he’s walking you home. He doesn’t offer, but instead waits until you start heading towards your flat so he can follow.

Gotham is never quiet. It’s one thing you love about the city. It’s always active, cars bustling down the streets or apartment lights on all hours into the night. Most people hate the noise, but you think it reminds you you’re alive.

It’s busy now. Nobody questions the man in red besides you because you don’t think any of them are brave enough to.

“Is it smart for me to show you where I live?” You wonder aloud.

Red hood makes an offended noise. “Hey. I’m not some supervillain.”

You laugh a little. “How am I supposed to know? You could be lying.”

“I don’t lie, princess.”

Princess. You smile a little weakly. “I hope not.”

He looks a little funny. This big strong man, guns hung on his waist, red suit glimmering under the street lamps, a Target bag swinging in his hands. You adjust your purse on your shoulder.

“The press isn’t a big fan of you, you know.” You say.

He hums. “Are you?”

“Am I the press?”

He shakes his head. “No. Are you not a big fan?”

Oh, you’re definitely a fan. But you don’t say that. You just give a shrug.

“I’m not sure. Think I’ll need to do some more digging.”

He makes a noise. “Digging? I saved you from a mugger and I’m walking you home.”

You hum thoughtfully. You’re getting closer to your place, and you’re a little disappointed. He’s nice company. And he smells good, too. Like something you know, but you can’t quite place.

“I suppose. You’re like a real life Robin Hood.”

The bag rustles as his hold on it tightens a little. He only nods once, curt, and you feel an urge to change the subject. Luckily, you don’t need to, because you’ve reached your block of flats. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s cheap enough that you can’t complain.

You turn to him. He holds out your groceries, and you take them with a soft thank you.

“So.” You say.

“So.” He replies.

“Thanks for saving me, Mr Hood.”

“No problem. Next time take that ride home.”

You nod. “I will.”

If you spend the rest of your night reading every article and Reddit forum about Red hood, nobody needs to know.

——

Jason has to try very, very hard not to laugh as you recount your encounter with Red Hood.

He wasn’t being a stalker, or being weird, he’d like to start with. He had business in town, and he’d gone home, changed into his uncomfortably tight uniform and instantly gone back out. It was just pure luck that Jason had stumbled across the poor woman with a knife held to her throat. He would’ve helped no matter who it was. But the second Jason saw you, eyes wide and fear plastered on your face, his body moved before he could even think.

If he’d have looked for a second, he would’ve been able to tell that the person mugging you was just some overzealous teenager. But he hadn’t, which is why he pushed him away from you hard enough to knock him into the dumpster behind him.

But you’d been kind. Given him money and ushered him along his way. And if Jason didn’t already love you, that would’ve been enough.

You’re sitting in front of him, legs crossed. You fiddle with the laces of your worn out docs as you watch him feed the litter of kittens they’d recently gotten into the shop. You’re trying to mask your jealousy as they all clamber in his lap, but you’re not doing it very well.

You sigh dreamily. “You should’ve seen him, Jason. So tall, and his voice was all deep and gravelly. And I was right!” You exclaim.

“About what?” He asks. One of the kitten mewls loudly and he scratches the back of his ear.

“His abs do protrude out of his suit.”

Jason laughs, and you grin. “You should be more careful. And I’m dropping you home today. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head quickly. “I’m not getting on that death machine of yours.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “First of all, shut up. Second of all, I have my car today.”

You dangle your fingers in front of the kittens. They paw at you, tiny claws catching on your skin. Jason thinks you look the prettiest like this, all worn out and soft after a long shift. The tiredness that gets to you both, and the final few hours of the day you get to just sit and talk.

He wonders how you’d react if he told you that he’s Red Hood. It had taken strength he didn’t know he had to not rip off his mask and take you in that alley right then and there, especially with how horribly you were hiding the fact you were blatantly checking him out.

You frown. “Shame. I was hoping to get mugged again so he could save me.”

“You need help.”

“From him, yeah.”

Jason rolls his eyes as you laugh loudly.

Jason likes you. He thinks he likes you too much, in a way that makes his heart ache like he’s never felt before. He doesn’t think he’s all that deserving of love, but when he’s with you, Jason likes to pretend that he is.

You both get up, placing the kittens back in their respective cages. You leave slowly, talking too much as you stuff your things in your locker and head out. You’ve still got his hoodie on. You haven’t offered to give it back yet and he doesn’t ask.

It’s only six as you both leave, and Jason wants to ask you to hang out. Not on a date, but. As friends. Or coworkers, whatever makes this not weird for you. Maybe to grab some food, or-

“Do you wanna get a bite to eat?” You suddenly speak up.

Jason isn’t exactly shy, but he is when it comes to romancing. He doesn’t want you to think he’s being too forward, but you never seem to share the same notion.

“I’m starving. And I’m really craving something greasy.” You hum, and he nods.

“Yeah, sure.”

“You’re paying, by the way.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Says who?”

“Says me. As your apology for hogging all the kittens today.”

You’re walking close to him. Close enough that your fingers ghost against each other as you swing your arms beside him. He wonders if you’d pull away if he held on.

“Not my fault they all love me, princess.”

Jason curses internally. He instantly sees the cogs turn in your head as you give him this look of something. He looks away too quickly, praying there’s no recognition in your gaze.

“You know, that’s what he called me!”

Jason nods, hoping the relief isn’t too obvious on his face. “Really?”

“God, he was flirting.” You almost whine, “Definitely. I’m going to tell the six o'clock news that Red Hood has a crush on me.”

Jason knows you’re joking, so it really is quite funny how accurate you really are. Instead, he just scoffs.

“Like he’d ever like you.”

“Don’t act jealous, Mr Todd. It’s unbefitting of you.”

—————————————————————————

guys.. Ik im always posting anime guys but dc.. Jason Todd he is my roots and I wanna take a bite of his big biceps

#dc recs

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simplymygojo · 1 month ago

Text

Hello everyone! We've noted that in the past few weeks there's been some issues with the reading list, as Tumblr seems to still not support pages on mobile (😔), so we decided to put the reading list in a carrd as well, in case that's more helpful. If there's any broken links or if it's hard to read, please let us know and we will change font, sizes, and more so everyone can use it ^_^

#dc red hood info

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simplymygojo · 2 months ago

Text

[Kimi ni Deatta Haru: 君に出会った春] The Spring I Met You [a diary series] - gojo satoru x reader

ᰔ series - [Kimi ni Deatta Haru: 君に出会った春] The Spring I Met You [A Diary Series] - gojo satoru x reader

ᰔ summary. at the start of your first year of high school, you meet gojo satoru — loud, insufferable, and impossible to ignore. what begins as pure annoyance slowly turns into a quiet spring love you never expected. a diary of written pages of your spring youth and the magic of your first (and only) love.

