ENTROPY WITHIN VEINS OF IVY

by poutysprouty

Summary:

Grief lingers in the quiet corners of Harvard’s ivy-covered walls.

Satoru Gojo hides behind privilege, Ryomen Sukuna behind rage.

A chance encounter off-campus spirals into a volatile connection, one that drags them into a slow, aching dance of defiance and desire. Harvard isn’t just a school, it’s a crucible.

For Satoru, it’s a gilded cage built by his parents’ expectations. For Sukuna, it’s a battlefield marked by grief and the pressure to survive.

But not all lessons can be learned from books or lectures. Sometimes, they’re learned in the spaces between hope and heartbreak, where love takes root in spite of everything.

Notes:

Fic Playlist

Chapter 1

Satoru wasn’t sure what was worse: the jet lag that made his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton, the fact that his accent made the barista stare like he’d just ordered something from another planet, or the sheer number of squirrels darting across Harvard Yard like tiny, hyperactive mascots with no respect for personal space.

Two days before classes started, and already he felt like the awkward new kid in a sitcom no one else was watching.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt, trying to ignore the way his sleeves felt too long, his shoes too unfamiliar on these cobblestones. The late August sun was warm enough to make him second-guess bringing a jacket, but the cool breeze coming off the Charles River reminded him this wasn’t Tokyo.

Ordering a late lunch at the campus cafe had been a small victory. He managed to ask for a sandwich without butchering the words too badly, though the barista’s raised eyebrow suggested he had been awfully close to making a fool of himself.

Now settled at a tiny table by the window, Satoru watched the students bustle past, their ease and confidence making his own nervous energy throb even harder.

His phone buzzed twice. When he picked up his phone, he saw a message from Shoko and one from Suguru, who’d sent his response to Satoru’s previous message where he’d said he was actually missing Tokyo’s humidity.

Satoru smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The truth was, no matter how many encouraging texts he got, he felt lost, like a satellite caught in a storm, spinning too fast and too far from home.

Shoko: So, how many squirrels have you befriended so far? 🐿️ Also, did you remember sunscreen or will you be trying to audition for lobster impersonations?

He chuckled, tapping out a quick reply:

Satoru: Two squirrels and one very judgmental duck. Sunscreen was packed, I’m not THAT irresponsible.

He opened Suguru’s message next.

Suguru: u? missing tokyo’s humidity? who are u and what did u do to my toru? 🤦‍♂️🌧️🔥 sriously tho, ur gonna shrivel into nothing out there. what ever shall i do when my best friend returns as a raisin?

Satoru’s smile hovered on his lips but never reached his eyes. He stared down at the messages, the words from his best friends equally comforting and painful.

The campus outside the cafe windows was full of life and possibility, but inside him, his emotions felt like a satellite caught in a storm, spinning too fast and too far from the orbit that once kept him steady.

Satoru lifted his sandwich to his lips, the soft bread yielding easily beneath his fingers. He took a bite, the familiar mix of roasted chicken and rosemary grounding him, if only for a moment. Around him, the low hum of conversation blended with the clatter of cups and the occasional hiss from the espresso machine, but Satoru’s attention drifted to the world beyond the cafe window.

Outside, students strolled by in small groups, their voices light and easy, laughter spilling into the warm air. The sun cast warm golden hues over the sprawling campus, the ivy-covered walls glowing softly against the sky. But beneath the beauty, everything felt foreign and weird.

His eyes watched a group of students lounging on the grass, their relaxed smiles and effortless camaraderie making him feel the weight of his own solitude more keenly. Was this how it was going to be? Forever an outsider looking in? He wondered if, over time, he’d grow into this place, if the awkwardness and the unfamiliarity would fade.

The flavor of sandwich lingered on his tongue as he swallowed slowly, willing himself to believe that, one day, America might feel like home.

Satoru’s gaze drifted downward, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his sandwich wrapper as his thoughts spiraled back to how he’d ended up here in the first place, on this sprawling campus, thousands of miles from everything familiar.

Harvard hadn’t been his choice. It was the only choice. From the moment the acceptance letter arrived, his parents’ reactions had been cold and measured, more like ticking a box than celebrating a victory. No warm hugs. No proud smiles. Just the unspoken expectation hanging in the air: We knew you’d get in. There was never any other option.

He remembered sitting at the dinner table the night they told him the news. His mother’s eyes were sharp, calculating, her lips barely twitching into what might have passed for a smile. His father simply nodded, barely glancing up from his papers.

Neither said, “Congratulations,” or “We’re proud of you.” Instead, they moved immediately to discussing what classes he should take, what internships would look best on his resume, and how he needed to start preparing.

Satoru swallowed hard, a familiar ache settling in his chest. They were happy, sure, but it was the kind of happiness that felt like a deadline, a demand, a silent command to succeed without question. No room for failure. No space for pride.

He blinked, trying to push away the sting. The campus outside was still alive with the careless energy of youth, but inside, Satoru felt as if he’d been cast in a role written by someone else, one where he was expected to perform perfectly, no matter what he wanted.

The only light in the shadow of his parents’ expectations were Suguru and Shoko, the two constants in Satoru’s life. The two of them had stood by him since junior high, through every awkward phase and every scraped knee of adolescence. They were the rare people who truly saw him, beyond the carefully crafted mask he wore around his family and the world.

The entire summer before he left for Boston, Suguru and Shoko had taken it upon themselves to fill his last weeks in Tokyo with as much warmth and comfort as they could. It wasn’t just a farewell, it was an act of defiance against the loneliness and pressure that awaited him across the ocean.

They’d spent entire afternoons hopping from one favorite spot to another. There was the small, tucked-away sushi bar where the chef greeted them by name, slicing the fish so expertly that it melted on Satoru’s tongue. The cozy ramen shop where the spicy miso broth warmed more than just his stomach. And the mochi shop in Shinjuku, where they hunted down the softest, freshest mochi for Satoru’s sweet tooth. Suguru had joked that those mochi were the only thing he’d miss more than Tokyo itself.

Shoko had been his anchor that summer. She was fluent in both Japanese and English, a skill she’d earned through years of dedication and a deep-rooted ambition to become a doctor. And she’d lent that skill to Satoru without hesitation.

Most evenings, after the sun dipped below the Tokyo skyline and the city lights began to glow, they’d sit together in her room, surrounded by half-drunk coffees, scribbled notes, and the sound of an American movie playing exclusively in English humming in the background.

English books lay open on all surfaces of the room, while their phone screens flickered with language apps and pronunciation drills. She never sighed in frustration, never rolled her eyes, not even when he butchered vowel sounds or got tongue-tied around consonant clusters. Instead, she guided him with gentle corrections and endless patience, calmly repeating words until they felt like his own.

And it wasn’t just grammar and vocabulary. Shoko taught him the things you couldn’t learn from a textbook: the odd sayings Americans threw around without thinking, the subtleties of sarcasm, the cultural shortcuts. When he stumbled, she didn’t mock him. She laughed, yes, but it was never cruel. And when he got overwhelmed, ready to quit and crawl under a blanket, she’d look at him with those sharp, perceptive eyes and simply give him the time he needed to bounce back.

