#Geto fluff | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carlislefiles · 5 days ago

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exigent circumstances | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, kamo choso, kong shiu ╰►you were theirs—once. and maybe that should’ve been enough. but time’s a cruel thing, and distance doesn’t make the heart grow anything but restless. now you're just the ghost in their playlists, the contact they never delete, the dream they still wake up reaching for. they're trying to move on, really. but they see you everywhere. and god help them—they want you back. 13.4k words

a/n: ladies if a man ever does something that makes you want to break up with him...do it and don't take him back. however, this is not real life, so enjoy <3 also!! before anyone asks, I know I usually include nanami in these kinds of headcanons, but bsffr you would never break up with that man. I kinda feel the same about suguru, but I get a lot of requests to include him more in my posts, so I tried :] warnings: toxic relationships, kissing, cussing, mental health, eating habits. writing suguru in a way that isn’t at least vaguely yandere is hard for me, but I tried my best!! shiu's kind of giving stalker as well.......ignore pls....or don't if you're into that sort of thing.....

the breakup hadn’t been amicable, per se. there were no screaming matches. no shattered plates, no cruel words hurled like knives across the room. that wasn’t toji. not anymore. maybe a younger version of him—one with more hair-trigger rage and less to lose—would’ve made a scene. but this version? the one that had you in his bed, in his arms, in his life? he didn’t yell. he didn’t beg. he didn’t stop you. and that might’ve hurt more than if he had. because toji wasn’t a complete asshole. not to you. not really. he just…couldn’t be what you needed. and worst of all, he knew it.

he loved you. that wasn’t the problem. the problem was—he didn’t know how to show it. couldn’t accept it when it was offered. love wasn’t a language he spoke; it was one he flinched from. one he turned his back on. so when you left, he let you go. and somehow—somehow—he’s still living with that. if you ask him how, he won’t be able to give you an answer.

he’s always been a prideful man. it’s the closest thing he has to a constant. pride was what kept him standing after every job that should’ve killed him. what kept his back straight even when it felt like the weight of the world had settled between his shoulder blades. what drove him to perfect the art of surviving. of staying just dangerous enough to keep everyone at arm’s length, and just charming enough to keep someone like you in his bed. but pride is a fatal flaw. one day, it’ll be the reason he dies.

you knew that about him. you knew what he was when you started sleeping with him. he never pretended to be anything else. he was a killer, a ghost, a name spoken in half-whispers and urgent hushes in criminal circles. he lived on the edge of ruin, always one wrong move away from bleeding out in a stairwell somewhere. assassins don’t live safe lives. they don’t fall into routines, and they sure as hell don’t do domesticity. so maybe that’s what drew you in at first. maybe it was the thrill, or the way he flinched when you patched him up. maybe it was how he softened just a little—almost imperceptibly—when you made him dinner or let him sleep longer than he meant to.

you didn’t fall in love with what he did. you fell for the rare slivers of vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. you just wanted to love him. that’s it. simple. stupid. human. you wanted to cook for him, care for him, wrap his wounds and hold his hand while he drifted off to sleep. but toji didn’t love himself. chances are, he never would. and as much as you tried to tell yourself that your love could be enough—just maybe—it wasn’t.

he never let you take care of him. you’d bring him leftovers from that place he liked, and he’d wrinkle his nose and say he wasn’t hungry. you’d run him a bath and he’d pretend not to notice. you’d cuddle up beside him in bed and whisper that you loved him, and he’d grunt. or nod. or roll over. at first, it was almost…endearing. the gruffness. the tough guy routine. you could see through it. you knew him—better than he knew himself, sometimes. that scared him. made him shut down. push you away. maybe that’s what hurt most. not that he didn’t love you because he really did, in a way he never had with anyone else. but that he wouldn’t let himself accept your love.

it was a rainy night when it all fell apart. you knew he was just getting off a job. you hadn’t heard from him in hours, which wasn’t unusual. radio silence was part of the deal. but something told you—something nagging and insistent—that he’d need patching up tonight. so you went over. you packed a small kit. some bandages, antiseptic, painkillers. the leftovers were still warm in your bag. comfort food. nothing special. just something small to say, I care about you. I want you to eat. I want you to rest.

when you let yourself into his apartment, he was already there. shirt off, bruised, bloodied knuckles, maybe something fractured in his shoulder from the way he was favoring it. he looked exhausted. and fuck, he looked beautiful. even now. especially now. but you knew that look in his eyes before he even spoke. that cold, hardened thing. the wall slamming down.

"I told you not to come by tonight.” that was how it started.

you tried not to take it personally. you were used to this version of him—the one who needed space after a job. the one who pushed before he could be pulled. you sat down the food, offered to help him clean up. he said he’d handle it himself. you moved to tend to his wounds anyway, and he swatted your hand away. not hard, but enough to make you freeze. "I said I'll handle it.”

your jaw clenched. the room felt colder than it had when you’d walked in. “you haven’t eaten all day,” you said, a quiet offer laced in concern.

“I'm not hungry.” the same damn routine. but tonight, it wasn’t just frustrating. it was heartbreaking.

he was digging in deeper. not softening. not melting beneath your presence like he usually did. you tried—god, you tried—but it was like slamming into a wall over and over and pretending you weren’t bleeding. finally, you stepped back. "I can’t help someone who won’t help themselves.” you hadn’t planned to say it. but once it was out there, hanging in the air between you, you couldn’t take it back.

toji blinked. that hit harder than any punch he’d taken tonight. “is that what you think I am?” his voice was low, rough, disbelieving. “some helpless fucking case?” and he was. so obviously, he was, but the last thing he wanted was your pity.

“no,” you said, and meant it. "I think you’re scared. I think you’re used to being alone. I think being loved makes you feel like you’re going to lose something.” he didn’t answer. didn’t blink. didn’t move. you reached for the bag by the door. “if you don’t wanna be loved, I won’t force it on you, fushiguro.” you didn’t even call him toji. that was how he knew it was over. the door clicked shut.

he didn’t move for a long time. eventually, in true toji fashion, he punched something. the wall closest to him. the drywall cracked, groaned under the force of his fist. his knuckles split open again. he didn’t even flinch. he didn’t sleep that night. and when he finally picked up his phone to call you—because fuck, he needed to—you didn’t answer. you didn’t answer the next time he called. or the next. or the one after that. eventually, he gave up. he’s never been good at chasing things. not people, not dreams, not feelings. but you—you made him want to try. still, he let you go.

but he didn’t let go of worrying. he made shiu check in. quietly. casually. never anything that would alarm you. no weird shadows outside your apartment window. just enough to know you were okay. lights on. you walking to work in the early morning, head down, headphones in. cold, but well. unbothered. unreachable.

toji was breaking into fucking pieces. how did he let that happen? how did he have you—warm and real and kind—and still fuck it all to hell? he thinks about it every day. every hour. he hasn’t taken a job since. can’t. not like this. he knows if he tried, he’d get his ass handed to him. his head and heart are still on the floor of his kitchen from the night you walked out. they haven’t gotten up since.

