Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cold nipped gently at my face, each breath forming a soft cloud in the air before drifting away. Snowflakes, fine and pale, like the strands of my hair, landed on my lips and melted as quickly as they came. The wind pushed against me as I walked down the quiet sidewalk, leaving a trail of footprints that were almost immediately swallowed by the fresh snowfall. I tugged the hood of my coat tighter around my ears, hoping it might offer even a small pocket of warmth. Holding the straps of my backpack tighter, and my duffle bag close. The frayed hems of my baggy jeans darkened as they brushed the snow, gathering dampness with every step.

 

The streets around me looked just as they had when I was younger, though somehow smaller now, like time had pressed them inward. The town was wrapped in nighttime’s gentle blue, the sky thick with clouds that held the promise of more snow. Christmas lights blinked softly from window frames and awnings, warm, nostalgic colors glowing against the dark like tiny beacons. A string of lights curled around a lamppost, swaying slightly in the wind, and wreaths hung on the doors of the little shops lining the street. Most of them were closed for the night, their windows decorated with paper snowflakes and hand-painted signs. It was the kind of small town that tried its best every December, and the effort alone made it endearing.

 

Only a few people walked by, bundled up in scarves and mittens, their silhouettes passing like quiet ghosts. For the most part, the streets were empty, the stillness broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath my shoes and the occasional flicker of a neon sign trying to stay lit. Everything felt slow and familiar, as if the town itself had paused to breathe.

 

It all looked the same as it had years ago, too much the same, maybe. I’d grown beyond it, stretched into someone who didn’t quite fit the outlines of this place anymore. Yet every holiday season, something tugged me back, gentle but insistent. Maybe it was the memory of warmth, or the simplicity I once knew. Maybe it was just the ritual of returning.

 

My mom would be waiting, probably fussing over something in the kitchen. And Megumi, my little brother, adopted, earnest, and stubborn in the sweetest way, now eight and growing faster than any of us can keep up with will be waiting too.

 

My dad wouldn’t be there. He hasn’t been for a long time. The ache that used to accompany that thought has dulled over the years, worn down like a shoreline softened by waves. Now it’s less pain and more a quiet, familiar disappointment, something I carry without letting it anchor me.

 

As I walked through that nearly empty, snow-dusted street, it struck me how strange it is to outgrow a place yet still find pieces of yourself preserved in its corners. Maybe I don’t belong here anymore, not in the way I once did. But somehow, during the holidays, this little town still feels like a small, gentle part of home.

 

This place brings back old memories, sweet ones that still manage to sting when I let them surface. They come in flashes, uninvited yet vivid: black hair blowing wildly in the wind right in front of me as we raced down this very street, balanced together on an old bike far too small for two. My hands gripping his hips, both of us laughing so hard the sound swallowed the world around us. That kind of happiness felt endless once.

 

I shake my head before the memory climbs any farther up my spine. The cold is sharp enough without the past adding its own bite. I tuck my chin down, pushing through the wind as it tugs insistently at my hood. My pace quickens, shoes crunching against the thickening snow. The familiar glow of a lit sign appears at the end of the street, a small rectangle of warmth and light in the deepening darkness. My destination. A quiet relief settles in my chest at the sight of it.

 

When I reach the glass door, my hand, stiff from the cold, wraps around the handle. I push it open, and the bell above the frame gives a bright, cheerful ring that feels almost out of place after the hush of the snowy street.

 

A man’s voice calls from somewhere in the back, warm and casual. “Welcome in! Good thing you got out of that weather!”

 

I breathe in the store’s warmth, the air scented faintly of pine and something baked earlier in the day. “Hi,” I call back, my voice softer than I intend. Snowflakes melt on my sleeves and my bag as I step fully inside. Without thinking, I drift toward one of the aisles, letting the familiarity of shelves and soft lighting anchor me.

 

My phone rings, a soft, sweet chime I changed to the intro of our favorite show. The sound alone brings a warmth to my chest, and I don’t even need to check the screen. I answer immediately.

 

“Hey, Sho,” I say, already hearing the faint static of her quiet home behind her voice.

 

“Hey, Satarou,” she replies, sounding soft and sleepy in that way she gets when she’s been awake for too long. “You already in town?”

 

“Yeah,” I say, shifting my bag on my arm as I scan the shelf. “Stopped at the old convenience store. Just grabbing a few things before I get home.” My hand hovers, then closes around a blue toothbrush. Simple, but perfect enough. I hold onto it and make my way toward the drinks.

 

“How was the train ride?” she asks gently. She must be curled up somewhere, wrapped in a blanket. I can almost picture it.

 

I sigh dramatically. “Don’t even get me started. I sat next to some weird guy trying to sell me vintage candy. Like, actually trying to make a sale on the train. It was so odd–”

 

“Satarou,” she cuts in, her voice suddenly stern. “I know you bought some. Don't even try to lie to me.”

 

I stop in front of the refrigerated drinks. “…Yeah. And it was so gross.” The confession comes out faster than intended.

 

She giggles, light, soft, familiar. It fills my ear like a little lantern flickering on. “You’re such an idiot,” she murmurs warmly. “Anyway, I’m just checking in…” Her voice trails off, stretched with meaning she doesn’t want to say out loud.

 

“You’re being nosy,” I say, grabbing a can of tea mostly to have something to look at before I put it back. “I know he’s going to be here, okay? But I’m not focusing on that. I’m just going to go home, enjoy the holidays. Nothing extra.”

 

“Satarouuuu,” she whines dramatically, “I don’t believe you for a second.”

 

“Well, you’re gonna have to,” I say, though the crack in my voice betrays me. It’s quiet, but she hears everything. “It’s literally nothing. It’s over.”

 

There’s a small pause, soft and understanding. She doesn’t press. She never does when it really matters.

 

“Okay…” she says finally. “Okay. I’ll drop it.” Something in her tone settles, careful. “Well, I’ll let you go. Text me when you get home, alright? And good luck with the family.”

 

I smile, feeling the warmth of her concern even through the cold aisles. “You need that more than me, Sho.”

 

I lower the phone and end the call, the ringtone’s echo still lingering in the quiet store as I slip it back into my pocket.

 

I grab a bottle of ramune, the glass cool against my fingers, and a small bag of candy for Megumi, something fruity and bright that I know will make his whole face light up. The simple act feels grounding, but after the call ended, my mind drifts somewhere I don’t want it to go.

 

Suguru.

 

I try to push the thought aside, to remind myself that it’s over, has been for almost a year now, but memory has its own stubborn way of resurfacing. All at once, I see him so clearly it almost hurts: his long black hair slipping through my fingers as if it belonged there, his deep brown eyes meeting mine with that quiet intensity he used to carry. His voice, steady and thoughtful, whispering promises that felt real at the time… promises he couldn’t keep.

 

I swallow, the store suddenly too warm.

 

And then come the later memories, the ones I wish I could forget more easily. The way he grew distant, inch by inch, retreating into himself. The way he isolated, like pulling a curtain around his world and shutting me out of it. I remember sensing something was wrong, how obvious it felt to me, how impossible it was to ignore. But to him, my worry was irritation, pressure, noise.

 

We started fighting. At first little things, misunderstandings that could’ve been mended with time. But the fights sharpened, carved deeper. Words thrown out in frustration that couldn’t be taken back. The distance between us grew until it felt like standing on opposite edges of a breaking ice sheet.

 

And then he left, cleanly, suddenly, completely. No slow fade. No soft goodbye. Just gone.

 

I tighten my grip on the items and force a breath out, trying to shake the cold weight in my chest. It’s been almost a year. I tell myself that again and again.

 

But the memories don’t disappear just because the calendar changes. They sit quietly in the corners of familiar places, waiting for moments just like this.

 

I go to pay for the items, and old man Goro is already at the counter, hunched slightly as he reads something on a tiny, battered radio he keeps next to the register. As I approach I snap him back to the present. His face brightens with recognition instantly, my stupid bright white hair probably announces me before anything else does, but it’s more than that.

 

It’s history.

 

It’s familiarity.

 

It’s all the years Suguru and I spent here as kids, counting coins on the counter.

 

His eyes crinkle warmly. “Gojo,” he says, voice steady with a nostalgia that hits unexpectedly deep. “Nice seeing you back. Home for the holidays?”

 

The question is simple, but something in it nudges a tenderness in me I wasn’t expecting.

 

“Yeah,” I answer, setting the stuff down. “Just visiting and needed a few things.”

 

Goro nods, taking his time scanning each item. His movements are slow, but sure, like he’s handled a thousand small, quiet moments just like this. Like he’s seen people leave, return, grow older, carry new heaviness in their eyes.

 

He carefully places the ramune inside a bag, then the candy, and the toothbrush, adjusting them so they sit neatly. He always does that, treats even the smallest purchase with a gentleness most people reserve for gifts.

 

“The weather’s getting pretty bad out there,” he says, the concern in his tone genuine. “Make sure you make it home safely.”

 

“I will,” I assure him. “It’s just a short walk down the street.”

 

I pay him, the coins and dollars smooth and warm in my glove-less fingers. The bag is feather-light in my hand, too light, considering how heavy the rest of me feels. I thank him again, his nod slow and thoughtful, and turn toward the exit.

 

The warm air of the shop brushes my back as I step closer to the door, bracing myself for the bite of winter outside.

 

But before I can push the door open, it swings inward, fast enough to make my coat shift, but controlled, like the person behind it knows how to move in storms.

 

Someone steps inside.

 

A man.

 

I see his shoes first, dark, wet from the snow, flecks of white melting into glossy droplets. Then the hem of his long coat, dusted with cold. My gaze travels upward unbidden, slow and reluctant, as if my body already knows before my mind catches up.

 

Then I see it.

 

Long black hair. A shade I’ve memorized in every lighting, sunlit, rain-wet, midnight dark.

 

My breath stutters.

 

My eyes reach his.

 

Brown. Deep. Familiar in a way that knocks the air from my lungs.

 

Everything inside me trips.

 

Heat spreads up my neck, across my cheeks. My body betrays me before my brain can react, flushing with sudden memory and shock and something like grief wearing the mask of longing.

 

I break eye contact instantly, like touching something too hot. I try to sidestep him, to slip around him like he’s any other stranger, like my entire world didn’t once hinge on the gravity of his gaze.

 

But then–

 

“Satoru.”

 

My name in his voice is a blade and a balm all at once.

 

God.

 

It hurts.

 

It slices through the months like they were paper thin, like no time has passed at all. His tone is exactly the same, soft, low, steady, but there’s something frayed underneath it, something hollow that wasn’t there before.

 

I turn back slowly, almost against my will.

 

He’s standing barely a foot away.

 

Up close, the details hit harder.

 

The dark bags under his eyes aren’t faint, they’re deep, bruised, like he hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks. His cheeks are leaner, his jaw a little sharper. Even the way he holds himself seems altered, less grounded, more folded in, like someone walking carefully around an invisible wound.

 

He looks like he’s been hurting. And he looks like he didn’t stop hurting after he left. A part of me wants to reach out. Another part of me wants to scream. Both parts ache equally.

 

“Suguru,” I say, softly, so softly it feels like the word might dissolve in the air between us. His name tastes familiar and foreign at the same time.

 

We freeze there, in that narrow space by the door. The air is thick with everything we’re not saying, months of silence, unresolved arguments, the phantom outline of a life that could’ve been. My eyes burn, the edges blurring, and I blink once, twice, trying to hold myself together.

 

But I can’t.

 

I break it first.

 

I turn away and push out the door, stepping directly into the storm.

 

The cold is immediate. Brutal.

 

Wind slashes across my face, numbing my skin. Snowflakes cling to my hair, my lashes, melting into tiny cold rivers. The temperature drop feels like a shock straight to the ribs, but it’s grounding, sharp enough to pull me back into my body.

 

There’s a voice behind me, his, but I let the wind swallow it.

 

I can’t do this.

 

Not here.

 

Not with him looking like that.

 

Not with my heart already splitting open inside my chest.

 

I focus on what I can hold.

 

My feet: crunching into snow, steady and sure.
My legs: holding me up, even as the cold and memory drag at me.
My lungs: pulling in icy air that burns a path down my throat.
My fingertips: stinging, trembling as the cold seeps in.
My throat: closed around a lump thick as grief itself.
My face: red with cold, with shock, with everything I’ve tried to bury.

 

I clench my fists around the small plastic bag, the candy shifting with a soft crackle inside.

 

And I walk. Step after step.

 

Down the road that feels different than it used to, quieter, colder, narrower somehow. The snow keeps falling, covering everything in white, trying to erase the tracks behind me as quickly as I make them.

 

When I get home, I open the door and am welcomed by the warmth and familiarity. The lights are on, the smell of something sweet cooking is in the distance.

 

To my right, the living room is dark, but the shadows are welcomed. Straight ahead is the staircase, its dark wooden railing wrapped in a garland of pine and tiny silver bells that ring whenever someone brushes against them. To the left of it, down a short hall lined with family photos, is the kitchen, bright and warm and humming with life.

 

I toe off my snow-soaked shoes, the rubber smacking softly against the floor. My socks immediately thaw against the heated air. I set my duffle bag to the side and take off my backpack. Setting the shopping bag down too. I hang up my coat, watching a few stray snowflakes fall from the fabric and dissolve instantly.

 

Before I can even blink, I hear my mother’s voice drifting from down the hall, bright and melodic as always.

 

“Satoru, you’re home!”

 

The sound of her footsteps echoes lightly, and at the same time, a door closes upstairs. Smaller feet begin thundering toward the stairwell.

 

My moms arms are already open wide, her smile warm enough to melt the whole storm outside. Her white hair is pulled back messily, flour dusting her sleeves, and she looks exactly like home.

 

I smile, really smile, and step forward, letting her wrap me in one of those all-encompassing hugs that somehow makes every bad thing feel a little smaller.

 

“It’s so nice to see you,” she says against my shoulder, squeezing like she’s trying to make sure I’m real. Then she pulls back and laughs. “You keep getting taller.”

 

She ruffles my hair exactly the way she’s done since I was five, and even though I duck my head, I can’t fight the warmth it brings.

 

Before I can respond, I hear a small, excited gasp from the stairs.

 

“Satoru!” His voice is hushed but travels far.

 

Megumi barrels down the steps, his tiny feet slapping against the wood, his hair sticking up in all directions like a startled cat. His dark blue pajamas are slightly too big, sleeves almost covering his hands.

 

He runs straight toward me, and I crouch down so he doesn’t crash into my chest. He throws his arms around me and I steady him with an arm around his back. He presses his face into my shoulder.

 

“Hey, little man!” I grin, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He bats my hand away with a giggle.

 

“You’re back!” he says, pulling away to look at me. His gaze flicks to the bag I dropped by the door, and his whole face lights up. “Did you get me any candy?”

 

“Satoru, you better not have,” my mom warns from behind us, hands on her hips. “He needs to be going to bed soon.”

 

I shrug and she rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. The oven dings, and she disappears into the kitchen.

 

As soon as she’s gone, Megumi leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

 

“…Hey,” he says, looking at me with that strange little intuition he always seems to have. “Why do you look sad?”

 

The smile on my face falters, but only for a second. I smooth it back into place before the worry can settle deeper in his eyes.

 

“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” I say softly. I reach for the bag and pull out the bright package of candy. He gasps lightly, eyes wider than before. I lift a finger to my lips. “Shh… don’t tell Mom.”

 

He grins so wide his cheeks puff out, then grabs the candy and takes off up the stairs.

 

I shake my head with a soft laugh and straighten up, rubbing the cold from my fingertips. Then I walk through the hallway toward the kitchen.

 

The hall is dimmer than the rooms on either end of it, illuminated only by the soft glow spilling from the kitchen ahead. The walls are lined with framed photographs, one of me as a toddler, covered in frosting; one of my mom and her friends laughing at a picnic; one of Suguru and me in high school, my arm around his shoulders, his smile small but real. I pause for the briefest moment at that one. My chest tightens. Then I move on.

 

There are newer photos too, Megumi on his first day of school, Megumi dressed as a tiny witch for Halloween, Megumi asleep on the couch with a book sliding off his lap.

 

The past and present woven together on the same wall.

 

I step into the kitchen, and warmth envelopes me again. The bright light bounces off the countertops, the familiar wooden island.

 

I sit on the wooden stool, my stool, the one that’s been mine since childhood. My legs are too long for it now, knees bent awkwardly, but somehow it still feels like the only place in the room that fits.

 

Across from me, my mother is bent over the oven, pulling out a fresh tray of chocolate chip cookies. The smell hits me instantly, sweet, buttery, warm in a way that almost makes my eyes sting.

 

She sets the tray on the counter, the cookies golden and slightly uneven. Not perfect. Not fancy. Just like always.

 

“Plain chocolate chip,” she says with pride, waving her hand in front of her face to cool the steam.

 

It feels nice to be home and something in my chest softens, melts a little around the edges. And then we both can hear Megumi in the distance.

 

“He missed you,” She says, her voice has that soft, steady warmth that always hits me harder than anything else. It’s the way she talks when the truth is going to hurt a little, but she loves me too much not to say it.

 

I swallow, my tongue suddenly too heavy in my mouth.

 

“I know,” I murmur.

 

She turns toward me, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The motion is casual, but her eyes aren’t. They watch me carefully, gently, but with that depth only a mother can carry. “He keeps asking about Suguru.”

 

Something inside me stutters. Not a full stop. Just… a hitch. A snag on a wound that never closed right.

 

I look down at the counter, at the cooling cookies shining softly under the kitchen light. The chocolate chips melt just slightly, glossy and dark. They smell like the holidays used to feel, safe, easy, uncomplicated.

 

I take a breath that doesn’t quite go all the way in.

 

“I know…” I repeat, quieter this time.

 

She nods, as if she expected that answer and something heavier along with it. “You need to tell him. Not everything, you know that. But…” She steps closer, her voice lowering. “I don’t want him waiting at that door for no one to come.”

 

The words land softly, but they land deep. Heavy.

 

And she’s right, of course she’s right. She knows me too well. She knows that every time Megumi asked, “When is Suguru coming back?” I said something vague. Something noncommittal. Something that felt like a lie because part of me, stupid, stubborn, hurting, was still waiting at that door too.

 

I rub my palms against my knees. They feel cold, even though the kitchen is warm.

 

“I… yeah.” It’s all I can manage. There’s a tightness in my throat again, the same one that followed me ever since I saw him earlier tonight, the echo of my name on his lips living somewhere behind my ribs.

 

She touches my shoulder, quick, light, and then lets her hand fall away. She knows when to push and whrn not to.

 

“You should go put your bags away,” she says. “Your room hasn’t changed.”

 

I nod, grateful for the shift. “Okay.”

 

I slip off the stool and head back into the hallway. The photos watch me pass by. I slow when I reach one, me and Suguru standing shoulder to shoulder, both of us squinting into the sun, my hair a disaster, his smile small but real. Our arms linked like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

I don’t know why the photos are still up.

 

My chest tightens. I look away.

 

I pick up my bags and head up the stairs. The garland bells jingle softly as I brush past them. I pause when I see Megumi’s door cracked open. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, his tiny hands working diligently as he builds some complicated lego thing with absolute seriousness.

 

He looks up the moment he senses me.

 

“Wanna build with me?” he asks, quietly and bright and innocent in all the ways I wish the world would let him stay.

 

I smile, and it feels real, even through the exhaustion. “Later, buddy. Long day. Gotta put my stuff away.”

 

He nods, accepting it without disappointment.

 

I continue down the hall to the last door on the right. My door. The sign still hangs there, cardboard edges frayed, marker faded, glitter half-missing. Suguru and I spent an entire afternoon making it when we were ten, arguing about who got to draw which planet. His handwriting is still scribbled along the bottom: Satoru’s room… do NOT enter unless cool.

 

I turn the handle and step inside.

 

The air is a little colder here, like the room’s been holding its breath. I flick on the warm yellow light. It glows just the way it always did, soft, golden, sleepy.

 

My full bed sits in the corner, the dark blue bedding neat and untouched. The glow-in-the-dark stars still scatter across the ceiling, faint now, but still there. Still constellations I arranged with too much precision.

 

The bookshelf sits against the far wall, filled with novels, school textbooks, and messy papers. My lamp leans slightly to one side the way it always has. My black rug lies in the center of the room, its fibers uneven with age. The posters on the walls, old bands I barely listen to anymore, movie characters I once idolized, look frozen in time.

 

I set my bags at the foot of the bed and start unpacking slowly. My clothes go in the top empty drawers. The bottom drawer stays filled with my old ones, just like I left it. My toiletries remain in my backpack. I don’t have the energy to deal with them.

 

When I’m done, I sit on the edge of my bed and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

 

The clock on my nightstand reads 9:23 PM. Early. Way too early to be this tired. But the day feels like it stretched itself across weeks, like it’s been pulling me from every direction, past, present, everything in between.

 

So I lie back.

 

The mattress dips under my weight, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. The ceiling stares back at me, constellations glowing faintly in the dim light. I remember how long it took me to place them just right, how Suguru sat beside me, offering commentary the entire time, pretending to care more than he did.

 

My memories begin to pull, tugging at me like the tide.

 

And that’s when the worst idea comes.

 

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.

 

My finger hesitates over the screen. Then I tap it, open my contacts, scroll down the list even though I know exactly where the name is.

 

Suguru.

 

I click it.

 

His name sits at the top. Familiar. Sharp. Too real.

 

Below it, my messages.

 

“Suguru, please answer me.”
“I need you, don’t leave me.”
“Suguru.”

 

Three messages. Sent over days that felt like years. All delivered. None answered.

 

The silence after them was louder than any argument we ever had.

 

My throat tightens.

 

My thumb hovers over the typing box for a moment, a long, awful moment where every part of me wants to break just a little more and type something, anything.

 

But I don’t.

 

Because I know how it would go.

 

I turn off my phone.

 

Set it on the nightstand.

 

I won’t text him.

 

He wouldn’t answer.

Chapter Text

The winter festival covers the main street from one end to the other. Bright lanterns hang from wires above us, evenly spaced, casting steady light over the crowd. Kids run between the adults, shouting to each other, waving sparklers that drip small bits of gold onto the pavement. The food stalls are packed, metal counters crowded with trays of batter, skewers of meat, and stacks of paper cups. Steam rises constantly, carrying smells that mix together, sweet, salty, oily, familiar.

 

People move slowly, not because they’re tired, but because everyone else is moving slowly too. It creates a pace you fall into without thinking.

 

Megumi walks a little ahead of me. His hands stay buried in his coat pockets, and he keeps pretending he’s just passing by things, even though he pauses every few steps to glance at a booth. A dart game. A toy stand. He always acts like he’s not interested, but he slows down just long enough that I can tell he is. He’s easy to track in the crowd, his dark hair stands out among the shifting coats and scarves.

 

Mom is the reason we’re here. You’ve been gone for months, take your brother out, make memories. She said it casually, but she wasn’t joking. Before college, I saw Megumi almost every day. Now he looks slightly older each time I come home, and I keep realizing I’ve missed pieces of his life without meaning to.

 

The festival is familiar, but it doesn’t feel exactly the same as it used to. The lanterns still sway in the evening wind, the paper streamers still dance above the crowd, and the same vendors call out the same rehearsed lines they’ve probably used every winter since I was a kid. And yet… something feels off, as if the whole place has shifted a few inches to the left. Not wrong, exactly, just different. Or maybe I’m the one that’s different. Maybe the person who used to walk these paths isn’t the same person standing here now. Hard to tell. Harder to admit.

 

I keep telling myself that last night didn’t do anything to me. That the moment I went to leave the convenience store and saw him, Suguru, with his hair down and his eyes deep. The way we both froze, both pretending the air hadn’t suddenly grown too tight to breathe, was forgettable. That the polite, brittle stare we exchanged didn’t sting. That look he gave me, the one that felt like he was searching for the version of me he used to know, the one I’m not sure exists anymore, didn’t linger.

 

For a while, if I don’t think too hard, I believe that. I let the music and the chatter swallow up the memory, let the warm lights blur the edges of last night until it feels small, distant, harmless.

 

Then someone pushes past me.

 

A man in a thick coat moves too quickly through the crowd, and his shoulder clips mine hard enough to make me stumble half a step. Normally I wouldn’t think twice about it, people bump into each other all the time at festivals. But he leaves a trail of cologne behind him.

 

Suguru’s cologne.

 

Or close enough that the scent hits me like a hand around my lungs, squeezing before I can even name the feeling. It’s ridiculous, how fast old reactions surface, how scent can reach deeper than memory ever could. For a second, the festival disappears. All I can register is the cold fluorescent glow of a convenience store, the sound of a door chime, the way Suguru’s eyes widened as if he’d been bracing for a ghost.

 

My chest tightens before I can stop it.

 

I slow down without realizing it, steps growing small and hesitant, like the ground has turned uncertain beneath me.

 

I breathe in, hoping the scent has faded, hoping my body will understand that it wasn’t him.

Megumi notices before I even manage to change my face into something normal. He turns just enough to catch my expression, his brows pulling together in that subtle, precise way of his. Then he reaches out, lightly, but with intention, and gives my sleeve a single tug, the kind that means come on. He doesn’t push, just guides, nodding toward a stall where rows of taiyaki are being pressed in a heavy metal mold.

 

“Can we get taiyaki?” he asks. His voice pulls me back into the moment, clears out the fog in my chest.

 

“Yeah,” I say, letting a smile soften the edges of everything. “Lead the way.”

 

The taiyaki stand is small, tucked beneath a string of red lanterns that sway slightly in the winter wind. Their warm glow paints the counter in soft gold, turning the rising steam into drifting ribbons of light. The grill crackles in front of us, sharp pops, a steady hiss, as rows of fish-shaped molds heat and close and open again. A woman bundled in a thick knitted hat moves with practiced speed, her gloved hands never pausing for more than a breath. Every time she speaks to a customer, her breath fogs in the icy air, dissolving just as quickly as it appears.

 

The smell, sweet batter, warm bean paste, caramelized edges, hits us long before we reach the front. Megumi slows down without meaning to. He tries to pretend he’s unaffected, but his shoulders lift, just slightly, like the scent itself is pulling him forward.

 

“What filling?” I ask quietly.

 

He leans forward to inspect the handwritten signs taped to the counter: custard, red bean, chocolate. Each word is slightly smudged from the cold and the steam. I watch his eyes skim the list, steady and thoughtful. Then he pauses on the last one, just a fraction longer, but enough.

 

“Chocolate,” he says.

 

Of course.

 

For a moment, without meaning to, my mind slips sideways, toward Suguru. How he used to steal bites of mine without asking, how he’d always choose red bean but still complain it was too sweet. How winter festivals used to feel warmer, louder, easier when he was there teasing the both of us. The memory comes uninvited, soft and sharp at once, like pressing on a bruise.

 

I blink it away.

 

I step up to order. The heat from the grill washes over my face, harsh in contrast to the freezing night behind us. The woman hands over two fresh taiyaki wrapped in thin, crinkling paper sleeves. They’re so hot they sting through the wrapper, warmth pulsing against my fingers like a small heartbeat.

 

Megumi accepts his without a word, but the second it’s in his hands he tears off the corner, impatient and boyish in a way he rarely lets himself be. Steam pours out in a cloud, curling around his face. He takes a bite far too big for someone who knows what molten filling can do.

 

“It’s hot,” he mutters, his voice muffled.

 

But he keeps chewing, determined.

 

We step aside to make room for the next customers. Snow starts again, lazy flakes drifting down, dissolving the instant they land on our skin. A few settle in Megumi’s hair, melting into glistening droplets against the dark strands. The light catches on the wet pavement, turning the street into a soft blur of red reflections and passing silhouettes.

 

“Good?” I ask.

 

Megumi nods, chewing with the seriousness of someone conducting a full analysis. The look on his face nearly makes me laugh, but I swallow the sound. Moments like this feel fragile. Precious.