Suguru, on the other hand, had lasted exactly one session. He’d crashed one of their study nights, sprawled across the floor eating senbei while offering “moral support.” That only lasted until Satoru attempted the words “rural” and “prefer” shortly after.

Suguru had laughed so hard he’d nearly cried, and Shoko had launched a pencil case at his head with enough force to chase him out of the room. Satoru had pouted, but secretly, he’d been grateful that Suguru cared enough to be there, and that Shoko had drawn the line for his sake.

Shoko believed in him in a way no one else did. Not because of his name, or his grades, or what people expected him to be, but because she knew him. “You’re going to do great,” she’d told him, her voice unwavering, her expression fierce with conviction. “They won’t know what hit them.”

Suguru had always been his loudest, most unrelenting supporter. Not that he ever said it outright, of course. No, Suguru showed it in his own ways: by teasing him mercilessly at every opportunity, by poking fun at his mistakes, by calling him out when he got too dramatic or spiraled into self-doubt. And weirdly enough, Satoru was grateful for it.

Because underneath the sarcasm and smirks, there was something grounding in Suguru’s presence, something that pulled Satoru out of his head when he started overanalyzing everything. Suguru cracked jokes when Satoru was too tense to breathe, rolled his eyes when Satoru catastrophized, and always knew exactly when to shift the mood from serious to stupid just to keep him from drowning in pressure.

It didn’t always feel like encouragement, but somehow, it worked better than anything else. Suguru didn’t coddle him. He knew Satoru could handle it. And that belief, rough-edged as it was, meant the world.

Even now, as he sat alone in the bustling cafe on the other side of the world, their voices echoed in his mind—the teasing banter, the jokes that only they understood, the warmth of a friendship that stretched beyond distance and time. They were the only ones who had celebrated him, not just the acceptance letter, not just the prestige of Harvard, but Satoru .

Satoru balled up the waxy sandwich wrapper and stuffed it into the paper bag, the last bite still lingering as a soft weight in his stomach. He rose from the small table, brushing the crumbs from his shirt, and headed toward the trash bin. The cafe had begun to fill up a bit more with the late afternoon crowd, but he barely noticed them as he tossed his trash and stepped back out into the waning light.

The door shut behind him, and a breeze greeted him, tugging gently at the hem of his coat. The air smelled faintly of early autumn, with a hint of damp concrete and rustling leaves. The golden sunlight was already starting to slant low across the tops of the buildings, stretching long shadows across the sidewalk, and Satoru realized with a flicker of regret that he’d spent more time inside than he’d planned. He’d wanted to explore a bit, get his bearings before the city disappeared into dusk, but at this rate, he didn’t have long.

Still, it wasn’t too late. Not yet.

Satoru adjusted the strap of his backpack, fingers fidgeting for a second before falling still. Then, without giving himself time to hesitate, he stepped off in no particular direction. The sidewalk stretched ahead, uneven in places, the edges cracked with tufts of green poking through. Boston felt different than Tokyo. There was a certain softness to the buildings here, not the harsh glass and metal he was used to, but red bricks and ivy, dormer windows, and crooked stair railings that looked like they'd seen generations pass.

He turned a corner onto a quieter street, shoes scuffing slightly against the pavement. Storefronts lined the block, most of them closed or closing. A used bookstore, its window dusty with age. A florist with buckets of drooping hydrangeas out front, petals faded to soft blues and purples. A coffee shop with a mismatched set of chairs outside, one of them missing a slat in the backrest.

He slowed near that one, peering in through the window. Inside, strings of fairy lights dangled above mismatched tables, glowing soft gold. A girl behind the counter laughed at something her coworker had said, her hands flying as she spoke in quick English he only caught pieces of.

He didn’t go in. But he watched, quiet for a moment.

A bus roared past behind him, and he kept walking.

He passed by other students—some in groups, laughing and loud; others tucked in with headphones, walking briskly with purpose. Satoru didn’t say anything to any of them. His hands stayed in his pockets as he wandered past a narrow alley that opened to a small courtyard where vines crawled up the sides of brick buildings and someone had chalked “Breathe” in curly letters across the pavement.

Satoru slowed to a stop.

His gaze lingered on the word.

Breathe.

The chalk was faded, smudged at the edges, like it had weathered more than one end-of-summer rain. He tilted his head slightly, reading it again, as if the shape of the letters might reveal something more the second time around. There was a flower drawn beside it, but the petals were uneven.

He wondered who wrote it. A student like him? Someone who lived in the building beside the courtyard? Maybe they came here when the noise of the world got too loud, when they needed to sit in silence and remember the basics.

Then he wondered why they wrote it. Was it a reminder to themselves? A message for someone else? Or had they just been bored, chalk in hand, no deeper meaning behind it than a whim on a warm afternoon?

His eyes dropped to his shoes. For a moment, he thought about staying. Sitting. Taking the message for himself. But the streetlights were beginning to buzz overhead, and he remembered there was still more to see. Still more waiting, just past the corners he hadn’t turned yet.

So he kept walking.

He didn’t know it yet, but he’d come back to that courtyard someday. He’d know who wrote that simple message, and he’d learn why, and it would matter more than he ever could have imagined. Not because the simple phrase was profound, but because of who had written it, because of what they had meant at the time, and what they would come to mean to him.

Chapter 2

Somehow, Satoru had gotten himself lost.

Well. ‘Somehow’ was generous. He knew exactly how it had happened. He’d wandered too far, too fast, without bothering to check street names or retrace his steps. In his own defense, the late evening light had painted the buildings in a soft glow that made the whole city feel a little magical, like something out of one of those Hollywood movies he’d seen with Shoko and Suguru. He’d followed that feeling like a moth to a flame, letting his curiosity pull him down unfamiliar streets and around winding corners. It had been freeing at first.

But that was before the sun dipped fully behind the skyline, and the shadows turned long and unfamiliar.

Now? It was nearly pitch black. The once-welcoming city had grown unfamiliar and cold, its streets mostly quiet, its corners shadowed and vague. The occasional passing car offered brief moments of sound and light, but no comfort. No familiar landmarks. No helpful signs. No idea where the hell he was.

He stopped at an intersection, heart thudding in his chest as he turned in a slow circle, trying to get his bearings. All the buildings looked the same: tall, dark brick with stoops and shut windows, some glowing faintly from within. Nobody was outside. Not a single person. Even the chill in the air felt different now, biting against his skin instead of brushing gently past it.

Okay. Don’t panic. It’s fine. You’ve got this, he told himself, sucking in a shaky breath. He held it. Counted to four. Let it out. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Shoko had taught him that. Breathing helped. Breathing kept him grounded. But even so, his fingers were starting to tremble in his coat pockets.

And then, thank God, he saw it.