"if you don't wanna be loved, I won't force it on you, fushiguro." it echoes in his head a billion times a day. fushiguro. you hadn’t called him toji. and you hadn’t been angry. you’d been hurt. and that’s so much fucking worse. anger he could take. he was used to anger. he knew how to fight that. but this—this soft heartbreak in your voice, this quiet grief, this sadness… it gutted him. you weren’t yelling. you weren’t blaming him. you were hurting for him. and because of him.

when he finally goes back to work, he keeps it simple. easy. safe. safe in a way toji fushiguro has never been. bodyguard gigs. escorting some teen sorcerer to-and from schools. roughing up punk kids who harass girls outside clubs. low-stakes shit. nothing that would get him killed. nothing that would leave him too bloodied for reflection.

you never asked him to quit. not once. not even when he showed up at your door with busted ribs and a slash across his chest. you never demanded it. but maybe you should have. toji thinks you deserved better. more. everything. and if he couldn’t be it then, he’ll try now. even if he never gets you back, he’ll try. because it’s what you’d want for him. and now, all he wants is what you want.

you told him once that you just wanted to love him. that all you wanted was to make him happy. and the fucked-up part is: you did. you made him happy in a way he never thought possible. and he squandered it.

he doesn’t eat much these days. works out like a lunatic. trains until he can’t think. runs until his lungs scream. anything to keep from feeling. he goes to bed early. wakes up before the sun. starts learning how to cook—simple things. tries to make onigiri. burnt the rice the first time. it stuck to his hands. didn’t know you had to wet them first. he still ate it. didn’t taste like much. not the food. just…memories. you laughing in the kitchen, your hands wet, the rice perfect. he remembers you patting the little triangle into place, offering it to him like it was a love letter made of carbs. he goes to the store and buys a case of your favorite soda. downs it while it’s cold. doesn’t taste it either. he tastes you. the memory of you. what it felt like to be loved. and despite how hollow he feels, how gutted and aching and fucking lost—he’s getting better. slowly. quietly. imperceptibly. maybe not whole. but better.

he thinks about you and what you’re doing now. you weren’t really the boyfriend type. even with toji, date night usually consisted of takeout on his couch. so at least there was that: the knowledge that, even if you had moved on—as much as it fucking ached to think that—you probably weren’t dating anybody else. shiu says he hasn’t seen anyone at your place, but who knows. well, toji knows. knows you. he thinks back to the things you said. he helps himself now. loving himself might be pushing it, but he’s learning to swallow that pride-shaped lump in his throat. take care of himself. maybe, maybe, maybe. maybe you’d have him back.

he texts one night, late. he’s drunk; you’re probably asleep. hey. he doesn’t expect a response. he watches typing bubbles appear next to your contact info. disappear. reappear. and then they go away, and they don’t come back.

it comes to a head on a too-bright sunday morning in june. two full months since he last saw your face. he’d thought about running into you at the store. on the street. at that little ramen place you liked. but you’ve been ghost quiet. no texts. no calls. no sighting. for all he knew, you’d moved on. irony is, he hadn’t had a single thought that wasn’t about you since you left. your cooking. your perfume. your stupid cotton sleep shorts. the way you smiled at him like you saw through all the shit and liked what you found anyway. he’s walking down the street, half-asleep. planning to buy rice and seaweed and maybe, if he’s feeling brave, some umeboshi. he’s getting the hang of onigiri now.

that’s when he sees you. just—walking. headphones in. face soft and faraway. you’re not going to work—it’s sunday, and you're dressed casual. you’re headed toward a little shop that sells coffee grounds and handmade mugs. you used to drag him there once a week. called it your “coffee church.” you look peaceful. you look like you’ve moved on. and toji, idiot that he is, considers hiding. ducking into an alley. pretending he’s not there.

but then—your eyes meet his. it’s not dramatic. no gasp. no stumble. just a slow blink, a slow breath, and a look that crawls over him like you’re taking him in from scratch. like maybe you forgot just how good he looked. and yeah, the caveman part of him roars a little at that. she’s looking at me. she likes what she sees. my girl.

but the rest of him? the human part? the part you once held in your hands so gently? he just feels sad. pathetic, maybe. but that’s the word. he wants to cry, almost, and it’s so fucking embarrassing. he’s standing awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. which is rare for toji. he’s all swagger and confidence on a good day. this is not a good day.

“...toji,” you say.

flat. noncommittal. but hey—at least it’s toji and not fushiguro. two months, and all you have to say is his name. he gives you a little nod. casual. like this isn’t the moment his entire world shifts back into orbit. “hey.” silence. you look like you could walk away. he wouldn’t stop you. he’d let you go again, even if it kills him.

but then—“wanna walk with me?” he asks. you hesitate.

he shrugs. “just…a few blocks. I won’t talk your ear off.” and you agree. and toji loses his fucking mind. you’re here. you’re real. you’re alive and well and in front of him. not a dream. not a memory. not a cruel, waking hallucination. his chest squeezes so tight he thinks this might be what a heart attack feels like. he’s pretty sure you just looked at him like you used to. soft. sweet. a little amused. like you saw him—not the body count, not the paycheck, not the devil-may-care smirk he wore like armor. you looked at him like you remembered.

and he panics. internally, at least. externally, he’s trying very hard to stand still and look cool, which is ironic because inside he’s already on his knees, forehead pressed to the fucking pavement, begging you to forgive him. he’s scrambling through every sentence he rehearsed in the mirror. all the words he’d never said right the first time. please. I didn’t mean to push you away. I didn’t know how to let you love me. I'm trying. I've changed. I still—he moves before he realizes it. a step forward. his arm halfway raised. his mouth opening around the start of that well-crafted apology—"I don’t want apologies, toji.” your voice stops him cold. soft. firm. unshaking.

and maybe it’s not anger in your voice—but it’s not yearning either. you cut the legs out from under him with four words, and he stands there, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, caught in the spotlight of his own regret. all that buildup. all those speeches. all that pain, coiled tight in his chest. and you don’t want apologies. you want something else. and toji has no idea if he’s capable of giving it. but god, he’s going to try.

you walk side by side. it’s quiet. easy. tense, but not painful. “I'm not…trying to push anything,” he says after a few minutes. "I just… been thinkin’ about you. a lot.” you don’t respond. just let him keep going. "I fucked up. I know that. didn’t even try to say I didn’t. I wasn’t good to you. not how I should’ve been.” he rubs the back of his neck. avoids your eyes. looks almost… boyish, for once. "I never really learned how to let someone love me. not until you. and by the time I figured out what that felt like…I'd already ruined it.” the sidewalk stretches out in front of you like a lifeline. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t expect you to.

“I've been workin’ on it,” he says quietly. “on… me. not for anyone else. just… if I ever got the chance to see you again, I wanted to be better. not just say it—do it.” he looks at you now. eyes soft. vulnerable. none of the sharp edges you used to cut yourself on. "I don’t know if you’d ever…want me again. but I'd be good to you. if you did.” your throat feels tight. the sun is warm on your face, but your eyes sting. “and if not,” he adds, “that’s okay. just glad I saw you again. you look good.” it’s not okay, but he can’t say that. he can’t force you to care. he doesn’t have to.

you stop outside your building. look up at the steps. you could walk up them right now. close the door on this chapter again. it would be safe. logical. expected. but love isn’t logical. and neither is hope. you turn. eyes on him. no invitation. just possibility. the door doesn’t latch behind you. and that’s enough.

toji stands frozen. a long, slow ache blooming in his chest where all the sharp things used to be. you left the door open. you. left the door open. he doesn’t think. doesn’t weigh it. doesn’t ask what it means. two strides and he’s following. the stairwell light flickers. you’re one step up, just far enough away to still leave him behind. he reaches for you—your wrist, soft and sure in his palm—and you turn. eyes wide. lips parted. surprise written across your face like you didn’t expect him to chase you. like you didn’t know he still would.

and then he kisses you. not sweet. not slow. like he’s trying to breathe you in before the door closes after all. one hand grips your waist. the other steadies him against the wall. he pours it all into the press of his mouth—everything he can’t say. sorry. please. don’t go. not again.

you gasp once, but your hands are already sliding up his chest, curling into his jacket. you kiss him like you never stopped. maybe you didn’t. when he pulls back, it’s barely. his breath trembles. your nose brushes his. you’re still close enough to ruin him. "I love you,” he says, barely a whisper. raw. wrecked. your eyes widen. and fuck, that kills him. that surprise. like you didn’t know. like he ever made you doubt it. he wants to gut himself. carve out the parts that ever let you feel that unloved.

but you don’t look away. you stare back at him like you’re seeing something new. or maybe something old. something forgotten. you don’t say it back. not yet. you don’t have to. your hand lifts. fingers press to his chest. not pushing. just grounding. you glance toward the door—still ajar. just enough. then back to him. you nod once. and he gets it.