ᰔ genre/tags high school romance, fluff, angst/comfort, slowburn, coming-of-age, slice-of-life, canon events, marriage, growth, friendship, self discovery

menu: m.s.k q&a | request an entry | ko-fi

Chapter One: [まだ知らない君へ] To the You I Have Yet to Know

dear diary, new beginnings are loud ᰔ .ᐟ your entrance ceremony doesn't go as expected.. but sometimes the best stories start with a little chaos.

dear diary, cold wars and failed bravado ᰔ .ᐟ ignoring his existence should be easy enough.. after all, he's committed a grave sin. right?

dear diary, a silent prayer ᰔ .ᐟ during a mission that goes wrong, who do you call out for in order to save you?

dear diary, confessions confessions ᰔ .ᐟ to profess or to not confess? a cycle that plays on repeat until the thread finally snaps dear diary, witness me ᰔ .ᐟ in all his hurt, you will yourself to see him fully dear diary, when hope bleeds ᰔ .ᐟ his motionless body becomes a reminder of how fragile love can be dear diary, hear that? they call me ms. trouble ᰔ .ᐟ (18+) his cocky behavior has reached an all-time high, you're determined to make him flustered and putty in your hands

dear diary, december 7th is finally here ᰔ .ᐟ you're on a mission to make satoru's birthday a special one

ᰔ afterword 続き to be soon!

Chapter Two: Ai no Michi (愛の道) – The Path of Love

dear diary, forever yours (pending) the day he finally asked you to be his and the day forever began. (based on this idea - full oneshot soon.)

ᰔ afterword 続き to be soon!

#jjk tbr

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simplymygojo · 2 months 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

@wiserion @moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss

@raendarkfaerie @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee @amayaaaxx

@cristy-101 @bnbaochauuu @markliving @strawberryswtchblaxe @whytfisgojosohot

@bloodandnix @zanayaswrld @noble-17 @soapyaya @ethereal-moonlit

@beaniesayshi @etsuniiru @candyluvsboba @iglb12 @doobybopbop

@kamuihz @katsukiseyebrows @ezrazra @kalulakunundrum @torusbbg

#jjk recs

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simplymygojo · 2 months ago

Note

In your opinion, what are the best Red Hood/Jason Todd comics to read? Not really including RHaTO and Red Hood and Arsenal.

extremely subjective

Batman: Under the Red Hood (2005-2006)

Red Hood: The Lost Days (2010)

Green Arrow #69-72 (2007)

Countdown Presents: The Search for Ray Palmer (2008) /part of a bigger event that is probably necessary to understand the context/

Batman/Superman Annual #1 (2014)

Batman and Robin #32–37 (2014 - 2015)

Robin War (2015)

#dc red hood info

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simplymygojo · 2 months ago

Text

— ♡ my pretty neighbour.

PART 01.

PAIRING: jason todd x witch! reader

CONTENT WARNING: afab reader, blood, violence, alcohol, mention of assaults, more to be added.

CATEGORY: shit ton of fluff, no smut but suggestive themes, sfw, maybe angst?

SUMMARY: a witch trying her best to lay low and live her life, while being out of every gothams vigilante's radar. turns out red hood had been her neighbour all along. also they have cute little pets.

WC: 4k (ongoing)

A/N: another jason fic yep. i didn't really have a solid idea but i just really wanted to write something so.... enjoy!

part 01

dividers by @cursed-carmine

#dc tbr

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simplymygojo · 2 months ago

Text

remember when?

pairing — satoru gojo x reader

synopsis — while cleaning the attic, you stumble across photos of your husband from his school days.

wc — 5.2k

warnings — mentions of scars (au where satoru survives shinjuku showdown), angst but in the yearning way, so much fluff, husbandjo, domesticity, not proofread! i also made hc's behind some of the photos hehe

author's note — the new illustrations from the jjk movie completely broke me :( so i had to whip up a little something from the jjk fold of my brain.

It was just some random Tuesday, and your husband Satoru wasn’t due home until after six — something about looking over a pile of reports on rising cursed energy in the Kanto region. Even with Sukuna gone, chaos liked to linger.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist, like it always does when your mind drifts back to that winter two years ago. The Shinjuku showdown. You’d been convinced you’d lost him — his cursed energy disappeared, his body literally split in two. The moment still plays in your nightmares: the blood, the silence, your own voice screaming. You remember clutching his hand — or what was left of it — while Shoko fought to bring him back. And somehow, impossibly, she did.

He survived. Scarred, different, quieter in ways only you can read — but alive.

Sometimes you still wake up and run your fingers across the long scar that traces the soft skin of his abdomen, as if to confirm he’s really still here.

After that day, everything shifted. You left your role as a teacher at Jujutsu Tech — too much pain, too many memories, and honestly, too much peace. Not many cursed spirits dared show their faces anymore. These days, you exorcise a lingering curse here or there, but mostly? You spend your time being what Gojo Satoru once joked about during a late night walk back when you were still just colleagues: a housewife. A relaxed one at that — sans the apron clichés.

And truthfully? You don’t hate it.

Your house — the one Satoru picked out, of course — is enormous. It sits just outside of Tokyo, nestled high enough to offer sweeping views of the city skyline on one side and forested hills on the other. Wide windows. Sun-drenched walls. Room for both quiet and chaos. "A house that can hold all of our egos," he’d grinned when you moved in, but when he saw you spinning barefoot in the sunlit kitchen, he’d gone quiet. You’d looked over and seen it in his face: this is home.

You decide to clean the attic today. Partly because it’s been ages, partly because the place is a mess of dusty boxes and half-forgotten memories, and partly because you just want to surprise Satoru with something useful. Maybe you’ll find that old vinyl player he swears he didn’t lose.

You spend a solid hour sorting through stacks of cardboard — some labeled with scrawled handwriting (Nanami’s, definitely), others with faded Jujutsu Tech stickers. There’s a whole box of broken sunglasses you recognize immediately. Another of loose-grade mission reports that probably should’ve been shredded, like, a decade ago. You toss what you can into piles — keep, ask Satoru, burn before someone finds it — and you’re wiping sweat off your brow when you find it.

It's in a box labeled “JJT archives”, a thick, heavy book tucked beneath a pile of old uniforms and loose cursed tools wrapped in cloth. The cover is cracked leather, and there’s a faint, almost unreadable embossing on the spine.

It’s not labeled.

Curious, you tug it out, brush the dust from its cover, and flip it open.

Instantly, you realize what it is.

Photos. Dozens of them. Smiling, chaotic, deeply youthful energy practically radiating off the pages. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Shoko Ieiri. Haibara Yu. Kento Nanami. Their classmates, their mentors, the Tokyo branch in all its raw, messy, golden-era glory.

You blink, and your throat tightens. There’s a warmth in your chest — fond and aching all at once.

You close the book gently, your fingertips resting on the worn leather for a moment longer. This isn’t something you want to rush through alone.

You set it aside carefully, ready to go through it together when he gets home.

He always said he wanted to show you what he was like back then.

–

The front door clicks open at exactly 6:14 p.m.

You hear the familiar jangle of keys, the rustle of his coat as it hits the entryway hook, and then—

“Honeyyyyy,” Satoru’s voice calls out in that signature sing-song tone, the one you always say makes him sound like a bored housewife in a drama. “I’m hooooome and emotionally exhausted!”

You can’t help the smile that breaks over your face. “Kitchen,” you call back.

A beat later, you hear his footsteps pad across the wooden floor — not quite heavy, but still loud enough to announce his presence. He never really learned how to walk quietly. Maybe he just doesn’t want to.

He leans into the doorway like he’s posing for a magazine shoot, white hair tousled from the wind, shirt wrinkled from too many hours slouched at a desk. His jacket’s half-off one shoulder, and his blindfold’s gone — replaced by tinted glasses that slide slightly down his nose as he tilts his head at you.

