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road work ahead: ‘about me’ , ‘blog rules’ , ‘taglist + tags’

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extras: ‘anons’ , ‘maeve’s recs!’

a tempest of silk and steel

pairing: regency era lord!gojo x regency era lady!reader

summary: a quiet escape from the state ball leads you to a lake in the late of the night... that, and a love confession to and from lord gojo who you thought you hated.

word count: 3.2k

themes/warnings: i fear this might be super inaccurate PLS BE NICE TO ME, it gets better the more you read i promise!! miscommunication ig, gojo is lowk ooc but that’s just how i like him, argument fic, YEARNINGGG FOR DAAAYYYYSSSS

a/n: back from the dead with a short, little vignette-kinda thing!!!!! been obsessed with period dramas as of recently if you couldn’t tell, whoops! whether or not i continue and add onto this with a prologue or expand with a series, i do not know... only time will tell :-^)

You were afraid. The night lay stretched across the sky like droplets of milk flicked into coffee. The constellations scattered in profusion—their pale light casting a spectral glow upon the world. The lake before her was a great, glistening mirror, fractured only by the occasional ripple of wind-kissed water. It distorted the moon’s reflection until it seemed to wane and wax in the space of a breath. Mist curled at the shore in languid tendrils, weaving itself between the reeds like some ancient specter roused from slumber. The air was thick with petrichor and the damp sweetness of moss, while the hush of the earth was broken only by the faint nocturnal chorus of unseen creatures.

You stood poised at the water’s edge, the hem of your frail, pink gown brushing against dew-jeweled grass. Your arms were still, wrapped in a semblance of warmth against the night’s gentle chill. It was a rare kind of solitude you had sought; it was the kind that did not ask anything of you, that did not demand wit or charm or endurance. Here, you were not a woman of consequence nor a subject of scrutiny. Here, you simply were.

But solitude—it seemed—was a fickle thing.

The weight of the evening was still pressing against your bones. From the crowded ballroom, the wretched dance partners, the empty pleasantries, it had all left you drained. You remained restless in a way you could not name, so you had escaped. Looking for comfort in the cool embrace of night—far from the expectant gazes and cloying perfume of society—you watched the water’s edge in silence.

You had also, not anticipated company.

“You flee,” came Lord Gojo Satoru’s voice, rich with the ever-present lilt of amusement. “How very predictable.”

You closed your eyes briefly, exhaling sharply. Even just his voice alone was enough to cause pulses of frustration through your insides. “Must you persist in haunting me?”

“Haunting?” He let out a low chuckle, feeling humoured.

“Hardly. I should think it a kindness, seeking out a lady left unchaperoned in the dead of night.”

You turned to face him at last, lifting a single brow in questioning. A part of you held back from spitting in his face out of pure mockery. “Ah yes, a paragon of gallantry—no doubt.”

“Lady, unmoored from the gilded entrapments of polite society and seeking solace beneath the stars. Tell me, should I be concerned?”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown. The fabric tense beneath your fingers. The palms of your hands sweat, forcing you to release your fists almost as quickly as they formed. Satoru watches as your hands lay flat and he takes notice of the way you do not grant him the satisfaction of looking at him. “Should I be surprised that even in the vastness of this night, your ego demands to be acknowledged?”

He breathes a sharp breath out through his nose in place of a laugh. “You wound me… Though you’ve yet to send me away.”

The wind stirred, carrying with it the faintest trace of cedar: his scent. It was a smell you had unwillingly come to associate with his presence. With the glint of mischief in strikingly blue eyes across a room, it had become nearly impossible for the scent to not haunt you in places you dared not to acknowledge.

You turned your gaze to the water, willing yourself unaffected. “The night is too lovely for quarrels.”

“A rare concession.” He moved to stand beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel him there; he remained a quiet, steady weight upon the periphery of your senses. For a moment he did not speak, and neither did you. They stood as silent witnesses to the world’s majesty, the lake before them reflecting the heavens in a trembling imitation.

Moonlight cut silver along the sharp lines of his face, softened only by the unruly lightness of his hair and the faint glint of playfulness present in his blue eyes. He looked infuriatingly at ease, his expression poised between amusement and something more tender and unreadable.

Satoru looked closer, his gaze flickering over your face, searching. For what specifically, he was entirely unsure. “You are troubled.”

You couldn’t help but scoff whilst turning your attention to him. “How astute.”

There’s a beat of silence. It stretches, and now from the awkwardness, you feel obligated to continue.

“I am exhausted, if that is what you mean.”

“So you choose to stand here, rather than resting in the comfort of your home?”

You hesitated. The wind stirred once more, ruffling the loose tendrils of hair at your temples. You listen as they whisper to you. You knows it’s just the sound of the strands brushing up against your ears, but you let yourself believe that they’re telling you to leave before he speaks and irritates you further.

“Y/N,” His voice was softer now, the teasing edge gone.

It was not the first time he had spoken your name, but never like this. Never with such deliberate tenderness as though the syllables themselves had been carved from something sacred.

Something within you wavered. You clenched your hands tighter. “Do not presume familiarity where none is welcome.”

Damn him. Damn his insufferable arrogance, his incisive eyes, the way he seemed to peel back the layers of your defiance with nothing but certainty.

Damn. Him.

You swallowed, the weight of the evening settling heavier in your chest. Before you know it, your mouth is speaking again. “Does it not tire you?” You begins. “All of it: the posturing, the empty words, the endless waltz of expectation.”

Satoru is silent.

“I have danced with men who could not tell me the colour of my gown. I have danced with men who do not see me beyond my dowry. I have danced with men who only see me for the connections I might offer.” Your voice was measured but there was a tightness to it, a carefully restrained rage. “And I am expected to be grateful, to smile, and to accept that I am fortunate.”

You did not know why you were saying this. Why you were offering such a truth to him of all people. You tell yourself it was the lateness of the hour combined with the odd stillness of the world around them… that and you know it was because he was the only one who had ever seen you as something more than what society dictated you to be—even if it had always been at the cost of it being in opposition.

His eyebrows furrow, a movement that’s slow and measured. “You think I do not understand?”

You let out a quiet laugh, obviously devoid of any humour. “Oh forgive me, of course.” You plead forgiveness but your face shows no remorse. “Lord Gojo: the golden heir, the ever-charming darling of every drawing room from here to London—how very arduous your existence must be.”

He smiled but there was no real mirth in it. “For all my so-called charm, there is not a single person in that ballroom who looks at me and sees me.”

You stilled.

He was watching you with even more intent now, the mask of arrogance momentarily set aside.

“It is all a game,” he whispers, frustrations bubbling. “A well-rehearsed performance with rules written long before either of us had a say in them. I play my part well—perhaps too well. But tell me, Lady… Do you know how it feels to be entirely surrounded and yet completely alone?”

Your breath caught.

Because you did.

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and saw not the insufferable Lord Gojo you had spent years sparring with, but something raw and weary. The realisation unsettled you.

“You asked me why I fled,” your fingers move to clasp together. “It is because I am tired of pretending.”

A silence stretched between them, fragile as gossamer.

“I love you.”

The words fell from his lips like something inevitable—like something that had always existed—waiting to be spoken.

Your breath wavered.

Satoru let out a small, almost incredulous laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “God help me, I do. It is a wretched thing—this affliction. I have fought it, resented it, cursed it. But it remains. It will always remain.”

You could not move.

“You are insufferable,” his teeth grit though the words fall from his lips in a tone that is almost fond. “You needle at every flaw I possess, you contradict me at every turn, and still—” His voice cracks and wavers at the edges. “And still, I find myself seeking you out. I’m drawn to you in every room, waiting and waiting for the next battle—the next exchange—because it is the only time I feel.”

You swallowed, your throat tight.

He sighs, gaze lifting to the stars and voice gentler now, stripped of all pretense. “It is a futile thing to resist gravity, especially when it comes in the form of you—you who pulls me inescapably toward you again and again, until I no longer remember what it is to exist without this terrible ache of wanting you. Tell me I am a fool. Tell me you feel nothing of what I do and I will never speak of this again.”

You parted your lips, the words poised on your tongue.

You could not say them.

Because you did feel it. You felt it in the way he had unsettled your very existence without ever asking permission.

The lake shivered. The night sighed. And you had no clever words left to give.

“I—” The word stumbled, unweaving before you could even grasp it. You let out a shaky sigh, your heels simultaneously twisting into the dirt of the ground as if they could anchor you to the earth. “I do not understand this. I do not understand you.”

You ought to have walked away. Any sensible woman would have. You could end it. You could laugh, dismiss him, turn on her feet and walk away. It would be easier—safer.

But you had never been a coward.

“I despised you.” Your voice was stabbing and helpless. “I spent years convincing myself of it. Every time you needled me, every time you smirked as though the very act of irritating me was your life’s great pleasure, every time you met my wit with your own and refused to yield, I told myself I hated you.” You spoke unforgivingly, careless of the significance your words harboured. “I repeated it so often and so fervently that I began to believe it.”

“Do you know what it is to loathe someone?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, hands fisted at your sides. “To meet them blow for blow, only to realise—” you let out a disbelieving laugh, but it was hollow and fragile. “Only to realise that your hatred is not hatred at all, but something else entirely?”

