Chapter Text
You don’t normally do this.
Being in a new city is tough.
But you’re tired of eating alone. Tired of scrolling past couple photos and bachelorette party reels. Tired of doing everything right and feeling like you’re missing something.
You picked a floral dress because the internet said florals are “approachable.” You brought a paperback because the internet also said that gives you something to do with your hands. You walk the short block to the corner pub before it gets crowded. A book in your purse. An exit strategy in your pocket.
You tell yourself you’re only going for one drink.
It’s early—too early for the crowd—and the pub is the kind of place where flannel is a uniform and the TV is always tuned to a game no one’s really watching.
The place smelled like wood polish and hops. You sit at the bar, order a gin and tonic, and try not to look too out of place.
You’re halfway through page four when a guy slurs something into your ear—something about your dress and what he thinks is under it. Your smile goes brittle. Your fingers tighten on the spine of your book.
“You good?” a voice asks from the far end—deep, lazy, the syllables sanded down.
You glance over. He’s in the corner where the light doesn’t quite reach, forearms braced on the bar, glass of rye resting against his knuckles. Broad shoulders in a black tee, scar nicking his lip like a story he didn’t bother to finish. His eyes flick from the tipsy guy to you and back, and it’s not chivalry so much as assessment, like he weighs problems for a living.
You nod because your throat is useless. Then you shake your head because your body betrays you.
He crooks two fingers. “C’mere.”
You go. Of course you do. You tuck your book under your arm and slide onto the stool beside him, shy smile in place, hair pushed behind your ear so you look less like you’re hiding.
“Thanks,” you say, quiet.
“You’re new here.” It isn’t a question. He tips his chin, scanning the room as if to prove his point—all denim and work boots—and then back to you, in your careful dress with your careful lipstick.
You nod. “Just moved a few months ago. First time living on my own.”
“Mm.” His mouth curves, almost kind.
He’s easy to talk to, surprisingly. Wry. Dry.
You ask what he’s drinking, and when he says rye whiskey, you lean in, giggling. “Can I try it?”
You’re braver than you feel. Maybe it’s the gin. Maybe it’s the way his eyes say he already knows how this goes.
He tips his glass, the whiskey catching the dull light and offers the glass. Your fingers graze his.
You take a sip and cough, eyes watering. “How do you drink that?!”
You try to wash it down with another gin and tonic.
You’re giggly and giddy. Five gin and tonics become one, then none.
Toji gestures to the bartender to cut you off. You pout.
“I think you’ve had enough, little lady,” He says. He pours you a glass of water, “Here, hydrate up.”
“I’ll walk you,” he says later, like you’d already agreed.
---
Outside, the air is cool and smells faintly of rain. Your building is a block away. Your heart is a mile ahead. You watch his profile as you walk—sharp and imperfect, the scar, the mouth that looks like it was built for sin and silence.
“This is me!” you sing-song, tipsy and giddy, as you fumble for your keys.
He doesn’t move to leave.
You glance up at him. That scar on his lip. The lines at the corner of his mouth. You’re not sure what takes over—maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s years of aching curiosity—but you remember what you remember a Cosmopolitan article about looking at a guy’s lips, then between his brows.
You try it. You probably look ridiculous.
He notices. Of course he does. The smirk is wicked and barely-there.
“I’m not a good guy,” he says.
You swallow, pulse tumbling. The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. “Are you a good fuck?”
For a heartbeat the world stops breathing.
Then: heat. He fists your shirt front, you fist his, mouths colliding like you’ve both been starving. Your door rattles, then yields. You stumble inside. It’s you who laughs—high, breathless—when his gaze lands on the tidy couch, the neat books, and plushies on shelves.
Cute. He thinks to himself, like a sin he’s willing to commit.
He kicks the door shut. Drops your purse. Pushes you back until your knees hit the couch.
The room blurs. His hands are on your hips, your thighs, your dress. You’re breathless, buzzing, soaked with adrenaline and need.
And then he sinks to his knees.
You yelp, startled, when his mouth presses between your legs. No preamble. Just heat and pressure and tongue. You clutch at the cushions, trembling.
“Already wet,” he mutters, the vibrations ricocheting through you.
Your body arches on instinct. It’s too much—his mouth, his fingers, the way he groans low when you gasp his name. You’ve never been touched like this. You’ve never—
He slides one finger in, then two, curling deep. Your eyes roll back. You can’t think. You can barely breathe.
He doesn’t waste time. One second you’re on the couch, breath catching in your throat — the next, he’s on his knees between your legs, hands rough and sure as they push your dress up. You gasp, stunned by the suddenness, your mind struggling to keep up with your body.
He doesn’t answer. Just palms your thighs, spreads them wider, and dips his head like he’s starving.
His breath is warm. His mouth is hotter. One long, slow drag of his tongue over your folds and your back arches, a whimper slipping out before you can stop it.
“Tsk tsk,” he murmurs into you, voice low and amused. “So fucking wet already.”
You don’t know where to look, don’t know what to do. One hand clutches the edge of the couch. The other fists the hem of your dress. He groans when you twitch under him— low and guttural, like he likes what he sees.
Then his tongue moves again. More pressure now. More rhythm.
You mewl. Your body burns. You didn’t expect it to feel like this— too much and not enough, hot and dizzy and terrifying in the best possible way. Your hips jerk against his mouth, and he lets you. His hands just tighten their grip on your thighs and he keeps going, his tongue lapping at your juices steady and relentless.
---
You’re not used to being touched like this. Not with purpose. Not by someone who knows exactly how to tear you apart.
Then you feel it — the slow stretch, his fingers slipping inside. Your breath hitches. He hums at your reaction, and the vibration makes you keen.
“So tight,” he mutters, and you’re not sure if he meant for you to hear it. He curls his fingers once, twice— your thighs quiver around his shoulders. His tongue doesn't stop moving. Neither do his fingers. It’s overwhelming and electric.
You buck into him. Couldn’t help it. The friction, the heat, the smell of his skin and whiskey— your body’s moving before your brain can catch up. He groans again, deeper this time, like your need is feeding something in him.
“You like this, pretty?” His voice is gravel against your skin.
“Mhm—yeah,” you breathe, dizzy with it. “I do—please, don’t stop—”
“Didn’t plan to.” He crooks his fingers just right and suckles harder, and that’s it. That’s the breaking point.
You cry out, louder than you mean to when your orgasm hits. Your whole body jerks. You try to stifle it with your hand, but the sound still escapes— raw and high and shameless.
“There she is,” he murmurs against your thigh, lips curling into a smug smile. “Good girl.”