geto didn’t do casual. that was never on the table. not with you—not with anyone. and certainly not with the two of you together. at least, he wouldn’t have used that word. you wouldn’t either. but still—relationships didn’t come naturally to you. they didn’t come naturally to suguru either, maybe, but he wore them like they did. like muscle memory. like he’d practiced in secret until he could do it flawlessly. you tried not to let that make you envious.

but he was just so good at loving you. he texted before grocery runs to ask if you needed anything. he remembered every birthday. every soft anniversary. even things you didn’t celebrate. he left bouquets of your favorite flowers in the kitchen each week without fail. always the right colors. always the right stems. he drove you everywhere. kept your fridge stocked. learned how you took your coffee.

and he never expected anything in return. he did these things like breathing. like loving you was second nature to him. your love for him was never in question. not really. but returning that love—mirroring it—felt like trying to dance in shoes two sizes too big. awkward. sloppy. off-tempo.

suguru dated like someone who knew you long before he ever kissed you. like the romance was inevitable. fated. and maybe that’s what scared you. the inevitability. the certainty. because now, you felt like you had to perform. to be on all the time. to earn what he gave so freely.

you tried to explain it once—quietly, in his car. he’d driven you home after dinner, parked outside your building. his fingers loose on the wheel. the engine idling low beneath the hum of cicadas. “it just feels like I'm constantly…behind,” you said, eyes on your lap, hands twisting in your sleeves. “like you’re already halfway through a thought I haven’t caught up to yet. like I'm supposed to be someone I'm not.”

he blinked, slow. “is that something I've made you feel?”

“no.” and that was the worst part. “that’s the problem.” because suguru’s love was gentle. steady. unrelenting in its patience. and all you could give back was effort. small thank-you texts. an awkward smile when he brought you coffee. a hand reaching for his beneath the table—sometimes. when you remembered. you didn’t move like a girlfriend should. you didn’t wake up and feel at home in someone else’s arms. you never had.

but suguru did. he was home. he was always all in. “I'm not trying to make you earn it,” he said then, turning toward you. his voice was so soft it hurt. “you’re not behind. or broken. or whatever story your head is telling you. you’re just… you. that’s all I want.” and you believed him. you really did. but love doesn’t land when you’re made of broken receivers.

a week later, he brings it up. you're curled on his couch, full and sleepy after dinner. he’d made jasmine rice—your favorite. the apartment still smells like garlic and toasted sesame. your phone is somewhere deep in your bag. for once, you’re not thinking about it. and then he says it. lightly. offhand. like it’s a logical next step. "I was thinking,” he begins, “maybe you should move in.” you freeze. you don’t gasp, don’t act dramatically shocked. but you go still. and when he sees it—that flicker of fear you didn’t hide fast enough—his smile falters."I mean,” he adds gently, “only if you want to. I just thought… we already spend most nights together. it might make things easier. more…natural.”

natural. there’s that word again. you nod too quickly. “yeah. maybe.” and that’s where it ends. you don’t talk about it again that night. but something in you cracks open, quiet and trembling—and it doesn’t close again.

you start counting his kindnesses. like tally marks. like debt. you keep wondering when he’ll stop. when he’ll see how clumsy you are with soft things. when he’ll finally realize: you love him. but you don’t know how to be someone who deserves him.

it’s late. raining. your sleeves are soaked through by the time you buzz his apartment. he answers in sweatpants and no shirt. eyes bleary with sleep and something like worry. “hey,” he says. instantly awake. “what’s wrong?”

you take a breath. you’ve already decided. "I can’t do this anymore.” the look on his face is devastating. you try again. "I don’t think I know how to be loved like this.”

he steps forward, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “you don’t have to know how,” he says. “you just…are. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not asking you to change.”

"I know.” your voice is raw. “that’s why it’s worse.” because he deserves someone who says yes when he asks her to move in. someone who doesn’t flinch at long-term. someone who doesn’t look at his love like it’s a test they’re bound to fail. "I love you, suguru,” you whisper. “but I think I'm just going to keep hurting you if I stay.”

he shakes his head. his voice cracks. “you’re not hurting me. this—” he gestures helplessly, “this is what hurts.” then his hand lifts, just a little. not to hold you. just to remind you: I'm still here. you take a step back. he falters.

this is how you leave a man who would never leave you. not with shouting. not with slammed doors. but with too much silence. with fear so old and rooted that even love can’t pull it loose. you think of the woman who will come after you. she’ll be open. easy. warm. she’ll say yes. she’ll laugh easily. kiss him in the cereal aisle. she’ll never make him doubt. he’ll move on. eventually. and you’ll always wonder if he loved her the same way he loved you. quietly. fully. with everything.

your hand finds the doorknob. he doesn’t stop you. but just before it clicks behind you, you hear it. soft. almost swallowed. your name. that’s all. you close the door before you can turn back.

suguru tries to give you space. tries. but geto suguru doesn’t do anything halfheartedly, least of all love. he was all in from the first moment. the moment you looked at him like he wasn’t too much. like he wasn’t a man with too many ghosts in the passenger seat. he’d fallen fast and hard—and even now, weeks later, he still feels like he’s falling. only now, the landing is gone. he doesn’t understand it. not fully. he’s tried to walk himself through it, a hundred times over, pacing the floor of his apartment in the early hours of the morning. you were in his arms. in his life. in his fucking bed. you were his. so what scared you away?

he doesn’t want to blame you, so he blames himself. he always has. maybe it was asking you to move in—maybe that was the moment it all shifted. that wasn’t supposed to be pressure. that was supposed to be comfort. that was supposed to be him saying: you don’t have to do this alone anymore. he just wanted you close. wanted to know where you were when it rained. wanted to see you there when he got home. wanted to kiss your temple in the morning and not watch you slip out the door like a ghost. but now? now he’s alone. with his silence. with his certainty. because suguru’s not confused about how he loves you. he’s just broken over the fact that it wasn’t enough to make you stay. he doesn’t reach out at first. respects the boundary. tells himself it’s better this way. that maybe you need time, maybe space will do what words can’t. but it eats at him. the not-knowing. the quiet. you’re like a song stuck in his teeth. a scent in his sheets that refuses to fade.

he tries not to text. fails. types and deletes messages by the dozen. thinks them, but doesn’t send them. you okay? did you eat today? are you cold at night without me there? instead, he checks in through your friends. nothing direct. just soft, careful questions. how’s she doing? is she okay? she’s still going to work, right? they’re kind. some of them know the truth. some of them don’t. one of them tells him, “honestly...I thought you broke up with her.” he almost laughs. almost. that would’ve been easier. cleaner. at least then he could hate himself for something he did.

but no. this was worse. you left because he loved you too much. because you didn’t know how to accept that love. that thought guts him. he should’ve seen it. should’ve known. you’d always been a little hesitant when he praised you. always stiffened when he touched your face too tenderly. always flinched when the compliments came too close to your ribs. he thought you were just shy. or slow to trust. he didn’t realize it was you. your head. your story. that old lie, the one that clung to your bones like rot: I don’t deserve this. god, he’s furious with himself. how did he not dig deep enough? how did he not notice that the woman he loved more than anything was still looking for reasons not to be loved back?

it’s a long couple of weeks. he doesn’t take care of himself. doesn’t really sleep. stares at the messages he never sends. works half as hard, trains twice as much. his body aches. not nearly as much as his chest. he sees you once. from across a busy intersection. you’re walking with a coworker, maybe a friend. someone smiling at you, telling you a story. you’re nodding. but you’re not there. your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. your shoulders are hunched forward like you’re bracing for a hit. you still walk like the world expects too much from you and you’re afraid to disappoint it.

and suguru realizes: you’re not okay. you’re not better off. you’re surviving. not living. just like him. and that breaks something in him all over again. because he let you walk away thinking you were the problem. thinking you’d hurt him by leaving. when really, all he’s ever wanted was to love you in a way that made you feel safe. not cornered. not small. not wrong. and now he wonders if you’re curled up on your couch, pretending you're okay. eating less. sleeping worse. pushing yourself too hard. telling yourself it’s what you deserve.