Satoru let out a slow and measured sound. “Yes, yes I do—”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head to ridicule him—because that was all you had ever known. “No, you do not understand. You have never been burdened with the expectation of being agreeable, furthermore, of being pleasing. I am not like them. I do not simper, I do not shrink myself to be more tolerable, I do not pretend. And so I have spent my life being told I am too much. Too sharp, too proud, too unwilling to bend.” Your scorn collapsed for just a second—had he blinked he would’ve missed the way you caught your bottom lip between your teeth in resentment. “But you—”

You spluttered.

Satoru did not dare move or speak.

Your gaze was lowered, whether out of shame, or because you were overwhelmed—the man would never know. “You have never once asked me to be anything but this.”

The atmosphere between them was as taut as a wire.

You should have stopped there.

But you didn’t.

“I have spent every waking hour of my life trying to best you, only to realise that I feel most myself when I am standing toe to toe with you. I wait for your inevitable remark, your infuriating laughter, the way you glance at me when you think I do not see you in every room and in every crowd.” If the words weren’t escaping you earlier, they were now, timeless lifetimes of self-restraint splintering into tiny fragments all at once.

“You have made a sport of provoking me and I am the fool for thinking I could remain untouched by it. Do you have any notion of what it is like to know someone so thoroughly that they begin to live beneath your very skin? To feel their presence even when they are not there? To hear their voice before they speak? I have spent so long fighting you that I never stopped to think what might happen if I ever put down my sword.” There is a faint tremor in the air that escapes your lungs. “And now I find that I cannot.”

The air is dense, everything you had just uncloaked floats in the infinity between you.

Satoru drew a slow, unsteady breath at the same moment you swallowed, your throat tight. “I do not know when it began.” Voice quieter now, your words are now delicate and unstable. “I think it was always there, waiting. Maybe it crept in unnoticed, until one day I woke up and knew that it was only you—you—who could only unnerve me entirely.”

When the confession hits Satoru’s ears, he lets out a breath that's half a gasp and half a sigh, as though the divulgence was too much.

You were unraveling piece by piece, and there was nothing you or he, could do to stop it.

You could feel your frustration rapidly bleeding into desperation. “You infuriate me. You challenge me at every turn and you see me too well and I hate you for it.” Your voice broke on the last word, voice pitching higher than intended, accompanied by something hot prickling at the edges of your vision. “I hate you for it.”

Satoru was utterly still, his gaze locked on yours as if you were the only thing that existed in the world. Your throat continued to constrict, the truth burning its way out of you.

“But let the heavens judge me,” you sigh out breathlessly, your hands quivering at your sides, “I think if you asked, I would let you ruin me.”

Knowing Satoru is messy and complicated. He doesn't know how to be loved, or that it’s okay to need someone and not fear it. The irony is, you're still learning the same thing about yourself--and more than anything, that's okay.

The words hung between them, a confession made raw and desperate.

His entire body tensed, as if every ounce of restraint in him had just been stretched to its limit. So when he reached for you, it was not gently, it was not carefully. He reached for you like a drowning man breaking the surface of the ocean. His hands came to cradle your face as though you might disappear if he loosened his grip. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and his voice was hoarse, cracked with something broken.

Lifting your chin, you muttered, “you are a fool.”

All he could do was let out a laugh. It was laced with relief, though not quite devoid of weariness yet. “So I have been told.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat as if steadying yourself for the fall you could no longer prevent.

“I—“ you forced yourself to continue, though your pulse thundered in your ears. Every word felt heavy on your tongue. Every breath pushed against your limbs. “I cannot seem to imagine a world in which you do not exist at all.”

His breath hitched. He felt the way he struggled to keep his composure, and how impossible it was to hold onto some semblance of the world he had known before this. Your words--your unadulterated sheer vulnerability--unraveled him in a way he hadn't anticipated. It was a bridge built on a foundation of things he had never thought to admit, and now he stood at the edge of it, terrified to cross but terrified not to. He hadn’t realized how desperate he was for this acknowledgment of the unspoken things that had festered beneath the surface. Satoru swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Y/N.”

Your name in his mouth was something reverent, something aching. You could see it: the war behind his eyes, the unspoken question, the hope. Your eyes fluttered shut.

“Do not look at me like that,” you spoke in a hush, unable to bear it.

Maybe it was the way he saw you, as if every guarded corner of your heart was naked and vulnerable before him. And for better or for worse, maybe it was also the terrifying feeling that he knew it all and had always known.

Satoru’s lips quirked, the ghost of a smile. “Like what?”

“Like I am the answer to a question you have spent your life asking.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“And if you are?”

The words shattered something inside you. Years of fortification shattered within an instant. His eyes did not waver. His eyes did not grant you mercy. You did not seek it.

You kept your eyes closed for the briefest moment, before opening them again—before meeting his gaze with everything you had never allowed yourself to say.

With a sudden breath, Satoru seemed to collapse inward; the sound was emptying and painful.

His voice was low, his usual air of insufferable ease nowhere to be found. Gone was the smirk always half formed at the corner of his mouth--the insufferable ease and the practiced detachment of a man who had never once betrayed his own heart... until now, at least. “I have spent years watching you move through this world, unwilling to let anyone shape you into something smaller than you are. I have fought you at every turn not because I sought to tame you, but because I could not resist the pull of standing in your fire. I have been a damned fool, yes, but not so much a fool as to mistake what this has been all along.”

The war between them had never been one of hatred, but rather one of yearning. The words he spoke struck like flint against steel. It ignited every carefully buried ember you had spent years learning to refute. To resist was to deceive yourself, and to yield was to unravel entirely—you knew your choice.

“You are right,” he mused. “This was never hatred.” It’s three things all at once: a pause, a breath, and a fraction of hesitation. “I think I loved you even when I did not know how to name it.”

His hand lifted before hesitating at your cheek as though uncertain he had the right.

You did not stop him.

And when his fingers finally met your skin—timid and careful—you found that you were not afraid at all.

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spending new year’s eve reposting the most gut wrenching, agonisingly painful, and diabolical satosugu tiktok edits

—4:53am

the road home stretched endlessly ahead as the three of you, (the moon, kita, and you) sat in the silent embrace of the night. winding through the dark countryside, there were no words spoken. the only light came from the truck’s headlights, catching the occasional glint of dew on the fields and fences that lined the way. the air inside the car was calm, filled only with the grumble of the engine and your slightly uneven breathing. stars were strewn infinitely across the night sky, their faint light spilling over your faces. whilst kita drove quietly beside you, his hands sure on the wheel and his profile serene in the glow of the dashboard—you sat in the passenger seat with your head resting against the cool glass of the window.

though right now was early sunday morning, it was late saturday night when you received the text from kita inviting you out for celebratory drinks with his friends. you were ecstatic at the opportunity to drink yourself free, and something in you had given way. you supposed it was a deep, guttural longing to let go; along with the fact that your mind had been swimming in a haze of lingering thoughts for the past couple of months, you desperately fiend for some alcohol. so later that night, surrounded by a group of enthusiastic and loud friends, you comfortably drank yourself away. it wasn’t enough to lose awareness entirely, but enough to feel unsteady.

often times, you didn’t know what to do with a best friend like kita shinsuke, whose stillness held entire conversations and whose presence could make the world feel smaller and more manageable. he was there, always. silent and steady, his presence as grounding as ever.

your first meeting with the man was quite mundane—void of any particular excitement and yet it lingered with you, etched into memory like the quiet beauty of a sunset you hadn’t expected to see.

it was a small town—the kind where everyone’s paths crossed eventually. you realised that pretty quickly when you received welcome gifts from half the town within the first week of you moving there, (safe to say you were incredibly well fed for the next week and a half).

before you’d ever met kita, he had been a mysterious enigma to you. having been close friends with his grandma after meeting at the local bakery, you’d think that also meant it was inevitable that the two of you would be introduced to one another. you quickly learned that kita was a busy man—that or he was actively avoiding you every time you were invited to visit the pair at home. you’d heard of him before, of course—how could you not? his name carried a subtle weight around town. people spoke of him with admiration like he was more rooted to the earth than most. he was reliable, dependable, and the kind of person who didn’t just talk about doing the right thing because he lived it.

when your first meeting came on a cold, misty morning at the local farmer’s market, you hadn’t even realised it was kita you had spoken to. you were struggling to balance a precarious stack of bags filled with fresh produce, a loaf of bread teetering dangerously on top. just as you’d resigned yourself to letting gravity win, a steady hand had reached out, catching the loaf mid-fall.

“you look like you’ve got your hands full,” a warm and calm voice chimed as a hand gently placed the bread back on top of your bags. startled, you looked up to find kind eyes watching you. later that day, you chalked it up to pretty privilege—because if it had been anyone else but kita, you probably would’ve snapped back with a sarcastic comment about how you had everything under control.

“thanks,” realising how intensely you had been staring, you quickly choked out some words to fill the silence. “i think i overestimated my carrying capacity.”

“i’m sure we’ve all done that a time or two,” you continued staring at him as he spoke, wide eyed as he smiled down at you with a casual softness you couldn’t quite understand. “want a hand?”

you’d hesitated—politeness warring with the undeniable relief of someone willing to help. however before you could answer, he’d simply taken a couple of bags from you, movements pure-intentioned and natural.