You’re shaking. Sprawled open and panting, your skin flushed, your dress bunched up around your hips. You’ve never cum like that. Not with your fingers. Not in your dreams. Not ever.
And he’s still crouched there, breathing heavy, looking at you like he’s just getting started.
You blink up at the ceiling, heart pounding. You feel drunk. High. Owned.
He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks down at you— wild and ruined on the couch. “Where’s your bed?”
You’re still panting and dazed. “Huh?”
He stands, voice darker now. “Your bed. So I can fuck you properly.”
God.
---
“Follow me,” Your knees almost buckled as you rose from the couch, but his hand found yours— steady, warm, commanding. You led him down the short hallway, your pulse hammering louder with every step.
“Take your dress off, spread them legs for me,” He grunted, as he unbuckled his belt.
You lay down on the bed, unbuttoning your dress, and unhooking your bra. You looked up at him in anticipation, licking your lips.
The tent in his boxers was blatant—thick, heavy, obscene—and when his cock sprung out, you sucked in a sharp breath.
God. How was that supposed to fit?
He rolled the condom on with practiced ease, tossing the wrapper aside without looking. Then he climbed on top of you, caging you in with the weight of his arms.
“Look at those pretty tits,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Just begging to be sucked.”
He didn’t wait. His mouth found one of your nipples, lips closing around it greedily, and his other hand reached up to knead and tease the other, thumb circling, fingers pinching.
“Ready for me?” he asked, lips popping off your skin, breath hot against your chest.
“I—”
I’m a virgin. Please be gentle, you wanted to say.
But he was already there—settling between your thighs, the pressure building as he nudged his cock into you. Your body clenched around him instinctively, slick but so tight it made you wince. Sweat beaded on your forehead.
He groaned, almost to himself. “Fuck. So tight.” His hand slid up to your throat—not squeezing, just holding. “God, baby, you’re clenching so tight around my cock. So greedy for it…”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. The stretch, the weight of him, the overwhelming realization that this was happening—you were giving yourself to a man you barely knew. And loving it.
When your body finally adjusted, when the sting dulled into something warmer, deeper, he began to move. Slow at first. Deep. Every thrust sent shockwaves through your core, made your head tip back, made your breath come in broken gasps.
He dipped down, mouth grazing your ear. “You like getting fucked by strangers? Older men?” His voice was a rasp, a taunt.
I don’t usually do this! you wanted to cry. But what spilled out was—
“Yes… yes, please—I like it, I like it so much—ahhh—mmh…”
You’d blame the alcohol later. Or the way his dark hair clung to his forehead as he moved, the look in his eyes like he was devouring you alive. He made you feral.
“Didn’t take you for a little slut,” he laughed, grabbing you and flipping you over like you weighed nothing. He pressed your face into the pillow, hands firm on your hips, and sank back inside with a single, brutal thrust that made you scream.
His pace picked up—louder now, wetter too: you could feel your pussy squelching and dripping. Your moans muffled against the pillow as your body jolted with every snap of his hips. It was lewd. Unapologetic. The kind of filth you used to blush about when reading your favorite scenes in bed, hand buried under the sheets.
This was better. This was real.
He grabbed your hair, not harsh, just enough to pull your head back and say, “I wanna hear you, baby. Don’t go quiet on me now.”
“Please—please—” you babbled. “Feels so good, love your cock—it’s s-stretching me, it’s—ahh!”
“Good girl.” He slapped your ass, once, twice, the sting bright and quick. “Fuckin’ perfect.”
His voice was half-growl, half-reverence. “Never been inside anything this tight. Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?”
He reached underneath you, finding your clit: skimming, circling, rubbing until you were shaking, drooling, eyes squeezed shut.
“Feels—so good—wanna… wanna cum!”
“Yeah? Cum with me, then.” His fingers rolled your clit between them as he drove harder, deeper, breath ragged. “Wanna feel you lose it all over me.”
You did. It hit like lightning—your body locking up, scream muffled into the pillow, every nerve lit up and blinding.
“Oh fuck, yeah, baby, that’s it, cream all over my cock!” He followed seconds later with a deep groan, hips grinding through the end of it, chasing the last waves of release until the room went still and the only sound was the thud of your heart.
He rolls onto his back, arm flung over his eyes, still catching his breath. You stay where you are, pulse fluttering, skin damp and warm. Every sound feels too loud: the faint buzz of the streetlight outside, the soft creak of the mattress, your heartbeat climbing back toward normal.
When he finally moves, it’s to glance sideways at you. There’s something strange in his expression—confusion, maybe, or disbelief. His eyes travel to the sheets, then back to you.
“...You’re bleeding.”
You freeze. “Oh.” The word is small, brittle.
He props himself on an elbow, brows drawing together. “You a virgin—?”
You swallow hard, cheeks burning. “It was my first time.”
Silence stretches, then he lets out a short breath that sounds half like a curse, half like wonder. “You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want you to stop,” you say quietly. You mean it.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The city hums beyond the window; somewhere down the block, a car door slams. He studies you like he’s trying to decide what kind of person does this—lets a stranger touch her first, then lies there looking almost peaceful.
Finally he shakes his head, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re trouble.”
“Maybe.” You pull the sheet up to your chest, smile small but real. “But got my cherry popped.”
That makes his grin widen—lazy, dangerous, and deeply entertained. He’d never fucked a virgin before. And the way you’d moaned, squirmed, clung to him like you’d wanted it for years... God. It had been hot. Innocent and filthy. He corrupted you. The thought makes his cock twitch again.
“What’s your name?” you ask, still clutching the blanket, voice quiet but curious.
“Toji Fushiguro,” he says.
You hesitate, then blush. “Can I have your number?”
You’ve never even asked a guy for one before. To be fair, no guy’s ever asked for yours either. But since he’s already, um—well, you know—it seems fair.
He smirks. Nods. Gestures for your phone. You hand it over, trying not to look like your heart is about to leap out of your chest. He keys it in, saves it under his full name, and hands it back.
You clutch your phone to your fluttering heart, smiling at the screen like a total girl.
“This was fun, Toji,” you say, your voice light. “If it’s okay I call you that.”
“Sure, kiddo.” He shoots you a lopsided grin.
It makes your cheeks flush all over again. You squeeze your thighs together under the blanket. God help you—you already want more.
You sat across from him at the cramped counter at your new-found and now favourite ramen joint, your knees bumping under the table. You’d ordered for him—miso, extra pork, no scallions—remembering what he liked from last time. When the bowls came, steam curling between you, you beamed at him like this meant something.