 

Across the street, a group of kids crowd around a ring toss booth. Their throws are chaotic, too hard, too soft, too enthusiastic. Their squeals of triumph and groans of defeat carry over the sound of the crowd, bright and unfiltered.

 

Megumi nudges my arm. Not hard, just enough. “Yours is going to get cold.”

 

I look down at mine, still untouched. The heat has soaked through the paper, warming my palm all the way to my bones. It feels almost like a memory, one of those vague, golden ones where Suguru was laughing beside me, where everything felt simpler.

 

“Right,” I say.

 

I take a bite. The custard is warm, silky, and exactly as sweet as I remember. It spreads through me slowly, something comforting and old and achingly familiar.

 

For a moment, the world feels smaller, softer. And the empty spaces, those quiet ones Suguru left behind, hurt just a little less.

 

A few seconds pass without either of us talking. The noise of the festival hums around us, soft laughter, the shuffle of footsteps on packed dirt, the clink of distant games being reset, blending into a warm, familiar atmosphere. Lanterns sway gently overhead, their glow turning everything a little golden, like the whole scene is wrapped in memory before it’s even finished happening.

 

Megumi stands close, closer than he usually allows himself to be, and he doesn’t seem to notice. His sleeve brushes mine, just barely, a casual bump, but steady enough that it sends a ripple of awareness through me. It feels like one of those rare moments he forgets to hold himself at arm’s length.

 

I nudge him back. “Hey,” I say, tilting my head toward the ring toss booth. “Want to try it?”

 

His eyes follow the direction of my gesture. The booth is loud with color: rows of oversized plush toys hanging like a patchwork cloud, bears and rabbits and a dragon whose designer had clearly never seen a dragon anywhere except their imagination. Smaller trinkets glitter at the front, charms, keychains, tiny stuffed animals that look soft enough to pocket without thinking.

 

Megumi pauses. He always does when it comes to small wants like this. It’s as if wanting something feels like revealing too much.

 

But then he nods. “Okay.”

 

We walk over together. The booth owner, an older man wrapped in a thick scarf that nearly swallows his chin, gives us a friendly wave. The wooden counter is smooth from years of festival nights, its edges rounded by countless hands and its scent tinged faintly with pine from the stacked rings.

 

Two kids beside us throw with the force of miniature hurricanes, rattling the booth every time they miss. Megumi raises an eyebrow at them, the same expression he uses when someone says something questionable.

 

“You get five rings each,” the man says, sliding two small piles toward us. “Big prizes in the back, smaller ones up front.”

 

Megumi picks up a ring and tests its weight. His brows knit together in quiet focus, the same way they do when he studies or when he tries to pretend he’s not competitive.

 

“You’re taking this very seriously,” I say.

 

“I don’t want to miss.”

 

I snort and toss my first ring. It arcs nicely… and lands with dismal accuracy nowhere near a peg.

 

Megumi looks at me like I’ve personally offended him. “You’re bad at this.”

 

“Thank you for your support.”

 

He takes his first throw. The ring glances off the side of a peg, wobbles, and slips off. His shoulders go rigid immediately.

 

“I can do it,” he mutters.

 

What follows is a strangely heartwarming montage of my sarcastic color commentary and his increasingly stubborn determination. Every miss earns a quiet, irritated sound from him, and every time a ring sails even remotely close, he narrows his eyes like he’s memorizing the physics of the moment for future revenge.

 

Neither of us hits anything in the back row. The dragon remains smugly out of reach.

 

But on his last throw, Megumi lands a ring on a small peg near the front. It hangs crooked, like it’s thinking about falling off, but it doesn’t. The booth owner beams beneath his scarf.

 

“A hit’s a hit. Nice job.”

 

Megumi freezes for a fraction of a second, and it’s almost funny, the way his expression flickers, like he’s trying not to look too pleased. But I know him. I see the way his shoulders loosen. The way he stands just a bit straighter. The way the faintest light softens his face.

 

“For the front row,” the man says, gesturing toward the display, “you can pick from the keychains.”

 

Megumi studies them with the seriousness of someone choosing a relic. He doesn’t rush. His hand hovers, hesitates, shifts, before finally landing on a small pink fox charm. It’s embroidered delicately, its tail curled in a way that looks almost shy.

 

He turns it over once in his hand, gentle.

 

“You like it?” I ask.

 

“Yeah.”

 

There’s no pause. No second guessing. Just simple honesty.

 

I pay while he tucks the charm into his coat pocket like it’s something he wants to keep safe. Lantern light washes over his face, catching the soft smile he almost never lets show, small, real, unguarded.

 

“Not bad,” I say. “Next time we’re getting that dragon.”

 

He gives me a flat look. “You didn’t get a single ring.”

 

“I was warming up.”

 

He rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, just a little.

 

We wander for a while after the ring toss, weaving through soft pockets of light and drifting voices. The festival has settled into its evening rhythm, the kind that makes time feel looser. Snowflakes keep falling, slow, steady, melting the moment they touch a warm surface.

 

People walk bundled in scarves and mittens, cheeks flushed from the cold, laughter rising into the night like warm breath. Music threads through the noise: a calm, steady melody that makes the whole street feel wrapped in velvet.

 

Megumi walks at my side, boots crunching lightly against the packed snow. The little fox’s tail bounces in and out his pocket with each step, catching bits of lantern light on it. Every so often, he slows to look at something, a toy stand, a grill, a wall of decorative charms, but he never says much, just watches quietly with those dark, thoughtful eyes.

 

As we round a corner, the noise of the festival shifts, laughter thinning, lantern light drifting into softer hues, and something glimmers in the periphery of my vision. Tucked between two larger stalls is a booth half-hidden behind a curtain of hanging crystal strands, shimmering like falling rain.

 

The fortune-teller.

 

Deep indigo fabric drapes across the entrance, embroidered with sweeping arcs of silver thread. The stitches catch the lantern glow and shimmer like early-morning frost. Long strings of glass beads hang from the awning, clinking together in a soft, crystalline melody whenever the breeze passes through. A thin ribbon of incense curls from within, sweet, herbal, calming in a way that feels strangely still compared to the lively festival noise behind us.

 

I slow without meaning to, drawn in by a tug of memory.

 

“There,” I say, nudging Megumi’s sleeve. “We have to go.”

 

He gives the booth a wary look, eyes narrowing just a little. “Why?”

 

“Because it’s tradition,” I say, already steering us toward it.

 

“You went one time,” he mutters under his breath.

 

“And that,” I declare, “is how traditions are born.”

 

His stare is flat. Utterly unconvinced. But he doesn’t argue again, just tucks his hands deeper into his coat pockets and follows with reluctant steps.

 

When we reach the entrance, he stops just outside the curtain, as if the threshold itself has weight. The strands of crystals above him tinkle softly with his movement.

 

“You go,” he says quickly. “I don’t want to.”

 

“You sure?”

 

He nods immediately, a little too fast. “Yeah. I’ll wait.”

 

I reach out to ruffle his hair; he ducks away with a small, annoyed frown, swatting my hand like an offended cat. He backs up a few steps, stuffing his hands firmly back into his pockets.

 

And I push through the curtain.

 

Inside, the air changes all at once, warmer, thicker, carrying a faint floral sweetness layered over smoky incense. The lanterns aren’t bright; their light filters through colored glass panels, casting the space in soft shades of amethyst, wine-red, and muted gold. Everything feels muffled, distant, like I’ve stepped into a pocket of time separate from the world outside.

 

Fabric drapes down from the ceiling in layered folds, cascading like a twilight sky. Deep purples bleed into midnight blues, embroidered with faint, swirling patterns that resemble constellations if you squint.

 

At the center sits a low wooden table draped in a richly embroidered cloth. Gold thread curls and loops across it like tiny, captured stars. A neatly arranged deck of cards rests to one side, each card backed in dark green with edges gilded in worn leaf. A shallow bowl beside it holds polished stones, rose quartz, obsidian, citrine, smooth enough to catch the lantern light in soft glimmers.

 

The fortune teller sits behind the table.

 

Her hair, streaked generously with silver, is braided down her back, the end of it pooled like a coil of moonlight at her side. Her dress is layered in plum and charcoal gray; tiny symbols are embroidered along the sleeves in delicate metallic thread. A bracelet of thin bells wraps around her wrist, chiming faintly whenever she shifts her hand.

 

“Welcome,” she says. Her voice is warm, soothing in a way that makes the air feel softer. “Please, sit.”

 

I lower myself onto the cushion across from her, the fabric sighing under my weight.

 

She studies me, not sharply, not like she’s trying to pry anything open, but with the steady curiosity of someone accustomed to watching people reveal themselves without a single word.

 

“You’ve visited before,” she says quietly, “and tonight, your heart feels… unsettled.”

 

I blink. “Wow. No warm-up questions?”

 

A soft laugh touches her expression, brief but genuine. She begins to shuffle the deck, the cards whispering against each other with practiced ease, movements fluid and unhurried.

 

She draws three cards and places them face-down: past, present, future.

 

As she turns the first one over, the lanterns flicker, shadows drifting over the etched symbols and gold detailing. The air feels a degree heavier, not ominous, but expectant, like the booth itself is leaning in to listen.

 

Her voice is calm as she speaks, thoughtful as she traces her fingers lightly over the cards. She doesn’t ask direct questions, only small, gentle ones that circle around the edges of what I’ve been trying not to acknowledge. Feelings resurfacing. Familiarity that hasn’t faded. The strange, quiet truth that some things don’t stay gone just because time has passed.

 

She never presses. She simply listens, nodding at the pauses between my words as though she can hear the things I choose not to say.

 

When she turns the final card, she hesitates, not dramatically, just a slight, almost imperceptible pause. Then she reaches for a piece of cream-colored paper and a brush pen, writing with elegant, flowing strokes that look almost like calligraphy.

 

She blows on the paper and then folds it with careful hands and offers it to me with a gentle incline of her head.

 

“This is your fortune for the coming year,” she says softly. “Its meaning is yours to uncover. A path shifting. A returning echo. Something once quiet is beginning to stir again. Where it leads… depends on what you’re willing to see.”

 

The words settle over me quietly, like dust in a sunbeam. I take the paper. It’s warm from her hands, fragile at the edges. For a moment, the booth feels very still, like even the lanterns are holding their breath.

 

Then I exhale, a small, surprised laugh slipping out, soft and a little embarrassed. I tuck the folded fortune into my coat pocket, where it brushes lightly against the fabric with every movement.

 

“Thank you,” I say.

 

“May the year be gentle with you,” she replies, her smile knowing but unobtrusive.

 

And as I turn to leave, the soft chiming of her bracelet follows me out, fading back into the hum of the festival beyond.

 

I step back through the curtain into the cold.

 

The temperature hits me in a rush, sharp, immediate, like a shock to the system after the warm, incense-thick air of the fortune-teller’s booth. Lantern light spills across the snow-dusted street, scattering soft gold over the drifting crowds. People move in clusters, wrapped in coats, the winter air turning every breath into a faint ghost.

 

I turn instantly, already forming the words to tell Megumi about everything, the cards, the fortune, the strange stillness inside.

 

But–

 

he isn’t there.

 

My gaze darts left. Nothing. Right. Only strangers in layers of wool and fleece, their faces half-hidden by scarves and the slow fall of snow. A couple passes, laughing around matching candied apples. A group of teens crashes into each other near a game stall, loud and carefree.

 

No dark blue coat.

 

No small figure trying very hard not to look like he’s been waiting.

 

No Megumi.

 

A prickle runs up the back of my neck, slow, cold, unmistakable.

 

I step fully out into the street, scanning the shifting river of people. My heartbeat thuds once, twice, too fast, too hard, pressing sharp against my ribs. He wouldn’t leave the spot. He wouldn’t. He said he’d wait.

 

I look again. Past families. Past vendors. Past stalls glowing with lanterns. Past the snow swirling in the air like static.

 

“Megumi?” I call lightly, light enough to pretend I’m not already panicking.

 

No answer.

 

The crowd folds around me, swallowing my voice in one breath. I take a few steps forward, turning in a slow, tightening circle, searching every face, every gap between coats, every flicker of movement. The lanterns overhead flicker as the wind cuts through, my fingers sting with cold.

 

“Megumi,” I call again, louder this time, the word slicing through the air.

 

Nothing.

 

The unease in my chest twists suddenly, sharply, turning into something jagged. I move faster, weaving through bodies, scanning every direction at once. The crowd surges and dips around me like a tide I can’t control. Every second feels stretched, thin and fragile.

 

Still no blue coat.

 

Still no spiky black hair.

 

Not even the glint of the fox charm in his pocket.

 

The noise around me blurs, the laughter, the music, the chatter, all merging into a dull, suffocating roar. My heart drops. Clean. Heavy. And panic blooms, immediate, fierce, rising like a wave that crashes straight through my ribcage.

 

I plunge into the thick of the festival crowd.

 

The moment I do, everything seems to double, lights too bright, voices too loud, shadows shifting like they’re hiding something just out of sight. Every glimpse of dark hair makes my chest seize; every wrong face cracks the panic wider.

 

“Megumi?”

 

No answer. The silence feels personal.

 

I retrace our steps in a rush, nearly slipping on slush as I barrel past the taiyaki stand. He’s not there. Past the ring toss, completely new faces now, the prizes staring blankly, unchanged, uncaring. Snow keeps falling, melting cold trails down the back of my neck.

 

“Megumi!” I shout, voice fraying at the edges. A few heads turn. None are his.

 

My heartbeat is a frantic, stumbling rhythm. My hands won’t stay still, my fingers tremble each time I reach to shove past someone. My breaths come in uneven bursts, fog bursting into the air like small explosions. Every small figure in the crowd makes hope spark for half a heartbeat and die the instant they turn.

 

“Sorry—sorry, excuse me—sorry—” I mutter as I push between people, but I can barely hear myself. The festival around me feels warped, unfamiliar, like everything rearranged itself the moment Megumi disappeared. “Megumi!”

 

The word comes out broken.

 

My throat burns. My vision stings. Sound tunnels around me, like I’m hearing the festival through water. Megumi isn’t just my responsibility. He’s my brother. My family. And the smallest, sharpest thought… that I lost him… even for a minute–

 

A cold wave tears up my chest so fast I almost choke. I stumble forward too quickly, nearly slipping on a patch of ice. People blur into streaks of color. Lanterns smear into halos. Snowflakes scatter across my vision. His name lodges in my throat, too tight to force out. My pulse roars in my ears; my eyes blur at the edges.

 

I spin sharply, nearly running now, breath hitching, searching, searching–

 

And I slam into someone.

 

Hard.

 

The impact knocks the breath out of me. My knees buckle for a moment, vision fracturing into shards of light. The festival lurches sideways around me. I gasp, trying to orient myself, already pushing up, ready to break away, ready apologize and keep looking–

 

A hand closes around my shoulder.

 

Firm.

Warm.

Familiar.

 

“Satoru?” a voice says, concerned and careful.

 

Everything stops.

 

The roar in my ears falls silent. The cold in my chest freezes. The world pulls into focus with one steady, impossible point. I blink past the blur, vision swimming. Dark hair dusted with snow. Warm brown eyes steady on mine. Soft lines of concern carved subtly across his face. The lantern light catches on his coat. On his breath. On him.

 

Suguru.

 

His name hits me like a blow, like being struck and steadied at the same time. Like something I’d braced myself never to feel again suddenly blooming inside my chest.

 

I sway toward him before I can stop myself, just a fraction, just enough to feel the pull of him like gravity.

 

“Suguru–” His name catches in my throat, shattering on the way out. My voice breaks, raw and desperate. “I—I can’t find him. Megs—he was right there—right outside the booth, and I came out and he was gone, and I’ve checked everywhere—everywhere, and I don’t—” My breath crumples. “What if something happened? He’s just—he’s just a kid, and I leave him for one minute—one minute—”

 

My words fall apart. My breathing spirals fast, sharp, painful, each inhale scraping like glass.

 

Suguru’s hand on my shoulder tightens, steady, reassuring, grounding. Solid.

 

“Satoru,” he says quietly.

 

The way he says my name, gentle, warm, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he speaks too loud, makes my throat tighten so hard it hurts. I try to inhale, but it catches halfway. His other hand lifts slowly, deliberately, hovering near my arm without touching, an invitation, not pressure. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, soft in a way that cuts through everything else, “look at me.”

 

It takes effort. Real effort. Like dragging myself up through ice water.

 

But I do.

 

His eyes are steady, focused entirely on me, not the crowd, not the noise, not the panic swirling around us. Just me.

 

“Breathe,” he says, soft but sure. “One at a time. With me.”

 

I try.

 

It’s shaky, uneven, but he breathes with me, slow, deep, careful, and I follow the rhythm he sets. My breaths stop tripping over themselves. The tightness in my chest eases. The blur fades from the edges of my vision. Suguru watches every change in my expression like he’s making sure I don’t slip under again.

 

When he speaks next, his voice is still soft, but steadier, firmer, anchored.

 

“Okay,” he says. “We’re going to find him.”

 

The certainty in his tone hits something deep in me. Something raw. Something that had been drowning under panic.

 

A spark catches, a small one, but real. Hope.

 

“We’ll retrace your steps,” he says gently. “Together.”

 

“I already did,” I say, the panic resurfacing, thin and frantic. “Suguru, I checked– everywhere–”

 

“I know.” His hand squeezes my shoulder, not restraining, just reassuring. “And we’ll look again.”

 

His calm wraps around me like something warm against the cold. I nod, because at this point, I’d follow anything, anyone, who can speak in complete sentences without shaking.

 

And Suguru–

 

Suguru looks at me like he’s not going anywhere.

 

So we walk.

 

Back through the lantern-lit snow, into the cold that cuts clean through the air. The crowd ebbs and flows around us, voices rising and falling like the hum of a restless ocean. Sugar-sweet smoke from food stalls curls through the wind, mixing with the crisp winter night.

 

Suguru walks beside me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel him. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m just too strung tight to ignore anything, especially him.

 

I keep my eyes forward, scanning the street, but no matter how far I look, I keep feeling the warm gravity of him just to my side.

 

Then down the wide path, retracing every step. Past the lights that flicker in the snowfall, past the families drifting between booths, past the taiyaki stand where I’d already looked twice. The panic inside me won’t stay down. It rises in my chest, sharp and hot and cold all at once, a desperate mix that makes my breath trip over itself.

 

My lungs tighten.

My fingers tremble.

My thoughts spiral too fast–

 

Before they can swallow me whole, Suguru’s hand closes around my arm.

 

Firm. Steady. Real.

 

The pressure is grounding and devastating all at once. It doesn’t erase the ache in my chest, not at all. If anything it sharpens it, twists it. But it keeps me upright. Keeps the ground from tipping beneath my feet.

 

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

 

His voice slips under my ribs before I can stop it. Gentle. Certain. The kind of reassurance I’ve been starved for without realizing it.

 

And it hurts. God, it hurts. But I cling to it anyway.

 

We keep going.

 

And when we reach the ring-toss booth, even though I’ve already checked, even though I know he wasn’t here before… Suguru slows.

 

I stop beside him, breath held tight enough to ache. His gaze shifts. I follow it. And there, like the universe is mocking me for every second of terror—

there he is.

 

Megumi.

 

Spiky black hair haloed in falling snow. Blue coat dusted in white. Standing with two kids I don’t recognize, heads bent together, talking like nothing in the world is wrong.

 

The relief is so sharp it nearly knocks the wind out of me. I don’t think. My body moves first.

 

“Megumi!” His name tears from my throat, part strain, part disbelief, part overwhelming relief.

 

He turns, blinking up at me like I’m the one being dramatic, like he’s been here the whole time and can’t fathom the hurricane unraveling in my chest.

 

I reach him in a handful of stumbling steps. I drop to my knees in the snow without feeling the cold. My arms wrap around him, pulling him in too hard, too desperately. My hands shake where they curl around his back.

 

“You can’t–” My voice breaks on the first word. I try again, swallowing down the crack. “Megumi, you can’t just leave like that. You can’t. You–”

 

I pull back enough to cup his small face in both hands, my thumbs brushing against cold cheeks. My vision blurs.

 

“You can’t do that to me.”

 

He stares at me, eyes wide. Shocked. Maybe a little frightened, not of danger, but of me like this. Unraveled. Bare. Embarrassment creeps across his features, his ears turning pink as he darts a glance toward the two kids beside him.

 

A pink-haired boy rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. The girl next to him crosses her arms, unimpressed.

 

Megumi clears his throat. “I just… saw my friends. Yuji and Nobara. I thought it was fine.”

 

His voice is small. Honest. So Megumi it makes my chest collapse inward. All the anger that was gathering breaks apart before it can form. I release a shaky breath, letting my hands fall. Then I ruffle his hair, because if I don’t touch him, I’ll grab him again and never let go.

 

“Okay,” I murmur. “Just… tell me next time, alright?”

 

He nods, cheeks still pink.

 

I push myself to my feet, brushing off the snow and trying to calm the tremor in my hands. Then I force a smile, small, tremulous, but real.

 

“Hi,” I say to the kids, breathless.

 

Yuji waves energetically. “Hi! Sorry we scared you!”

 

Nobara eyes me critically. “You look like you almost died.”

 

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Something like that.”

 

Megumi falls into quiet conversation with them, safe and steady and real. Relief pours through me, warm, heavy, thawing the ice that was clamped around my heart. But as I watch him laugh awkwardly at something Yuji says, my gaze drifts, pulled, unwillingly, unstoppably, back to the path behind us.

 

Back to where Suguru stands. Where he kept me together when I was falling apart. Where he breathed with me. Where he anchored me. Where his eyes softened in a way that made my chest ache.

 

I swallow hard.

 

“Megs,” I say quietly, stepping toward him. “Stay here, okay? Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

 

His brows pinch together, concern flickering. “You’re leaving?”

 

“Just for a second,” I say quickly, forcing reassurance into my voice. “I’ll be right there. You’ll still be in my sight.”

 

He nods, trusting me because he always does.

 

I turn away before the ache in my chest can grow unbearable.

 

Suguru hasn’t moved.

 

He stands just apart from the crowd, snow catching on his dark hair, his breath soft in the cold. Lantern light washes gold across the angles of his face. He’s watching Megumi, softly, gently, with something so quietly tender it knocks the air from my lungs.

 

And then his gaze lifts to me as I walk closer.

 

Something flickers there. Something warm. Something I don’t let myself name.

 

We step to the side together, drifting out of the direct glare of lanterns. I keep Megumi in the corner of my eye, safe. But Suguru, Suguru stands directly in front of me.

 

Too close in a different way.

 

I exhale. It shakes.

 

“I…” I look down, then up again, then away, unable to hold his eyes for long without feeling something twist inside me. “Thank you. For helping me. I– really. Thank you.”

 

Suguru gives a small shrug, gentle, understated. “I was just helping.”

 

But that isn’t enough. Not for what he did for me.

 

“I mean it,” I say quietly, the words cracking open as they leave me. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. I’m… really grateful, Suguru.”

 

I search his face, noticing things I missed in the initial panic, his tired eyes, the shadows beneath them, the way his coat hangs slightly looser on his frame.

 

“And you…” My voice softens. “How are you? You look… different. I was worried.”

 

For a moment, for a breath, his expression opens. Something vulnerable flickers across his face, exposed and fragile like he was going to answer honestly.

 

But then he looks away.

 

Only for a second.

 

But long enough.

 

When he looks back, his eyes are steady again. Guarded. Distant in a way I’ve never learned to navigate.

 

“Satoru,” he says quietly. Carefully. “This doesn’t change anything.”

 

My heart stops. Cleanly. Quietly.

 

He continues, voice gentle but firm. “I just helped someone who needed it. I would have done the same for anyone else.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The word slips out before I can catch it, small, raw, almost childlike.

 

“Oh,” I repeat softly, the realization settling like snow in my chest. Heavy. Cold.

 

Right. Of course. Stupid. I swallow hard, forcing down the ache twisting my throat.

 

“Yeah,” I say, voice thin, cracking at the edges. “I… don’t know what I was thinking.”

 

The pain rises sharp and blinding, so I step back. Distance. I need distance.

 

Suguru’s expression flickers, like he wants to reach out, like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. “Satoru,” he says, voice quiet with regret. “I’m sorry.”

 

The apology hits harder than anything else.

 

I nod once, quickly, each motion stiff and brittle. “It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t. “I should get back.”

 

He watches me with eyes full of something I can’t let myself hope for. Something I can’t afford. I turn before he can look deeper.

 

By the time I reach Megumi, my smile has fallen apart entirely. My eyes sting. My chest aches. I blink rapidly, trying to swallow it all down. I ruffle his hair again, grounding myself in his warmth.

 

But the cold in my chest is harsher now.

 

And Suguru’s words echo with every breath.

 

This doesn’t change anything.

 

Later, after Yuji and Nobara leave with cheerful goodbyes and promises to meet again, the festival thins into the quiet edge of night. The air grows sharper, colder, the sky a deep, endless blue. Lanterns dim, and snow gathers in delicate layers along rooftops and railings.

 

Megumi and I sit on a bench near the edge of the square. The wood is cold beneath us, but he sits close, leaning just slightly into my side. I wrap an arm around him, partly for warmth, partly because I need the reassurance of him here, real, safe.

 

We wait.

 

Families around us murmur in soft excitement. Children bounce on their heels. Somewhere distant, fireworks crackle as they’re prepared.

 

But none of it reaches me.

 

“Fireworks should start soon,” Megumi says, voice muffled by his scarf.

 

“Yeah,” I answer. “Soon.”

 

We both look up. The sky is dark and open, a blank canvas waiting. And when the first firework bursts, loud, bright, a bloom of pink and gold across the night sky… I feel nothing.

No awe.

No joy.

Not even the faint spark I used to feel at moments like this.

Just emptiness.

 

The colors explode outward, scattering sparks like shattered stars. They paint the snow, the rooftops, the faces of the crowd. But all I can think of is this:

Suguru is somewhere under this same sky.

Watching the same bursts of light.

Standing alone or with strangers or with no one at all.

I wonder what his eyes look like right now. If the colors reflect in them the way they used to. If he softens at the sound, at the quiet moments between explosions. If he’s thinking about me… even for a second.

 

The thought stings. Deep and immediate.

 

Megumi nudges my arm. “You’re quiet,” he says.

 

“I’m tired,” I murmur. It’s true, but not the whole truth. The rest is too heavy. Too sharp.

 

Another firework bursts, blue, gold, magenta, washing Megumi’s face in shifting light. His eyes widen despite himself, wonder creeping through his usually reserved expression.

 

It softens something in me. Something small and fragile.

 

I place my hand gently on his hair. He leans into my side without hesitation. The fireworks bloom overhead, bright and beautiful and loud. The festival glows around us. And inside, all I feel is the echo of Suguru’s hands anchoring me, his voice steady in the chaos, the softness in his eyes when he looked at Megumi, the quiet regret when he told me it meant nothing.

And the cold truth settling in my chest like falling ash:

He’s still under the same sky.

Watching the same fireworks.

And he’s still not mine.

Chapter Text

Shoko doesn’t even give me a chance to breathe.

 

“WHAT– TELL ME MORE.”

 

I yank the phone away from my ear as I keep walking down the sidewalk. “Ow– Shoko, I literally just answered—”

 

“Don’t care,” she snaps. “You texted me, and I quote, ‘something happened with Suguru.’ Something. Happened. With Suguru. And then you stopped answering me like a little coward. Explain. Immediately.”

 

I roll my eyes, shifting the phone back to my ear. Cold air pricks at my face, and the street’s quiet except for the distant hum of a passing bus. “Can you at least pretend to be normal for two seconds?”

 

“No. Start talking.”

 

I jam my free hand in my coat pocket. My breath comes out uneven from walking too fast and thinking too much. “Okay. But it started the night I got home.”