“it’s no trouble,” he interjected a second time, searching your face and finding the reluctance.

and that was kita—quietly stepping in when it mattered and never making a fuss about it.

from that day on, your paths seemed to cross more often. you’d exchange greetings at places like the market, on the quiet roads that wound through the countryside, and at local events where he always seemed to be lending a hand or silently ensuring things ran smoothly.

where conversations started out practical and polite—exchanging small talk about the weather, the state of the crops, or the best routes through the back roads; they had also deepened. you found yourself sharing pieces of your life with him in a way that felt natural, like pouring water into a cup that never overflowed.

kita listened; he didn’t just hear your words, he listened. his responses were thoughtful and measured as he carried each word you gave him carefully, treating it like something precious.

of course, he wasn’t the loudest presence in your life, but he quickly became the steadiest. eventually he had transformed into the one person you found yourself leaning toward the most without even realising it.

so as the days turned into weeks, the weeks in months, and the months into seasons—you began to wonder if maybe, he was leaning toward you too.

it was you who was first to speak the entire car ride home.

“you’re really interesting, shin.”

‘interesting’. what an understatement ‘interesting’ was. the word felt hollow and insulting in comparison to the fullness of what you meant. you don’t think you’ll ever find a way to articulate the quiet strength he carried, or the way he could exist completely in his own skin without trouble. even just the thought of it had left you unsteady in yours.

there was something magnetic about him, a pull that had grown stronger with every passing moment. yet you couldn’t bear to look at him now, afraid he might catch the way your thoughts spun so raw and unguarded when you were around him.

you watched the window instead, eyes trailing after the rain-dampened streets as they passed. the faint fog of your breath blurred the view on the glass, but it felt safer than meeting his gaze—safer than risking the tranquility between you breaking apart.

there was so much you wanted to say, words pressing against the edges of your throat. the steady cadence of his presence held you back and you decided that for now, it was easier to just sit beside him and let the air grow heavy with all the things you couldn’t name.

when you turn your head to look at him after a couple seconds too long of silence, you half expect a trace of teasing in his expression. it shocks you when there’s nothing except unadulterated patience as you lock eyes for a moment.

you continue, both frustrated and full of gratitude. “the way you do that thing where you just… are.”

by now, you’re sure it’s the alcohol talking.

“every single time, you always manage to stay so collected like you’ve got everything figured out! hell, i’m sitting here near tears because all i had were three drinks and sang awful karaoke.” your loud and exasperated voice turns into a slur of mumbles and grumbles by the end.

“i’d say you hold yourself together just fine,” kita replies simply, voice careful and deliberate.

“you’d be lying,” you shot back softly with a turn of your head. you watch the gravel road move with the car once more, overwhelmed.

“i don’t lie,” it’s all kita says, his hands still on the wheel.

three words that settled between you like a warm ember. it was true, kita never said anything he didn’t mean. you knew that truth about him the day you met. the fact was both comforting and unnerving, being seen so clearly by someone who didn’t look away.

when he pulled the truck up to your house, the hum of the engine cut out as he turned the key, making the silence in the air come quicker and sharper. the world outside was still—the stars breathed with the faint whisper of the breeze against the trees.

kita stepped out and rounded the truck, opening your door before you could fumble with the handle. the moon was high, casting a silvery glow over the isolated farm road as he helped you out of the car. his grip was sturdy though gentle on your arm, steadying you as you wobbled,

“careful,” he whispered, arm brushing against yours as he guided you toward the porch. the touch of your skin against his was accidental, yet it burned him like it wasn’t. his steps faltered, just for a second as if the air itself had thickened.

he could feel the tension in his own muscles and chest, unsure what to do with it. when your shoulder brushed his again, this time for a little longer, he almost passed out with how quickly his pulse started to race. the adrenaline of knowing he was too close to something fragile made him yearn to pull you in and to close the gap that had been silently growing between you for what felt like eternities.

the night was cold, the air crisp and cool. you paused and reached for the door as he stood behind you patiently. you moved to grab your keys from your bag but paused abruptly to ponder for a quiet moment. you let your eyes wander over the grooves in the wood, tracing every line and discolouration until you couldn’t hold back the sheer embarrassment and shame that consumed you. “you could’ve just gone home, you know.”

“i know,” you didn’t want to turn to face him.

even though you weren’t looking at kita, he was looking at you. there was no pity in his words, neither judgment—just that steady understanding that always seemed to strip you bare. it felt dangerous; vulnerability was never common with you.

“you’re always here though—and you’re always so kind about it, even when you don’t have to be.”

it was a never ending dance with the two of you: one step forward and one step back, incapable of ever meeting in the middle. these days, you found yourself burdened with the prospect of what could be, anxious with the realisation that crossing that line meant giving a voice to the unspoken rhythm between you—a rhythm that neither of you had been brave enough to call a song.

kita frowned, a deep, harsh line forming between his eyebrows, confused by your sudden honesty. you turned and watched as his gaze started immediately searching yours.

“because i care about you.” it was said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

a laugh choked up before you could stop it. “you’re too kind shin—you make the rest of us look bad.”

despite how confused kita was with your aggressive praises, he huffed a soft laugh and shook his head. “i don’t know about that.”

“no, really,” you insisted, leaning closer. “it’s like you’ve never been afraid of anything in your life.”

kita didn’t respond right away.

instead, he let his gaze linger on you, caught in the way the stars seemed to rest against your skin. the faint glow softened every edge, highlighting the curve of your cheek, the curve of your lips. some day, he’d tell you how he believed the stars themselves weren’t the ones shining, they were borrowing their light from you that night. there was something achingly still about the way you stood there, the night folding around you like it had been waiting for you to step into it—you belonged to it more than anything else.

“you say that like it’s somethin’ bad,” was all he could mutter, afraid he’d crack and talk of the beauty you emanated in this moment.

“Ii’s not fair,” you repeated, voice cracking slightly. “i can’t keep pretending.” you throw you hands up, groaning loudly before dragging them down your face agonisingly. there’s a frog in your throat desperately trying to claw its way out.

“pretending what?”

you could barely swallow, your throat tight and coarse. the alcohol buzzed in your blood, blurring the edges of your self-restraint. “pretending that i don’t… feel the way i do. that i haven’t been trying not to look at you like this for months.”

the words hung between you, heavy like the air before a storm. you didn’t dare look away from him even as your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.

if kita was surprised, he didn’t show it. instead, he stepped just a little closer, his warmth becoming a pillar in the night that pulled you in unconsciously. “you don’t have to pretend, y’know.”

“don’t i?” your voice was barely above a whisper. “what if i say something i can’t take back?”

“then you say it,” his voice came secure and confident, an anchor that came with everything that he spoke. “and we figure it out from there.”

when you searched his face for any sign of hesitation, all you found was attentiveness so gentle and endless, a parallel to the stars that settled above you. “you make it sound so simple.”

“maybe it is,” he said. “maybe it’s just us makin’ it complicated.”

the words stirred something in you—an ache and a yearning you’d been pushing down for so long that it almost hurt to let breathe. you looked away, your fingers curling loosely against the metal of the door handle. “i think i’ve been in love with you for a while, shin,” you admitted softly, the words slipping out like a confession to the night itself.

kita was silent for a long moment, long enough that you forced yourself to look back at him, bracing for whatever came next.

“i’ve known,” you were drunk. kita knew that. he knew that whatever happened tonight was going to change the trajectory of your entire relationship onwards. his voice was soft but unshakable as he continued, “or at least, i’ve hoped.”

you blinked and you felt your breath catch in your lungs when you turned to look at him for clarity. “what do you mean?”

the space between you felt impossibly small now, charged with something that felt both delicate and infinite.

“you’re smart, you’ll figure it out.”

more than anything in the world right now, kita wanted to do but be close to you. but you were drunk, and he knew that after months of pining for you, it was only fair he let you hear his confession sober. “right now, you need to get some rest,” he announced softly. “and tomorrow, when you’re feelin’ clearer, we talk about this properly. because if i’m gonna do this with you, i’m gonna do it right.”

a faint, shaky laugh escaped you as you looked away, suddenly self conscious about your giddiness. “you’re impossible.”

“maybe,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.

the comfort of his words settled over you like a blanket, wrapping around all the spaces that had felt raw and uncertain just moments before. “so i’ll see you tomorrow?” the question was innocent, laced with your faint smile as you asked.

he mirrored the curve of your eyes with his own for a moment longer, his excitement unwavering. “i’ll see you tomorrow.” he replied back in affirmation with a nod of his head.

and, with that same quiet patience he stepped back, giving you the space you needed. “goodnight, y/n.” the absence of his warmth left you with a deep hole that you desperately craved to fill. but despite the yearning that followed, you accepted it with open arms, a knowing feeling that tomorrow would bring a new kind of intimacy.

“goodnight, shin,” you whispered reluctantly, turning to enter your house.

you felt the pressure of kita’s eyes disappearing as he watched as the door closed softly behind you. you sank onto the couch, your heart still racing. the confession still hung in the air, fragile but real, like the first light of morning just barely breaking over the horizon.

and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t holding the weight of it alone.

KVROOMI © 2024, DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

the twelve days of christmas (kuroo’s ver)

summary: the twelve days leading up to christmas with kuroo and the different ways he shows you his love each time.

listening to: anything - adrienne lenker

tags: kuroo x fem!reader, domestic fluff, minor swearing, reader’s first language is english, reader has hair

author note: IM SO LATE I KNOW, but a massive late merry christmas to all who celebrate! hoping everyone is doing well these winter or summer holidays and spending time with/doing who/what you all love the most. wishing everyone well into this coming new year! may 2025 bring you wealth and good health ❤️‍🩹

i giggled to myself too many times while writing this it’s embarrassing i seriously think this is the cutest thing i’ve ever posted. also just wanted to share that the second i started writing for the final day (day 12), it turned 11:11 and i think that’s a sign

on the first day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—a single christmas ornament personalised with your initials. his fingers held the small box in a way that was both cautious and arrogant—a perfect portrayal of his well-known charm. his frame leaned against the doorway to your apartment, his cheeks flushed from the december cold and the faintest smirk decorating his lips.

you were seated on the couch, your hands curled around a mug of tea. though you loved winter, it just happened to be one of those evenings where the world outside felt grey and cold. you supposed your long day was partly to blame, though you’d almost immediately forgotten about it the second you stepped inside, because there he was; he who was always warm and always golden.