Toji slurped his noodles with lazy satisfaction, eyes fixed on the muted TV in the corner. "You always smile like we’re on a date."
Your chopsticks paused mid-air. “Aren’t we?”
He chuckled, deep and careless. “Kiddo, I just wanted hot food and a warm mouth after.”
The words stung more than they should have. But you still smiled. You always did.
---
You didn’t say anything when he pulled over in an alley on the way back to yours. Didn’t ask when he pushed his seat back and looked at you like he was waiting.
You just leaned over, hands fumbling with his fly, eager, heart pounding. You didn’t know why it made you feel so wanted—being used like this—but it did.
He hissed when you took him into your mouth, thick and already half-hard from the way you’d been looking at him all night. "Shit," he muttered, one hand threading into your hair lazily. “You were really that desperate to prove this was a date, huh?”
You moaned around him.
Toji groaned. “Fuck—look at you, baby. So eager to please.”
Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t stop. You hollowed your cheeks, sucked him deep, clumsy and earnest. His thighs tensed beneath your palms. He smelled like smoke and salt and broth, and when he let out a low, breathless laugh, it sent a shiver straight through you.
“You’re such a good little thing,” he muttered, voice rough. “So fuckin’ obedient. That sweet mouth was made for me.”
You squeezed your thighs together at the praise, desperate for friction. You wanted him to notice. Wanted him to grab you, flip you over the center console, take you right there like you meant something.
He didn’t. Just came in your mouth with a rough grunt, hand tightening in your hair. You swallowed because he didn’t ask, and he grinned like that amused him too.
“See?” he said, zipping up. “Warm mouth. Just what I needed.”
You smiled, wiping the corner of your mouth with the sleeve of your cardigan.
You text him first sometimes.
Usually, it’s him. Short, late-night texts that say ‘you up?’ or ‘come over’. Like you’re a pit stop between boredom and release. Like you’re on standby.
But sometimes, you break.
You stare at his contact name, thumb hovering. You type and delete. Type and delete. Then finally, you send something soft. Too soft.
You: Hey, hope today wasn’t too rough. Did you end up getting that tire fixed? Make sure you’re drinking water, okay? You always say you don’t sleep enough. Get some rest tonight, for once. Miss you.
No reply.
The bubble hangs there, delicate and too full of care. It’s not what he asked for. It’s never what he asked for. You still send it anyway.
Later, you try again. Something simpler this time, because maybe you overwhelmed him.
You: thinking of you.
Still nothing.
Two days pass before he responds. Barely.
Toji: busy. maybe later.
You read it again. And again. Busy. Hope. Maybe later. Tentative!
You tell yourself it’s not a no. That maybe later means yes, just not right now. That he’s not brushing you off, just tired, just distracted, just not good at this part.
You try not to think about how he never sends long texts. Never asks if you ate. Never remembers what you’re anxious about this week. Never says I miss you first.
You do it all anyway. Like you’re someone’s girlfriend. Like love can be earned if you’re thoughtful enough.
Eventually your phone lights up.
Toji: you free?
And just like that, you are.
Toji liked how easy you were.
Not in the way other men said it.
You weren’t dumb. Weren’t weak. Just eager.
You opened for him like a secret. Your heart and your legs, of course.
No hesitation, no demands. Just wide eyes and soft whimpers and that hungry little gasp every time he pushed deeper.
Tonight was no different.
You straddled him on the couch, your thighs trembling, hands braced on his chest as you sank down on his cock. So fucking tight. So wet.
His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in hard. “You missed this, huh?” he muttered, watching your face twist as you took him to the hilt. “That needy little pussy of yours just can’t get enough.”
You nodded, breathless, moaning something soft like yes, Toji, yes—and he could feel the way your cunt fluttered around him just from hearing his voice.
So eager.
“You gonna cum already?” he goaded, thrusting up into you. “Just from getting filled like this? Fuck, you’re easy.”
Your head fell back. He watched the sweat bead along your neck, the way your hands clutched at him like he was more than a body.
You looked at him like he was a miracle.
That used to make him roll his eyes.
Now?
Now it made something dark twist in his chest.
You were clenching around him, already so close, babbling praise like you meant it. “You feel so good,” you whispered, nails raking down his chest. “Love your cock, love when you fuck me—please don’t stop—”
He wasn’t planning to. Not until he wrung every last ounce of devotion out of you.
He grunted, flipping you onto your back without warning, dragging your legs up over his shoulders and pounding into you harder. “Take it,” he growled. “Fucking take it like my good little cocksleeve.”
You screamed—loud and shameless—and god, the way you looked at him. Like he was something rare. Something worth loving.
Afterward, when you were limp and shivering, tucked against his side with your fingers curled softly in his shirt, he stared at the ceiling.
Wondering how long it would take to get bored.
He hadn’t yet.
That was the strange part.
You dragged him to a dingy arcade one night, fingers laced with his like it meant something. The place smelled like old popcorn and sweat, neon lights flickering overhead as you skipped toward the rhythm game cabinet.
He watched you bounce on your toes, cheeks flushed, tongue poking out in concentration as your fingers danced across the buttons. You were glowing—giddy with it. He let you win. Of course he did. Watching you celebrate was more fun than the game.
“Winner gets whatever they want,” you grinned, breathless, eyes sparkling like the prize was him.
He stepped close, boxing you in between the cabinet and his chest, voice rough in your ear. “Yeah? Then I want you. Face down. Ass up.”
You giggled, heat blooming in your cheeks, thinking it was just part of the bit. Flirting. Foreplay. Something close to affection.
---
Later, in the backseat of his car, windows fogged, the cold seeping in through the cracked leather, he pulled your panties to the side and fucked you rough, one hand fisted in your hair to keep you still. Just low grunts and the slap of skin on skin and your own breathy moans echoing louder than the radio.
You came hard. Clung to his jacket after, heart fluttering with the way he lingered—his arm heavy over your back, the lull of his breathing steady against your spine. You thought that meant something.
To him, it meant you were convenient.
Eager.
Tight.
And still so easy to make cum.
On the way back from the pub, you try to hold his hand at the crosswalk.
Your fingers graze his knuckles. Just a test. A soft brush, then a hook—hoping he’ll take the cue, lace his fingers through yours.
He pulls back to adjust his coat sleeve. Doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.
You both wait for the light to change.
When you reach for his arm instead, he lets you.
Just not his hand.
You bought him a keychain.
Cheap, plastic, shaped like a frog—because he’d once said, offhandedly, that frogs were funny. You’d remembered. Of course you had.