 

“I KNEW IT,” she says triumphantly, like she’s been waiting her whole life for this. “Go on.”

 

“I wasn’t even doing anything dramatic,” I say. A car passes, headlights brushing over the slushy snow piled at the curb. “I just… needed a toothbrush.”

 

“Riveting.”

 

“And a snack,” I add, stepping over a half-melted patch of ice. “I didn’t even make it home yet. I stopped by the convenience store. It happened right after I hung up with you. I’m leaving, right? I’ve got my stupid little toothbrush sticking out of the bag, my snack, everything. And when I go to leave– boom.” My steps slow without me meaning to, like the memory drags my pace down. “He’s there. Suguru. Standing right in front of me. Like the universe decided to… I don’t know. Just mess with me.”

 

Shoko goes dead quiet. She only does that when something actually shocks her.

 

“Just… there?” she finally breathes.

 

“Just there.” I swallow, my throat tighter than I expect. “We both froze. Just stared at each other. Didn’t even move. He said: ‘Satoru?’ And I said: ‘Suguru?’ And then…”

 

“Oh my god, don’t tell me you ran.”

 

“I did NOT run,” I protest, stepping around a snowbank someone shoveled badly.

 

She hums. “Then what did you do?”

 

“I…” I rub my forehead, slowing again as I pass a row of dark shop windows. “...left. Quickly.”

 

“So you ran.”

 

“I left with dignity.”

 

“Uh-huh. With a toothbrush and a snack.”

 

“Sho–”

 

“What? I’m painting the scene.”

 

I sigh so hard it fogs up in front of me. “Whatever. The point is, I didn’t think I’d see him again. Not soon, at least.”

 

“But you did,” she says, her voice dropping.

 

“Yeah.” My shoulders tense. “The next day.”

 

A beat of silence.

 

“At the festival?” she asks.

 

“Yeah.” I shift the phone to my other hand. The wind picks up, pushing against my coat. “Megumi got lost. Completely lost. One second he was next to me, the next… gone. And I– I lost it. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think straight.”

 

“Oh, Satoru…”

 

“And then I ran into him.” My voice is smaller than I want it to be. “Literally ran into him. Hit him hard enough I almost fell.”

 

“Elegant as always.”

 

I ignore her. “He grabbed my shoulder. Said my name. And everything just… stopped being so loud. I don’t know. I could breathe again. Think again.”

 

Shoko doesn’t interrupt this time. She listens the way she only does when it’s something about him, me and Suguru, specifically. She’s always been the one who knows how to sit with the parts I don’t say out loud.

 

“He helped me look for Megumi,” I say. “Right away. No hesitation. He stayed with me, kept talking to me, reminding me to breathe, grounding me. He found Megumi with me.”

 

There’s a soft clink on her end, her picking up or setting down her coffee, probably both. “That’s… a lot.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And then?” Her voice is careful, like she’s bracing herself.

 

“I thanked him,” I say. My boots crunch through a layer of thin ice. “And he… said it didn’t mean anything.”

 

“…What.”

 

“He said he would’ve done that for anyone. That helping me changes nothing between us. Nothing.”

 

The word sits heavy in my chest again.

 

Shoko inhales sharply, furious. “He said that to your face?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And how did you not punch him?”

 

“I’m trying this new thing called emotional maturity.”

 

“Disgusting. I hate it.”

 

I huff a weak laugh and turn the corner. The shop I need is only a block away now, its sign glowing faintly through the cold.

 

She softens. “Satoru… that must’ve hurt.”

 

“It did,” I say quietly. The streetlights blink against the snow, and everything feels too open, too exposed. “More than I want it to.”

 

“Do you believe him?” she asks.

 

I hesitate, boots slowing again. “No. Yes. I don’t know. He looked like, like saying it hurt him too. But he still said it.”

 

“Classic repression,” Shoko mutters.

 

I see the store ahead and pull my coat tighter around myself. “I’m almost at the shop. Need to get gloves for Megs, he lost them at the festival.”

 

“Get something warm to eat,” she orders. “You sound like you’re freezing.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You’re absolutely not.”

 

I swallow. “Hey, Sho?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“…Thanks. For listening.”

 

“You act like I’m ever gonna stop.” Her voice softens the way it only does for me and no one else. “Call me later. And Satoru?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Your heart’s not stupid for hurting. It just means it’s still working.”

 

I look at the store door in front of me, lit and warm, and I don’t trust myself to say much.

 

“Bye,” I say quietly.

 

“Bye, idiot.”

 

The call ends. I tuck my phone away, push open the door, and step into the warm air.

 

And Shoko’s words stay with me, settling somewhere I can’t quite shake.

 

Your heart’s not stupid for hurting.

 

Just means it’s working.

 

The heat from the store sinks into me slowly, almost cautiously, like it isn’t sure I’ll let it stay. It settles under my coat, softening the stiffness in my shoulders and the tension in my hands. My fingers finally stop aching from the cold. My breathing evens out without me realizing it. I slow down instinctively, steps dragging across the tile floor because I’m not eager to give the warmth back so soon.

 

I remind myself I’m here for one thing.

 

Just gloves.

 

A simple errand. A quick in-and-out. Nothing complicated.

 

But the air inside is steady and quiet and safe, and my body reacts before my brain does.

 

So I walk.

 

Down the snack aisle first. I don’t stop to look at anything, I just let my eyes move over the familiar shapes, the bright packaging, the neat lines. My thoughts feel heavy, but the simple act of looking at shelves gives them something gentle to rest on.

 

A store worker is restocking energy drinks at the far end of the aisle, cans clinking softly as he slides them into place. The sound blends with the low music filtering from the ceiling speakers.

 

I turn into the aisle with instant noodles stacked from waist-height to above my head. Rows and rows of packages in different colors. I move slowly between them, letting the normalcy of it all settle over me. None of it is what I need, but the routine of walking, scanning, breathing, it helps.

 

Eventually I reach the aisle that matters. Gloves.

 

The shelves are packed with all sorts: thin ones that won’t work in the cold, bright ones almost certainly meant for small children, cheap ones that’ll fall apart in a week. I stand there for a while, taking in each pair. My mind is quieter than it’s been all day. Finally, I pick a heavier pair, thick and lined, something Megumi can actually rely on.

 

I hold the gloves in my hand for an extra moment before turning toward the self-checkout. As I pass a candy display, I reach out automatically. A candy bar ends up in my hand before I really register the movement. It feels familiar, small, grounding.

 

At the register, the scanner beeps softly.

 

Gloves.

Candy bar.

 

The plastic bag rustles when I open it. The sound is crisp and thin, but somehow it settles something in me. I tuck the items inside, adjust the handles in my grip, and take in one last steady breath of warm air.

 

Then I push open the door and step back outside.

 

Cold air hits hard, slipping past the collar of my coat. It shocks the warmth right out of my skin, claiming it too easily. My eyes water. My nose burns. Tiny flakes of snow drift across the sidewalk in uneven little lines, shifting with each change in the wind.

 

The sky is almost dark now, the kind of early evening that feels later than it is. Lights flick on in windows up and down the street, glowing faintly through curtains. I lift my scarf higher, press it against my mouth, and start walking.

 

My boots crunch through the thin layer of snow covering the sidewalks. My breath comes out in small bursts of white in the cold air. My hands tighten around the plastic bag, the handles biting against my gloves.

 

The walk home is familiar. I know every fence, every driveway, every porch light. The rhythm of it usually clears my head.

 

Tonight it makes something in my chest feel heavier.

 

A few houses pass. Then a few more.

 

And then I realize where I’m heading, which block I’ve reached.

 

His.

 

My steps slow automatically. Just a fraction. Enough to feel it in my legs. I could turn the corner and take the longer way home. I even picture it for a second, the side street, the quiet back road. But my fingers are stiff from the cold and the wind is picking up, and taking a detour would just keep me out here longer.

 

So I keep walking.

 

But my chest tightens like it knows something before I let myself acknowledge it. My thoughts tangle, pulling in different directions, don’t look, do look, keep moving, stop.

 

And then I see him.

 

Farther up the driveway, not quite in the darkness but close to it. The last of the light makes him harder to read, but his outline is unmistakable. He’s holding a shovel, pushing slow, steady rows of snow to the side. His movements are deliberate, not rushed. There’s no rhythm, just methodical progress that keeps stopping.

 

A few strands of hair fall into his face with the movement, and every few seconds he pushes them away with the back of his glove. The gesture is familiar. Too familiar. He always did that when he was distracted, when his mind was somewhere else.

 

Suguru.

 

The sight of him hits harder than I expect. My breath catches, quiet and small. It feels like something inside me tightens, then loosens all at once, confusing and sharp and sad.

 

Even from this distance, I know the way he stands. The slope of his shoulders. The steadiness in how he moves. It’s the same body language I memorized years ago without meaning to. The same presence that always filled whatever space he was in.

 

He’s clearing his mother’s driveway, but slowly. Carefully. Not efficiently. The air is getting colder, but he seems in no rush.

 

I’m still several steps away, but the moment he notices me is clear.

 

He stills.

 

His hand pauses mid-motion, fingers frozen halfway through brushing his hair back. His posture shifts, subtle and immediate, like he recognizes me before he even lifts his head.

 

Then he looks up.

 

The world doesn’t stop, but something in me does.

 

His eyes find mine across the distance, and a tightness forms behind my sternum so suddenly it almost hurts. My breath hitches, shallow and too quick. Everything I’ve been holding back swells to the surface at once, the memory of his voice saying my name the day before, the weight of what he said afterward, the ache of wanting something that feels too close and too far at the same time.

 

He sees me.

 

And I see him seeing me.

 

My hands tense around the plastic bag until the handles strain, and for a moment, in the cold air, all I can do is stand there and feel everything I’ve been trying not to feel.

 

And as I get closer, instinct kicks in before thought.

 

My eyes drop away, heart jumping like I wasn’t expecting this, even though of course I was. Of course he’d be here. Of course I’d walk this way. Of course the universe would nudge us into the same space again before I’m ready.

 

I should just walk past. I tell myself that twice. He’s the one who said nothing has changed. He’s the one who said helping me meant nothing. He’s the one who–

“Need any help?”

The words slip out too easily, too fast, like something inside me leaned forward without permission and shoved them into the air.

 

Suguru straightens, shovel poised mid-movement. His eyes widen slightly, not dramatic, just honest surprise, but the kind that lands deeper than I expect. Like the idea of me offering help hadn’t even occurred to him. Or like he wasn’t sure if I still cared enough to offer.

 

His breath hangs in the air between us. Mine catches in my chest. He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at me for a long, quiet second. Something unreadable moves behind his expression, hesitation, maybe. Or confusion. Or something softer he’s trying not to show.

 

Then he nods.

A small, simple nod.

But it warms something in me so sharply it almost hurts.

 

I don’t trust my voice enough to say anything else. Instead, I force a small smile and head toward the open garage. I don’t need to look for the spare shovel; my body remembers this house, these corners, this layout like it never forgot. I set the bag with Megumi’s gloves carefully on the porch, out of the snow.

 

I inhale slowly, steadying myself.

 

Then I walk back toward him.

 

The snow crunches under both our boots as we start working. The sound of our shovels scraping against the pavement is the only conversation at first, a steady, rhythmic crunch that fills the cold air. Our breath clouds in front of us, mingling and disappearing into the grey afternoon.

The movements are slow, even, and the shared labor feels strangely familiar, like a muscle memory we didn't know we had. It’s the kind of easy, unspoken teamwork that used to define us, a rhythm we fell into without thought, even though we haven't done this, not like this, not after the world between us fractured into pieces we still haven't learned how to name.

 

I break the silence, my voice feeling fragile in the vast quiet. “How’ve you been?” I ask, and the words come out quieter than I intended, careful, like I’m testing thin ice.

 

He doesn’t look at me, just keeps his eyes on the patch of snow in front of him. His answer is the same volume. “Fine.” It’s a single, flat word that means nothing and everything at once. It’s a wall, but it’s a thin one, and I can see the cracks in it. I nod, accepting it for what it is, because pushing for more feels like a cruelty I’m not willing to commit.

He clears a small section and speaks again, his voice low. “My parents are out for the day. They went to visit my aunt. I meant to get to this earlier, but…” He trails off, shrugging a shoulder. “I ended up putting it off until now.”

 

I glance at the large, untouched patches of snow he’d left around him, the work barely started before I showed up.

“That doesn’t really sound like you,” I say, keeping my tone gentle. The Suguru I knew was many things, but he wasn't a procrastinator, not when it came to things that needed doing.

 

He lets out the kind of soft, tired breath that almost counts as a laugh, but it has no humor in it.

“Yeah.” He says nothing more, and I don’t press.

We work in silence for a few more minutes, and it’s… something. It’s not comfortable, not yet, but it’s not painful either. The space between us has lost its sharp edges, the tension has softened into something neutral, a small, quiet pocket of air where I can finally breathe without feeling like I’m suffocating on what’s unsaid.

 

And then, while I’m putting my weight into a particularly thick, icy patch, my shovel catches an uneven edge hidden beneath the powder. A spray of snow explodes through the air and lands directly on him. It dusts across his dark coat, speckles the loose strands of hair falling over his shoulder, and clings to the side of his face.

 

He freezes. Slowly, he turns his head toward me, and the look on his face is a perfect picture of silent disbelief mixed with a kind of exhausted resignation, as if to say, ‘of course this is happening now.’ It’s so utterly him, so unimpressed and so tired, that it shatters the fragile seriousness I’d been clinging to.

 

A laugh bursts out of me, too loud and too sudden for the quiet street. It feels like it’s been trapped in my chest for a year, and its escape shakes something loose inside me.

 

Suguru holds the deadpan expression for two, maybe three seconds, before the corner of his mouth twitches. Then he laughs too. It’s not loud or wild, just a soft, breathy sound that I haven’t heard in so long it feels like a punch to the gut. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.

“Stop laughing,” he says, and the words are completely undermined by the laugh that’s still shaking his shoulders.

 

“Make me,” I challenge, and apparently he takes that personally, because he immediately drops his shovel, scoops up a handful of fresh snow with his gloved hands, and throws it directly at my face.

 

“HEY–!” I gasp as the icy shock hits my skin, and he smirks, a real, genuine smirk that lights up his whole face. “You little–” I retaliate, grabbing my own handful of snow and tossing it back, but he dodges with an easy grace and takes off down the driveway.

I chase him, because I’m apparently fifteen again and completely incapable of letting him win. Snow kicks up under our boots as we slip and slide, our breath coming out in short bursts and loud laughter that echoes in the cold. It feels like we’re younger, lighter, like we’re back before everything cracked, before we found ourselves on opposite sides of a decision I still don’t know how to process.

 

He slows near the end of the driveway, thinking the chase is over. It’s not. I catch up and press both of my hands, full of snow, against his chest, pushing it into the thick wool of his coat. He shouts my name, a sound that’s half protest, half pure laughter, twisting slightly but not really trying to get away.

 

For a moment, we’re both just laughing, instinctual and unrestrained, like we don’t know how not to. His breath clouds in the air, warm and real and so close I can feel it on my skin. Mine mixes with his, and then–

 

We stop. Almost at the same time. Not because the game ends, but because the moment does. We’re standing too close. My hand is still resting flat against his chest, and I can feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart through his coat. His breath hits my cheek in soft, uneven bursts. The space between us feels paper-thin. Familiar. Too familiar.

 

Suguru’s smile wavers. Then it fades completely. His eyes drop from mine, and his shoulders shift back, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement as he puts distance between us that has nothing to do with physical space.

 

He’s remembering something he shouldn’t forget.

 

The cold pours back into the gap he just created, an unstoppable chill. I step back too, slow and controlled, swallowing the ache that blooms in my chest.

 

“Sorry,” I say, forcing a small, easy tone I don’t feel. “Got a little carried away.”

 

He doesn’t tease me. He doesn’t say “I know” or “idiot” or any of the hundred things he would have said a year ago. He just picks up his shovel again with a quiet, closed-off movement, and that’s when it hits me, the shift. The reminder. The unspoken line he won’t cross, even now.

 

We finish the driveway in silence. Not an angry silence, or even a tense one. Just a tired, heavy silence that makes the air feel thicker. The driveway gleams faintly under the streetlamp once we’re done, neat rows marking the work we finished together, a temporary truce carved into the snow. I brush the snow off my gloves, head toward the garage, and return my shovel to its place on the wall. My heartbeat still hasn’t fully settled.

 

“Well,” I say quietly, stepping back onto the cleared pavement. “I should get going.”

 

Suguru nods. His breath leaves him in a soft white puff. His eyes flick up to meet mine, just for a heartbeat, just long enough for something deep in my chest to twist painfully.

“Okay,” he says. There’s a small pause. “Bye.”

 

“Bye,” I manage. The smile I try to give him feels thin, fragile, like it might crack. I turn and start walking. The night has fully settled, the sky a deep blue fading to black, the streetlights stretching long shadows across the pristine snow.

 

My footsteps crunch on the ground, the sound loud in the sudden stillness. My hands sting with the lingering cold, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

 

But underneath all of it, underneath the hurt, the confusion, the distance he keeps holding onto… there’s still that moment.

 

That few minutes of laughter.

Of snow on his coat and warmth in his breath.

Of him chasing me and me chasing him back.

A moment that felt like home.

A moment that felt like a memory being lived again instead of remembered.

A moment that hurts more because I miss it so much.

I keep walking.

Not fast. Not slow.

 

Just steady, letting the cold settle around me while the echo of Suguru’s laugh stays warm somewhere inside my ribs, a place I’m not ready to let go of.

By the time I get home, my fingers are thawing out enough to hurt. The house is warm, too warm, really, like Mom left the heat running a little too high. I kick off my boots, shrug off my coat, and collapse onto the couch with a dramatic sigh that Megumi would definitely judge me for if he were here to see it.

 

Something’s playing on the TV, some random cooking competition I turned on without caring who wins. The noise fills the room in a harmless, comforting way while I scroll through my phone, not really reading anything. It’s that mindless kind of scrolling where nothing sticks, nothing matters, it’s just movement. Distraction.

 

The warmth sinks into my bones, easing out the cold from Suguru’s driveway. My legs feel heavy. My fingers finally stop stinging. For a little while, I can almost pretend everything feels normal.

 

Then I hear the soft thump of Megumi’s footsteps on the stairs.

 

He appears at the edge of the couch, hair sticking up from where he was probably laying on it. He looks at me with that serious little expression he always wears when he’s about to ask for something.

 

“Can I see my new gloves?” he asks.

 

I blink.

 

Oh. Right. The gloves.

 

I sit up a little, setting my phone aside. “Yeah, they’re–”

 

The sentence dies in my throat. My stomach sinks. I left them on Suguru’s porch. The realization hits fast and embarrassingly hard. I freeze for a moment, hoping I’m wrong, hoping maybe I tucked them into my coat pocket without noticing. But I know I didn’t. I can picture the exact spot on the porch where I set the bag down.

 

“Shoot,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I… totally left them at Suguru’s.”

 

Megumi blinks once. Then again. His eyebrows pull slightly inward, half annoyance, half surprise.

 

“You were with Geto?” he asks, voice small in a way he tries to hide.

 

That question hits deeper than it should. I pretend not to hear it, brushing past the part I don’t want to unpack.

 

“I can get them back,” I say instead, forcing a smile. “We can fix this.”

 

Megumi nods slowly, though his lips press together like he’s disappointed I’m dodging him. “Just call him,” he suggests. “Ask.”

 

I hesitate. Of course I do.

 

Calling Suguru means hearing his voice again outside the easy bubble of shoveling together. It means stepping into the reality where things are complicated, messy, painful. It means being the one to reach out when he’s the one who said it was over.

 

But Megumi is waiting. And he needs those gloves. And avoiding Suguru forever isn’t an option, no matter how much my heart wants to try.

 

“Okay,” I say softly. “I’ll call him.”

 

Megumi doesn’t move. He just stands there staring at me, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Maybe he’s hurt I didn’t ask if he wanted to say hi. He misses Suguru. I know he does.

 

And I don’t know how to tell him that missing someone doesn’t mean you get to have them.

 

“Hey,” I say gently, nudging his leg with my foot. “Go back upstairs. I’ll get your gloves. Promise.”

 

He nods again, slower this time. “Okay…”

 

He disappears around the corner.

 

I exhale, long and shaky, and sink deeper into the couch.

 

The phone feels too heavy when I pick it up. Suguru’s contact sits near the bottom of my recents, which feels like some kind of cosmic joke. I stare at the call button for a good ten seconds, hoping maybe if I hesitate long enough, something will happen to save me from this choice.

 

Like the phone exploding. Or Megumi deciding he suddenly hates gloves. Or Suguru’s number magically changing. But none of that happens.

 

So I press call.

 

It rings once.

 

Twice.

 

My heart thuds in a slow, painful rhythm. Part of me hopes he doesn’t pick up. That he ignores it. That I don’t have to hear the softness in his voice or the distance under it. But at the same time, the idea of him ignoring me hurts sharper than I expect.

 

Then he answers.

 

“Satoru?”

 

His voice is quiet, gentle, but tense in a way that sounds like concern threading around the edges.

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

My throat tightens. It shouldn’t feel good to hear him worry. It shouldn’t feel like warmth unfurling under my ribs.

 

“Oh, yeah,” I say quickly, trying to sound casual. “Sorry for calling this late. I, uh… I left something on your porch.”

 

There’s a small pause on his end, soft as a breath.

 

“…You did?”

 

“Yeah. Megumi’s gloves.” I wince. “And a candy bar, actually. Very tragic.”

 

He lets out a barely-there laugh, quiet, reluctant, but real. It makes my chest hurt. “I see.”

 

“Is it okay if I come get them?” I ask. “I know it’s late. I can wait until tomorrow if–”

 

“No, it’s fine.” His voice dips slightly, like he’s shifting the phone to his other ear. “I can bring them inside so they don’t freeze. Just knock when you get here.”

 

“You sure?” I ask. “I don’t want to bother you.”

 

“You’re not bothering me.” The answer comes fast. Too fast. Then he adds, more steadily, “My parents aren’t home yet anyway. It’s okay.”

 

Something in me softens. Something else twists.

 

“Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you. Really.”

 

“…Yeah. You’re welcome.”

 

For a moment neither of us hangs up. The quiet stretches warm and fragile between us, the way it used to before things broke.

 

I clear my throat. “I’ll, uh… be there soon.”

 

“Alright,” he says gently. “Be careful walking. The sidewalks are iced over.”

 

My heart stutters. He didn’t have to say that. He didn’t have to care.

 

“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound as affected as I feel. “I will.”

 

His voice is soft enough to almost disappear. “Bye, Satoru.”

 

“…Bye, Suguru.”

 

I end the call. And for a long moment I just sit there on the couch, the warmth of the room suddenly feeling too tight around me. Then I grab my coat again. Because I need to get the gloves.

 

But my chest knows the truth. I’m going back to Suguru’s house. Again. Tonight. And it feels like walking into something I’m not ready for–

something warm
and familiar
and painful
all at once.

 

It’s a short walk to Suguru’s house, but I take my time anyway. The sidewalk is slick with a thin sheet of ice, catching the streetlights in dull, glassy reflections. I keep my hands tucked deep into my coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, breath rising in soft white puffs that disappear as quickly as they form. The closer I get, the more my heart flutters with something tense and warm, something I can’t quite talk myself out of. And when his house comes into view, porch light glowing gold against the dark, I feel it twist deeper.

 

I step onto the porch slowly. The boards creak the same way they always have, a familiar sound that hits harder than expected. For a few seconds, I stand in front of the door, hand lifted but not knocking yet. It’s ridiculous how nervous I feel. This is Suguru. My Suguru… or, well, the Suguru I used to have.

Everything between us has been so fragile lately that even lifting my hand feels like I could accidentally tip the balance. But I finally knock, gentle and uncertain.

 

The door opens almost immediately, and there he is. Suguru stands framed in warm light, wearing soft house clothes that make him look comfortable and impossibly familiar. His hair is loose around his shoulders, long and dark, one strand falling forward to brush his cheek. The sight of him hits me like something both warm and painful at once. I want to reach out and tuck that stray strand back, but I don’t. I just breathe.

 

“Hi,” he says softly, like the word is meant only for me.

 

“Hey,” I answer, barely above a whisper.

 

We linger there, caught in a strange stillness. His eyes hold mine with a quiet intensity I remember too well, gentle, searching, careful. After a moment, he steps away briefly, then returns with a small bag in hand, offering it to me. Our fingers brush, too warm against the cold air.

 

“Here,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want it getting wet.”

 

I take it, swallowing a sudden tightness in my throat. “Thanks. This’ll save Megumi’s hands.”

 

A faint smile touches his lips. “He’s always losing things.” His gaze softens. “Wonder who he gets it from.”

 

I scoff, but it comes out warm. He smiles again, the real one, the one he only ever used with me, subtle and soft around the edges. It drifts between us like something fragile and precious. For a few seconds, neither of us moves. We just stand there, the cold behind me and the warmth of his home spilling out around him.

 

“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he admits quietly. There’s a hesitant honesty in his voice. “I didn’t think the timing would… line up.”

 

I wet my lips, feeling something warm spread through my chest and I feel impulsive. Before I can stop myself, I say, “Maybe it was supposed to.”

 

His eyes flick up, startled and a little vulnerable. “Supposed to?”

 

“Yeah,” I say, voice low but steady, thinking back to the fortune teller's words. “Sometimes people end up in the same place at the same time because they’re meant to.”

 

He looks at me with something that feels like hope and fear tangled together. The air changes, warmer, softer, familiar in a way that makes my heart ache. He studies my face, slow and deliberate, his eyes tracing the things he hasn’t let himself look at in a long time. When his gaze drops briefly to my mouth, my pulse stumbles.

 

And suddenly, my chest feels tight, my stomach twists in a way that makes me want to step back… what am I doing? I think. He pushed me away yesterday, reminded me that nothing had changed between us, that helping me didn’t mean anything… and now here he is, actually talking to me without his guard up. My brain screams caution while my heart, predictably, ignores it.

 

“Satoru…” he murmurs. “Do you want to come in?”

 

The question hangs there like a held breath.

 

I nod, stepping inside before I can second-guess it. The door clicks softly behind me, shutting out the cold. The warmth of the house wraps around us, muting everything but the thrum of my heart and the steady, familiar presence of him. We stand in the small entryway, only inches apart, and I realize that I don’t care about the fights, the distance, or the year of silence. All that matters is right now.

 

“You make it really hard to say no,” I whisper.

 

He exhales shakily, the corners of his mouth lifting in something faintly pained but fond. “You’re still the same,” he says, barely above a breath. “You always were.”

 

I lift my hand almost before I think, fingertips brushing his cheek. His eyes flutter slightly, and he leans into my touch, as if remembering what it felt like before. I tuck the stray strand of hair behind his ear, careful, slow. He inhales sharply, eyes meeting mine again.

 

“You cut your hair,” I say quietly. “I almost didn’t recognize it.”

 

“You noticed,” he whispers.

 

“Of course I noticed,” I murmur. “I notice everything about you. Still do.”

 

His breath catches, soft, full of emotion he’s trying to hide. He steps closer, closing the last inch between us. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like you never stopped.”

 

My hand trembles slightly against his cheek. “Maybe I didn’t.”

 

He closes his eyes, foreheads touching gently, carefully, like we’re both afraid of breaking the moment. “I thought I’d forgotten what this felt like,” he says, voice cracking just barely.

 

“You didn’t,” I whisper. “Neither did I.”

 

The space between us soon disappears. Our lips meet softly at first, careful, warm, familiar. The kiss tastes like coming home, like the relief you don’t realize you needed until it crashes over you. Suguru’s fingers curl into the front of my coat, hesitant but wanting, holding on like he’s afraid this is temporary. He pulls it off, it piles around my legs and my hand slides into his hair, his breath warm against my cheek. I drop the bag, it wrinkling at the fall.