“on the first day of christmas,” he began dramatically, “your loving boyfriend gifted to thee…” trailing off, he held the box aloft like it was the climax of some grand performance.

you raised an eyebrow, unimpressed though very amused. “is it socks? please tell me it’s socks. i feel like i’ve been dropping very unsubtle hints.”

your own interest had piqued just from your rambles alone, your mind unconsciously racking through endless possibilities of what could be in the box. now your body has shifted from casually leaned up on the back of the couch to sitting at the edge, eager to find out what gift awaited you.

“socks?” kuroo scoffed, shutting the door behind him with his foot. “do i look like the kind of guy who gives socks on day one? socks are at least day four material.”

“ah, my mistake.” you purse your lips in apology before taking a sip of your tea and watching as he sat beside you, his knee brushing against yours.

“wait, hold on.there’s more gifts coming?” you whipped your head towards his in realisation.

kuroo smelled faintly of pine. whether from a nearby tree lot or just because he insisted on using a “woodsy” cologne, you couldn’t tell. he simply shrugged sheepishly in response and you gave a wearisome huff.

“alright well… go on then, magician. what’s in the box?”

with a theatrical wave, kuroo opened the lid. inside was a single christmas ornament: shiny and delicate, etched with your initials in exquisite gold lettering. it caught the dim light of your living room and scattered it like tiny stars.

you stared at it for a moment, caught off guard by how sweet it was—intimate, even. it wasn’t that kuroo was incapable of romance. he was, in his own teasing way… but this felt different. it felt a lot more thoughtful.

“an ornament,” you said finally, reaching out to touch it. “wow... this is… weirdly adorable. are you feeling okay?”

“don’t ruin it,” he hushed pretending to be offended, though you could see the corners of his mouth twitching. “i thought we’d start a tradition. every year, one new ornament. you know, build up a collection. by the time we’re old and grey, we’ll have a whole tree full of memories. romantic, right?” he winked playfully.

you blinked, caught between laughter and something warmer and deeper. “that’s actually—wow. that’s disgustingly sweet, tetsu.”

“i’m just full of surprises, babe.” his hand dipped gently into the box and handed you the ornament, fingers lingering against yours. “just don’t get too used to it because tomorrow’s gift is going to be hilariously impractical.”

you turned the ornament over in your hand, the gold initials shining faintly. “okay… i just can’t get over how my initials are way prettier than yours? if this tradition continues, i fear we might need to just skip out on an ornament with your name so the tree stays pretty.”

“pffft, it’s not my fault you’ve got better branding,” he grinned as he draped an arm over your shoulder. “if it makes you feel better, next year i’ll go full kuroo—big and bold. i’m thinking something shiny and impossible to ignore. perhaps an ornament shaped like my face instead?”

you laughed, leaning into him. “i’d hang it front and center, right where everyone could see it.”

his smile softened. “great. that’s where i’d want it to be.”

you stayed like that for a while, his hand tracing slow circles on your shoulder. outside, the world was cold and distant, but thanks to kuroo, it felt like the season itself was bright, and full of beginnings.

on the second day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—two matching christmas mugs lined with photos from your recent photobooth trip. kuroo lied yesterday when he said today’s gift was going to be “hilariously impractical” but he wouldn’t tell you until you found out yourself. the box was suspiciously light when he handed it to you, his grin giving away both everything and nothing at all. he’d ambushed you in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you prepped your nightly tea with a knowing look.

it was day two of his so-called “twelve days of christmas” series, and if yesterday’s ornament hadn’t been both weirdly heartwarming, you might have been more cautious. but this was kuroo—the fun was in the gamble.

“i know you’re dying to see what’s inside,” he urged, the teasing lilt in his voice as familiar as his cologne. “guess. it’s the perfect gift for someone like you.”

“someone like me?” you narrowed your eyes, glancing between him and the box. “what’s that supposed to mean? should i be insulted?”

he placed his chin between his index finger and thumb, thoughtfully. “hmmm… insulted, no. concerned, maybe. thrilled? definitely.”

you scowled at him before turning to open the box slowly, drawing it out just to see him fidget. inside was a white mug—unassuming, plain, even. too plain for kuroo. you turned to him, mug in one hand and the other on your hip.

“wow,” you deadpanned. “a mug. revolutionary. thank you tetsuro for single-handedly redefining the art of gift giving.”

“ah-ah.” he wagged a finger in front of your face, grabbing the mug before you could set it down along with the other mugs in your extensive collection. “this isn’t just a mug. this is a magic mug.”

you blinked. once. twice. and three times before stuttering out a “sorry?”

he sauntered to the kettle, pouring hot water into the cup with the flair of a magician revealing the final act. you watched almost agonisingly slowly, as the heat spread and the surface began to change. the once white mug was now fading to colour. your breath hitched as the image emerged: a photo from your last impulsive photo booth trip.

there you were, mid-laugh with your face tilted toward his. his grin was wide and toothy, hand half-raised as if mid-gesture. the next frame showed your cheeks puffed in anger, while kuroo looked genuinely alarmed with one hand outstretched as if apologizing. and the cherry on top of the final frame? pure love—his chin buried in your shoulder with your hands on either side of his cheeks, squishing his face into something utterly ridiculous.

you couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you, warm and unfiltered. “oh my god, this is what you chose?”

“what can i say?” he pushed himself back against the counter, watching your reaction with a soft sort of pride. “i’m a sucker for authenticity and you look adorable in that last one.”

“adorable?!” another laugh bubbled from you as you gestured wildly at the cup, now fully transformed. “i look like i’m wrestling you into submission!”

“exactly,” he uttered, completely serious. “it’s very ‘us.’”

half-exasperated, half-melting under the sheer absurdity of it all, you replied. “i’m going to use this in every meeting i have. i’ll be sipping from this in front of clients and coworkers.”

he grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. “perfect. let the world know you’re stuck with me.”

cue the classic eye roll. the warmth in his voice, the way he let his fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm—it disarmed you, as it always did.

“well,” you pressed a kiss to his jaw, “i guuuueeeesss i do need a mug for tea.”

“that’s the spirit.” he picked up his own matching mug, the photo identical but reversed. “and now, when we’re apart, you can look at me squished like a pancake and remember how much you love me.”

for the third time, you couldn’t help but laugh again, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “you’re ridiculous.”

his voice dipped low as he kissed your temple, “here you are loving me anyway.”

and he was right. of course he was right.

on the third day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—three of his favourite, special, christmas recipes. he arrived at your door with a snow-dusted grin and a peculiar sort of confidence—though that was nothing out of the blue. he held a single envelope; it was a little worn around the edges, with your name scribbled across the front in his messy, self-assured handwriting. no grand box like the past two days, no wrapping paper, and no telltale jingles of something extravagant. all that was held between his fingers was the envelope.

“is this a love letter?” you asked, pulling him inside by the sleeve of his coat to stop the cold from clinging to his cheeks. his cheeks were a warm shade of pink and had you had stared at them any longer than you already had, you would’ve kept him outside just so you could stare at how soft he looked for even longer. “because i gotta say, day three seems a little early for declarations of undying devotion.”

“ha ha, not a love letter,” he responded sarcastically, toeing off his boots and shrugging out of his coat. he stood in the middle of your walkway with his hands on his hips, watching you with that unshakable kuroo observation. “though if you want one i could probably draft something up. i’d write about your eyes, your laugh, and the way you snore when you’re—”

a single flick to his forehead to stop him before he could finish, and he lets out a laugh, all mischief and charm.

“okaaay, what’s in the envelope, then?” you asked, shaking it lightly as you moved toward the kitchen. naturally, kuroo followed like he belonged in your space.

“three gifts in one,” he announces, tapping the counter. “an entrée, a main course, and a dessert—recipes straight from the kuroo tetsuro vault of holiday magic.”

you nodded, taking in what he said and ending it with a shrug. “the kuroo tetsuro vault of holiday magic? huh, sounds legit.”

“oh, it’s legit,” kuroo leaned in slightly, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “these are the recipes that made my grandma call me her favourite. this—” he jabs at the envelope in your hand before continuing, “—holds recipes my teammates still beg me to make whenever i’m back home. they’re recipes that are, dare i say, iconic.”

you opened the envelope, pulling out three sheets of paper each written in his handwriting, complete with small drawings in the margins.

as your fingers traced the edges of the paper, the room shifted. the glow of the kitchen lights softened, the air thick with something quiet and familiar. you’d awaited a playful gesture—a joke gift wrapped in kuroo’s usual brand of teasing. perhaps something loud and irreverent to match the way he filled a room, but this? this was different.

the ink on the pages flowed sweetly from one side to the other—slightly smudged in places. you knew it spoke of hours spent leaning over a counter, a pen in his hand and you in his mind. each word carried a history with memories of family kitchens—laughter echoing through the years, a tradition he was choosing to share with you. it was so intimate in a way that pressed against the deepest crevices of your heart, unexpected and unspoken. it was like being handed the key to a door you hadn’t realized you’d been standing in front of.

all you could do was glance up at him, your voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath you hadn’t yet let go. “this feels… so personal,” was all you could squeeze out, quieter than you meant to.

kuroo who was against the counter, watched with an expression that was almost unreadable, his usual smirk replaced with a smile. “it is,” was all he said, and the weight of those words settled over you like snow on the branches outside.

it wasn’t just recipes. it wasn’t just a gift. it was a glimpse into the places he didn’t offer easily to the world—the spaces he reserved for family, for love, for you. the realisation unfurled slowly like the first bloom of warmth on a winter morning.