and it makes him want to scream. because no. no, you don’t. you deserve everything. every flower. every hand held. every quiet night with someone who loves you fiercely and doesn’t make you earn it. you deserve him. and he's going to prove it. but not with flowers. not with soft words. not with a love so loud it scares you all over again. he’ll do it gently this time. he’ll knock before coming back. and he’ll wait for you to open the door. and you open the door for him.

it’s a well-timed flu that breaks the ice. he’d texted a few times—half-hearted replies from you, then nothing. but when you finally call, he doesn’t even let it finish ringing before he’s answering with a breathless, “hey.”

it hits fast. a fever that lays you out like a truck hit you. skin hot, bones aching, room spinning. you tell yourself it’ll pass. that you can sleep it off. but by morning, you’re worse. dizzy when you try to stand. your hands won’t stop shaking. you can’t think straight. you don’t remember pressing call, but suddenly, you’re whispering his name into the receiver like it’s a prayer.

and he answers. “it’s okay,” he says immediately, steady and calm. “I've got you.” he’s there twenty minutes later. you hear the key in the lock—his key, the one you never asked for back—and then he’s in the doorway, rain in his hair, jacket dripping, eyes scanning until they land on you, curled and sweating on the couch like something wilting. “jesus,” he breathes, kneeling beside you, palm to your forehead. “you’re burning up.” you try to sit up. you don’t make it. he catches you like he always does. “you should’ve called sooner.”

you want to say I didn’t think you’d come. but all you manage is a whisper: “didn’t know who else to call.”

he doesn’t blink at the mess. doesn’t flinch at your clammy skin or the sweat-soaked blankets. he just sets his bag down and gets to work. suguru doesn’t move with panic—he moves with purpose. “let’s get you into something clean, okay?”

you nod, barely conscious. he undresses you slowly, carefully, his eyes on your face the whole time. soft apologies leave his mouth when you wince. he finds your favorite sleep shirt, pulls it gently over your head, smooths the fabric over your spine like he’s memorizing you again. not with hunger, with reverence. he changes the sheets one-handed while the other keeps you steady, propped against his side like something precious. he works fast, efficient. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he would, wouldn’t he? he’d do this every day if it meant being near you. you spill tea and he doesn’t blink. just steadies your hand, presses the mug back to your lips. “it’s the good kind,” he murmurs. your kind. the one from that little store across town. he’s kept some in his bag.

later, when your fever spikes again, he’s already ready—cool cloth pressed to your temple, thumb stroking gently down the bridge of your nose. when you start to shiver, he crawls into bed behind you, wraps himself around your body like armor. you make a small sound in your sleep and his hand spreads over your stomach, warm and wide and grounding. “you don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “just rest.” and you do. you drift, wake, drift again. every time, he’s still there.

you catch him watching you once, just after the fever breaks. you’re pale, eyes glassy, but when they meet his, something cracks in his chest. his breath shudders. “missed you,” he says, quiet as a confession. you don’t answer. just reach for his hand. weak, but steady. he squeezes back. you’re miserable. fragile. barely holding together. and he’s never looked more whole. not because you’re suffering—god, never that—but because even now, even after everything, you still chose him. still called. and he came. of course he came.

you wake to light. soft, gray morning light bleeding through the curtains—quiet and cool. you're warm, dry, and blanketed in the stillness that only follows a fever. your head no longer feels like it’s splitting open. you can breathe again. your mouth tastes like sleep and medicine. your first thought: better.

the second: he’s still here. suguru is sitting at the edge of the bed, back to you, scrolling through his phone. he’s changed—probably sometime in the early hours—but everything else about him is the same. still close. still watching over you. you shift beneath the covers. he turns immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to stir. “how do you feel?” he asks, voice low, soft around the edges.

you hesitate. because now that your mind is clear, so is the guilt. the shame. the clarity that always comes after a storm—seeing the wreckage, realizing what you've done. who you let in. how much you still want him. “I'm okay,” you say, barely above a whisper. “thank you.” he nods. you push yourself up slowly. “you should go home.” he blinks—slow, confused. “you’ve been here for two days,” you say, forcing a lighter tone. “you must be exhausted. go sleep in your own bed. I'll be fine.”

his brow pulls just slightly. “you want me to leave?”

you don’t answer. because you don’t. but having him here—loving you so gently, so completely—only reminds you of what you gave up. what he could have had if you weren’t so twisted up inside. “it’s okay,” you say, eyes locked on the blanket in your lap. "I can take care of myself now. you don’t have to keep doing this.”

his voice is calm, sure. "I want to.”

you shake your head. “that’s not the point.”

"I think it is.”

you exhale. “you shouldn’t have to take care of someone like this. someone like me.”

that hits him. he’s quiet. his hands curl slightly in his lap. his jaw tightens, then eases.

“you’re not a burden.”

you flinch. "I didn’t say I was.”

“you didn’t have to.” silence. heavy. close. you don’t mean to cry. but the tears come anyway—quiet, slow, unwelcome. you swipe at them fast, but he notices. of course he does. he shifts closer, still not touching. just steady. present. “you don’t have to be perfect for me to stay,” he says, gentle and resolute. “you don’t have to be better first. you don’t have to earn this. I'm not here because I should be. I'm here because I love you.”

you shut your eyes. hard. "I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“then let me stay,” he says. “let me love you the way I want to. let me be here—even if it’s slow. even if it’s hard. even if you’re scared out of your mind. I'm not leaving. not unless you tell me to.” you finally look at him. he looks tired. he looks beautiful. he looks like he’s never been more certain of anything. you open your mouth. to argue. to apologize. to give some noble, fractured reason why he shouldn’t do this to himself. but before you can speak, he reaches out—gently bracketing your hands in his. “no more pushing me away. not for my sake. that’s not your job.”

your lip trembles. “you don’t know what you’re asking.”

"I do,” he says. “and I want all of it.”you collapse into him before you can change your mind. he catches you instantly, pulls you into his chest, arms locking tight around you like he’s anchoring the both of you. you feel his breath stutter. one hand slides into your hair. the other rubs soft, slow circles into your spine. he’s shaking too. he missed you. god, he missed you. and now that he has you again—this time—he’s not letting go.

your relationship with gojo is fun. that’s how most people would describe it. hell, that’s how you would describe it. he’s the life of the party. mr. fun. mr. loud-laughs-and-bad-jokes. everything with him is light, fast, full of motion. and you love that about him. you do.

you’ve known mr. perfect a long time.

but you’re in love with satoru. the man underneath. the one he barely lets anyone see.

and sometimes—only sometimes—you catch glimpses.

like now.

he’s lying on the couch in full daylight, arm slung over his eyes like a magician halfway through a disappearing act. he hasn’t moved in hours. the tv is on mute. his water bottle is unopened. his phone keeps buzzing.

you know what this is. he’s having one of his migraines—the kind he pretends he doesn’t get. the kind that slips in after too many days with infinity up. the kind that only hits when he forgets to be invincible.

you stand in the doorway, watching.

then you pad across the room, sit gently beside him.

“satoru.”

his arm stays where it is. “m’fine.”

“you’re not.”

“sure I am,” he says, voice light. dismissive. that fake-casual tone he’s mastered over the years. but it doesn’t land. it sounds like a lie. like a tired echo from someone who’s always supposed to be okay.

you’re quiet for a moment. then you say, “you can take it off. with me.”

he hesitates. then lifts his arm, just a little, to look at you. his eyes are bloodshot. his smile is faint. "I don’t know how.”

it’s the closest thing to a confession he’s ever given you. and it shatters something in your chest.

but it doesn’t change anything.

later, you’re washing dishes. he’s pretending to help—towel tossed over one shoulder, phone in hand, dry plate in the other. he keeps showing you dumb tiktoks. keeps laughing like he’s okay.

and you keep smiling, because that’s what you do. you perform together. that’s the deal.

but halfway through a plate, your smile cracks. and he notices.