Bright lights in the distance and a large illuminated sign with a yellow shell on it. A gas station.

Satoru blinked, barely able to believe it. A 24-hour gas station, lit up like a goddamn beacon. He could’ve cried. Instead, he just took off at a half-jog, sneakers smacking the pavement, his breath puffing visible in the cool night air. He didn’t care who was working the register—college kid, old man, demon from the depths—if they could just point him in the general direction of campus, he’d consider naming his firstborn after them.

Please let someone be there, he thought desperately. Anyone. Please.

To his immense relief, there was a car parked outside.

It sat beneath a flickering overhead light in the corner spot, just under a crooked metal sign that read EMPLOYEES ONLY in faded block letters. The car was a black sedan—older, clearly, with scuffed paint along the bumper and mismatched hubcaps. One of the rear windows had a strip of duct tape along the edge like it didn’t quite roll up all the way. It looked like it had seen better decades, but Satoru could’ve hugged it anyway. Because it meant someone was inside.

Or should’ve been.

He pushed open the door to the gas station, which resisted just a bit with a protesting creak. The hinges gave a small groan as it swung inward, like the building itself was tired.

Cool air swept over his face the moment he stepped inside, a sharp contrast to the sticky humidity still clinging to his skin from his walk. The scent hit him next—sharp and stale. Burnt coffee. Old oil. Plastic-wrapped sugar. And something vaguely meat-adjacent from the ancient roller grill sputtering near the wall.

It was quiet. Unnervingly quiet.

No music. No hum of a voice behind the counter. No one.

Satoru’s breath caught, disappointment crashing over him like a sudden wave. There was no one standing at the register. No one restocking shelves or pacing behind the counter. Just rows of fluorescent-lit aisles and a handful of security mirrors overhead that distorted everything in their fish-eye curve.

He felt his stomach twist, because really? He’d come all this way, just to end up here, in some weird little liminal-space gas station without a soul in sight?

Still, he made himself walk up to the counter, each step slow and cautious on the sticky tile floor. He didn’t want to spook whoever might be lingering wherever. Maybe they were just in the back storage, or in the bathroom, or taking a smoke break behind the store.

The thought of being almost saved, only to be stranded again, buzzed at the back of his mind like a mosquito. But he gripped the edge of the counter, tapped his fingers gently against the laminate, and told himself to wait.

They’d come. Someone had to be here. That car outside wasn’t a ghost’s.

Sure enough, just as Satoru was beginning to question whether he’d made a mistake walking in, the unmistakable sound of a heavy door slamming shut rang out from somewhere in the back of the store. It echoed dully through the mostly empty space, like someone had kicked it closed.

He turned his head, the sound immediately catching his attention.

There were footsteps. Unhurried and deliberate, like the person walking wasn’t in any kind of rush to be helpful. Rubber-soled shoes against cheap tile, each step loud in the otherwise quiet gas station. Then a shadow moved behind the counter, and a man stepped out into view.

And Satoru, who was tired, hungry (again), and vibrating from leftover adrenaline, forgot how to think for a moment.

The man was tall. Tall enough that he made Satoru feel short even though Satoru was well above average height, and broad across the chest and shoulders in a way that felt very unfair. His black work pants clung to muscular legs, stained faintly at the knees with something Satoru didn’t want to identify.

His red uniform shirt was fitted in a way that suggested he hadn’t bothered to size up, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow to show off forearms thick with corded muscle and lined with black tattoos. 

His skin was tanned and slightly rough-looking, like someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. He had the kind of face that looked carved from marble, jawline sharp, cheekbones angular and high, and a mouth that naturally settled into a sneer even when it was at rest. There was a faint scar on his chin and crescent shaped scars under each eye. His eyebrows were dark and arched in a way that made him look constantly unimpressed, one of them even had a slit in it, and his hair?

God. His hair.

It was pink in color, shaved close at the sides but a bit longer up top, thick and swept back like he’d just dragged his fingers through it. It looked too good for the amount of effort he’d clearly not put into it. A couple of stray strands fell near his temple, just enough to soften the otherwise brutal edge of his features.

But it was his eyes that got Satoru. They were a deep, burning red—dark as garnet and just as hard. Narrowed now in vague disinterest, they flicked over Satoru once, head to toe, with all the enthusiasm of someone scanning a barcode.

Satoru stood frozen in place. Not because he was intimidated—okay, maybe a little—but because his brain had simply stopped working. The part that formed coherent thoughts had stepped out for a smoke break and left nothing but static behind.

He’d never really had time for dating. His parents had kept him too busy with school and expectations, always pushing, always planning. He spent most of his free time just trying to keep his head above water, usually by collapsing in Suguru’s room or dragging Shoko to karaoke. Romance was never on the menu. It just hadn’t been practical.

But he wasn’t fucking blind.

He’d seen guys in Tokyo or online and thought, Yeah, I’d be into that. He knew the kind of look that made something low in his stomach twist. And this guy? This tall, dangerous-looking, tattooed gas station employee with a face like a storm cloud and a build like a back-alley brawler? Yeah, this guy was exactly that look.

Exactly his type.

The man’s chest rose and fell with a slow exhale. His expression didn’t change as he stepped fully behind the counter and came to a halt. His fingers drummed once on the surface like he was already annoyed to be here.

Pinned crookedly to his shirt, barely hanging on by the last snap of the fastener, was a name tag. Black lettering on cheap plastic. Satoru blinked and read it.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Japanese. Probably. Which... huh. That was unexpected.

Satoru didn’t believe in fate.

Much.

But still.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the second sound touched his tongue, he realized his brain had completely short-circuited.

His words didn’t come out in English.

“Um... excuse me, to get back to Harvard University, I...” he started, voice thin.

The second the syllables hit the air, he flinched.

It was Japanese.

His eyes squeezed shut, shoulders tightening up near his ears as heat flushed across his face. He bit down on the inside of his cheek in sheer frustration, physically wincing at himself. Great. Just great. Fantastic work, Satoru. Speak to the hot guy like you’ve never spoken English a day in your life.

“Sorry, I meant, um...” he tried again in English, blinking rapidly as if that might reset something in his stupid, flustered brain. “I meant to say... I was just, I got lost, my phone died and now I’m here and I don’t actually know where here is…”

He trailed off. The sentence had spiraled and so had he.

The man behind the counter didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. His expression wasn’t annoyed or sympathetic, it was completely unreadable. He raised one eyebrow, tilted his head slightly to the side. The fluorescent lights inside the store cast sharp shadows over the carved lines of his face, highlighting the tattoos that ran over his forehead and across his cheekbones and jaw.

And then he spoke.

His voice was low, rich and a little rough. And he spoke, in perfect, effortless Japanese: “I speak Japanese. If it’s easier for you to get out whatever the fuck you’re trying to say, then just say it in Japanese.”

Satoru’s mouth opened in shock.

He blinked. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he heard angels singing.

