joemama-2

[joemama-2]

pinned post will be down for a bit while i figure out what to do 😭

[joemama-2]

goodbye summer theme 😞

hello spooky theme 😏

[joemama-2]

Loved & Lost — chapter two

pairing: gojo x f! reader

synopsis: Your marriage to Gojo Satoru was doomed from the start. You believed in fairytales, he believed in the past. Your futile attempts at gaining your husband’s attention and affection caused more anguish than rapture. And you’re starting to wonder if you can ever survive being compared to a dead woman forever.

tags/warnings: second wife trope, modern au, arranged marriage, heavy angst, smut, fluff, mentions of su*cide, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, societal pressure, elite circles, mentions of classism, drama, cheating (emotional & physical), gojo is an assjole, reader tries her best to make the best of things, character death, talks of mental illness. artwork by mercyerr. dividers by @/cursed-carmine. gojo pov from the past for first half.

wc: 6.1k

series masterlist < prev. < three

SIX YEARS AGO:

Satoru couldn’t possibly be happier. He was getting ready for his CEO position at Gojo Global Holdings. Everything was looking good. Stocks were high, and the board meetings had only good things to report. People were beginning to show him more respect around the office. 

And of course, he has a wife. A beautiful, caring, astonishing wife that he loves more than anything in this entire world. 

Nothing—no one—could ever compare to Sayuri. 

Round cheeks that he loved pinching. The same ones that would quickly blush a pretty shade of pink from his playful teasing. Luscious brown hair that shone so beautifully under the sun. Green eyes with two long sets of eyelashes to complement them. 

She’s beautiful. Utterly breathtaking. 

His heart stutters just thinking about her. 

They’ve been together seven years already, but married for five. 

Gojo was already looking forward to the next five. He fantasizes throughout his days about what would bless their lives as they grow older. 

Children—naturally—were the first ones. Though he’s been trying to put it on the back burner. 

However, he can’t stop the sliver of hope that shines through whenever he’s alone and looking up at the moon as if it can grant him all his wishes. 

He wants his children to look more like her than him. So even when Sayuri is away, he would always have a little piece of her cradled in his arms so delicately. 

He’s daydreaming again, smiling to himself like a goofy idiot as he pours himself another glass of whiskey. The alcohol has loosened his inhibitions. 

“—will…heir…male or female…by 35…”

“What?” Gojo asks, only tuning into the conversation once he heard the word will. 

Satoru’s grandfather, an old man, sighs heavily. Bald with a greying goatee. Wrinkles on his face, though not too many for a seventy-something-year-old man. The Gojo genes were quite phenomenal, after all. 

“Have you been paying attention at all?” his grandfather scoffs in disappointment. 

“Now I am,” Satoru leans back, jutting his chin. “Continue.”

Satoru’s grandfather shares a look with his son before looking at the youngest Gojo in the room. “Well,” he starts, setting his own glass down, “I was in the middle of explaining the will.”

“Why?” Satoru shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing we haven’t heard before.”

“He’s rewriting it, Satoru,” his father cuts in, hissing through clenched teeth. 

Satoru jolts up, eyes widening. He disregards the whiskey that stains his expensive shirt. “W-What? You’re rewriting it? Why? To what?”

The old man rubs his temples, clearly weary of repeating himself. “My health isn’t what it used to be. So, I’ve decided to make the terms stricter—more concrete before I pass.” His gaze sharpens. “You must not only be married, but also have a legitimate heir by the time you’re thirty-five in order to inherit the full estate and control of Gojo Global Holdings.”

Satoru blinks, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. “…Married… and an heir? That’s new.” He chuckles, a sad attempt to ward off his growing anxiety. 

His father’s voice is low but firm. “It’s always been the unspoken rule, but now it’s just written in stone. No exceptions.”

“Besides,” his grandfather crosses one leg over the other. “You and Sayuri have been married five years now. And still no children. Why is that?”