“Whoa,” he says, deadpan. “Who’s that absolute beauty in my kitchen?”

You snort, stirring the sauce on the stove. “She’s married.”

“Lucky bastard,” he murmurs, crossing the room and slipping his arms around your waist from behind.

His body is warm — always — and it fits against yours like muscle memory. You feel the hard line of his chest, the loose way he rests his chin on your shoulder, the way his breath ghosts against your neck when he exhales like he’s finally safe again.

“Hey,” he says more quietly this time. “Missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.”

“Yeah,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “but that was twelve hours ago and I almost died again from boredom.”

You turn around and press a soft kiss to the spot just below his jaw. “You hungry?”

“Starving. For food and love. In that order, but barely.”

You flick his forehead and he pouts, but he lets go so you can plate the food.

Dinner is nothing fancy — rice, grilled fish, the sauce you were working on, a couple of side dishes you whipped up out of boredom. But Satoru reacts like you’ve served him a five-star meal, moaning dramatically with every bite.

“My beautiful, talented wife,” he groans, flopping sideways in his chair like he’s been slain by deliciousness. “You’re always spoiling me.”

“You spoil yourself,” you mutter, pouring him tea with the practiced grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times. “I saw your UberEats bill last week.”

“Hey,” he says, mouth still full of rice, “those were all emotionally necessary. There was a lot of paperwork. Such labor requires tiramisu.”

“Three separate orders in one day?”

“They were from different places. Variety is key to mental wellness.”

You shoot him a flat look as you sit back down. “Pretty sure buying four desserts doesn’t count as a balanced diet.”

“I got one of them for you.”

“No, you got it for you and said, ‘you can have half if you want.’”

“And you didn’t want it,” he points out smugly. “Which means it became mine by universal law.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. You always sit across from him — it’s become a quiet habit over time, a way to read his expressions even when he’s being dramatic. Like now, when he’s chewing with exaggerated slowness, eyes half-lidded like he’s in some kind of blissful trance.

Sometimes he nudges your foot under the table, tapping his toes against yours like a child trying to get attention without using words.

Other times, like tonight, you catch him staring mid-bite — not in a silly way, but in that strange, still quietness he gets sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. Like there’s a part of him that still can’t believe this is his life now: a warm dinner, soft light, your voice in the kitchen, no curses waiting around the corner.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you set down your chopsticks.

“Hmm?” He blinks, then smiles, and it’s all teeth and softness. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He kicks your shin lightly under the table. “Thinking about how I tricked the prettiest person in the world into marrying me.”

You scoff. “Yeah, still trying to figure that out myself.”

“Oh come on,” he groans, laughing, “at least let me pretend I’m a catch.”

“You are a catch,” you say, voice softer now, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Just… a really expensive one with terrible food delivery habits. And you hog the bathroom a lot.”

He grins and laces his fingers with yours. “I’ll take it.”

After dinner, he insists on helping with the cleanup, which mostly means he dries dishes while doing an elaborate stand-up routine with a tea towel slung over his shoulder like a bartender. You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you feel a cold splash hit your back.

You pause. Slowly turn.

He’s holding the sink hose, blinking innocently.

“…Did you just—?”

“Oh my god,” he gasps, “did someone get wet? That must’ve been a malfunction. Tragic, really.”

You squirt him back instantly. He lets out a squawk like a wet cat, and before long, the floor is a mess, one of you is definitely going to slip and die, and he’s trying to use his body as a shield while cackling like a maniac.

“I live with you,” you mutter, wiping water off your face.

“And what a gift that is,” he says grandly, leaning in to kiss your damp cheek, water droplets still clinging to his ivory eyelashes. “Totally worth the near-death experience.”

You shake your head, but let the moment linger, let him hold you there by the sink, his lips brushing against yours like a silent thanks.

Eventually, he drags you to the bathroom.

The shower is big — another Gojo-specific choice when you built the house. He said he needed “space to dance dramatically during hair-washing.” You hadn’t realized he meant it literally until you walked in one day to find him swaying under the water, humming some ballad with shampoo running down his face.

Tonight, though, it’s quiet.

You both strip down without fanfare. He steps in first, holding out a hand like a gentleman even though he’s already dripping wet. The steam fills the air as you join him, the water warm and soft as it runs over your skin.

You wash his hair, carefully, gently, nails scraping his scalp in slow circles. His eyes are closed the whole time, a rare expression of serenity on his face.

Next up is washing his body — an act you love a bit too much.

His hands are by his sides, water cascading down the large expanse of sinewed muscle and scarred skin. There's a glimpse of a jagged scar that runs diagonally across his collarbone — one of the many pale remnants of the battle that nearly ended everything.

Your fingers brush against it absently, and Satoru doesn’t flinch.

He never hides them anymore — the scars. They scatter across his body now: fine lines, brutal gashes, faded burns. A slash across his abdomen from where Sukuna’s curse split him in two. A jagged cut down his spine that he jokes looks like a zipper. An old puncture near his hip that Shoko sewed shut with her own hands, mumbling curses the whole time.

You’ve memorized each one. Some days you trace them like constellations. Some days he lets you.

He doesn’t talk, not much. Just stands there and lets you take care of him.

Later, he returns the favor — fingers combing through your hair, rinsing soap from your back, holding you steady with his large hands reverently roving across your body when you lean into him just a little too much.

When you’re both towelled off and dressed in pajamas (his: old Jujutsu Tech sweats and a faded tee; yours: one of his shirts and soft shorts), you crawl into bed.

He flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh, limbs sprawling everywhere. You make a sound of protest when his knee knocks into yours, and he just grins at you lazily.

“Can we watch that dumb baking show?” he asks, already pulling the blanket over the two of you.

“The one where they all sabotage each other?”

“Yes. It’s healing. Sorry that I said it was boring before.”

You roll your eyes but grab the remote anyway.

He shifts closer as the episode starts, arm sliding under your neck to pull you in. Your head rests against his chest, and you listen to the steady thrum of his heart, strong and sure beneath old wounds.

“Comfy?” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Good. Stay right there. I had a long day of being the strongest and I need my beautiful wife.”

You laugh into his shirt.

This — the warmth, the closeness, the scent of his skin mixed with soap — this is the part no one sees. Not the world, not his students, not the remnants of the Jujutsu world that still whisper his name like a myth. Just you. Just him.

The baking show is halfway through an episode. Some poor contestant has just dropped their chiffon cake while another is sabotaging the whipped cream station. You’re tucked under the covers, your head resting on Satoru’s shoulder while his arm holds you close, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair. The glow of the TV casts soft light over the room, flickering across the ceiling in pale pastel hues.

You’re warm. Safe. Your husband smells like your shampoo, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest is starting to lull you into that lovely, sleepy post-dinner haze.

But then — like a light flicking on in your brain — you remember.

“Oh!” you sit up suddenly, disrupting the blankets and causing Satoru to yelp, “I almost forgot. I cleaned the attic today.”

He groans like you’ve just committed a war crime. “Babe… why would you voluntarily enter the attic. That’s the one part of this house I refuse to enter.”

You ignore him, already swinging your legs off the bed. “No, listen — I found something. I think you’ll really like it.”