“hey,” he says gently. “what’s going on?”

you shake your head. “nothing.”

“come on. don’t go quiet on me now.”

you dry your hands. lean against the counter. “do you ever turn it off?” you ask. “the jokes. the mask. the perfect guy act.”

he blinks. like the question caught him off guard. like no one’s ever asked.

“not really,” he says, after a pause. "I don’t think people would like what’s underneath.”

"I would.”

silence. thick. sharpened at the edges.

“would you?” he asks, voice suddenly low, stripped of charm. “even if it’s not fun anymore?”

you meet his eyes. “I'm not asking you to be miserable. I'm asking you to be real.”

“I'm trying,” he says. his voice cracks. and that’s how you know: he means it. he really does. but he’s terrified. he doesn’t know who he is without the shine. doesn’t know if there’s anything under all that glow still worth loving. and you’re just so tired of waiting for him to trust you with it.

that night, you sit at the edge of the bed. he’s quiet. legs stretched in front of him, back hunched like he’s trying to take up less space. like even his body knows how heavy his name is. you reach for his hand. he lets you take it. "I don’t want to break up with you, satoru,” you say. satoru, never gojo. never.

he laughs—small, humorless. “but you’re going to.”

you nod. "I don’t know what else to do.”

he doesn’t argue. no grand gestures. no sparkly, last-minute charm. he just presses your hand between both of his. holds it like it’s the last thing anchoring him here. “you could stay,” he says, exasperated. pleading, even.

"I can’t, satoru. not if it’s not real.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

you close your eyes. "I don’t want sorry. I want you.”

"I don’t know how to be him.”

"I know.” you lean forward, kiss his temple. one last touch. one last mercy. you leave before sunrise. quietly.

it’s hard to hide. gojo tries. god, he tries. he cracks the same jokes. wears the same shades. laughs too loud, too early in the morning, like if he can just be enough, no one will notice the hollow ringing in his chest. but it’s different now. forced. empty. a shell of joy. everyone sees it.

you used to be everywhere—tucked against his side during late-night hangouts, teasing him over mispronounced takeout orders, dragging him outside to look at stars he pretended not to care about. now you’re just…gone. quietly. no blow-up. no ugly goodbye. just a clean vanishing act. and the absence is deafening. shoko doesn’t ask. nanami doesn’t ask. even yuuji, bless him, doesn’t ask. but they all know.

the migraines come more often now. he doesn’t mention them. just disappears—locks himself in his apartment, blinds drawn, phone face-down, fists curled against his temples like pressure might keep you from slipping through his fingers a second time. there’s no one to tell him to put his blindfold back on. no one to scold him for overusing those bright, beautiful eyes. he stares at the sun anyway. punishment. self-inflicted. as if your absence wasn’t already sentence enough. sometimes, he falls asleep in yesterday’s clothes. on top of the blankets. phone clutched like a lifeline, screen cold against his cheek, waiting—for a text that never comes. you don’t reply. you don’t even leave him on read anymore.

but he still leaves voicemails. never long. never dramatic. just soft little echoes of you: “hey. saw this tree on my run this morning. leaves are turning. thought you’d like it. you always got weird about fall, remember?” “you made me start drinking coffee like you. less sugar. I get it now. it’s honest. doesn’t try too hard,” "I miss you. every day. even the good ones. especially the good ones.” he doesn’t know if you listen. sometimes, he calls just to hear your voicemail greeting. you still haven’t changed it. you sound happy in it. that’s the part that kills him most. he texts too. not memes anymore. not anything funny. photos. snippets of a life that keeps happening without you: a sunrise over the skyline, a flyer for a new cat café that made him think of you, his hand wrapped around your mug—the girly ceramic one with the little strawberries. you hated how cute it was. he never let you throw it out. “sunrise wasn’t as pretty as you,” “the mug’s still here. not washing it until you come get it,” “did you ever finish that book you were reading?”

no replies. not even read receipts. still, he sends them. because what else is he supposed to do? he doesn’t date. doesn’t flirt. doesn’t try. wouldn’t be fair. he’s not over you. he’s not even out of the wreckage. he thinks about the night you left. not the tears. not the silence. just the moment you said his name—satoru, not gojo, not babe, not anything easy or playful. just satoru, like you were begging him to be real, just once. and he couldn’t. not fast enough. not deep enough. so you left. and it didn’t just break his heart. it ruined him.

you were the one person who didn’t care that he was the strongest. who didn’t love the spectacle. who stayed when the glitter faded and his smile cracked. who saw him—bone-tired and bright-eyed and broken—and still wanted him anyway. and he couldn’t meet you there. he couldn’t show up. and now you’re gone.

it’s been a month. a month without your voice. without your laugh echoing through his apartment. without your toothbrush next to his, your fingers in his hair, your presence anchoring him to something real. he starts showing up late to meetings. stops wearing matching clothes. eats poorly or not at all. his sunglasses sit untouched on the dresser. his phone stays glued to his hand, never ringing.

shoko notices first. starts bringing coffee again—the way you used to. sometimes it’s bitter on purpose. sometimes there’s a muffin. she never stays long. just enough to look at him and leave aspirin like a warning. suguru lingers longer. he brings groceries. rearranges the fridge. cooks one night, flips through channels on the tv until satoru sinks beside him like gravity’s gotten stronger. another time, he leaves two tickets on the table. they go unused. no one pushes. but they see it. he’s a dying star now—still bright, if you squint. still warm. but folding in on himself.

it gives way at a party. shoko’s house. too many drinks, too many eyes, too much noise. satoru slips away. orders a car. doesn’t remember the ride. remembers your building, though. the numbers on your door. the way your name still makes his heart bruise.

you answer on the third knock. barefoot. tired. not surprised. not quite angry. just done. he tries to smile. tries to speak. the words come wrong. slurred. too much or too little. he ends up on his knees, face pressed against your stomach like it might hold him together.

you sigh. frustrated. your hands twitch toward your temples. “satoru.”

he grins. lopsided. broken. “hi.”

“you can’t just do this.”

"I know.”

“you don’t just crawl back when you're lonely.”

“I'm not lonely,” he says, then winces. “okay. I'm very lonely. but that’s not why I'm here.”

you cross your arms. “then why?”

he blinks slowly, lips parting. his chest heaves with the weight of it all. then—"I took it for granted.” his voice breaks on the word it. “you. us. I thought you’d always be there. like the sky. like—like air. I didn’t know I was suffocating without you until I was.” you scoff. but it’s soft. familiar. he hears the exasperation, but also the crack in your armor. he stumbles forward. trips over nothing. collapses to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist like a drowning man clawing at land. “I'll change,” he breathes, face buried in your stomach. "I swear. just—let me come home. I'll be better. I am better. I—hic—I'm your satoru. I'll be whatever you need.” you sigh. loud. frustrated. your hands move automatically to your temples like you’re trying to rub away the fact that this is happening.

but when his shoulders shake, when you realize he’s crying—actual, hot, humiliating tears soaking through your shirt—you curse under your breath. and then your fingers are in his hair. soft. soothing. so familiar that he melts. he breathes in sharp, wrecked, and exhales against your shirt like it’s the first clean breath he’s taken in weeks. you guide him to the couch. he’s heavy and clumsy, mumbling something into your shoulder about missing your laugh, your smell, your hands.

later, he’s on your couch. mumbled apologies fading into sleep. a blanket draped over him. water and tylenol on the table. you watch his chest rise and fall. then go to bed. in the morning, he wakes up slow. the worst hangover of his life. the apartment smells like your shampoo.you walk out in pajama pants. a tired look in your eyes. he sits up, wincing. you don’t speak. just pour two mugs of coffee. set one down in front of him without comment. he drinks it. bitter. familiar. no declarations. no more begging. just your knee bumping his under the table. and for the first time in thirty-one days, he breathes.

