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saatorus · 2 months ago

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almost yours — a satoru gojo fic

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

wc — 35.4k (never let me estimate my own word counts again)

read it on ao3

warnings — smut, p in v sex (unprotected and protected), fingering, oral (f receiving), making out, brief 7 minutes in heaven trope (couldn't control myself sorry) tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, kind of unreliable narrator vibes, afab reader, more inaccurate representations of frat parties and possibly frat culture ^_^

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on. He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.” He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then. He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore. Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different. Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges. And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot. So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way. Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra, not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me. It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major��nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body. Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up. And then—there’s him. Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts. You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you.

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets. “I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!” Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.” Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system. He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?” You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.” You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?” He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.” You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs. You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts. And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change. But you know it is. He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly. You look up, startled. “What?” His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?” Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire. He’s still watching you. But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand. Still. You tuck it away. Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night. He won’t. But you will.

–

It’s been three years since that night. The one where your heart skittered up your throat at the sound of his laugh, where he’d tugged the ends of your hair and called it pretty, where he’d looked at you like he saw something there. Or maybe he was just being friendly. You over analyze simple interactions with men a little too much.

You’d replayed it for weeks. Obsessively, stupidly. Burned it into your mind like it meant something. But time has a way of softening things, even the sharpest crushes. The ache of it dulled as college rolled on, as you kissed boys who weren’t him, as you got older and started dressing for yourself instead of wondering if he’d notice. Now, you’re sitting cross-legged in Seiko’s childhood bedroom, half in a blanket cocoon, sipping flat soda out of an old anime cup you both used to fight over when you were twelve. The window’s open, the curtains swaying with the breeze, and the room smells like spring air and vanilla body mist. “Okay,” Seiko says, her voice muffled as she flops back dramatically onto her pillows, “I’m literally not kidding anymore. If prices of apartments go up by even one more dollar than the current budget I’m on, I’m just going to live in the campus library like a cryptid.”

You snort. “You’d last two nights before you begged for my airfryer and moisturizer.”

“That is so true,” she groans, throwing a hand over her face. “Wait—why don’t we just move in together? Like… actually. Find a place off-campus. Split the bills. You’re always here anyway, and you hate your housemates. And I wanna get out of this house already. Like, I need to feel like an adult, stat” You blink at her. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Deadass.”

It’s not a bad idea. You are here all the time—your uni ended up being like twenty minutes from Seiko’s family home, and when your dorm got too loud or your brain got too tired, she always had a spare blanket and instant noodles ready for you. Half your stuff’s already in her closet. Living with Seiko wouldn’t be hard. You’ve survived sleep-deprived all-nighters, food poisoning, two breakups, and a disastrous eyebrow waxing incident together. An apartment feels like a natural next step. “I mean, yeah,” you say, stretching your legs out on the bed, “I’d be down. But only if I get the good side of the fridge.”

“You don’t even cook!”

“Exactly. So I deserve extra space for my stash of thirty minute butter chicken and diet coke.”

“Fair point, the thirty minute butterchicken has been one of your greatest finds at the store yet,” she nods solemnly. It’s easy like this. Girl talk, real talk. The kind that only comes after years of shared notebooks and late-night crying and stupid dances in the hallway. You’re mid-scroll on your phone, looking up open listings, when Seiko suddenly straightens up with a weird look on her face.

“Oh shit.” You glance over. “What?”

“I just remembered—my mum texted me this morning… Satoru’s flight from Japan is today.” You freeze, thumb hovering mid-air. “Seiko.”

“I swear I thought it was next week! But turns out she meant this Sunday, not next.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper, heart doing something traitorous in your chest.

She cringes. “Sorryyy. It’s not like he’s crashing in this room. He’s taking the guest one downstairs.”

“That’s not the point,” you mutter, flopping back into the pillows like the dramatic main character you are. “I need, like, mental prep. A warning! A buffer zone!”

“It’s been three years,” she reminds you, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not still—”

“I’m not.” You cut her off quickly, sitting up. “I’m not. I got over it.” You say it with the conviction of someone who has—not just because time passed, but because you actually did the emotional legwork. You remember how you’d finally told Seiko about your crush a few months after Satoru had flown out for that scholarship program. It was during a late-night snack run—Melonpan and slurpee in hand, parked outside the 7/11 under shitty yellow streetlights. Your voice had cracked halfway through the confession. “I think I had a thing for your brother,” you’d said, casual in that fake-casual way. “Like, a crush-crush.” And Seiko, bless her heart, didn’t freak out or make it weird. She just shrugged and sipped her drink like you’d told her the weather.

“Yeah,” she’d said. “That was kinda obvious.”

“Obvious?” you’d gawked. She’d snorted. “You stared at him like he was a Greek god who worked part-time at Uniqlo. And you got aggressively nice every time he walked into the room.” After that, the dam kind of burst. You ended up telling her everything—every humiliating thing you’d done in the name of Satoru Gojo. Like the time you spent twenty minutes curling your eyelashes before a family barbecue, only to blink so aggressively at him that your contact lens folded in half. Or how you once tripped over her cat trying to sprint to the bathroom when you heard his voice in the hallway—because you hadn’t shaved your legs and you simply could not be perceived like that. Seiko had listened to it all with a mixture of horror, amusement, and deeply affectionate judgment.

“You’re disgusting,” she’d said once, fondly. “But you’re my disgusting best friend, so I guess I have to love you anyway.” Now, three years later, you smirk a little at the memory. “I was like sixteen,” you say, brushing invisible dust off your shirt. “And he was older and cooler and looked good in white t-shirts. It wasn’t exactly hard to crush on him.”

Seiko hums. “You also wore a push-up bra every time you knew he’d be home.”

“Don’t slut-shame me for being sixteen and desperate for attention,” you say with a grin.

“You also practiced putting on eyeliner with a spoon.”

“I hate that you remember everything.”

“You told me your soul left your body when he looked at your knees once.”

“Okay, now you’re making things up.”

“You tried to use cherry lip gloss as blush.”

“That one’s valid. TikTok taught me that.” Seiko laughs and tosses a pillow at you, and the room’s full of that deep, cozy joy that only comes when someone’s known you long enough to remember your awkward era and still wants to live with you. It’s quiet for a second after that. The breeze flutters in, catching on the posters still stuck to her walls—old anime prints, boy band photos from your middle school years, a collage of polaroids with all your worst angles and best memories. You sigh and glance at her. “So… what do we do if he actually shows up?” She shrugs. “We act normal. We’re adults now. You’re not gonna combust from seeing his stupid face again.” You both dissolve into uncontrollable laughter again, that warm, stupid haze settling in the room like an old blanket—the kind woven from late-night confessions and shared snacks, music blasting from your phones, and way too many years of embarrassing stories. And even with all the teasing, the grossed-out big sister act, the ridiculous confessions—you know she gets it. You’re not that girl anymore. Satoru Gojo might be coming back tonight. But you’ve grown up. Gotten your heart broken a few times. Learned how to kiss without thinking about someone else's older brother. You’re not that girl anymore. But you do still kind of hope your eyeliner holds up.

–

The first sign that something’s changed is the sound of the door. Not a knock—of course not. Gojo Satoru never knocked in his own house. It’s the familiar click-clack of the handle Seiko’s parents never replaced, followed by the solid thud of shoes on hardwood and the faint rustle of bags. And then, casually:

“Yo! I’m home!”

Your stomach drops. Seiko, still mid-sip of her Diet Coke, just blinks at you from across the living room. You’re sitting criss-cross on the rug, wearing a hoodie that may or may not have a bleach stain and socks with cartoon strawberries on them. The TV is paused on some half-watched dating show, and you’re surrounded by empty chip bags and your laptop, still open on a tab labeled apartments near campus cheap please.

“…You said tonight,” you whisper, already scrambling to smooth your hair down. “I thought it was tonight!” Seiko whisper-hisses back. “Mom must’ve meant this afternoon!” And before you can gather the scraps of your dignity and disappear up the stairs, he’s already in the room. Gojo Satoru. In the flesh. Three years older. And apparently, bulkier than God intended. He's in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and you hate that the first thing you notice is how tight the sleeves are around his biceps. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Forearms that probably didn’t look like that the last time you saw him. There’s a duffel slung over one shoulder and a Lawson bag in the other. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

He stops short in the doorway when he sees you. “Oh,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t know you were here.” You go stiff. “Yeah. Hey.” It’s weird. It’s so weird. You haven’t seen him since that summer—since the night before he left for that international scholarship program. And now he’s standing there like no time has passed, like his shoulders didn’t double in size and like your brain isn’t short-circuiting from sheer secondhand awkwardness. Satoru looks at Seiko. “You didn’t read my texts again, did you?”

“They were blurry photos of vending machine sandwiches,” she deadpans. “Forgive me for not decoding that.”

He shrugs, dropping his bags to the floor with a loud thump, going over to trap his sister into a bear hug, smirking when she squealed and said something about not being able to breathe. “I said I was coming today.”

“No, you said, ‘soon.’”

“Well, I meant today.” There’s a beat of silence. You try not to look directly at him, as if eye contact will cause some sort of emotional combustion. You can feel how out-of-place you suddenly are—socks on the wrong foot, posture too stiff, heart hammering in your chest like you’re sixteen again. He looks at you once Seiko has scrambled out of his grip, hands shoved into his pockets. Not weirdly. Just… like he’s trying to remember something.

“So how’s college? Seiko keeps me updated on the entire experience, but how’ve you been finding it? Big jump from highschool?” He asks, voice casual in that way that somehow makes it worse.

You nod. “Yeah. Um, good! Nice, I like it. Fun, even.” He raises his eyebrows slightly, impressed.

“Nice. What’s your major?”

“Psych,” you say, then immediately hate how your voice goes just a little too high on the “-ch.” You clear your throat. “Psychology.” He nods again, the way people do when they don’t actually know what to say next. “Cool. Lots of reading?”

“Yeah. Um, way too much.” You try to laugh a little, like a normal person, but it comes out thin. You shift your weight. He shifts his. Somewhere behind you, a fly buzzes. “How was Japan?” you ask, because someone has to fill the silence before your ears implode from the pressure. He perks up a little, like he’s glad for the safer topic. “It was good. Really cool. I was in Tokyo for the most part, did this exchange thing with Todai—Tokyo University.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They had me in this physics program for my undergrad, working with some grad students on quantum optics stuff.”

You blink. “Quantum what now?” He grins, and you hate that it's still the same cocky lopsided thing it was at seventeen. “Lasers.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a self-deprecating shrug. “Mostly just a lot of math and equipment malfunctions. The usual.” You nod, because you have absolutely nothing to add to that, unless your psych notes on Pavlov’s dogs suddenly become relevant to international laser research. The silence creeps back in, loud as ever. “Cool,” you say, again. Your default setting, apparently. He nods. “Yeah.”

You both just stand there for a second too long, not quite looking at each other. Then—

“Wow, this isn’t awkward at all,” Seiko deadpans as she looks between you both, sipping her drink with all the grace of a sitcom character arriving to save a scene. You both instinctively reply, “Shut up,” in unison. Which only makes it so much worse.

Seiko just raises an eyebrow at you like you’re the one being weird, and mutters something about grabbing a snack before disappearing into the kitchen again. And then it’s just you and Satoru again. Standing in the middle of the living room. A full foot apart but worlds away. He shifts his weight, glancing around like he’s re-familiarizing himself with the space. The rug. The shelves. The old family photos that haven’t moved in years.It’s weird seeing him here again. Weirder seeing him like this. Older. Bigger. Built like he’s been bench pressing trucks for fun. His hair is a little longer now, swept back lazily, an undercut visible, and his whole presence feels heavier—not in a bad way. Just more… there. Same face. Same dumb grin. But it doesn’t feel like the same person anymore. And god, this is awkward. He clears his throat. “Well. I’m gonna shower.”

“Cool,” you say, like a robot malfunctioning. And trying not to imagine him naked. In the shower. Water running down his built body. He grabs his bag again, nods, and heads upstairs. Only when he’s gone do you let your whole body collapse back into the couch. Seiko reappears two seconds later with a bowl of cereal. You groan into your hands.

“What the hell was that.”

She chews. “That was my brother. Looking like a protein powder ad.”

“Oh my god, you’re right. Did I act up?”

“You said ‘cool.’ Like someone’s dad.” You scowl. “Okay, well you forgot to mention he turned into a brick wall with legs.”

“Gross. That’s my brother.”

“You’re the one who said protein powder!”

“Yeah, and you looked like you were going to pass out just from seeing his arms.” You huff, closing your laptop screen with a huff.

“Shut up.”

–

It’s the week before uni starts again. The tail end of your well-earned university break—half spent in your disaster of an apartment with even more disastrous flatmates (you genuinely can’t even get into how bad it is without spiraling), and half in the cozy, warm bubble of your best friend Seiko’s family home. You still don’t know why she ever wants to move out of here. The fridge is always full, the floors are always clean, her parents adore you, and the water pressure in the upstairs bathroom makes you want to marry the plumbing. But there is one caveat to all this domestic bliss. Being in the house of your gorgeous, lovely best friend means now constantly being around her equally gorgeous, equally lovely older brother. Now, to be fair, you said you were over it. The crush. The obsession. The years-long pining that began in childhood and ended somewhere between your first college situationship and your second real heartbreak. It’s been three years since he left for Japan. Three years since you confessed the whole dumb thing to Seiko—who just blinked at you and said, “Yeah? It was so obvious.” Three years since you mentally filed away every mortifying thing you’d ever done in the name of impressing Satoru Gojo.

(“Remember when you wore that way-too-small bra and couldn’t breathe the whole day?” Seiko had giggled. “Or when you put on lipgloss just to ask him what time it was?” “Shut up,” you groaned, face down in her bed. “No, you shut up,” she’d laughed. “It’s endearing.”)

And it was fine. You were fine. You got older. You had experiences. You weren’t that girl anymore. But you’re also just a girl. A really hormonal, 20-year-old girl. With eyes. And a pulse. And a deeply cursed memory of the way he used to ruffle your hair like you were some scrappy little sister. So yeah. It’s complicated. Satoru Gojo has been back from Japan for a few weeks now—and oh boy, had he made his presence known. The living room and his upstairs bedroom have basically become dual command centers of chaos, filled with overlapping noise and endless energy. He’s constantly switching between the two, dragging Suguru along for the ride—also freshly returned and, much to Seiko’s unspoken delight, always over. There’s laughter echoing from the TV, loud cackling over dumb reels, or occasional testosterone-fueled howling whenever they’re deep in some Fortnite deathmatch or FIFA playoff. Sometimes you walk into the kitchen and there’s a stranger raiding the fridge. Sometimes you step into the hallway and trip over Satoru’s gym bag, which weighs more than your trauma. And god—he’s jacked now. Not like, oh he works out sometimes jacked. More like, I could throw a car if I wanted to jacked. Broad shoulders. Arms that stretch his t-shirts in unfair ways. Thighs that should be illegal in those loose basketball shorts. You hate that you’ve noticed. You hate that you still kind of care.

You’re coping. Barely. One afternoon, you’re sprawled on the living room couch with Seiko, sharing a packet of sour gummies and flipping between bad reality TV shows when the front door bangs open. “Back from war,” Suguru announces, tossing his keys on the entry table like he owns the place. “We got slushies,” Satoru says, trailing behind him, arms full of way too many drinks. “Someone help, I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Oh my god, why’d you get six?” Seiko says, hopping up.

“They had a buy-three-get-three deal,” he shrugs. “Math, baby.” You linger behind her, offering a casual wave as Satoru spots you. He nods back, all easy smiles and post-gym glow, looking annoyingly good in a dark tank and sweats. His hair’s messier than usual, like he towel-dried it in the car and gave up halfway through. The four of you end up lounging in the living room, Suguru and Satoru on the floor, you and Seiko curled up on the couch. Suguru’s the first to start shit. “Remember when you two used to pretend to be spies and sneak snacks from the kitchen?” he grins, pointing at you and Seiko. “That was your idea,” Seiko fires back. “Yeah, but you were the one who tried to crawl under the dining table and got stuck between the legs of a chair.” You’re halfway through a laugh when Satoru adds, “She cried for ten minutes. Thought she was gonna die under there.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Seiko says, throwing a gummy at him. He snorts, catching it effortlessly. “I saved you. That makes me a hero.”

“She only cried ‘cause you told her cockroaches resided in the legs of that chair and they were gonna crawl all over her,” you say with a giggle. Satoru turns to you, mock offended. “I was building childhood resilience.” You all laugh again, the energy light and familiar and buzzing. But then—

Suguru smirks. “Honestly, the way you two used to follow him around like ducklings—”

“I did not,” you start, horrified.

“Sure,” Satoru grins, easy and warm. “You were like a little sister. Like I had two little sisters.”

Your heart doesn’t shatter or anything. You’re not a teenager anymore. But something still winces inside you. A slow, dull ache. Not because you wanted him to say something else—but because that confirms it. All the years of wondering, of analyzing every glance or moment, just shrinks down into a single, harmless label.

Like a little sister.

You catch Seiko’s eye for a second. She doesn’t say anything, but you know she saw the exact second your expression faltered. Back upstairs later, you’re sprawled on her bed again, half scrolling your phone, half dissociating into the pattern on her ceiling. “Hey,” she says softly, nudging you with her toe.

You blink. “What?” She winces, dramatic. “I am so sorry. If the guy I liked said that about me I would simply pass away.” You groan into her blanket. “Seiko, stop.”

“No like—why’s he so dumb? He didn’t mean it like that, I swear—he just says the first thing that pops into his head sometimes, you know how he is—”

“I don’t like him anymore,” you say firmly, sitting up. “Seriously. It’s not that deep.” But your younger self stings a little. Because now you know. It’s all been filed neatly into kid stuff. Little sister things. Nothing that ever reached him the way it reached you. You’re not hurt. You’re just… grounded. Suddenly and irrevocably grounded. Seiko flops next to you, throwing an arm over her eyes. “He’s an idiot. A weird, gym-rat, physics-nerd idiot. Weirdo. Total weirdo.”

You snort. “That’s a lot of hyphens.”

“He deserves them.”

–

The first week of uni starts with a heatwave. Everything feels sticky. Pavement melting under your shoes, tote bags sticking to your shoulder, the air around campus thick and weirdly scented with iced coffee and sunscreen and overpriced cologne. Your phone keeps warning you about the UV index. Every lecture hall feels either suffocating or like a freezer on full blast. It's a miracle you haven't already dropped out. Life feels like it's slipping back into place—until it doesn't. Because now Satoru Gojo is here. At your university. I mean, obviously, he was bound to. Something about an honours year. You knew it was coming. You’d heard Seiko mention it offhandedly over break. “He transferred in with Suguru, their credits aligned or whatever, I don’t know. Something about physics and—oh my god, are you listening?”

You’d nodded, but your stomach had dipped. And now he’s just… here. It starts small. A glimpse in the courtyard during the week. You’re sitting cross-legged under a shady tree with your friends when you hear someone laugh loud and obnoxiously behind you. You turn. He’s leaning against a bench, sunglasses perched on his head, grinning while talking to some third-years like he’s known them forever. His presence is so big. He’s always taken up space—but now it feels more deliberate. Like he knows it. Like he expects it. You don’t wave. He doesn’t see you. That should be the end of it. But then it happens again. In the campus gym, where you’re trying to kill time on a treadmill before your next tutorial, and he walks by, all sweat and tank top and biceps that really need to calm down. He’s fist-bumping the guy at the front desk. Later, you hear one of the girls in your class whisper, “That’s Gojo Satoru, right? The hottie in that physics thing in Japan?”

Of course he was. It becomes a pattern. You don’t even need to look for him—he just keeps showing up. In the science wing, at the club fair where he somehow ends up manning the booth for the rock climbing society and the anime club. He’s basically an unofficial campus ambassador by week two. People know him. Your university, for all its massive sprawl and fancy name, is crawling with alumni from your high school. It’s like a silent, unspoken network—people recognize each other, even if they don’t acknowledge it. It means Satoru doesn’t have to try that hard. The guys already like him. The girls—well. You hear his name a lot. For obvious reasons. Floating through stairwells. Written in notebooks with dumb little hearts. There are rumors, already, that he’s seeing someone from the bio department.

You tell yourself you don’t care. And for the most part—you really don’t. Your classes are packed. Your workload’s heavy. You’re constantly flitting from the library to lectures to the café where you work weekends, barely keeping your head above water. And still, sometimes, in the middle of it all—you’ll catch him across campus. Headphones in. Laughing with Suguru. Buying a stupid energy drink at the vending machine by the student union. Sometimes you think he catches you too. But you never talk. You see Seiko more often. She’s in a few overlapping courses with you, and sometimes you sit together on the lawn between lectures, splitting snacks, complaining about professors. She doesn’t bring up her brother unless you do. You never do.