 

The kiss deepens, tender and steady, full of everything we never said out loud. When we finally part, he rests his forehead against mine again, eyes closed, breathing a little too fast. Then he giggles softly, that quiet, breathy sound that always made me feel like I belonged.

 

“Come with me,” he whispers, threading his fingers through mine.

 

There’s a playful glint in his eyes, and I realize he’s leading me toward his room. I hesitate for a heartbeat, heart hammering, chest tight with panic and excitement, but then I follow. Because the cold, the past, the fights, the silence, none of it matters anymore. All that matters is now, and this, and him. As we giggle, stumbling down the hallway, I decide to let myself go with it. It means I can have him. Right now. All of him. And for the first time in a long time, that’s enough.

 

The bedroom door creaks open, and the air changes. I smell him, faint incense and clean linen. It’s the same scent I remember, and it hits me hard, pulling me right back to a time before everything fell apart. He presses his palms to my chest, guiding me, and I sink onto the edge of the bed. I look up at him. His hair is messy, falling into his eyes, and I see it all there: want, fear, and something that looks like relief.

 

A year. It’s been a whole year without this, without him. Without the simple comfort of him just being here. And now he is, real and trembling, his breath catching as he stares down at me.

 

He leans in and kisses me fiercely. He puts everything into it, the ache of being apart, the regret that we both felt, the love we never really managed to bury. His teeth nip at my lower lip, and I gasp into his mouth. I melt against him, my hands clutching his shirt, twisting the fabric like I’m trying to hold us both in place.

 

“Suguru,” I say against his mouth, my voice breaking. “I've missed you so much it hurts. Every day, every night, I couldn't breathe without you.” The words just come out, raw and honest. He shudders and kisses me harder, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, claiming me again. My hands slide up under his shirt, desperate for the feel of his skin, for his warmth to chase away the cold of the last year.

 

But my fingers stop when they trace his ribs. They’re sharp, sticking out under my touch. He’s so much thinner, like he’s been hollowed out. The emptiness got to him, too. My touch falters, and a cold wave of worry washes over me. He feels it immediately. He breaks the kiss, his eyes narrowing as he grabs my wrists and pushes them down.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his voice cracking. “Not now. Please, Satoru… just... let me have this. Let me pretend we’re okay, even if it’s just for tonight.” The look in his eyes is so vulnerable it hurts. I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, pushing all my questions aside for later.

 

He shifts, his hands moving to my jeans with a new focus. His fingers shake a little as he unbuttons them, then pulls the zipper down slowly. He peels the denim away, and I lift my hips to help. He strips me bare from the waist down, my boxers still on, leaving me exposed and hard under his intense stare.

 

“You're still so beautiful,” he breathes, like he’s telling me a secret. The tenderness in his voice makes my throat tight. “I dreamed of this… of seeing you like this, wanting me again.”

 

Suguru drops to his knees between my thighs. His hands slide up my legs, then one palms my length, firm and warm, pre-cum slicking his palm.

 

“I missed seeing you unravel under my touch,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. I whimper softly, my whole body focused on his touch. He tugs my boxers off completely, and I kick them away.

 

Then his mouth is on me. His lips wrap around the head, his tongue flicking out to taste the pre-cum before he sinks down, taking me deep with a moan that vibrates through me.

 

“Suguru– ah, fuck,” I whine, my fingers diving into his hair.

 

I tug gently, then harder as he starts to suck, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head in a rhythm that feels like coming home. The wet heat of his mouth, the way he hums my name around my length, it completely unravels me. Whimpers and his name spill from my lips, high and broken.

 

“Suguru, please... it feels so good, don’t stop… I've needed you for so long.” He glances up at me through his lashes, his eyes dark and full of affection, and the sight almost pushes me over the edge.

 

Pleasure coils tight in my stomach, building and building. I gasp. “'I'm close– gonna come, Suguru. I can't hold it—”

 

But he doesn’t pull back. He takes me deeper, his throat relaxing as he swallows around me. I shatter, crying out his name as I pulse into his mouth, my hips jerking as I come.

 

He pulls off slowly. My release is on his lips, a drop on his chin. He swipes it away with his thumb, rubbing it against his lower lip before swallowing, his eyes never leaving mine. The sight of him, flushed and marked by me, makes me hot all over again, but I also feel a wave of embarrassment, my cheeks burning.

 

“I’m sorry,” I start, my voice hoarse, “I didn’t mean to come so fast.” He shakes his head and leans up to kiss me softly. I can taste myself on his tongue, mixed with his warmth.

 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he whispers, his voice husky. He nuzzles my jaw. “I wanted that. I wanted you, all of you, just like this.” He pulls back to look at me. “Having you again... it's everything I remembered and more.”

 

He breaks the kiss and steps back. I don’t reach for him. I tell myself it’s because I want to give him space, to let him undress at his own pace, but the truth is, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what I’ll see.

 

Suguru starts taking off his clothes with quiet efficiency, his eyes lowered, his shoulders tense. Not the tense of a nervous man, but the tense of someone bracing for impact. I notice everything. I always have. But I hadn't seen this Suguru before. Piece by piece, the layers fall away, and with every inch of exposed skin, my stomach sinks a little lower. He’s thinner. Too thin. Not the kind of thin you get from a few missed meals. The kind that comes from months of forgetting to eat, of forgetting yourself. My chest tightens painfully. I sit there, trying to keep my expression neutral, because Suguru doesn’t need pity or shock, but the ache in my heart grows, a deep, painful bruise.

 

He reaches for the hem of his shirt. Then he stops. His fingers clench in the fabric, knuckles whitening. His eyes flick away from mine. He swallows hard. And for a moment, he looks… ashamed. Suguru Geto. Ashamed to be seen. My heart cracks right down the middle.

 

He lets out a small breath, the kind a person makes when they’ve made a decision they hate but can’t avoid.

 

“…I’m keeping this on.”

 

His voice isn’t defensive or stubborn. Just quiet. Fragile, almost. And that’s what breaks me the most. The fact that he’s expecting an argument, expecting to be told he shouldn’t hide. Expecting judgment. Suguru, I think, what the hell have you been going through? Who made you think you needed to hide from me?

 

My throat feels too tight. I force my voice to come out gently. “Okay. Keep it on.”

 

He doesn’t look at me right away. When he finally does, there’s something defeated in his eyes, but also something relieved, like he’d been preparing for the worst and it hadn’t come. I can’t move for a moment. I’m too busy trying to process the sight of him, the new angles of his body, the sharp lines of his hips and ribs that shouldn’t be there. The ones carved by loneliness or exhaustion or pain, I don't know which, and that ignorance hurts almost as much as the sight itself.

 

I stand up and reach out, slowly, carefully. He doesn’t flinch, but I still treat him like something precious and fragile. I lift a hand, not to touch the shirt, not to challenge the boundary he’s set, but to cup his cheek. His skin is warm, but his jawline is too sharp. His eyes refuse to hide their exhaustion this close up. My thumb brushes the faint hollow beneath his eye. God, when did he start looking like this?

 

“You’re fine. Exactly like this,” I say softly, my own voice breaking a little.

 

Suguru closes his eyes, leaning just barely into my touch. I feel the bones under his skin, the tension, the way he holds himself like someone who’s forgotten how to be cared for. It destroys me. Quietly. Completely. In that moment, I realize I'm not angry about the lost year. I'm angry at myself for not being there to stop this. For not seeing the signs sooner. For not knowing Suguru had gotten this small in his own skin.

 

I press our foreheads together, my voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to show me anything you’re not ready to.”

 

He exhales shakily, and I feel it against my lips.

 

“A year without this... without you. It's been hell, Satoru. Nights where I couldn't sleep, just aching for your touch, your voice.”

 

He nudges me back fully onto the bed, the sheets cool and rumpled against my heated skin. He slips a pillow under my head with a gentleness that makes my heart clench. Lifting my legs, he settles between them, his mouth trailing fire down my neck. The kisses turn to sucks that leave blooming marks, branding me as his again, then lower to my chest, his tongue circling a nipple, his teeth grazing just enough to make me arch and moan into the dim light.

 

“Suguru… I need you closer, I need to feel all of you,” I plead softly, my hands tangling in his hair again, pulling him up for another kiss. It’s deep and gentle, our tongues sliding together as if we can't get enough, can't get close enough.

 

From the nightstand, he grabs the lube, the bottle cool in his palm as he slicks his fingers generously.

 

“You look beautiful,” he admits, his voice low and raw, circling my entrance with one digit before pushing in slow. The intrusion is slick and insistent. The stretch burns sweetly, a delicious ache that has me gasping, clenching around him instinctively. “...I’ve missed you.”

 

“Say it again,” I whimper.

 

“I miss you, Satoru.” He adds a second finger, thrusting and scissoring them, curling to brush that spot inside me that makes me see white, stars bursting behind my eyelids. I gasp.

 

“Good… because I’ve been missing you for a year,” I manage to get out, my voice raspy.

 

Moans tear from my throat as my body writhes, and he preps me with meticulous care, whispering praises between his thrusts.

 

“That's it, open up for me, Satoru. Just like before, so good.” His free hand strokes my thigh, soothing the tremble there.

 

“Please,” I beg, my hips bucking up to chase the friction. “I need you inside, you… not this. Suguru, please, I can't wait anymore. It's been too long without you.”

 

He chuckles, but it's strained and affectionate. I can feel his own arousal straining against my leg. “Patience, Satoru. I don’t want to hurt you. I want this to last, to make up for every lost moment.” Yet his eyes betray the same desperation, his pupils blown wide. He snags a condom from the drawer, and I whimper at the crinkle of the foil, the reality of it all crashing in amid the haze of need.

 

As he rolls it on, lubing up his length with a generous squeeze that makes him hiss, I blurt it out, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope. “Wait– what are we doing, Suguru? After a year... is this just tonight? Or... are we really doing this again?”

 

He pauses, his hand stilling on his thick length. A flush creeps up his neck to his cheeks. His expression crumples into something boyish, almost sheepish, but the vulnerability shines through.

 

“I don’t know. Probably making the same stupid mistake twice?” He says it lightly, trying for humor, but his voice wavers, his eyes searching mine with raw hope and a flicker of fear. “But... I don't care right now. I just want you. Please, Satoru, let me have us, even if it's messy.”

 

The words hang between us, heavy with unspoken fears and dreams, but they pull me in. I reach for him, cupping his face in my hands, my thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Then don't stop. I want this too, want us. More than anything.”

 

He nods, and relief floods his features like sunlight breaking through clouds. He lines up, pressing the blunt head against my entrance. He pushes in slow, edging past the ring of muscle with a steady pressure until the head pops inside, then inch by inch, filling me with his girth.

 

“Satoru– god, yes, you're so tight,” he groans, stilling once he's fully sheathed. I moan his name, loud and needy, adjusting to the overwhelming fullness, the way he stretches me to my limits. It burns and soothes all at once, like puzzle pieces slotting back together after being scattered for a year.

 

He starts with shallow thrusts, pulling out just a fraction before sliding back in, building the rhythm gradually. Each drag of his length along my walls sends jolts of pleasure through me.

 

“I needed this so badly,” he pants against my ear, his hips rolling in a smooth grind that hits deep. “Missed holding you, missed everything about you, the sounds you make.” His voice is a gravelly whisper, laced with emotion, and I feel tears slip down my cheeks, mixing with sweat.

 

I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, urging him on. “Suguru– harder, please, don't ever leave again,” I beg, my voice fracturing on the words, my moans escalating as he obliges. His thrusts snap sharper, deeper, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips, pounding into that spot relentlessly now, each plunge making me cry out, my back arching off the bed.

 

“Yes– fuck, right there, Suguru. Deeper, give me more– I've dreamed of this.”

 

He growls low in his throat, his pace quickening to a brutal rhythm, withdrawing almost fully before slamming back in. Sweat slicks our bodies, his chest heaving as he braces on his arms, caging me in, his eyes locked on mine, intense, loving, feral.

 

One hand drops to wrap around my length, stroking in time with his thrusts. The pulls are firm, from base to tip, his thumb smearing the slick bead of pre-cum over the head. The dual sensation builds fast, a heat coiling tighter and tighter in my gut, my walls fluttering around him.

He changes his rhythm then, slowing to long, deep strokes that grind against my prostate, making me sob with the overwhelming pleasure, before ramping up again into short, rapid jabs that have me babbling incoherently.

 

“Suguru– oh god, yes– harder, don't stop, I need you.”

 

His breaths come in harsh pants, his forehead pressed to mine, and whispers spill out amid the frenzy: “You’re mine, always mine, Satoru.”

 

The bedframe rattles with the force of it, the headboard thumping a steady rhythm against the wall, but neither of us cares. We are lost in this storm of reunion.

 

Pleasure crests, a wave crashing over me, and I cry out, “Coming– Suguru, I'm coming!” I spill over his fist onto my chest in hot, thick bursts, my body clenching rhythmically around him. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a choked cry of my name, his hips stuttering as he pulses inside the condom, filling it with his release.

 

“Satoru– fuck, yes.” We ride it out together, his thrusts turning languid, drawing out the aftershocks until we're both trembling, completely spent. He collapses gently over me, careful not to crush me, kissing my forehead, then my eyelids, my lips, soft and reverent, his mouth tasting of salt and us. He pulls out slowly, gently.

 

“You're mine,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked. “Always were. We'll figure it out– I promise. No more running, no more silence.” More sweet words spill from him as I drift in the haze. “Stay tonight, stay forever,” he says, and my body hums with a deep, satisfying warmth.

 

I’m still catching my breath when Suguru slips away from the bed. For a terrifying moment, I think he’s leaving, really leaving this time, and my chest tightens so sharply I sit up a little.

 

But he comes back after a minute, his footsteps soft on the floor. He’s carrying a warm washcloth and a folded towel. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just kneels beside me, his movements slow and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he touches me too quickly.

 

The cloth is warm against my skin, and his hands are steady despite the quiet exhaustion radiating from him. He cleans me first, wiping my chest and then between my legs with tender, deliberate strokes, murmuring soft nothings. “Let me take care of you, like I should have all this time.” His voice is low and warm, brushing against my ear like a blanket. My eyes slip closed, fatigue weighing down my body. There’s a tenderness in the way he moves the cloth over me, gentle, patient, almost reverent. It’s almost like he’s trying to take care of me the way he wishes someone would take care of him.

 

I’m drifting, half-asleep, when I hear it. His breath catches. Just barely, a tiny crack in the smoothness of his whispering. I lift my head, blinking my heavy eyelids, and turn to look at him.

 

He’s crying.

 

Not the kind of crying you can hear. The kind that sneaks out of the eyes, silent, shaking tears he’s trying to hide even as they fall.

 

“…Suguru?” My voice is rough from tiredness. “Hey… hey, what’s wrong?”

 

He doesn’t answer. He stiffens, like he’s been caught doing something forbidden. I push myself upright slowly, reaching for him. “Was it too much? Did I do something wrong?” My thumb brushes his cheek. “Suguru, talk to me. Are you okay?”

 

He shakes his head immediately. Not a ‘no’ to the question, but a refusal to speak. A refusal to open that door. He sits down on the edge of the bed, his shoulders bowed, his eyes pointed at the floor like he’s ashamed to be seen crying at all. I crawl toward him, my knees sinking into the mattress, and sit close enough that our legs touch. My hand finds his face, turning him toward me gently. He lets me. God, the way he just lets me.

 

“Hey…” I whisper, brushing the tears from his cheeks with my thumb. “It’s okay. Look at me. I’m right here.” Another tear slips free. He doesn’t try to stop it. “Talk to me,” I murmur.

 

He shakes his head again, his jaw tight, his eyes shining. “Okay,” I breathe after a moment, softening my voice. “Okay. Then… do you just want to lay down with me?”

 

He nods once, quiet, almost desperate. So I pull back the covers. We both slip under them, our bare skin meeting, the warmth of him sinking straight into me. He clings immediately, his arms looping around my waist, his face pressing into my chest like he’s trying to disappear there. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer, trying to make myself big enough to hold every fracture he’s hiding. My fingers find his hair, combing through it slowly, rhythmically.

 

“Shh,” I breathe. “You can rest. I’ve got you.”

 

His breathing evens out little by little. It takes a while, longer than it should, but eventually his weight gets heavier against me, his body relaxing piece by piece, like it’s the first time he’s felt safe enough to sleep in months. When he finally drifts off, I keep smoothing my fingers through his hair. And my heart breaks. Because I have him again, God, I have him in my arms, but this isn’t the Suguru I remember. This Suguru is thinner, quieter, carved down by something I don’t fully understand. This Suguru holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. This Suguru cries while he’s taking care of me.

 

And as I hold him, warm and sleeping against me, one thought shatters me from the inside out: He’s broken. And he needs help. And I don’t know if I’ll be enough for him.

But I tighten my hold around him anyway. Because right now, for tonight at least, he’s here. And I’m not letting him go.

Chapter Text

I wake slowly, drifting upward through layers of warmth and softness I haven’t felt in so many years it feels almost imaginary, as though my mind conjured it out of longing alone. My first thought, hazy and disbelieving, is how quiet everything is. No blinds rattling, no town noise filtering through thin walls, no footsteps from the hallway. Just the low, steady hum of the air vent washing the room in a gentle white noise, and the faint rustle of fabric as someone shifts beneath the covers.

 

The warmth beside me is solid, and familiar in a way my chest isn’t prepared for.

 

Suguru’s back is facing me.

 

At first, my half-awake mind doesn’t find meaning in it. He’s always slept curled loosely on his side, the blanket twisted around him in that careless, offhand way he treated everything that wasn’t a deliberate action. Seeing him like this, exposed to the soft morning light, hair falling in unruly dark waves, the slope of his spine visible through the thin cotton of his shirt, pulls a tired, involuntary smile from me before my senses fully catch up.

 

God. I missed him.

 

The thought washes over me so slowly and so completely that it steals the air from my lungs.

 

Last night’s memories return in fragments, whispers breathed too close to the skin, the faint press of shaky laughter, the trembling gentleness of hands that hadn’t touched mine like that in so long. It all blurs together into something warm and fragile, the kind of night I used to imagine when he still laughed with his whole face, when I thought our future was something we’d build, not something I’d mourn.

 

For a long moment, I just look at him.

 

His hair is mussed, falling in soft, tangled strands across his shoulder. His breathing is slow, steady, almost painfully peaceful. It’s the kind of scene that feels too delicate to disturb, like even shifting the blankets might shatter the whole illusion and send me falling straight through it.

 

But the longer I sit there, the more I realize it isn’t an illusion at all. He’s really here. I’m really here. And my hand moves before I can stop it.

 

My fingers hover above his shoulder, hesitant, before brushing a stray lock. His neck is warm beneath my fingertips. Too warm. It makes my chest tighten, because I remember how warm he used to feel when he’d fall asleep on me after long days at school, how alive he felt. This warmth feels different, like a fever, like exhaustion that has seeped down to the bone.

 

Still, my hand lingers there, suspended in that small space between us where everything still feels possible.

 

“Morning,” I whisper, hoping the word will coax him gently into wakefulness.

 

His shoulders tighten immediately, barely noticeable, but enough to brush against my senses like a discordant note. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t breathe any faster or slower. He simply absorbs the sound, like someone bracing themselves without realizing they’re doing it.

 

I slide closer, wrapping an arm around his waist slowly, carefully, trying not to dwell on the sharpness of his ribs beneath the fabric of his shirt. There’s a moment where my breath catches, because it wasn’t always like that. He used to be strong, not bulky, but steady, grounded, a warm weight I could lean into. Now he feels like someone who’s been quietly collapsing under the surface for months, maybe years, without anyone noticing.

 

“Still sleepy?” I murmur into the back of his neck, letting my lips hover there, close enough to feel his warmth but not quite touching him.

 

Something in his body goes rigid.

 

Not the kind of tensing that comes from waking up too quickly or being startled. No, this is tighter, quieter, more contained. The kind of tension that comes from someone preparing to endure something, not embrace it.

 

“Suguru?” I whisper.

 

He inhales sharply, the breath catching in a way that twists something low in my stomach.

 

“…yeah,” he answers.

 

The word is heavy and flat. Not the soft, sleepy murmur I’d been hoping for. Not even annoyance. Just… weight. Something dragging at the edges of his voice like it hurts him to say anything at all.

 

I press my forehead lightly to his shoulder blade, trying to steady my own breathing. “Feels nice waking up with you again,” I say softly, almost shyly, because the truth of it settles so deeply inside me it almost hurts.

 

But the words barely leave my mouth before he moves, pulling away, sitting up abruptly, the blanket sliding off him and pooling around his hips.

 

The morning light exposes the sharp line of his spine through his shirt. Too sharp. Too prominent.

 

And for the first time, I truly see him.

 

The hollowness of his shoulders. The faint tremor in his hands. I hadn’t wanted to look too closely last night, not when he was finally touching me, finally letting me close again. But now, with distance forced between us, the truth hits me like a blow.

 

He’s thinner than I remembered. Not intentionally thin, not someone who forgot to eat because he was busy. This is a different kind of thin, the kind carved out by sleepless nights and quiet despair, by loneliness settling like dust into someone’s bones. His eyes, when I catch the faintest glimpse as he looks down at his blankets, are hollowed out, ringed with exhaustion so deep it looks permanent. And I think, no, I know, I haven’t seen him this worn down since everything between us fell apart.

 

And suddenly I realize I am not just missing him.

 

I am grieving him while he’s still alive.

 

Something inside me cracks. I don’t know if it’s guilt or fear or love, but it aches enough to steal my breath. I had thought last night meant something healing. I had thought maybe I could reach him again, even just a little. But seeing him like this, seeing how far he’s fallen while I was busy shielding myself from the pain of losing him, hurts more deeply than I knew it could.

 

“Wait…” I start, sitting up too quickly.

 

He runs a trembling hand through his hair, fingers snagging in the tangled strands. When he speaks, his voice is small and hoarse, as if scraped raw from the inside.

 

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

 

The words hit me like cold water to the face.

 

“…done what?” My voice barely makes it out.

 

“Last night.” He presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, as if trying to erase every memory that’s tangled between us. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

 

The apology lands in my chest like a knife twisting.

 

“Suguru,” I say, reaching out for his arm without thinking. “What are you apologizing for? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

But he shifts away from my touch before I even brush his skin.

 

The movement is small. Barely perceptible.

 

But it hurts more than any injury I’ve ever taken.

 

And worse, he curls in on himself. His head lowers, hair falling forward to hide his expression completely. His shoulders hunch inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller, like he’s protecting something fragile and breaking inside him.

 

“I shouldn’t have let you stay,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have let last night happen.”

 

My mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Don’t say it like it was… like it wasn’t real.”

 

“It wasn’t supposed to be.” He swallows, throat working around the words. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Look at me,” I whisper.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“Please,” I add, hearing my own voice fracture. “Suguru, look at me.”

 

But he remains utterly still.

 

I reach out again, slower this time, my hand shaking. “Talk to me,” I plead. “Just tell me what’s going on. I can help you. We can fix this–”

 

“No.” His voice slices the air, sharp, then immediately softens into regret. “Satoru, I can’t… I can’t do this with you.”

 

My name leaves his lips like it hurts him.

 

I inch closer despite the rising panic in my chest. “Then don’t talk. Don’t explain. Just let me stay. Let me be here with you.”

 

He shakes his head once, tight and miserable.

 

“It’s better if you go.”

 

The words hollow me out so fast I feel lightheaded. “Better for who?”

 

“For you,” he whispers, almost too quietly to hear.

 

“But I don’t want better,” I say, unable to stop my voice from trembling. “I want you.”

 

His fingers clench around the blanket so tightly his knuckles turn stark white.

 

Then he says it.

 

“…Gojo.”

 

The name slams into me like a blow to the ribs.

 

Not Satoru.

 

Not the name he whispered last night.

 

Not the name he used when he held me like he still remembered how.

 

Gojo.

 

Cold. Formal. A wall built in a single syllable.

 

“You’re calling me Gojo now?” I ask, stunned, the words falling from my mouth uneven and fragile.

 

He flinches, but doesn’t lift his head.

 

“You’re really pushing me away that hard?” My voice cracks painfully. “You won’t even say my name?”

 

“Don’t do this,” he whispers.

 

“Say it.” My voice shatters. “Just say ‘Satoru.’ Say my name and I’ll stay.”

 

Silence.

 

“I’m right here,” I plead, voice almost breaking. “Look at me.”

 

His breath stutters, but he doesn’t move.

 

“Suguru.” I say his name like a prayer, like a wound. “Please.”

 

And then he delivers the final blow:

 

“Gojo… just go.”

 

Everything inside me collapses.

 

The world narrows around the frantic, echoing thrum of my own heartbeat. The air feels too thin. My hands go numb. I feel like I’m trying to breathe around something sharp lodged in my chest.

 

I try one last time, because I’m desperate, because I’m terrified, because I love him.

 

Because some part of me still believes he might love me too.

 

“If I leave now,” I whisper, “we both know what that means.”

 

He nods.

 

He doesn’t speak, just nods.

 

And I feel something inside me tear clean in half.

 

“Suguru…” My voice is barely a whisper. “Say something. Anything.”

 

But he says nothing.

 

The silence feels like a door closing.

 

A final one.

 

I sit there for a moment that feels endless, staring at the outline of him through tears that haven’t fallen yet. Hoping he’ll lift his head. Hoping he’ll tell me to wait. Hoping for anything.

 

But nothing changes.

 

I force myself to stand, moving carefully, like any sudden motion might make me fall apart entirely. A dull ache settles through my lower body, a tender reminder of last night, of how close we were, of the way he held me and let me in. The floor is cold under my feet, so stark against the fading warmth of the bed, grounding me even as the memories still cling to my skin.

 

My clothes are scattered around the room, proof of last night, proof of everything I thought we’d reclaimed. Picking them up feels unbearably intimate, like each piece is a reminder of a moment I wanted to live in forever. My hands tremble as I dress, blinking rapidly as my vision blurs once, twice, then more.

 

As I turn to leave, the room finally sharpens into focus, details I’d been blind to last night now rising like bruises beneath the morning light. It isn’t filthy, but it’s undeniably messy in a way that speaks of someone who stopped keeping up with their own life. Piles of clothes spill across the floor, not sorted, not folded, just abandoned where he stepped out of them, as if even the act of picking anything up had become too heavy.

 

A hoodie of mine, the one he used to steal and wear until it drowned him in my scent, lies crumpled over the back of a chair, not folded carefully, not kept safe. Just tossed aside, forgotten in the same quiet, devastating way he’s forgotten how to take care of himself.

 

And somehow that hurts worst of all, seeing something that used to mean comfort to him reduced to another piece of fabric lost in the chaos.

 

A half-emptied bottle of painkillers sits on the dresser, not spilled, not misused, just… there, like someone reaching for anything that might take the edge off existing.

 

The whole room feels like a map of where he’s been unraveling, and I feel my heart crack open at every step I didn’t see him slipping.

Still, he doesn’t lift his head.

 

I turn toward him once I’m fully dressed. The sight guts me.

 

He’s curled inward, face hidden by his hair, hands knotted in the blanket like he’s holding himself together by force alone. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. He looks like someone who’s trying not to collapse.

 

“Suguru…” I whisper.

 

Nothing.

 

“I guess…” My voice breaks immediately. I swallow, try again, softer. “I guess I should go.”

 

Still nothing.

 

I want to ask him to say my name one last time. I want to beg him to stop me. But the words won’t form, not when I know the answer already.

 

So I give him the last thing I can.

 

“Goodbye, Suguru.”

 

His name collapses in my mouth, shattering on the way out.

 

He doesn’t move.