Then he nearly dropped to his knees in gratitude. His whole body sagged, as if the weight of trying to not embarrass himself in English had been a ten-pound dumbbell strapped to his chest.

He nodded quickly as he let go of the stilted English and shifted back into the language that came to him like muscle memory.

“Thank you so much. Seriously. Could you tell me how to get back to Harvard campus? I thought I knew the way, but I got completely turned around…”

His words tumbled out in a rush. The fear of being brushed off, or laughed at, or ignored, still buzzed like static in the back of his mind. But Sukuna hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t even smirked. Just stood there, one hand resting lazily on the counter, watching Satoru with those heavy-lidded, vaguely sharp eyes like he had all the time in the world.

The clock on the wall behind the counter let out a faint mechanical tick, the cheap kind you’d find in a classroom or a dentist’s office. It read 8:32. Sukuna glanced up at it, then back down at Satoru with an expression somewhere between disinterest and scrutiny.

“You know,” he began, “I’m a student at Harvard too. I get off in about thirty minutes. If you want, I can give you a ride back.”

Satoru blinked, completely thrown. He hadn't expected that.

The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them. “O-oh, no, that’s really not necessary! I’m sure if you just tell me how to get back, I can figure it out.”

Sukuna didn’t budge. If anything, his gaze sharpened, like he could already see Satoru getting even more lost even if he were to write the directions down so perfectly that a 5 year old could follow them. His brows drew together slightly, the smallest furrow of annoyance etching between them.

“It’s not safe,” he said flatly. “Not around here. Not after dark. Especially not for someone like you.”

Satoru swallowed. “Someone like me?”

“Someone who’s obviously not from around here. You’re a foreigner, and you’re lost. That makes you the perfect target.”

While Satoru bristled at the implication that he couldn’t take care of himself, he wasn’t stupid. The city unfamiliar. His phone was dead. And if he were being honest with himself, the only reason he hadn’t started crying in the corner of the store was sheer force of will.

He hesitated, glancing around the dim little gas station, at the flickering security camera in the corner, the humming soda fridge, the annoyance in Sukuna’s posture.

On one hand, accepting a ride from a stranger was textbook don’t do this behavior, something all his school assemblies had warned him about. On the other hand, the man was wearing a nametag, spoke his native language, and hadn’t killed him yet, which in Satoru’s book was starting to sound like the safer option.

And it didn’t hurt that the guy was kind of stupidly attractive.

Satoru let out a long breath and nodded, slow but sure. “Okay. If you’re sure it’s not a hassle…”

Sukuna gave a faint shrug, like it didn’t matter to him either way. But Satoru thought he caught the hint of something—amusement, maybe?—in his eyes before he turned to restock something under the counter.

Thirty minutes. Satoru could wait thirty minutes.

Chapter 3

Notes:

repressed horny Satoru 🤝 chronic asshole Sukuna

The curb was warm beneath Satoru’s thighs despite the chill in the night air. A faint whiff of gasoline drifted from the pumps on the other side of the lot, mixing with the sugary tang of the sour gummy bears he’d already torn open.

He popped another one into his mouth, the sour coating hitting his tongue and making his eyes water a little. He chewed slowly, dragging out the flavor, because the alternative was looking too long in the direction of the man inside.

God, Sukuna was hot. Uncomfortably hot. And not just in the oh, he’s attractive way—no, it was the sort of magnetic kind of hot that made Satoru’s brain short-circuit and his palms itch with restless energy. The idea of being in a confined space with him for however long it took to get back to campus was… a problem. The kind of problem where Satoru’s pulse got all jumpy, and he started overthinking the way he sat, breathed, or even just existed.

That was why he was out here, perched on the curb like he was nothing more than some awkward tourist, instead of leaning against the counter inside the gas station pretending to browse snacks he didn’t need.

Out here, there was a healthy distance between him and the man whose stare had already made him feel like he’d been picked apart down to his very soul.

Still… maybe he should have asked to see Sukuna’s student ID before agreeing to ride with him. It would have been the smart thing to do. Instead, he’d just trusted that the guy really was a Harvard student and not some random creep with good bone structure and tattoos that made his thoughts go places they shouldn’t.

Now, it felt too late. Asking now would be weird—like, “Hey, I know we already decided you’re giving me a ride, but could you prove you’re not a serial killer?”

Yeah. Awkward.

He popped another gummy bear into his mouth and tried to talk himself down. From where he sat, he could see the car parked just a few yards away. The buzzing lights of the gas station flashed off the windshield, but through the glass he caught sight of the Harvard lanyard slung from the rearview mirror. That little loop of crimson fabric was the lifeline he clung to—proof, or at least hope, that he wasn’t making the dumbest decision of his life.

About twenty minutes had passed since Sukuna had offered to give him a ride back to campus, and Satoru was starting to feel the restless tension settling into his limbs. Sitting on the rough concrete curb wasn’t exactly comfortable, especially in August, when the summer humidity clung thick and stubborn, making the air feel like a damp blanket draped over his skin. Each time he shifted his weight, the coarse texture of the pavement pressed into his jeans, leaving faint impressions on his thighs that would probably sting later.

Around him, the evening was coming alive with small, irritating creatures. Mosquitoes buzzed relentlessly, drawn like magnets to his exposed skin. Satoru kept slapping at them, the sharp snaps of his hands occasionally drawing curious glances from late-night walkers. The tiny insects were relentless; their whiny high-pitched hums seemed to follow him like a persistent soundtrack to his anxious thoughts.

Moths also drifted in lazy circles near his head, their pale, fragile wings casting soft shadows under the flickering streetlights. They seemed hypnotized by the light from the gas station, but occasionally one strayed too close, brushing against his cheeks or nose.

Each time, he flapped his hands awkwardly, half embarrassed by how flustered he felt in front of nothing more than harmless insects. Yet the distraction was better than sitting inside the gas station, just feet away from Sukuna.

But his mind refused to stay still.

It drifted toward thoughts of the man behind the counter. That dangerous, magnetic pull that had been there the moment Sukuna stepped into view.

Satoru had known for years he was attracted to guys, though he’d never really thought too hard about gender itself. To him, it was the person, the energy, the vibe that mattered. And Sukuna was exactly the kind of guy who made Satoru’s insides twist and turn in a way he wasn’t quite sure how to admit to out loud.

His thoughts grew bolder, more vivid, fueled by the restless energy of waiting and the mix of nerves and excitement. He found himself imagining Sukuna’s hands bending him over and pressing him firmly against the hood of that beat-up black sedan parked just a few yards away. The image sent a shiver crawling up his spine, setting his heart racing unevenly. The thought of Sukuna’s smirk as he bent Satoru over the car, the heat of his breath, the dangerous way his eyes might gleam—it all collided in Satoru’s mind in an incredibly confusing cocktail of fear and desire.

His fingers twitched in his lap, the bag of sour gummy bears suddenly feeling heavier than lead in his hands. He took another bite, the tangy sweetness washing over his tongue, trying to ground himself.