“Did you get that neuro reading done?” she asks one day. You nod, eyes flicking past her—to the quad where Gojo’s tossing a football lazily with Suguru and some guy from your econ lecture. Seiko follows your gaze, then groans, muttering, “God. He really is everywhere.” You snort. “He’s like a university cryptid.”

“Don’t give him that power.”

You smile. But your fingers twist in your lap. You don’t say it, but part of you feels it—like you’re in the wrong timeline. Like you’re living in the aftermath of a story that never got its ending. He’s so comfortable here. Like he’s always belonged. Meanwhile, you’re still figuring out how to breathe around the memory of a crush you swore you let go. The closest you get to speaking is when you’re leaving your psych lecture one afternoon, earbuds in, digging for your sunglasses. You bump into someone’s arm and look up—and it’s him. He blinks. Then flashes you that old, toothy grin. “Oh. Hey.” You freeze, smile stiff. “Hey.”

He opens his mouth, like he might say something else—but then someone calls his name from behind, and he glances over his shoulder. “Catch you later, yeah?” You nod, and he’s gone. It’s stupid. So stupid. You shouldn't feel anything about a moment that small. But it stays with you, hours later. The heat of the hallway. The faint smell of his cologne. The way your voice felt weird in your own throat. You walk to your next class and pretend your heart isn’t fluttering like it used to when you were fifteen. You’re older now. You’re different. But maybe some things still live under your skin, soft and stupid and waiting.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Seiko texts you last minute asking if you can drop off the notes from your shared class.

can’t believe I forgot my entire folder at yours pls drop it off if u can i’ll owe u one xoxo

You type out a “dumbass ho” and stuff the folder into your tote bag. It’s not a big deal. Her house is barely a fifteen-minute walk from campus, and besides—her mum usually answers the door and immediately offers you snacks, which is always a win. What you don’t expect is for the door to open and reveal him.

Satoru. He’s in a black t-shirt and grey sweats, his hair a little messy, like he ran a hand through it one too many times. There’s a faint shine to his skin, maybe from a workout, and he’s holding a water bottle like he was in the middle of something when the doorbell rang. “Hey,” he says. Just that. A flat, casual hey. Like he wasn’t someone who used to give you heart palpitations for fun. You blink, pulse suddenly louder in your ears than it has any right to be. “Uh—hi. I brought Seiko’s notes.” He nods and steps aside, letting you in. You’re immediately hit with the familiar scent of the house: something citrusy and comforting, and now… faintly laced with deodorant and aftershave. “She’s out,” he says, shutting the door behind you. “Went to grab some stuff from the store. She should be back soon.” You clutch the folder like it’s a lifeline. “Oh. Cool. I can just leave these in her room or something.”

He shrugs, walks past you, heading toward the kitchen. “You can wait if you want. She said she wouldn’t be long.” You follow hesitantly, standing awkwardly near the dining table while he grabs a glass and fills it with water. There’s a quiet tension hanging in the air. Not heavy, not hostile—just… weird. Like you’re both aware of the fact that you used to be on casual, even teasing terms, but now there’s too much time and space between then and now.

“You want water or something?” he offers, without looking. You shake your head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He leans against the counter, takes a slow sip. The silence settles again, this odd in-between where neither of you knows how to talk like normal people. Then, he glances at you, eyes flicking briefly from head to toe. “You used to be shorter.” You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’re still short,” he adds, lips twitching slightly. “Just. Less so.” You stare at him, genuinely unsure how to respond. It’s not an insult, exactly, but it also feels like a trap. If you protest too much, it’s pick-me behavior. If you act like you don’t care, it’s awkward. If you joke back, does that make it banter? Are we… bantering? You end up huffing out a weird little half-laugh, scratching your arm. “Cool. Glad my growth spurt was almost imperceptible.” He actually chuckles at that, a small sound that catches you off guard. “Didn’t say it wasn’t appreciated. You’re like—what? An inch taller?”

“Two and a half inches more,” you correct, instinctively defensive.

“That’s generous.”

You roll your eyes and plop your tote bag down onto the chair, trying to play it cool despite the heat in your cheeks. “Glad to know the years haven’t dulled your talent for stating obvious facts.” He grins, and for a second—just a second—it feels almost normal again. But then it dips back into silence, and you both shift awkwardly in the space. He drinks more water. You pick at the strap of your bag. “So,” he says eventually, voice mild. “You’re studying psych, right?” You nod. “Yeah.” He nods back. “That’s cool. You like it?” You pause, debating how honest to be. “It’s… interesting. Not as glam as people think it is. A lot of research. Stats. Trying not to spiral about your own life because of 2000 word essays in the middle of cognitive lectures.” That earns you another short laugh. “Sounds about right.”

You look up at him, heart thudding in a weird rhythm. “What about you? Japan looked cool from the stuff you posted.” He shrugs, but there’s something almost sheepish about it. “It was good. Managed to complete my undergrad, thankfully. Lot of weird hours. Labs. Professors that hated when I was late. Which was often.” You smile, despite yourself. “Shocker.”

“I know. Me? Unpunctual?” He gives a mock gasp. The words settle in the air, kind of dumb and light—but they cut through the awkward tension just enough that something unspoken slips into place. Like, okay. This isn’t the same as before. But it’s not totally broken, either. Still, you’re hyperaware of every breath, every glance. This close to him, it’s impossible not to notice the slight sheen on his arms, the veins on his forearms, the fact that the Gojo Satoru who once teased you about having mismatched socks is now built like a Marvel superhero who occasionally gets mistaken for a Greek statue. He’s being nice. Not in a flirtatious way. Not in a performative way. Just… like a person. A guy who knows you used to be closer, but isn’t sure how to bridge the gap. A guy who probably doesn’t know you once practiced your signature with his last name in the margins of your math notebook

The front door creaks then, and you both turn as Seiko walks in carrying two tote bags. You both glance at each other, then away, and Seiko bursts into laughter. “God, you both are so weird. I hate it.” You shoot her a look. “You’re the one who made me come over because you forgot your notes.”

“Okay, but I had a lot on my mind,” she says airily, waving you off as she kicks off her shoes.

“You left a folder the size of a small child on my kitchen table.”

“I was in a rush!”

“Doing what? Lying horizontally on my floor and watching edits of Business Proposal?”

She gasps. “That was for my mental health. You know how much better I feel after seeing Ahn Hyo-seop.” Satoru, still leaning in the doorway with his water bottle, snorts. “Nah, she’s been like this forever. You’re braver than I am for entertaining her.” You blink, caught slightly off guard, and glance at him. There’s the faintest grin playing on his lips, like he’s enjoying this a little too much. Seiko glares at him. “Excuse me? Who asked you?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, casual and maddeningly smug, “if she forgot a folder, you know it’s probably still under a pile of her clothes or shoved between couch cushions or something. Classic Seiko behavior.” You can’t help it—you snort, loud and involuntary, and cover your mouth with your hand. “That’s actually so true.”

“Traitor!” Seiko gasps, swatting your shoulder. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Oh no,” Satoru says, mock-serious, “she’s right to switch teams. You’ve been doing this since elementary school. Remember when you swore you didn’t lose that permission slip and it turned out you’d used it to doodle hearts all over?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME,” she cries, dramatically throwing her hands in the air.

“You drew Suguru in a wedding veil,” he adds helpfully. You’re laughing now, a real laugh, the kind that warms your cheeks and loosens your spine. There’s something stupidly delightful about the fact that he’s joking with you. Siding with you. Even if it’s at Seiko’s expense. Even if it’s meaningless. But still. A twinge. A fluttery, ridiculous little swell of something in your chest that you stamp down before it can fully form.

“Oh my god, I actually hate you both,” Seiko mutters, dragging you toward the stairs by your wrist.

“You love us,” Satoru calls after you.

“No, I tolerate you,” she calls back.

“Same difference.”

You glance back one more time at him before Seiko hauls you up the stairs. He’s leaning against the bannister now, looking amused, eyes flicking briefly to meet yours—and for a moment, it’s not awkward or distant. It’s just… kind of nice. Then you’re being pulled into Seiko’s bedroom, and the door shuts behind you, cutting off whatever weird, fluttery feeling had started to creep up your spine.

–

"I swear," Seiko groans, shutting her laptop dramatically and tossing it onto the floor. "If I have to look at one more studio apartment listed as a ‘cozy urban oasis,’ I'm gonna cry." You snort, lying on your back and tossing a scrunchie at her head. "Maybe we should just live in a van. Free rent. Adventure. Character building."

"Shut up," she says, batting the scrunchie away. "You're too high maintenance to live in a van." You gasp, putting a hand to your chest. "Excuse me?"

She grins wickedly. "You need, like, twelve skincare products and two duvets to function."

"That’s just basic self-care," you argue, sitting up on your elbows. "You’re the one who needs complete silence and two white noise machines to sleep."

You open your mouth to throw another insult when the door creaks open without a knock, and in strolls Satoru, looking wholly unbothered, as usual. He’s wearing grey sweats and a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair is messier than usual, like he just woke up from a nap or something. You really wish you didn’t notice how broad he looks now, or how easily he takes up the space when he steps in like he owns the place.

"Hey," he says casually, rifling through the desk drawers without really explaining himself. "Either of you seen my charger?" Seiko doesn’t even glance at him. "Which one?"

"The black one with the weird fray at the end. It's hanging on by a thread but it's my favorite." You shrug from the bed. "Haven't seen it." He makes a noncommittal sound and keeps searching. Seiko sighs dramatically, flopping onto her back. "God, I hate apartment hunting. It's literally the worst thing ever."

"It’s really not that bad," you say mildly.

"You're just zen because you don’t have to live with your parents and have them coddle you about coming home at 8pm," she snaps playfully. You’re about to argue when Satoru straightens up, tossing something on her desk—some random cable that’s not his charger—and says offhandedly, "I've got a friend who’s trying to lease out his place near the uni." Both your heads snap toward him.

"What," Seiko says, sitting up fast. He leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your conversation. "Yeah. It's a big three-bedroom. Nice kitchen, close to campus. Think he’s desperate to find people soon." You and Seiko exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Wait, close to campus?" she says, voice climbing in excitement. "That's exactly what we’ve been looking for!" Satoru shrugs. "I can text him. Tell him you’re interested." Seiko practically bounces in place. "Yes, yes, please. Tell him! Oh my god, you're a lifesaver." Satoru smirks a little. "You’re welcome. Bow down to me later."

You roll your eyes. "Don’t give him more of an ego, Seiko."

"I can’t help it," she says sweetly. "He’s doing the bare minimum and yet it feels like a miracle." Satoru scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You’re lucky I even mentioned it. I could’ve just let you two suffer and die in a moldy shoebox."

"You're such a hero," you say dryly.

"Finally, some respect," he says, flashing you a wink—so casual you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Seiko claps her hands together. "Okay, okay, when can we see it?"

"I’ll text him now," Satoru says, pushing off the doorframe. He’s halfway into the hall before he calls over his shoulder, "Also, I’m charging a finder’s fee." You grab a pillow and throw it at him. It hits the doorframe and flops pathetically to the ground. You hear him laughing as he disappears down the hall. Seiko flops back onto the bed with a loud, theatrical sigh. "Holy shit, what if this is actually it?" You grin. "I'd be shocked if Satoru managed to help us not end up in a hellhole."

The two of you dive back into excited chatter, tossing around potential decorating plans and screaming every few minutes out of pure relief that maybe, finally, the end of the apartment hunt is in sight.

–

A few days later, you’re sitting shotgun in Satoru’s ridiculously new, ridiculously shiny car—some black BMW that still smells like leather and money. It purrs like a cat when he taps the gas, and honestly, you're a little scared to breathe too hard in it in case you somehow depreciate its value. "Bro," Seiko says from the backseat, arms spread dramatically across the leather, "this is actually disgusting. Why does your car feel richer than my entire bloodline? And that’s saying something because I am part of your bloodline."

Satoru just shrugs, flashing a cocky grin as he taps the steering wheel. "Ask Dad. Mid-life crisis purchase. Shit happens when you graduate at the top of your class, Sei." You huff out a laugh, dragging your fingers across the touchscreen console, which looks like it could operate a small spaceship. You don’t even want to think about how many zeros were in the price tag. The city buzzes by outside the tinted windows, everything sharp and golden under the late afternoon sun. You watch familiar streets blur past, a little knot of excitement tightening in your chest.

Soon, you think. Soon no more nightmare flatmates. No more coming home to overflowing sinks and strangers passed out on the couch. No more psychotic flatmates who think doing the dishes once a week is a favor to humanity. No more passive-aggressive notes stuck to the bathroom mirror. No more coming home to blaring music and weird smells you don't want to investigate. Just you, your own space, peace. You can almost taste it. Seiko leans forward between the seats, tapping your shoulder. "Dude, we're literally gonna cry when we see it. Manifesting washer-dryer units. Manifesting no mold in the bathroom."

You grin. "Manifesting no one stealing my milk." Satoru snorts. "Your standards are tragic."

"Let us dream, Satoru," Seiko says. He just chuckles, pulling smoothly into the parking lot of a nice-looking building not far from campus. It's clean, modern but not pretentious, with a little courtyard in the middle and wide, sunlit balconies. Way better than anything you’d expected. He swings into a visitor spot and kills the engine. "Alright, my buddy’s inside. He's leasing out the place." You all pile out. Seiko practically skips toward the entrance, phone already out to take pictures, while you hang back a little, taking in the quiet street, the trimmed hedges, the general non-crackhead vibe of the neighborhood. The apartment is on the third floor. When the door swings open, you swear you hear angels singing. It’s big. Really big. Real hardwood floors. Tall ceilings. Massive windows that flood the space with light. A kitchen that doesn't look like it was last updated during World War II. Three bedrooms, a big open living area, and even a tiny balcony perfect for pretending you’re a functional adult with plants.

You and Seiko spin in place, speechless. "This is...this is so nice," you whisper. Seiko’s already got her phone out, snapping pictures. "We’re gonna die here. In a good way." Satoru leans casually in the doorway. "Glad you approve." You trail behind Seiko as she bounces around, peeking into bedrooms, mentally decorating hers already. Then, inevitably, the real conversation starts. "So, about rent," Satoru says, scratching the back of his neck. You and Seiko both turn to him warily, like two cats expecting a spray bottle. He names the number.

You feel your stomach lurch. It’s...more than you were hoping. Not impossible, but definitely more than ramen-once-a-day money. More like maybe-don’t-eat-at-all money. Seiko glances at you, and you can see the panic flicker across her face too. But before either of you can spiral, she speaks up quickly:

"It's fine! My parents said they'd cover my share for the first three months," Seiko says, waving her hand like it's no big deal. "Graduation-slash-moving-out present, apparently."

You blink at her. "Seriously?" She nods. "Yeah. They said it’s, like, a 'head start' thing. They’re even willing to pitch in a little extra for the whole place while we get settled—you know, just until we find better jobs and stuff." You stare at her for a second, like she’s speaking another language. "Wait, so... they’re covering you, and kind of helping me too?" Seiko shrugs like it’s obvious. "Just a little. Like a safety net. They trust us to take over fully after a couple months." You let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Three months. That’s enough time. Enough time to fix your mess of a resume, beg for more shifts, find something—anything—that paid decently near campus. Maybe you could finally stop living off sad frozen dumplings and caffeine pills. Seiko grins, reading the relief on your face like it’s printed in bold. "We’ll survive," she declares proudly. "You and me. Broke, but beautiful." You laugh under your breath, some part of your chest unclenching just a little. For once, the future doesn’t seem like this endless, terrifying drop-off. Satoru watches the two of you like you're some strange species he's never encountered before. His sunglasses are pushed into his hair, and the way his mouth twitches makes it clear he’s fighting a smile.

"You two are so dramatic," he says, shaking his head. "You’re literally way worse. You threw a tantrum when you found out dad was only paying your rent for only six months," Seiko fires back immediately. "That wasn’t a tantrum, dad promised me two years of rent." Satoru corrects dryly, but the embarrassed glint in his eye makes you glance away to make him feel less embarrassed, smiling helplessly. Rich people and their problems. It’s stupid, really, how something as small as that—him standing there, joking like it’s normal, like you’re all still those dumb kids from the neighborhood—makes you feel a little lighter.

–

The day you move in feels half like the best day of your life, and half like you're dying of exhaustion. The morning is a mess of cardboard, duct tape, and terrible weather—hot, sticky, humid. Sweat drips down your back even though you’re barely halfway through loading the cars. Seiko’s parents showed up for a little bit to help, cooing over their baby girl finally moving out, but they eventually left after a teary goodbye (on Mrs. Gojo’s part) and about thirty different "don't forget to eat real food" speeches.

Now it’s just you, Seiko, and Satoru. Satoru, who pulled up in his shiny Lexus and practically leapt out in gym shorts and a loose black t-shirt, looking like an actual paid model for casual athleticism. You tell yourself you don’t notice.

(You absolutely do.)

Your crappy old car is packed to the brim, and the front yard is scattered with the overflow—boxes stacked on the grass, a battered mini fridge, a whole pile of miscellaneous IKEA furniture Seiko impulsively bought off Facebook Marketplace. You and Seiko buzz with nervous excitement, running on adrenaline and bad convenience store coffee, practically vibrating as you unload your lives onto the pavement. "This is so real," Seiko keeps saying every five minutes, grinning like she's won the lottery. "We’re actually doing it!"

You grin back, feeling it too—that breathless, giddy thrill of something new beginning. Something that’s yours. But then reality slaps you in the face in the form of a very heavy box. You crouch next to it, trying to psych yourself up. It’s your kitchen stuff—or, at least, you think it is. It’s all starting to blur together at this point. You steel yourself, grip the bottom—and immediately regret everything. The thing doesn’t budge. You grunt, trying to shift it with your knee, and that's when you hear it:

A low chuckle behind you. "Need a hand?" Satoru drawls, sounding far too entertained. You whip your head around, heat rushing to your face. "I'm fine," you lie, through gritted teeth, already feeling your muscles screaming in protest. Satoru doesn’t even argue. He just strolls over, leans down, and—

Lifts it. Like it’s nothing. Like it weighs less than your backpack. You stare, mouth slightly open, as he straightens up effortlessly, cradling the box under one toned arm like it’s a loaf of bread. Jesus Christ. You hate yourself, genuinely, for how visceral your reaction is. Your brain short-circuits for a good three seconds—because what the hell, why is seeing a man carry heavy things so biologically attractive? It’s purely instinct, you tell yourself fiercely. Caveman brain. Biology. Nothing more. You absolutely, categorically, do not have a crush on Satoru Gojo.

(Not anymore.)

You huff out a noise—maybe a laugh, maybe a noise of despair, you’re not even sure—and scramble to grab a lighter box to follow him up the driveway. Inside, the apartment smells like fresh paint and possibility. The living room is bright, sun streaming through the wide windows, casting everything in a gold glow. The walls are still a little bare, and the kitchen is empty except for a lonely-looking microwave on the counter, but it already feels like it’s waiting for you. You and Seiko move like hyperactive squirrels, flitting from room to room, deciding what goes where, squealing when you realize your rooms have actual closets, screaming a little when you realize there’s a working dishwasher. Satoru mostly hangs back, ferrying the heavier stuff inside with annoying ease. You catch him watching once or twice—an amused, almost fond look in his eye—but every time you glance over, he just rolls his eyes like he’s too cool to care.

"Where do you want this?" he asks at one point, gesturing with a huge box labeled MISC (HELP) in your handwriting. "Uh—living room," you say, already bent over digging through another box. You don’t even look up. You also don’t notice the way the pretty cerulean hues track over your bent over form.

"Say please."

You whip your head up, scandalized. Seiko cackles from somewhere inside her room. "You’re enabling him," she calls out. Satoru smirks. "Mm, I’ve been lifting heavy all morning. Some manners would be appreciated, sweets." You toss a crumpled piece of newspaper at him without thinking, and he bats it out of the air easily, laughing under his breath.

It’s easy, you realize, surprising yourself. Awkward in the way all transitions are, but... easy. You catch yourself smiling more than you mean to. Feeling lighter, younger, almost stupidly happy. Maybe it’s the air of fresh starts. Maybe it’s just the high of freedom. You sigh, dragging the back of your wrist across your forehead, feeling the sweat stick and smear there. For a second, you swear you’re starring in one of those hopecore reels you always save at 2AM—the ones with strangers helping each other move houses, saving stray cats, planting flowers in busted city sidewalks. Wow. What an awesome life. You almost want to cry out of pure cinematic triumph.