the next weeks aren’t perfect. but they are real. you're sitting on a bench in the park. his hand resting over yours. no crowd, no noise. he doesn’t perform. just sits, quiet and present. when you ask what he’s thinking, he opens his mouth. closes it. looks at your hand instead. you nod. that’s enough. suguru throws another get-together. normally, satoru would be the first to arrive. this time, he texts: “not coming. think I need to stay in.” he brings home your favorite takeout. doesn't explain. just climbs into bed beside you, your bowls in your laps, your toes tangled under the blanket.

one day, he gets a migraine. he doesn’t hide. texts you. “head’s bad today. can you come over?” you do. you sit beside him on the bed, fingers in his hair, lights low. he drifts off with your hand in his, the pain dulling at the edges. another night, he burns dinner so bad the smoke alarm screams. you find him waving a towel, swearing like it’s personal. you laugh. he sulks. you eat cereal in bed. later, when the lights are off, and your breathing is steady, he whispers into the dark: “I'm scared. that I'll mess it up.” you find his hand. squeeze once. he doesn’t say anything after that. just holds on. a little tighter. he’s still scared. he still shines too bright sometimes. still stumbles over the parts of himself he doesn’t understand. but he’s learning. slowly. bravely. and he’s real now. finally, finally real.

no one expected you and choso to become what you did. you were a sorcerer. quiet. capable. always exhausted. always moving like there was something chasing you—not just curses, but time, regret, grief. you’d seen too much too young. lost more than you could count. you didn’t love easily. didn’t trust easily. but choso made it feel…possible. he wasn’t like the others. not polished or loud or charming in the usual way. he was awkward sometimes. a little too still, a little too intense. but he listened. he remembered. he cared.

not just the big things. the little ones. the way you liked your tea. the way you twisted your hair when you were lying. the sound of your breathing when you slept, and how to match it so you’d feel safe even in dreams. he was gentle in a world that didn’t know how to be. he didn’t flinch at your scars. didn’t blink at your worst days. he just loved you—completely, without performance, like it was instinct. and you? you tried to let him in. you really did.

there were nights when you curled into his side, listening to his heartbeat like it might steady your own. afternoons where the world slowed down long enough to believe this could last. moments when you looked at him and thought: maybe I could stay. he made a home out of silence and small comforts. he was steady hands and slow mornings. a warm meal waiting for you after missions. a forehead kiss and, please be careful. you didn’t have to talk much. he always knew. and maybe that was the problem. because choso saw you too clearly.

he could tell when you hadn’t slept. when you were lying. when something inside you had splintered and you were trying to keep the pieces from showing. he asked you once, gently, what scared you more—dying, or watching someone else die because of you. you couldn’t answer. not then. maybe not ever. and then the missions got harder. the injuries worse. you started staring too long at your own reflection, wondering if the person in the mirror was someone you still recognized.

and slowly—without realizing it—you started pulling away. at first, he just thinks you’re tired. he’s seen the way the work drains you—how long the missions are, how bloody they get, how quiet you are after you come back. so when you stop texting him goodnight, when you stop leaning into his touch, when you stop meeting his eyes for too long, he gives you space. the kind of space he thinks love is supposed to give.

choso doesn’t know much about relationships. he’s lived long, but not lived much. this is his first time being in love like this. romantic love. tender love. terrifying, breathtaking, warm-in-the-chest love. and you’re the first person he’s ever wanted to give that to. at first, he doesn’t have the language for it. but he learns fast. he learns that you like to sleep with the window cracked, even in winter. that you can’t fall asleep unless you hear him breathing next to you. that you hate your laugh but he thinks it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

he learns that love is quiet. it’s showing up. it’s bringing back your favorite food even when you didn’t ask. it’s not touching you until you reach for him first. it’s watching your favorite movie just to memorize the parts that make you smile. his love for you is total. it makes him nervous—every time you touch him, every time you look at him like he matters. he didn’t know he could be something soft. someone needed. he wakes up next to you some mornings and has to remind himself it’s real. and then you start pulling away.

it’s small at first. less physical touch. less eye contact. fewer I love yous—and when they come, they sound strained, like you’re saying them through a wall. he doesn’t know what to do. he panics in that quiet, internal way. his thoughts spiral. did he say something wrong? did he stop doing something he was supposed to be doing? is this just part of being human—losing things? he tries harder. tries cooking more, touching more, remembering more. he texts you twice if you don’t answer the first time. he leaves little notes around your apartment when he knows you’re too tired to talk. he doesn’t ask you what’s wrong because he’s scared of the answer.

and then, one night, you give it to him anyway. you sit him down. you’re calm, your tone measured—too measured. you tell him that it’s not him, it’s you. that your life is too heavy. that the work has taken too much. that you don’t know who you are anymore and it’s not fair to drag him down with you. you tell him you’re scared of losing him. that love like this isn’t meant to last for people like you. that it’s better to cut it off now before it hurts more later. he listens. because that’s what he always does—he listens when it hurts.

and then, quietly, softly, he asks, “did I do something wrong?” and when you say no, that this is just how it has to be, he nods. but his heart drops out of his chest and lands somewhere he can’t reach. because this love—his first—wasn’t something casual. it wasn’t something he expected or planned for. it was everything. it was you.

but if keeping you means hurting you…if his presence is too much, even if he doesn’t understand why…then he’ll do the hardest thing he’s ever done. he’ll let you go. he walks away slowly. like something ancient inside him is dying all over again. his hand lingers on your doorframe longer than it should. when he finally leaves, he doesn’t look back. and you don’t stop him. but when the door clicks shut, the silence that follows is unbearable. for both of you. because love like this doesn’t just vanish. it stays. it lingers. and for choso—who finally found something beautiful in a world that never gave him beauty—there’s no forgetting. only missing.

choso doesn’t understand. he replays your words over and over, trying to make them make sense. you left because you were afraid of losing him. that’s what you said. but what does that even mean? is loving someone not worth the risk of hurting? was he…not worth it? he doesn’t know. he tells himself you just need time. space. that once the fear passes—once the exhaustion wears off, once you remember what you had—you’ll come back. you’ll knock on his door, eyes tired, voice soft, ask him to hold you like you always used to. he checks his phone too often. trains harder than he needs to. lingers at the places you used to be, half-expecting you to turn the corner, scolding him for spacing out. you always noticed when his mind wandered.

but a week passes. then another. you’re not at the training dojo. you don’t show up to the weekly meetings with yaga. you don’t text. don’t send word. you’ve taken on mission after mission, burning through cursed spirits like you're trying to outrun something—maybe even him. he hears it from someone else. that you’re barely sleeping. that you’ve refused help. that you’ve come back injured more than once and insisted you were fine. it doesn’t fix anything. it doesn’t fill the space you left behind. you're not coming back to him, and that knowledge seeps into his bones like a poisonous molasses.

the ache doesn’t come all at once. it starts as a hollowness. a missing mug on the kitchen counter. an extra toothbrush that never got packed. a hoodie you forgot—he keeps it folded, untouched, like you might need it someday. he still buys your favorite snacks when he’s out. sees them on the shelf and grabs them without thinking. they sit unopened in his cabinets like artifacts. he doesn’t sleep well. his dreams are scattered—flashes of you in his arms, half-formed words that dissolve when he wakes. he reaches out instinctively in the dark sometimes, and his hand closes around nothing. it’s more than heartbreak. it’s devastation. it’s confusion.

choso’s never felt this before. this missing that sits under his skin like rot. this constant pressure in his chest, like he’s halfway through crying but the tears never come. he doesn't understand why he can't just get over it. you left. you said goodbye. you made the choice. so why does he still feel like he’s the one who failed? he doesn’t talk about it. not really. not in full. he just gets quieter.

he stops going to the markets with his brothers. he doesn’t eat much. doesn't listen to music. doesn’t really live—just exists in the spaces where you used to be. because you taught him how to love. and then you left. and now he doesn’t know where to put all of it—the warmth, the instinct, the want. it has nowhere to go. it just folds in on itself and festers.