You handed it to him like it was sacred.
He turned it over in his palm, brow cocked. “What the hell is this?”
“A gift,” you said, cheeks burning. “For your bike keys.”
Toji stared at it. Then at you.
Then shrugged and clipped it onto his keyring without a word.
You smiled for hours after.
Felt warm in your chest every time you thought of it dangling there when he rode off.
He forgot it on a diner table two days later.
Didn’t even notice.
–--
To be fair, he didn’t mean to leave the keychain behind. Didn’t even realize it was gone until he reached for his keys later that night and they felt lighter.
The frog had been stupid. Cheap. Some vending machine trinket you gave him with stars in your eyes, like it meant something.
He’d clipped it on to shut you up. Or maybe because your cheeks were flushed and your hands were shaking a little, like you thought he’d say no.
He didn’t say no. He never said no to you.
Didn’t say thank you, either.
When he saw the ring was bare, he stared at it for a second too long. Thought about texting you.
Didn’t.
He went to bed instead. Fucked someone else the next night.
But sometimes, when he fished his keys out of his pocket, fingers closing around empty metal, he thought of it. The dumb little frog.
The way you smiled like he’d given you the world, just for keeping it.
And he’d feel—nothing, of course.
Just the ghost of plastic in his hand.
Toji doesn’t kiss you.
Not after the first time you hooked up. That one had slipped past his guard — a drunk, fumbling thing on your couch, mouths crashing like teenagers. He hadn’t expected you to taste that good. Hadn’t expected to remember it later.
He knows you want him to do it again. You don’t say it, but he can feel it in the way your eyes drift to his mouth when you think he won’t notice. In the way you press your lips to his shoulder, warm and shy, like you're hoping he’ll meet you halfway.
“You’re so handsome,” you whispered once, tipsy and bare-legged, mouth brushing over the slope of his muscle.
He didn’t know what to say to that. So he gave you something else instead—dragged you into his lap, fucked you slow and deep, let you ride out your feelings while he kept his buried.
You think he’s made of stone, but the truth is, he wants to kiss you more than he should. He just can’t afford to.
Because a kiss says something he doesn’t want to say. A kiss makes it feel like more.
And this—whatever this is between you two—can’t be more. He doesn’t do more. Not with someone like you.
So when you lean in, soft and hopeful, he turns his head just enough to dodge it. Pretends not to see the way your smile falters.
“Don’t get clingy,” he says, a low chuckle in his throat to soften the blow.
Then he fucks you harder—because he knows it’ll fog you up, make you forget what you wanted in the first place. At least for a while.
You always let him.
You always look at him after like he’s something more than he is.
And fuck, maybe that’s why he keeps coming back.
Because even if he won’t kiss you—can’t kiss you—you still look like you’d let him.
Like you’d fall for him all over again if he did.
And that’s the kind of thing that makes a man ruin himself.
--–
He knows you want it—feels it in the way your gaze lingers on his mouth, the way your breath catches when he gets too close. You never ask outright. You never have to.
He almost kissed you once.
Really kissed you. Slow, mouth open, hand on your cheek. Like he meant it.
You’d done something stupid—burned your tongue on takeout soup and hissed through your teeth, and he’d chuckled, tugging the spoon from your hand. “Brat.”
And then you looked at him.
Eyes shining. So full of something he didn’t know how to name.
He leaned in. Froze halfway.
No. That wasn’t what this was.
Instead, he shoved the spoon back toward your lips. “Open up,” he said.
You did.
And he pretended that was all he wanted.
After that, he started pulling away.
He hadn’t messaged you in a while.
You tried not to notice. Kept yourself busy—reorganized drawers, wiped spotless counters, filled the silence with distractions. But every time your phone lit up, your heart jumped. Every time it wasn’t him, it dropped.
Then, finally:
Toji: you free tonight?
Just three words. Casual. Thoughtless.
But they made your heart stutter like a struck match.
You spent an hour doing your hair.
He showed up twenty minutes late. Said nothing. Barely looked at you. Just kicked the door shut behind him, grabbed your hips, and bent you over the entryway table.
You gasped at the force of it, at the way he yanked your shorts down and pushed himself inside like he owned you. He didn’t ask. Didn’t kiss. Just grunted low in your ear as he fucked you—hard, fast, selfish.
You came. Shamefully fast.
He always wrung it out of you, even when it felt like you meant nothing at all.
Afterward, he collapsed on the couch, pants still half on. Didn’t bother with a towel. Didn’t ask if you were okay.
You cleaned yourself up in the bathroom, hands trembling.
Still, you came back.
You curled against him, tentative, careful not to disturb him. He didn’t pull away.
He’d never stayed the night before.
So you let yourself hope. Just a little.
You lay awake, staring at his face in the dark. He looked younger when he slept. Softer. Like maybe this was real.
You whispered, “Do you want breakfast in the morning?”
He didn’t answer.
Just shifted slightly, rubbed his face, muttered, “Nah. Gotta run.”
And that was it.
“Okay,” you hummed, turning your face into his shoulder, pretending this was something it wasn’t.
You told yourself it was enough.
You always do.
You almost said it once. The three words.
I love you.
You wanted to scream it. Wanted to pull him up and kiss him stupid and tell him it was always him, always would be.
Instead, you bit your knuckle as you came undone on his tongue.
He’d just finished devouring you, lips slick with your mess, eyes hooded as he rasped, “You always cum this fast for me, sweetheart?”
You wanted to say: Only for you.
Instead, you shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Dunno. You’re just really good at it.”
He grinned like a man who knew.
You cried in the shower later. Quietly. So he wouldn’t hear.
---
You know it’s one-sided. You know he doesn’t love you. Not really.
He likes your body. Your worship.
The way you blush and tremble and smile like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
Maybe he is. And that’s the worst part.
But every time he texts, Come over, you go.
And when he fucks you rough and praises how sweet your pussy is—how tight and good and made for him—you believe it. Even if just for a moment.
And for some reason, somehow…it’s enough.
A year of this push and pull was a long time to pretend you’re not falling.
You learn his schedule by accident: the days he vanishes, the nights he texts after midnight with a single you up? that you pretend not to be waiting for.
You learn the places he refuses to be seen, the way he dodges public softness like it’s a contract he won’t sign. He never stays over. Sometimes he sleeps on your couch with his forearm over his eyes, wakes before dawn, and leaves without a sound.
He doesn’t kiss on the lips. You aim for his mouth sometimes after, undone and grateful, and he turns just enough that your lips land on his cheek instead, a near-miss he pretends is nothing.