"Alright," Satoru says, clapping his hands together once. "You think you two can handle the rest by yourselves? I promised Suguru I’d try out this new steakhouse thing with him." Seiko pops her head out from whatever random corner of the apartment she was currently fussing over, a suspicious-looking candle in her hand. She pins him with a look so unimpressed you almost snort. "Satoru," she says, voice flat, "your baby sister is moving into her first apartment and you have Suguru on your mind? Seriously? Sometimes I think you might actually have a thing for him." She shakes her head dramatically, huffing as she plops the candle down onto the kitchen counter and grabs a small tote full of your combined toiletries, marching off toward the bathroom to arrange your skincare armies in synchronized little rows. Satoru snorts, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. "Suguru’s hot," he mumbles, like it's just a random fun fact, "but he’s really not my type." You and Seiko roll your eyes in almost perfect sync.

"You're so weird," Seiko calls from the bathroom. "Beyond weird," you agree dryly, hoisting another box onto the counter and stretching your sore arms out in front of you with a wince. "Whatever," Satoru says breezily, scrolling through his phone with one thumb. "You’re just jealous you don’t have a Suguru of your own." Seiko pokes her head out again, narrowing her eyes. "Fine, Mr. Expert. What even is your type, huh? You look like you’d go for anyone with a pulse." You snicker into your shoulder, pretending to busy yourself with unpacking a box of mismatched mugs. You don’t even have to look up to feel Satoru’s wounded gasp. "First of all," he says, all whiny indignation, "I have standards, thanks." You shoot Seiko a knowing look, mouthing do you? She fights to hold in a laugh.

"I’m not about to stand here and discuss my love life with my little sister," Satoru adds, dramatically tossing his phone onto the couch like this conversation personally victimized him. He straightens up then, stretching his arms over his head in that lazy, catlike way he always does, a flash of skin peeking between his shirt and shorts. You glance away instinctively—because you are a normal person who refuses to acknowledge how unfair genetics can be—and focus very hard on peeling the tape off a box. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch it—the smallest glance he flicks in your direction. Not obvious, not lingering. Barely there. A neutral, casual once-over, like he’s checking the room. And then, in a maddeningly even tone, he says, "Pretty people. That’s my type." Seiko groans, dropping a bottle of toner onto the counter with a thud. "You're so superficial," she accuses.

"Am not," Satoru says immediately, grinning like he’s proud of himself anyway. He scoops his phone back up, scrolling lazily, thumb flicking up the screen without real purpose. He glances over at you again—more obvious this time, flashing you a grin like you’re in on some joke with him. "Obviously personality matters too," he says, like it’s a casual afterthought. "I’m not trying to date a hot NPC." Seiko snorts. "Freak."

"Heh, best big brother in the world!," Satoru sing-songs. He grins wide enough for his cheeks to dimple, looking so pleased with himself it’s almost comical. Seiko tosses a roll of paper towels at his head. "Get outta here, loverboy. Go on your stupid steak date." "Steak is important to my wellbeing," Satoru says solemnly, catching the roll one-handed. "I’m a growing boy."

"You’re hitting thirty soon," Seiko says.

"After like– So many years. And I’m still growing," he insists, already backing toward the door with a shit-eating grin. You shake your head, laughing under your breath as he slips his slides back on and salutes you both lazily. "I’ll be back later to finish lifting all the heavy shit you two can’t handle," he calls over his shoulder. "Don't break anything while I'm gone." Seiko flips him off cheerily. "Break your face!" Satoru just laughs and slams the door behind him. The apartment falls into a kind of humming silence. You and Seiko exchange a look—and then both burst into helpless laughter.

–

So, it’s been three months. You stare into the fridge like it might magically grow a five-course meal if you just look pathetic enough. A lone carton of eggs, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, two apples that are definitely on their way out, and a single sad yogurt cup blink back at you. You sigh. Deeply. Existentially. Seiko appears beside you, yanking the fridge door wider open like that'll help. She lets out the most dramatic, heartbroken groan you've ever heard.

"Bro," she says, staring into the abyss. "We have nothing." You nudge the yogurt cup with a finger. It jiggles. Threateningly. "I think even the bacteria gave up," you say. Seiko closes the fridge with a thud and slumps dramatically against it. "I'm gonna combust. We had thirty-minute butter chicken twice this week."

"At least it was edible," you mutter.

"At least it was edible," she mocks you under her breath, whipping out her phone and scrolling angrily. After a second, she holds the screen out to you like she's presenting hard evidence. It's a Doordash receipt for forty dollars. For butter chicken. Again. You grimace. "I’m gonna be paying that off in my next life." Seiko growls under her breath and without another word, speed-dials her brother. You hear the faint ringtone buzzing and then—

"What now?" Satoru answers, sounding halfway amused, halfway put-upon. "If you're on your way back from campus, you need to stop by here first," Seiko says, cutting straight to the point. "Emergency." Satoru laughs, but it’s more out of habit than actual amusement. "What, you finally broke the toilet?" You lean closer to the phone. "Worse. We’re starving."

"Oh my god," he says, deadpan. "I'm serious," Seiko insists. "We have, like, apples and eggs. That’s it."

"Protein and fiber, sounds like a win to me."

"Satoru."

He sighs like you’re both his problem children. "Fine, fine. Text me what you want."

"Just food," Seiko says dramatically. "Literally anything. I'm not picky. I would eat wet cardboard right now." You yell, "Preferably not wet cardboard!" in the background. Satoru chuckles under his breath. "Alright, I’ll swing by. Try not to eat each other while I’m gone." He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. Seiko flops onto the couch with the weight of a war veteran. "He's our only hope." You slide down next to her, feeling your stomach physically gnawing at itself. "God help us."

Twenty minutes later, the front door swings open and Satoru strolls in like he’s just returned from a victorious hunt, two giant plastic bags dangling from his hands. "You guys owe me," he says, kicking the door shut behind him. "We owe you our lives," Seiko says gravely, already diving for the bags. You help him unload: a greasy box of yakisoba, a pepperoni pizza, fried chicken skewers, random sushi rolls, and—because of course he would—a pack of Hi-Chew candies. "God bless you," you tell him, mouth watering as you tear into a box. "You're welcome," he chirps, dropping onto the couch and slinging an arm across the back like he owns the place. For a few blessed minutes, the apartment is filled with nothing but the sound of wrappers crinkling and food being demolished. Seiko leans back after her second slice of pizza, groaning like she just got hit by a bus. "Rent is killing us," she mumbles around a mouthful of yakisoba. You nod, wiping your fingers on a napkin. "Literally murdering us. I think my bank account cried blood this morning." Satoru raises an eyebrow. "You guys just hit month four, huh?"

"Yup," Seiko says, popping the "p." "Dear parents cut me off like they said they would. I'm officially a broke, independent woman now." You throw your hand up for a high five and she smacks it. "At least you're employed," Satoru says, pointing a fry at you. "Kinda."

"Gee, thanks," you deadpan. He shrugs, shameless. "I'm just saying. Adulting is rough, bro." Seiko pokes at her plate, looking more dramatic by the second. "I don't even have an adulty enough job yet. I just pick up whatever shifts I can. And our rent is like a guillotine over my neck."

"Same," you say. "Except the guillotine is made of student loan bills." Satoru laughs under his breath, head tipping back against the couch. He looks way too relaxed for someone still technically in the trenches of his honours year. You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't seem stressed at all." He shrugs again. "I'm moving soon, actually." You and Seiko both sit up straighter, suspicious. "Moving?" Seiko repeats. "Why?" Satoru rolls a fry between his fingers, like he's thinking about it. "My place sucks. No city view. I'm over it." You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "That’s fair." You deadpan, hoping his brain functions enough to realise that he sounds really out of touch with reality right now. "I want something higher up," he says, waving a hand vaguely. Of course the dumbass doesn’t pick up on it. "Somewhere with a view, maybe a balcony."

"Must be nice," Seiko grumbles. "Manifesting," Satoru says, flashing her a peace sign. There's a beat of silence, all three of you chewing or sipping sodas, and then Satoru looks up at you two, slow and casual. "You know," he says, tone maddeningly light, "you do have a third bedroom here." You and Seiko glance at each other. Then back at him. Then back at each other again. "You’re joking," Seiko says flatly. Satoru grins. "Dead serious."

"You wanna move in with us," you say, like you're trying to process it out loud. "I mean," he says, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, "cheaper rent for all of us. You two stop struggling. I get outta my hellhole. Win-win." Seiko puts her pizza down, brows furrowed. "You wouldn’t be, like... annoyed?"

"By what, living with you guys?" He smirks. "I've tolerated you for twenty years, Seiko. I think I can survive." You lean back, studying him. "You sure? It’s not just, like, random strangers across the hall. You’d actually have to live with us." Satoru lifts his arms, draping them across the back of the couch. "I’m fine with it. Long as I get dibs on one of the bigger bathrooms." Seiko narrows her eyes. "No way, I’m not sharing the tiny one."

"First come, first serve," Satoru sing-songs. "That’s not how the saying works, we were here before you regardless!" Seiko argues. You laugh, shaking your head. "He'll just barge into whatever bathroom he wants anyway."

"Exactly," Satoru says, grinning wide. "Might as well make it official." Another silence stretches—this one heavier, but not uncomfortable. You glance around at the cluttered, half-furnished apartment. The cheap couch. The stacked textbooks on the counter. The faint smell of fried chicken hanging in the air. The way Satoru looks sitting here, like he already belongs. You share a look with Seiko. You both nod, tiny and almost at the same time. "Alright," Seiko says, picking her pizza back up. "You’re in." Satoru cheers under his breath, pumping a fist like he just won something huge. You barely even register the words leaving Seiko’s mouth — You’re in — before a weird, fluttery rush lights up in your chest.

Living with you. Satoru. Living here. Sharing a space. A bathroom. A kitchen. A couch. Seeing him stomping around in sweats and a compression t-shirt. Probably leaving the fridge door open. Probably pumping weights in the living room (hopefully). Probably existing. Constantly. You could go into an extreme probability crisis right now. Your brain scrambles, short-circuiting at the images it’s pulling out like some deranged PowerPoint presentation. You squash it down instantly, ruthlessly. No. Absolutely not. This is fine. You’re fine. You don’t care that he’s attractive. That’s just biology. It’s science. You're immune. Fortified. Bulletproof. You pick up a slice of pizza and chomp into it aggressively, as if you can physically chew through the ridiculousness in your own head. Across from you, Satoru just lounges back against the couch, already looking way too at home — laughing at something Seiko says, his stupidly pretty profile catching the light. Your stomach does a small, unnecessary somersault. You blame the hunger. And capitalism. And the universe. Anything but yourself.

–

It starts with the sound of his key jangling in the door like it’s always belonged there. You’re on the couch, legs tucked under you in the same pajama pants you’ve worn three nights in a row, when it clicks open and he steps in — arms full of shit. Like, actual shit. Not even boxes. Just random crap. A pair of beat-up Nikes dangling off two fingers, an expensive backpack that looks like it’s been dragged through five years of war, a stupid Luffy pillow slung under one arm, and a tote bag that says Hotter Than Your Ex, Better Than Your Next in neon pink font. Seiko barely blinks. “You couldn’t use a box like a normal person?” Satoru just kicks the door closed with his heel and grins. “Where’s the fun in that?” It’s… real. This is happening. Satoru Gojo — your best friend’s annoying, stupidly hot older brother — is now your roommate. A fact that has not yet fully sunk in despite your best efforts to emotionally detach. You glance toward the hallway where the third bedroom has been sitting empty. Clean. Neutral. Ready. It’s his now. That’s his room now. And of course, within thirty minutes, he’s already got his crap everywhere. There’s a half-unpacked duffel bag in the entryway. A pair of sunglasses you swear you’ve seen him wear inside nightclubs sitting on the kitchen counter. An open Red Bull can next to the sink. A hoodie draped over the back of one of the dining chairs like he owns the place. His smell — some ridiculous overpriced cologne mixed with his laundry detergent — is wafting through the apartment like he’s been here for days instead of forty-five minutes. He’s not even trying to be annoying. It’s just… him. Loud, effortless, omnipresent him. And when he finally dumps himself on the couch next to you, legs sprawled and hair a little tousled from hauling stuff upstairs, he sighs like he just clocked out of work.

“God,” he mutters, cracking open a soda. “My old apartment sucked. This place’s light is so much better. My plants are gonna lose their minds.” You blink. “You have plants?”

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I have a monstera named Dog. And this succulent Geto gave me but it’s like… almost dead, so we don’t talk about her.”

“…I didn’t know you were a plant guy.” He glances at you, smug. “I contain multitudes.” From the hallway, Seiko yells, “You contain trash. Come get your crap out of the entryway before I put it all in a black garbage bag and throw it off the balcony.”

“Love you too,” he calls back lazily, then looks at you and grins. “So. Roomies now.” God. Roomies. You don’t even know what to do with yourself. Because this isn’t some sitcom. It’s not all fun and awkward hijinks. It’s the reality of him being around all the time. Late night cereal runs. Passing each other in the kitchen in weird pajamas. Accidentally hearing him sing to himself in the shower. Seeing him shirtless. Probably way too often. And you tell yourself, very seriously, that it means nothing. It’s all cool. You’re an adult. You don’t care. You’re not fifteen and hopelessly in love with his dumb pretty face anymore. But when he reaches behind you to grab the remote, warm arm brushing yours, rings clinking against the plastic of the controller, his cologne curling into your brain like smoke—

Yeah. You’re not surviving this lease emotionally intact.

There are, undeniably, perks to living with Satoru Gojo. First off, the rent. You’re paying less now — which is everything. That extra couple hundred a month? That’s groceries. That’s less existential dread. That’s the occasional iced coffee without hating yourself for buying it. It’s not glamorous — you still have to split utilities and sometimes get a little too creative with how long groceries can stretch — but you’re no longer crying every time your bank app loads. Small victories. But then there’s also… him. Not in a weird way. Not like you’re in love with him again. You’ve made that very clear to yourself. It’s just that — he exists loudly. Satoru’s presence is hard to ignore. Even when he’s not saying anything, he’s still there. Shirtless half the time because he “runs hot�� (which is just his excuse to wander around looking like a Calvin Klein ad), hair always messy, a faint smell of whatever stupid expensive aftershave he’s wearing that day lingering behind him. You do your best not to look. You don’t always succeed. It doesn’t help that he goes to the gym at ungodly hours of the morning and comes back looking like something out of a fitness TikTok thirst trap. Hoodie tied around his waist, shirt sticking to his chest, headphones around his neck and a bottle of neon blue liquid in his hand like he’s sponsored by Gatorade. Seiko never comments on it — mostly because she’s used to him. She grew up with the guy. You did too, technically, but there’s a big difference between being fifteen and being twenty-one and seeing him towel off sweat in the kitchen while asking if either of you finished the oat milk.

The second major perk? The car. You no longer have to stress about trains or getting soaked in surprise rain while walking to the bus stop. Satoru, as rich kid as ever, insists on driving all three of you to uni every morning. He’s not even annoying about it — it’s just what he does. One honk, and you and Seiko pile into the passenger and back seat respectively, the AUX already queued up. It’s stupidly convenient. You didn’t realize how much money public transport drained from your budget until you stopped using it. You still keep your bus pass topped up for emergencies, but it’s basically become a backup plan. Now, you just show up to class on time and dry, with Satoru occasionally handing you a leftover donut from his morning coffee run like he’s God’s gift to women.

Which brings you to the third perk: the food. Satoru and Suguru have this thing where they eat out like every second night. You’re not sure if it’s because they can’t cook or if it’s just rich kid indulgence — but either way, you benefit. They always order too much. And they always bring back leftovers. So now, your fridge has a semi-permanent corner filled with half-eaten yakisoba, overpriced vegan cupcakes, gyoza from a food truck that Geto swears is life-changing, and once — a whole tub of cinnamon sugar popcorn from a rooftop cinema they randomly ended up at. It’s not the healthiest lifestyle, but you’re broke, tired, and too emotionally drained to cook half the time anyway, so you don’t complain. You and Seiko split it like war rations. Half a bao bun each. One cold gyoza that’s microwaved and devoured like it’s gourmet. A shared spoon of caramel pudding.

“Living the dream,” Seiko says one night, holding a lukewarm slice of truffle pizza like it’s holy communion. “You’re so dramatic,” Satoru says around a bite of strawberry mochi. You don’t answer, mostly because your mouth is full and also because you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with him in that damn grey tank top again. So yeah. Life with Satoru in the apartment is a little chaotic. A little loud. Full of dumb inside jokes and stolen food and last-minute Target runs. Sometimes he sings in the shower. Sometimes he talks to Seiko too loudly while she’s trying to nap. Sometimes he leaves his socks in the hallway or accidentally takes your phone charger. But he’s a familiar presence. He’s not unknown, which is the best part of having him in the apartment, and he’s always been a constant in both of your guys’ lives. So it makes everything worth it.

–

The physics wing feels different from the rest of campus—cleaner, somehow quieter, with that sharp antiseptic scent that clings to air-conditioned labs and too many equations floating in the air. You’ve never had much reason to be down here. The last time you stepped foot near this building was maybe during orientation week when you and Seiko were trying to figure out where the vending machines were. Now, a few months into the semester, you stand awkwardly at the glass doors of one of the labs, peering through to where a group of grad students crowd around a table. There’s buzzing—low voices, a light laugh, the sound of a wheely chair screeching slightly as someone scoots back. You spot him instantly. White hair disheveled like he’s been running his hand through it, sleeves rolled up, safety goggles hanging around his neck, leaning slightly over a notebook as he points something out to a guy beside him. God, he looks hot. But like, academically hot. Like the kind of guy you'd see in a random STEM girl’s Pinterest board titled "study aesthetic." You suddenly feel out of place in your hoodie and backpack, clutching your phone like a lifeline. Then someone notices you—of course it’s a girl. Tall, pretty, good skin, expensive earrings, and she’s nudging Satoru with her elbow and going, “Hey, I think one of your fangirls is here.” Your stomach drops. Fangirl? Satoru looks up, squints a little through the glass, then when he sees it’s you, he snorts. “Nah,” he says loud enough for you to hear through the cracked-open door. “Sister’s best friend.” You offer a sheepish wave as the door opens a little more. He slides his notebook off the table and steps out into the hallway with you, all casual like he doesn’t notice the way you’re trying not to internally combust. “Shit,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I completely forgot I was supposed to take you two home today. Where’s Seiko?”

“Group project,” you mumble. “They’re finishing something up in the studio.”

“Right. Studio kids. Always acting like the world will end if their poster isn’t trimmed perfectly.” He waves back toward the lab, calling out, “Tell Suguru I’ll text him about the readings. And tell Reina and them I’ll probably be at that party next week if I don’t crash out before then.” Someone inside laughs. “We’ll believe it when we see it!”

Satoru rolls his eyes and then turns back to you. You’ve already started walking, and he falls into step beside you. The hallway is narrow, and when he shifts slightly to let a TA pass by, his hand grazes your lower back in that absentminded way—just a half-second of touch, but enough to send your brain short-circuiting. You pretend it didn’t happen. You’re fine. This is fine. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here, y’know,” he says as you both walk. “Could’ve just texted me again.”

“I did,” you say. He pulls out his phone, blinking at the screen. “...Oh. I have like thirty unread messages. Seiko’s been sending TikToks again.” You huff a laugh. “Yeah, you’re doomed.”

“I am,” he agrees, letting the door swing open for you as you step outside. The afternoon sun hits both of you, and it’s quieter out here, more open. A weird kind of silence falls between you for a second—not uncomfortable, but almost charged. You’re aware of everything. The distant chatter of students. The shift of your backpack against your shoulders. The way he’s walking just a little slower than you now, like he’s letting you lead the way. You can’t stop thinking about the fangirl comment. Is he that popular that he has a whole fanclub? Does that kinda shit even happen in universities? This feels too much like a shoujo anime. Or the way he so casually said sister’s best friend. Like that’s all you’ve ever been. Like it’s that simple. (And it is. You tell yourself it is.) Still, when he nudged you gently toward the passenger side of his car, casually tossing his bag into the backseat, you wonder if that half-second of contact had lingered for him at all.