every time he closes his eyes, he hears your laugh. the one you let slip when you forgot to hold yourself together. the one that made his chest feel like it might split open with joy. he’d do anything to hear it again. even once. he still hopes you’ll come back. that’s the worst part. not that he lost you. but that some small, desperate part of him still thinks he hasn’t. that maybe one day, you’ll show up again—tired and frayed at the edges, finally ready to be held. finally ready to stop running. finally ready to let yourself be loved the way he always wanted to love you. but until then, he waits. and the waiting becomes its own kind of grief.

he hears it late. a mission gone wrong. you, unconscious. bleeding out. shoko worked on you for hours. ijichi’s shirt stained with your blood. words like internal damage and nearly didn’t make it swirl around him like static, but only one thing matters: you're alive. barely. but alive. he goes to you. the med bay is quiet, lit in that sickly way only hospitals and sorrow know. half the lights are off, but the ones still burning are too bright. the place smells sterile and wrong.

and there you are. sitting upright in the hospital bed, knees pulled to your chest, blanket clutched in your fists like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. your eyes are unfocused. dull. tired in a way he’s never seen. you don’t see him right away. you’re smaller like this. fragile. faded. when you do look up, it’s slow. disbelieving. you don’t say anything. neither does he.

he just walks to you. each step deliberate. each breath heavier than the last. he stops at your bedside. you stare at him like you don’t know if you’re dreaming. like maybe you are. maybe this is another version of the nightmare. but he doesn’t fade. he’s here. and for a long time, that’s all either of you can manage—breathing in the same space again. then, his voice. low. barely there. “did you stop loving me?”

your breath catches. your whole body stutters. then, sharp and immediate: “no.” it guts him. that no—not hesitant, not thoughtful, just pain-soaked and instinctive. you look down like you regret everything except saying it. and that’s enough. he exhales. shoulders heavy. his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them—hold you, fall apart, both.

you don’t look up. he doesn’t push. he just kneels. sinks to the ground beside your bed like gravity has claimed him. his head drops forward. his fingers hover near yours but never touch. his breathing is uneven now. tense. quiet. there are no more words. just a long, aching silence between you, where everything you both wanted to say—I missed you. I was scared. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t know how to stay without breaking—exists without sound.

then, finally, your hand moves. to his hair. tentative. familiar. you curl your fingers through it the way you always did when you couldn’t sleep. and he breathes again. not fully. not freely. but enough. you don’t ask him to stay. you don’t have to. he pulls the chair closer, sits beside you. doesn’t let go of your hand all night. and when you fall asleep, his thumb is still brushing over your knuckles like a promise.you wake to the sound of quiet breathing and the gentle pressure of a hand still holding yours.

choso hasn’t moved much. he’s watching you. not startled, not relieved—just there, like he never left, like he never meant to in the first place. the light through the blinds is soft. not quite dawn. you’re tired in every sense of the word. body, mind, heart. everything aches. but somehow, it’s easier to breathe than it was yesterday. you sit up. he does too. the blanket slips from your shoulder; he fixes it. your eyes flick toward him. you don’t ask why he’s still here. you know.

later, you’re sitting at his place. it’s quiet. cleaner than you remember. or maybe it’s just emptier, and you notice that now.

he doesn’t press you to talk. doesn’t ask for explanations. just brings you tea in a mug he never got rid of, the one you used to claim even though it was chipped and ugly. you stare at it for a long time before taking a sip. he watches you from across the table, posture still, gaze unwavering. his mind is racing. you love him. you said you did. so why did you go? he’s scared too. of course he is. he’s always been scared. of loss. of blood. of watching something good die in his hands. but that fear made him want to hold you tighter. tuck you into his chest and keep you safe. your fear made you run. he doesn’t understand. but he wants to.

you speak eventually. few words. quiet. careful. like you’re placing glass on a shelf that might collapse. something about how loving him made you feel like you had something to lose again. something that made death real. how you were afraid that if it ended, you wouldn’t survive it. and how you left because you wanted to hurt less. choso listens. he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t nod too fast or reach for you too soon. he takes it in. you love him, and it terrified you. that’s all he needed to hear. that fear—he knows it. he's lived in it. but now, it doesn’t push him away from you. it pulls him closer. he thinks about how easily you could’ve died. how close he came to losing you without even having the chance to fight for you. that won’t happen again.

you don’t speak. you just breathe. shallow, uncertain. your hands are folded in your lap, your shoulders hunched like you’re preparing for impact even now, even after everything. but choso doesn't let you float away. he sees it—the drift in your eyes, the way you keep slipping out of the moment, already retreating into that place where love is dangerous and endings are inevitable.

so he moves. not rushed. not shaking. he stands, takes two steps forward, and gently pulls you to your feet. your balance stumbles for a half-second, caught off guard—but his arms are already around you. warm. solid. steady. they lock around your shoulders like something anchoring. not desperate. not crushing. just real. your face presses into his chest. his heart is loud. not panicked—alive. he buries his nose in your hair. and everything slows down. he holds you like you’re the answer to every question he didn’t know how to ask. like if he lets go, you’ll be gone again. like this is the first moment he’s truly breathed in weeks. his hands splay against your back, not moving. not coaxing. just tethering. here. now. still.

you don’t say anything. you just lean into him. let him carry the weight. let him stay. and he does. because love isn’t loud. it’s this. it’s arms around your body when your mind starts to slip. it’s holding you here. with him. where you’re safe. where you’re home.

you weren’t supposed to be anything to each other. shiu was your handler. your point of contact. your superior. you were a weapon. clean, efficient, silent. the kind the criminal world likes best—sharp enough to kill, disciplined enough not to question why. it was never personal. not at first.

the missions were brutal. bloody. he sent you out and watched you come back half-alive. you’d give him your debrief like a soldier giving up a secret, every word delivered through grit teeth and bruised lungs. he rarely said much in return. just nodded. lit a cigarette. filed the report. but over time, things changed. he started waiting up. he started noticing the way you walked when you were favoring an injury. the way your voice went flat when a mission had gone worse than expected. the way you never sat with your back to the door.

you noticed, too. how he always had painkillers on hand. how he stocked your favorite drink without ever asking. how he stood just a little too close when someone tried to intimidate you. no confessions. no declarations. just long nights spent in low-lit rooms. fingers pressed to bandaged skin. the heavy silence that came after both of you had killed something that day. the intimacy was quiet. dangerous. fragile in a way neither of you acknowledged. it wasn’t love. not officially. not until it was. and by then, it was too late.

you’d been wanting out for months. the fatigue had crept in slowly—bone-deep, soul-deep. a crack in your armor that widened with every mission. every kill. every body. it wasn’t the blood that did it. it was the feeling—the numbness after. the knowledge that you'd become everything you swore you wouldn't.

you stopped recognizing yourself. and the worst part? shiu saw it happening. he watched it take root in you. the dread. the weariness. the self-disgust. but he didn’t try to talk you down or sweet-talk you into staying. because he couldn’t. he knew the job better than anyone. he was part of it. you were part of it. it was a machine, and he didn’t know how to live outside of it.

so when the mission went bad—really bad—he wasn’t surprised when you broke. you came back covered in blood that wasn’t yours. limping. glassy-eyed. he patched you up in silence. tended to your wounds like he always did. you flinched when he touched your ribs. he noticed. said nothing. the room smelled like alcohol and metal. your eyes didn’t meet his once. he knew something was ending. he just didn’t know how soon.

you didn’t leave with ceremony. just a note on his desk. no explanation. no goodbye. just a few short lines, scrawled in your rough, clinical handwriting. I can’t keep doing this. don’t look for me. I won’t be back; you’ll survive this.

that was it. when he read it, he didn’t react. not outwardly. he finished his cigarette. closed the file on the desk. and stared at the chair where you used to sit during briefings, a towel slung over your neck, blood drying on your collar.

you were gone. and he knew—really knew—that you weren’t coming back. no one walks away from a life like this easily. unless they’ve already decided they’re willing to die for the chance to be someone else.