He props himself up on one elbow, squinting through his glasses. “Oh? What is it? Old love letters from your angsty high school boyfriend?”

“You mean the one who cried when he found out I liked Gojo Satoru more than him?” you smirk, heading toward the walk-in closet. “Yeah, no.”

You pad barefoot across the room and slide open the double doors. The closet is huge — because of course it is. Satoru insisted on custom shelving, backlighting, and enough hanging space for what he called his “seasonal drip.” But your things have taken over half of it by now, neatly folded sweaters, coats, your woven baskets for accessories. You had tucked the book on the upper shelf earlier after finishing the attic, too tired to sort through it just yet.

It takes a second of rummaging, but you find it: a thick, heavy photo album with a fabric cover that’s fraying slightly at the edges. You had found it in a box labeled with faded marker: JJT Archives.

As you walk back into the bedroom, Satoru’s sprawled on the bed like a lazy cat, hair wild, blanket pushed down to his waist. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the album.

“Oh? What’s this, a cursed object?”

You roll your eyes, climbing back in beside him.

He smacks your butt lightly as you settle under the covers again.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he grins. “You turned your back on me. That’s an invitation.”

You elbow him in the ribs, but you're smiling. “Figured we could look at it together. I think it’s a photo album of sorts.”

His expression softens instantly. “Yeah? Alright. Let’s see what kind of damage my past self got up to.”

You flip the cover open.

The first photo is grainy and a little off-center — a picture of him and Suguru pulling exaggerated faces at the camera, their expressions wild, faces contorted in a weird expression. Satoru snorts.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “Look at us. I told him I’d look better than him if we both pulled a dumb face.”

You study the image closely. Suguru’s hair is tied up, not unlike most of the photos you’ve seen of him, which were during his time as a wanted criminal.

Satoru’s laugh fades into something quieter.

“That was my old phone. Shoko looked at this picture and said we looked ‘ugly enough to preserve for future generations.’”

The next is a selfie — Satoru smiling into the camera in his black sunglasses, unlike the round ones he wears to protect his sensitive eyes. Suguru is beside him with sunglasses, and Nanami just barely in frame, scowling at the lens like he’s half being forced at gunpoint to participate and half wanting to do it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, amused. “Kento looks so cute. His hairstyle… He definitely had an emo phase.”

“Because he was,” Satoru grins. “And he did have an emo phase. The amount of Visual Kei he listened to… We made him go shopping with us in Harajuku that day. Got the sunnies as a treat for doing well on the mission. And because they were on sale.”

You both laugh, the warmth lingering even as the sound fades. You flip the page.

This one’s softer: Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru sitting at a dinner table at someone’s house, a dinner spread between them — looks very much like homemade food. It’s candid. Suguru’s laughing at something and posing with a peace sign. Shoko’s mid-clap, mouth open in laughter. Nanami looks slightly more relaxed than usual, a peace sign on his fingers too. Satoru’s grinning widely, and your heart melts at how lively his smile used to be when he was a teen.

“That was Shoko’s family house,” Satoru murmurs. “She invited us over after a mission. She lived nearby. We just… stayed. Slept in her living room. Talked until like, three in the morning.”

“She really was part of your trio, wasn’t she?” you say softly.

He nods. “Yeah. People always think it was just me and Suguru. But Shoko was there too. She was always there. Holding us together.”

You flip to the next: the entrance ceremony.

A selfie again — this time it looks like Shoko’s doing. They're all grinning like idiots. Principal Yaga is in a corner. Suguru is holding up a peace sign. Shoko’s teeth are out as she grins. Satoru, front and center, is glowing with the kind of cocky, pure-hearted energy only youth can give you, throwing a thumbs up, rounded glasses slipping down his nose.

“Your smile is so big in these, sweetheart. You look beautiful when you smile,” you say softly.

Satoru presses a kiss to your neck in quiet thanks, arm coming around your waist as you both continue flipping through the album.

The next photo is pure chaos: Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara standing in the bathroom mirror, toothbrushes in their mouths. Looks like they were having a sleepover of some sort.

You let out a startled laugh.

“Oh my god, you guys are so cute. Was it a sleepover?”

“It was,” Satoru says. “Haibara had to practically force Nanami to come. Too bad Shoko and Utahime couldn’t come. For some reason, dorm restrictions were actually quite strict — not that we’d ever do anything like that. We were like a family.”

You laugh, squeezing his knee under the blankets.

You keep going.

A photo of Suguru with his hair mussed, smiling into the camera like he doesn’t know it’s pointed at him. It's intimate — the angle low, soft light filtering in.

Satoru's voice drops. “I took that. We’d just woken up from a nap in the common room. He hated being caught without brushing his hair, but… he let me keep it. He never had a bad hair day, you know? Was always so particular about it. Only used a specific shampoo that he said his mother would buy for him in the countryside.”

He goes quiet for a long moment, hand flexing slightly on the luminescent film of the album page.

“He really loved his mom.”

You rest your cheek against his arm.

There’s a photo of Shoko tying her Converse, crouched down, her fingers deft and focused. It's an ordinary moment — a cute smile on her face — but something about it feels lived-in. Real.

“Shoko loved this pair,” he chuckles. “She wore them to annoy the elders. They claimed proper shoes were needed if we were to go on missions.”

You grin. “Respect.”

The next is crowded: all of them standing outside a classroom door. Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, Haibara, and Satoru — shoulder to shoulder, smiling like they’re just normal teenagers, not the weapons the Jujutsu world molded them into.

The key highlight of the photo is Satoru’s arms are around Suguru and he has this big, goofy smile on his lips.

“I can’t believe they’re all…” you trail off.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away.

You glance up.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are wet.

“They were… good. All of them,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper. “They should’ve had more time.”

You nod, curling into his side.

Another photo makes you both pause. It's taken from behind: Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko in matching red soccer jerseys, standing on a field. They're holding up peace signs with their backs to the camera. You can almost hear their laughter, imagine the mud on their shoes, the heat of the sun.

You run your hand down the page.

You flip through more: snapshots of their friend group — sleeping, on trips, in classrooms, in ceremonies. Candid, fleeting, young.

And then — the final ones: close-ups of Suguru.

Photos taken with quiet intention. One where he's clearly caught off guard. One where he's looking out from the bridge. Another where his back is to the camera and he has a small bear keychain on his bag. The sight makes your stomach clench.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does Satoru.

The weight of the past settles thick in the room, like dust stirred from an old shelf. The baking show continues on in the background — a contestant shouting about a collapsed ganache — but it feels distant. Muted. Like it belongs to someone else’s life.

Your hand finds his where it’s resting on the bedspread. His fingers twitch, then curl slowly around yours.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet in that particular way he gets when he’s fighting to stay intact — jaw locked, mouth set, shoulders wound tight with grief. His eyes are glassy, tracking the same photo over and over, like he’s trying to memorize it before it disappears.

Nanami with his dumb emo haircut. His peace signs. Haibara’s joy, how young he looked when he laughed. Suguru’s sleepy, messy hair. That crooked smile. The ghost of laughter in his eyes.

It’s rare to see Satoru this still. Not just physically — but inside. No quip. No grin. Just silence, and the slow breathing of someone on the edge of something sharp.

“I used to think,” he says eventually, voice hoarse, “that we’d grow old together.”

You don’t interrupt. You let the words come, raw and aching.