You start texting like a person in a relationship. You know better; you can’t help it. He replies when he wants to. You tell yourself that’s enough.
He calls you kiddo. He ruffles your hair. He ruins you in your sheets and steals the last strawberry from your yogurt and changes your lightbulbs without being asked. You build a small, quiet shrine out of these contradictions and kneel at it.
When your birthday approaches, you decide to risk a wish.
It’s just dinner, you type. Nothing fancy. Eight o’clock?
You attach a link to a restaurant with warm lighting and tiny candles on the tables, the one you walk past on your way home and imagine yourself in. You agonize over the message and send it anyway.
He sends a thumbs up emoji. Your heart pretends this is poetry.
You buy a tight dress in the colour of burgundy. He had said he liked that colour on you before. You followed a Youtube tutorial for effortless curls, which required too much effort. But you looked pretty.
At 7:45, you’re already at the corner table. You fold your hands in your lap to keep from picking at your cuticles. The candle on the table flickers like it’s trying to stay hopeful for you.
At 8:05, you glance at the door. Then your phone. Then the door again. You sip your water and tell yourself he’s just running late.
At 8:20, you quietly ask the hostess if you can hold the table a bit longer. She smiles and says of course, but her eyes already look sorry.
At 8:37, you step outside to call him. It rings twice, then goes to voicemail. You don’t leave a message.
At 8:51, the hostess comes back. She’s gentle when she says they’ll need the table soon. You nod. You smile. You say you understand.
At 9:12, you force a laugh as you wave the server over. “Guess it’s just me tonight.” You make a joke about ghosting that doesn’t quite land, and she smiles politely as she clears the extra place setting.
You take your time unfolding your wallet, hoping the room stops watching. It isn’t. But it feels like it is.
You tip too much. Out of guilt. Out of shame. Out of some desperate need to prove that you’re still kind even when someone’s made you feel small.
Your hands shake as you sign the receipt.
You don’t cry. Not here. Not in the warm, expensive lighting that makes other people look in love.
Outside, the night air hits like punishment. It’s sharp and wet and honest in a way people aren’t. You walk fast, like motion can keep the tears from catching up. The city hums around you—neon signs, laughter spilling from doorways, the clink of glasses from people who made it to their reservations on time.
---
At 9:30, you end up at the pub that always has room for you.
He’s there.
Of course he is.
He’s slouched in a booth, that same careless sprawl that used to make you dizzy.
A woman’s on his lap like she was always meant to be there. She’s laughing at something he said—easy, unguarded, the sound light enough to make your stomach pitch. His hand rests low on her thigh, familiar and unthinking.
Your chest tightens. It feels like a fist closing inside your ribs. For a moment, you actually can’t breathe. The sight of him like this—unbothered, comfortable, fine—makes something inside you collapse in on itself. You want to vanish. To turn inside out. To disintegrate quietly against the sticky floor until there’s nothing left to humiliate.
But you don’t.
You square your shoulders, spine locked by spite. You walk toward him on autopilot, every step a dare you wish you didn’t have the courage to take.
“Toji.”His name leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Too calm.
You touch his shoulder. The warmth of him feels wrong now—familiar and foreign all at once. He turns.
His expression flickers—blank, then surprised, then nothing. The absence of reaction cuts deeper than any apology could have.
“It’s my birthday.” Your mouth is steady. Your hands aren’t. You’re holding yourself together so tightly you think something inside you might splinter.
“Happy birthday!” the woman chirps, bright and harmless, her smile like static. The sound makes the whole room tilt.
“Why’d you stand me up?” You already know. You just need to hear him admit it.
“It’s not like we’re dating,” he says—not unkindly, not kindly, just true in the worst way. “I figured you had friends. Plans.”
He knows you don’t have friends.
The words hit so quietly it almost feels merciful. Almost.
You almost laugh. The sound curdles halfway up your throat, turns into something brittle and sharp.
“Right,” you say. You nod too many times because your body doesn’t know what else to do. “Right.”
You turn before you cry. The door manages not to hit you on the way out, which feels almost unfair.
–--
He watches you leave.
Doesn’t call after you. Doesn’t move.
The woman on his lap says something—laughs maybe, or asks a question—but it fades like background noise. He’s not listening.
He picks up his phone for the first time in hours.
Six missed calls.
Your name stacked like a bruise.
A notification banner reads: “You: I guess I’ll head out. I was really looking forward to this. Let me know if you’re okay?”
He opens the thread. Scrolls.
Reads each message one by one.
You (7:12 PM): Did you want to meet at my place first? Or at the restaurant?
You (7:30 PM): I’m gonna take that as a see you at the restaurant!
You (7:45 PM): I’m here—corner table, just like we talked about :)
You (8:05 PM): Just checking—running late? All good if you are, just let me know.
You (8:20 PM): I asked the hostess to stall the table a bit. Hope everything’s okay.
You (8:37 PM): Tried calling—your phone went to voicemail. I’m kind of worried now.
You (8:51 PM): They’re asking if I want to give up the table…
You (9:12 PM): I guess I’ll head out. I was really looking forward to this. Let me know if you’re okay?
His thumb hovers over that last one.
The message blinks in the dim light. Soft. Hurting. Hopeful. Too kind.
He hadn’t remembered your birthday.
Not until you stood in front of him—done up like it was important, like he was important—and he watched your face fall, piece by piece, when you saw her on his lap.
You didn’t say much. You didn’t have to.
It was all there: in the slight tremble of your voice, the too-bright edge of your smile, the way your hands clenched and unclenched like they were looking for something to hold.
He’d never seen you look like that before.
Like someone had crumpled your heart in their fist and forgot to let go. He did that.
He stares at the screen for a long time.
The weight of it presses deep into his chest.
He could go after you.
He should.
“Fuck,” he mutters, low and useless.
Your mascara is running in streaks, blotchy and unglamorous. You don’t care. You barely remember tearing your heels off in the elevator, nearly tripping on the hallway carpet, fumbling your keys. The door shut behind you like a gut punch.
That one block home felt like a marathon.
You'd dressed for magic and got nothing.
Pathetic.
You scrub your face raw in the bathroom sink. Cold water, hot tears. The tea you make afterward tastes like ash. You sit on your couch in your robe, makeup smeared into the collar, trying not to check your phone. Trying not to hope.
So when the knock comes, you freeze.
You already know it’s him.
When you open the door, Toji’s standing there.
His shoulders are tense. His hair’s mussed like he’d run his hand through it too many times. In his hand: a frog plushie.