he gives it a week. not because he believes you’re coming back. but because that’s how long it takes to get your file pulled. where you were last seen. what apartments have utilities in your name. credit card traces. a parking ticket. it’s not hard.

you moved to a quiet neighborhood. the kind of place where people smile at you in the elevator. where nothing explodes and no one bleeds out in the stairwell. the building is nicer than your old one. big windows. soft lighting in the halls. a security system that’ll never notice him. you’ve probably been saving for a while. probably made this plan months ago. that part guts him the most. you were leaving the entire time you were still in his bed. still kissing him goodbye before missions. still telling him to pick up milk on his way home.

and now he’s just a phantom, watching from the street. every night, he sits in his car across from your building. engine off. cigarette lit. the cherry glows dim in the dark while he watches your window. you leave your lamp on late. always have. sometimes it’s a book in your hands. sometimes just you, curled in a blanket with nothing but your thoughts. he watches until the light goes out. then sometimes longer.

you got a job. a desk. a building full of civilians who don’t know your name used to be whispered in the dark by people who were afraid to die. he finds out you’re a low-level assistant. coffee runs. schedule coordination. filing paperwork in triplicate. he bets you hate it. you hate being told what to do. you hate small talk. you hate fluorescent lights and cheap coffee and 9 a.m. meetings.

but you’re there. every day. trying. so he makes sure it’s worth it. your manager’s a prick. shiu makes one visit—low voice, direct eye contact, a hand on the guy’s desk and the tiniest flash of steel. two weeks later, you’re promoted. shiu never considers calling you; telling you. he doesn’t want thanks. doesn’t want credit. he just wants you to have something good. even if it’s not him. plus, he doesn’t think you’d answer if he called.

he doesn’t sleep much anymore. drives the city in loops. makes toji take more jobs so he has something to do with his hands. something that isn’t reaching for someone who isn’t there. he schmoozes clients. drinks too much. smokes too much. stops going to the convenience store across from his place. the hot dog cart. the diner. your ghost is everywhere.

he thought you’d been soft for him. gentle. yourselves, in whatever stolen pieces you were allowed. he thought maybe you weren’t just fucking each other for the thrill or for comfort. he held you when you were too tired to stand. cooked for you. rubbed your shoulders until you fell asleep. he let you into his home. his life. the parts no one else ever got. and you gave him a sticky note.

toji makes fun of him a lot. rolls his eyes when shiu ignores calls. cackles when he sees him watching your window like a man mourning something he never named. "didn’t know you went for the sentimental ones,” toji smirks. shiu flicks ash onto the sidewalk. doesn’t answer. because you are obviously not the sentimental type, and maybe he wasn’t sentimental before you. maybe he didn’t believe in attachment. or softness. or permanence. but you ruined that.

you left, and now there’s a you-shaped crater in every part of his routine. and shiu kong—cold, composed, professional—lets himself ache. not in the ways people see. but in the silence. in the nights spent staring at a lamp across the street. in the cigarettes that never taste like anything anymore. and the worst part is—he’s not even angry. he��s just empty.

he doesn't expect to get you back. you’d have left the opportunity open for him if you’d wanted to rekindle. you hadn’t. it’d been radio silence for a whole season. that’s not why he watches. not why he checks your window at night, not why he listens for your footsteps on the stairs or tracks your walk to the station. you look okay. tired, some days. stressed. but… okay. you smile sometimes. even laugh. he can live with that. he doesn’t like it. but he can survive it. as long as you're breathing. whole. not bleeding out on some stairwell while he fills out paperwork and pretends he never cared.

he was never going to come back. not really. not until he saw the man. some fucking co-worker, shoulder to shoulder with you at the café near your office. laughing too loud. leaning too close. asking something that makes your mouth tilt—half-amused, half-caught off guard.

you don’t say yes. but you don’t say no. and that’s what breaks it. not the light in your window. not the sticky note. this. the idea that someone else might be trying to earn a version of you they didn’t bleed for. that someone might get to touch you—softly, clumsily, like they haven’t memorized your scars. it’s stupid. it’s petty. it’s enough.

he’s at your door before he can talk himself out of it. leaning against the frame like he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick. cigarette clamped between his lips, fingers twitching. the air is cold. his chest is colder. you answer in pajama pants and an oversized shirt, blinking against the hallway light.

you look surprised. not angry. and that’s almost worse. because it means you didn’t think he would come. and he can’t figure out if he’s insulted…or if you’re right. you don’t ask why he’s here. not at first. you just step aside. he walks in like it’s muscle memory.

different layout. same furniture. all new energy. everything smells like lavender and clean laundry now. it makes him want to set something on fire. he paces once. doesn’t sit. flicks ash into the sink because that’s the closest thing to control he has left. he doesn’t ask how you are. he asks about the guy. low. sharp. is it serious? are you seeing him? are you fucking him?

you flinch. the calm dissolves. and now, now, you’re angry. not because he asked. not even because he showed up uninvited. because it’s been ninety days. because he said nothing. because he let you go—like it didn’t kill him—and now he’s jealous?

now? it spirals in silence. the room heavy with all the words neither of you said when it might’ve mattered. he wants to apologize. he doesn’t. he wants to take it back. he can’t. so he just stands there. breathing too hard. looking at you like you might be the last thing that still makes sense to him.

you wait. and when he doesn’t move, you ask—quiet, bitter: “why are you here?” he doesn’t answer right away. just crushes the cigarette in the sink. stares at the cherry as it dies.

then finally, voice rough: “because I had to know if you meant it.” meant the leaving. meant the silence. meant that three months of an empty bed was what you wanted. because shiu can take a lot. but he can’t take not knowing. he doesn’t say anything else. doesn’t ask for you back.

he just looks at you, stripped down to nothing but need—raw, rotted, and quiet. the kind of hurt a man like him doesn’t know how to name. and waits. shoulders tense. jaw locked. ash on his fingertips and desperation in the way he’s breathing, like each second without you is an open wound. you should kick him out. kick his ass. kick something. you don’t.

instead—three steps. three steps across the kitchen and your fingers curl into his collar and you kiss him. hard. furious. starving. your chapstick smears across his mouth, warm and tinted and all over the cigarette taste he never bothers to hide. he tastes like cloves and burnt sugar and memory. like home. he makes a low, rough sound—guttural—and then he’s kissing you back like he’s drowning. one thick hand wraps around your waist, the other spreads wide across your spine, pulling you in like he’s afraid you might vanish again. he kisses you like you’re a secret he wasn’t supposed to learn—but can’t stop repeating. he kisses you like the world ended yesterday and you’re the only thing left worth saving. he kisses you like he’s praying and you’re the only god that ever answered. he kisses you like you're a promise he’s terrified to break.

you ache for him in a way that’s sickening. god, it’s been too long. too many nights alone. too many mornings pretending you didn’t miss him. you don’t know how you ever walked out the door. you don’t know how you ever looked at this man and thought I'll survive without him. you won’t. you can’t.

but the kiss breaks—like glass under pressure. reality crashes back in, cold and clean and cruel. your breath catches, mouth dragging away, body trembling. "I can’t—” you choke. "I can’t come back, shiu. I can’t be that girl again.” your voice cracks. your hands drop. your eyes blur. you never cry. and here you are, breaking open.

and shiu—hard, cold, untouchable shiu—drinks it in like water. this. this is what he came for. not sex. not closure. not revenge. this. your truth. your honesty. the part of you that still wants him but doesn’t know how to live with it. he leans in. nose brushing yours. and he shakes his head—slow, firm, final.

“you don’t have to be her,” he murmurs. rough, barely a whisper. "I just want you.” just you. not the weapon. not the girl who followed orders. not the one who could gut a grown man without blinking. just you. head tucked under his chin. bare and breathing. soft only for him. his arms slide around you like steel. you melt. and he holds you. the cigarette burns out in the sink behind him. and for the first time in months, the bed won’t be cold tonight. because you’re here. and you’re his again.

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