Gojo’s grip tightens on his glass subtly, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Of course, they would ask this. Everyone does, especially as their marriage grows older. 

Children. Heirs. Bloodline. Legacy. 

“We’ve…been trying,” he offers. 

“You’ve been saying that since five years ago, Satoru.” His father runs a hand through his thick, white-haired pompadour. “You’re twenty-seven. We all expected children within the first year. Don’t you love her?”

“Of course I love her,” Satoru quickly snaps back, frowning at his father’s implication. 

“Then why no children?”

Satoru’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at his father. He says nothing in response, too caught up in his own whirlwind of unspoken emotions. Too caught up in the secret he and his wife have been keeping to themselves for years now. 

They’ve been smoothly fighting off the pushy questions of children. But of course, everyone has their limits. 

And that doesn’t exclude elitist assholes like his family, who want nothing more than for their golden child to have his own. 

But he would never air out their dirty laundry, especially when said wife wasn’t even present. 

His grandfather, noting the tension, clears his throat to intervene in the stare-off. “Thirty-five,” he reiterates, “that’s eight long years. Many things can happen in eight years.”

“And if nothing does?”

His grandfather gives him a certain look—one that says that can’t happen. “Then key land titles, properties, and majority ownership, none of that will be passed down to you.”

His heart pounds harder, a deep pit forming in his gut. He sits up straighter to feign a confident facade, despite the fact that his foot is nervously tapping the floor. “That’s—that’s a little outlandish, don’t you think? Besides, that would include the gallery I bought for Sayuri, too. That’s not—”

“—negotiable,” his father cuts in sharply, voice like steel. “Sayuri’s gallery is part of the legacy now. And it’s not exempt from the terms. If you fail, everything reverts to the family trust. No exceptions.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, the room suddenly feeling too small, the air too thick. He forces a tight smile, though it falters around the edges. “You think I don’t want to provide an heir? You think I don’t want to start a family?”

His grandfather’s eyes hardened. “We don’t question your desires, Satoru. We question results.”

“It’s not up for debate, Satoru,” his grandfather emphasizes once more. “That gallery is tied legally to Gojo Global Holdings, which means it falls under the same conditions. No heir, no inheritance. The art house will revert to the company entirely.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. His mind raced, heart hammering against his ribs. The gallery wasn’t just an asset—it was Sayuri’s dream, her legacy, her passion. He had promised her he’d protect it. 

He bought the gallery as a gift for her within just the first year of her marriage. It houses all her prized possessions—her happiness. And in turn, his happiness, too. 

He can’t just let her dreams and passions be a simple pawn in his life. 

But now, it felt like a sword hanging over his head.

His father’s eyes bore into him like a predator sizing up its prey, even if that prey is his only child. “This is business, Satoru. Not some sentimental trinket to be protected out of charity. The board agrees with me.”

Satoru swallowed hard, struggling to keep the desperation from bleeding into his voice. “I… I just need more time.”

His grandfather shook his head slowly, voice grave. “Time is a luxury you don’t have. The will takes effect the day I sign the final document. No exceptions. This is your last chance to secure everything you want—for yourself, and for your wife.”

Satoru felt trapped between two worlds—the love he had for Sayuri and the cold, brutal expectations of his family. He had always believed his marriage was enough. That the future would come naturally, on its own time. He didn’t think things would ever be taken to the extreme like this. 

But now, the weight of a ticking clock threatens to crush that hope.

He looks down at the glass in his hand, the whiskey swirling like a storm inside. He’d have to make choices. Hard ones.

Choices that might change everything.

His head is already starting to hurt once his grandfather says something like how he’ll sign the final document sometime next month. 

All he can think of is his precious Sayuri. She already has so much on her plate. With her own familial issues, and her company most likely going to file bankruptcy, her father’s declining health, and her mother having to be hospitalized again within the last three months, the last thing he wants to tell her is that they need to have a child. 