Then, as if a switch flipped, reality crashed back down. His cheeks burned with shame and self-disgust as he blinked rapidly and shoved the candy aside. He buried his face in his palms, letting out a long, low groan.

You just met him not even half an hour ago, dumbass. He scolded himself, his inner voice sharp and unforgiving. Reign it in! Don’t be the weird horny stranger.

But the flush in his cheeks wouldn’t fade. Satoru felt like a blushing virgin—though, in truth, he technically was one.

He shifted uneasily on the hard concrete, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the crinkled edges of the candy wrapper in his lap as his thoughts swirled in a chaotic jumble. The idea that he was even thinking about someone in that way made his heart beat faster, and he felt utterly ridiculous.

He didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have the time to fantasize, to pine, or to pursue some complicated, potentially messy relationship. Not here, not now. He was a freshman at Harvard, a place that carried with it expectations as unyielding as the ivy-covered walls found all over campus.

Not only that, but his parents had made it very clear that their investment in his future came with strings attached.

He was to focus on his studies, excel beyond measure, and maintain the perfect image of success that their name demanded. Romance, or any form of distraction, really, was a luxury that Satoru could not afford. His future depended on the rigid discipline of grades, networking, and securing opportunities that would please those who had placed their faith and money in him.

Still, the wish lingered stubbornly in his chest.

He often wished that he had the time to let himself breathe, to explore feelings beyond the strict boundaries set for him. To just be young, to stumble and grow and fall in love without the heavy chains of obligation dragging at his ankles.

Back in Tokyo, the pressure of his family’s expectations was a constant hum beneath every conversation and every passing day, but at least he had a lifeline. Suguru and Shoko were always his anchors in the storm.

They had been the safe harbor where he could cast aside the armor of perfection and just be himself. Long evenings spent laughing over katsudon or fresh sushi, hours filled with easy chatter and inside jokes, had softened the edges of his carefully structured life. The simple joy of their presence was a balm he hadn’t realized how much he depended on.

Now, though, those moments were reduced to pixelated video calls and brief text threads. The distance gnawed at him more than he would ever let on, each conversation a harsh reminder of what he’d left behind. The bustling streets of Boston, the endless maze of unfamiliar faces, and the cold anonymity of a new country offered very little comfort.

The ache settled deeper into his chest. He frowned to himself, pulling his knees to his chest. The city thrummed with life around him during the day, but right now? The night made him feel small. Inside, a profound loneliness grew like a weed, quiet and suffocating.

No amount of calls, no number of text messages, could fill the space left. Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, fighting back the sudden sting of tears he refused to shed here on the curb.

Satoru was so tangled up in the knots of his own thoughts that he barely registered the sound of approaching footsteps on the pavement. It wasn’t until the weight of a boot nudged his thigh and a low, gravelly grunt sounded above him that he jolted, head snapping up.

Sukuna stood there, broad-shouldered and backlit by the dull glow spilling from the store’s flickering neon sign. His shadow stretched long across the cracked concrete, the dark outline of his body blotting out the streetlights behind him. One brow was raised, the piercings there catching the light in small, cold flashes, and his gaze was fixed squarely on Satoru.

“You ready to go?” The words were simple, but his tone carried that same unbothered roughness that made it hard to tell whether he was impatient or just naturally brusque.

Satoru’s mouth worked before his brain caught up. “Uh. Yeah,” he blurted, nodding quickly as he scrambled up from the curb, brushing bits of grit from the back of his pants. His legs felt strangely stiff, like he’d been sitting there for hours instead of 30 minutes, and he fumbled to match Sukuna’s stride as the man turned without waiting for him to follow.

Sukuna went straight to the driver’s side of his beat up sedan, pulling the handle and sliding in. Without looking, he reached across the cabin and pushed up the passenger-side lock before Satoru could even get his fingers on the handle.

Satoru hesitated a fraction of a second before pulling the door open. The interior smelled faintly of leather and warm cologne. It was faint but maddeningly distracting. He slid into the seat, the upholstery creaking under his weight, and closed the door as Sukuna turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed once, then settled into a steady rumble.

Satoru glanced sideways, trying to gather enough nerve to at least give his name, if only to make this less awkward. “I’m—”

“Don’t care, didn’t ask.”

Sukuna didn’t even look at him as he interrupted, his gaze already fixed on the road ahead, one tattooed hand resting loose on the wheel.

Satoru froze, his mouth snapping shut before the rest of the sentence could stumble out. He nodded mutely, the tiniest of jerks, and turned toward the window instead. The glass was cool against his temple as he leaned slightly on it, watching the neon sign fade in the corner of his vision. He stayed that way, silent, choosing the safety of the view outside over trying to make conversation with a man who had made it perfectly clear he wasn’t interested in talking.

The drive was quiet. The only sounds were the low, steady hum of the engine and the occasional soft thump when the tires rolled over a seam in the pavement. No music, no idle conversation. Not even the faint buzz of music coming from the radio.

Satoru’s gaze flicked toward the dashboard once, catching sight of the stereo faceplate hanging at an odd angle, a few loose wires jutting out like exposed veins. Yeah. He had a feeling the silence wasn’t so much a choice as it was a casualty of whatever happened to that sound system.

Still, even if it had been an option, Satoru doubted Sukuna was the type to turn on the radio just to kill dead air. And after that blunt, almost dismissive interruption, it was clear the man wasn’t looking for small talk. That left Satoru with two options: either keep trying to talk to someone who obviously didn’t care to engage, or sit here in the awkward silence.

He chose the latter.

Of course the hot guy was a dick. That was just how life worked, apparently. If someone was blessed with a face and body that could make a person forget their own name, they were almost always impossible to deal with in conversation. Satoru tried to tell himself that was a good thing, that it would make it easier not to turn into a drooling idiot every time he ran into this guy in the future.

Maybe.

Actually… no. If he was being honest with himself, Satoru wasn’t confident about that. Like, at all. Even now, with Sukuna radiating nothing but disinterest, his pulse still kicked up every time the man’s tattooed hands shifted on the steering wheel or the streetlight glow brushed over the sharp angle of his profile.

Dammit. If Satoru let his mind wander, he knew exactly where it would go, and that was a dangerous road he didn’t trust himself to navigate. Sukuna’s hands on the steering wheel were already a problem—large, strong, knuckles prominent under taut skin, veins tracing faint lines up his forearms. Hands like that could do damage, could be firm, could…

Nope. Absolutely not.

He clenched his jaw and inhaled slowly through his nose, as though the act alone could shove the thoughts back into whatever locked box his self-control lived in. By some miracle—probably divine intervention from a God who was no doubt tired of watching him embarrass the shit out of himself—he managed to keep his imagination on a tight leash.

Campus loomed closer with each turn, familiar silhouettes of academic buildings and dorms rising up against the backdrop of the night sky. It was almost surreal, how quickly the labyrinth of unfamiliar streets had fallen away into something recognizable.