“Me, Suguru, Shoko,” he murmurs. “Nanami and Haibara. I pictured it sometimes. Thought we’d be old and bitter and still calling each other dumbasses over desserts. Thought maybe… maybe we’d all be able to come back from the shit we did. Thought we’d last”.

He pauses, taking in a deep breath.

“Thought I could save him.”

Your thumb strokes his knuckles.

He blinks fast. Swallows hard.

“I see these pictures and I—I forget he’s gone. Just for a second. And then it hits me all over again. Every fucking time.”

You press your forehead gently to his shoulder. “He was your best friend.”

A hollow laugh escapes him. It sounds like it hurts. “He was everything. The only person who ever really… got me. Not the strongest. Not Gojo Satoru. Just… me.”

You wait.

You let the silence stretch — thick, aching, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“I hate that I still miss him,” Satoru finally says, voice raw. “I hate that he left. I hate that I couldn’t stop him. But I miss him. Every day. Like an ache in my ribs I forget about until I breathe too deep.”

You turn toward him, hand still wrapped in his. He looks like he’s trying to hold himself together with nothing but willpower — a man who’s used to keeping the world up with one hand, now struggling just to hold his own heart in place.

“I miss him too,” you whisper. “I never even met him — but with the way you talk about him, I miss him too. I miss him for what he meant to you. For who he must’ve been, to leave this much of a mark.”

His breath falters. A quiet shudder works through him. You lean up and kiss his cheek, slow and steady, then press another to his temple, just where his hair is growing back in, short and soft. He leans into it, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded — like he’s been brittle for a while now and you’re the only thing keeping him from cracking open.

“He would’ve loved this house,” he murmurs, voice thick. “He’d pretend it was too flashy. Say I was compensating for something. But then he’d steal all the good tea and claim it was just to humble me.”

You smile gently, warm against the side of his face. “Well. You do have terrible spending habits.”

That gets a sound out of him — a real laugh, shaky and low in his chest. He presses his forehead to yours.

“He’d have hated the mirror in our bathroom.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, the faintest curve to his lips. “Would’ve said it makes me look even more insufferable than usual.”

You laugh. “To be fair, you are insufferable.”

“Mm. Don’t forget stunning.”

“Of course,” you breathe. “That’s a given. My beautiful, insufferable husband.”

You kiss away some of the tears that have fallen down his pale, scared face, wiping away the tracks as you pull back.

The silence settles again, softer this time. You tug the blanket higher over both of you. His thumb is rubbing slow circles against the back of your hand now — absent, but insistent. Like he’s anchoring himself to you, to this moment, to anything that won’t vanish like the rest.

You watch his face, watch the way his expression drifts somewhere far away and comes back a little more worn every time. A man standing in the ruins of his past, trying to build something worth living in.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He turns, only slightly. But it’s enough. His eyes find yours — wide, blue, shining a little too much even in the low light. You see everything there. The love, the grief, the guilt, the ache. The part of him that never really left that bridge. That battlefield. That moment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s seeing the future and the past crash into each other in the shape of your smile.

And then, after a long beat:

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

His hand lifts — trembling just faintly — and he cups your cheek. His thumb swipes gently across your skin, reverent. Then he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and careful, like he’s sealing something sacred inside you. A promise. A memory. A hope.

The baking show buzzes quietly in the background, someone yelling about a collapsed meringue, the absurdity of it all somehow making it feel more real — more here. More now.

Grief still sits in the room, thick like fog, but it no longer feels unbearable. It lingers, yes, but it’s softened at the edges by something gentler. Something like love. Something like healing.

You curl back into him, resting your head against his chest. His hand comes up to cradle your back without thinking. His heartbeat drums steadily beneath your ear — a rhythm that tells you he’s still here. Still trying. Still holding on.

You hold each other in that silence. In that ache. And in the quiet miracle of still being able to love, even when it hurts.

You close the album gently, smoothing your hand over the cover like it’s sacred. And maybe it is. The only reliquary you have left of those years — of who he was, of who they all were, when the world was still a little less cruel.

Satoru shifts a little closer, nosing into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to burrow into the safest place he knows. His hand finds your waist beneath the covers and rests there, thumb absently stroking small circles against your skin.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Mm?”

“Do you think we’ll still be like this when we’re old? All wrinkly and stubborn and falling asleep at nine?”

You smile into the dark. “We already fall asleep at nine.”

He laughs — a soft, sleepy sound. “Okay, fair. But I mean like… old-old. Like, arguing about soup and forgetting where we put our keys kind of old.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, hair messy and soft and just barely starting to silver at the edges. You think about him with deeper lines around his eyes, laugh lines etched into his skin from years of grinning too wide.

“I think we’ll be annoying,” you say.

“Hell yeah.”

“Annoying and still obsessed with each other.”

“Obviously.”

“Still holding hands in public and making waiters uncomfortable.”

“I plan on kissing you in every checkout line we ever stand in,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to your shoulder to prove it.

You laugh softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love that about me.”

You turn in his arms until you’re face to face. His eyes are warm in the dim light, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I do,” you murmur. “I love everything about you.”

He leans in, kisses you — slow and unhurried. Not out of need, but out of affection. Out of something deeper. His hand cradles your jaw as he does it again, then again, softer each time, like he’s trying to say things he doesn’t have words for.

You kiss him back, just as slow.

He pulls back only slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“I want it all with you,” he says. “The boring parts. The little arguments. Taxes. Grocery lists and laundry days and late-night walks when we can’t sleep. All of it. I want to grow old with you.”

Your throat tightens, but not from grief this time. From something tender. Something whole.

“You have me,” you whisper. “For as long as we both get.”

He kisses you again, this time on your nose. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Then your lips again, just because he can.

Eventually, you settle into the silence, warm and safe under the covers, his arm around your waist and your head tucked beneath his chin. His breathing evens out first, deep and steady, but his hold on you never loosens.

You stay awake a little longer, just watching him. Memorizing the curve of his mouth, the softness in his face, the way he looks at peace when he’s finally, finally allowed to rest.

And before you let yourself drift too, you whisper it one last time, just to be sure he hears it — even if he’s already asleep.

“I’ll love you when we’re old. And after that, too.”

And in his sleep, Satoru smiles.

u guys i'm genuinely sooo devastated over jjk it isnt funny i cried to sleep the other night thinking abt satoru :)

#jjk recs

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simplymygojo · 2 months ago

Text

Batfamily Masterlist

Non-Reader Inserts:

Those Who Fall To Fill Positions

Crimes Against The Batfamily

In His Time Of Need

Accepting What Cannot Be Handled

Virtue Of A Father’s Patience

How Rare And Beautiful It Is That We Exist

Tangible Comfort

Behind In Their Wakes

Beacons Of Hope

The Former Reflections

In The Moments Of Our Weakness

Embodiments Of Justice

This City’s Gonna Break My Heart

Let Me Breakdown

So That He Wouldn’t

To Bake A Butler A Cake

An Unexpected Friendship, But A Friendship Nonetheless

Reader-Insert HC/Blurbs:

Date Nights Are The Best Nights

All The Small Things…That Show How Incredibly Pissed She Is

Dancing With Danger

Batmom Stories:

Keep reading

#dc tbr

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simplymygojo · 2 months ago

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will you hold me instead, and tell me that it's over now?

i look forward to a little me and you, so now i hope that you don't tell me that it's over

or; patching jason up after an intense mission [2.1k]

jason todd x fem!reader; angst/fluff; brief mentions of human trafficking and allusion to murder (he's talking about how the mission went); mention of his scars; jason being insecure & thinking he's not good enough😞; description of injuries and the first aid applied to them (please do not take anything as actual medical advice); this is me hard-launching my physical touch x touch starved!jason agenda

You don’t know how early it is when you hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, just that it’s too early. It’s not like you could sleep anyway; you spent the night drifting in and out of semi-consciousness, too worried to let yourself relax. You always got like this when Jason went away on missions. Several days, and sometimes even weeks, spent anxiously anticipating the state in which he would return home—you haven’t been able to get a manicure since before you met him.