“hey,” he murmured whilst stepping closer, his hand brushing against yours as he gently laid the pages down onto the kitchen counter. “don’t overthink it. i just wanted to give you something real. something that… feels like home.”

you glanced down at the pages. the first was for an appetizer: roasted chestnut and butternut squash soup. there were notes about how the squash needed to be caramelised just right, along with a drawing of a smiling chestnut wearing a christmas hat.

the second was the main dish: honey-glazed ham with a cranberry-orange reduction. beneath the instructions he’d written, ‘if this doesn’t make you swoon, i’m giving up on holidays forever.’

the third was dessert, of course. written in black ink was his family’s secret recipe for gingerbread cookies with notes on how to make them crispy on the edges but soft in the middle. there was a poorly sketched gingerbread man doing a backflip in the corner.

“tetsuro,” you whispered reading through them, the thoughtfulness sinking in. “these are actually amazing.”

“of course they are,” he responds, moving to stand behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder as he peered at the recipes. “but they’re not just recipes. they’re invitations.”

“invitations?”

he tilted his head slightly, his hair brushing against your cheek. “to make them. together. think of it as a bonding exercise. or a relationship test. can we survive one kitchen, one oven, and three recipes without a holiday meltdown? high stakes, i know.”

now you really couldn’t hold back the laugh. folding the papers back into the envelope you continued, “so, what happens if we pass this ‘test’? what’s the reward?”

he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, his voice warm and teasing. “you get to keep me, obviously. and maybe some awesome leftovers.”

you turn to face him, envelope in hand. your chest settles with the same feeling of warmth that had nothing to do with the kitchen. “you know,” you lean in slightly, “for a guy who smuggles his personality in through bad puns and bad jokes, you’re actually kind of romantic.”

“kind of?” he echoed, feigning offense. “i just handed you the culinary equivalent of my heart, and i get “kind of” romantic?”

you kissed him, cutting off his fake tirade. your hands find their way to his collar and when you pulled back, his grin was smug but softer, like he’d just won something only the two of you could understand.

“now, which recipe do we ruin first?”

on the fourth day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—four candles, each paired with a scent from a particular memory you had through every season that year. the snow on his shoes had melted into slush by the time kuroo had arrived home from work, boots squeaking on the wooden floors as he entered your apartment. dropping his scarf onto your chair and his coat on another, he finally let himself fall on the armrest of your couch. low and behold, balancing on his leg was yet another box, significantly larger that the past two he had gifted you already.

“are you here to redecorate or ruin our furniture?” you asked, looking up from your laptop as you glared at the wet spots forming around your couch.

“i bring gifts,” he announced proudly like a dramatic oracle. “four of them, actually. one for every season.”

you hummed. “wait! let me guess, a pinecone for winter, a seashell for summer, a pile of wet leaves for autumn—”

“wow. you really have not been giving me any credit, even after yesterday’s absolute banger of a gift!” kuroo interrupted while you snorted next to him, watching as he scooted closer to you on the couch and handed you the box. “this, my love, is the culmination of hours of research, consideration, and—you’ll be surprised to hear—minimal swearing.”

you sat up intrigued, raising an eyebrow and peeled the lid off. nestled inside were four candles, each carefully labeled with a card on top in his handwriting which had looked like it had been scrawled by a caffeinated bird—you found it so endearing

“spring: cherry blossoms and rain-soaked pavement,” you read aloud, pulling the first candle out.

“‘cause of the park!” kuroo winked at you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “y’know, when we tried to have a picnic but you spent half the time yelling at me to stop stepping in the puddles?”

“tried is the keyword there,” you retorted wittily, though your lips curved into a frown at the memory. “and you splashed mud on my shoes.”

“you mean i decorated your shoes,” he shot back without missing a beat.

the summer candle came next, and the scent of salty air and something faintly fruity filled your nostrils. you froze.

“the beach,” it was such a distinct memory for both you and kuroo, “the one with the frisbee game…”

“where i heroically rescued it from that evil seagull,” he finished, and when you looked up towards him, his grin was unapologetic.

“you ate shit running away afterwards.”

“unnecessary details, babe,” he shook his head, waving a dismissive hand.

autumn smelled like spiced cider and faint traces of smoke, the memory wrapped around you like a worn flannel—cool nights, warm hands, and kuroo pointing at the sky with wild confidence as he made up constellations.

“that one’s kuroo’s cluster,” he’d sleepily said that night, pointing to a random spot in the sky. “because it looks like it forgot what it was doing halfway through.”

that candle earned a spot on the coffee table.

finally, winter. the label read ‘evergreen and vanilla latte’ and as soon as the wick was lit, the room was filled with something achingly familiar. the scent of him—of mornings spent curled up together with his laughter spilling into your coffee like the easiest thing in the world.

you didn’t speak for a moment; you didn’t trust your voice. instead, you reached for the winter candle again, holding it like it might explain something to you if you focused hard enough.

“i thought they might be nice to have around,” kuroo added, his tone quieter now as he watched you with that expression he wore when he thought you weren’t paying attention. “like, if i’m not here or something. you’d still… have the moments. or the scents. or—okay, i’m bad at explaining this.”

“you’re not,” this time you were the one to interrupt him—though your voice betrayed you, cracking slightly at the edges.

his grin usual returned, soft and crooked. “you’re not gonna cry, are you? i don’t have tissues on me.”

you snorted, swiping at your eyes before any tears could fall. “i’m just impressed. you managed to make yet another gift that’s thoughtful and functional. what’s next? a calendar with all the dates we’ve argued circled in red?”

“now there’s an idea,” he laughed—big, loud, and very kuroo. resting an arm along the back of the couch, he sighs. “but that’s for next year. for now, you just get the candles. and me, obviously.”

“ how lucky i am,” you mocked, though when he leaned closer, his forehead brushing against yours, the words fell into the warm silence between you.

“you are, actually,” his voice was low and teasing, “because i really am as great as i smell.”

for once, you didn’t argue.

on the fifth day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—five flowers all wrapped up in a bouquet he designed himself. it was just after sundown when kuroo was unlocking the door and stepping inside of your home. the paper he held was crinkled in his grip while the flowers peeked out at odd angles, a mix of bold colors and delicate whites. you cocked a brow at him, eyes wandering and questioning

“is this day five?” you gestured to the bouquet. “don’t get me wrong, i’m so grateful… but what’s the theme here, tetsuro? did you run out of budget or is this an act of minimalism?”

his grin was slow and easy, the kind that always seemed to have a secret tucked behind it. you learned to accept it. he laughed, stepping past you and into your apartment, leaving the cold trailing behind. “i may have argued with the florist over ribbon choices—but that’s besides the point.”

“wha—” he handed you the bouquet with a seductive wink. as you took it, you noticed the odd composition—a single red tulip, a deep purple iris, a white daisy, a bright yellow sunflower, and a pale pink rose.

“five flowers for five things,” stepping back to watch your expression, he continued, “each one is for something i love about you.”

and just when you thought it wasn’t possible for kuroo to surprise you anymore than he already did, you were proven wrong again. stilling, you let yourself feel the weight of his words as they settled into tge tips of your fingers. “you made this?”

“mmm, well i designed it,” he corrected, the smugness now tempered by something a little more humble. “technically i only arranged it. poured my soul into it though. the tulip’s for how bold you are. you’ve got this way of standing out even when you think you’re blending in. it’s infuriating, honestly.”

you ran your fingers over the tulip’s petals, and his voice softened as he pointed to the next.

“the iris is for how much smarter you are than me.” there was no bite in his tone. “don’t get a big head about it, i still beat you at trivia night last month.” you opened your mouth to protest, but he was already moving on.

“the daisy? for how annoyingly kind you are. to me, to strangers, to stray cats in alleyways. you make everyone feel like they matter.”

your throat tightened as his fingers brushed over the edge of the sunflower.

“this one’s for how much light you bring into my life. it’s cheesy as hell, trust me i know, but…” all he offered was a shrug, his grin faltering for a split moment. “i mean it.”

he hadn’t looked up at you yet, still in a dream state as he gazed at the last flower. pausing at the rose, his hand dropped back to his side. his pitch lower, more intimate, when he said, “and the rose is for how much i love you. no explanation needed for that one.”

the only sound you could hear was the faint of the bouquet as you shifted it in your hands. for a moment, all the teasing and the wit and the usual sharpness between you dissolved into something quieter—something raw and real.

“tetsu,” you said softly, but you couldn’t find the words to follow.

if there was one thing you loved more than his gifts, it was his dorky lopsided grin. “i told myself i wouldn’t get all sappy,” he scratched the back of his neck. “but you know how i get around flowers. turns me into a total poet.”

“not a very good one,” if there was one thing you could manage while holding back tears, it was witty retorts to kuroo’s words.