Sooner rather than later. 

Especially when they’ve already spent thousands in secret on just the tedious processes alone. 

His grandfather is right. 

A lot can happen in eight years. 

And yet—it already has.

Too much has already happened behind closed doors, in sterile clinics under soft fluorescent lights, in quiet moments where Sayuri smiled through disappointment with tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In the aftermath of every failed attempt, every false hope, every silent car ride home when neither of them could say a word.

He wanted that future so badly. A little family. Messy hair and sleepy mornings. A nursery filled with stuffed animals and baby books. He still wants it.

But now, those dreams come with conditions. With ultimatums. With deadlines.

His fingers curl tighter around the glass until his knuckles blanch. The ticking of his grandfather’s old watch fills the quiet again. He’s aware, distantly, that no one’s speaking now. His silence stretches the tension, but no one dares interrupt his thoughts.

“Next month,” he repeats, more to himself than anyone else. “You’ll sign it next month.”

His grandfather nods once. “Be prepared.”

“Try not to let your personal emotions get in the way of business,” his father adds, voice softening as if he can soften the blow that’s already been dealt. “You’re a Gojo. You were raised for this.”

But what about Sayuri? Satoru wants to scream it. What about her dreams, her health, her heart? What about how exhausted she is—how she hides the bruises from hormone injections, how her fingers shake when she checks her phone, waiting for test results? What about them, as human beings?

He doesn’t say any of it.

Because love has no place in this room. Not when legacies are being carved in ink and blood.

“I understand,” he says instead, even though it tastes like ash on his tongue.

His father nods in approval, but his grandfather watches him carefully. As if already wondering what moves Satoru might make next.

As if he knows, deep down, that eventually—love may not be enough.

And as Satoru finishes the last of his whiskey, head pounding with the weight of it all, he realizes the truth in that bitter thought.

He’s damned if he does. Damned if he doesn’t.

And Sayuri—sweet, beautiful Sayuri—may never know what he’s about to sacrifice. Or what it will cost them both.

A lot can happen, he repeats to himself in his mind. 

Maybe a chance miracle. At least, that’s what he prays to the gods above for. 

PRESENT TIME:

“How is Satoru treating you?

The question alone should’ve been an easy one to answer. Most wives would say good, phenomenal, maybe even exceptional.

Though sitting in front of your father, with a hopeful smile on his aged face, you hesitated whether to expose the harsh reality of your marriage to a man he trusted his only daughter with.

“It’s good,” you meekly respond, busying yourself with your cup of iced tea. 

Your father, Haruto, raises his bushy brows. “Oh? Just ‘good’?” He laughs heartily. “C’mon, you can spill the details with your old man. Ah, just not all the details.”

You smile tightly at his attempt to lighten the moment, but the tea in your hand suddenly feels heavier than it should. You stir the melting ice with the tip of your straw, watching the ripples distort your reflection on the surface.

“I mean…” You begin, and the lie sits thick on your tongue. “He’s busy. With work. Late nights.”

Haruto hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, that’s expected, I suppose. Being in charge of Gojo Global isn’t a small role.” He leans back in his chair, stretching slightly before fixing you with a pointed look. “But he still makes time for you, right?”

You hesitate again. This time, for a beat too long.

Haruto notices. The corners of his smile falter just a little, but he keeps his tone gentle. “Sweetheart.”

“Of course he is,” you shake your head, meeting your father’s scrutiny with a light chuckle. “Why wouldn’t he be? Don’t worry about it, Dad. You already have a lot on your plate.”

He frowns. “I’ll always worry when it comes to my children. And it’s not worry, I’m just making sure my son-in-law is treating my daughter with the respect and love she deserves. Don’t fault me for that.”

“I’m not faulting you, Dad.” You smile weakly, a forced curve of your lips that barely touches your eyes. “It’s just been… a bit of an adjustment. You know how it is. New routines, new responsibilities.”