 

I wait three long seconds, still hoping, still praying.

 

Nothing.

 

So I turn away and walk out of the room.

 

At the front door, my hands shake as I shove my feet into my shoes. I fumble twice, blinking through tears that finally spill over. My coat feels too heavy, the plastic bag too light. Everything feels wrong.

 

I pause with my hand on the doorknob, staring at the wood grain through a blur of tears.

 

If I open this door,
this becomes real.

 

If I step outside,
whatever we had is over.

 

I wait, desperate for some faint sign that he’ll stop me.

 

A call.

 

A whisper.

 

Footsteps.

 

Anything.

 

But the silence behind me is absolute.

 

So I pull the door open.

 

And I walk out.

 

When I step into the cold, it slams into me so sharply I gasp like I’ve been punched. The air is brutal, slicing across my face and driving straight into my lungs until my breath breaks apart in jagged, frantic pieces. My hair whips across my eyes, tangled from last night, but I can barely register it through the sudden panic clawing its way up my throat. My chest tightens painfully, squeezing in on itself until each inhale feels impossible.

 

Tears spill over before I can stop them, hot, messy, running down my cheeks only to freeze at the edges as the wind tears them away. I try to pull in another breath, but it comes out shallow and trembling, a choked sob catching halfway up my chest. My hands shake so hard I can’t keep them steady. It feels like the world has just collapsed inside me, like something vital was ripped out and the cold rushed in to take its place.

 

Around me, everything moves as if nothing has happened. Snow crunches under passing boots. A car hums down the street, exhaust curling into the air. Someone jogs by with a dog tugging on the leash, leaving a trail of paw prints behind. Windows glow warm and soft as people start their mornings, oblivious to the fact that mine is tearing itself apart. The normalcy of it all makes something inside me crack even deeper.

 

The world shouldn’t look like this, not calm, not steady, not unchanged.

 

It shouldn’t keep going while I’m standing here trying to hold myself upright, barely breathing through sobs I can’t seem to quiet. For one dizzy moment, the peaceful morning scene tricks me into thinking maybe none of it happened, maybe he didn’t turn away, maybe he didn’t refuse to say my name, maybe he didn’t whisper “Gojo” like it was the end of something we hadn’t even fixed. But the ache in my chest throbs sharp and real, and the tears keep falling, proving over and over that it wasn’t a dream. It’s actually over.

 

I suck in a breath too fast, and it burns down my throat like ice. The panic spikes again, and suddenly my legs feel weak enough that I stumble toward the railing, gripping it hard as the metal freezes instantly against my palms.

 

I blink, and all I can see is him, his hunched shoulders, his trembling hands, the hollow beneath his eyes. Suguru sitting on the bed like he was collapsing in on himself. Suguru whispering that last night was a mistake. Suguru refusing to look at me because he was hurting in ways he didn’t want me to see.

 

It hits me all over again how far he’s fallen, how much pain he’s been carrying alone, how deeply he’s drowning in something I can’t reach. And even worse, how he’s trying to keep me out to protect me, or punish himself, or both. The Suguru I knew, the one who laughed easily and leaned into me without fear, feels so far away it’s like remembering someone from another life.

 

A sob tears out of me, raw and shaking. I press a hand over my mouth, but it doesn’t stop the trembling, doesn’t stop the pain pulsing through my ribs, doesn’t stop the certainty settling like lead in my bones: he doesn’t want me there. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

 

The cold presses harder into me with every second, numbing my fingers, burning my lungs, grounding me in the cruel truth of the moment.

 

I take a few steps forward because standing still hurts too much, but each step feels heavier than the last. My heart aches so fiercely I nearly double over. My breath hiccups between sobs I can’t swallow back.

 

As I walk, I wipe my face with the sleeve of my coat, breathing slowly, trying to steady myself. The air still burns a little in my lungs, but at least I’m not gasping anymore.

 

Even so, all I can think about is him. Every step feels wrong, like he slipped away from me all over again, and this time I don’t know how to reach him. Last time we broke apart we were arguing, tearing at each other with words we couldn’t take back.

 

But last night… he wanted me.

 

He held onto me like he didn’t want to let go. He told me he wasn’t going to run anymore. He said I could stay. And the man who said those things isn’t the same person I saw this morning. I don’t know which version of him hurts more, the one who needed me last night, or the one who could barely look at me today. I just know I want him back. The year without him was awful, and now I wish I’d been there when he started falling apart.

 

I wipe my face again, the tears finally slowing, and watch my feet sink into the snow with every step. By the time I reach my house, the bag in my hand feels almost weightless, a stupid reminder that I was supposed to come right back last night. Megumi was expecting me. He was waiting for his gloves.

 

Even though I’m grown, I still should’ve came home. I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain this, what happened, why I look like I’ve barely slept, why my eyes are red. My mom will figure it out the second she sees me. And she’ll want to talk. I don’t think I can. Saying anything out loud feels impossible right now.

 

So I open the front door as quietly as I can, hoping I can just slip upstairs and get a minute to breathe before they notice me. I need that time, just a little, to pull myself together, to stop shaking, to wipe the last signs of crying off my face. Only Shoko’s seen me like this before, completely wrecked and not sure what to do next. I’m not ready for anyone else to see it.

 

But the door creaks, sharp and loud in the still house. I step inside, and they’re right there, Megumi and my mom, sitting on the couch together in pajamas, a blanket around them. The TV is on. They both look straight at me. Megumi’s eyes widen, taking in my face, the mess I must look like. My mom’s expression tightens instantly, worry showing before I can even say a word.

 

And just like that, I know I’m not getting upstairs without explaining something. I’ve been completely caught.

 

My mom whispers something to Megumi, quiet, steady, probably telling him not to get up, not to come over. Then she stands and walks toward me. I look anywhere but at her face. The floor. The wall. My shoes. Because I know the second she looks into my eyes, everything I’ve tried to hold together is going to fall apart. I expect a lecture. Or questions. Or at least a sharp, worried tone about disappearing all night without a word. I’m bracing for all of it.

 

But as soon as she reaches me, she doesn’t say anything at all. She just opens her arms and pulls me in. A solid, warm, familiar hug, one I haven’t really needed like this since I was a kid, but the second it happens, I melt. The moment she hugs me, my throat closes up and the tears return, hot and sudden, like they’ve been waiting behind some thin wall that just cracked wide open. I hate how fast I fall apart, how I cling back without meaning to, like I’m ten years old again and the only safe place is here.

 

She hears the way my breath stutters and slips her hand onto the back of my head, guiding me gently until my forehead rests against her shoulder. She rubs slow circles between my shoulder blades, calm and steady, and I feel myself shaking harder instead of less. When she finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to see me properly. And I can’t avoid her eyes anymore.

 

“Oh, Satoru…” she says softly. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just… sad for me. And it cuts deeper than anything else could.

 

She brushes her thumb across my cheek once and steps back a little. “Go clean up,” she says, her voice warm but firm. “I’ll make tea. We can talk.”

 

I want to say yes. I want to let her take care of me, let her guide me through this like she always has. But the thought of talking, of saying anything about what happened, about him, makes my chest tighten again. I can’t. Not yet. So I tell her quietly that I just want to lie down for a while. That I need a little time alone.

 

She studies me for a moment, then nods. No pressure, no disappointment, just understanding. She squeezes my shoulder once before letting me go.

 

I shrug off my coat and kick off my shoes. Leaving the plastic bag on the floor.

 

As I head up the stairs, I hear Megumi’s voice drift softly from the living room.

 

“What’s wrong with Satoru?” He sounds small, worried in that careful way he tries not to show too often.

 

My mom answers just as gently. “He’s hurting, sweetheart. He just needs some time.”

 

Their voices fade as I walk down the hall, but the concern lingers with me, warm and heavy.

 

As soon as I close my bedroom door, the house falls away behind me, and the quiet hits all at once. It’s the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful, just empty. The lights are dim, barely touching the corners of the room, and it feels like everything inside me drops straight through my chest. All that noise in my head, all that panic and hurt from outside, settles into something dull and heavy, like a weight I can’t shake off.

 

I move slowly, like my body isn’t really connected to me, like I’m watching myself from a distance. My bed looks exactly the same as I left it, blankets tangled, pillow slightly crooked, but even that somehow makes me feel worse. Nothing here has changed, but I have. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel the same.

 

I crawl into bed and pull myself as close to the wall as I can, curling up without even thinking. It’s instinct, some old habit from years ago, when I’d roll into the smallest possible space to try and feel safe. The sheets are cold against my skin, and for a second I just lie there, staring at the dim glow of the room, trying to breathe around everything pressed inside my chest.

 

The emptiness isn’t clean or quiet. It’s jagged. It aches. Last night I was warm. Wanted. Held. And now it feels like I’m lying in a space that doesn’t fit me anymore.

 

I tuck my knees closer, bury my face in the pillow, and breathe in slowly. The room smells the same as always, laundry detergent, a faint trace of cologne, but it all feels distant, like I’m disconnected from my own life. And underneath all of it, the only thing I can think about is him. His voice. His hands. The way he couldn’t say my name this morning. The way he looked like he was breaking even more than I was.

 

I swallow hard, trying to steady myself, but it doesn’t really help. The emptiness settles deeper, wrapping around me like a cold blanket, and I just lie there, curled up, alone with the sharp, echoing ache of missing him.

 

I lie there for a long time without really existing in my body. The light keeps shifting, thin pale morning gray turning slow and gold, but none of it reaches me in any real way. The warmth pooling under the blankets feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. My muscles are heavy, my throat is tight, and every thought I try to focus on dissolves into the same dull ache sitting under my ribs.

 

I don’t know how long I stay like that, breathing shallowly, staring at nothing. My mind drifts in and out, but every time sleep tries to claim me, something sharp stirs behind my chest and pulls me back awake. It feels like drowning without water.

 

At some point, maybe late morning, maybe later, there’s a soft, careful knock on my door. It barely breaks the quiet. I don’t react. I don’t speak. I make myself still, hoping whoever it is assumes I’m asleep and leaves me to the silence.

 

Instead, the door cracks open with a slow groan of old hinges, and small feet shuffle across the floorboards. Megumi’s voice follows, tiny and uncertain, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

 

“Mom told me not to bug you,” he murmurs, “but I wanted to know if you were okay.”

 

I turn over sluggishly, the motion heavy as if the air thickened around me.

 

He stands just inside the doorway, hands tucked awkwardly into the sleeves of his shirt, head slightly bowed. His hair is flattened on one side, he changed clothes, but not fully woke up. He looks like a kid trying to be polite and brave at the same time.

 

Megumi lifts his eyes only halfway, checking my expression like he expects a warning. When all I do is meet his gaze, soft and tired, his shoulders relax a fraction. I lift the blankets a little, a wordless invitation, and it takes him only a heartbeat to approach. He crawls into the bed quietly, curling onto his side facing me, his small body radiating warmth like a little furnace. I try to give him a smile, something reassuring, but it comes out crooked and thin. He sees straight through it anyway. His eyebrows pinch together in a worried frown.

 

“Why are you so sad?” he asks, his voice delicate, perfectly honest, perfectly direct. Children don’t know how to wrap things in polite layers. They go straight for the truth.

 

The question hits something deep. Not painful, just real. He deserves a real answer in return. He deserves more than a fake excuse or to be brushed off. I breathe slowly, preparing to speak around the weight in my throat.

 

“I know how much you miss Suguru,” I say gently, a good start.

 

Megumi nods immediately, because that part he understands, he always has. But I can see confusion settling in the space between his brows. Missing someone isn’t the same as this, this hollow, aching heaviness that’s kept me in bed all morning. So I continue, choosing each word with care.

 

“Suguru was really important to me,” I tell him. “More than a normal friend. Someone I… cared about a lot.” Megumi’s eyes widen a little, curiosity flickering, but he stays quiet. “And when someone matters like that,” I continue, “you want to stay close. You want to help them. You want to be there when things get hard.” The knot in my chest tightens, but I keep speaking through it. “But sometimes people hurt so much inside that instead of asking for help, they push away the person who wants to stay.”

 

Megumi frowns deeper, his small hands balled under the blanket. “Why would they do that?” His voice carries frustration, confusion, and something protective for me that he probably doesn’t even realize he’s expressing.

 

“Because they’re scared,” I explain. “Because they think they’re protecting the people they love. Or because they don’t think they deserve that love. Sometimes everything hurts so badly that hiding feels like the only thing they know how to do.” The room feels still, like the air is listening. “Suguru pushed me away,” I say quietly. “And I couldn’t stop him.”

 

Megumi’s mouth tightens, something like anger flickering in his eyes. “That’s not fair,” he says with the simple certainty only a child can hold. “If he misses you too, he shouldn’t do that.”

 

My throat loosens with something warm, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I think he does miss me,” I admit. “But when someone’s hurting that much, they can’t always see anything else. Not even the people they love.”

 

Megumi takes that in, thinking hard, his gaze dropping to the blankets. After a moment, he looks up again with a softer expression, his voice small and honest. “Does it hurt a lot?”

 

There’s no point pretending otherwise. “Yeah,” I whisper. “It hurts a lot.”

 

Megumi shifts closer, bridging the small gap between us with the careful determination of someone offering the only comfort he knows how to give. He reaches out and hugs me. The gentleness of it makes my chest ache in a different way, less sharp, more human.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice lined with sincerity.

 

I swallow around a new wave of emotion and lean in. The quiet stretches around us, warm and fragile.

 

After a long moment, he whispers, “Is Geto ever coming back?” The question hangs in the air like a delicate thread. I wish I had an answer. I wish I could give him something solid to hold onto.

 

“I don’t know,” I breathe. “I wish I did.”

 

Megumi looks at me, studying me with that unfiltered seriousness that always surprises me.

 

“But you want him to?” he asks. The simplicity of it, that bare, innocent logic, nearly breaks me.

 

“Yes,” I whisper. “More than anything.”

 

Megumi thinks about that for a second, his expression softening into something earnest and determined. Then he says quietly, with the absolute sincerity of a child who believes the world should work the way people deserve, “Then… I hope he comes back. For you.”

 

Warmth rises in my chest, heavy and overwhelming but no longer crushing. “Me too,” I murmur. He shifts again, tucking himself under my arm carefully like he’s trying to fill the emptiness he doesn’t fully understand. His hair brushes my chin. His small weight presses against my side.

 

For the first time today, my breathing evens out. The ache in my chest loosens its grip just enough for me to feel something close to relief, something soft and human and alive.

 

And in the quiet of my room, with Megumi curled against me, I finally feel like I’m not drowning.

Chapter Text

The first thing I notice is the light.

 

Not just the brightness of it, but the way it melts over everything like warm syrup, thick, golden, soft enough to make the whole world look a little unreal. It sits on the ocean in glittering pieces, catches on the spray of the waves, and it settles on Suguru like it was made for him specifically. The sun turns the edges of his damp hair almost bronze, catches on his cheekbones, and shades the hollow of his throat in a way that makes it hard to look away.

 

He’s standing ankle-deep in the water, the waves curling around him like they’re greeting an old friend. His posture is relaxed, arms loose at his sides, head tilted just slightly as he watches the horizon. There’s a tiny smile tugging at his mouth, not big, not obvious, just soft enough to feel like a secret he’s sharing with the ocean.

 

Or with me.

 

He glances back the moment he feels me staring, because of course he does. He always knew when my eyes were on him.

 

“You’re slow,” he says, tone light as the breeze. Not teasing exactly, just stating a fact he finds a little funny.

 

I kick off my slides into the sand and wander toward him, the cool tide brushing up against my toes. “I’m taking in the view,” I answer, because it’s true. The entire beach is gorgeous, but none of it compares to him standing caught between sunlight and sea.

 

He raises one eyebrow. “Me?”

 

“Who else?” I step closer until the water hits my shins, until I’m standing right in front of him. “You’re beautiful.”

 

Suguru’s eyes widen a fraction, just enough to catch the change, and then he looks away with a half-laugh that sounds too soft for the wind to carry. “Satoru,” he murmurs, “you can’t just say things like that.”

 

“Sure I can.” I reach up and brush a stray lock of hair away from his face, letting my fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. “Especially when it’s true.”

 

His cheeks tint pink, barely noticeable unless you’re close enough to count his lashes. Close enough that I can feel the warmth rising off him in gentle waves. He leans into my touch without even realizing he’s doing it.

 

His voice softens, the edges rounding out like he’s letting something unspoken fall away. “You make it impossible to be annoyed with you for long,” he says.

 

“I’m talented like that.” I smile and tilt my head, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, then another to the bridge of his nose just because I can. “Very talented.”

 

He laughs, a tiny, helpless sound, and before I can do anything else, he scoops up a handful of water and splashes it straight at my chest.

 

I gasp. “You did not just–”

 

Suguru takes a step back, grinning now, the real kind that crinkles his eyes. “I absolutely did.”

 

“You’re dead.” I lunge toward him, splashing water everywhere as he yelps and turns to escape. “Get back here!”

 

He darts deeper into the waves, almost slipping, laughing so hard he can barely keep his balance. I chase him, sending up sprays of water with my kicks. Every time I reach for him, he twists away, just out of my grasp, laughing in that breathless way I live for.

 

Finally, I catch him around the waist.

 

We tumble together into the water, his shout half shock, half delight, as the wave knocks both of us off balance. For a second everything is cold and rushing, then we break the surface again with loud gasps and louder laughter.

 

I end up on top of him, straddling his hips in the shallow surf, fingers braced on either side of his chest to hold myself up. His hands settle instinctively on my thighs to steady us both. The world rocks gently under us, the ocean nudging us like it’s in on the joke.

 

Suguru’s smiling up at me, hair slicked back, eyes bright and warm and full. “You really tackled me,” he says, voice trembling with leftover laughter.

 

“You started it.” I push my wet hair out of my face dramatically.

 

He looks at me like I’m the funniest thing he’s ever seen. Then he leans up, aiming for a kiss.

 

I dodge.

 

He blinks, shocked. “…Did you just avoid me?”

 

“Yes.” I nod solemnly. “I did.”

 

He tries again, and I lean back a little farther, water swirling around my waist as I tilt my head away with exaggerated grace.

 

“Satoru,” he says slowly, “stop.”

 

“No,” I say, absolutely delighted. “This is fun.”

 

He laughs, really laughs, and it hits somewhere deep inside me, warm and full and real. Then he reaches up with both hands, palms gentle but firm, and cups my face. I freeze instantly because I always do when he touches me like that, like I’m something delicate and precious and worth being held carefully.

 

He pulls me down.

 

The first kiss is soft, barely there, a brush of lips meant to quiet me, not claim me. But then he kisses me again, deeper this time, fingers sliding to cradle the back of my neck. The world blurs behind my closed eyes, the sea rushes around us, and all I can feel is him, warm, sure, steady beneath me.

 

Suguru hums quietly against my mouth, a sound that melts straight into my ribs.

 

And I kiss him back

 

When he pulls back, he whispers against my mouth, “Let’s go in deeper.”

 

His lips brush mine as he says it, the words soft, warm, full of that quiet excitement he only ever showed me. There’s a sparkle in his eyes, sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water and catching in the dark of his irises. Something about his expression makes my chest loosen, like the world is simple, just for this moment. Just for us.

 

“Okay,” I breathe, and the sound is almost swallowed by the waves.

 

I follow him without hesitation.

 

We move together, side by side, the water rising from our waists to our ribs, then to our shoulders, until the shore feels distant behind us. Each stroke sends cool ripples across my skin. The ocean is clearer than I expected, so clear that the sunlight breaks into shimmering threads beneath the surface, weaving patterns across our arms and chests. Suguru dives under for a moment, graceful even underwater, and when he surfaces again he flicks his head, sending droplets raining down around him like little diamonds.

 

He laughs, this soft, genuine sound that always makes something in my chest go warm. I splash him just to keep it going.

 

He splashes me back, gentle, almost delicate, like he doesn’t want to start a real fight, just wants to see my reaction. I gasp dramatically and surge toward him, but he slips just out of reach, smiling at me with that familiar mix of mischief and affection.

 

“That’s how it is?” I tease.

 

He floats backward with slow kicks, his hair fanning out around him in inky streaks. “You’re all talk, you know.”

 

I scoff loudly, even though my grin gives me away. “I can outswim you any day. Impossible to be faster than me.”

 

He gives me that grin he used to give when he wanted to challenge me, bright, competitive, full of warmth. “Prove it.”

 

He turns and takes off, slicing through the water with smooth strokes, far too elegant for someone trying to start a race. The ocean seems to welcome him, parting cleanly around him the way it never does for me. Always so graceful. Always moving like the world itself made space for him.

 

I shout his name, light and breathless, the old familiarity of it tugging at my heart. “Suguru! Get back here!”

 

He laughs, loud, joyous, and for a second it feels like we’re sixteen again, reckless and stupid and sure that nothing could ever break us.

 

I push harder through the waves, determined to catch him, but for some reason he keeps slipping just out of reach. Still close enough that if I stretched my hand out fully I could almost brush the back of his heel. Still close enough to be safe.

 

Still mine.

 

“Hey,” I call, half laughing, “slow down! Okay, fine, you win, whatever– just get back here.”

 

But he doesn’t slow.

 

And the shift is so subtle I almost miss it, the water rocking heavier beneath my arms, the wind changing pitch, the sun dimming a fraction like it dipped behind a cloud I didn’t notice. Suguru glides forward a little too fast. A little too far.

 

Like something is pulling him, not him pulling himself.

 

The water thickens around me. My strokes feel uneven, like the ocean is suddenly sticky, resisting my movements.

 

“Suguru?” I try again, louder now. “Suguru, seriously.”

 

He finally glances back at me.

 

The sunlight hits his face wrong, tilted, too sharp, like the angle shifted while I wasn’t looking. For a split second, he looks exactly like he always did: soft-eyed, warm, mine. But something flickers behind his expression. A shadow. A hesitation. A sadness.

 

Or maybe I’m imagining it.

 

“Satoru,” he calls, but his voice sounds thin, stretched strangely over the waves, like it traveled too far too fast. “Come on.”

 

“I’m trying,” I say, laughing weakly even though my chest tightens. “The current’s weird. Hold on–”

 

But I blink–

And he’s farther away.

Too far.

Another blink–

And he slips even farther, the distance growing too fast to make sense.

Like the ocean is expanding between us.

 

“Suguru!” Panic slices hard into my voice. “Stop– stop, this isn’t– this isn’t funny anymore!”

 

He opens his mouth like he’s about to answer, but a wave crashes hard between us, its roar swallowing every sound. I surge forward, arms burning, water slapping against my face. Every stroke feels useless, like something invisible is dragging behind my ankles, slowing me down.

 

“Suguru!” My voice cracks. “Suguru, come back!”

 

And then–

 

Cutting through the noise, through the wind, through the water–

 

“Gojo!”

 

The single word hits me like ice.

 

He hasn’t called me that in years. Not when we were alone. Not like this. Never like this.

 

I freeze in the water, my breath seizing.

 

He calls it again, louder, strained.

 

“Gojo!”

 

Something is wrong. Something is wrong in the way he says it, tight, urgent, desperate, like the name tastes like fear.

 

And it’s strange because he doesn’t call me that.

 

My heart hammers painfully against my ribs.

 

“Suguru?” I whisper, salt burning my lips. “Why… why are you calling me that?”

 

But he only seems to drift farther, swallowed little by little by the churning water.

 

And the sunlight continues to dim.

 

And the waves grow louder.

 

He tries to speak again, but the sound warps before it ever reaches me, twisting at the edges like it’s being stretched, torn apart under the surface. His voice distorts, thinning into something ghostly, muffled by the ocean even though his lips are above the water.

 

A wave crashes into my chest, cold and heavy, slamming the breath out of me. I choke, another wave rising fast enough to swallow half my vision in foam and salt. The sting burns my eyes and throat.

 

“Suguru! Please!” My voice shreds itself on the desperation clawing up my ribs. I fight against the pull, arms cutting through the water in panicked strokes, but the current keeps knocking me sideways, pushing me back while he gets smaller and smaller. “Please– don’t– don’t go–”

 

His outline flickers again.

 

One moment he’s there, a dark shape against the shifting sky, then he blurs, dissolving into the water, reappearing farther away like heat ripples on pavement. A mirage. A trick. A memory I can almost touch but never quite hold.

 

“GOJO!”

 

His scream rips across the water, raw and jagged and wrong. Too sharp. Too broken.

 

It doesn’t sound like him.

 

Not my Suguru.

 

Not the boy who laughed when I splashed him, who let me kiss his face in the sun. This voice sounds like someone clawing at the last pieces of air, like someone falling apart.

 

Before I can breathe, I dive under.

 

The ocean swallows me whole, the pressure slamming against my ears like the pounding of fists. The light above dims instantly, too fast. The blue around me bleeds into a murky, impossible black, as if I sank miles in seconds. My pulse hammers so hard it feels like it vibrates through the water.

 

I force my eyes open despite the burn. Every part of me stings, salt scraping at the soft parts of my face. I scan the dark, searching desperately for pale skin, for the shape of his arms, for even a glint of his hair.

 

But there’s nothing.

 

Nothing but cold, endless dark stretching in every direction.

 

My lungs seize, spasming painfully. I reach forward blindly, arms straining, spreading my fingers into the void like I can tear the darkness apart.

 

And then–

 

I feel it.

 

Hair.

 

Long, silken strands brushing the back of my hand, sliding across my wrist like a familiar ghost. It catches for a second, tangling around my fingers as if reaching back.

 

My heart leaps violently into my throat. I grab reflexively, desperate.

 

But the hair slips away instantly.

 

Gone.

 

Like it was never there at all.

 

A lie.
A memory.
A trick of the dark.

 

I try to scream his name, but the moment I open my mouth, water floods in, cold, brutal, suffocating. It fills my throat, my chest, burning every nerve as I choke and thrash. The surface, wherever it is, is impossible to find. I kick wildly, blindly, but the pressure drags me downward in slow, relentless pulls.

 

Bubbles explode around my face, tiny, frantic bursts, floating upward like laughter in the wrong key. Or crying. Or both. I can’t tell anymore.

 

My chest convulses, pain narrowing the world into one sharp, suffocating point. My vision tunnels. My limbs feel heavy, too far away from me to control.

 

Just when I think I can’t hold on, not one second longer…

a whisper curls through the dark.

 

So soft.

 

So thin.

 

So heartbreakingly familiar it stops my heart.

 

“Satoru…”

 

It doesn’t echo. It doesn’t move. It’s just there, woven through the water like a secret. The voice is older than the Suguru I just held at the shoreline. Older than the boy who splashed me, who kissed me breathless. This voice is weathered, shallow, fraying at the edges.

 

“I can’t…”

 

A pause… thin, shuddering, broken.

 

“I can’t do this with you.”

 

Suguru.

 

I tear out of the dark with a violent jolt.

 

Air rips into my lungs in a sharp, wet gasp, like I’ve been drowning for real and only just broke the surface. My whole body heaves with the effort, chest aching, throat burning, and for a second I can’t tell if I actually screamed or if the sound is still caught somewhere inside me. My heartbeat slams against my ribs, too fast, too hard, like it’s trying to claw its way out. Cold sweat coats my skin, sticking my shirt to my back and dampening the sheets beneath me.

 

I suck in another breath, or try to, but the air catches halfway, snagging on the edge of panic still lodged in my lungs. It takes a few seconds before anything makes sense. Before the dark room around me stops swimming. Before I can even remember where I am.

 

My eyes dart frantically across the shadows, corners, ceiling, window, doorway, searching, desperate, hoping.

 

But Suguru isn’t here.

 

The spot beside me is empty, the blankets untouched, cold even through the dark. There’s no soft breath next to me. No warmth. No rustle of movement. Nothing.

 

The room is quiet in the wrong way, like the silence is listening. The kind of quiet that hangs heavy, suffocating, pressing into my ears until the only sounds I can hear are my own ragged breathing and the faint moan of wind slipping through the crack of the window.