It’s ugly. Plastic-eyed. Cheap.
The kind they stuff in claw machines, or pile in the back of gas stations. It’s green and dumb and almost identical to the keychain you gave him months ago—the one he forgot on a diner table like it meant nothing.
You blink at it.
You don’t take it.
“What the hell is that,” you say, your voice low, cracked.
He shrugs. Doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “A birthday gift.”
You stare, before huffing a laugh, unwilling and dry. “You’re terrible at this.”
“Yeah.” His smile is crooked. “I warned you.”
“I wanted—” you start, and the look he gives you tells you to stop wanting.
You don’t.
“I don’t know what we are,” you say, because the only way out is through. “But I can’t do that. The not showing up. The not being a person. The feeling like I’m a—”
“A good time,” he finishes her sentence, soft as a bruise.
You swallow. But the lump in your throat doesn’t go away. “I’m not built for casual.”
He exhales, long, like a habit he can’t shake. “I’m not built for more.”
There it is. The worst kind of honesty: the kind that frees no one.
You nod. It feels like saying yes to surgery without anesthesia. “Okay.”
He crosses to you like he didn’t mean to. Like his body got there before his mind could stop it. His hand lifts—hesitates—then finds your cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. Useless. Tender. The kind of touch that tries to apologize without the burden of words.
He leans in, slow and uncertain, as if he’s not sure whether this is comfort or habit or something else he doesn’t have the stomach to name.
For a heartbeat, you think he might finally do it—kiss you like you’ve always wanted. Like you matter. Like he means it.
But at the last second, you turn your head. Not enough to shove him away, just enough that his lips land at the corner of your mouth instead.
A near-miss.
A not-quite.
A perfect imitation of every almost he’s ever given you.
He still lingers there, breath warm against your skin, as if hoping you’ll change your mind. As if pretending it counts.
“Happy birthday,” he murmurs against the corner of your lips, rough and quiet, like it hurts to say.
You could feel heat in your face and tears prickling your eyes.
You look at the door. You don’t point to it.
You should. You don’t know how.
He does it for you—turns, leaves, shuts the door so gently you want to scream.
You sink to the floor.
You realized, eventually, how much of your life had bent toward him.
Like a houseplant on a windowsill, you tilted toward his light—measuring the shape of your days by his shadows. Your mood lifted when he was around. Sank when he wasn’t. You felt most real when his hands were on you, when his tongue pressed promises into you that he never said out loud.
He hadn’t just touched your body. He’d rewired something in your brain. And you let him.
He wasn’t not your god anymore.
You mattered more than this.
More than a man over a decade older with commitment issues and a habit of disappearing.
More than the scraps he gave when you were offering whole constellations.
It hits you slowly—grief peeling back like old wallpaper. Some mornings feel hollow. Some nights, worse. But the ache softens and gets quieter.
Weeks pass. You stop rereading your messages. You stop rehearsing conversations that never happened.
Months pass. You avoid the pub. The whole block, actually. You let it fade into the no-longer-needed chapter of a book you’ve put down.
You go to cafes alone, sit by the window with a book you might not finish. You sip your drink slowly. Watch people pass. Smile at the ones who make eye contact with you.
You catch your reflection and don’t flinch.
You say yes when someone at work invites you to the new dumpling place. You try all the sauces. You laugh at the dumbest joke and don’t cover your mouth. You notice the cute server’s smile and return it. You walk home in your floral dress and no longer think of how he once hiked it up in a stairwell.
Sometimes you think of him when a motorcycle backfires.
But you don’t wait for him anymore.
You exhale.
Somewhere, a game drones on.
Somewhere, a man leans back in a booth and looks toward a door that doesn’t open.
Somewhere, the future waits—not a fairytale, but a life.
You breathe in. You breathe out.
And this time, you don’t wait for anyone to tell you you’re okay.
You already are.
You exhale.
You start saying yes more—not to men, but to life.
After-work drinks. Weekend farmer markets. Trivia night where you only answer one question but cheer like you carried the team. You meet friends of friends who slowly become your people—ones who know you as someone warm, funny, a little shy at first, but radiant once you settle.
One Friday, they tug you toward a nightclub—loud, dark, violet neon, the bass shivering through your ribs. It’s not your usual scene, but you go anyway. The air smells like citrus, sweat, and possibility.
At first, you hover at the edge of the dance floor. You sway small, like you’re afraid to take up too much space. But the music builds, the lights spill over you, and something inside you loosens.
You step deeper into the crowd. Let your hips roll. Let your hair brush your shoulders. Let yourself exist without shrinking.
That’s when you feel eyes on you.
Across the room—leaning against the bar, drink untouched—a man watches you like he’s afraid to blink. Snow-white hair glinting under purple strobe lights, long lashes framing eyes that look amused and intrigued in equal measure. When your gaze catches his, he doesn’t look away. He smiles—slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment you notice him.
You look away first.
He joins you anyway.
Satoru Gojo moves like he’s dancing with you, not at you—close, but not presuming. His hand hovers near your waist, a question mark waiting for your answer. You let him touch you.
His palm settles, warm through thin fabric, guiding you into his rhythm.
Your bodies brush—hips, shoulders, breath. Not quite grinding, but close enough that your heartbeat starts listening to his.
He leans down, lips almost grazing your ear. “Tell me if I’m in your space,” he murmurs, voice low, velvet-rough.
“You’re fine,” you manage.
“Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”
You dance for hours—sweat at your temples, laughter spilling without effort, the kind of flirtation that sparks but doesn’t scorch. He doesn’t try to kiss you, though the tension arcs between you like static every time your noses almost brush.
When the night finally eases, he offers his hand, not on your waist, not on your wrist—but for your hand.
“My place is nearby,” he says, then glances at your mouth—not your body.
You breathe once before answering. “I… like you. But I’m just not interested in something casual.”
His expression softens—not disappointed, but relieved. “Perfect. I’m not interested in casual either.”
He takes your phone, adds his number, and types his name with a tiny blue heart: Satoru 💙.
“Let me take you out properly. Somewhere we can actually hear each other. A real date.”
You say yes.
It’s been three weeks. You’ve been on a few dates and time seems to have just passed by at a blink.
The two of you sit at a tiny table near a bistro window—soft bulbs overhead, silverware chiming faintly, the street outside glittering from a fresh drizzle. You tell him a story you don’t tell many people: about always worrying you’re too much and not enough in the same breath, about shrinking to fit spaces that didn’t deserve you, about the way silence after sex used to feel like punishment.