“yikes,” he feigned hurt, but his smile didn’t falter. “so, do you like it? orrrr should i just stick to chocolates next year?”

you looked down at the bouquet. gazing at every colour, at the thought he’d put into every flower, every scent, every message hidden in their petals—your heart ached with the weight of it.

“i love it,” you whimpered, your voice trembling just enough for him to catch it. “i love you.”

his smile softened, his hand reaching up to brush a stray hair from your face. “good,” his voice was warm. “because i’ve got seven more days of this, and i’m not letting you return a single gift.”

on the sixth day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—six different ways to say “i love you” in different languages. kuroo waltzed into your living room on the sixth day of his increasingly elaborate holiday gifting holding a small stack of cue cards in one hand and an overly confident grin on his face.

“alright,” he began, dropping onto the couch beside you, “today’s gift is educational: a little bit of culture, a little bit of romance.”

setting your mug of tea down in interest, you were skeptical—like always. “if this ends with me being serenaded in bad french, i’m locking you out.”

he loudly gasped in offense, clutching the cue cards to his chest. “excuse me? my french is impeccable.”

“your french is embarrassing.”

ignoring you, he flipped the first card toward you, reading it aloud. in his handwriting were the words, je t’aime.

“see? classic,” his accent was questionable at best. “it’s romantic, it’s timeless. and you can’t deny that it sounds a little better than just ‘i love you.’”

“except when you say it like that,” you teased.

he pretends to be unfazed, choking back a laugh and your playful jab. he revealed the next card: ich liebe dich.

“this one’s german. it’s efficient and to the point like a well-engineered car,” he said, adding a dramatic comparison. “say it back. come on. ich liebe dich.”

“i’m not repeating that.”

“coward,” he muttered, flipping to the third card: ti amo.

“now, this one is for when i’m feeding you pasta,” he gestures extravagantly. “picture it: candlelit dinner, spaghetti, me leaning over the table like i’m straight out of an old Italian film. “ti amo.”.”

you snorted. “more like you spilling marinara sauce on your shirt.”

“uncultured,” he sighed, shaking his head.

the next card read, saranghae. he held it up with a bit more reverence.

“this one’s korean,” he explained. “it’s sweet, right? got a nice rhythm. saranghae.” there was a pause, almost in quiet contemplation, before kuroo then added slyly, “you’re swooning right now, i can tell.”

“oh, absolutely. weak in the knees,” you said straight faced.

“perfect. that’s the goal.”

the fifth card: te quiero.

“spanish. it means ‘i love you,’ but it’s also like, ‘i care about you.’ multifaceted. practical and emotional,” he said, tapping his temple like it was a genius move.

you smiled, “are you planning to take me on a multilingual tour of love, or are we stopping here?”

“patience, my love,” and kuroo flipped to the final card. aloha wau iā ʻoe.

“that’s hawaiian,” he said, his tone softer now. “it’s not just ‘i love you.’ it’s… bigger than that. like, ‘i carry you with me.’”

he grinned, setting the cards aside. “see? i’m not just a pretty face.”

“you’re insane,” you shook your head, your voice betraying the warmth blooming in your chest and the small smile that lingered across your lips.

“and yet,” he teased, leaning closer, “you’re still here. must be the german.”

“definitely not.”

on the seventh day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—seven handmade coupons for morning coffees made by yours truly, (kuroo). you woke up to the sound of him humming in the kitchen, the smell of coffee curling through the air and gently rolling you awake. when you stumbled into the room (still half-asleep), he greeted you with a little stack of paper slips tied together with string.

“good morning, sleeping beauty,” he pushed a warm cup of coffee into your hands. “your seventh gift awaits.”

you squinted at him and then at the handmade coupons he held out. each one had “one homemade morning coffee” written across it.

“coupons?” you questioned flatly.

“not just coupons,” he quickly answered, moving to send a flick to your forehead. “these are artisanal. limited edition. handcrafted with love.”

“they look like they were crafted by a toddler.”

“ouch,” he whined, clutching his chest as though wounded. “but fine, let’s break it down. seven coffees for each day of the week, exactly how you like them. frothy milk, not too hot. just a dash of cinnamon, because i know you pretend not to like it but secretly, you love it.”

he had read you to filth. “and what happens after i use up all seven?”

“oh, you’ll be addicted by then,” he replied with a charismatic wink. “i’m just playing the long game.”

toying with the crumpled paper and inspecting them more closely, you notice one of them had an additional note scribbled in the corner: bonus: i’ll even let you take the last sip of my coffee ;)

you shook your head in disbelief. this was so unlike kuroo. with furrowed brows, you turned to him, “you hate sharing coffee.”

“uh, correction: i hate sharing coffee with other people. with you, it’s an act of love.”

“and when can i actually make good with these?” you asked, tucking the coupons into your pocket.

“whenever you demand it,” he bowed, “i’m at your service always—currently a barista for hire. oh but i must say, full disclosure, my latte art is limited to blobs.”

“blobs?”

“abstract hearts,” he clarified with a grin. “call it modern—trendy, if you will”

kuroo’s coffee was as much of an experience as it was a drink. the surface of the latte was crowned with an ambitious attempt at foam art—what could generously be described as a heart. a faint dusting of cinnamon kissed the frothy top, swirling faintly as the steam rose.

it definitely wasn’t perfect, but it was him—warm, unpolished, and just a little disordered. you could already imagine it in your head, the endearing way he would’ve tilted his head, squinting at the cup like an artist critiquing his own masterpiece.

you laughed, shaking your head at the thought. kuroo must’ve thought you were laughing at his response because he was quick to be defensive.

“hey, all hearts are beautiful,” his arms were sternly crossed against his chest as he stared down at you. “besides, you drink it—not frame it.”

so with a nod, you sipped the coffee in your hands. to no one’s surprise—he’d made it perfectly, nailing everything down to the faint sprinkle of cinnamon you always pretended not to want.

“okay,” you clapped both your hands together enthusiastically, setting the mug down and pushing all the coupons into your pocket. “you’re on the clock for the rest of the week. let’s see if you can actually make seven cups as good as this one.”

kuroo smirked, holding the cup up like it was his greatest triumph. “challenge accepted. but don’t get used to this level of service. i’m not planning on opening a café any time soon.”

you feigned a groan of anguish, already mourning the image you had of him in an apron with his name embroidered across the front in your head.

“oh, you’re definitely opening a café,” you teased. “i’m making it my eighth gift request.”

“dream big, babe,” he laughed, sending a pinch to your cheek before walking towards to living room. “for now, enjoy the best coffee in town, made by the best boyfriend in the world.”

it was silly and over-the-top. yet, as you watched him carefully pour milk into another mug for himself, you couldn’t help but smile into your own coffee; there might be something dangerously romantic about a man who knows your drink order better than you do.

on the eighth day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—eight slices of your favourite pizza. the pizza box was waiting for you on the counter unwrapped. the unmistakable aroma of your favorite pizza in the air—an irresistible invitation. kuroo, sitting at the dining table, watched you approach it with an excited smile.

“eight slices,” he gestured grandly as he stood up, both hands present the box to you. “one for each day of christmas so far. thoughtful, isn’t it?” he pretended to flick back a long piece of hair in an attempt of confidence.

“you know i’ll eat this entire thing in one sitting,” you felt like you could cry from happiness, already reaching for the lid.

“exactly.” he tapped his temple. “a gift that vanishes is a gift you can’t overthink. i’m saving you from existential dread.”

you laughed, thanking him as you opened the box. there it was: your favorite pizza, glistening like a treasure chest filled with molten gold and perfectly crisp toppings. the ultimate kicker? each slice had been marked with a sharpie inside the box.

“tetsuro… what are these labels?”

“guided eating,” he straightened up.

sure enough, written beside each slice in his looping handwriting were notes:

slice 1: for courage, because braving multiple years with me deserves a medal.

slice 2: for patience, because i’m pretty sure i’m still not folding the laundry right and you fix it every time without any complaint.

slice 3: for joy, because watching you smile is better than any christmas lights.

slice 4: for forgiveness (in advance), for what i might say during monopoly later.

slice 5: for luck, because you’ll need it to beat me at monopoly later.

slice 6: for love, because i can’t put that in words so i’ll give you pizza.

slice 7: for adventure, in case you want to try pineapple on your pizza next time.

slice 8: for tomorrow, unless you eat this one too. which honestly, i think you should.

you couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or throttle him for being such an over-the-top sap.

“this is such an odd gift, tetsu!,” you couldn’t stop laughing, though your eyes stung and your chest ached in that intimate, tender way he always managed to conjure.

“oddly perfect?” he sheepishly replied, grabbing a slice and handing it to you. “come on. start with courage.”

immediately you took a bite and sighed. it was exactly as good as you remembered. somehow knowing he’d gone through the trouble of this strange display made it even better.

“you’re quite weird,” you said, wiping your lips with a napkin.

“oh come on, you love me,” he bumped his hip with yours.

you glanced at the box and then at him. you thought about how much of yourself he’d somehow folded into this simple, silly gift—your personality and your habits.