Probably not. You buckle in. He turns on the engine. The ride starts off quiet in the way late afternoons tend to be. The sky’s a mellow kind of gold, filtering in through the windshield, painting warm lines across the dashboard and your knees. The hum of the engine is low, steady, filling the silence with something that doesn’t need to be spoken over. Satoru drives like he does everything else—lazily confident. One hand on the wheel, the other resting against the door, fingers drumming to some rhythm only he hears. You’re scrolling through your phone half-heartedly, trying not to look obvious about sneaking glances at him. His profile in this lighting is unfair. Hair tousled like he’s been running it through his hands again, jaw a little sharp with the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek. And his arm, the one holding the wheel, flexes just enough with every turn and adjustment to make your brain short-circuit all over again. Not that it matters. Not that you’re thinking about it. Definitely not.

“So,” he says eventually, tone casual. “Did you end up getting paired with the group of doom or the semi-decent humans for that one communications elective you chose?” You blink, then groan dramatically. “Oh, the group of doom, hands down. I’ve basically become the parent. I write things in our doc and then go delete them hours later because no one else is contributing and I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

“That’s brutal,” he says, wincing in sympathy. “Honestly, the whole group work concept should be illegal. Like, I didn’t sign up to babysit strangers who forgot what Google Drive is.” You snort. “Preaching to the choir.” He taps his fingers along the wheel, turning the car down the side road toward your neighborhood. “We had this one guy last semester who literally submitted his part of our lab report as a picture of handwritten notes on lined paper. With a Dorito fingerprint on it. I swear to god.”

Your jaw drops. “No. You’re lying.”

“I wish I was. Suguru and I sat in a lab for three hours rewriting it while our TA walked around behind us like we were criminals.”

“You and Suguru sound like the worst combination,” you say, laughing. “Too much brain power. No accountability.”

Satoru smirks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when I’m struggling to remember what APA formatting is and you two are running a science empire.”

“I’m more of the face of the brand,” he says modestly. “Suguru does the actual work.” The car slips into silence again, this time a little softer. The kind that fills up with quiet comfort. You glance down at your phone again. No new messages from Seiko yet, just a screenshot she sent earlier of some random overpriced candle she found at the campus market, captioned smells good should i get? lmk.

“Still no update from her?” Satoru asks, glancing over.

“Nah,” you say. “I think her group’s holding her hostage.”

“She’ll claw her way out. Probably with a monologue about art and justice.” You giggle, and then you both fall quiet again, but this time it lingers. You glance sideways at him. He’s driving one-handed again, but he’s leaning a little more now, elbow resting on the window like he’s relaxed—like you being here isn’t strange or unexpected. You shift slightly in your seat, clearing your throat. “That girl earlier,” you say, not looking at him. “She called me one of your... fangirls.”

Satoru glances over, caught slightly off guard. “Yeah,” he says, then smiles. “She’s just being annoying. I don’t have fangirls.” You raise a brow. “Didn’t that one video of you go viral during university orientation and everyone on tiktok was asking which university this was so that they could come here?”

“Okay, correction. I don’t claim the fangirls.” You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “The Gojo name has power, huh?”

“I mean... I am tall, conventionally attractive, decent at physics, and have a sexy ass car,” he lists off, counting on his fingers with a smirk. “It’s a hard combo to resist.”

You scoff. “You forgot ‘humble.’”

“Oh, right, yeah. And humble,” he adds, laughing. Another beat passes. The street outside blurs with quiet houses and kids walking home from practice, and you almost forget what started this whole train of thought. But then, without thinking, you say it: “It didn’t bother me. The fangirl thing.” He glances at you again, more carefully this time. “Good,” he says after a second, voice softer. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m embarrassed of you hanging around me or anything.” You’re not sure what to do with that. So instead, you change the subject. “Do we have anything at home to eat?” you ask. “Or should I mentally prepare for a dinner of peanut butter straight out of the jar?”

“I think Seiko’s got some questionable microwave rice and like... a rogue banana,” he says thoughtfully. You groan. “We’re going to die.”

“I’ll stop by the corner place,” he offers. “Grab some katsu curry or yakisoba or something. You like those?”

You nod quickly. “Love them. Bless you.” Satoru grins. “Told you I’m useful.” He pulls into the parking lot of the hole-in-the-wall place that’s somehow cheaper than anything on UberEats, and just before he gets out, he pauses and looks over at you again. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks.

“With what?” You ask, looking thoroughly puzzled. He shrugs. “Me. Driving you. Being around. Existing in your apartment. I understand if it’s like weird with your best friend’s older brother just being around you all the time–”

You blink. “You live with us now, Satoru. It’s a little late to ask if it’s okay.” He laughs and opens the door, stepping out. “Fair enough.” You watch him disappear into the little restaurant, humming to yourself and feeling... weirdly calm. (But your chest feels warm anyway.)

–

The takeout bags rustle as Satoru unlocks the apartment door (somehow) with his elbow, a practiced motion at this point. You’ve each got one in your hands, plastic warming your palms through the handles, the smell of fried noodles and katsu curry already seeping through like sweet, spicy comfort. The elevator ride up had been quiet—at least in the way that being near him always hums with an odd undercurrent. Satoru had been scrolling on his phone, probably checking something stupid Suguru sent him, when his arm nudged against your shoulder. Not aggressive, just a bump. But it lingered for a second too long, a lazy sway of his weight into yours, like he forgot you were shorter, smaller—more affected by that kind of touch than he was. You hadn’t said anything. Just swallowed it and stared ahead at the doors like your reflection in the brushed steel held the answers. Now, stepping into the apartment, it’s dark except for the thin line of city light pouring through the blinds and cutting across the floor. You toe your shoes off while he moves to the counter and drops the food with a sigh. “I swear this bag's leaking teriyaki oil all over my hand,” he mutters. You’re still standing there by the door, holding your bag like it’s something delicate, looking at the room a little longer than necessary. It’s quiet. Seiko’s still not back. The hum of the fridge is the only sound besides Satoru rustling through a drawer. And suddenly, for no reason at all, you think:

What if it was just us? The apartment feels different like this. Dim and soft. You can picture it so clearly—him coming home later than you do, shrugging out of his hoodie and tossing his keys on the counter, looking exhausted but smug from some lab win, shoes half on, hair wind-swept and eyes heavy with it. You imagine asking him how his day was, and he’d just lean back against the wall and say something dumb like “miss me?” before smirking and stealing food off your plate. You picture him walking past you in a towel after a shower—wet hair dripping onto his shoulders, water glistening down his chest, or maybe you both could shower together, or maybe he’d be the type to bend you over every piece of furniture in the house—and you have to blink, hard, because now you’ve accidentally spiraled into something bordering on indecent and you’re still holding katsu curry in a dim kitchen while he’s three feet away. Jesus Christ. You set the food down quickly, trying to physically shake the thought away as you move toward the cabinets. “Plates?” you ask, clearing your throat. “Top left,” he answers without looking up, still fiddling with sauce packets like they’re puzzle pieces. You reach up to the shelf, stretching on your toes a little. The cabinet is just barely out of reach, your fingers grazing the edge of a plate but not able to actually grab one. You mutter a quiet, annoyed “fuck’s sake” under your breath, just as the warmth of a body steps up behind you. You don’t even have time to turn.

There’s a snicker by your ear. “Need help, sweets?” You hate that your entire body reacts before your brain does. His chest brushes your back as he casually reaches around you, arm flexing as he grabs the stack of plates with ease. His hips press lightly—too lightly to be on purpose but too present to be ignored—into your ass as he leans in. Just a half-second of his weight against yours and your whole bloodstream short-circuits. He’s so close. So casually, blissfully unaware of how much you’re spiraling again. “Got it,” he says, voice smooth with amusement. “Thanks,” you manage to squeak, completely not like yourself. He places the plates down on the counter with one hand and then leans forward just slightly so he can look at you over your shoulder. “You good?” he asks, smiling a little too knowingly. “Fine,” you say quickly. “Totally fine.” You take one of the plates and focus very hard on opening the takeout boxes like your life depends on it, even though your pulse is doing jumping jacks and your head is screaming get it together. He just hums behind you, like he’s not noticing the complete inner meltdown happening a foot away, and grabs two chopsticks and a fork from the drawer. “Seiko said she’ll be home in like twenty,” he says casually, scrolling through his phone again and settling into one of the bar stools. “Group finally let her escape.”

You nod, handing him one of the boxes. He smiles and takes it, eyes on the screen, and says around a bite of yakisoba, “If you want more curry than rice just take mine. I like it drowned.” You stare at him for a second—just… stare. The stupid hair. The lazy voice. The soft lighting that makes the corners of his face look gentle. God. Living with him might actually kill you.

–

It’s barely noon and the apartment is quiet in a way it rarely ever is. Seiko had texted something along the lines of “kill me I’m gonna be stuck in this library group hell all day,” and Satoru, as usual, was off somewhere—he mentioned errands, maybe gym, maybe campus, maybe both. You hadn’t really been listening when he said it over his coffee that morning, still half-asleep and trying not to drool on the kitchen counter. So now, for the first time in a while, you’re completely alone. No blasting TikToks from Seiko’s room, no loud slams of Satoru’s door because he still hasn’t figured out how to close it without shaking the whole apartment. Just you, the faint hum of the fridge, and the unmistakable theme song of Modern Family floating through the living room. You hadn’t really bothered with getting ready—weekends were lawless like that. Your hair’s a mess, there’s a scrunchie abandoned somewhere on the couch, and you’re wearing this soft, too-thin tank top you usually reserve for sleep and your most battered pair of lounge shorts that might as well be pajama bottoms. Honestly, you kind of forgot anyone else existed. You have a blanket pulled over your legs but it’s too hot to fully commit, so it’s half-on, half-off, like you’re being attacked by fabric indecision. You’re about two minutes into the episode when the front door swings open.

Satoru walks in, keys jingling, sneakers squeaking slightly on the wooden floor. He looks fresh from outside—hair tousled from the wind, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, plastic bag of snacks in one hand, phone in the other. “Oh,” he says, eyes scanning the room. “Didn’t think you’d be here.” You sit up straighter, immediately pulling the blanket tighter over your torso like it’s gonna save you from embarrassment. “Yeah. I thought you were out all day.” He tows off his shoes lazily, drops his keys on the counter without looking, then tosses the plastic bag down on the coffee table. “I was. Grocery store line was hell. Also—” he eyes the TV “—is that Modern Family?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“I love Modern Family.” You arch an eyebrow. “Seriously? I thought you didn’t like sitcoms.”

“Yeah, but this one’s special,” he says, flopping onto the couch next to you with no hesitation. “Cam and Mitch remind me of me and Suguru.” You snort, trying to subtly tug your tank top higher over your chest. “That’s unhinged. Which one are you?” He thinks for a second. “I think I’m Cam.”

You stare. “Satoru, Cam is like… dramatic. He cries a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you doing that.”

“I have feelings,” he says defensively, grabbing a snack from the bag and opening it one-handed. “You just don’t respect that.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, turning back to the TV. You can feel the body heat radiating from his side—he’s close, way closer than necessary on this big-ass couch. You’re acutely aware of every inch between you and him. Which is to say, not much. For a few minutes, it’s just the show playing. Comfortable silence. Except your heart is doing this stupid uneven thing because he’s right there. And it doesn’t help that at one point—just as Phil Dunphy is doing something ridiculous—you feel his eyes flicker to your side. And for the briefest second, maybe half a second, his gaze dips. You don’t move. You don’t say anything. His eyes are back on yours almost immediately, lazy grin still on his face like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just (maybe) looked at your chest. You’re not even sure it was a look. It could’ve been your imagination. It probably was. Right? You suddenly feel ten degrees hotter, curling your toes under the blanket like that’ll ground you. “You good?” you ask, trying to keep it casual.

“Yeah,” he says smoothly. “Why?”

You shrug, eyes glued to the TV even though you’re not processing a single joke anymore. “You looked like you were spacing out.” He leans back on the couch like he owns the damn thing, all sprawled out with one arm tossed lazily over the backrest. His fingers dangle behind you, brushing the edge of your shoulder. Barely. But enough to make you hyper-aware of every exposed inch of your skin. You shift a little in your seat. It doesn’t help. His thigh is still resting near yours, solid and warm, his scent faint and maddeningly familiar—clean laundry, citrus shampoo, and that soft hit of spice from whatever cologne he throws on without thinking. The TV flickers, but you don’t see it. Not when you feel him like that.

“Dunno,” he murmurs suddenly, voice lower than before. “Just thinking how wild it is that you’re Seiko’s best friend.” You blink out of your daze, glancing over. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He turns his head toward you, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. He just looks. His eyes flick down—so quick you might’ve missed it, but not really. A lazy sweep across your collarbone, down the slope of your tank top, the faint outline of your chest where the fabric clings too easily without a bra beneath it. And then his gaze flicks back up to meet yours like nothing happened. You’re suddenly burning. “You’re just… eh, you’re like different now,” he says finally, mouth tugging into something softer than a smirk, but still not safe.

Your throat goes dry. “You literally told me a few months ago I was like your annoying little sister.” He huffs a laugh—low and amused, almost like he’s laughing at himself. “Yeah. People say dumb shit all the time. Obviously I didn’t mean it.” His voice is rough around the edges, like the words cost something. Like they meant something. And you—stupidly, helplessly—can’t tell if you want to shove him away or drag him closer just to find out what the hell he’s thinking. His knee knocks into yours, casual, but it lingers. You glance down at the spot where your legs touch. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you. You don’t want to. He leans in just a little, stretching his arm further along the back of the couch, fingers now brushing fully against your shoulder—his pinky grazing your bare skin. Not accidentally this time. You swear you feel the air shift between you. Charged. Tense. He smells even better up close. You can hear the faint scratch of his breath, the creak of the couch when he adjusts, the thump of your own pulse in your ears. The air in the room feels hotter than it should be. Maybe it’s the blanket, maybe it’s the body heat, or maybe it’s the fact that Gojo Satoru—Seiko’s brother, the guy who used to shove Cheeto crumbs in your face and call you gremlin—is now lounging beside you like he didn’t just casually imply he’s been thinking about you in a way that definitely isn’t brotherly. You try to laugh it off. Try to breathe normally. Try to keep your thoughts from careening off a cliff. But your skin is buzzing under the weight of what he said—what he meant—and it’s getting impossible to sit still. “I’m gonna—uh…” you start, voice a bit too breathy for your liking. “Grab snacks.” He hums, low and lazy. “Of course you are.” You don’t even look at him to know there’s a smirk playing on his lips. Smug. Fucking smug. You peel the blanket off your lap, heart already thudding in your chest like it knows something you don’t. As you rise to your feet, you catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye—subtle, fast.

Satoru’s gaze dips. Straight to your ass. You freeze for half a second, spine locking, suddenly very aware of your little lounge shorts, how they cling when you move, how thin the fabric is. Your skin prickles. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just glancing around the room. Maybe he— But you felt it. And when you dart a glance back at him, he’s already back to facing the TV. Arms sprawled out. Cool and unbothered. Except—his jaw’s clenched a little now. One hand is flexing faintly against the armrest, like he’s trying not to react. And you swear, if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s the one trying to calm himself down. You walk to the kitchen way too fast, needing the distance, needing to get air because your thoughts are spiraling again. Did he really look? Was that just your brain on horny autopilot? Are you imagining this whole thing because you’re bored and he’s attractive and close and smells like sin wrapped in cashmere? You yank open a cupboard. It takes you a second to even remember why you came in here.

Oh. Right. Snacks. Behind you, the sound of the TV fills the silence, but your ears are still ringing with what he said. “Obviously I didn’t mean it.” Those words echo in your chest like a struck bell. Over and over and over. You grab a random bag of chips and pop it open just to keep your hands busy. You nibble one. You’re not even hungry. You hear the couch creak. He’s shifting. “Sooo,” Satoru calls out, voice stretched and casual like this is nothing, like he didn’t just nuke your brain two minutes ago, “you bringing those back to share or am I supposed to sit here and starve?” You roll your eyes, half grateful he’s still being a dumbass, half annoyed he’s pretending like your body language wasn’t screaming confusion and want and maybe something more. You return to the couch, tossing the chips between you both as you sink down. This time, there’s a full cushion between you, but the tension doesn’t go anywhere. He grabs a handful of chips without looking away from the screen. “You good?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” He doesn’t push. He just leans forward, his long legs spreading slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. The new position pulls his shirt tighter across his back, and it’s ridiculous, the way you notice the flex in his shoulders. The way your gaze dips now. You're no better than him. Your throat dries again. “So,” he says after a moment, voice still easy, still pretending, “what episode are we even on?” You glance at the screen and realize you couldn’t name a single thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes. “Uh. The one where Phil gets stuck in the portable toilet.”

Satoru laughs. “Classic. That guy’s so fucking dumb.” You nod, distracted. You keep catching yourself staring. At his jaw. His hands. That little shadow of stubble growing in because it’s the weekend and he clearly didn’t care enough to shave. You wonder what it feels like. What he’d look like if those same hands were pushing your head down on his co—

No. Nope. Abort. You try to focus on the TV. You try not to think about how he looked at you. How you’re now almost certain you didn’t imagine it. But then you feel his thigh bump yours again. Well, as much as someone can with a fucking pillow in between you both. Deliberate this time. Just the lightest nudge. You glance at him, and his eyes are still on the TV—but his lips? They’re tilted in the faintest, most devilish smirk. You bite the inside of your cheek and sit there in silence, knees barely touching, heat coiled tight in your stomach like a secret. The tension is coiled tight between you and Satoru—like someone pulled a rubber band back and is holding it in place, fingers twitching on the edge of letting go. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes too loud. You’re still thinking about the brush of his thigh against yours, about the way he smirked without really smiling. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the blanket.

Then—

The front door creaks open. “HELLO?” Seiko’s voice echoes through the apartment like a goddamn fire drill. “This house is full of the rudest bitches, I swear.” You sit bolt upright, practically yanking the blanket up to your collarbones as if she’s about to catch you in something. Satoru casually reaches for another chip, cool as ever. Seiko rounds the corner into the living room, dropping her bag on the floor with a theatrical huff. “I called you,” she says, glaring at her brother. “Like five times. Five. You told me to let you know when I was done!” Satoru lifts a brow, lazy and unapologetic. “I was busy. You survived.”

“I had to take the bus,” she groans, flopping into the armchair like she’s just returned from war. “The bus, Satoru. You know how many coughs I heard in ten blocks? You might as well have sentenced me to death.” You snort, trying to play it cool, heart still racing beneath your tank top. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m chronically disrespected in this house,” she declares, and then her eyes flick to the TV. “Oh my god, is this the one where Cam tries to be a clown at Luke’s party?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It just started.”

“Perfect,” she says, curling up under the throw blanket and stealing the chips off the coffee table. “God, you and I are literally Cam and Mitch.” You blink. Her and Satoru were eerily alike. “I don’t know how to feel about that.” She shrugs. “We just have a shared delusional flair and a healthy amount of judgment, and I think that’s beautiful.” Behind you, Satoru exhales a soft, amused sound and stands up, stretching in that obnoxious way that pulls his shirt up just enough to flash a sliver of his toned stomach. You avert your eyes fast. “Well,” he says, voice easy, almost bored, “I’ll let you ladies get back to doing… whatever this is.” He takes a slow step back toward the stairs, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder—but before he turns completely, his eyes flick back to you. Just for a second. It’s subtle. Barely a second too long. But he holds your gaze—and that same faint, almost imperceptible smirk ghosts across his lips. It’s not a full smile. It’s a knowing one. And then he’s gone, padding upstairs without another word, leaving you sitting there with a fake laugh stuck in your throat and your pulse suddenly much louder in your ears. “Ugh,” Seiko says, mouth full of chips. “He’s so annoying. I cannot wait until he gets his own place.” You hum, pretending to agree, but your eyes linger on the stairwell he disappeared into.

Yeah. Annoying. If only it were that simple.

—

You’ve been staring at your reflection so long your own face is starting to look unfamiliar. Two skirts are flung across your bed—one black and slinky, the other plaid and shorter than you remembered it being when you first bought it. You keep switching between them, holding them up against your hips, spinning a little in the mirror, frowning. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It’s just a frat party. But it’s one of the big ones. The kind that gets talked about weeks after. The kind where even the art students who pretend they hate frat culture show up and get drunk on jungle juice in someone’s bathtub. You want to look good. You want to look good. Eventually, fed up with your own indecision, you grab both skirts and swing open your bedroom door, calling, “Seiko, I need you for like two seconds, I swear—”

You barrel straight into something warm and solid and—

“Oof—fuck, sorry,” you mumble, skirts slipping in your grip. Your hands are full, so you bounce off and stumble a step back. Satoru catches your elbow before you can completely lose balance, steadying you with one lazy hand. “Hi to you too,” he says, his voice edged with amusement. You blink. “Hi. Uh—sorry. I was just—I thought Seiko was still here.”