He doesn’t reach for an easy fix. He sets his fork down and leans in like the room has narrowed to a single point—your face, your voice. “I hate that you were taught to apologize for existing,” he says, not angry at you, angry for you. “I like you loud. I like you soft. I like you exactly the way you take up space.”
The words land somewhere tender. You blink fast and stare at the rim of your glass. He waits—no rush, no discomfort—then offers his napkin across the table as if passing a secret. “I also like that you cry at nice things,” he adds, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “It’s very you.”
You laugh a little wetly. “You’re going to get tired of reassuring me,” you warn. He tilts his head, considering. “No,” he says. “I’m going to keep telling the truth until it starts to sound like your own voice.” He reaches across, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. You lay your hand in his, and he squeezes once—grounding, not possessive.
On the walk home, the rain starts again. He shrugs off his jacket and covers both of you. “Teamwork,” he says, shoulder to shoulder under the fabric, city lights smeared into soft bands across puddles.
You feel seen. Not inspected. Not managed. Chosen.
At your door he kisses you slow, not to take your breath but to give it back, and the night ends without a cliff. He texts when he gets home: Made it. I had a great time with you tonight.
It is simple, and it is everything.
The walk to your door is warm in a way that has nothing to do with the weather. His shoulder bumps yours every few steps, his hand brushing yours like he’s testing gravity. By the time you reach your building, your pulse is a quiet hum beneath your skin.
Inside the hallway—dim, late, the air still holding a trace of rain—he stands close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. You turn the key, push your door open, but neither of you step through.
“Had a good time tonight,” he says, voice low, something playful tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you are. “Me too.”
He watches your mouth when you speak. And you know—you know—what’s coming, the moment that tilts a night from sweet to something you’ll replay later with your fingers pressed to your lips.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
You nod, but he waits, gaze steady.
“Yes,” you whisper.
His hand slides to your jaw as he kisses you—slow at first, tasting, learning. He doesn’t rush to claim space; he coaxes it open, your mouth parting on a soft inhale you can’t hold back. His other hand settles at your waist, fingers curving with certainty, pulling you the smallest fraction closer.
The shift happens when you fist the front of his shirt—not dragging him in, just needing something to hold onto—and he answers with a quiet, almost pleased sound against your lips. The kiss deepens, his tongue teasing at yours in a way that steals your balance, your thoughts tipping like loose marbles.
Your back finds the door; then the door gives and you stumble a half-step inside. He follows, one hand braced near your head, the other at your waist, guiding—not taking, never taking—until the door swings shut and the hallway hush becomes a private kind of quiet.
His mouth is unhurried at first, coaxing you open, tasting your yes. When you fist the front of his shirt, he makes a pleased sound against your lips that goes straight through you. He angles you along the wall, mouth drifting to your jaw, your throat, the place beneath your ear that makes your knees loosen. You’re breathless in the best way, a little wrecked already, and he notices—of course he notices.
“Still good?” he murmurs, breath warm where his words land.
“Yes,” you manage, honest enough that it shakes something loose in you.
“Good,” he says, voice gone quiet and sure. “Keep your hands right here for me.” His fingers lace with yours and lift them above your head, holding—firm, careful, a shape you can relax into. “I want to hear you.”
He presses closer and rolls his hips just enough to steal your balance. The drag of him is deliberate, exactly where you needed pressure without having to ask. Your dress shifts higher along your thighs; his mouth finds your neck again.
You don’t mean to make that sound. He smiles against your skin like he earned it.
“There you go,” he breathes, slowing just to watch you unravel. “Sounds so pretty. Give me another.”
Heat licks through you. Your body answers before your brain can.
“--want you, ‘Toru–” You manage to moan, you couldn’t help to grind against his fingers as he cups your warmth over your panties.
“So wet for me…” He hums, pleased. He lifts his head just enough to see your face—eyes open, focused, reading you like there’s a test later. “Look at me,” he says, softer than a command and somehow more binding. You do. His gaze warms, something reverent at the edges. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, as he slides two fingers into you.
Your breath hitches. It’s been a while since you’ve been touched, and god, the way he was working his fingers into your pussy made your hips buck.
Your head tips back; your wrists press into his hold. The world narrows to heat and breath and the rhythm he sets—steadier when you’re floating, sharper when you’re not. He collects every sound you give him like proof. When your voice breaks, his does too.
“I want you to cum on my fingers first,” He smiles as he twirls his tongue with yours, drowning out your breathy moans.
The way he curves his fingers—precise, practiced—makes you jerk against his hand, hips buckling as his thumb finds your clit. It’s too much, too perfect, and you break apart with a choked cry.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, low and wrecked, like it does something to him to watch you come undone. The praise slides through you like warmth poured into cold hands.
He lets you ride it out on his fingers, working you through every shiver, every aftershock. When you finally collapse back, lips parted, eyes glassy, he pulls his fingers free—licks them clean without breaking eye contact.
“Still good?” he asks, his mouth brushing your temple.
“Yes,” you breathe. It’s shaky. Honest.
“Wanna get a taste of you.”
He guides you to the couch, and before you can answer, he’s already kneeling between your thighs, diving in with a groan like he’s starved for it.
“—’Toru!” you mewl, hips lifting off the cushions. His tongue moves like he’s mapping you—slow, reverent, then firmer when you widen your legs, offering more. He savors you. Moans into you. It’s obscene how good it feels.
“Please, please—” you’re begging before you even mean to, fingers pawing at his shoulders, his hair, his waist. “Want you... want your cock—”
He laughs, low and warm. “So needy,” he teases, kissing the inside of your thigh. “But I’m happy to give you what you want.”
He undoes his zipper, pulls himself free, and sinks into you in one smooth, careful thrust.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You’re so tight.”
You gasp—still puffy and oversensitive from his fingers and mouth—and clutch at his shirt, dizzy from how full he makes you feel. He’s not as thick as Toji, but the way he moves—the way he rolls his hips, deliberate and deep—makes your breath stutter.
“Satoru,” you whisper, chewing your lip.
He leans in, kisses you softly as he thrusts again. His pace isn’t frantic. It’s steady, thorough—like he’s savoring every second, like he wants you to feel all of it. One hand cradles your face; the other cups your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it peaks.
When your head tips back, he pulls away just enough to look at you.
Really look at you.
Like he wants to memorize the exact moment your composure slips.
“There she is,” he murmurs, voice gone reverent. Almost like praise.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, encouraging the rhythm you crave. “Feels so—good, ’Toru!”
“You make such pretty sounds for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, amused and affectionate. “Now cum for me again, yeah?”