 

My voice tries to form his name, a quiet, broken whisper, but it doesn’t make it past my throat.

 

“It was only a dream,” I tell myself. The words don’t feel real. They don’t feel like they belong to my mouth. “Just a dream. Just… just old memories stuck together wrong.”

 

But gods, it felt real. The water. His voice. His hand slipping away. That terrible, ruined whisper.

 

Satoru, I can’t do this with you.

 

I clench my jaw hard enough to hurt. Tears prick painfully at the corners of my eyes, hot and sharp, threatening to spill. I swallow hard around the lump rising like a stone in my throat. I won’t cry. Not now.

 

I force myself to focus on breathing instead. In, slow. Out, slower. My chest stutters on every inhale, but I try anyway, counting the seconds, grounding myself in the feeling of my ribs expanding. My hand gropes blindly for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers shake, still cold from the dream, and when I finally find it and drag it into my lap, the screen lights up too bright in the darkness.

 

4:07 a.m.

 

Figures.

 

At the bottom of the lock screen, a small pile of notifications blinks patiently. Missed messages. Not from him, not Suguru. I already know there won’t be anything from him. There never is.

 

They’re from Shoko.

 

My stomach twists.

 

I haven’t told her what happened. I don’t know how to tell her. I don’t know if I even can. But my silence says enough. The messages are days old.

 

Sho:
Hey. You alive?
Did something happen?
Or are you just being stupid and ignoring me?
Answer me, idiot. I’m worried.

 

I stare at the texts for a long moment, thumb hovering, but the weight in my chest is too heavy. I can’t open them. Can’t deal with her voice in my head. Not right now.

 

I swipe the thread away and open the only conversation I know how to.

 

Suguru.

 

The chat window loads, and each message I sent stares back at me in the glow of the screen, lined up like wounds I carved into myself one after another.

 

Three days of my words. Three days of pleading.

 

Me:
Suguru, please don’t leave me again.
Suguru, I know you’re in pain. Just let me be there. Let me help.
Did that night mean nothing to you?
Suguru, please answer me. Please.

 

All of them marked with that small, quiet word at the bottom.

 

Delivered.

 

Not read.

 

Not opened.

 

Just delivered.

 

Untouched.

 

So he saw them. Or he didn’t. Or he turned off his read receipts again. Or he blocked me and forgot. Or he’s hurting somewhere and I’m not allowed to touch that part of him anymore.

 

I drop my head into my free hand, fingers digging into my hair as the ache in my chest deepens until it feels like a bruise spreading across my ribs.

 

I don’t know what hurts more, his silence or the thought that maybe he really meant it.

 

Satoru… I can’t do this with you.

 

My thumb trembles as I tap the message bar. The cursor blinks at me, patient, waiting for something I’m not sure I should say. But the words come anyway, unraveling from the quietest part of me, the part still reaching through the dark ocean for him.

 

Me:
I’m waiting for you.
Just let me back in.

 

I stare at the text for a long moment, breath caught somewhere between a plea and a prayer.

 

Then I hit send.

 

And watch it appear beneath all the others, just another wound, marked with the same cold, indifferent word.

 

Delivered.

 

I sink back into the mattress slowly, like every muscle in my body has finally given up on holding me together. The sheets cling cool and damp to my skin, the pillow still warm beneath my neck, and my phone rests on my stomach, a small rectangle of silence that weighs far more than it should. My chest rises unevenly with each breath, still too tight, still echoing with the phantom panic of drowning. I stare up at the ceiling, watching the faint shadows drift across it, but none of it feels real. The only thing that does is the hollow ache pulsing behind my ribs.

 

My mind drifts to him without my permission. Suguru in the sunlight, hair dripping with seawater, laughing at me like he always did when he was truly happy, softly, quietly, like the sound was meant only for me. Suguru leaning in so close I could feel his breath on my lips, brushing my cheek with the back of his fingers as if I were something fragile he didn’t want to break. Suguru calling my name across the waves, begging and fading and slipping away until only the water heard him. Every version of him overlaps in my head, bright moments tangled with dark ones, and it hurts, god, it hurts, because I don’t know which him I’m trying to hold onto anymore.

 

The room feels enormous in its silence, too still, too empty. I can hear the wind brushing against the window, the faint groan of the frame shifting, but it only makes everything inside the room seem quieter. There’s no second breath beside mine. No warmth reaching for me. No voice whispering something soft and teasing in the dark. It’s just me. Me and the ache and the dark and the ghost of his voice caught in my ears.

 

My fingers slacken around my phone, the screen dimming until it goes completely black. The last thing I see before it fades is the echo of my message, I’m waiting for you. Just let me back in. The words blur at the edges as my eyes grow heavy, exhaustion pulling at me with a slow, relentless weight. My breath evens out, though it stays tight, and my thoughts drift like waves receding from the shore.

 

I try to keep my eyes open. I try to focus on something solid. But everything softens at the edges, losing shape and sinking into black. My lashes flutter once, twice, and then settle.

 

And the darkness rises gently to meet me.

 

-
-
-

 

The dream still clings to me like saltwater, the taste bitter and stale on my tongue even though I’m wide awake now. It drapes over everything, that awful, suffocating feeling of him slipping away. Even the sunlight that pours through the living room window, gentle, soft, like it’s meant to comfort me, feels wrong. It’s the kind of light you can’t ever quite escape from when your mind is weighed down with too many memories. And it’s funny, really, how something as simple as sunlight can feel so... distant.

 

I’m sitting on the couch next to Megumi, the sound of the TV humming in the background, but I’m not really watching. The show’s just noise, a dull, continuous stream of nonsense that I can barely register. I feel like I’ve been hollowed out, like the pieces of me that once fit together have shattered somewhere along the way. I can’t focus. I can’t really feel anything, not in any real sense. My mind keeps drifting back to the same broken, painful thought that won’t leave me alone: "I can't do this with you." The words repeat in my head like a sick refrain, first from the nightmare and also from the morning Suguru told me to leave. The morning he pushed me away for good.

 

And yet here I am, lying in my childhood home, floating in a sea of stale air and empty space, wishing for a different reality, wishing I could pretend nothing ever happened. The numbness that’s settled in my chest feels permanent, like a scar. I know I’ve been this way for days now, hiding out in my room, fighting against the weight in my chest, the hollow, aching feeling of Suguru’s absence. It’s always been easy to pretend with him, back when I thought I knew exactly who he was. But now? I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t even know how to breathe without feeling like I’m drowning.

 

A squeak from the kitchen pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. It’s the sound of a bottle being sprayed, the soft swish of something being wiped down, and I know exactly what it is: my mom cleaning. She’s always doing something around the house when things get tense, an easy way to feel like she’s holding everything together. The smell of chemicals hits me next, Pine-Sol, bleach, that sharp scent that’s impossible to ignore, and I sit up, trying to shake off the fog of my mind. I can’t just lie here all day. I remember how that felt when Suguru told me to leave, how I just... stayed in bed, letting the day slip through my fingers like sand.

 

I stand slowly, the stiffness of my limbs reminding me I haven’t really moved much lately. My head feels thick, the world a little too bright, too loud, but I know I have to push through it. I can’t let myself fall into that pit again. Not today. Not when I’m back home and there’s something to do, even if it’s just... cleaning.

 

I make my way down the hall, the floor creaking beneath my feet. The faint hum of the music playing from the kitchen speaker, something mellow and old, probably from her favorite playlist, drifts to me, filling the silence that always feels too loud in the absence of Suguru. The house is quiet except for that, the faint sounds of cleaning, the occasional click of metal and the soft shuffle of her footsteps.

 

I step into the kitchen and stop for a moment, leaning against the doorframe. My mom doesn’t see me at first. She’s kneeling in front of the cabinets, rearranging pots and pans, her face furrowed in concentration. There’s a calmness in the way she moves, the ease in her motions that makes everything seem somehow... normal. The kind of normal I used to crave, before I allowed myself to fall apart.

 

Without saying anything, I move quietly into the room and grab the broom. The bristles scrape against the floor as I start sweeping, the rhythmic motion of it almost soothing in its simplicity. My hands move mechanically, and for once, I don’t mind. I don’t have to think. I don’t have to feel anything. I just have to do.

 

I sweep around her, careful not to get too close, but I can tell she notices me. She pauses, her movements slowing, and looks up with that soft smile she always wears when she’s glad to see me making the effort. It’s a warm smile, a little too bright to be completely natural, like she’s trying to convince herself I’m doing okay.

 

“It’s nice to see you up,” she says, and her voice is a little softer than usual, like she’s treading lightly. Then, as if she’s had an idea, her smile widens, and she brightens. “Since you’re helping out, how about you go through your things in the attic? I’ve been meaning to organize up there for a while, but there’s a lot of your old stuff. I don’t want to throw anything away if you want to keep it.”

 

I freeze mid-swipe, the broom hanging in the air as I process her words. It feels like an impossible task, the idea of sorting through all the junk from my past, old clothes, high school trophies, childhood mementos. It feels too real, too tangible, too... connected to a version of me that I don’t even know anymore. I want to go back to lying in bed. But I know I can’t. She needs me to help. And honestly, I need to do something. Anything to shake off the fog of depression that’s been clinging to me like a second skin.

 

I nod, even though my stomach twists at the thought of it. “Yeah, I can do that,” I say, my voice flat, distant. I don’t even recognize the sound of it. But I say it anyway, because it’s easier than saying no.

 

I finish sweeping, throw the stuff away, and I grab a trash bag from under the sink and head for the stairs, the weight of it in my hand like a tether pulling me toward something I don’t want to face. My feet feel heavy on the stairs, each step a reminder of how much I don’t want to do this, how much I just want to disappear into nothing.

 

The attic is quiet when I get up there. The faint smell of old wood and dust hits me, and for a moment, I just stand there. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something, something broken, something too much to confront. But then, without thinking, I move into the room, the floor creaking beneath my weight. The boxes are stacked high, old and weathered, just like the memories they hold.

 

Light filters through the tiny window near the roof, falling in slow, hazy stripes that catch the dust motes drifting lazily through the air. I kneel beside the first box, the trash bag rustling next to me, and start pulling things out one by one, my movements clumsy, unfocused, like my brain still hasn’t fully woken up.

 

The first layer is mostly old clothes, shirts I forgot I owned, sweaters that still smell faintly like the detergent we used back then. They feel impossibly small compared to me now, like they belonged to someone else entirely. I hold up an old hoodie, faded at the seams, and for a second I picture myself wearing it at seventeen, walking home from school, Suguru matching my pace as he complained about something pointless. The image burns quietly in my chest. I fold the hoodie and drop it in the donation pile.

 

There’s more clothes underneath, formal shirts from award nights I didn’t care about, pants my mom forced me to buy for once-a-year events, a sweatshirt I stole from Suguru and never returned. I toss most of it aside, into the keep-or-throw-away piles that blur together because I’m not paying attention. The motions are automatic, mechanical, my mind drifting loosely above it all.

 

Then, under a stack of shirts I barely remember wearing, I find a pile of old school stuff. My stomach tightens, not painfully, just in that vague, uncomfortable way memories sometimes push too close to the surface.

 

Notebooks. Folders. A three-ring binder bent at the spine.

 

I pull out one of the notebooks and flip it open. The first page is full of half-legible notes, my handwriting messy and chaotic, trailing off into a margin filled with doodles, tiny, stupid sketches of cats wearing sunglasses, distorted faces, random shapes that probably meant something at the time. I can’t even remember the class this was from.

 

Further in, the pages are even worse. Notes turn into scrawls. Scrawls turn into blank pages with nothing but little tic-tac-toe boards scribbled on them, some half-finished, others marked with little arrows or tiny comments like cheater and you’re bad at this, written in Suguru’s handwriting, small and sharp and annoyingly neat.

 

I stare at one of the pages, the little circle of wins and losses from a day we were supposed to be studying for some unit test. I remember vague outlines: Suguru leaning his elbow on my desk, hair falling over his face, trying not to laugh as we kept playing while the teacher droned on about something neither of us cared about. I can almost hear the whisper of his voice, the soft huff of amusement he tried to hide.

 

The memory nudges a small, reluctant smile out of me, barely there, but real. A soft tug somewhere in my chest, gentle, nostalgic.

 

But it doesn’t last.

 

It fades as quickly as it comes, swallowed by the gravity of everything we are now. Everything we aren’t. Everything that broke.

 

The smile dies, slow and quiet, like a flame running out of oxygen.

 

I stare at the doodles one last time, feeling that familiar twist in my stomach. ‘That was a long time ago,’ I tell myself.

 

Too long. A lifetime ago.

 

I close the notebook, the soft thump of it shutting sounding final. Then I drop it into the trash bag. It lands with a muted sound, barely noticeable, like it wasn’t anything important.

 

Because it isn’t. Not anymore.

 

I keep going. Rummaging through papers I don’t need. Old worksheets. Half-finished assignments. Pictures I don’t remember taking. Little pieces of my life that feel more like echoes than memories.

 

Every item feels like a tiny, fragile string tied to something I can’t touch anymore. I cut each one calmly, tossing them into the trash or placing them aside without letting myself think too long or too deeply. It’s easier that way. Cleaner.

 

Eventually, the box empties until only a few stray papers and dust settle at the bottom. I think I’m done, ready to move on to the next one, ready to keep burying myself in this mindless work so I don’t have to think about anything else.

 

Then I see it.

 

A book.

 

Thin, dark cover. No title. Worn at the edges from being handled too much, or maybe just from time pressing down on it.

 

I hesitate.

 

It doesn’t look like my usual journals, not the ones I used for class, not the ones I doodled in, not anything I remember owning. I reach for it slowly, the tips of my fingers brushing dust off the surface. The cover is soft, slightly textured, familiar in a way that makes something shift uncomfortably inside my chest.

 

I lift it gently from the bottom of the box.

 

It’s heavier than it looks.

 

And though I don’t recognize it immediately, something in me stirs, a small spark of curiosity, a faint tug like a thread being pulled somewhere deep in my mind.

 

Something tells me I’ve seen it before.

 

I just can’t remember when.

 

The weight settles into my palms as I pull it into my lap, dust trailing off the cover in soft, lazy arcs that glitter faintly in the thin attic light. It feels too substantial to be just a notebook, too solid to be something unimportant. I brush my thumb along the edge, hesitating for a breath before opening it.

 

The spine cracks softly, old, familiar.

 

It’s a… photo album.

 

Rows of glossy memories stare back at me, a collage of people and places I haven’t thought about in years. The first few pages are filled with family— birthdays, vacations, awkward holiday photos where my hair looks terrible and I’m making faces at the camera. There’s one of me at maybe six, face covered in spaghetti sauce, my mom laughing in the background. Another of me asleep on the living room floor with a blanket wrapped around my head like a cape. The corners of my mouth twitch up despite the heaviness pressing on my chest.

 

I flip the page.

 

More family. Cousins. Neighbors. Summer barbecues. Sunburned cheeks and crooked grins.

 

Then…

theres Suguru.

 

The shift is so subtle at first that I almost miss it. A photo tucked into the corner: the two of us sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by trading cards, mid-argument about something stupid. I’m pointing accusingly at him; he’s laughing so hard he’s falling sideways.

 

Another page.

 

We’re sitting on a swingset, Suguru pushing me with one hand while eating shaved ice with the other. I remember that day. I remember how he got annoyed because the ice kept dripping onto his shoes and I kept leaning back too far just to see if he’d catch me. He always did.

 

Flip.

 

Us at thirteen, soaked head to toe after a rainstorm, grinning like idiots. We were running home and he grabbed my hand at some point, “so you don’t slip,” he’d said, even though he was the one sliding everywhere. I can still feel the heat of his palm against mine, even now.

 

Flip.

 

A grainy photo of us passed out on the couch, him slumped against my shoulder, my cheek resting on his hair. Someone, my mom probably, tucked a blanket over us and snapped the picture. I remember waking up confused, then warm. Always warm with him.

 

Flip.

 

A blurry picture of his face way too close to the lens, taken by me, obviously.

 

More photos of him. Us. Our lives stitched together in images I didn’t know were still here.

 

My throat tightens.

 

I blink once, twice, pushing back the sting building behind my eyes.

 

Flip.

 

Then I land on the last page.

 

And everything inside me stops.

 

Prom.

 

The photo is a little faded, but still clear enough that I remember every detail, every impossible, heart-wrenching detail. The two of us standing side by side in Suguru’s backyard, dressed up for a night we pretended to be too cool to care about. His hand is partially tucked behind my back, like he’d been in the middle of reaching for me when the picture was taken. My smile is small but real. His is softer, almost shy. Like we were sharing some secret no one else could see.

 

And just like that, the memory unfurls…

 

Suguru’s backyard. Junior year.

 

The kind of early evening that felt too gentle to be real.

 

The sun was sliding low across the sky, caught in that tender space between gold and rose, where everything slows down and the world softens at the edges. Light spilled over the grass in long, warm ribbons, turning every blade into something glowing and unreal. The air smelled faintly like summer even though it was still months away, that quiet promise of warmth hanging under the scent of fresh-cut grass. Somewhere out in the neighbor’s yard, cicadas were starting up their evening chorus. It wasn’t loud, just a steady hum that settled under everything like a heartbeat.

 

We were sitting on the back porch stairs, shoulders pressed together, our legs stretched out on the wooden steps that still held the sun’s heat. I remember the way the boards creaked just slightly when either of us shifted. I’d always loved this spot, Suguru’s backyard was one of those places that never really changed, no matter how much we did. The same crooked fence, the same old tree leaning a little too close to the house, the same porch where we’d spent half our childhood scheming and laughing until the neighbors yelled at us to be quiet.

 

And him.

 

Always him.

 

Suguru was leaning forward a little, elbows resting loosely on his knees as he watched the sky like it was telling him a secret he didn’t want to miss. His hair was tied back, but so lazily that half of it had already slipped free to brush against his cheeks. A soft breeze caught the loose strands now and then, lifting them just enough that I could see his profile clearly, the gentle slope of his nose, the faint crease between his brows when he was thinking too hard, the calm set of his mouth.

 

My fingers twitched every time the wind moved his hair. I wanted, more than I wanted to breathe, maybe, to reach out and tuck it behind his ear. To touch him in that small, stupidly intimate way I’d never let myself do before. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. If I reached for him and he pulled away, I think something inside me would have shattered instantly.

 

My heart had been pounding since I got to his house. Hell, probably since I woke up that morning. Loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. Like it knew something I hadn’t admitted to myself yet. Prom was coming up, and with it, that annoying, terrifying awareness that I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. We’d been hovering in that almost-but-not-quite space for months, falling asleep on each other, holding hands when we thought no one was looking, getting so close I could feel his breath on my face sometimes.

 

But nothing was official. Nothing was spoken. And I couldn’t stand the not knowing anymore.

 

So I swallowed hard, feeling the nerves claw down the back of my throat, and asked quietly, like the words were something fragile:

 

“Suguru… what are we?”

 

The sound of his laugh came softly. Surprised. Not mocking, never mocking, but warm enough that it curled right around the tightest part of my chest and squeezed. His shoulders lifted slightly as he ducked his head, hiding half his face behind his hands like he was embarrassed in the sweetest, gentlest way.

 

“I always wonder that,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Sometimes I think… maybe I think about it too much.”

 

I swear for a second the world tilted.

 

Something fluttered so violently inside me it almost hurt… this wild, nervous burst of hope I’d been trying to keep buried. My pinky nudged his before I even thought about it, a tiny gesture that felt enormous. His pinky curled around mine instantly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Suguru looked at me then.

 

Really looked at me.

 

His eyes were darker in the fading light, warm and deep and steady. And when his gaze flicked down, just for the briefest, dizzying heartbeat, to my lips, my breath caught so hard it almost scraped my throat raw.

 

I panicked. Looked away too fast. My face burned so hot I was sure he could feel it radiating off me.

 

And then,

 

his fingers curled around mine.

 

Not loosely. Not uncertainly. Firm. Gentle. Like he was grounding me. Or maybe grounding himself.

 

“Hey,” he murmured, voice softened in that way he only ever used when it was just the two of us. “Look at me.”

 

So I did.

 

Slowly. Carefully. Terrified and hopeful in equal measure.

 

He hesitated for one long second. His eyes flicked from mine to his hand like he was debating with himself, weighing something heavy and delicate. Then, almost reverently, he lifted his hand toward my face.

 

The moment his palm touched my cheek, I forgot how to breathe.

 

His hand was warm. So warm. His thumb brushed just barely along the corner of my jaw, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch me like that. But I leaned into it. I couldn’t help it. It felt like my entire soul leaned forward, meeting him halfway.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

And then he kissed me.

 

It wasn’t dramatic or rushed or messy. Just a soft, trembling press of lips, testing, hopeful, asking a question neither of us had been brave enough to put into words. It felt like the quietest kind of miracle. Like sunlight settling across my skin after days of rain.

 

When we pulled apart, he looked wrecked in the sweetest way, cheeks pink, eyes wide and searching, lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe too. He opened his mouth, probably to apologize or overthink it to death.

 

I didn’t let him.

 

I leaned in again.

 

This time the kiss was stronger, deeper. My hand sliding up to his jaw, his fingers threading into my hair, both of us exhaling like we’d been holding this back for far too long. He kissed me like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d been trying so hard not to want this.

 

We stayed like that, soft, breathless, touching without thinking, until my chest tightened from too much happiness, until my lips tingled and my pulse refused to calm down. When I finally pulled back, I laughed, shaky, stunned, overwhelmed.

 

And before I could lose my courage again, I whispered:

 

“Would you… go to prom with me?”

 

Suguru blinked slowly. His expression softened, not gently, but completely. Like the whole world shifted inside him.

 

Then he smiled.

 

Wide. Bright. Certain.

 

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Of course I will.”

 

The joy that burst in me was so intense it felt unreal, like I’d become weightless, lifted by the very air around us. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want the sun to set. I didn’t want the moment to end.

 

-
-

 

Present.

 

A tear slips off my chin before I even realize it’s fallen.

 

It splashes onto the glossy surface of the prom photo, warping part of Suguru’s smile into something wavy and distorted.

 

I drag in a breath, shaky, uneven, and another tear falls. Then another. I wipe at my face with the back of my hand, frustrated, swallowing hard, but it’s useless. The ache opens like a cracked seam, spilling everything I’ve been holding in.

 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice trembling, not sure who I’m saying it to.

 

The past.
The boy in the photo.
The man who won’t text me back.

 

My tears dot the page, small, irregular circles that glisten in the fading attic light.

 

And I sit there, holding the picture of the happiest moment I ever lived, while the grief of everything that came after tightens around my ribs like a vice.

 

I don’t look away.

 

I can’t.

 

I wipe the tears away with the heel of my palm, swiping too hard, the skin beneath my eyes already raw. The attic feels too small suddenly, too full of ghosts and memories that refuse to settle. I blink through the blur, though the picture in front of me stays doubled, glimmering under the soft light like it’s underwater.

 

And then–

 

A thought crashes into me so suddenly it punches the breath right out of my lungs:

 

I can’t keep waiting for him to answer.

 

It’s sharp.

 

Immediate.

 

Violent in its clarity.

 

For a moment I just sit there, frozen with the photo still open in my lap. The edges tremble where my fingers press into them. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else. I don’t even know what exactly the thought means, only that it feels like truth, raw and painful and unavoidable.

 

I finish wiping my face, breath hitching as I drag the sleeve of my shirt across my cheeks. My chest is tight, like something inside me is breaking loose, something that’s been stuck for far too long. And before I can think, before I can talk myself out of whatever this is,

 

I stand.

 

Too fast.

 

Almost stumbling.

 

The photo album closes with a soft thud behind me, abandoned on the dusty floor as I push through the low attic doorway and hurry down the narrow stairs. Every step feels unreal, like my body is moving ahead of my brain, like momentum is carrying me toward something that might ruin me but I can’t stop.

 

The house is quiet, late afternoon quiet, peaceful in a way that feels wrong compared to the storm raging inside me. I barely register the living room as I come downstairs. My coat hangs by the door, and my hands fumble with it, shaking as I shove my arms through the sleeves. My shoes are kicked away and I drag them on without untying them, breath coming short and hot.

 

My fingers close around the doorknob.

 

I’m ready to bolt outside straight into the cold air when a voice stops me.

 

“Satoru? Where are you going?”

 

It’s gentle.

 

Not stern.

 

Just confused, soft with concern.

 

I freeze. My back tenses. My throat closes for a second too long as I turn slightly, enough to see her standing a few feet away, her hair tied up, a dish towel still in her hand, like she’d been drying dishes when she heard me stumbling around. Her expression isn’t accusing. It’s just… worried. Worried for me in that way only someone who’s watched you grow up can be.

 

And before I can stop myself—before I can swallow it back or hide it or pretend everything’s fine.

 

The words spill out of me.

 

“I have to go to Suguru,” I say, and my voice breaks right in the middle of his name. “I have to.”

 

Her face shifts, something tender, something sad. A weak smile curls onto her lips, small and knowing and almost painful to look at. Like she understands exactly what I’m doing. Like she knew this moment was coming long before I did.

 

She doesn’t stop me.

 

She doesn’t question me.

 

She just gives that fragile smile, eyes soft with something I can’t name.

 

I open the door.

 

Cold air washes over me the second it cracks open, crisp, sharp, grounding. My breath fogs in the dim evening light, and I step over the threshold with a heart that feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

 

But I go.

 

Because I have to.

 

Because something inside me has finally snapped free.

 

Because waiting hurts more than whatever I’m about to walk into.

 

And I don’t look back.

Chapter Text

The cold hits me properly this time, deep and immediate, like it finds every place I forgot to protect.

 

I step fully outside and the door closes behind me, cutting off the last pocket of warmth, and only then do I realize how unprepared I am. No gloves. No boots. No scarf. Just my coat, half-zipped in my hurry, thin fabric doing almost nothing against the wind that pushes snow sideways through the street. The flakes are heavier than they looked from inside, thick and wet, driven hard enough that they sting when they hit my face.

 

It’s still daytime. The sky is a dull, overcast gray, not dark, but heavy, like it’s sagging under the weight of the storm. The sun is somewhere behind it all, already losing ground, winter dragging the day down earlier than it should. Everything looks dimmed, washed out, as if the world is holding its breath.

 

I shouldn’t be outside.

 

The thought is clear, sharp, undeniable. The weather is bad enough that anyone sensible would stay in. Snow coats the street in uneven layers.. The wind cuts through me instantly, sliding down my collar, biting at my throat where my scarf should be. My hands start to ache within seconds, fingers stiffening as I shove them uselessly into my pockets, knuckles already burning from the cold.

 

But urgency thrums through me, louder than reason.

 

I don’t stop.

 

I step off the cleared path and into the unshoveled sidewalk, my foot plunging straight into snow. Cold floods my shoe, soaking my sock, numbing my toes so fast it makes my breath hitch. Snow brushes up my calves, darkening my pants, heavy and wet, dragging at every step. I stumble once, catch myself, and keep going without slowing.

 

The wind yanks at my hood, snapping it against my head, trying to pull it back. Snow sticks to my lashes, melts down my cheeks, slips past my collar and settles against my skin. My throat burns with every breath, raw and exposed, and my lungs protest the cold air as I suck it in too fast, too shallow.

 

I don’t care.

 

I need to see Suguru.

 

The thought repeats with every step, a pulse in my chest that refuses to quiet. I don’t weigh options. I don’t think about turning back, about warming up, about waiting for the storm to pass. Waiting is the problem. Waiting is what’s been tearing me apart. This, this movement, this cold, this discomfort, is nothing compared to that hollow, gnawing ache.