You’re still a little delirious when a hand ghosts up your arm, stirring you from your half-sleep. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room and register the sight in front of you. Your boyfriend is on one knee on the floor in front of you, brushing strands of hair out of your face with endearing eyes.

“There she is,” he says when you lift your head off the pillow and reach out to him. He catches your hand and kisses your fingertips, spreading a warmth up your arm that combats the midnight chill. You push yourself up to a sitting position, and he takes the opportunity to cup his hands around your face and bring you in for a kiss.

“Missed you,” you mumble against him, and his lips curve upwards against yours.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.” His mouth travels up from yours towards your temple, leaving a path of gentle kisses in his wake. Your palms, pressed flat against his chest, slide up to loop around his neck. He tenses, choking back a strained grunt. But you catch it.

You pull back abruptly. “Are you hurt?” Your eyes frantically dart around, scanning his entire body. Now fully alert, you reach over to the bedside table and switch the lamp on.

“’s just a bruise, baby, I’m fine.” A hand comes up to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. But with newly unobstructed vision, you can see more than just a bruise. He has a busted lip, a shallow gash on his temple, and splotches of purple and red peeking out of his shirt collar.

“You’re bleeding, Jason,” you chastise him, getting up off the bed.

He stands alongside you with a huff. “It’s nothing,” he sighs. “Doesn’t even hurt.” But when you take his hand and start pulling him to the bathroom, he follows without argument. You lead Jason to sit down on the edge of the tub and fetch the first aid kit from under the sink, setting it down next to him on the bathtub ledge. You stand between his legs, your positions making you a half-head taller than him. He gazes up at you and for the first time tonight, you notice how dark and deep the skin under his eyes is.

“Off,” you order, dragging up the hem of his shirt. He helps you pull it off, wincing when it requires him to lift his bruised arm.

“Someone’s eager,” he muses, raising his eyebrows in a teasing manner. It earns him a swat on the arm; he grunts loudly and doubles over in pain.

You gasp. “Oh my god! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I—”

But when he looks up, it’s with a coy smirk and a twinkle in his eye. You swat him again.

“Asshole,” you mutter, but you can’t help the slight twitch at the corner of your lips. “Why didn’t you take care of this earlier? Alfred wasn’t at the manor to help you?”

He shrugs his good shoulder. “Don’t know. Came straight here.”

“Did you tell anyone where you were going?” You ask.

He looks at you blankly, as if to say, don’t you know who you’re talking to?

You sigh, exasperated. “You shouldn’t have done that, Jason. What if ended up becoming serious? And you didn’t make it here in time? What if—”

He interrupts your doom spiral by pressing a finger to your lips. “I know, honey, I’m sorry. But I wanted to see you.”

You sigh. There’s a sadness to it, one that comes from familiarity with the fact that he does not care for himself as much as he should—as much as he deserves. But there are no words to make him believe that you haven’t tried, so all you do is lean your forehead against his, hoping he can hear what you're not saying. You need him to hear you.

“You’re not sorry,” you whisper.

“No, I’m not,” he whispers back.

You start with his shoulder, which is decidedly not ‘just a bruise,’ but rather several bruises, all clumped together to form one giant Franken-bruise which covers his entire shoulder. It gets rubbed with ointment and you’re not sure who it pains more, because while you’re spilling out frantic apologies as you try to speed through it, Jason is white-knuckling the edge of the tub with a wad of gauze between his teeth.

His lip doesn’t require any medical attention, but he insists you kiss it better anyway, and who are you to deny him?

You tend to his temple last, but he’s antsy now. His leg bounces up and down, one hand is drumming its fingers on the tub, and the other is fiddling with the loose threads that hang from the hem of your shirt; you have to scold him into sitting still.

“Where’s the dermabond?” You ask, sifting through the contents of the first aid kid.

“Used it up last month, remember? After you just had to feed that fuckin’ squirrel.” His voice is gruff at the recollection. “Should be a new pack under the sink.”

You fetch the new box, picking at the plastic wrapping. “Can you blame me? He was so cute.”

“Yeah, was. Until that greedy fucker decided he wanted the whole picnic.” Jason sees you struggling with the plastic covering and takes it from you, breaks it open, then hands it back. “Bastard.”

You giggle. “You know, you could’ve just let him have the cupcake. It wasn’t worth risking rabies for.” You fish out the glass tube of surgical glue, tossing its cardboard box aside.

“‘Course it was. My girl wanted red velvet, she should get her red velvet.” Jason’s hands finally rest on the backs of your bare thighs, squeezing them lightly. He grins when that makes you let out a little squeak.

You roll your eyes, though there’s a warmth flowing in your veins that courses from the tips of your ears to the bottom of your feet. “My hero,” you muse with a smile.

There’s a pause. Then:

“I’m not a hero,” he responds. His tone is still light, but his eyes feel far away.

You start to clean the blood from the wound, which has since clotted and dried, with a saline-soaked cotton pad. He stares at you while you clean and then close the cut with the glue. And when you finish, supplies set aside and glue cured, he’s still staring. His eyes are traveling all over your face, taking in each feature, committing every ridge, every angle, every pore, every freckle to memory. The light-hearted teasing demeanor from mere moments ago is long gone. You're a deer caught in emerald headlights.

You recognize this shift. You noticed hints of it since he arrived home, but assumed it was just due to the pain. Now it’s obvious that there’s more. It’s the same shift that comes when the news becomes a circus, or when he stares at his scars in the mirror for too long.

His hands slide up your body slowly, reverently. One stops at your waist while the other continues, blazing a trail up your ribcage, over the side of your breast. He pauses at your shoulder for a split second, squeezing the flesh every so gently before continuing up your neck. His thumb drags across your collarbone, brushing against the spot that always lights up your senses and parts your lips in a breathy sigh. He stops when he reaches your face. He cups your cheek. Your hand covers his and you lean into his hold, the stroke of your small, soft fingers juxtaposing the rough callouses of his knuckles. You stay here for a moment before turning to press your lips to his palm once, twice, thrice, four times, each one lingering a little longer than the last.

“What is it, Jason?” Your hands come to cradle his neck before dragging up to his hair, and his move to wrap around your torso and pull you closer into him. You place a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Hmm?”

“I’m not a hero,” he says again, softer.

“Jay,” you whisper. “You know that’s not true.”

He says nothing, only heaving a heavy sigh and burying his face into the crook of your neck. You’re content to stand like this, to simply hold him and graze your nails against his scalp for as long as he needs while he inhales the comforting scent of your skin.