He finds your clit and circles it—just right, just enough—and it tips you over with a gasp. Your whole body tenses, pleasure rising like a wave cresting, impossible to hold back. The sound that escapes you is too raw, too loud—so he kisses you through it, swallowing every cry as he follows you over the edge.
This—right here—is usually where it ends.
With Toji, this is the part where clothes straighten, tone cools, and distance returns like a reflex.
You brace for it, your body remembering a script it never chose.
But Gojo stills. He feels the shift in you—somehow, he just knows. He draws back slightly, enough to see your face, eyes searching.
“Hey.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “I wasn’t planning on disappearing the second I caught my breath.”
Your chest tightens—not with dread this time, but with the unfamiliar ache of relief.
“I… wasn’t sure,” you admit, voice quiet.
His gaze softens, sincere in a way that feels like a hand extended. “I wasn’t done with you,” he says. Then, after a beat, more tentative: “Not like that. I just… want more time with you. If you want it too.”
Something inside you shifts. Not shatters—just loosens. Opens.
“I do.”
The smile he gives you is slow, warm, and a little devastating. He kisses you again—softer this time, like a promise—then nudges you gently toward the living room.
“C’mon. What movie are we watching?”
You blink. “You… want to stay?”
He lifts a brow, like the question surprises him. “Yeah. Unless you’re kicking me out.” He toes off his shoes, already making himself at home under the soft lamplight of your space, like he belongs.
You’re not used to this—the after. The staying.
But you nod, and he grins, dropping onto your couch like he’s been there before. Within the hour, there’s takeout spread across your coffee table—leftovers you didn’t expect anyone to share at midnight—and a movie playing more as background than focus.
Your feet end up tucked under his thigh, his palm resting warm over your ankle like it found its place without asking. Every now and then, he brings your hand to his mouth, brushing a thoughtless kiss to your knuckles mid-conversation, like touch is simply part of how he speaks.
“Tell me your favorite part of today,” he says, eyes on the screen but attention wrapped around you.
You start to say the dumplings, then shake your head. “This,” you admit quietly. “Sitting here. Not feeling… lonely in it.”
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t turn it into something heavy either. He nods, like you offered him a truth worth keeping. “Then we should practice,” he says lightly. “Get really good at not-lonely.”
When you reach for the blanket, he lifts his arm so you can settle against him. Your cheek finds the warm space beneath his collarbone, and his fingertips trace slow shapes across the back of your hand—lines, circles, something that might be a star.
“Stay awake with me,” he murmurs into your hair. “I like hearing you talk when you’re sleepy.”
So you do—about nothing, about small joys, about things you haven’t told someone in a long time. He listens, laughs in the right places, and holds the quiet with you when the words fade.
At some point, your eyelids go heavy. You feel him adjust the pillow behind your head, tuck the blanket closer around you. A soft kiss lands on your temple.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
You fall asleep with your hand still in his.
–--
You wake to warmth at your back before you wake to light.
An arm is draped around your waist—heavy, relaxed, the kind that only settles after a full night’s sleep. His breath moves slow against your shoulder. For a moment, you stay still and let it sink in: he’s still here.
You shift, just slightly. He hums, half-asleep, nuzzling into your hair like it’s instinct.
“Mm. Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, his arm tightening instead of letting go.
You turn toward him, braced for distance or regret—but his eyes blink open soft and crinkled at the corners, and he smiles like waking up beside you is exactly where he wants to be.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi.” His thumb traces a slow arc at your hip, casual, familiar. “You hungry? I make terrible pancakes, but I make them confidently.”
You huff a small laugh. “You’re not in a rush?”
“Not at all.” He tucks a stray hair behind your ear like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
He gets up, stretching, then wanders into the kitchen—barefoot, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt, hair an adorable mess. You watch him fill the kettle, hum off-key, open the wrong drawer twice before finding the spoons. When he catches you smiling, he grins back like he likes being seen this way.
It feels different. Not borrowed. Not fragile. Not something that disappears with sunrise.
He brings you a mug of tea and sits beside you on the couch, thigh pressed to yours. He kisses the corner of your mouth—soft, warm, easy.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says again, like it’s natural, like it’s yours to keep.
For the first time in a long time, morning doesn’t feel like the end of something.
It feels like the start.
The restaurant glows like a dream. Warm light. Low music. The clink of wine glasses. You’re seated by the window in that corner booth you used to imagine yourself in—on the birthday you spent alone.
But tonight, you’re glowing for a different reason.
Satoru sits across from you, one elbow on the table, the other hand curled loosely around yours. He’s telling you some ridiculous story about one of his students—something about a prank—and you’re laughing so hard you nearly knock over your wine.
“Swear to god,” he says, eyes crinkling, “I wasn’t even mad. Just impressed. Little dude had commitment.”
You beam at him—open, easy. You look good. Soft floral dress. Mascara that doesn’t run. Confidence that doesn’t shrink.
The waiter brings dessert without you asking. Satoru had pre-ordered it. “You said once you always wanted to try their flourless chocolate cake,” he shrugs, feigning innocence. “I listen sometimes.”
Your heart squeezes. He reaches over to wipe a smudge from your bottom lip and grins like it’s nothing. You don’t pull away.
You feel like the version of yourself you’d almost stopped believing in. Not waiting. Not surviving. Just… happy.
–--
Toji had been walking by.
Just passing. Not following. Not looking for anything.
Then he saw you.
You were framed in the window, backlit and glowing, bathed in amber like the centerpiece of a painting. Your hand was in someone else’s. You were laughing, lashes lowered, dipping your spoon into some decadent dessert like it was nothing. Like this kind of joy had always belonged to you.
Toji stopped mid-step. Stared.
His eyes tracked the way you tilted your head. The way you smiled at that bastard across from you like he hung the stars. Like he mattered.
He grit his teeth.
That dress. That softness. That version of you—he didn’t know her.
He’d never made space for her to exist. Didn’t deserve her.
But fuck, he remembered the taste of you. The way you had clung to him like he was oxygen. The way your voice cracked the night you told him you weren’t built for casual.
And now here you were.
With someone else.
Gojo leaned in, murmured something against your ear. You laughed, cheeks bright. When he cupped your face and kissed you, you melted into him without hesitation.
You didn’t see Toji. You didn’t look for him.
He stood there longer than he meant to.
Then he turned. Lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. The smoke curled bitter in his throat.
He hadn’t been able to get you off his mind.
Not really. Not with every woman who wasn’t you. Not with every bed that felt wrong after you.
Too late.
Too fucking late.