 

The walk isn’t far, but the snow makes it feel longer, each step heavier than the last. My shoes are wrong for this, thin soles slipping slightly on the slick ground, my feet going numb as the cold seeps deeper. My hands throb now, fingers clumsy and stiff, skin screaming for warmth I didn’t give it time to find.

 

The street is quiet in that wrong, storm-muted way. Houses blur behind veils of falling snow, streetlights already glowing faintly even though it’s still midday, their pale halos smeared by the wind. The world feels smaller, narrowed down to the stretch of sidewalk in front of me and the need driving me forward.

 

I lift my arm to shield my face as a gust hits harder, snow slashing sideways into my eyes. I blink against it, vision blurring, heart pounding not from fear but from urgency, from the sense that if I don’t reach him now, something irreversible will happen. That whatever fragile thread is still holding us together will snap completely.

 

My breath comes fast, uneven, chest tight from the cold and the pace, but I don’t slow. I lean into the wind, coat flapping, teeth clenched, body aching and numb in places already.

 

I shouldn’t be outside like this.

 

I know that.

 

But I know something else, too. I can’t go any longer without seeing him. So I walk. Through the snow. Through the cold. Through the part of me that’s screaming for warmth and safety and rest. Toward Suguru.

 

By the time I reach his house, I can barely feel my fingers.

 

The driveway is empty, already coated in a thick layer of snow, uneven and slick beneath my shoes as I force my legs to keep moving. My feet are numb, my toes aching dully somewhere far away, like they don’t quite belong to me anymore. Snow clings to the cuffs of my pants, heavy and soaked through, and my coat is dusted white, shoulders hunched against a cold that’s finally worked its way deep into my bones. My breath comes out in short, shaky clouds, chest tight, throat raw from the wind biting at skin I never bothered to cover.

 

I stop at the bottom of the steps for just a second, staring up at the front door.

 

The house lights are on.

 

Warm yellow light spills faintly through the windows, soft and ordinary and painfully familiar. It makes the cold feel sharper somehow, the contrast cruel. I can picture the inside of this place without trying, the layout, the creak of the floorboards, the way the air always smells faintly like tea and wood and something unmistakably him. My hands shake as I climb the steps, knuckles stiff, skin burning where the cold has sunk in too deep.

 

I hesitate.

 

Just for a second.

 

What if he doesn’t answer?

 

The thought hits hard and sudden, lodging itself right under my ribs. What if he’s not home? What if he pretends he isn’t? What if he opens the door just long enough to look at me and then shuts it again, forcing me to turn around and walk back into the storm with nothing but the echo of his voice in my head?

 

What if I’ve come all this way just to be told, again, that he can’t do this with me?

 

My chest tightens. My stomach twists.

 

I draw in a breath, cold and sharp, steadying myself. My hand lifts, knuckles raised, frozen midair for half a heartbeat longer than I mean to allow.

 

Then I knock.

 

The sound is dull against the wood, softer than I expect, like even the door is trying to swallow it. I lower my hand and wait, shoulders tense, heart pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it from inside. Snow drifts down around me, settling into my hair, melting against my lashes. I shift my weight slightly, trying not to shiver, trying not to overthink the seconds stretching out in front of me.

 

Nothing.

 

I glance around helplessly, breath fogging the air. The lights are still on. Someone is home. He’s home. I tell myself that, cling to it, even as doubt creeps in. Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe the storm swallowed the sound. Maybe–

 

I lift my hand again to knock.

 

I freeze.

 

My arm is still raised, knuckles hovering inches from the wood, my body caught mid-motion like I’ve been exposed to something fragile and humiliating. Before I can even process the movement, the door opens, and warm air spills out immediately, brushing my face, my throat, making the cold on my skin ache by comparison.

 

Suguru stands in front of me.

 

He’s in sweats and a black T-shirt, bare arms, hair loose and slightly messy like he wasn’t expecting company. He looks… comfortable. Warm. Like he belongs inside this house, protected from the storm I dragged myself through to get here. The contrast almost makes my knees buckle.

 

For a second, neither of us moves.

 

His face changes all at once, surprise flashing first, sharp and unguarded, like he genuinely didn’t expect to see me. Then something softer slips in beneath it, a flicker of comfort, relief he doesn’t have time to hide before his expression hardens. Anger follows, quick and restrained, like he’s trying to keep himself from snapping. And finally, shock settles in, heavy and undeniable, his eyes dragging slowly over me.

 

The snow clinging to my coat.
My pants soaked through.
My bare hands, red and trembling.
My face flushed raw from the cold, eyes wet and shining.

 

“Satoru?” he says, voice catching despite himself. “What– what are you doing here? The weather is horrible.”

 

It isn’t friendly. It isn’t gentle. But there’s worry there, unmistakable, and the fact that the first thing he notices is the storm I walked through makes something in my chest ache in the best, worst way.

 

“Suguru,” I breathe, his name tearing out of me like I’ve been holding it back for too long. “Please– just listen to me–”

 

“Satoru, you shouldn’t be here.” His voice tightens. “You shouldn’t have come out in this.”

 

The words hurt. They always do. My chest stings sharply, but I didn’t come all this way just to turn around now.

 

“Suguru,” I say, stepping forward without thinking, snow crunching under my shoes. “Please. Please stop running away from me. I can’t keep losing you like this.”

 

He flinches.

 

“Satoru, I’m sorry,” he interrupts quickly, his voice strained and unfamiliar, like it doesn’t belong to him. “I told you… I can’t do this anymore.”

 

He won’t look at me.

 

That hurts more than anything else.

 

“I can’t be what you want,” he continues, staring somewhere over my shoulder. “I don’t have it in me. Not right now.”

 

Then his hand moves to the door.

 

He starts to close it.

 

Panic spikes through me so fast it makes my vision blur. I react on instinct, my arm shooting out, palm pressing against the wood to stop it. The cold in my hand doesn’t matter. The fear does.

 

“Stop,” I say, my voice breaking. “Please. Don’t shut me out again.”

 

He stills.

 

“If you’re hurting,” I continue, the words spilling out now, raw and unfiltered, “then let me be here for you. I don’t need you to be okay. I just need you. Let me stay.”

 

Slowly, he looks at me.

 

Really looks.

 

Something in his expression falters. His shoulders sag as the fight drains out of him all at once. His gaze slips away, eyes glassy, jaw tight like he’s holding himself together by sheer force.

 

“Suguru,” I say softly, my voice barely holding. “I’m not going to judge you. I’m not afraid of this. I’m not afraid of you.”

 

He exhales, shaky and uneven.

 

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he murmurs so quietly I almost miss it.

 

But I hear it.

 

And it breaks me.

 

“Suguru…” I whisper.

 

“You deserve someone stable,” he says, voice cracking. “Someone who isn’t constantly falling apart. Someone who doesn’t push you away and hurt you.” His throat works as he swallows. “You deserve better than me right now.”

 

I shake my head immediately, stepping closer. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” I say gently. “I didn’t fall in love with a perfect version of you. I fell in love with you. All of you.”

 

His breath stutters.

 

“Please,” I add softly. “Just let me inside. Let’s talk. This doesn’t have to be the end.”

 

For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

 

Then, slowly, he steps aside.

 

Hope flares so suddenly it almost hurts.

 

I step inside, kicking snow off my shoes, the warmth washing over me as the door closes behind us. He still isn’t looking at me, but he isn’t pushing me away either.

 

“Suguru…” I murmur, stepping closer.

 

He stays where he is.

 

I lift my hands, still cold, trembling slightly as I cup his face gently, carefully, like I’m afraid he’ll break. My thumbs brush his cheeks. He sucks in a breath, eyes squeezing shut at the cold.

 

“I didn’t lose you just to walk away again,” I whisper. “Let me love you the way you are. Let me stay.”

 

It takes him a second to respond.

 

Then a tear slips free.

 

I barely notice it at first, just the way his breath shakes. I brush the tear away with my thumb, soft and slow.

 

“I’m scared,” he admits quietly, cracking open. “I’m scared I’ll drag you down with me.”

 

His hands come up, hesitant, gripping the front of my coat like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

 

“…Don’t leave,” he murmurs, voice breaking.

 

“I’m here,” I promise immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

And even though I’m still cold, still damp with melting snow, he pulls me into his arms.

 

The hug is gentle. Careful. Like he’s been holding himself together for too long and doesn’t quite trust that it’s okay to fall apart.

 

I hug him back without hesitation.

 

His breath shudders, then breaks, and he whimpers quietly into my shoulder, hands tightening in my coat. I hold him, arms firm and steady around him, anchoring him there.

 

I don’t let go.

 

Not when he shakes.
Not when he breathes unevenly against my neck.
Not when the weight of everything finally catches up to him.

 

I stay.

 

When he finally pulls away, it’s slow, reluctant, like separating costs him something.

 

He lifts a hand to his face immediately, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm, rough and automatic, like he’s embarrassed to be seen like this. I catch his wrist gently before he can do it again.

 

“Hey,” I murmur.

 

He stills. I bring my other hand up instead and wipe the tears away myself, careful, unhurried. My thumb traces beneath his eye, warm now despite the cold I carried in with me. He exhales shakily and leans into the touch without thinking, forehead tipping forward just slightly, like he trusts my hand to hold him upright.

 

It feels… safe.

 

Like something we used to know how to do.

 

He keeps his eyes down when he speaks, voice quiet, fragile, like he’s afraid the question might break if he says it too loud.

 

“Can you stay?”

 

There’s no hesitation in me at all.

 

Not even a flicker.

 

The question doesn’t feel like a decision; it feels like a truth finally spoken out loud. Staying isn’t something I have to think through or weigh against anything else. I walked in a snowstorm without gloves, without sense, without stopping once, because the idea of not being with him hurt worse than the cold ever could. Compared to that, this is easy. Natural. I’ve already chosen him a hundred times over without realizing it.

 

So I don’t hesitate now.

 

“That would be great,” I say softly.

 

The relief that flashes across his face is small but unmistakable. He nods once, almost to himself, like he’s confirming something fragile before it disappears. I’m still holding him when I say it, still close, like letting go too soon might break the moment. Eventually, reluctantly, he steps back.

 

I shrug my coat off and hang it on the hook by the door, the same hook, the same place it’s always gone. Muscle memory guides me without thought, and the familiarity hits harder than I expect. It feels painfully nostalgic, like slipping back into a version of us that never fully died, only went quiet.

 

I kick off my shoes. He waits for me, then turns and quietly leads the way to his room.

 

The house is silent as we walk. Not awkward. Not empty. Just heavy with everything that’s been left unsaid.

 

He sits on the edge of the bed first, shoulders rounded, hands clasped between his knees like he’s bracing himself. I sit beside him, close enough that our legs nearly touch but not crowding him. I watch his breathing, shallow at first, then slowly evening out. He looks thinner. Tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

 

It hurts to see him like this.

 

I turn to face him fully.

 

He stares at the floor.

 

I reach out and take his hand. He stiffens for half a second, reflexive, then relaxes, fingers curling around mine like he needs the contact to anchor himself. I squeeze gently, grounding, letting him feel that I’m here, that I’m real.

 

We sit like that for a while.

 

Then, finally, he speaks.

 

“I didn’t break up with you because I stopped loving you,” he says quietly. “I broke up with you because I didn’t know how to exist anymore.”

 

My chest tightens.

 

I don’t interrupt. I just shift closer and hold his hand tighter, a silent ‘I’m listening.’

 

“When I got depressed,” he continues, voice steady in that brittle, dangerous way, “it felt like everything inside me started shutting down. I didn’t recognize myself. I was angry all the time. Empty. Exhausted.” He swallows. “And you…” His voice cracks. “You were the one good thing left.”

 

My grip tightens.

 

“And that terrified me,” he continues. “Because if I lost you… if I hurt you… there’d be nothing left of me to hold onto.”

 

“So you pushed me away,” I say quietly.

 

He nods.

 

“I pushed everyone away,” he admits. “But you worst of all. Because if I ruined things with you first, then at least I didn’t have to watch it happen slowly.”

 

That hurts. God, it hurts, but I understand it in a way that makes my chest ache.

 

“I said things I didn’t mean,” he goes on, shaking his head. “I acted cold when I wasn’t. I acted cruel when I was just drowning. I never meant any of it, Satoru. I swear.” His voice drops. “I was just trying to survive the only way I knew how.”

 

“I know,” I say softly. “I could tell you were hurting. I just didn’t know how to reach you.”

 

He squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“And when I left…” His voice falters. “It didn’t get better. It got worse.”

 

I inhale sharply, then steady myself and rub my thumb into the back of his hand, slow and grounding. “I’m sorry you went through that alone.”

 

“I thought losing you was supposed to be the part that hurt the most,” he continues. “But it turns out… I was already gone. Without you, I stopped pretending I was okay at all.”

 

My throat burns. I look down at our joined hands so I don’t cry before he’s finished.

 

“I stopped having motivation to do anything,” he says. “Getting out of bed felt impossible. Showering felt pointless. Eating…” He trails off, jaw tightening.

 

I glance at him. “Did you eat today?” I ask gently, not accusing. Just concerned.

 

He hesitates, then shakes his head once.

 

My heart twists. “Okay,” I say softly. “We can fix that later. One thing at a time.”

 

He nods, like he’s grateful I didn’t push.

 

“I tried to get help,” he adds quickly. “I really did. Doctors. Therapy. Meds. But I didn’t have the energy to follow through. I’d forget my antidepressants. I’d miss appointments. Or I’d sit there and say nothing because I didn’t know how to explain how empty I felt.”

 

His shoulders slump.

 

“My grades dropped. And coming home was supposed to help. But every time I saw you…” He lets out a weak, bitter laugh. “It hurt. Because I wanted you. And because I knew I was hurting you. So I kept pushing you away,” he says. “Even though it killed me to do it.”

 

Then, quieter:

 

“That night… when we hooked up,” he admits, barely audible, “I wanted to finally let you in. I really did. But it was too fast. I didn’t know how to handle how much I felt all at once. I panicked.”

 

“That’s why you pushed me away again,” I say.

 

He nods, ashamed.

 

“I was scared that if I let myself have you,” he whispers, “I’d lose you all over again when I fell apart. And I didn’t think I could survive that twice.”

 

Silence settles between us, heavy, honest, necessary.

 

Then he looks up at me.

 

“I miss you,” he says simply. “I missed you every day. I still do.” His hand tightens around mine. “I want to try again. I really do. I just… I don’t know how.”

 

I shift closer, bringing his hand up between us, holding it with both of mine now.

 

“We don’t have to know how,” I say gently. “Not tonight. Not all at once.”

 

His breath stutters.

 

“We just take it slow,” I continue. “We talk. We check in. We mess up and apologize and try again. No disappearing. No shutting each other out.”

 

He watches me like he’s afraid I might vanish if he blinks.

 

“…you’d really stay?” he asks.

 

I squeeze his hand, steady and sure.

 

“I walked through a snowstorm to get here,” I say quietly. “I think that answers that.”

 

A shaky laugh escapes him, half-sob, half-relief.

 

“I’m right here,” I add. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

 

I pull him into a hug before either of us can overthink it.

 

The relief hits me all at once, heavy, grounding, like the war has ended. Or maybe like the war has finally been named. I know it isn’t really over. I know this is the beginning of something harder, slower, messier. But he’s here. He’s choosing me. And I know, deep in my bones, that we can get through this as long as we don’t let go of each other again.

 

He melts into me.

 

Curls into my chest like he’s been holding himself upright for too long, one arm slipping around my waist, fingers clutching at my shirt. His breathing stutters, then breaks, and he starts to cry softly. Not the crying from that night we hooked up, the one full of confusion and fear and walls snapping back into place.

 

This is different.

 

This time, he’s letting me in.

 

I can feel it in the way his body relaxes, in the way he doesn’t pull away or hide his face, in the way he presses closer instead of retreating. Something has shifted. Something fragile but real.

 

So I hold him tighter.

 

I brush his hair back gently, fingers combing through dark strands, my thumb resting warm against his temple. I lean down and whisper, again and again, like it’s something we both need to hear.

 

“It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

 

We stay like that for a long time.

 

No talking. No fixing. Just breathing together, holding on like neither of us trusts the world not to take the other away if we loosen our grip. I don’t want to let go. He doesn’t either.

 

Then a shiver runs up my spine.

 

It’s small, involuntary, but he notices immediately.

 

Suguru leans back just enough to look at me, concern written all over his face, eyes still glassy. “Are you cold?” he asks gently.

 

After the storm, the soaked clothes, the adrenaline wearing off, and now sitting here in a t-shirt, I really am.

 

I give him a soft smile, letting out a small, embarrassed laugh. “Yeah,” I admit quietly. “A little.”

 

He doesn’t hesitate.

 

He carefully untangles himself from me and stands, and for a second I just watch his back as he walks to his closet, familiar movements, achingly domestic. When he turns back around, he’s holding a hoodie.

 

He offers it to me without a word.

 

It’s simple. It’s nothing grand. But it feels like being chosen in the smallest, most meaningful way.

 

I take it and pull it on. The fabric is warm, oversized, unmistakably his, faintly smelling like detergent and something comfortingly familiar. I sink into it immediately, shoulders relaxing as the warmth settles in.

 

“Thank you,” I murmur.

 

He nods, watching me closely, like he needs to see that I’m okay now.

 

After a beat, I speak again, carefully. “Hey… do you want to get something warm to drink?” I hesitate, then add gently, “Maybe some food too? Only if you’re up for it.”

 

I don’t want to push. I don’t want to scare him. But I care. And he can tell.

 

He hesitates, shoulders tensing just slightly.

 

Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think… yeah. That sounds okay.”

 

Relief washes through me.

 

We walk together to the kitchen, steps slow and soft, not rushing anything. He stays close, like he’s afraid the distance might undo us. I let my arm brush against his as we move, a quiet reassurance.

 

When we get to the kitchen, we move like we already know where we’re going.

 

He heads for the fridge. I drift toward the stove, reaching automatically for the kettle. It’s still where it’s always been, tucked just slightly to the left, handle turned inward. The sight of it makes my chest ache in a quiet way. Being back here feels strange, like stepping into a memory that never quite faded, but it’s comforting too, like my body remembers this place even if my heart is still catching up. I set it on the stove.

 

Suguru comes back with the milk, glancing at me as he does. There’s a softness to his expression now, something unguarded.

 

“We can make hot chocolate,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He knows how much I love it. He’s always known.

 

My lips curve before I can stop them. “Yeah,” I murmur.

 

He pours the milk into the kettle and turns the stove on, movements careful and unhurried. I take a seat at the island, pulling my legs up slightly, the sleeves of his hoodie swallowing my hands. I rest my chin in my palm and just… watch him.

 

The way he moves around the kitchen, quiet, deliberate, familiar, makes my chest warm. We aren’t back to normal. I know that. But this feels good.

 

Without thinking, I speak.

 

“I missed you, too,” I say gently. “Every day. Even when I told myself I was fine.”

 

He pauses for half a second, then resumes stirring.

 

“I tried not to,” he admits quietly. “I told myself it was easier if I didn’t think about you. It didn’t work.”

 

I smile faintly. “You always were bad at lying to yourself.”

 

He huffs a soft breath, almost a laugh. “Guess I still am.”

 

There’s a comfortable lull, filled only by the soft sounds of the kitchen. Then he glances at me over his shoulder.

 

“If I make soba,” he asks, tentative, “would you eat some?”

 

I nod immediately. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

Something in his shoulders eases.

 

“Okay,” he says, and gets to work.

 

I watch as he moves with gentle focus, filling a pot, setting it on the stove, reaching for ingredients, like this is muscle memory too. Halfway through, he grabs two mugs and starts on the hot chocolate, stirring carefully, testing the heat.

 

He sets one mug down in front of me and nudges it closer.

 

I wrap my hands around it, then pick up the spoon and slowly move it through the surface, watching the liquid swirl and settle, steam curling upward. The simple warmth seeps into my fingers.

 

“Thank you,” I say softly.

 

He meets my eyes for a moment. “Of course.”

 

We talk while he cooks, nothing heavy. Small things. How the storm’s supposed to get worse later. A show he’s been half-watching. The fact that the kettle whistles louder than it used to. It’s easy. When the soba is done, he pours it into two bowls and brings them over, setting one in front of me before taking the seat across from me at the island.

 

We eat in silence.

 

But it isn’t awkward, nothing sharp or strained about it. It’s soft. Familiar. The kind of quiet I didn’t realize how much I’d missed until it was back. The storm feels far away in here, like the world has narrowed down to bowls and steam and the gentle clink of chopsticks.

 

I notice he plays with his food more than he eats it.

 

He nudges noodles around the bowl, lifts a bite, only to set it back down. He does eat, just a few mouthfuls, but slowly, like each one takes effort. I keep my gaze on my own bowl, pretending not to notice, even as worry curls in my chest. I don’t want to pressure him. I don’t want to turn this into something heavy. So I give him space, eat steadily, but I keep him in my peripheral vision the whole time.

 

When my bowl is nearly empty, and he’s barely made a dent in his, he stands up suddenly.

 

The movement is quick, abrupt enough that it startles me in this otherwise gentle, quiet space. I look up at him instinctively. He doesn’t look back.

 

“I’m full,” he says, already moving toward the sink.

 

“Suguru…” The word slips out before I can stop it, concern thick in my voice. I hesitate, unsure how to say this right. “Are you sure?”

 

He pauses for half a second, then nods once. “Yeah.”

 

And that’s it.

 

He starts taking care of his bowl like the conversation is over before it’s begun. The air shifts, subtle, but I feel it. Not sharp, not angry. Just… closed. I swallow whatever else I was going to say. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. I know this is going to be hard. I know it’s not something we fix in one night.

 

So I let it go

…for now.

 

I stand and join him at the sink. He washes, and I take the towel, drying each bowl as he hands it to me, then placing it carefully back in the cabinet. We stand shoulder to shoulder, close enough that our arms brush, moving around each other in quiet sync. It feels fragile, like we’re learning how to exist in the same space again.

 

I’m still turning words over in my head, trying to figure out how to bring it up gently, how to say ‘I’m worried’ without making it sound like ‘you’re doing something wrong.’

 

Before I can, he speaks.

 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks softly, almost tentatively.

 

I look at him, really look. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about the food. Not tonight. And I don’t want to push him into a corner when he’s just started letting me back in.

 

“That would be nice,” I say quietly.

 

We head to the living room together. As we walk, I ask, casual but curious, “Where are your parents?”

 

He shrugs lightly. “They haven’t been spending much time at home lately. Even with the storm.”

 

Something in my chest twinges at that. The idea of him being alone here so much, especially like this, hurts. But I don’t press. Not now.

 

We sit on the couch. At first, he doesn’t lean into me. He sits upright, scrolling through movies, expression neutral, quiet. I stay still, letting him take his time. After a moment, we settle on something simple, loud enough to fill the room but easy to ignore.

 

Only then does he lean into my side.

 

He curls in slowly, like he’s checking whether it’s okay, and when I shift just enough to make room, he relaxes fully against me. His head rests near my shoulder. It feels normal in a way that makes my chest ache.

 

I barely watch the movie.

 

I watch him instead, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way his body softens as he gets comfortable. I lift a hand and gently brush my fingers through his hair, slow and absentminded. He hums softly, eyes already drifting closed.

 

I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.

 

“I’m happy to be here with you, Suguru,” I whisper.

 

He hums, quietly again, warm and sleepy, and settles a little closer into my side.

 

For a moment, everything feels suspended. The movie plays on, light flickering across the walls, but it’s just background noise now. His weight against me is real, solid, and I let myself sink into the simple relief of having him here.

 

Then, so soft I almost think I imagined it, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

 

The words barely reach me, fragile and uneven.

 

“What?” I murmur, turning my head slightly, my cheek brushing his hair.

 

He inhales shakily, like it takes effort to pull the air into his lungs. “I’m sorry, Satoru,” he says again, clearer this time, but his voice breaks halfway through my name.

 

Something in my chest twists hard.

 

I straighten instinctively, heart starting to race, and he mirrors me, pulling back just enough that there’s space between us. I don’t let it linger. I bring my hands up immediately, gentle but firm, guiding his face toward mine. My thumbs brush his cheeks, and that’s when I see it, tear tracks glistening faintly in the low light, his lashes clumped together, eyes red and shining.

 

“Hey… hey,” I say softly, leaning in so he can’t miss the warmth in my voice. “What’s wrong? You don’t have to be sorry, Suguru.”

 

His lips tremble, pressed together like he’s trying to keep everything from spilling out at once.

 

“I don’t know how to do this again,” he admits, the words tumbling out in a rush before he can stop them. “I don’t know how to accept this, us, knowing how much I hurt you. Knowing I’m not fixed. Knowing I could still mess this up.”

 

My heart aches so fiercely it feels physical.

 

I wipe his tears with my thumbs, slow and careful, tracing the paths they’ve left on his skin. His face is warm under my hands, real and familiar and unbearably precious.

 

“Suguru,” I say quietly, grounding. “Look at me.”

 

He hesitates, eyes flickering, then finally lifts his gaze to meet mine. There’s fear there. Shame. Hope. All tangled together.

 

“I still love you,” I tell him, each word deliberate. “No matter how much we’ve changed. No matter how much time passed. No matter how badly things fell apart. None of that erased what you are to me.” My voice softens. “I’m just happy to have you back. Right here. Right now.”

 

He shakes his head slightly, like he can’t understand it. “How can you say that so confidently?” he whispers. “How can you be so sure?”

 

I cup his face fully, palms warm against his cheeks, fingers threading lightly into his hair so he can’t look away. I lean in just enough that our foreheads nearly touch.

 

“Because you’re still my Suguru,” I say. “And that’s who I love.”

 

Something in him breaks open then.

 

I kiss him before the doubt can creep back in.

 

The kiss is slow, tender, almost reverent. I pour everything I haven’t known how to say into it. I kiss away the distance. The misunderstandings. The nights we spent alone, wishing for each other. I kiss him like the past can’t hurt us anymore unless we let it.

 

He responds carefully at first, then more surely, like his body remembers before his mind does. I taste soba, the faint sweetness of hot chocolate lingering on his lips, warmth and comfort mixed together. I deepen the kiss gently, not rushing, just letting us exist in it. My hands slide into his hair, fingers curling there, anchoring us together. His hand finds my waist, then my chest, pressing there like he needs proof that my heart is still beating for him.

 

When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing unevenly, foreheads resting together.

 

He looks at me like he’s seeing me clearly for the first time in a long while.

 

Then, suddenly, he pulls me into a hug, tight, urgent, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough. I don’t hesitate. I wrap my arms around him immediately, holding him just as fiercely. My eyes sting, and I know he’s crying again too, his breath hitching against my shoulder.

 

After a moment, he leans back, hands sliding up to cradle my face.

 

“I’m not going to leave you again,” he says, voice trembling but resolute. “Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m scared. I promise.”

 

He kisses me again, deeper this time, steadier.

 

I melt into it completely, knowing in the quiet certainty of my chest that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.

 

Later that night, after the movie ends and the credits roll unnoticed, we decide it’s better if I don’t go back out into the storm.

 

The wind is still howling outside, snow tapping softly against the windows like it’s trying to get in. Neither of us says it out loud at first, but the thought settles easily between us, natural, obvious. There’s no argument. No hesitation. He just nods when I mention it, relief flickering across his face before he can hide it.

 

So I stay.

 

I change into his clothes, soft, worn, unmistakably his. The fabric hangs loose on me, sleeves too long, the scent of him clinging to everything. It feels intimate in a way that makes my chest warm and ache all at once.

 

We crawl into bed together, the room dim and quiet, the storm a distant presence beyond the walls. I curl into his side without thinking, fitting there like I never stopped belonging. He hesitates for just a second, then relaxes fully, one arm coming around me, hand resting warm and protective at my back.

 

He falls asleep quickly.