“She left like ten minutes ago,” he says, stepping back and glancing over your shoulder, toward your bedroom. “Grocery run or something. You’ve been holed up in your room forever.” You glance down at the two skirts in your hands and shift them awkwardly against your chest, heat licking at the back of your neck. “Yeah, I—uh—was trying to figure out what to wear.” His gaze lingers. He doesn’t say anything right away. Then: “To the party?”

You nod. A beat of silence. “You sound stressed,” he says, voice dipping a little. “What happened? You sound like you’re about to cry over a skirt.” You roll your eyes. “I just wanted her help picking one.” There’s a softness to his expression now. A twitch of his lips that looks suspiciously close to a smirk. “Tragic.” You groan and hug the skirts tighter to your chest. “This is stupid. I’m being stupid.”

“Nah,” he says, casually leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed now. “It makes sense. Lot of people are gonna be there. First party of the semester everyone actually gives a shit about.”

“Exactly,” you mutter, more to yourself. His eyes drag lazily from your bare thighs to your slightly flushed face. You’re still in the tank top you’d thrown on earlier—one of those thin, soft ones with lace on the straps. “So,” he says, head tilted, eyes unreadable but fixed on you, “what are the options?” You blink. “What?”

“The skirts,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Let me see. C’mon.” You roll your eyes, but your voice still comes out embarrassed. “I just wanted Seiko’s opinion.” He grins. “And instead you got mine. Brutal.”

“Yeah, I’m regretting it already.” He pushes off the wall with a little amused hum and steps closer. “Lemme see.” You raise an eyebrow. “You? The fashion expert?” Satoru shrugs. “Hey, I’m good at judging outfits. From the outside and the inside.” Your face burns. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “You’re the one asking for my opinion while wearing a tank top that’s basically see-through.” You make a sound of protest and clutch the skirts against you again. “Okay! Thank you, great, very helpful!” He doesn’t move. “I mean, either one would look good on you. You have—” He pauses, lips twitching, “—range.” You squint at him. “Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment?”

“Because you know me.”

You laugh, but it comes out breathier than you intend. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way guys at parties look. Not even like how he used to look at you months ago—distant, vaguely amused, older brother of your best friend. This look is different. Lazier. Focused. And then he just casually reaches out, like he’s done a hundred times before, but this time his knuckle grazes the bare skin of your arm when he adjusts the hem of the black skirt in your hand. “Go with this one,” he murmurs, suddenly closer than he was a second ago. “It’s a better choice.”

You swallow. “A better choice?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.” The air feels a little too charged now. A little too tight. You’re still, not sure what to say, barely sure what you’re breathing. And then, blessedly, he takes a step back, his expression shuttering into something light again. “Well,” he says, “I’ll leave you to your existential wardrobe crisis. Let me know if you need my expert fashion advice again.” You nod dumbly, skirts clutched tight. Inside, you drop the plaid skirt to the floor and stare at yourself in the mirror again. Somehow, the decision’s a lot easier now.

–

“What do you mean, Satoru can’t drive us to the party?” Seiko screeches, her voice echoing off the tile as she stalks around the apartment in a pair of clacking nude heels, aggressively tapping his contact on her phone. You lunge across the couch, snatching it from her before she rage-texts him something psychotic. “Seiko—calm down. It’s not because of the fight. Listen! He said he has a late lab or some shit, okay? He’s coming later.” She stares at you, lip curled in disbelief, before deflating with a dramatic sigh. “Oh.” There’s a beat. You watch her face as she recomposes herself—like she’s loading a new expression. A girl rebooting in real time. “So… is he sending us Uber money, or…?” You suppress a grin. “No need. Suguru’s driving us.” The shift in her demeanor is instant. You swear you catch a spark of actual electricity pass through her body. “Oh.” Now her voice is a full octave lower, soft, composed, perfectly pleasant. “That’s nice.” You snort, giving her a shove. “Nice try. But that fake ‘cool girl’ thing is not working. I know how long you’ve liked him, dumbass.” She squeals, spinning in a little circle like you just handed her a backstage pass to her dream concert. “Oh my god. You don’t understand—this is like the first time I get to hang out with him without Toru’s annoying ass being all over the place.” You roll your eyes. “You’re literally acting like a Shoujosei heroine right now. Tone it down before he thinks we’re taking you to the ER for heatstroke.”

But you’re grinning. She waves a hand, unfazed. “Whatever. This is my moment. I need it to be perfect.” You snort and smooth your hands over your outfit one more time. The black skirt he picked sits high on your waist, hugging you like a second skin. It’s short—dangerously so—but structured enough to look intentional. You’d paired it with a slinky backless top in that kind of soft fabric that feels cool against your skin, and lets just enough cleavage peek through to keep it casual. You might’ve been dressing for yourself. But you’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn’t wondering what Satoru would think when he finally saw it. Seiko squeals again as she double-checks her lipstick. “Okay but wait. You said Suguru’s stared at me before. When? Tell me now. Don’t lie.”

You shrug, all fake-casual. “Mmm. Like twice last week. When you wore that fitted top to the library. Also when you made that stupid joke and he actually laughed.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, hand flying to her chest like you just told her she’d been accepted into heaven. “I knew it. I thought I was delusional. But you just confirmed it.” You’re about to tease her again when a familiar honk cuts through the buzz of the apartment. “Speak of the devil,” you grin. Outside, Suguru’s car is parked by the curb, headlights casting long shadows through the blinds. You head out with Seiko, the cool evening air brushing against your legs as you slide into the backseat. Suguru, behind the wheel, turns slightly to look over his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you reply, amused as Seiko wordlessly climbs into the passenger seat like it’s her destiny. You swear she almost sits with a flourish. She twists toward him. “Thanks for picking us up. You look nice.” Suguru gives her a crooked smile. “You look nice, too.” You almost groan at the tension brewing already. You catch the subtle glance he gives her legs, the quiet, too-smooth “seatbelt” reminder as he reaches across to pull it out for her. She blushes, mumbling a thanks, and you just sink back into your seat, smiling to yourself like you’ve been let in on a joke no one else knows the punchline to. The ride to the frat house is filled with casual conversation—muted music humming from the car speakers, the windows cracked just enough to let in the city air. As Suguru pulls into a crowded residential street littered with double-parked cars and glowing red solo cups on curbs, Seiko leans forward to point out a spot. Typical frat party energy is already bleeding into the night—thudding bass in the distance, porch lights glowing warm, a guy doing a keg stand on someone’s lawn while someone else records with flash on. You smooth your skirt down instinctively as Suguru parallel parks like a pro, killing the engine with a low chuckle. You glance up at him just before stepping out, voice quieter than before. “Hey. Do you know when Satoru’s coming?” Suguru gives you a look—one of those slow, knowing, older-brother-type glances that feels like it sees more than it says. “Not too far away,” he replies, lips twitching. “You’ll see him soon.” He opens his door and gets out, and you follow, the air buzzing louder with the bass as you approach the house. It’s already full—bodies moving on the porch, music pounding out the windows, a mix of cheap perfume and sweat and smoke curling through the air. Inside, the light is dim, string lights casting a low amber haze over the crowd. People call greetings, red cups are pressed into hands, and the house is full of the usual noise—music, laughter, flirtation, chaos. You let Seiko tug you in by the hand, eyes scanning the room—not consciously, not desperately. Just… wondering. If he’d see you tonight. If he’d look.

Inside, the house is buzzing. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, someone’s dog is wearing a backwards cap for some reason, the music’s loud enough to rattle your ribs, and the air smells like a mix of weed, tequila, and Axe body spray. You and Seiko barely make it past the kitchen before you’re intercepted by a group of mutual friends from one of your guys’ shared elective class.

You’re nodding along, drink in hand, when you spot someone across the room—a guy you know from high school? Or maybe the library? The edges of memory are fuzzy from the noise, but you tilt your head and squint, trying to place him. “Wait—excuse me for a sec,” you say to Seiko, squeezing her wrist. You pivot, winding through the crowd, barely making it five steps before someone’s shoulder crashes into yours. You reel back instinctively, blinking up.

White hair. Too tall. Light eyes. Hoodie thrown lazily over a plain tee, but still looking like a full time model for Vogue. He smells like cologne and smoke and something faintly citrusy. “Wow,” you say automatically, blinking again. “You actually came.” Satoru smiles—lazy, tilted, boyish. Like he’s just been caught in something he enjoys too much to lie about. “Yeah,” he says. “Took an Uber. Not planning on being sober tonight.” You laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Same. But Seiko and Suguru are both staying sober, which is kind of impressive given the circumstances.” He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows exactly what circumstances you mean. “Ah. Right, right.” There’s a pause—just long enough for his eyes to drop to your legs. Then, casually, like he’s not saying anything crazy at all, he leans a little closer. “So… you wore the skirt.” You grin. “Yeah, I did. Is it nice?” He snorts under his breath like please, then runs a hand through his hair. “You know it is.” You roll your eyes. “You don’t even remember which one it was.” He pretends to be offended, placing a hand over his chest. “That’s actually insane of you to say. Of course I remember. It was this one. The black one. Little zipper on the side.”

You blink. “There was no zipper.” He squints. “Okay. True. I made that part up. But it looks like it could have a zipper.” You laugh, shaking your head as you sip your drink. You’re about to clap back when someone bumps into him from behind, sending him a half-step into you. His hand lands lightly on your arm to steady himself, just for a second—warm fingers, calloused from god knows what, brushing your bare skin. You both go still for half a beat.

Then he’s grinning again. “You having fun?” You nod. “Yeah. It’s actually a good party. Not too many freshmen. No one’s cried in the kitchen yet.” He laughs. “Give it an hour.” You don’t respond—just bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile at bay. His gaze lingers on your face for a second too long. Someone behind you pops a can of something and the fizzing sound makes you both blink.

“Well,” he says, standing a bit straighter, “should we find the others?” You nod, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the house. “Yeah. They’re by the pong table.” As you both start walking side by side through the house, you can’t help but glance sideways at him. He’s looking ahead, but there’s that same smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The same one from the apartment earlier. Knowing. Lazy. A little smug. A little dangerous. You finally make your way toward the makeshift beer pong table someone’s set up near the back of the frat house. It’s surrounded by half-drunken students, red solo cups, and a poor folding table that’s seen too many parties and not enough soap. You spot Ryomen Sukuna chatting to some girl—his chem lab partner? Odd, she was way too nice to talk to a guy like him— by the drinks table, his gaze unabashedly admiring her form. A cheer goes up as someone lands a shot, and you hear Seiko’s unmistakable laugh—shrill, excited—off to the left, where she’s clapping dramatically for Suguru, who’s currently in what looks like…? A competition to see who can stay in a handstand for the longest? Is that Toji Zenin with him?

“I was wondering where you ran off to,” Seiko says when she sees you. Her eyes briefly dart to Satoru, then back to you, and you give her a look that says: Don’t. Start. “Me and Satoru are gonna take a shot at this next game,” you say quickly, already setting your drink down and rolling your shoulders like a boxer entering the ring. Satoru raises a brow. “We are?”

“You scared?” He grins. “Nah, I’d win. I always win these.”

“You’re the one with freakishly long arms, so I guess I need to have more confidence in you,” you say, pointing at him. “You better land every cup.”

“I will. As long as you look pretty while doing the distractions.”

You blink. “That’s so sexist.”

“And yet, you smiled.” You try to smack his arm but he’s already ducking around you, grabbing a couple of ping pong balls from the table while the other team clears out. A small group starts to gather as you both step up to the table—probably because Satoru Gojo doing anything draws attention, but also because you’re not exactly subtle about whisper-arguing with him about technique. “Okay,” he says, tossing a ball up and down like it’s a warm-up. “We’re playing standard rules. Elbow behind the edge, reracks at 6 and 3, bounce shots count for two. You know how to play, right?” You make a face. “Sort of.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t come to college to learn about sports, Satoru.”

“It’s beer pong,” he groans. “It’s not a sport, it’s survival.” You flip him off, but you’re laughing. He lets you shoot first. Your ball clinks off the rim of a cup and bounces harmlessly to the floor. Satoru whistles low. “Strong start.”

“Shut up and make your freak arm useful.” He sinks the shot. Effortlessly. Doesn’t even blink. Of course he does. You sigh, already resigned to being carried. “Come here,” he says, waving you over like it’s no big deal. You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Your form’s all wrong. You’re like. Flicking it. This isn’t badminton.”

“I don’t flick—”

“Come here.” He’s behind you in a second. You feel his body brush against your back, the faint warmth of him just close enough to register without being obvious. His hand slides along your forearm, adjusting your grip on the ball.

“Relax your wrist,” he murmurs, and now his chin is practically over your shoulder. You swallow. “Like this,” he continues, his hand still guiding yours. “It’s more of a lob. Use your fingertips. Gentle. That’s it— ah, good girl. ” You try not to think about the way he says gentle. Or good girl. Or the way his breath is hitting your neck in warm puffs between words. “You realize you’re totally milking this under the guise of tutoring me,” you say, heart thudding faster. “Obviously.” His grin curls against your cheek. “You gonna shoot or what?”

You shoot. You land it. The group around the table erupts, laughing and shouting. You turn around, triumphant. “Holy shit—”

Satoru’s grinning, arms raised like he’s just coached a champion. “That’s my girl.” Your stomach does something very stupid at those words. You try to ignore it. The game continues like that—banter, shots, shoulder brushes, the occasional low “good job” from Satoru that lights up every neuron in your body. You’re not sure how much is the alcohol and how much is just him, but your face is warm and your hands shake a little more every time he reaches past you. At one point, someone makes a distracting joke and you miss horribly, groaning as the ball flies way off. Satoru leans close and mutters, “You need to take your revenge.”

“How?”

“Distraction tactics. Classic.” You eye him. “What, like flash a tit?” He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Jesus, no. I mean, you could, but maybe start smaller.” You giggle. “Like what?” He leans in again, voice lower. “Do that thing where you bend over to pick something up slow.” You look at him, deadpan. “Dude, what?” He shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m not blind.” You end up not bending over or doing whatever Satoru had been telling you to do, instead you just plainly smile at the guy on the opposing end of the table, hoping it does the job. And it does. Dramatically. And the frat guy across from you absolutely chokes on his shot. You land the next cup clean. What can be said? You’re extremely gorgeous. Satoru claps you on the back like a coach. “What’d I tell you? Iconic.” You’re both laughing too hard now. And a little too close. Eventually, the game ends—you win—and there’s a flurry of congratulations and another drink thrust into your hand. You feel light and flushed and way too aware of the guy still standing next to you like he belongs there.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” Satoru says, sipping from his own drink now. “Yeah, I thrive under pressure.” You’re mid-sip of some questionably pink drink when Satoru leans down, tipping his head toward your ear so casually it makes your stomach do that stupid flutter thing again. “Yo,” he says, nodding toward a different room where you can see bodies shifting and crowding around a makeshift open circle. “What’s going on over there?” You blink. “Dunno. Is that… a dance circle?”

“Nah,” he grins. “No one’s moving that confidently.”

You snort. “You wanna check it out?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says, and the way his voice dips just slightly makes it feel like he’s not just talking about the crowd. “Sure,” you say before you can overthink it. The two of you squeeze your way into the room, jostled on all sides by a sea of people shouting and laughing and pushing in toward the circle. The floor’s sticky, the air’s muggy, and someone bumps into your back hard enough that you stumble—and before you can find your footing, a flash of blue disappears ahead of you. “Satoru?” you call, but your voice is drowned out by a chant going up in the center. And just like that, he’s gone. You’re shoved toward the edge of the circle, almost tripping over a couch leg before managing to flop down beside some guy in a bucket hat holding a solo cup like it’s sacred. You glance around, heart racing, trying to spot that stupid head of white hair somewhere in the crowd. The guy next to you chuckles. “First time at one of these?” You glance over. “One of what?” He gestures with his cup. “Spin the bottle. Slash seven minutes in heaven. Slash drink whatever disgusting cocktail that bowl has if you bail. It’s a house rule.” You blink. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Don’t worry,” he shrugs. “You can decline. But then you gotta chug whatever’s in that punch bowl. And it’s, uh… unholy.” You look to the center where sure enough, there’s a half-filled bottle spinning on the floor like it’s trying to find a victim. A few people are already crowding behind it, sitting cross-legged like some cursed sleepover. And the punch bowl he’s talking about? It looks like someone dumped red Gatorade, vodka, pickle juice, and maybe NyQuil into the same pot and called it “edgy.” You whip your head around again—Satoru is, of course, lounging cross-legged on the other side of the circle now, chatting with some people you vaguely recognize from class. He looks like he belongs there, all sprawled limbs and lazy smirk, like this kind of chaos was built for him. When he catches your gaze, he waves. Waves. You shoot him a you left me to die glare. He mouths something back that looks suspiciously like, “Have fun.” Before you can get up and leave, someone shouts, “ALRIGHT! EVERYONE SHUT UP—RULES ARE THE SAME. SPIN LANDS ON YOU, EITHER GO IN THE CLOSET OR DRINK. NO BACKING OUT.” And just like that, the first spin hits a girl in a crop top and some guy who looks like he’s about to pass out. Laughter, whistles, cheers—then they’re stumbling off toward the dark little closet in the corner like lambs to the slaughter. You sit frozen, drink clutched to your chest like a life preserver. The bottle spins again.

Not you. Then again. Still not you. Then: you. You freeze, neck stiff as your name’s called. It’s some guy you’ve never seen in your life. He winks. You immediately reach for the punch bowl. The crowd yells as you choke down the mystery concoction. It burns like betrayal. Another few rounds go by. You watch people you know and people you don’t vanish into that cursed closet. You try not to count the minutes. Try not to watch Satoru each time he gets picked. And yet—you do. Twice the bottle lands on him. Both times he just laughs and reaches for the drink, wincing as he gulps it down. Your stomach does that thing again. You don’t want to care. Finally, the bottle spins, slower this time, teetering between two people. It seems to almost stop on the bucket hat guy next to you—until the neck slides a few inches more and lands squarely… on you. Your heart lurches. Then it spins again—and lands on him.

Satoru. It goes so quiet, you can hear the bass vibrating through the floorboards. Someone cackles. “Ohhhhhh shit—”

You look at him. He’s already watching you, a crooked, loose-limbed smile stretching across his lips. “Alright, alright,” someone’s saying. “Or you can drink, but I’m warning you, the new mix is, like, fucking illegal.”

“Yeah,” someone else adds, “Toru, you already tapped out of two. You're out of lives.” Satoru throws his head back and groans. “Shit.” He locks eyes with you again. “Well?” you ask, voice a little smaller than you mean it to be. “You tell me,” he says, tone light but eyes dark. “Closet or cocktail?” You hesitate. You could back out. You should back out. But he’s standing already, towering in his black tee and the chain peeking out from under his collar, holding out a hand to you with that infuriating confidence. “Let’s go,” he says. “No way I’m drinking that pickle NyQuil bullshit. My kidneys are failing already.” A cheer erupts.

“SEVEN MINUTES STARTING NOW!” You feel someone gently shoving you forward, and then you’re walking—stumbling—toward the little coat closet with Satoru beside you, hand hovering behind your back like he’s making sure you don’t fall. Inside, it’s pitch black. You both tumble in, bumping into each other, the door slamming shut behind you with a click. It’s cramped. Shoulders touching. Knees knocking. You can hear him breathing. And somewhere outside, someone’s laughing like this is the funniest shit they’ve ever seen. You swallow. “Thank god Seiko’s not here,” you mutter under your breath. “Speak for yourself,” Satoru says casually. “I think this is character-building.”

“Character-building?” you repeat, incredulous. “Yeah.” His voice is low, amused. “We’re trapped. Small space. Zero distractions. Forced eye contact if there was any light.” You laugh, nervous. “This is not how I imagined dying.”

“If we die in a frat closet,” he says seriously, “I just want you to know it’s been an honor.” You laugh again, this time a little too loudly. You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until you shift and your knees knock again—his thigh against yours. Warm. Solid. “Is it hot in here?” you mumble.