Haruto hums, nodding along, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his coffee mug. “Adjustment, huh? That boy’s not giving you a hard time, is he?”

You nearly choke on your tea but manage to swallow it down with a dry throat. “No. No, not a hard time,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Haruto narrows his eyes just a little, not missing the shift in your tone. “Y/N…” His face is open, gentle. But his voice holds that firm undertone that only comes when he's concerned. “You know I’d never let you stay in a marriage where you weren’t cherished, right?”

Your fingers twitch around your glass.

Satoru doesn’t hit you. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even insult you outright.

He just makes you feel like nothing. Like you’re a placeholder. A legal necessity. A shadow in his house.

But how do you tell your father that? After everything he had done just to see you married well? After he walked you down the aisle and shook Satoru’s hand with pride in his chest?

You take a deep breath and force a tiny laugh. “We’re just getting to know each other better. That’s all. It’s quiet sometimes. But I think that’s just him.”

Haruto tilts his head. “Quiet?”

You nod. “Well, he’s just not very…” loving, kind, present— “expressive.”

That was putting it kindly.

Haruto sits back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he studies you for a long moment. You drop your gaze to the condensation sliding down your glass.

“I see,” he finally says, voice unreadable.

You wish he didn’t. You wish he couldn’t.

But your father was never an oblivious man. Not when it came to you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “when your mother passed, I promised myself I’d protect you the best I could. Even if I couldn’t give you everything. Even if it meant watching you walk into a life I didn’t fully understand.”

You glance up sharply, surprised at the sudden shift in his tone.

“I gave that boy my blessing,” Haruto continues, “because I thought he’d be the kind of man who’d never let you feel alone. But now…”

He leans forward, lowering his voice.

“You can lie to the world, sweetheart. But you don’t have to lie to me.”

Your chest tightens with a growing sense of panic. Because for some reason, you still feel the need to defend your husband, despite his cruelty. And because you know just how scary your dad can get when something doesn’t go as he planned it to. “Dad, I—don’t worry, everything is fine.”

“He loves you?”

“Of course he does.”

“And he’s nice to you?”

“Yes!”

“Does he hit you?”

“What?! No, no, he doesn’t hit—”

“Does who hit her?”

Oh, great.

As if your sudden interrogation couldn’t get ten times worse. Ren’s deep voice—the kind of tone he gets only during certain situations—hits you first. Hearing two sets of footsteps, you turn around to see Noa striding in beside him.

Both your brothers, tall and extremely invasive sometimes, look like twins. Dark hair, thick eyebrows (though Noa keeps his more in touch), and stony expressions on their faces. It’s almost laughable considering Ren almost always has that idiotic, dopey grin on his face. It’s usually Noa’s job to have a resting bitch face. Their eyes dart between you and your father.

 Once they get closer, Ren repeats himself, looking at you. “Is Satoru hitting you? I’ll beat his fucking—”

“He’s not hitting me!” you shout, throwing your hands up as you abruptly stand. 

Your chair scrapes loudly against the wooden floor as you rise, the noise jarring enough to cut the tension—but not the heat of it.

“He’s not hitting me,” you repeat more firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. “No one’s hitting anyone. Can everyone just—stop? Don’t talk about him like that.”

Ren’s jaw tightens, but he pauses, eyes scanning your face. Noa, quieter but no less intense, shifts his weight beside him. His gaze lingers on you longer—searching, reading between the lines like he always does. Your father doesn't speak either. His hands rest on the table, knuckles pale, waiting for your next words.

You take a deep breath, forcing the trembling in your limbs to still. You don’t even know why you’re fiercely coming to Satoru’s defense, unsure if he’d do the same for you. But you don’t want to bash his name behind his back, especially to your family.

He doesn’t hit you, that much is true. 