After what could have been one minute or twenty, he pulls back to look up at you. He looks exhausted. “It was a human trafficking case,” he says. “They knew we were closing in on ‘em, so we had to act fast. They were…trying to…” He trails off, unsure how to put it in words delicate enough to spare you. He breaks eye contact. “Destroy the evidence,” he finishes.

You don’t respond. Despite the heavy silence that follows this admission, you know he’s not done. It takes another several minutes of stroking fingers and feather-light hairline kisses to coax it out of him.

“There was a woman. She…we didn’t—“ His voice cracks. “I didn’t get there in time.”

“Oh, honey.” You run your palm over his forehead, pushing back his thick waves. His eyelids slide down over glassy irises as he sinks into your touch. You lean down to press your lips to his forehead. “You know that’s not your fault,” you whisper. He shakes his head, eyes still closed.

“But if I’d just—”

“No, Jason.” You grip his face between your palms. He opens his eyes at the sudden sternness. “But nothing. You did everything you possibly could—”

“You don’t know that,” he interrupts.

“I do know that. I know because you are always doing everything you can. For me, and for everyone in this city. And I know that it wasn’t just you on that mission. Do you blame anyone else for what happened?”

He says nothing, but his eyes are welling with tears.

“You saved so many other people, Jason. You are a hero, and you know that. You have to know that.” Some of his tears spill over, but you brush your thumbs across his cheeks and kiss them away.

He pulls you onto his lap so your legs are straddled over his and rests his head against your sternum. His arms squeeze impossibly tight around your waist, but you don’t say anything. When his shoulders tremble and you feel the dampness on the front of your shirt, you still don’t say anything. And when he places a hand on the back of your head to pull you in for a hard, searing kiss that leaves you both breathless, you don’t say anything. You just look at him, at how pretty he is, and hope that he can hear you.

The sounds of buzzing echo in from the next room. To your dismay, he turns away, towards the direction of your phones. “I should get that,” he says. His voice is hollow. “It’s probably the bats wanting to know where I am. They’ll send a search party if I don’t check in.”

He’s about to move you off his lap, but you stop him. “In a minute, Jay.”

Jason’s forehead crinkles. You use your thumb to smooth it out.

“Please?” You breathe out. “Just let me look at you a little longer. I love looking at you.”

He relaxes back into his seat. And you keep looking at him. At his beautifully rosy cheeks and shining eyes, his puffed lips. The scar that runs diagonally down his slightly crooked nose.

It’s dawn now; the tangerine beginnings of sunrise elicit a soft glow that spills through the window. Jason takes it all in. The two of you together in the home you share, arms around each other, your face all honeyed and beautiful in the light.

And you know he can hear you.

love when you guys leave messages/feedback it really brightens up my day<3

divider is from here

#dc recs

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simplymygojo · 2 months ago

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THE STRANGER ON LINE 4 — SATORU GOJO

pairing — ceo!satoru gojo x artist!reader

summary — for 713 days, you've been sketching strangers on your morning commute, giving away portraits to brighten their day. when a missed train puts you on an unfamiliar route, you draw a white-haired man who's impossible to ignore. you think you'll never see him again—until he plasters half of tokyo with posters trying to find you.

word count — 16.4 k

genre/tags — modern AU, ceo x artist, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, soft romance, fluff, so much fluff, banter, provider!satoru gojo bc goddamn yes & him being a very dramatic puppy in love, misunderstandings

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, brief mention of financial stress and reference to past cheating experience.

author's note — put on your favorite taylor swift playlist and get cozy for the fluff. i squeeeezed every tiny bit of fluff that i have out of my heart into this. side note, the idea came to me after seeing a tiktok of someone handing out sketches on a train hehe. hope it makes you smile <3

masterlist + support my writing + artwork by @3-aem

Your alarm goes off at exactly 5:45 AM, the same time it has for the past three years. You silence it with a tap (or try, anyway) and slip out from under your warm blankets before the urge to just stay there and call in sick becomes too stong to withstand it.

Your small one-bedroom apartment is quiet, save for the distant early morning traffic of the city outside your window and your groaning as you make your way to the bathroom.

Your morning routine was more muscle memory than anything other at this hour. Shower (seven minutes), hair (five minutes, more or less), makeup (eight minutes), and outfit—already sorted from last night (smart you)—coffee and an avocado toast.

By 6:30, you’re checking your bag if you’ve got everything: laptop, planner, phone charger, and most importantly, your sketchbook—a simple Moleskine with cream-colored pages that are perfect for graphite—and a few spare pencils.

You flipped open to a new page in your sketchbook and wrote “Day 713.” Tomorrow’s entry would be 714.

You’d been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer.

Surprised. Delighted.

“Is this me?” he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.

You had simply nodded.

The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in you—a sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.

Maybe it was cheesy, but you didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.

As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.

Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:

Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.

Great. Just what you needed.

Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And you’d never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep.

Panic started to bubble.

“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”

Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes?

Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up.

Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.

Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smell—less lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.

Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them.

But then you saw him.

He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.

He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didn’t read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.

His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it like—well, like he wasn’t trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.

Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between one’s ribs didn’t bother him.

You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class.

After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.

You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easy—walk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.

What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What if—

The train began to slow. Now or never.

You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.

“Excuse me,” you said.

He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like you’d just stepped into sunlight.

“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.

For a second, he didn’t react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.

Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile.

“A drawing? Of me?”

His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.

“You’re very talented.”

...Huh?

You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.

You. Are. Very. Talented.

The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.

Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh god—the presentation.

“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”

“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.

“I hope you like it!” you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.

It wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.

It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.

You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. You’d never see that man again.

Or so you think.

Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.

And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the background—a fleeting moment in a city full of them.

Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.

Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. You’d made her day, she said.

Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.

A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morning’s sketch—an older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else… something like recognition.

“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”

But then it hit you.

You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?

There was only one person it could be.

The stranger from Line 4.

After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.

The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.

There, on a pillar near the platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:

LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST

Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? I’d like to thank you properly.

Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?

You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did “thank you properly” even mean?

You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow.

On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you.

What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering… and also a little unsettling.

You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.

This was ridiculous. You didn’t know anything about him—other than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?

You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.

Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if you’d imagined it.

The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasn’t just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST

Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.

Hanami Restaurant, Central District

You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god.

He was a stalker.

Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know?

But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.

“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”

You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.

“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”

You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest.

This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldn’t be possible.

You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking?

The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened.

But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?

You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.

My God.

What had you started?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.

You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.

You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock.

7:30.

7:45.

8:00.

He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.

8:15.

8:30.

Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.

9:00.

Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.

You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.

Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you.

And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.

Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.

On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.

By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.

Another poster. But this one looked different.

As the train slowed, you could make out your sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers?

You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.

You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someone—him, obviously—had added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.

And below, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDN’T COME TO DINNER

I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d still like to meet you.

Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.

Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.

Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.

“Is that about you?”

You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadn’t even noticed her step off.

“What? No, I—”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”

Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”

“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.

“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.

“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”

A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.

“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours.

Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.

Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries.

Either way, you had a decision to make.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there.

You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadn’t called it. Yet.

By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision.

The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.

It rang once. Then—

“Hello?”

That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.

“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”

“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”

“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”

“I thought they were romantic?”

“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”

“Are you?”