“It’s definitely not cold.” You don’t respond right away. Neither does he. It’s suddenly too quiet. You can feel his gaze, even in the dark. And somehow, you know—you know—that whatever happens next will not be played off as just another party game. The silence wraps around the two of you, warm and humming and too dense to ignore. Your back hits the closet wall, and you swear you can hear your own heartbeat pounding louder than the music outside. Somewhere, someone yells about shotgunning a beer, and it sounds so far away compared to the stillness between you and him. Satoru shifts beside you, his voice low and careful. “Hey—just so you know, we don’t have to do anything in here.” He says it casually, like it’s no big deal. His shoulder brushes yours. “Oh,” you say. You try to sound neutral. Chill. Normal. You fail. “Um—no, it’s okay. We can do stuff.” He huffs out a laugh, and it’s so goddamn warm in the closet and so him that your cheeks burn on contact. “We can do stuff,” he repeats, teasing. “Wow. That’s seductive.” You groan and immediately bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean it like that, oh my god.” He laughs again, this time a little breathless. “Nah, I’m into it. Super smooth delivery.”

“I’m drunk,” you whine, still hiding. “I’m tipsy. I literally cannot be held accountable for anything I say.”

“Oh, now you’re pulling the legal disclaimer.”

“I’m gonna die in this closet. Like, emotionally.” He shifts again, and you feel it—his thigh pressing more into yours, his arm now behind your back along the wall like he’s boxing you in without even meaning to. Or maybe he is meaning to. Maybe this is the point. Maybe you’re just slow to realize it. He opens his mouth—probably to say something sarcastic and obnoxious, like always—but you don’t let him. You don’t know if it’s the cheap cocktails or the lingering electricity from that beer pong game or just how close he is in this tight little space, but your body moves before your brain can catch up. You lean forward and kiss him. You only mean to peck him once, test the waters, but the second your lips meet his, he responds. Hard. His hand finds your waist with immediate purpose, dragging you closer until your chest is pressed against his, the scent of his cologne and sweat and cheap beer swirling around your head like smoke. His other hand fists into the fabric of your top, knuckles brushing your ribs, and he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this, mouth hot and demanding and perfect. You gasp a little when his tongue brushes yours, and he swallows it greedily like he wants to hear that sound again. And again. And again. You’re vaguely aware that you’re making noises, little broken gasps against his lips, but you don’t care. You’re half in his lap now, one leg slung lazily over his as your back presses to the closet wall. His grip tightens at your hip like he’s trying to keep himself anchored, but it’s not working. He breaks the kiss just for a second—only long enough to breathe against your mouth. “Fuck,” he mumbles, voice ragged. “You taste like whatever’s in that drink. That horrifying punch. But you still taste good. What the fuck.”

You laugh a little, dazed. “You too.” Then he kisses you again—deeper this time, rougher—and it’s suddenly impossible to remember what the hell you were ever nervous about. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, palm flat and hot against your bare skin. You shiver, and he smirks against your mouth, like he felt it. “Cold?” he asks, voice muffled by the skin of your neck as he kisses along your jaw. “Shut up,” you whisper back, breathless. He doesn’t. His mouth is relentless. He kisses like he’s starving. His lips drag down the slope of your neck, his tongue wet and hot as it traces up the column of your throat. “God,” you breathe. “You’re so—”

“Yeah?” he grins against your skin. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Coward.” You grin and push him back lightly, but it just makes him grin harder—until he catches your wrists and gently pins them beside your head, still smiling like a little shit. “You kissed me,” he says.

“You let me kiss you.”

“Damn right I did.” And then he kisses you again, harder this time, like a promise. You forget where you are. You forget your name. You forget the stupid crowd outside or the timer ticking down. The only thing you know is his mouth, his hands, the heat that’s spiking through your body like wildfire. You moan into his mouth—and this time, he groans. Low. Rough. Dangerous. And you get the sudden, dizzying feeling that if someone doesn’t knock on this door in the next ten seconds, you might not make it out of this closet with your clothes still on. The closet is too dark to think straight. Too warm. His breath is hot against your skin, and your back’s pressing into the wall like it’s the only thing holding you up. Your legs are still half-draped over his, and his hand’s still under your shirt—his palm splayed wide across your waist like he forgot he put it there and now refuses to move. You’re kissing again before either of you says another word. It’s not careful anymore. Not testing the waters. This is all open mouths and low groans, tongue and teeth and the dizzying clash of teeth when one of you gets impatient. His grip shifts, and suddenly his hand is sliding further up, rough fingers grazing your ribs until his thumb just barely brushes under your bra. You freeze for half a second, the sharp spark of oh shit cutting through your haze. But then his mouth drags down your neck again, open and wet and hungry, and any coherent thought short-circuits in your brain.

“Satoru,” you breathe. You don’t mean to say it like that. You don’t mean to say it at all. It just falls out of you, broken and breathy and a little desperate. He groans.

“Say that again.”

“No.”

“Boo, party pooper.” You’re both smiling—giddy, a little drunk, a little overwhelmed—and he noses at your cheek before dragging you in for another kiss. This one’s slower. He licks into your mouth like he’s tasting you, savoring you, like you’re something he’s wanted for way too long and can’t get enough of now that he has you. His thigh shifts between yours and—god—your hips roll on instinct. You feel his breath catch in his throat. Your lips part against his, and that’s all it takes for him to move. His hands are on your hips, guiding you down onto his thigh again, and the friction makes your brain completely short-circuit. You bite back a sound, but it’s embarrassing how easily your body reacts to him. How natural it feels to rock against him like this—slow, messy, clothed, but blistering. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rasping low in your ear. “You’re really doing this, huh.”

“Don’t act surprised,” you mutter, head tipping back when his mouth finds that one spot under your ear. “I’m not,” he admits, voice rough. “I’m just—fuck—I’m so into it.” You’re both breathing hard now, the air between you sticky and thick with heat. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and that’s it. That’s the moment he slips both hands under your skirt, palms warm on your thighs. He squeezes lightly, like he’s checking—asking—and you nod, burying your face into his shoulder. “Touchy tonight, huh?” he murmurs into your skin.

“Don’t be smug.”

“Impossible. I’m literally in a closet with you grinding on me. I win.” You shove at his shoulder, and he laughs, this quiet, messy sound that turns right into another kiss. His hands wander again, fingers sliding along the edges of your underwear with just enough pressure to tease but not enough to do anything. You whimper. Quietly. Against his mouth. He bites your lower lip. And that’s when there’s a knock at the closet door. You both freeze. The knock comes again—followed by a tipsy voice yelling, “TIME’S UP, CLOSET LOVERS. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT.”

You don’t even move at first. Just sit there. Half tugged up by him around his waist. Half undone. Breathing like you ran a mile. You blink at each other. He grins first. “That was like… two minutes,” he whispers.

“Swear to god, if Seiko’s out there—”

“We’ll lie,” he says, totally unbothered, smoothing down your skirt and grinning lazily. “You fell. I helped you up. We kissed a little. No laws were broken.” You snort, cheeks still on fire. But you can’t help it—you lean forward, just once more, and kiss him. Softly. Just one little press. He hums into it. Hands still on your hips like he’s not letting go the second the door opens. “You okay?” he asks, quietly this time. No teasing. No jokes. You nod. “Yeah.” And then you add, with a shaky laugh, “But next time we do something like this… please not in a literal party closet.” His grin is smug. “Next time?” You shove him again. He opens the door. And the second it does, a wave of music, noise, and light crashes in like you’ve broken the seal on a private, heated little world. You both step out—your hair tousled, lips kiss-swollen, heart racing—and pretend like nothing happened.

“Wanna make another bad decision?”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Bathroom’s unlocked.” You stare at him. He stares right back. You give a small nod, imperceptible almost, and then he’s grabbing your wrist, dragging you down the hall. You don’t even check if someone’s watching. You just move, fast, stumbling a little behind him as he shoves open the bathroom door and pulls you in behind him. Click. The lock slides into place. Silence. Your back hits the bathroom door. And Satoru’s right there—crowding into your space, bracing a hand beside your head like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he’s giving you that split-second window to change your mind. You don’t take it. Satoru spins you around and backs you up against the counter like he’s done this before—like he’s been thinking about it since the first time you argued over the last chocolate bar or something. His mouth finds yours in seconds, and this time it’s not playful. It’s hungry. Hot. Desperate. You tug on his shirt, dragging him closer, and he laughs into your mouth, breathless and boyish and so into it. His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms on bare skin, fingers playing with the hem of your black skirt like he can’t help himself. “You know, this skirt that you’re wearing? The one I picked out?” he mutters, mouth moving down to your jaw, then under your ear.

You nod, dizzy. “Uh-huh.”

“Good choice,” he grins, hands squeezing your ass over the fabric. “It’s fucking hot.” You whimper. Actually whimper. And he groans, like you’ve just undone him. “You’re killin’ me,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re actually—”

Your skirt rides up. Your thighs part. And his body slots right between them. “You sure?” he pants, nipping at your lip. “We don’t have to—”

You grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer. “I know we don’t have to.”

Pause.

“But I want to.” That does it. His mouth is back on yours before you finish breathing the sentence, and now his hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, under your top. Your hands tangle in his stupid white hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss and grind into you, hard enough to make you gasp. “Shit,” he mumbles against your mouth. “We should be careful.” You bite your lip. “Why?”

“Because if we keep going, I’m not gonna stop.” Your breath catches. You kiss him. Slow and deep. “Someone’s gonna notice we’re gone,” you whisper, even though you make no move to stop touching him. He nips your neck. “Let them.”

“Satoru—”

You don’t have time to laugh before he lifts you—just like that, hands under your thighs, and sits you on the cold marble counter. Your skirt hikes up to your waist, and his eyes drag down your thighs with an audible breath, eyes glancing over on the wet spot forming on the front of your pink panties, fingers already slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear like he can’t wait. You’re kissing again—hot and messy and open-mouthed—while his hand works fast, dragging the fabric to the side and letting out the dirtiest fucking sound when he feels how soaked you are.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead to yours. “All this for me?” You glare. “No, for Suguru. Obviously for you.”

That grin—that goddamn smug Satoru Gojo grin—flicks across his face. “Should’ve known,” he says, fingers sliding over you now, teasing but desperate. “I really get you going, huh?” You moan, hips stuttering, hands fumbling with his belt now. “Toru—please.” That does it. The second you breathe his name like that, he’s moving—shoving down his jeans and boxers just enough, grabbing a condom from his back pocket like the cocky frat boy you know he is. “I swear,” he mutters, tearing it open, “I was not expecting to use this tonight.”

You give him a look. “Bullshit.” He laughs low. “Okay, maybe I hoped. Come on, haven’t been laid in ages.” Then? Then he’s right there, dragging your hips to the edge, rubbing himself against you slowly, teasing. Too slowly. “Satoru,” you whisper, grabbing his shirt, pulling. “Now.” He groans—and then pushes in, slow at first, filling you in a way that makes your whole body arch off the counter. “Fuck,” he pants, gripping your hips like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t anchor himself. “You feel—Jesus.”

Your breath stutters out. “Move—please.” And he does. He fucks you like the party doesn’t exist. Like the music isn’t thumping just outside the door. Like someone won’t knock at any second. Hard, deep thrusts—his hand muffling your moans when they get too loud, your nails clawing down his back under his shirt. He kisses you through it, open-mouthed and filthy, murmuring curses against your lips like he’s losing it, too. “Didn’t think this would happen tonight,” he says between thrusts, voice ragged. You’re gasping. “Me either—oh my God—but don’t stop.” He doesn’t. If anything, he fucks into you harder, like your words lit him up, hips snapping forward, making you see stars. You cling to him, head falling to his shoulder, trying so hard not to moan too loud when he shifts his angle and hits just right.

“Satoru—”

“I know,” he grits out, kissing your shoulder, your neck. “You’re so fucking tight—shit.” The counter creaks beneath you. His hands are gripping your thighs, and you’re clinging to his shirt, and when you finally come—clenching around him, eyes fluttering—he groans like you just knocked the breath out of him. He follows fast. Gasping your name, forehead buried in your neck, hips stuttering as he finishes with a shudder and a string of muttered curses. The room falls quiet except for your heavy breathing. You’re still panting when he finally lifts his head, face flushed, hair messy, looking more fucked-out than you’ve ever seen him.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded. “Pussy is too good.” You smack his chest, still catching your breath. “Way to ruin a moment.” He laughs, arms wrapping around your waist, forehead resting against yours. Outside, the bass drops again. Inside, he kisses you—sweet, slow now. Like he wants this again. And again. You're still half-breathless when you peel yourself off the bathroom counter, shaky legs dangling before you touch the floor. Satoru leans back, hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised and glistening, grinning like he just won a game he wasn’t even supposed to be playing. You glance at yourself in the mirror and immediately groan. “God,” you mutter, fixing your hair with trembling fingers. “I look like I just got railed in a frat bathroom.”

“You did just get railed in a frat bathroom,” Satoru offers, obnoxiously proud. He’s zipping his jeans, running a hand through his tousled white hair, utterly unfazed. “Shut up.” You swat his chest as he snickers. “Fix yourself. Your hair looks like you’re Goku from Dragon Ball Z right now.”

He checks. “Oh. Shit.” You both burst into quiet, breathy laughter, like two kids caught in the middle of something reckless and brilliant. The bathroom still smells faintly like the citrusy hand soap, alcohol, and you—God, you—clinging to Satoru’s skin like perfume. You tug your skirt down. It’s wrinkled. Your thigh is slightly sticky. You don’t even want to think about it right now. “Wait,” you whisper, holding your arms out like a human barricade. “Are we going out together?” Satoru looks at you, then toward the door, considering. “Nah,” he says finally, lips twitching. “I’ll give you a 60 second head start. Real secret agent vibes.” He pulls you in before you can leave, pressing one last kiss to your mouth, slower this time, his hand cradling your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. When you pull back, you're flushed again. “Go,” he says, voice low. “Before I forget we’re trying to be subtle.” You open the door and slip out fast, stepping into the dim hallway. It takes you a second to adjust to the bass again, the flood of people, the bright overhead lights that make everything feel too real. You make a beeline toward the kitchen like you haven’t just been completely wrecked in the bathroom, grabbing the nearest cup you can find and pretending to drink something even though it’s mostly just melted ice and backwash.

Then—

“Yo!” Someone calls your name from across the room. Not Satoru. Just a classmate. You wave, hoping they don’t notice how warm your cheeks are. You’re mid-conversation when, exactly one minute later, Satoru wanders in from the other side of the room. Cool as ever. You both lock eyes for the briefest second—and he winks at you like an absolute menace before joining some people near the pong table. You swear your knees go weak all over again. As you’re sipping from your cup and attempting to regulate your heart rate, your phone buzzes.

Torustill taste u on my tongue lol

You immediately lock the screen and shove it into your pocket like it just caught fire. Across the room, he catches your expression. Smiles. Smug. Lazy. Like he owns the whole fucking house. You shake your head, lips twitching as you pretend not to look at him again. But you do. A few times. And each time, he’s already looking back.

The car ride home is a blur of motion, low music, and the afterglow of too many drinks and too little inhibition. You’re squished in the backseat of Suguru’s car, shoulder-to-shoulder with Satoru as Seiko loudly insists on shotgunning—“I called it like thirty minutes ago, Satoru, don’t even try me”—and Suguru just raises a brow like why did I agree to this? You're half pressed against the window, the cold glass seeping into your flushed skin. Satoru’s thigh is warm beside yours. Too warm. Or maybe you’re just hyperaware—of him, of yourself, of the fact that less than an hour ago he had his hands under your skirt and his mouth on your neck. “Ugh,” Seiko moans from the passenger seat. “Suguru, drive slower. I’m gonna puke.”

“You said faster two minutes ago.”

“Well now I say slower. Unless you want vomit on your dashboard.”

Suguru sighs and taps the brakes. Beside you, Satoru chuckles low in his throat. It’s not even directed at you, but it ripples down your spine like a dropped match. He shifts, resting his arm casually along the backseat behind you, not quite touching—but close. So close. You try not to look at him. You fail. His hair is still tousled. There’s a mark—barely-there—on the edge of his jawline. You wonder if he noticed it in the mirror at the party. You wonder if he knows it’s from you. You blink away the thought and stare hard out the window as Suguru pulls up to your apartment. The car slows to a stop, and suddenly all of you are groaning and tumbling out, drunk and exhausted. “Everyone drink water before bed,” Suguru calls after you and Seiko, who are giggling as you shuffle toward the door. “Don’t be dumbasses tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mom,” Satoru mutters. You all collapse into the apartment like a pile of overripe fruit—sweet, bruised, and sticky with the night. No words. Just Seiko drifting into her room with a loud yawn, mumbling something about being glad she didn’t drink tonight. Satoru disappearing into his own with an unreadable look over his shoulder, and you stumbling into yours with your head spinning. The moment your door shuts behind you, you exhale hard. And then you feel it. The ache between your legs. The ghost of his mouth on yours. Your lips are swollen. Your hair’s a mess. And there’s a bite mark—not aggressive, but definitely there—on your collarbone. You don’t even change clothes. You just fall face-first into your bed and let the haze swallow you whole.

The morning hits like a truck. You wake up with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth and your thoughts screaming. What did I do? Your brain floods with flashes: the kiss in the closet. The way he’d looked at you in the bathroom mirror. His laugh, low and cocky. The stretch of his hand around your thigh. His voice against your neck—

You sit up way too fast and groan. Okay. Okay. Think. Was it just the alcohol? A one-time thing? He is a flirt. He does sleep around. But he didn’t flirt with anyone else that night. And he didn’t go into the closet with anyone else. And he kissed you like he meant it. You press your hands to your face. You don’t even know what you want. Do you want it to have been a one-time thing? Or are you hoping he’ll bring it up again? Are you hoping he’ll come knock on your door right now? You stare at your bedroom door. It’s way too quiet outside. No Seiko, no Satoru. You check the time—past noon. They’re probably both still dead asleep. But what if he’s not? What if he’s in the kitchen? What if you walk out there and it’s awkward as hell and he doesn’t even look at you the same? Your heart starts pounding. You’re suddenly, intensely aware that you’re still wearing that damn black skirt. It’s wrinkled and rides up your thighs in your bed like a cruel joke. You pull your blanket over your head and groan. Nope. You’re not going out there. Not yet. Not until you know what the hell to say to the boy who fucked you over a sink last night and then waved at you across the room like he hadn’t just ruined your entire life. You eventually force yourself out of bed. It takes a long, boiling shower, half a bottle of ibuprofen, and several internal pep talks, but you finally open your bedroom door and step into the hallway—blank expression, huge hoodie, and an unholy craving for caffeine.

The apartment is quiet. No Seiko. No Suguru. But you hear faint kitchen sounds—running water, a mug clinking against the counter. Your stomach drops. You turn the corner. Satoru’s there. Leaning over the counter with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, looking very not hungover. His hair is damp—he’s clearly already showered—and he’s in a pair of loose sweats, shirtless, like he doesn’t even know what modesty is. You almost turn around. But he glances up. And you’re already seen. “Oh,” he says, like you’ve bumped into him at the fucking supermarket, not—well. Not after last night. “Morning.”

You blink. “Hey.” He sets his phone down. You make a beeline for the coffee machine, not looking at him. You feel him watching you, though. And not in a last night way. Not in a “you looked so good riding me against the bathroom sink” way. More like… a confused “are we just pretending that never happened?” kind of way. You clear your throat. “You sleep okay?” He pauses a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says finally. “You?” You nod. Pour yourself coffee. “Fine.” Silence. You sip. He sips. The room is so quiet you can hear the tick of the old wall clock. “So…” you say, and instantly regret it. You don’t even know what you were going to follow that up with. There’s no “so.” There’s no normal segue into hey remember when you pushed my panties to the side and said I was making too much noise? You don’t even finish the thought. He scratches the back of his neck. “So,” he echoes with a crooked smile, “that was a party, huh?” You huff out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Yeah. Yeah, it… was.” Silence again. You glance over at him—and he’s looking at you. Not in a teasing way. Not flirty, not smug. Just… like he’s trying to read you. Gauge your reaction. His voice is careful when he says, “I didn’t think we were doing spin the bottle last night.”

“Oh yeah,” you say lightly, hoping your smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “That was a… surprise.” He hums. Sips again. Neither of you brings up the closet. Or the bathroom. You both stand there, drinking bad coffee in your shared silence, pretending like nothing did. And somehow that’s worse. You suddenly can’t stand it—the way your heart keeps jumping every time he shifts, like you’re waiting for him to say something. Clarify something. But he doesn’t. And you don’t. So instead, you mutter, “I’m gonna go back to my room.” He looks at you for half a second too long. Nods. “Yeah. Okay.” You carry your coffee out, heart beating stupidly fast. You shut your door behind you and lean against it like you just escaped something dangerous. Because you did. You escaped the conversation where he might’ve said it was a mistake. But now you don’t know if he wanted to say the opposite, either. And the not-knowing might just kill you first. You hear the shuffle of his feet in the hallway—his bedroom door creaking open, the sigh he lets out when he realizes the apartment is still quiet. But you’re already locked inside your room, sitting in bed in one of your oversized hoodies, a brutal hangover kicking at your temples. You don't even check your phone. You just stare at the ceiling, mouth dry, heart pounding. God. What the hell did you do?