“i do,” you admitted, because how could you not?

as you grabbed the next slice: patience—you decided that eight slices of pizza might just be the most romantic thing you’d ever been given.

on the ninth day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—nine random, sweet text messages that pop up randomly throughout the day. the first one buzzed into your phone just as you were pulling on your coat, the frosted morning sunlight bleeding through the blinds.

tetsu: on the 9th day of christmas my true love gave 2 me

tetsu: one notification 2 make u smile.

tetsu: good morning, 2 my favourite person ever.

it was simple and playful—and it did its job. you did smile. giddily tugging your scarf tighter against the chill, you headed out the door.

the second one came while you were waiting for your coffee, a notification cutting through the quiet of the café.

tetsu: if i were a latte, i’d want 2 b the one in ur hand rn

tetsu: u always pick the good ones

you almost rolled your eyes but found yourself chuckling into your sleeve. he had a knack for being perfectly timed and charming simultaneously.

by the third, you realised this wasn’t a coincidence. he was going to send you nine, sweet, little messages throughout today.

tetsu: just saw a dog wearing a little sweater and thought of u

tetsu: not sure why

tetsu: both equally adorable.

it hit your phone as you walked past a store display of knitted scarves, the kind you knew he’d wrinkle his nose at and insist were “over-engineered neck warmers.” you texted back a sarcastic ‘wow, smooth’ and almost swore you could hear his laughter from wherever he was.

the fourth through sixth arrived like little spoonfuls of sugar in your coffee, scattered throughout your day.

#4 tetsu: if i told u i missed u, would u roll ur eyes or tell me 2 hurry home?

tetsu: asking 4 science

#5 tetsu: totally random fact

tetsu: u’re the best person i know

tetsu: not random enough?

tetsu: fine. penguins have knees

#6 tetsu: it’s scientifically proven that texting u makes me 87% happier

tetsu: i just ran the numbers

by the seventh text, you were incredibly flustered. not because they were overly romantic (he always balanced it with his wit), but because they were clever, thoughtful, and wholly attuned to you in a way that felt almost unfair.

the eighth came as you were locking up for the evening, fumbling with your keys.

tetsu: i’d offer 2 carry the world for u but u’re doing a pretty good job carrying it urself

tetsu: don’t work 2 hard

it was such a simple set of words, but it hit you in a way none of the others had. its tenderness slipped through your defenses. naturally, you stopped—fingers tightening around your phone wondering how someone could make you feel so seen from miles away.

the ninth and final message arrived when you were home. you were peeling off your layers and finally sinking into the couch when you felt the vibration in your pant pocket.

tetsu: if love was measured in words then nine texts wouldn’t come close

tetsu: but hey, it’s a start

tetsu: c u soon

the doorbell rang almost immediately after and you couldn’t help but giggle as you opened it to find him standing there with snow in his hair, a grin on his face, and two cardboard cups of steaming hot chocolate in his hands.

“nine texts weren’t enough,” he said with a shrug. “thought i’d deliver the tenth in person.”

you let him in with a kiss. still laughing, you decided that no matter how odd or cheesy his efforts were, you wouldn’t choose to have him any other way.

on the tenth day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—ten silly little drawings of you. the tenth day of christmas came as quickly as the past couple days had. after dinner had been packed away—dishes done and table cleaned, you and kuroo sat across each other at the dinner table with bowls of ice cream in front of you. it was then that from under the table, kuroo pulled out and handed you a mismatched stack of papers tied together with a velvet ribbon that looked suspiciously too elegant for something he’d own. you gave him a look, one eyebrow arched. “did you steal this ribbon from one of my gifts?”

“i repurposed it!” he defended, nudging the stack closer to you from across the table with his spoon and air of mock grandeur. “quick! my magnum opus awaits.”

you untied the ribbon, and the first thing you saw was a piece of cardboard with what appeared to be a stick figure rendition of you sitting cross-legged on a couch. above it were the words, “my muse, lost in thought (translation: watching trashy reality tv)”.

“what the—?” you interrupted yourself trying to suppress a laugh as you turned to the next page. a receipt from your local grocery store confused you, but once you flipped to the back, you saw it. kuroo had sketched a profile view of you mid-yawn, the exaggerated swoop of your hair curling over your head like a wave.

“it’s art, obviously,” he chuckled, leaning over your shoulder to get a closer look. “it’s called ‘ten views of my love in her natural habitat.’”

“oh my god, you’re impossible,” there was a familiar warmth growing in your chest—one you had been feeling every day this week.

you flipped through the rest:

a coffee sleeve: sketched was you, deep in concentration with a mug in your hand, sitting on the couch with the caption, “she said she wasn’t a morning person, but look at her with that coffee. magnificent.”

the back of a to-do list: sketched was you, mid-argument with your stick-figure arms dramatically flailing with the caption, “terrorising me because i forgot to do the laundry (but she’s right).”

a post-it note: sketched was you, reading a book with the words “too pretty to be distracted” written at the top in kuroo’s terrible handwriting.

by the sixth drawing, it was on the back of an old takeout menu—you stopped trying to hide your grin. “you’re actually pretty talented, you know that?”

“ridiculously talented,” he grinned back. “and ridiculously smitten.”

the seventh was your face, exaggerated into cartoonish proportions and drawn on a torn piece of fabric. the caption read, “she said i couldn’t draw so i gave her big eyes. now she’s anime”

by the time you reached the tenth which was a hasty sketch of your hand holding his, drawn on a napkin from your favourite restaurant—you felt the laugh catch in your throat. beneath the image, he’d written: “a masterpiece: her, letting me love her.”

“it’s dumb, i know,” kuroo slowly started, suddenly shy and scratching the back of his neck. “but i seriously couldn’t help it. i see you everywhere—on receipts, on napkins, in coffee sleeves. you’re just…always there.”

“it’s not dumb,” you said quietly, holding the napkin like it was something precious.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you leaned into the chair, kuroo’s head resting atop your own and the stack of silly little drawings sitting in your lap as you went through everything again—your ice creams long forgotten as they melted under the light of the kitchen.

on the eleventh day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—eleven “i’ll do it” moments. he appeared in your doorway that saturday morning, sleeves rolled up and hair a little disheveled. there was an air of martyrdom with his presence so exaggerated you almost thought violins were to start playing.

“i’ll do it,” he announced, almost parallel to delivering the opening line of a shakespearean tragedy.

you looked up from your laptop, alarmed “do what?”

“whatever it is! dishes, laundry, taking out the trash, assembling that ridiculously complicated shelf you bought because it “might come in handy.” ” he punctuated the last word with air quotes, tone laced with theatrical suffering. “today, i am your humble servant. point, and i’ll fix.”

you guessed your skepticism must have obviously plastered over your face because he was quick to add, “no catch, promise.” he held his pinky finger up, “it’s my eleventh gift to you—eleven ‘i’ll do it’s.’”

leaning back with your arms crossed, you gently nudged your laptop aside. “this feels suspicious.”

“suspiciously romantic,” strolling into the room and perching on the end of your bed, he continued. “think about it. eleven acts of selfless service—that’s love language gold.”

“this feels morally wrong,” you both laughed.

kuroo stood abruptly, gesturing to the room like he was on a game show. “okay, quick demo. that pile of laundry in the corner? i’ll fold it. the trash bag sitting by the door? out it goes. oh! and because i’m feeling generous…” he paused dramatically, turning to you with a grin. “…i’ll even organize the pantry.”

you swear your jaw dropped so hard it hit the ground. “no… the pantry? seriously?”

“the pantry,” he repeated solemnly much like a knight vowing to slay a dragon. “i know how much it bothers you when the bowls in there aren’t lined up in order of size. don’t think i haven’t noticed.”

you felt equal parts amused and touched as he grabbed the laundry basket and made good on his first “i’ll do it.” kuroo knew you well enough to know that you’d recognise this wasn’t just about chores. he knew you knew that was his way of showing you he saw all the little things—your frustration at the overflowing trash, or your quiet sigh when you couldn’t find your favourite tea.

by the time he had reached the third task which happened to be untangling the mess of cords behind the tv—you were leaning against the doorway, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“you know,” you began quietly, “you could’ve just gotten me something easy… like socks.”

“i know i said socks were day four material, but they don’t say ‘i love you,’” he didn’t look up as he wrestled with a particularly stubborn cord. “this does.”

and somehow, amidst the clatter of pots being reorganized and the triumphant “got it!” when he finally untangled the cords—you felt a quiet, glowing gratitude. love wasn’t always grand gestures or elaborate gifts. sometimes it was just someone rolling up their sleeves and saying, “i’ll do it.”

on the twelfth day of christmas, kuroo gave to you:

—ten handwritten love letters, a diamond ring, and a promise of an eternity together. you were both walking home from a dinner out, the snow nipping at your nose in the late night. kuroo had insisted you both went for a stroll around your local park before returning home. as you both sat on a bench under a lamppost to take in the coldness of night, he handed you an envelope so unassuming that for a brief moment, you thought he might’ve brought you a pack of gum. the paper was a little wrinkled, and the whole thing seemed as if it had been wrapped in a rush. yet like all his other gifts, it was unmistakably kuroo—disorderly in execution and precise in intention.

he stood up and rocking on his heels, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets nervously. “open it.”

you cocked your head at him, confused and caught off guard by his sudden change in behaviour. “you’re really leaning into this whole romantic streak, huh?”

“leaning into it?” pitch rising as he parroted, mock offended. “i practically invented romance.”

“pfft—” you snorted, “—and humility, clearly.”

and then he was back as quickly as he was gone, grinning sharp and bright. though there was something else beneath it—a quiet flicker of nerves, but it was small enough for you to dismiss it. it was strange the way he wasn’t rushing you or teasing like he usually did. but you tugged the envelope open all the same, your hands suddenly clammy as you unfolded the paper and lifted the top open.

inside nestled neatly were folded sheets of paper. you could tell that one was numbered, the familiar slope of his handwriting filling the margins in messy loops. you tilted your head.