 

His breathing evens out, slow and soft, and there’s something about the way he sleeps now, unguarded, peaceful, that tells me he trusts me again. That he’s letting himself rest because he knows I’m here. I listen to his breaths, feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under my cheek, and my heart swells painfully with it.

 

I think about everything we’ve been through. The fights. The silence. The months of missing him so badly it felt like grief. And somehow, impossibly, all of it led back here, to this quiet, fragile peace.

 

I’m so happy he’s back.

 

So happy that it almost hurts.

 

And the pain feels worth it, every cold step through the storm, every sleepless night, every moment of doubt, if it means I get to be here like this, holding him while he sleeps, knowing we’re choosing each other again.

 

I close my eyes, pressing a little closer, and let myself rest too.

 

For now, this is enough.

Chapter Text

I wake up slowly, not because of a sound, but because of the warmth.

 

Suguru’s arm is wrapped around my waist, solid and warm, his hand resting flat against my back like it belongs there. His leg is hooked loosely over mine, keeping me close. He’s holding me in, not pushing me away, not leaving space, not tense. Just… holding me.

 

My chest tightens immediately.

 

For a few seconds, I don’t breathe properly. I stay completely still, afraid that if I shift even a little, this will break. My mind goes straight back to last time, waking up after that night, the way he went cold so fast, the way he’d looked at me like I was suddenly a mistake. The way he called me Gojo instead of Satoru, like distance could be created just by a name.

 

I don’t want that again. I don’t think I could handle it.

 

So I don’t wake him. I don’t move. I just lie there and take him in.

 

His face is relaxed in sleep, turned slightly toward me. His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes. His breathing is slow and even, warm against my neck. Every now and then, his fingers flex slightly against my back, like his body is checking that I’m still there even while he sleeps.

 

That alone makes my throat burn.

 

He’s warm. Really warm. The room is quiet, dim with soft morning light slipping in through the curtains. I can hear the storm has died down, no wind howling anymore, no snow against the windows. Just quiet.

 

I stare at him, memorizing details like I’m afraid I’ll lose them again. The faint crease between his brows. The way his lashes rest against his cheeks. The steady rise and fall of his chest. I tell myself not to expect anything. Just because he held me through the night doesn’t mean the morning won’t hurt. I’ve learned that lesson already.

 

Minutes pass. Maybe more. I don’t check the time.

 

Then he shifts.

 

It’s small at first, his head tilting slightly, his grip adjusting. My heart starts pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it. I freeze again, every muscle locked, waiting for the moment he pulls away.

 

Instead, his arm tightens.

 

Not a lot. Just enough to pull me a little closer, like he’s anchoring me to him.

 

I swallow hard.

 

He exhales, long and soft, then his eyes blink open slowly. They’re unfocused at first, heavy with sleep. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real. I don’t say anything. I can’t. My mouth feels dry, and I’m terrified that if I speak first, I’ll ruin it.

 

Then his expression changes. Not startled. Not guarded. Soft. A small smile curves at his mouth, sleepy, quiet, real. He shifts closer and presses his forehead lightly against my temple, his arm sliding more securely around me.

 

“Morning,” he murmurs.

 

Something inside me just… breaks. Relief crashes through me so hard it makes my eyes sting. I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face, wide and probably stupid, but I don’t care. My chest feels lighter than it has in months.

 

“Morning,” I whisper back.

 

He hums softly, content, and pulls me in even more, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand moves in a slow, absent pattern against my back. I curl into him without thinking, fitting there easily.

 

We don’t rush anything. We just lie there, breathing together.

 

“You sleep okay?” he asks quietly.

 

“Yeah,” I say. “Did you?”

 

He nods. “Better than I have in a while.”

 

That makes my chest ache in a good way. I tilt my head just enough to look at him. He’s watching me now, fully awake, eyes calm. Still holding me.

 

“I’m really glad you stayed,” he adds.

 

“I’m really glad you asked me to,” I say.

 

Another quiet smile. He presses a light kiss to my hair, nothing dramatic, just gentle and warm. I close my eyes for a second and let myself enjoy it. For once, there’s no rush. No tension humming under the surface. Just us, holding each other, saying good morning like it isn’t complicated.

 

Then my phone starts ringing.

 

The sound feels way too loud in the quiet room. I flinch slightly, and Suguru pulls back just enough to reach for the nightstand. He grabs my phone before I even register what’s happening and glances at the screen.

 

“It’s your mom,” he says, then hands it to me.

 

I answer the call. “Hey, Mom.”

 

“Hey, honey,” she says warmly. “How are you doing? That storm was pretty bad last night.”

 

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m okay. I’m with Suguru.”

 

There’s a pause, then her voice softens even more. “That makes me happy to hear. I was just wondering when you might be getting home.”

 

I glance toward the window, then back at Suguru. He’s watching me closely now, propped slightly on one elbow, his hand still resting on my waist like he hasn’t even thought about moving it.

 

“It’s… uh, already ten?” she adds.

 

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t realize it was that late. I’ll– I’ll be home soon then.”

 

“That’s fine,” she says easily. “We’re doing Christmas cookie decorating later, and I thought maybe it would be nice to invite Suguru too… if everything’s alright between you two.”

 

My chest tightens, but not in a bad way. I look at Suguru again. He can’t hear her, but he’s watching my face like he’s trying to piece together every word.

 

“Everything’s alright,” I say. “I’ll ask him.”

 

She pauses, then lets out a small breath. “That’s good. I know you’ve both been having a hard time. And Megumi’s been asking about him.”

 

That one lands hard. I swallow and glance at Suguru, and I know my face gives me away because his brows knit slightly in concern.

 

“He misses him,” she continues gently. “We all do.”

 

“I know,” I say quietly.

 

“Well,” she adds, lighter now, “tell him he’s welcome anytime. I love you, sweetheart.”

 

“I love you too, bye,” I reply.

 

I hang up and set the phone down on the bed, my fingers lingering on it for a second before I let go. When I turn back, Suguru’s eyes are searching my face.

 

“Everything okay?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” I say, smiling softly. “She was wondering if you’d want to come over later. We’re decorating christmas cookies.”

 

He pauses, expression shifting, more thoughtful than frightened. His shoulders tighten slightly, and he looks away for a moment before meeting my eyes again.

 

“Do you really think that’s alright?” he asks, voice low and careful. “I haven’t seen them in a long time. Are they… upset with me?”

 

My heart twists. I shift closer without thinking and reach up, brushing his hair back from his face, my fingers gentle and slow.

 

“They’re not mad,” I tell him softly. “They just miss you. Especially Megs.”

 

Suguru looks down, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the blanket. “I don’t really know how to do this,” he says quietly. “Being around people again. Your family. It feels like too much.”

 

“You don’t have to do anything special,” I say. “You can just exist there.”

 

He lets out a breath. “I’m not very good at that right now.”

 

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “No one’s expecting anything from you.”

 

He glances at me. “What if it’s awkward?”

 

I give a small shrug. “Then it’s awkward. That won’t hurt anyone.”

 

He nods, but his voice stays low. “What if I get overwhelmed?”

 

“Then we take a break,” I say. “We step outside. Or we leave early. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

 

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. His shoulders ease a little. “I’m scared I’ll mess things up.”

 

I tighten my hold on his hand. “You might,” I admit. “So might I. That doesn’t mean we stop trying.”

 

He looks at me then, really looks. “You’d stay?” he asks.

 

“I’m here,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

He exhales slowly, like he’s letting something go. Then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll come over.”

 

I smile and shift closer. “We’ll do it together.”

 

We arrive at my house around noon, once we’ve both finished getting ready. Suguru lets me borrow his clothes, even though they hang loosely on me, because he prefers everything oversized. When we reach my front door, his hand is still laced with mine. I give him a small nod before opening it, and he responds with a weak but sincere smile.

 

We step inside, and the house feels warm and familiar right away. Megumi is on the couch, knees tucked up, focused on something in his hands. From the kitchen, my mom calls out, “Hi, sweetie! I’ll be right there,” like this is any normal day.

 

Megumi looks up when the door closes. At first, his face is blank. Then his eyes widen. Suguru is still by the door, wiping snow off his shoes, head down. When he looks up and sees Megumi staring at him, he freezes completely.

 

For half a second, no one moves.

 

Then Megumi stands up fast. “Suguru!!” he says, louder than I’ve ever heard him, and runs straight over.

 

Suguru doesn’t react at first. He just stands there, surprised, hands half-lifted like he isn’t sure what to do. Megumi wraps his arms around his waist and squeezes tight. Suguru lets out a shaky breath, then bends down and hugs him back properly, arms solid and careful around him.

 

“I missed you,” Megumi says into his shirt. “You were gone forever.”

 

“I know,” Suguru says quietly. “I’m sorry. I missed you too.”

 

My chest tightens, and my eyes sting as I watch them. It feels calm. Easy. Like this is how it’s supposed to be.

 

They pull apart after a moment, still close, Megumi talking quickly. Suguru listens, nodding, answering softly. I can’t hear everything they say, but I don’t need to.

 

Then my mom comes down the hall from the kitchen. She doesn’t hesitate. She walks straight up to Suguru, and he opens his arms without thinking. She hugs him gently, one hand rubbing his back.

 

“Oh, honey,” she says softly. “It’s been too long.”

 

Suguru nods against her shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet.

 

When they pull apart, he looks away. I catch his face before he can hide it. His eyes are watery, and his mouth is tight like he’s holding something back. He looks at me, unsure.

 

I mouth, are you okay?

 

He nods once, slow and small.

 

I reach for his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. He looks down at our joined hands, then back up at me, and his shoulders relax just a little.

 

My mom smiles like she understands more than she’s saying. “Megumi,” she calls lightly, “come help me get the frosting ready.”

 

Megumi nods and follows her toward the kitchen without protest, already talking about which colors he wants. Their voices fade down the hall, leaving the house quiet again.

 

I turn back to Suguru. “Is this too much?” I ask softly. “We can leave. Or take a break. Whatever you need.”

 

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” He pauses, then adds honestly, “I think I’m just emotional. Seeing everyone again.”

 

“That makes sense,” I say. “You don’t have to hold it together.”

 

He lets out a small breath and nods. I step closer and press a gentle kiss to his forehead. He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s grounding himself.

 

I hesitate, just for a moment, before leaning in again. When I do, he tilts his head slightly and closes his eyes again. I kiss him softly on the lips this time, slow and careful. It’s not rushed. It’s not heavy. It’s just me telling him I’m here.

 

When I pull back, he looks calmer. Still a little overwhelmed, but steady.

 

I lace my fingers through his again. “Come on,” I say quietly.

 

I lead him into the kitchen, our hands linked. The room smells like sugar and butter, warm in a way that settles in your chest. The counter is already set up: plates of plain sugar cookies, bowls of frosting in different colors, little containers of sprinkles, and a stack of butter knives laid out.

 

Megumi is sitting on a stool, carefully spreading green frosting over a tree-shaped cookie. My mom is next to him, wiping her hands on a towel.

 

“There we go,” she says when she sees us. “Grab a spot. We were just starting.”

 

Suguru hesitates for a second, then steps up beside me. He picks up a knife like he’s not sure how serious this is supposed to be.

 

“You just spread it,” I tell him. “There’s no technique.”

 

Megumi immediately looks over. “There is technique.”

 

I grin. “According to Megumi, there is.”

 

Megumi doesn’t deny it. He drags the knife slowly across the cookie, smoothing the frosting until it’s perfectly even. He barely gets any on the counter.

 

Suguru watches him. “You’re really good at that.”

 

Megumi shrugs.

 

I scoop way too much frosting onto my knife and dump it on a snowman cookie. It slides to one side.

 

My mom laughs softly. “Maybe a little less next time.”

 

“It’s fine,” I say, trying to fix it and somehow making it worse.

 

Suguru leans over slightly. “You can scrape some off,” he says, showing me with his own cookie. His movements are careful but relaxed.

 

I try again. It still looks bad.

 

Megumi sighs. “Why does yours look like that.”

 

“Because I’m creative,” I say.

 

“That’s not creativity,” he says.

 

Suguru laughs, quick and surprised, like it slips out before he can stop it. I catch the sound and glance at him. He looks lighter.

 

We keep going, all of us working at our own pace. My mom talks about a recipe she wants to try next week. Megumi asks Suguru what color he thinks his cookie should be.

 

“White,” Suguru says, then pauses. “But the scarf can be any color.”

 

Megumi considers that. “Okay.”

 

Suguru’s cookies are neat but simple. Clean frosting, a few sprinkles placed carefully on top. He doesn’t rush. I notice he wipes the knife on a paper towel every time before switching colors.

 

Mine are a mess. One tree is half green and half white. A star ends up completely covered in red frosting and buried in sprinkles.

 

Megumi stares at it. “Why did you do that.”

 

“I panicked,” I say.

 

My mom smiles. “That one can be yours to keep.”

 

“Good,” I say. “I claim it.”

 

At some point, Megumi starts lining his finished cookies in a perfect row. Suguru helps him without being asked.

 

“You don’t have to be so careful,” Megumi tells him.

 

“I know,” Suguru says. “I kind of like it.”

 

We talk about small things. A show Megumi is watching. The storm from the night before. Nothing important, but nothing forced either.

 

I get frosting on my sleeve. Suguru notices before I do and taps my arm. “You’ve got some there.”

 

I look down. “Of course I do.”

 

He reaches out, then hesitates, pulling his hand back like he’s unsure. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” I say, soft but certain.

 

He nods and relaxes again.

 

By the time we’re done, the counter is sticky and full of plates. The cookies don’t match. Some are neat. Some are disasters. All of them look homemade.

 

Megumi hops down from the stool. “These are good,” he decides.

 

“They are,” my mom agrees.

 

Suguru leans against the counter beside me, arms resting at his sides. He looks around the kitchen, at the mess, at Megumi talking to my mom, at the cookies we made together.

 

“I missed this,” he says quietly. Then he adds, almost like he’s surprised by it, “All of you.”

 

I look up at him. He looks open in a way that makes my chest ache.

 

“Then stay,” I say. Not pushing. Just honest.

 

He meets my eyes and nods. “I want to.”

 

Megumi interrupts by holding up a cookie. “You have to eat one.”

 

Suguru takes it, bites into it, and smiles. “It’s really good.”

 

I smile too. We stand there together, frosting drying, the kitchen warm and loud in a gentle way.

 

No one really says it out loud, but we all start cleaning up together. Megumi gathers dishes carefully, stacking them the way he likes. My mom rinses them and hands them to Suguru to dry. I wipe down the counter, smearing frosting around more than actually removing it at first.

 

“Good teamwork,” my mom says lightly.

 

“I tried,” I say.

 

Megumi gives me a look. “You mostly made it worse.” Megumi teases brotherly.

 

Suguru smiles at that, quiet but real, and keeps drying dishes. He moves easily now, like he knows where to stand, when to step aside, when to help without being asked. It feels natural, and I don’t miss when he was gone.

 

When the kitchen is finally clean, my mom checks the time and sighs. “I need to run to the grocery store before it gets crowded,” she says. “Megumi, grab your coat. You’re coming with me.”

 

Megumi groans but does it anyway, pulling his jacket off the hook. My mom grabs her keys and purse, then pauses and looks back at us.

 

“We won’t be long,” she says gently.

 

Suguru nods. “Okay.”

 

They head toward the door, Megumi already talking about snacks. The door closes behind them, and suddenly the house is quiet again. Not empty. Just calm.

 

I turn to Suguru. “We can go upstairs,” I say. “If you want. Maybe watch something on my laptop?”

 

“That sounds good,” he says.

 

We head up together, steps soft on the stairs. My room looks the same as always. A little messy. My bed is unmade. We sit down, then shift until we’re both comfortable. I move toward the wall like I always do, Suguru settles closer to the edge, leaving space between us without even realizing it.

 

I open the streaming site and start scrolling for christmas movies. “Okay,” I say, “half of these are bad.”

 

He leans closer to look at the screen. “How bad?”

 

“Like, fake snow and people falling in love after knowing each other for three days bad.”

 

“That’s most of them,” he says.

 

“Exactly.”

 

I scroll past a few more. “I’ve seen this one. Don’t recommend. Too sad for no reason.”

 

He hums in response, listening. I keep talking, mostly just to fill the space. It doesn’t feel awkward, but I like hearing my voice bounce off the walls when he’s here.

 

“This one’s fine if you want background noise,” I add. “But the acting’s weird.”

 

He smiles. “You have strong opinions.”

 

“I really do.”

 

We land on a classic. The kind that’s always on every year, predictable in the best way.

 

“This one,” I say. “This is safe.”

 

“Safe sounds good,” he replies.

 

I hit play and set the laptop down. After a second, I shift closer and curl into his side without really thinking about it. He stiffens for just a moment, then relaxes and wraps an arm around me, pulling me in gently.

 

His hand rests at my side, warm through the fabric of his sweater. I rest my head against his chest and listen to his breathing even out. It feels easy. Familiar.

 

The movie plays quietly. We don’t really watch it closely. It’s more like it’s just there with us.

 

About thirty minutes in, Suguru speaks.

 

“I’m really happy I’m here,” he says softly. “With you.”

 

I lift my head and turn to look at him. He’s staring at the screen, but his eyes aren’t really focused on it.

 

“This feels really nice,” he adds. “Being back. Being like this.”

 

I sit up a little more so I can see his face properly. “It does,” I say. “I missed you.”

 

He looks at me then, fully, like he’s taking me in. There’s no fear in his eyes. Just warmth.

 

“I missed you too,” he says.

 

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just quiet.

 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

 

I laugh softly without meaning to. “You don’t have to ask.”

 

He smiles at that, a little shy, and lifts his hand to my face slowly, like he’s giving me time to change my mind. His thumb brushes my cheek, gentle and warm.

 

Then he leans in and kisses me.

 

It’s slow. Soft. Unrushed. His lips move against mine carefully, like he’s paying attention to every second. I melt into it, hands resting against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and sure beneath my palms.

 

The kiss deepens naturally, our mouths opening to each other with a growing hunger that's still wrapped in that familiar tenderness. My tongue slips past his lips, exploring the warmth of his mouth. I taste the lingering sweetness of the cookies that makes me hum in appreciation. Without meaning to, a soft moan escapes me, vibrating against his tongue, and Suguru pulls back just enough to let out a light giggle, the sound bubbly and affectionate, easing any tension in the air.

 

He sits up straighter on the bed, his hands guiding my waist, and I follow, shifting my body without breaking the kiss. Our lips stay locked, breaths mingling hot and quick, as I swing one leg over him, settling onto his lap with my knees bracketing his hips.

 

The position presses us closer, my weight balanced on him, and I feel the heat of his body seeping through our clothes. His arms wrap around me, holding me steady as I rock forward instinctively, the friction sending sparks up my spine.

 

Beneath me, I sense him hardening, his length thickening against the seam of his pants, pressing up into my thigh. It's a reassuring sign of his desire, matching the ache building in my own core.

 

I lean back slightly, just enough to catch my breath and meet his eyes. There's a flicker of confusion in his gaze, like he thinks I might be pulling away, but I cup his face gently. "Will you stay?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with the vulnerability I've held onto for so long.

 

Suguru's expression softens, his hands tightening on my hips. He nods, earnest and sure. "I'm not leaving again, Satoru," he promises, the words wrapping around my heart like a lifeline. Then he leans in, capturing my lips once more, the kiss fiercer now, fueled by that vow.

 

Emboldened, I start to grind against him, rolling my hips in slow circles that drag my clothed cock along his growing erection. The pressure builds deliciously, and Suguru responds with soft moans that rumble from his chest, muffled against my mouth. His fingers dig into my sides, encouraging the motion without rushing it, his breaths coming in shallow pants between kisses.

 

But he surprises me by shifting suddenly, his strength gentle yet firm as he turns us over. In a fluid move, I'm laid out on my back against the bed, the movie long forgotten in the background. Suguru hovers above me, his body a warm cage of safety, eyes dark with want but still checking in. He kisses me deeply, then trails his lips along my jawline, nipping lightly at the skin there before moving to my neck. His mouth is hot, sucking softly, drawing out a gasp from me as tingles race down my arms.

 

His hand tugs at the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing my stomach. "Can I take this off?" he murmurs against my collarbone, voice husky.

 

"Please," I breathe, lifting my arms to make it easy. He slides the fabric up and over my head, tossing it aside, and the cool air of the room hits my bare skin, making my nipples pebble instantly.

 

Suguru's kisses descend, pressing open-mouthed along my chest, his tongue flicking out to trace the lines of my muscles. He reaches one nipple, latching on with a gentle suck that sends a jolt straight to my groin. I'm so sensitive there, the wet heat of his mouth pulling a loud moan from me, no holding back, since the house is empty, just us in this private bubble.

 

He switches to the other, teeth grazing just enough to tease, while his hand palms my length through my pants, squeezing rhythmically. The dual sensation has me arching up, hips bucking into his touch.

 

He moves lower, lips dragging a fiery path down my abdomen, tongue dipping into my navel before reaching the waistband of my pants. His fingers hook into the edge, tugging insistently, and I lift my hips to help him slide them off, kicking them away. My briefs follow, peeled down slowly, exposing me to the air, my cock springing free, already leaking at the tip.

 

Suguru wraps his hand around my length, giving slow, deliberate strokes that make my breath hitch and whimpers spill from my lips. His thumb circles the head, smearing the pre-cum, and then he leans down, tongue darting out to lick it clean from the slit. The flat of his tongue presses against me, warm and slick, before he takes me fully into his mouth. The sudden enveloping heat draws a loud moan from deep in my throat, my fingers threading into his hair as he bobs up and down, slow and thorough, lips sealed tight around my shaft.

 

One of his hands slides up my chest, pinching and rolling my nipple between his fingers, adding layers of pleasure that make my toes curl. He keeps the pace unhurried, sucking with just enough pressure to build me toward the edge, his free hand massaging my thigh.

 

My whimpers grow louder, hips twitching upward as the coil tightens. "Oh, Suguru, please, more– you feel so good– Suguru, I'm going– I'm going to–"

 

He pops off with a wet sound, my cock twitching in the cool air at the loss, aching for more. I whine in protest, but he looks up at me with a mischievous glint, lips shiny. "Not yet," he says, voice rough with restraint. "I'm not done with you."

 

Suguru stands briefly to shed his own clothes, starting with his pants and boxers, shoving them down in one go. His cock stands hard and flushed, curving slightly, and the sight of him, bare and ready, has my hand drifting to my own length, desperate for friction. But he catches my wrist gently, shaking his head. "Don't. Let me take care of you."

 

He then lets go and continues. He hesitates then, fingers pausing at the hem of his shirt, a shadow crossing his face. I know why, the weight he's lost, the way his body has changed.

 

My heart aches for him. "You can keep it on if you want," I say softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

 

But he shakes his head, trusting me enough to pull it off, revealing the leaner frame beneath. It hurts to see how much he's endured, his ribs more prominent, but it doesn't dim my love. He's still Suguru, strong, beautiful in every way that matters. "You're beautiful," I tell him, meaning it with everything I am.

 

His eyes soften, and he leans down to kiss me again, deep and reassuring. I kiss back fiercely, pouring all my devotion into it, hoping he feels how unchanged my heart is. "I love you," I whisper against his lips as we part.

 

He smiles, that shy warmth returning, and shifts to the side. He reaches to the nightstand and pulls out the lube and a condom, the items old from better times.

 

Kneeling between my legs on the bed, he slicks his fingers generously, warming the gel before pressing one against my entrance. The initial push is careful, sliding in smoothly and cool, making me sigh at the fullness.

 

"You feel so good," he murmurs, working it deeper, curling to brush that spot inside me that draws a whimper from my throat.

 

I babble sweet nothings, "Yes, just like that, Suguru, you make me feel so good,” as he adds a second finger, scissoring gently to stretch me open.

 

The burn fades into pleasure, slick sounds filling the room as he thrusts them in and out, his free hand stroking my thigh in praise. "You're doing so well, Satoru.”

 

When I'm loose and ready after three fingers, begging with my hips, he withdraws his fingers and rolls the condom on with steady hands. He adds more lube to himself, stroking his sheathed cock a few times, the sight of his fist gliding over the thick length, tip glistening even through the latex, is so erotic it makes my mouth water. He positions himself at my hole, rubbing the head against me teasingly before pushing in.

 

The stretch is intense, his length breaching me inch by inch, the burn mixing with bliss as he fills me completely. He pauses when he's fully seated, giving me time to adjust, his forehead against mine, breaths syncing. "Satoru," he groans, the word a caress.

 

I moan his name in response, "Suguru," wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him closer.

 

He starts moving then, pulling back slowly before thrusting forward, the drag of his length inside me sparking fireworks. The pace builds gradually, hips snapping with increasing force, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls, mingling with our moans. I can't think anymore, lost in the rhythm, the way he hits deep every time, prostate kissed with each plunge.

 

Suguru's moans match mine, low and throaty, his hands braced on either side of my head as he drives into me. Sweat beads on his skin, making him glisten in the low light. When my body starts to twitch around him, inner walls clenching, he reaches between us, wrapping his hand around my cock and stroking in time with his thrusts.

 

The added friction shatters me, I cum hard, spilling over his fist and my stomach, vision blurring as pleasure crashes through.

 

He follows moments later, burying deep with a guttural moan, pulsing inside the condom, filling it with his release. His pace slows to gentle rocks, drawing out our orgasms until we're both trembling, spent. Finally, he pulls out carefully, the emptiness leaving me clenching around nothing, a soft whine escaping me.

 

Exhaustion hits like a wave, my body heavy. I close my eyes, feeling Suguru collapse beside me, his arm draping over my waist, pulling me close. The world fades to just his steady breathing, the warmth of him against me, home, at last.

 

I drift in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, my body limp and buzzing with the aftershocks of pleasure. Suguru's weight beside me is a comforting anchor, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine. But then he stirs, pressing a soft kiss to my temple before slipping away. The bed dips without him, and I feel the cool air kiss my skin where his warmth had been.

 

There's a quiet rustle from the bathroom down the hall, water running, the soft clink of something being set down. My eyes flutter open just as he returns, a damp washcloth in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He's pulled on his boxers, but his chest remains bare, the lines of his body softened in the low light. He sets the glass on the nightstand and kneels beside me on the bed, his touch feather-light as he brushes a strand of hair from my forehead.

 

"Hey," he whispers, voice rough from our earlier moans but tender now. "Let me take care of you."

 

I nod weakly, too spent to do more than hum in agreement. He takes the warm washcloth and starts at my neck, he wipes away the sweat that's gathered there, the fabric gliding smoothly and soothingly over my skin. It's gentle, each pass erasing the stickiness without pulling or scrubbing.

 

He moves lower, tracing the cloth along my collarbones, then down my chest where my cum has dried in streaks. The warmth seeps in, relaxing muscles I didn't realize were tense. Suguru's free hand rests on my hip, thumb stroking lazy circles, grounding me as he cleans my stomach with unhurried swipes.

 

"You're perfect," he murmurs, eyes focused on his task but flicking up to meet mine, full of that quiet adoration.

 

When he reaches between my legs, his touch stays soft, no rush, no demand. He parts my thighs gently, the cloth pressing warm against my softening length, wiping away the remnants of my release and the lube that's leaked out. A shiver runs through me at the intimacy, but it's all care, his fingers steady as he cleans my entrance, easing any lingering soreness with delicate pats. I sigh, the sensation pulling a contented sound from my throat.

 

Every motion is sweet, like he's memorizing me all over again, making sure I'm comfortable, cherished. He leans in to kiss my forehead, lingering there. "Better?"

 

"Much," I whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek.

 

He smiles, that shy curve of his lips, and helps me sip from the glass, the cool water a balm on my parched throat. Then he slides back into bed, drawing the covers over us both, his arms wrapping around me securely. I nestle into his chest, listening to his heartbeat, the world narrowing to just this, us, safe and whole.