–

By Monday, it’s not just a one-day silence. It turns into a pattern. You start rehearsing escape routes—routes that avoid the kitchen, the couch, his side of campus. You’re back to taking the bus instead of the ride he always used to offer, lying to Seiko with dumb excuses like “I left early” or “I had to drop by the post office.” When he passes you in the hallway of your apartment, you duck into your room before he can speak. He notices. You can feel it.

On Tuesday, you hear the jangle of his keys, the creak of the front door, and his heavy, dragging steps like he’s tired. You hold your breath when his steps pause in front of your door for just a second too long. Then they continue—out to the living room. You exhale only after the TV starts playing. You don’t know why you’re avoiding him so hard. Maybe it’s the embarrassment. The fact that you kissed him first. That you dragged him into the bathroom like a fucking hormonal maniac. That you wanted him. That he let you want him. You replay the way he looked at you in the mirror. The way he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. But maybe that’s just how he kisses. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. You feel sick. And then there’s the other thing. The gnawing guilt of knowing this isn’t just some random guy. This is Seiko’s older brother. You practically grew up knowing him, teasing him, getting teased back. She’s known about your stupid little high school crush—but she never knew it’d turn into this. And even though she’d never be mad, a part of you feels like you broke a silent code. Like you crossed something.

So now you smile extra wide when you’re with her. Laugh too loud. Ask too many questions about Suguru, just to keep her focused on anything else. You don’t mention Satoru. You never do. And she doesn’t bring him up either, like maybe she senses something’s off. Satoru, on the other hand? He’s not playing pretend. By Wednesday, he’s straight-up glaring at you in the kitchen. You enter to grab a water bottle and find him already there, shirtless, hair tousled from sleep. He glances up from his mug of coffee, and his jaw tics when you avoid eye contact, grab the bottle, and turn around with barely a “Morning.”

“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t ask what he means. You just shut your bedroom door behind you again and let your back make contact with your bed, heart racing in your ribs. Thursday at campus, he walks straight past you outside the lecture hall, pretending to text. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say hi. You’d feel relieved, but instead you feel… a little sick.

By Friday, you start catching him staring. Not the playful stares he used to throw when you were snarking at him on the couch, or the amused glances during group study when you used to roast Seiko. These are different. Sharper. Tight-lipped. Like he’s trying to understand what the fuck your problem is and fighting the urge to demand answers. In the library, he walks in with two friends and pauses when he sees you sitting alone. For a second, your eyes lock. Your heart jumps. You go cold. He raises his brows just a little—like a challenge. Like he’s asking, So this is how it is now?

You immediately lower your gaze to your textbook.

You don’t look up again until you hear him walk away.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You know the creak of every floorboard by now. You time your kitchen runs for when he's in the shower. You fake calls on the walk home if he’s in the distance across campus. You’ve perfected the art of silence—of vanishing just before your name could leave his mouth.

You’re not proud of it. But you're not ready to talk either. Every time you see him—or almost see him—your stomach knots. It’s not just the fact that you had sex with your best friend’s older brother. It’s the fact that it meant something. At least to you. And now you don’t know if it did to him.

You don’t know what he thinks. You don’t know if he regrets it. You don’t know if he wants to do it again or pretend it never happened. You don’t know anything, and not knowing feels safer than asking. You avoid the kitchen unless Seiko’s there. You don’t ride in Suguru’s car anymore. You take the campus loop bus—even if it’s late, even if it’s raining, even if the seats are soaked and the heater doesn’t work. At least it keeps you away from him.

Every day, you pretend like you're fine.

“Why do you always look like you’re about to throw up when I mention Satoru?” Seiko teases lightly one afternoon when you’re curled up on the couch scrolling on your phone. You blink too quickly. “I do not,” you lie. “Yeah, you do,” she laughs, “like, every time. Are you two fighting or something?” You force a smile, heart thumping. “I just find him annoying. You know that.” She shrugs, unconvinced. “Okay, but you used to like him annoying. Now you look like you’re allergic to him.”

By Saturday, the tension is visible. Even Seiko’s starting to pick up on it—on how quiet Satoru’s become, how he doesn’t crack jokes like he used to, how the apartment suddenly feels like it has an emotional landmine buried under the carpet. And he’s not being subtle either. He slams more drawers. Leaves the fridge open longer than needed. One morning, you hear him mutter, “She’s literally acting like I murdered her family,” through the wall after you ducked out of the bathroom the second he walked in.

You curl into yourself. Guilt swarms you. Guilt for sleeping with him. Guilt for liking it. Guilt for making it weird. Guilt for hiding it. Guilt for lying to Seiko. Guilt for how you can’t look either of them in the eye anymore.

And the worst part?

You miss him. You miss the sound of his dumb laugh from the couch. The way he stole your fries off your plate. The smug smirk he gave when he caught you staring. You miss him when he's in the same room, and you miss him when he's not. But you're too afraid to fix it.

Too afraid of what it could become. Or worse—what it won’t.

It’s Sunday evening when it finally happens. You’d just gotten out of the shower, damp hair sticking to your neck, hoodie slipping too far off one shoulder. You’re halfway through towel-drying it in your room when you hear the unmistakable sound of the front door swinging shut and keys being dumped into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.

And your stomach sinks. You know who it is.

You freeze, listening. It’s late—Seiko’s staying at a friend’s dorm tonight, which means it’s just you. And him. In the apartment. Your heart starts to thump like a speaker at a frat house—deep, rhythmic, inescapable. You think maybe if you stay quiet, if you keep your lights off, if you just wait it out, he’ll go straight to his room.

But then—

Knock. Knock. Knock. Three sharp, deliberate knocks against your door. Not frantic. Not tentative. Just controlled. Frustrated. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Open the door,” he says through it. Calm. But not neutral. There’s heat simmering just beneath it. You don’t move. Another knock.

“I know you’re in there.”

A pause.

“And I know you’re avoiding me.”

You grit your teeth, lips parting. For a second, you contemplate telling him to fuck off. But you can’t bring yourself to say it—not when your whole body still remembers his touch, his voice in your ear, the way he’d held your hips like he couldn’t get enough of you. “I’m not,” you lie weakly, and it sounds like you’re underwater. A dry laugh.

“Right. You’re not.”

You stand frozen for a moment longer before your body acts for you. Fingers wrapping around the doorknob, turning it slowly until the latch clicks. You pull it open just enough to see him—his hoodie slung low over his head, eyes darker than usual, like the week of silence has worn down even his confidence. There’s a long silence. You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“Look, I—I don’t think we should talk about it, okay?” you mumble, eyes flicking away. “It was a party. We were drunk. It happened. Let’s just… not make it a big deal.”

His jaw flexes.

“You think I’m making it a big deal?”

You flinch. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” he says, stepping forward, his voice dipping lower. “You’re the one pretending it didn’t happen. You’re the one who’s been acting like I don’t fucking exist.”

You glance back toward the darkened hallway, heart pounding.

“I’ve just been busy, Satoru.”

“Cut the shit.”

His voice is low but harsh now, the syllables snapping through the space between you.

“I text you, you leave me to read. You see me on campus, and you bolt like I’m some fucking stalker. You won’t even look at me. What the hell did I do that was so wrong?”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s not—it’s not about what you did,” you say quickly, voice cracking.

He stares at you like he doesn’t believe you.

“I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know what that was, okay? I don’t know what it meant.”

His eyes narrow. “Why does it have to mean something?”

You blink. “Because it does.”

The words come out louder than you meant.

And then it’s quiet. Heavy.

You suddenly feel very, very tired.

“I just…” You swallow. “It’s hard. You’re Seiko’s brother. And you’re you. You’re, like, Satoru fucking Gojo. And I’m just—me. And I don’t want to be some… joke you tell your frat friends later.”

His face tightens.

“Is that what you think this is?”

You flinch. He takes a step forward.

“You think I’d fuck you in a bathroom at a party and then just go brag about it to Suguru or some shit?”

“I don’t know!” you snap, voice cracking. “I don’t know what the fuck to think!”

You feel it bubbling up now—hot, sharp, impossible to contain. A week’s worth of bottled-up emotion, self-doubt, mortification, and frustration bleeding into your voice.

“I’ve liked you since I was seventeen and you used to sneak Red Bulls during our tutoring breaks at your guys’ house—I didn’t even like Red Bull, by the way—and now we’re living in the same fucking apartment, and you’ve seen me in my pajamas and kissed me like you were starving for it and then we had sex, and then I had to wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t make my whole world tilt sideways!”

Your breath comes out shaky, chest heaving now.

“And you—God,” you choke out, eyes stinging, “you said nothing the next morning. Not even, like, a normal-person ‘are you okay’ or ‘hey, about last night.’ No. You made some dumbass joke about not knowing they’d have spin the bottle at the party—like that was the most significant thing that happened!”

You throw your hands up, exasperated and hurt all over again.

“And I just stood there like an idiot, laughing it off, because I didn’t know if it was casual for you or if I meant nothing, and meanwhile I spent the whole week overanalyzing every single second while you probably just carried on like it was any other night!” Satoru is silent. Frozen. Jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on you like he can’t believe you’ve been holding all of this inside. That you’ve been carrying it around like this pain belonged only to you.

“I felt like a fucking joke, Satoru,” you say quieter now, voice trembling. “And I didn’t know if I was allowed to be hurt. I didn’t know if I was overreacting. So I did the only thing I could do—I avoided you. Because if I didn’t, I think I would’ve cried or worse—told you I still wanted you, even if you didn’t feel the same.” The air between you two is thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. He takes a slow step forward, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse—real. “I didn’t know what the fuck to say,” he admits. “I woke up and I panicked. I thought if I made it casual, you’d feel like you had an easy out. Like it wouldn’t be weird for you.” You look up at him, throat tight. “Yeah?” you say bitterly. “Well, it was.”

“I know,” he says, wincing. “I know. And I’m sorry.” A pause. You don’t move. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he adds quietly. “I was trying to be cool about it, and I ended up being a complete fucking idiot.” You say nothing. He sighs.

“I should’ve just said I liked kissing you,” he says simply. “Because I did. I liked it too much, and it freaked me out.” You blink hard. Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He takes another step closer. “You weren’t a one-night thing,” he says, voice low. “You’re not a joke. You never have been.” A breathless silence. Your heart is pounding again—but for a different reason now. “So, we’re good now?,” he asks lightly. You manage a small smile. “Yeah.”

Another beat passes, and then his voice drops again—quiet, careful. “Can we stop pretending it didn’t happen?” You take a breath. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie. Your skin feels hot. You nod. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

He smiles—slow, crooked, a little relieved.

“Cool,” he murmurs, stepping past you with a brush of his fingers at your hip. “Now come out and eat. You’ve been emo all week.”

“Don’t call me emo,” you groan.

“Don’t ghost me, then.” You pause in the doorway, watching as he disappears into the kitchen. And despite the pounding in your chest, for the first time in days, something eases in your shoulders.

–

It starts off subtle. A shoulder bump in the kitchen. His fingers brushing yours when he passes the remote. You stealing sips from his drink even though you said you didn’t want one. But over the last few weeks, it’s become undeniable. You and Satoru have gotten so close. Not in the subtle, barely-speaking, ‘are-they-even-on-good-terms’ way you were for that agonizing, slow, emotionally repressed stretch of time—but in the obnoxiously familiar, joyfully flirty, constantly-hovering-near-each-other way that screams something happened, and they’re definitely doing it again. There’s no dramatic sit-down. No DTR talk. But it’s in everything you do. It’s the way he stretches out across the couch just so his legs rest over your lap when Seiko’s watching TV next to you, unfazed. The way you lean into him during group hangouts, like he’s a magnetic pull you don’t even fight anymore. Today, it’s the three of you again—Seiko, you, and Satoru—on a sunny late afternoon, draped across the living room in varying states of half-productivity and snack-crunching. He has his head dangerously close to your thigh on the couch, while he himself is sprawled across on it, flipping through something on his phone, one hand absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. You’re seated with your legs crossed, scrolling through TikTok and trying not to smile every time his ivory hair glints in the afternoon sunlight.

Seiko’s half-watching a show but keeps glancing, suspicious.

“Okay,” she says suddenly, pointing her spoon at the both of you, “I swear to God you two were being emo little freaks like two weeks ago.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You literally wouldn’t even look at each other at breakfast, and now you’re basically spooning on the couch like that’s normal.” Satoru doesn’t look up. “I am a very cuddly person,” he says, flipping to the next Instagram story. You nudge him in the side with your foot. “He is not,” you tell Seiko, grinning. “I was gaslit,” she says. “You both made me think I was imagining the tension.”

“You were,” you and Satoru say at the same time. Then you both glance at each other and immediately start cracking up. “Unbelievable,” Seiko mutters, digging her spoon back into her cereal. “I should’ve known when he voluntarily washed a dish that something was up.” Satoru reaches up and steals a spoonful of cereal straight out of her bowl. “Hey!” she swats at him, “Get your own! Don’t touch my food, you asshole.” The rest of the day is just like that—subtle teasing, casual touches, too-long eye contact that gives everything away. When he gets up to grab snacks, he asks if you want anything with this easy, domestic sort of confidence. When you hand him your phone to look at a meme, his fingers graze yours on purpose. And when you walk back from the kitchen later, he slides over on the couch without a word, making space for you in that casual, of course you’ll sit here next to me kind of way. At one point, you’re both squished together, sharing the same blanket, knees knocking under it—and Seiko just stares.

She mutters, “I’m living in hell.” You and Satoru both just grin.

–

You had the apartment to yourself.

Lectures had moved online because of some water damage in the psych building, so you were living the absolute dream: cozy hoodie, panties, blanket burrito, Modern Family playing at low volume, and a warm mug of tea in your hands. It was gray outside—light drizzle tapping at the windows—and you had zero plans to leave the couch bed you made in your room. That was, until you hear the apartment door slam shut. You freeze. It’s too early for Seiko to be back. And she would’ve yelled something dumb the second she walked in. Which means—

“Yo,” Satoru calls out, voice echoing down the hallway.

Shit.

You panic for half a second, adjusting your blanket like you’ve been caught watching porn instead of a sitcom. “I’m in my room!” you shout back, hoping he takes the hint. He doesn’t. Your door creaks open without hesitation, and you barely sit up before he’s leaning against the frame, one brow cocked, his stupidly gorgeous face framed by the light behind him.

“Seriously?” you groan. “Ever heard of knocking? What if I was changing and I was naked?” He just grins, blue eyes flickering over you—messy hair, oversized hoodie, bare thighs, popcorn-stained blanket and all. “I've already been inside you,” he shrugs casually, stepping in like it’s his room. “What’s the difference, really?” Your mouth drops open. “Satoru—!”He plops down beside you before you can finish, laughing to himself as you bury your face in the blanket in mortified silence. “You’re unbelievable,” you mumble, trying to will away the heat crawling up your neck. He nudges your leg with his knee under the blanket. “So what’re we watching, sweetheart?”

You hesitate, because saying Modern Family out loud just feels embarrassing now. “...Modern Family.” Satoru squints at you, unimpressed. “Again? You’ve seen every episode like twelve times.”

You turn to face him, making a point of shoving popcorn in your mouth like it’ll shut him up. “And? It’s comfort TV. Sue me.” But he doesn’t argue. He just shifts lower, stealing a handful of popcorn and tossing a few pieces into his mouth while kicking his shoes off. You watch him stretch out beside you, long limbs taking up all the space, thigh pressing up against yours under the blanket. He doesn’t say anything about it, and neither do you. Not until his hand slips under the blanket—just resting on your bare thigh this time, warm and casual, but very much intentional. You shoot him a look. “Seriously?”

“What?” he murmurs, not even glancing over. “It’s cold. You’re warm. Let me live.”

“Your hand is on my skin.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Oh, is that what that is?” You elbow him lightly, but it doesn’t make him move. If anything, he just sinks further into your side, his knuckles brushing slow, lazy circles against your thigh like he knows exactly what he's doing. Which—of course he does. “You’re the worst,” you mutter.

“I’m your worst,” he says, soft and teasing. You swallow. The blanket suddenly feels a little too warm. A long moment passes with the two of you just… lying there. Watching Cam and Mitch bumble through fatherhood while Satoru’s fingers trace delicate lines higher and higher on your leg, never quite crossing the line, but dancing at the edge of it. He’s so casual about it—like this is normal now. Like it’s his right to touch you, to be here, stretched out in your bed and smirking at you like you’re already his. But this time, he leans in and kisses your jaw—soft, slow, and maddeningly smug—you don’t pull away. You’re kind of surprised, you didn’t think he’d just… do that. Your face is still warm from his jaw kiss, but you try—try—to keep your attention on the TV. It’s useless. You can feel him watching you now, feel the soft trail of his fingers inching up your thigh again beneath the blanket. Barely touching. Barely even real. “You’re nervous,” he says quietly, amused. “Don’t like me touching you?” He hums playfully, squeezing your thigh.

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, not meeting his eyes.

“You are,” he insists, voice dropping. “You’re so twitchy. What, am I distracting?” You glare at him, but he just grins.

“God, you’re annoying.”

He leans closer, chin resting on your shoulder, lips right by your ear. “You didn’t think I was annoying when you were moaning my name in that bathroom.” You freeze, body going still all at once. Then you punch him weakly in the arm, because what the fuck is he even trying to do right now. “That was so unnecessary.”

“Was it?” he hums. “’Cause you sound a little breathless right now.” You hate him. You do. Especially when his hand starts tracing the hem of your oversized hoodie, pushing it up so slowly your brain short-circuits. It’s featherlight, like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Instead, you clutch the blanket tighter as his fingers drag higher up your thigh, brushing over the edge of your underwear like he’s not doing anything at all. “Satoru,” you whisper, a warning—or a plea, you’re not sure. His mouth is back at your ear. “Mm, I love when you say it like that.” Then, casually, he lifts the blanket and looks. You panic. “Hey—!” But he’s smirking now, pupils darker, lips parted a little as he eyes your bare legs, the little black cotton panties with a small lace trim that were not meant for an audience today. “Cute,” he murmurs, like he’s impressed, like you planned this. “Didn’t take you for a lace girl.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary.” you whisper-shout, trying to tug the blanket back down—but he catches your wrist. His other hand slides fully under your hoodie now, across your stomach, warm and flat, and you whimper when his thumb brushes just under the band of your underwear. You shouldn’t let him. You really shouldn’t. But his voice is so low, so goddamn casual, as he says: “Want me to help you relax?” Your breath stutters. He shifts closer, practically between your legs now, his face inches from yours, and that cocky smirk is gone—replaced by something slower. Hungrier. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face toward him, and your eyes flutter shut because this is so bad, but you don’t want him to stop.

And then—

You feel his fingers press down through the fabric, right against your core. You gasp, one hand flying to his chest like you could push him away—but you don’t. You curl your fingers into his hoodie instead.

“Still watching Modern Family?” he whispers, like it’s a joke, like he’s not circling you over your underwear with unbearable gentleness. “You’re the worst person alive,” you hiss. “Mm, maybe,” he murmurs, lips grazing your cheek. “But I’m making you feel so good right now, aren’t I?” You don’t answer. You can’t—not when he’s pressing a little harder, rubbing small, unhurried circles into your clit above your panties, and watching your face like he wants to memorize it. And then—then—he moves down. You squeak, trying to grab at him, but he pins your hips with both hands and laughs into your stomach, breath hot against your skin as he pulls your underwear to the side.

“Relax,” he says again, and this time it’s softer. “Let me take care of you.” You suck in a breath, the kind that gets trapped in your throat and goes nowhere. He has your thighs spread, his palms anchoring them down to the mattress as he looks at you—really looks at you—with that ravenous kind of amusement. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your hipbone, lips brushing it like an afterthought. “No, I’m not,” you breathe, even though you definitely are. One slow kiss, then another, lower now, until you’re arching just a little, just enough. You try to close your legs, try to pull the hoodie back down, try anything to regain a sliver of control—but his hands just tighten around your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you. “Settle down,” he says again, voice dropped to something filthy.

“God, you're always so wound up. Gonna eat that pussy so good you’ll become nice ‘n easy f’me.” And then you feel him lick a stripe up your inner thigh. Your whole body jolts like it’s been electrocuted.