“love letters,” he replied, as if reading your thoughts.

“love letters?” you repeated it like it was a foreign concept.

there it was, that familiar feeling of your chest tightening as you pulled out the first letter. the paper felt heavier than it should have—like it was carrying the weight of something unspoken. you unfolded it carefully, your eyes scanning the page.

the first letter was a story written in his usual casual, boyish tone. it recounted the first time he realised he was in love with you. not in some grand, sweeping moment but in the tranquil stillness of a rainy afternoon 4 years ago when you’d fallen asleep on his grandma’s couch, clutching a bowl of popcorn like it was a lifeline.

the second letter was an apology for the moments he’d been too stubborn or too sharp-tongued—for every time he made you feel anything less than adored.

the third unraveled you entirely.

“if I could give you my eyes for a day, you’d see the world exactly as it is. beautiful, messy—and always better when you’re in it.”

you swallowed hard and set the letter aside. each one felt like a little piece of him, stitched together in ways he rarely allowed himself to be seen. by the time you reached the ninth letter, you were dizzy from it all, vision blurry and nose running.

the ninth letter was the shortest, just two words in his handwriting, “almost there.”

the tenth letter you found written inside the envelope, barely visible unless you were looking for it. it read:

“you’ve always had this way of holding the universe together without even realizing it. let me hold something for you in return.”

you hesitated upon finishing, fingers brushing the edge of the paper and heart thundering in your chest. looking up, you were confused when kuroo was not standing in front of you. it was then that you felt it, the feeling of knowing something impossibly sweet and devastatingly clever was present.

so you turned around, the paper slipping from your hands.

kuroo kneeled there, uncharacteristically still. between his two calloused fingers was an open box, and inside a delicate ring. the usual grin he had was gone now, replaced by something softer and steadier.

“i didn’t write this one,” he confessed quietly, looking away embarrassed. “because i wanted to say it out loud.”

he whispered your name, soft and certain like it was a promise in itself.

and just like that, the world shifted, tilting slightly off its axis as it stopped spinning.

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sakusa kiyoomi who obsessively checks the weather app every morning without fail. if there is even a hint of rain in the forecast, the first thing on his mind is making sure your bag has an umbrella packed. if it’s not rain and it’s predicted to be windy, you bet he has already got an extra jacket for you neatly folded in the backseat of your car for in case you get a little chilly.

HAPPY 1K NOTES ON THE ATSUMU FICCCC I LOVE YOU ALL THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!!! CELEBRATORY ATSUMU FIC COMING SOON!!!!!! (also a kita fic coming way sooner sorry for the inactivity i’ve been on holiday!!)

imagine spider-man!gojo and spider-woman!reader, who both work together harmoniously throughout the city as a pair of vigilantes—unaware of each other’s identities and just how prevalent they both are in one another’s lives outside of fighting crime. it’s an unconventional meeting and it’s almost sunrise. after a mission together, they’ve both stopped by the same convenience store for some food.

it’s quiet, the buzz of the fluorescent lights casting a faint glow to the packaging of the bright blue can of energy drink. the bold words are promising of enough caffeine to keep you upright for the next twelve hours. though you stand there, frozen for a moment, battling an internal debate about whether you should just skip dinner and head to bed with an empty (and hungry) stomach—or destroy it with sugar. you decide with the latter and pick up the can to drop it into your basket with a sigh. the weight of it feels much heavier in your hand than it should.

“energy blast? didn’t think you were into fine dining.”

you freeze mid-step, mentally cursing the universe for its lack of mercy. you’d like to think you’d know that voice anywhere; it wasn’t something endearing, rather your body was sent into fight or flight at even just the mention of his name.

slowly you turned to face him, and sure enough, there he was—gojo. he’s leaning against the shelf, his sunglasses (yes, he wore them even at midnight), are perched obnoxiously on his nose. they shine with the garish lighting, forcing you into a squint when your eyes catch the bright reflection.

you almost groan at the sight of his bag. it’s a war zone of sour gummies, chocolate bars, and what looked suspiciously like a can of whipped cream.

“i could say the same for you,” your voice is measured, a conscious effort to exhibit a fake, but convincing act of nonchalance. “what is that anyways? is it for dessert or are you trying to send yourself into a sugar-induced coma?”

he grinned, the kind of lopsided smile that could make angels weep—or villains run, depending on the day. “don’t knock it ‘til you try it. some of us know how to live a little.”

“suuuuure,” rolling your eyes as you reply, unconvinced. “if living means 7 different cavities for each day of the week.”

gojo chuckled, low and easy. he shifted closer. it’s a split millisecond reaction and you immediately notice his subtle limp. anyone would’ve missed it—anyone but you.

of course you did. it wasn’t much, just a tiny hesitation. but paired with the faint bruise just under his jaw, it set off a hundred silent alarms in your head.

you’d seen him like this before. maybe not to the extent of his injuries today, but something more frayed at the edges—like he’d been somewhere he shouldn’t.

“what happened there?” gojo stills for a second, confused at what you’re referring to.

you point at your jaw, mirroring the placement of his bruise.

he blinked, momentarily caught off guard before his grin widened.

"oh, this?" tapping his jaw lightly, he continued. “you wouldn't believe me if i told you."

"try me."

"i got into a fight with a revolving door," he says, straight-faced. "it was me or the glass, and well..."

you rolled your eyes. "right. because that sounds believable."

"hey, revolving doors are dangerous," he insisted. "you’re lucky you weren't there—i would've had to save you too."

"sounds like you need saving from yourself," you retort, not being able to help the small smile tugging at your lips.

with another roll your eyes, you turned back to the shelf. letting your eyes drift across the many labels of caffeinated drinks, you couldn’t help but focus on his presence looming behind you. it was always like this with gojo—relentless.

you’d met him a year ago when you started working at the same community arts center. you taught weekend workshops for kids, and gojo occasionally ran their afterschool programs—though ran was a generous term for what he did.

he wasn't the kind of coworker you'd ever expected to become friends with, though somehow, you had. maybe it was the way he always brought you coffee to meetings, even if each drink tasted more like sugar and coffee than coffee and sugar. or maybe it was how he managed to charm every kid in the building, no matter how much the kid may have disliked him in the beginning.

"late-night inspiration, huh?" he motioned toward the can in your hand.

"something like that," you sighed, avoiding his gaze by picking up another energy drink and putting it back

"what’re you working on?"

you pause, hand mid-air and debating how much to say.

"just some commissions."

"commissions," he repeated, like the word was a personal affront. "what happened to making art for fun?"

"some of us have rent to pay, gojo. who are you to talk anyway? you sign up for extra shifts just to win over the kids with pizza and candy."

gojo grinned. "that’s called strategy, sweetheart. you wouldn't understand."

you snorted, finally turning to face him. "and what's this strategy for?” you towards his basket and pick up a packet of gummies, inspecting it before tossing it back in. "new teaching method? bribery?"

"bribery's underrated," he returns with a shake of his head.

"but no, this is for me. sometimes a guy just needs sugar and carbs you know?"

you couldn't stand him half the time, but you'd also begrudgingly admitted—if only to yourself—that he was good company.

“long day?” you’re careful to keep your tone casual as you ask.

his grin doesn’t waver, and if it does you don’t notice—but his hand tightened around the basket handle. “me? nah. what about you? busy day brooding over your sketchpad?”

you smile and try to catch his eye, “something like that.”

though gojo’s gaze wasn’t on your face anymore. he’d drifted lower, catching sight of the faint rip in your jacket sleeve. you cursed inwardly; it was barely noticeable—a tiny tear at the seam where a stray shard of glass had nicked you earlier tonight. his gaze lingered like it was written in neon.

“what happened there?” his voice is light and almost lazy, but you could see the wheels turning behind his glasses.

“nothing.” you shrugged it off. “snagged it on a doorframe.”

“uh-huh.” his voice drops just enough to make the air feel warmer. “must’ve really hated that doorframe.”

you force a laugh, jaw tightening in nervousness and step past him toward the register. “not as much as i hate this conversation.”

gojo didn’t follow immediately, but you could feel his eyes on your back like a second shadow. by the time you reached the counter, he was also there, leaning against the opposite side of the aisle with his basket balanced precariously on one hand.

“funny,” he announces after a beat, his tone too casual. “you’ve got a thing for clumsy doorframes, and i’ve got a thing for evil revolving doors. guess we’re not so different, huh?”

you glanced at him in annoyance, searching his face for any crack in his mask. but there’s nothing—just that insufferable grin and sunglasses, hiding every flicker of thought behind his ridiculous confidence.

“guess not,” you breathe out, grabbing your drink and heading for the door.

“don’t stay up too late,” he calls after you, his voice dripping with amusement. “you wouldn’t want to run into any more furniture.”

you don’t turn around, and you don’t respond with another witty retort either. instead, you choose to instead flick a halfhearted wave over your shoulder. outside, the night air was cool against your skin, washing away the tension coiled in your chest.

as you rounded the corner, you allowed yourself a small smile. gojo was sharp—too sharp for his own good. but he wasn’t there yet, not tonight.

behind you and still inside the store, gojo stood frozen in place. his grin had dispersed just enough to reveal the furrow in his brow. his thumb traced absentmindedly over his basket handle as he replayed the conversation in his head.

for someone as quick on her feet as you, he knew that explanation didn’t add up. but then again, his limp and bruise wasn’t exactly subtle either.

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