Sukuna slowed the car as they neared a smaller dorm lot, pulling into a space beneath a harsh overhead lamp. The yellow light cast deep shadows across the cracked asphalt, highlighting weeds pushing through the edges and faint oil stains from countless other cars. Somewhere in the distance, muffled voices and the faint bass thump of music carried through the air—other students still awake, buzzing with weekend energy.

Satoru knew this wasn’t his dorm. His building was on the other side of the University Hall, but the thought of asking Sukuna to drive him farther felt awkward. The man had already done more than enough. And if Satoru was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend another five minutes in such close quarters with someone who managed to be both infuriatingly blunt and dangerously attractive.

Instead, he turned in his seat, glancing sideways at Sukuna. The lamplight caught on the gleam of his piercings and made the sharp lines of his face stand out even more. Satoru swallowed and spoke carefully, trying to keep his tone neutral, like this was just a normal interaction between two strangers and not him fumbling through the tail end of what felt like a fever dream.

“Uh… do you have Cash App? Or Venmo? Or… something?” he asked, shifting slightly in his seat. It wasn’t just about paying him back, it was about not feeling like a helpless dumbass who’d just been rescued by a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a very specific kind of fantasy. If he could make this feel like a transaction instead of a favor, maybe it would help him reclaim a little of his dignity.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked toward him. His brow creased faintly, the set of his mouth flattening as if Satoru had just asked him to solve some incredibly annoying math problem.

“Why?” Sukuna asked, his voice low and tinged with impatience.

Satoru felt his stomach twist. He swallowed against the feeling and forced himself to answer. “I just… I wanna send you some money. For the ride.” He spoke faster than he intended, the words coming out slightly slurred in his rush to push them out.

Sukuna let out a sharp, humorless snort. Without bothering to respond, he shoved his door open. The faint dome light flared briefly, carving his profile in stark edges before the night swallowed him again.

Satoru fumbled for his own seatbelt, the click of the release louder than it needed to be, and hurried to follow. He grabbed his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder as he scrambled out, the humid night air clinging to his skin. In his rush, he misjudged the weight of the door and slammed it harder than intended. The sound cracked through the quiet parking lot like a gunshot.

Sukuna stopped mid-step and turned his head just enough for his glare to cut clean through him. Christ, that look alone felt like it could flay him alive. Satoru shrank a fraction under it, muttering a breathless, “Sorry,” before shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I was coming back to campus anyway,” Sukuna said at last, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, as if that ended the discussion. “Doesn’t matter.”

But Satoru wasn’t about to let it go. “It’s the least I could do,” he insisted, trying to sound firm rather than pleading. He even straightened his posture a little, though he wasn’t sure if it made him look more confident or just more stubborn.

Sukuna exhaled through his nose and muttered something too low for Satoru to catch. Then, he dug into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his phone. A few quick taps later, he turned the screen toward Satoru.

The Cash App tag was bold against the dark background, simple and clean. Satoru fished around in his bag, found a battered pen, and popped the cap off with his teeth. He scrawled the name along the inside of his forearm in slightly crooked block letters, the ink dragging unevenly over his skin.

“I’ll send it once my phone’s charged up,” he said, blowing lightly on the ink before recapping the pen.

Sukuna rolled his eyes before sliding his phone back into his pocket. Without another word, he turned away, his steps unhurried as he made for the shadowed entrance of the dorm building.

Satoru lingered where he stood, watching the faint sway of the man’s broad shoulders until Sukuna disappeared from sight. Only then did he shake himself, adjust the strap of his bag, and start the long walk toward his own dorm on the other side of campus.

Chapter 4

The moment Satoru shut the door to his dorm, the stale, faintly dusty air greeted him like an old acquaintance. He tossed his bag onto the desk with a dull thud, dug his phone out of his pocket, and crouched down to plug it into the charger already in the outlet wedged behind the leg of the desk next to his bed. The cable clicked into place with a faint snap, and the screen blinked to life with a little charging icon showing on it. Task done, he let himself fall backward onto the bed.

The mattress was stiffer than a board, springs resisting his weight like it resented being used. He lay spread out, arms and legs splayed, staring at the faint hairline crack that ran across the ceiling above him.

At first, finding out he wouldn’t have a roommate had been a disappointment—a lonely one, at that. He’d thought having someone else there might’ve been a shortcut to making friends, or at least an excuse not to eat dinner alone.

But right now? God, right now he was thankful there wasn’t another living soul around. No one to witness the full-body cringe he was about to suffer through.

Because, despite his very best efforts on the walk back, his brain had betrayed him. Sukuna’s face kept resurfacing in perfect detail: the cutting line of his jaw, his sharp red eyes, the pink-tinted hair that caught just enough of the streetlight to look almost metallic, like rose gold. Even the memory of his voice was enough to make heat prickle in Satoru’s groin.

And those hands. God, those hands. He could imagine them so easily now that he wasn’t within feet of the owner, imagining them braced on either side of him, fingers curling tight against his hips, or sliding in—

Satoru groaned aloud and slapped both palms over his face, pressing hard enough that little sparks danced behind his eyelids. You just met him, his own voice hissed inside his head. Not even an hour ago. And you’re already fantasizing like some pathetic creep. Reign it in, dumbass. He’s a stranger. A hot stranger, sure, but still a stranger.

His pulse still hadn’t entirely slowed, and it made him groan again, this time muffled into the heel of his hand. Without a roommate, there was nobody to call him out, nobody to hear about how he’d gone from awkward small talk to borderline feral attraction in under an hour.

He told himself to stop thinking about it, to think about literally anything else. But the harder he tried, the sharper those details became.

Satoru flopped onto his side and yanked the pillow over his head, as if he could smother the thoughts into silence.

It didn’t work.

Of course not.

Satoru rolled onto his back, the springs in the cheap dorm mattress creaking faintly under his weight. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the mini fridge in the corner and the occasional muffled sound of someone walking down the hall outside. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, mentally debating if this was actually worth doing right now, before twisting onto his side and reaching for his phone.

The charging cable tugged slightly as he picked it up, the cool plastic warm where it had been plugged in. He unplugged it so he wouldn’t accidentally yank the entire cord out of the wall, thumb lingering on the power button until the screen lit up with a dim, bluish glow that made his eyes squint. The battery icon blinked at 14%—just enough to get the job done.

He swiped through his apps until the Cash App icon appeared, the familiar green screen loading slowly on the sluggish campus Wi-Fi. He glanced down at his forearm where the cash app tag was scribbled in messy ink.

The writing had smudged just enough to make a couple of the letters blur together, forcing him to tilt his arm toward the lamplight and narrow his eyes. He mouthed the characters under his breath as he typed them in, carefully avoiding any mistakes so he didn’t accidentally send twenty bucks to some rando in Ohio or something equally as bad.

The moment Sukuna’s profile appeared on the screen, his stomach gave an odd little flip. He didn’t let himself dwell on it. Instead, he punched in $20, his thumb hovering over the send button for a moment too long. Twenty bucks for a ten-minute ride? Absolutely overkill.