“Satoru—”

“Shh,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like he’s focused. Like he’s thinking about what he’s going to do to you and not much else. His fingers trail back up, slow, pushing your hoodie higher, letting his knuckles brush your ribs. He mouths at your skin the whole way up—your stomach, your side, your breasts, paying extra attention to your hardened nipples—before dragging himself back down again with that same dizzying patience. "You're not stopping me," he murmurs, breath ghosting over your soaked underwear. “So either you really want me to behave badly or you're just shy about asking.” You cover your face with one hand. “Oh my god.”

He chuckles, dragging his tongue over your inner thigh again. “That’s not a no.” And then he finally—finally—slips your underwear to the side and drags a single, long finger through your folds. You gasp—loudly this time—and his grip on your thigh tightens.

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost reverent. “You’re so wet.”

You can’t respond. You can’t even think. He takes his time, thumb pressing against your clit as his fingers prod at your entrance gently, teasing, but not thrusting them in. And then his mouth replaces his fingers. You cry out—like, actually cry out—as he licks you, slow and indulgent, like he's tasting dessert. One of his hands stays on your thigh, firm and possessive, and the other slips up to squeeze your waist, your breast, anything he can reach. And his mouth—god, his mouth moves in unhurried circles, like he’s savoring it, like he missed this. He drags his tongue up, swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, giving it a little suck, before dragging his tongue down to circle against your entrance torturously. You’re squirming again. But this time, he lets you. “Yeah,” he murmurs between licks, “that’s more like it. You sound so sweet when you stop pretending you don’t want me.” You bite your knuckle to keep quiet, but he catches your hand and pulls it away. “Let me hear you,” he says, more serious now. “I want you to be loud for me.”And then—he uses his fingers too. He slips one inside, knuckle deep as he pumps it in and out, adding a second one when he hears you whine his name.

“That’s it, baby.”

You writhe, head falling back into the pillows, one arm flung over your eyes as he builds you up with an obscene kind of precision—his tongue, his fingers, the soft praise he keeps murmuring in between. “You’re doing so good for me.” He harshly sucks at your clit again, all while his fingers are pistoning in and out of you, causing you to clamp down. “Feel how hard you’re clenching?” You're dripping. You’re trembling. You're seconds away from falling apart, and he knows it. But he slows down. You whine, hips rocking. “Satoru—”

He pulls back just a little, breath warm against your thigh. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you want.” You blink at him, dazed. "You're literally—inside me—"

He grins. “Still. Say it.” Your face burns, but your voice is desperate now. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Satoru,” you choke, “please don’t stop eating me out.” And he doesn’t. He keeps going until you fall apart for him, loud and shaking and so far gone that the only word on your lips is his name. You come, his name falling off your lips like a mantra while he continues licking and slurping until you quite literally yank his head off from between your thighs. And even then—he doesn’t move. He kisses you once, soft and slow, like he’s easing you back into your body. Then again, higher up this time, then again, like he can’t quite stop. Your hoodie is bunched under your arms. Your thighs are limp. Your body’s still trembling—soft and flushed and pliant—when he presses a kiss just below your navel and murmurs, “Told you I’d take care of you.” You barely manage to lift your head. “I hate you.” He grins against your skin. “Liar.” You want to respond. You do. But then he’s kissing his way up, slow and lazy, nudging your hoodie higher until it bunches just above your tits. You whimper into his mouth as he moves up to kiss you again, deeper this time, and while you’re distracted—dazed and gasping—he grabs your thighs and pulls them apart, slotting himself between them like it’s his god-given right. His hands palm at your breasts lazily, grinning when he feels you buck your hips against the bulge in his sweats, canines out on display as he grins down at you. “Satoru,” you breathe, but he just smiles.

“Round two, baby.”

You’re still in your hoodie and panties—just tugged out of place—and he doesn’t bother taking them off. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the band and pushes them aside again like it’s easy, like it’s familiar now. And then he’s grinding down against you, hard and slow, through his sweats, and you moan so loudly he laughs. “You that sensitive already?” he teases, rolling his hips again. “Shit—look at you. Still twitching.”

“Shut up.”

“No,” he purrs, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw. “Not when you’re soaking through your panties like that. You think I’m gonna shut up now?” You try to glare at him. It fails. He grabs your hand, his plush bottom lip between his teeth, white lashes fluttering when you take the hint and squeeze him through his sweats.

“Mmf– Not that I’m pressuring you or anything, but sweets I need you–”

“You are not pressuring me, so please, hurry up before I genuinely explode.”

“Wow, so eager for me. Having my tongue in you wasn’t enough?”

“Just put it in already before I punch you—”

“Fine! But I don’t have condoms on me right now, used the last one up to fuck you on that sink, remember?”

“I don’t care, I’m on birth control anyways—”

Then he’s pushing his sweats down just enough, lining himself up—and you gasp, grabbing his shoulders as he slides in so slowly you think you might cry. He hisses through his teeth. “Fuck—still so tight. Like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“Maybe I am.”

He laughs again, shaky and breathless. “Too bad. I’m not going anywhere. Other than this pussy.” He sets a rhythm—slow at first, deep and dragging, rocking into you like he wants to take his time—but the moment your nails dig into his back and your breath hitches, he growls and picks up pace. His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your collarbone, your lips—and all the while he’s muttering filth against your skin:

“You feel that? How good I fill you up?”

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all week, huh?”

“Say my name again. C’mon, baby. Say it while I fuck you.” You do. Over and over. At some point, he shifts—sits back on his heels and pulls you with him, dragging your hips into his lap. The new angle makes your vision blur. “Oh my god—Satoru—” “There she is,” he groans, watching where your bodies meet, sweat-slick hair falling over his forehead. “So fucking pretty like this. Gonna come again for me?” You nod helplessly. He just grins and thrusts harder. And when you fall apart a second time—loud and breathless and clinging to him like you’ll never let go—he follows with a broken moan, burying his face in your neck as he shudders and pulses inside you, the warmth seeping from his cock making you shudder. For a long moment, there’s only your breathing. Then, finally, he flops onto the bed beside you, tugs you into his chest, and says, “So… no head?” You groan. He laughs. And somewhere beneath the covers, his hand is already sliding down your thigh again.

“Round three?” he says, hopeful.

You smack him with a pillow.

He still ends up getting round three.

And then round four.

And then round five, until you both are so exhausted and sweaty that he almost falls asleep instead of getting up to wipe the copious amounts of him trickling out onto your thighs. Once you’re cleaned up, he flops next to you dramatically, limbs sprawled across the bed like a starfish, chest rising and falling. “I’m the love of your life,” he murmurs, trailing a lazy hand across your stomach. “You just don’t wanna admit it yet.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not filing a restraining order first thing tomorrow.” He fake gasps, curling into you like you mortally wounded him. “You’re evil.”

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. “And you’re much more evil than me.”

“And yet.” He kisses your shoulder. “You let me hit five rounds.” You shove him again, but it’s gentle this time. Less of a shove, more of a pat. He takes it as an invitation to climb on top of you, settling there like a smug human blanket. “You’re heavy,” you complain, breath catching when his nose brushes yours. “You’re soft,” he says, grinning. You smack his arm again, and he laughs like this is the happiest he’s ever been—like lying half-naked on you, sweaty and spent, is the best part of his day.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, quieter now, eyes still a little mischievous but softer at the edges. “I meant it, y’know. Earlier.”

“Meant what?”

“That I wanna take care of you.”

Your breath hitches. He kisses your forehead like he’s sealing a promise. “Not just when I’m being disgusting.” You look up at him—this boy with starlight in his eyes and trouble in his grin—and your chest does a weird little flip. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay,” he echoes, and grins so wide it hurts. “But just to clarify, I am still gonna be disgusting.” He’s tracing shapes on your back with lazy fingers. Random squiggles, probably. Or maybe dicks. It’s Satoru—you can never be sure. But then he pauses. And says, softly, “I’m serious though.”

You blink against his skin. “About being disgusting? Yeah, we all know.” He chuckles, but it’s a breath short of his usual dramatics. “No,” he says, thumb brushing the curve of your waist. “About you. About this.” Your heart stutters, because the air suddenly shifts—goes tender and quiet and a little fragile. You pull back just enough to see his face. He’s looking at you. Not in the way he usually does—like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve, or a joke he’s waiting for you to get. He’s just looking. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.

“Satoru…”

“I like you,” he says, simple as anything. “Like, actually. Not just because you’re hot and I’ve seen your underwear drawer, totally on accident, I came to drop your take out in your room—although, bonus.”

You huff a laugh. “Wow. You’re really bad at this.”

“I’m being vulnerable, asshole.” You grin despite yourself, heart pounding. “Sorry. Continue.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you, messy hair falling into his eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he says, voice lower now. “Didn’t think I’d end up catching feelings for my little sister’s best friend who constantly calls me a freak.”

“You are a freak,” you murmur.

“Right, but now I’m your freak.” You stare at him.

“Satoru.”

He snorts. “Okay, fair. But I’ve been gone for three years, and then I come back and suddenly you’re all grown up and hot and stomping around the apartment like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are burning. “And then,” he continues, brushing his fingers along your cheek, “we actually start talking again and you’re smart and annoying and make me laugh, and you’re just so perfect… Like, I genuinely cannot express it in words, and I was stupid to think that you were like a sister to me. Because you're really not. You're so, so far from that assumption of mine that I wanna write it out in an essay just to prove to you how badly I want you in the most romantic way possible and in the least sisterly way possible.” You blink. He looks down, lips twitching faintly. “And now I’m totally fucked, because I don’t not want you anymore. I just want this. You. Always.”

You swallow, heart in your throat. “You mean that?”

“Dead serious.” He grins, but it’s gentler now. “Unless you’re about to reject me, in which case I was absolutely joking and this never happened.” You laugh, a real one this time, and you kiss him before he can keep talking—soft and lingering, your fingers curling in his hair. When you pull back, he’s staring at you with stars in his eyes. “Okay,” you whisper. “You win. I like you too. A lot. But for clarification I always liked you in a very non brotherly way.” He raises an eyebrow. “So… you’re saying I’m your freak now?” You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Regret.”

But his arms are already around you, holding you tight. “Too late,” he murmurs into your hair, smiling like he just got everything he’s ever wanted. “You’re stuck with me.” You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep, dickhead.”

“I will,” he says, pulling the blanket down to kiss you. “Right after I cuddle the love of my life.”

“Gross.”

“You like me.”

“I do not.”

“You let me do unspeakable things to you thirty minutes ago.”

“…Shut up.”

“Love of my liiiiiife.”

“Seiko’s gonna murder me.”

“She’ll have to kill me first.” You roll your eyes, but when he finally lays down properly, arm slung around your waist, legs tangled with yours, you realize you're smiling again. Like an idiot. A very, very satisfied idiot.

You wake up the next morning, tangled in Satoru’s arms and covered in way too many bite marks to explain away, when—

“HEY—have you seen Satoru—”

The door bursts open. You jolt upright. Seiko stands frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, her mouth dropping open in real-time. You barely get out a squeaky “Wait—!” before—

“OH MY GOD!” She SCREAMS, turns on her heel, and is sprinting down the hallway. You immediately start panicking. “Satoru. Satoru. Wake up. She saw—she SAW—oh my god, we’re so done, she’s gonna KILL ME—”

He groans and pulls the blanket back over his head like a child. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, I fucked your sister’s brother! Wait—I am your sister’s—whatever! It’s over! It’s—”

“Relax,” he says, tugging you back down to the bed effortlessly. “C’mere. If I’m going to die today, I want to die cuddling.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums, nosing into your hair. “Good morning, girlfriend.”

“You’re gonna make me throw up.”

“Speaking of,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, “any interest in morning sex? I feel like I didn’t fully appreciate round four last night. Too much of my blood was in my ears.” You slap his chest. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious—”

The door SLAMS open again.

“MY CHILDREN!” Suguru’s voice rings out, loud and unrepentant. “I WIN!”

You both sit up in bed, tangled in sheets, wide-eyed. There stands Suguru, holding up a phone like a camcorder. Seiko is beside him, arms crossed and pouting like you just ruined her birthday.

“Suguru what the fuck—”

“Say hi to the camera!” he beams. “I bet Seiko fifty bucks you two would be together by the start of the month. Thank you for not making me lose money, I really needed this win.”

“SUGURU,” you yell, diving under the blanket like you can hide from your sins. “DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW.”

Seiko flops dramatically onto your bed like it’s her dignity that’s been compromised. “Couldn’t you have waited one more week to bang my brother? You had no self-control?” Satoru is laughing. Fully laughing, his head tipped back like this is the best morning of his life.

“Why are you mad at her?” he asks Seiko. “I’m the one who did all the—”

“NOPE!” Seiko shouts, throwing a pillow at his face. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving with the footage,” Suguru smirks, zooming in. You lunge at him with a second pillow. “SUGURU I SWEAR TO GOD—” Satoru just sighs contentedly, dragging you back into bed. “Honestly? This is better than morning sex.”

“You’re the worst person alive.” He kisses your cheek. “Love you too, sweets.”

–

Dating Gojo Satoru is somehow exactly what you expected and also nothing like it at all.

Because yes—he’s still cocky. Still dramatic. Still flirts with you like it’s a sport and throws your shared laundry onto the fan when he’s bored. But he also brings you coffee before your 9AMs, lets you wear his hoodies even though he grumbles about you “stretching them out with your cute little shoulders,” and texts you things like “missing u like crazy. come home and bully me 😞” when you’re gone for more than three hours. Seiko, naturally, has not let you live. “I literally can’t believe you,” she sighs one morning over brunch, watching you and Gojo bicker over who gets the last pancake like it’s her personal sitcom. “I brought him into this house and you betrayed me by falling for him.” You blink at her innocently. “Technically I was in love with him before I moved in.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“She’s gonna be your sister-in-law one day,” Satoru says with a grin, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “You should be happy.”

“I’m going to be sick,” she deadpans, sipping her coffee. “I don’t know who disgusts me more—you for dating her, or her for dating you.” You and Satoru just exchange a look. Then you make out across the table.

Loudly. Seiko drops her fork.

“I’m leaving the country.”

Later That Week — Somewhere in His Car, 11:42 PM

It’s a warm night. The kind that clings to your skin and makes the windows fog up, even though all you’re doing is eating ice cream in the backseat of Satoru’s ridiculous Lexus like teenagers who just discovered kissing. You're wearing one of his shirts. He’s got his arm lazily around your shoulder, legs stretched out, cone half-melted in his hand. Music hums softly from the speakers—some dreamy indie song he said reminded him of you once.

“I used to wear bras that were too big just because I thought you liked girls with big tits,” you say, out of nowhere.

He chokes.

“What?”

You shrug, licking your spoon. “Yup. Used to stuff socks in them sometimes too. And I tried wearing eyeliner in like… freshman year. I looked like a raccoon. But I was like, ‘he likes girls with winged liner.’ So.”

Gojo is crying. Literal tears are in his eyes as he wheezes, “You wore sock boobs for me?!”

“I was thirteen and stupidly in love with your furby looking ass,” you grumble, face burning. “Nooo,” he says through laughter, clutching his stomach. “No way. You were cosplaying as a B-cup for me??”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“I’m honored. I feel chosen.” You roll your eyes, fake sulking. “And you didn’t even notice. Wow.” He wipes his eyes, still smiling like a menace. “Okay but to be fair, I was like… what, seventeen? If I had noticed, it would’ve been a little criminal.”

You groan. “Fine, I guess you’re right.” He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “But I notice everything now.” You narrow your eyes. “Smooth.”

“Did it work?” You nod, slow. “Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sit in silence for a second, ice cream long forgotten. His thumb grazes the side of your jaw as he looks at you like he already knows every version of you—the teenage one with stuffed bras, the sarcastic college version who screamed at him in group projects, the current one who’s still a little awkward when she’s vulnerable but learning to let him in anyway. “You’re my favorite person,” he says suddenly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And you can’t even pretend to be cool about it.

“God,” you whisper, burying your face in his hoodie. “Don’t make me cry while I’m holding a fudge sundae.” He laughs, pulling you closer, arms wrapping fully around your waist. “No promises,” he mumbles into your hair. “But I’ve got napkins.” You kiss him, soft and unhurried. He tastes like vanilla. The windows fog up a little more. Somewhere in the distance, your phone buzzes. Probably Seiko texting a third reminder that you “better not be defiling her brother in public.” But you ignore it. Because for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. Just you, him, and a car that smells like waffle cones and warm cotton and a hundred what-ifs that have all finally, finally become yeses.

–

Bonus cause I’m the world’s best author or whatever

Five Years Later

It’s a warm spring afternoon. The kind of day where the sky’s cloudless, the flowers look fake because they’re so stupidly perfect, and everyone you love is slightly too drunk and happy. You’re in white. Obviously. Satoru’s in a custom tux, sunglasses perched in his snow-white hair like he thinks he’s a celebrity—which, okay, fine, he kind of is, judging by the way your cousin nearly fainted when he winked at her. Your fingers are still linked as you sit at the wedding table, watching the crowd buzz with post-dinner energy. The string lights are glowing. There’s champagne in your glass. He keeps leaning over to kiss your shoulder because he “can’t help himself,” and you keep swatting him away because the photographer is still here, but you’re smiling like a fool.

And then—

“Alright, alright, everyone, shut up—” comes Seiko’s voice from the speakers. You both freeze. Satoru immediately grins. “Oh god.”

“She’s giving her speech,” you whisper, gripping his knee.

“I should be scared,” he whispers back. “She’s your best friend and my sister.”

Up at the mic, Seiko clears her throat. She looks gorgeous, by the way—an elegant dress, her ivory hair so similar to her brothers glinting underneath the lights, champagne in hand, and a very pointed expression on her face. “So,” she says. “Hi. I’m Seiko. I’m the bride’s best friend… and unfortunately, the groom’s younger sister.”

Laughter.

“I just wanna say—when I was little, I always dreamed of giving a speech at my best friend’s wedding. But I definitely didn’t think it would be this one.” More laughter. You bury your face in your hands. “Let me paint a picture,” she continues dramatically, starting to pace the stage like a stand-up comic. “It’s a regular Tuesday morning. I come out of my room, ready to microwave my sad breakfast. I’m on my way to the kitchen, when I suddenly spot my brother’s shoes and think, ‘Huh, why are Satoru’s shoes here, in front of (your name)’s room?’ Because my brother wasn’t supposed to be home. He had told me he was gonna be out with friends until the next morning. And his shoes sure as hell had never been outside my best friend’s room.”

Gojo groans next to you, forehead hitting the table.

“And I think, ‘Oh no. Oh no no no.’ So I walk down the hallway. I open her bedroom door. And what do I see?”

Seiko pauses. The crowd leans in. She lifts her glass. “My brother,” she says, tone flat, “in my best friend’s bed.”

The room erupts.

Satoru’s face is in his hands. You’re laughing so hard your shoulders shake. “I screamed,” Seiko says dramatically, over the noise. “She screamed. He didn’t scream, because the bastard was asleep. And then I lost fifty goddamn dollars to Suguru, who bet me they’d get together before the end of the month.” Camera pans to Suguru in the crowd, smug as hell, arm around Seiko’s waist, raising his glass. “ And now,” Seiko says, grinning, “I’m standing here giving this speech, engaged to the man who profited off their hookup, and forced to admit that... I guess love wins. Or whatever.” Laughter. Cheers. Satoru clutches your hand and kisses your knuckles. Seiko softens. Just a little. “But in all seriousness,” she says, voice a bit shakier now, “you two are it. The real thing. And I’m so happy that my best friend is now officially my sister-in-law—even if I had to walk in on her mid afterglow to get here.”

Groans. Cheers. Chants of “SISTER-IN-LAW! SISTER-IN-LAW!” You’re laughing through tears now, forehead pressed against Gojo’s. “I love you guys,” Seiko finishes, raising her glass high. “Now go make out or whatever. It’s your wedding.” You blow your best friend a kiss, before leaning into your husband, his arm snaking around you to pull you to his chest.

“She really brought up the bed thing,” you mumble against his chest. “She absolutely did,” he murmurs, nose in your hair.

“And the socks in the bra thing didn’t get a shoutout? Unfair.” He laughs, holding you tighter. “Maybe we’ll save that one for the ten-year vow renewal.” You tilt your head up. “Think we’ll make it to ten years?”

He smiles, wide and stupid and glowing. “We’ll make it to forever.”

You kiss him, slow and full of everything. And the lights twinkle above like they’re cheering you on.

authors note: hi everyone! i hope u liked it LOL i sacrificed my sleep for this i hope it was worth it! i can finally prepare for my exams without the looming anxiety of posting this ^.^

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