You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“I’m Satoru, by the way.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.

He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. You’d heard it a million times before.

But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.

“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”

“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”

You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.

It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.

Totally normal.

Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.

“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”

“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”

You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at something—or better said, someone.

And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.

He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.

When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”

“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”

And then you saw the flowers.

Correction: you saw the flowers.

He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.

Every head in the lobby turned toward you.

Great. Just fucking great.

You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.

“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Satoru had suggested a café not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than… his face.

People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps he’s used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.

Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didn’t recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline and—

Wait.

Holding hands?

Why were you even thinking about holding hands?

He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—

You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.

Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.

A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet café, staring hard at a menu you’d already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.

You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently.

Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”

“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”

“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”

He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”

“Oh really?”

His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”

“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”

He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”

“And? Verdict so far?”

“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”

Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.

“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.

“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”

“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”

“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She gave a polite bow before heading back.

You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.

“Okay. What was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”

Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”

You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”

“I come here a lot.”

“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”

He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.

“Fair point.”

The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”

“I suppose because I am someone important”

“What does that mean?”

“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”

You stared at him. Blankly.

“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.

Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”

“So this building—?”

“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”

“Which is why they know your usual.”

He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”

“So when you were on that train…”

“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”

“A practical billionaire. How novel.”

“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”

“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.

“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”

You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.

“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”

“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”

You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation.

“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”

“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”

“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”

“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”

Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.

“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”

“Is that a yes?”

You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”

“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”

You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”

Stupid, handsome man. “I hate you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you?

You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that.

You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.

Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.

Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”

You nodded, reluctantly.

“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”

“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.

She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”

Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.

That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more.

The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You kept up your morning ritual—train sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.

The business card moved again—from your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.

And then, life—as it so often does—made the decision for you.

It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two months’ rent.

That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.

Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”

The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.

Offices like this weren’t meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.

“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.

“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”

“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”

“I’m not most clients.”

“Clearly.”

He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun.

You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.

“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”

His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.

“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”

Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”

“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”

“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”

Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.

“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”

You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”

“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”

“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”

His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”

“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.

“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You approached the window where he stood.

“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”

You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”

“May I?”

Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.

“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”

Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”

“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”

His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”

“You’re the stalker here.”

“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”

“Let’s talk numbers first.”

“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.

You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.

“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.

His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”

“I’m quite an artist.”

“That’s already well above—”

You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”

You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”

Satoru blinked. “Wait—”

You took another step.

“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”

“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”

Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”

“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”

“We can go over those in an email.”

“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”

You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.

“I don’t.”

“Then it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”

“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”

“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”

“Not for everyone.”

“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”

“McDonald’s exists.”

“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”

“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”

“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”

You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”

“What would give you that impression?”

“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”

“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”

“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”

“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”

“It is at my company.”

“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”

You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”

He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.

“If you say so,” he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk.

The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.

What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.

Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.

Other times, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.

“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)

He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time?

Other times, he’d just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt… comfortable. Good, even.

And occasionally, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.

“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.

“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.

And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t there.

Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.

Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.

You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.

The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You

His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:

I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG

You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You

Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG

The exchanges continued like this—you sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet… you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.

Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:

Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG

You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:

I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You

His response came almost immediately:

Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG

You scoffed.

I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You

Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

“I don’t accept a no.”

“That sounds problematic.”

He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”

“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”

“Flattery won’t work.”

“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”

Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”

“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”

“I could send photos of the work.”

“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”

“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”

“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I can take the train.”

“Humor me.”

You could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing.”

“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”

After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.

Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.

You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.

Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybe—just maybe—make him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.

Even you didn’t believe it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.

You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.

Downstairs. Take your time. — SG

You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and there he was.

Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you.

No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.

It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.

You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.

He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.

When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.

“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”

Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.

Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.

Conversation came easier than you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)—you talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.

But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”

You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”

“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”

He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d told you that first day at his headquarters.

For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.

At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“Anything.”

“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”

“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why.”

Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.

“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”

“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”

He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”

“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”

“Maybe I’m just picky.”

“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”

“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”

Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”

“So, casual things?”

“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”

You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didn’t get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.

You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”

Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.

“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”

“Among other reasons.”

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.

“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”

He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.

“Satoru…” you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.

The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side.

“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.

“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”

It felt good—being with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.

You’d just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.

You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips.

“Dance with me,” Satoru said.

You turned to him. “What? No.”

“Why not?” He held out a hand.

You hesitated and looked around for a second.

“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”

He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”

“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”

“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”

“Not yet.”

“I like when you try to mess with me.”

“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”

He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt—too fast, like yours.

A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.

“You’re good at this,” you said softly.

“I only dance with people who make it easy.”

“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”

He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”

You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.

“Still think it’s stupid?” he asked.

Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”

“But?”

You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

That’s when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.

His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.

“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you.

Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.

“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t quite ready for the answer either.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just… thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.

“My pleasure.”

The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either.

You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t.

When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”

He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”

“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”

“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”

You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expecting—

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.

Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.

The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just… not what you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.

You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?

You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at arm’s length.

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.

More than you cared to admit.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.

You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.

And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.

“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”

“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.

“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”

“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”

“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”

“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”

You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.

“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”

“He didn’t kiss me.”

“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”

But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a ‘vibe’—until you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didn’t compare to what was coming later.

You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.

Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths you’d basically lost your kitchen to the cause.

For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you weren’t sure what to think anymore.

Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and you’d been naive enough to think it meant something more.

You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.

You raised your hand to knock on his office door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved.

He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was again—that maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.

You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed.

Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”

You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.

Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment.

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.”

And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.

When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.

You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.

Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh.

“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“It’s okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”

“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.

“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”

“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”

Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?

“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”

“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”

You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.

“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”

He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”

You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.

You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.

It was in one of the offices on the west side of the building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.

“Wait, let me.”

Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.

“You have a strange way of doing that.”

“I had a feeling.”

“About what?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I don’t.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn’t notice.

“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.

“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”

You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good he’d look without it.

“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.

“It’s hot.”

“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.

He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.

“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”

Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.

“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”

“Was I mistaken?”

“About what?”

“Our date.”

“What about it?”

His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”

You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”

“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”

“But you didn’t kiss me.”

His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”

“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”

“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”

“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.

He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”

“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words.

No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.

You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.

“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.

“Shut up.” And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.

This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.

“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.

“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”

His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”

Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.

“Still too slow for you?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.

“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“I do like a challenge.”

Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.

“Much better,” he breathed against your lips.

His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist.

“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.

“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”

You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”

“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”

The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.

“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, I have a feeling.”

His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.

“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.

“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”

Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.

“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”

You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”

“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”

“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

“The art commission?”

“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”

“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”

“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”

“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”

“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.

In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.

You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.

“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.

You scrambled to grab Satoru’s shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.

Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just been caught in a very compromising position

“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”

“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”

“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger.

The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed.

Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”

Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.

But it was the room he’d turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.

“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”

You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketches—though you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.

Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.

“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.

“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”

The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything you’d been trying to do.

“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.

“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”

“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.

Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.

Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.

“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”

“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”

The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot.

He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space you’d built together.

Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.

The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch you’d given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.

“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”

Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures.

A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.

And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didn’t know how to love in small doses.

“Still think I’m weird?” he’d ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.

“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”

“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.

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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 10 minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)

here's the link.

other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead i’m stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))

wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3

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