But still… it felt like the least he could do. Like tossing a life raft to his own sense of dignity after spending the better part of an hour thinking thoughts so wildly inappropriate about this man that they’d probably get him banned from some higher plane of existence.

With a single tap, the app confirmed the payment. Satoru let out a quiet exhale. There. Done. A tiny, digital act of repentance. Maybe it wouldn’t erase the fact that he’d been damn near undressing the guy in his head five minutes after meeting him, but it at least made him feel like less of a creep.

He could view it as an offering to the universe to maybe, hopefully, forgive him for being this level of hopelessly down bad for the first hot guy he’d run into in America.

As the screen dimmed, Satoru tossed the phone onto the bed beside him and scrubbed his hands over his face. Why was he like this? What twisted karma had he racked up, either in this life or some past one, that had the universe dangling the first gorgeous man he’d met in America in front of him only to also make him an unapologetic asshole?

It felt like some kind of cruel punishment, tailor-made to push every single one of Satoru’s buttons. Like fate had sat down, cracked its knuckles, and said, let’s make this one interesting.

He sank deeper into the stiff mattress, the faint scent of laundry detergent from the campus dryers clinging to his pillowcase. Somewhere out there, Sukuna was probably going about his evening without a single thought spared for the awkward blue-eyed idiot who’d just Cash App’d him the cost of a half a tank of gas.

Satoru, on the other hand, was starting to feel like he might be cursed.

• ········ °˖➴ ·········

Satoru pulled himself out of bed the next morning feeling like he’d been hit by a freight train. Not physically ill, but utterly drained, like every muscle in his body was made of lead and every nerve was stretched too tight. He lay there for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling, willing the pounding in his temples and the heat crawling low in his belly to just… go away.

Sukuna had somehow slipped into his dreams overnight. Not just a fleeting image or encounter, no, full-blown wet dreams that could make the devil blush. 

And not just once, but twice. Both times, he’d woken up gasping, sweat slicking his skin, blanket tangled around his legs like a trap. His heart had been pounding, and the vividness of the dreams left a burning flush that lingered even in the cold morning light.

Satoru groaned and rolled onto his side, burying his face deep into the pillow to hide the heat flushing his cheeks. He was so damn done with this. How had he not realized just how starved and repressed he was until now? All those years of carefully following the plan, endless hours of schoolwork, cram sessions, polite conversations, and the unrelenting pressure of his parents’ expectations, had somehow turned him into a horny pressure cooker just waiting to blow.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he needed to find someone. Anyone. Someone to break through this dam of restraint and expectation. To lose his virginity, get rid of the aching, twisted tension in his chest, and maybe, just maybe, calm this storm inside him. He imagined what it might be like: messy and reckless, a one-time release of everything he’d been holding back.

But just as quickly as the thought formed, his parents’ faces materialized in his mind’s eye. Their cold, expectant expressions, the silent but deafening pressure to be perfect, to never falter, to keep moving forward exactly as they planned.

They wanted the flawless son. The obedient one who never strayed. They wanted him to focus on his grades, his future, his reputation, never the messy, complicated things like desire or loneliness.

And if they ever found out he’d slipped, even once, from that straight and narrow path? The fallout would no doubt be brutal.

Satoru swallowed hard, the knot tightening in his throat. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the coldness of the floor through his socks. His hands trembled slightly as he rubbed at his face, trying to clear away the last remnants of the night’s dreams and the frustration swirling in his chest.

Another day. Another day of holding it all in, pretending everything was fine, and walking through this new world that felt so far from home.

Satoru took a long, steadying breath. He forced himself to stand up from bed. It was Sunday. One last day before the whirlwind truly began. Classes started tomorrow.

To say he was nervous would be an understatement.

At least he had things to do today to keep his mind busy, though. He had to print out his course syllabi and highlight important dates, double-check the locations of his classrooms on the campus map, and organize his notes into neat folders. His laptop needed updating, and there were still emails from professors that he hadn’t replied to yet. He also needed to make a proper grocery run soon.

He reached for a pair of plain jeans tucked at the back of his small closet. The fabric was cool as he slid them on, the snugness grounding him slightly in this strange new world. Then, he pulled on a dark sweater, oversized enough that the sleeves swallowed his wrists and the hem draped loosely around his hips. The sweater was a faded black, almost charcoal, and when paired with the jeans? It was a simple, unassuming outfit, blending easily into the background. Just like he wanted to be.

Reaching for his glasses, Satoru perched them carefully on the bridge of his nose, the world snapping into focus. Without them, everything was a blurry haze of shapes and muted colors, but with them, the sharp edges of the room and the soft morning light filtering through the curtains made everything feel a little more real. The familiar frames helped to steady both his vision and his nerves.

He tugged on his worn sneakers then grabbed his backpack from the chair in the corner and slung it over one shoulder before heading to the door of his dorm room. He paused at the door for a moment, catching the faint sounds of the rest of the dorm waking up as well, before opening the heavy wooden door and stepping out into the hall.

The wooden stairs creaked underfoot as he hurried down, passing other students still rubbing sleep from their eyes, clutching steaming cups of coffee, or scrolling through their phones in the middle of the hallway.

Reaching the front doors, he pushed them open to step out. The sun was low but bright, casting long shadows through the towering gothic arches and stretching the deep green lawns out before him.

Satoru paused at the edge of the campus walkway, eyes scanning the still strange surroundings of Harvard’s sprawling grounds. Students hurried past in clusters, laughing and chatting as their footsteps echoed softly against the pathways.

His stomach rumbled softly, reminding him that breakfast wasn’t something he should skip anymore. He needed a place to sit down, somewhere quiet where he could collect his thoughts without the overwhelming noise of the dorm or the city pressing in on him. Somewhere he could order a warm latte, sip slowly, and maybe eat something substantial instead of snacking on candy or settling for yet another bag of instant noodles.

His gaze flicked in the general direction of the west side of campus. He recalled the bright, bold sign he’d noticed the first day—an American chain restaurant that apparently specialized in breakfast. It was supposed to be the kind of place where the plates were big and the smells were rich and made your mouth water.

That sounded good enough for him.

Without overthinking it, Satoru started walking in that direction. Though he was sure that the chain restaurant wouldn’t exactly be the idyllic spot of calm he’d prefer, there was comfort in the idea of its predictable warmth, a small bit of calm to help him brace for the day ahead.

• ········ °˖➴ ·········

Satoru felt like he’d been hit by a car.

It wasn’t that his day had been particularly grueling, it was just a slow buildup of tasks that had left his brain feeling way too full and his patience running thin.

First, there was the syllabus situation: every class, every professor had their own formatting quirks, so printing them all out and highlighting the important dates felt less like a quick prep step and more like a mission he was doomed to fail.

Then he’d sat hunched over the campus map for longer than he’d care to admit, tracing paths with his fingertip and double-checking where each of his classrooms was tucked away and coming up with a plan of how to get to each class, because the last thing he needed on his first week was to wander into the wrong lecture hall.

The organization spiraled from there. All of the notes he’d taken for the pre-class homework were sorted into clean, labeled folders, digital and physical alike. And then there were still some unread emails from professors, sitting there in his inbox, waiting for a response he didn’t quite have the energy to type anymore. By the time he finally got around to thinking about groceries, the day was already half-gone, but he figured he might as well cross one more thing off the list before retiring for the day.

The grocery run wasn’t glamorous. It was all bare-bones essentials: bread, eggs, milk, tea, a few snack things, and a bag of apples that he’d probably forget he owned until they went bad. He loaded it into a tote, shifting the weight from one shoulder to the other as he walked, and it wasn’t until he looked up that he realized where he was.

A stretch of street, a low building with an old sign, a cluster of storefronts that tugged at the edges of his memory. And then it clicked: this was the same part of town he’d stumbled into the night before when he’d gotten completely, embarrassingly lost trying to navigate back to campus.

Now, in the light of day, Satoru actually knew where he was. He knew how to get home from here, no panic required. He slowed his steps, his gaze lingering in the direction of the gas station for a moment longer than necessary.

He thought about maybe walking past, about maybe even going in. Not because he needed anything, just because he was curious. That was all. But before he could decide if that curiosity was worth indulging, his stomach made the decision for him. It growled, loud enough that he was surprised it didn’t echo down the street.

Right. He hadn’t actually eaten since breakfast, unless you counted the half cup of coffee he’d microwaved around mid-afternoon. A snack was probably a good idea before heading back to campus, something small and easy, like one of those sad, prepackaged sandwiches in the cooler section, maybe with a bag of chips to keep it company.

…Okay, not really a snack. But still food.

He adjusted the tote on his shoulder, the strap digging slightly into his collarbone, his mind already focusing on the prospect of food as he scanned the street for oncoming vehicles before crossing.

Once he got closer to the gas station, the sharp glint of metal caught his attention first: that familiar beat up black sedan was parked directly outside.

Satoru stopped mid-step. His heart gave a little jolt, skipping into a faster rhythm before settling into a thump-thump-thump that he could feel in his throat. Was this really a good idea? The logical answer was probably not. He could just as easily turn around, cut back across the street, and pretend he’d never even been here.

But then his stomach gave another impatient rumble.

With a quiet exhale, he dipped inside the store, the chime of the door louder than it had any right to be in the otherwise still air. He was immediately grateful that Sukuna wasn’t in his line of sight, because if he’d seen the man right after stepping in, he knew himself well enough to admit that he would’ve bolted without hesitation.

He made his way to the cooler section tucked against the far wall. The hum of refrigeration filled the space, a faint fog of cold air spilling out each time he opened a door. He plucked out a plastic-wrapped sandwich without reading the label too closely, then grabbed a small bag of chips from the rack nearby. On his way to the register, he snagged a bottle of water from another cooler, the condensation slick and cool against his fingers.

Turning toward the counter, he found himself slowing for an entirely different reason.

Sukuna was already there.

The man stood with one hip leaned casually against the counter, an expression on his face that could charitably be described as unamused. One eyebrow arched high as his crimson eyes swept over Satoru in open appraisal, his gaze lingering like he had all the time in the world to catalog every detail.

Satoru froze for a fraction of a second before forcing his feet to carry him forward, clutching the sandwich, chips, and water.

He kept his mouth shut as he set the small pile of food down on the counter, one item at a time, careful not to make any more noise than necessary. He didn’t look up at Sukuna, just kept his gaze fixed somewhere between his own hands and the register, letting the muted hum of the cooler at the back of the store fill the silence.

Across from him, Sukuna’s large hands moved to grab each item, dragging the barcode across the scanner with a dull beep. His presence felt suffocating up close, like standing too close to a heat source, but Satoru still didn’t look up.

“You want a bag?” Sukuna’s voice broke through the quiet, rough but casual.

Satoru gave a tiny shake of his head, still avoiding eye contact. “No,” he murmured, barely louder than the hum of the coolers.

Fishing his wallet from the pocket of his pants, he pulled out his card, the corner of it catching against the leather before slipping free. He was just about to swipe it when Sukuna spoke again.

“I’m not gonna give you another ride.”

The card almost slipped right out of his fingers. He caught it at the last second, the plastic clicking against his thumbnail, his stomach dropping at the same time. He forced himself to act like it was nothing, like his grip hadn’t faltered at all. “Don’t… don’t need one today,” he said, tone light but a little too rushed. “I can, uh, find my way back.”

Sliding the card into the reader, he focused on the little glowing screen like it was the most important thing in the world. He punched in his PIN, only to get the sharp red error flash. Grimacing, he tried again. Wrong. Again. His cheeks flushed. On the third attempt, his fingers finally got it right, the machine chirping its approval as he pulled the card free and shoved it back into his wallet.

He began placing the items into his own tote bag. It gave him an excuse to keep his head down, but when he was done, his hand lingered on the strap for a second too long. Eventually, he lifted his eyes and found Sukuna already watching him. The contact made Satoru’s heart skip a beat, and he quickly looked away.

“Uh… did the Cash App transaction from last night go through?” he asked.

Sukuna gave a low grunt in acknowledgement. Satoru nodded once, his lips curving faintly as he replied, “Good, I’m glad.” He meant it, too.

“Twenty bucks is way too much to be sending,” Sukuna said suddenly, his voice coming out sharp.

Satoru blinked at him, a little taken aback by the bluntness. “I just wanted to be nice,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder. “You really didn’t need to give me a ride."

Sukuna snorted, the sound making Satoru’s brows pull together. “Yeah, and I really don’t need your damn money,” he snapped.

That earned him a slow blink from Satoru, who tilted his head up to meet those red eyes with a mixture of irritation and confusion. Why the hell did he sound so mad about it? It wasn’t like Satoru had shoved the cash in his face or called him a taxi out of pity. Still, the guy looked like he’d just been insulted, and Satoru couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

He couldn’t stop himself from scowling, a slight furrow between his brows forming and the corners of his mouth turning down. “You seem to have a talent for turning gratitude into an insult,” he snapped back. He huffed and pivoted on his heel, the automatic doors sliding open with a whoosh as he stepped out into the daylight.

The air outside was warm, but it didn’t do much to thaw his suddenly icy mood. He didn’t look back at Sukuna, didn’t say another word. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started down the sidewalk, the rhythmic sound of his sneakers against the concrete filling the silence. His thoughts churned as he walked, simmering with annoyance.

He didn’t get why Sukuna had to be so prickly about something so simple. It wasn’t a big deal, it was just twenty bucks, for crying out loud. But apparently, it was enough to set him off. Satoru exhaled slowly, more of a frustrated sigh than anything, and kept his gaze fixed ahead.

One step after another, he fumed silently, the conversation replaying in his head like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. By the time the store was far behind him, his jaw was still tight, and the stubborn part of him refused to let the irritation go.