 You take a deep breath before continuing. “Satoru’s not… he’s not what you think he is. He’s just under pressure. The company, the board, his family—there’s a lot on his shoulders right now. And I knew what I was getting into when I married him.”

Noa frowns slightly. “Pressure doesn’t give him the right to treat you like—”

“He doesn’t treat me like anything!” you snap, more sharply than you mean to. You glance away, lowering your voice again. “He’s just distant. That doesn’t mean he’s bad.”

Ren crosses his arms, clearly unconvinced. “So what, we’re supposed to pretend everything’s peachy just because he’s got a boardroom to impress? You're our sister. If you’re not happy, we deserve to know.”

You shake your head quickly. “Don’t make this bigger than it is. I’m fine. Really. We’re figuring it out. He’s not a monster, okay? He’s not cruel, he’s just complicated.”

Noa sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t owe him that kind of defense if you’re miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” you lie, blinking too fast.

Haruto finally speaks, voice low. “No one’s accusing him of anything, not without reason. But you shouldn’t have to explain this hard, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m explaining because I love him. And because I want this to work. Maybe he’s not perfect and maybe we’re not perfect, but he’s trying. We both are.”

That lie tastes even worse than the last one, but it’s the only thing that buys you some quiet.

Do you even really love Satoru? Or is that your malleable mind playing tricks on you, forcing you into a deluded fantasy?

A tense silence blankets the room. Ren sighs and finally backs off, muttering under his breath, “He’d better be trying.”

Noa gives you a long, unreadable look, then pulls Ren by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let it go.”

Reluctantly, Ren lets himself be tugged away, but not before pointing a stern finger at you. “If he ever lays a hand on you, you call me. Or better yet, don’t—because I’ll already know.”

“We all will,” Noa reiterates, looking you up and down as if to tell himself you’re really safe and sound. 

You roll your eyes, but it’s the kind of exasperated affection only a younger sister can give. “Got it, watchdogs.”

Once they disappear into the other room, your father remains still, his gaze fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything, just gently slides your glass back toward you.

You sit back down, hands trembling slightly as they curl around the chilled glass.

You can feel his disappointment without him saying a word.

But he lets it go. For now. Because you’ve always been the one thing in his life that he doesn’t push too hard.

Even if you wish, deep down, that someone would.

Satoru had a particularly annoying time at the office today. His past couple of days have been filled with congratulations on the new marriage and being married to a woman like you.

Board members to secretaries, all wondering how married life has been treating him so far. He can’t fault them too much; they’re simply curious.

Too curious.

And Satoru, to save his own ass and because he’s not a complete idiot, won’t spill his guts to outsiders. And if word got back to your family about anything wrong, it would get back to his father. Then to him.

And he can’t have a domino effect like that.

Satoru is more than convinced he can manage to keep you married to him, despite the way he’s been treating you. He’d overheard from your own father prior to the arranged marriage that you’re the only one of his children who hadn’t been married off yet.

He heard snippets of your father saying that when you were a child, you couldn’t wait to have a family of your own one day.

Truthfully, it sickened him. 

Not because he found the idea of family repulsive. Not because he didn’t think you were capable of having one. But because it made you seem weak. Childish. Naïve.

As if your only ambition in life was to play house and wait for some prince to sweep you off your feet. And now that you had one—on paper, at least—Satoru felt backed into a corner. Forced to wear the crown and wield the sword for a kingdom he never asked for.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped through the door to his estate. It was eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His tie was already tugged loose, jacket slung over his shoulder.

He toed off his shoes without much thought, the soft thud echoing through the marble-floored hallway. The silence that greeted him was nothing new— reminding himself that your presence in this house is nothing more than ghostlike. Just yesterday, he forgot you even lived here. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He glanced toward the dimly lit living room. The soft amber glow of a single floor lamp cast long shadows across the couch. A book lay open on the coffee table. One of yours. Probably one of those worn romance novels with cracked spines and folded corners. He didn’t understand how you could still stomach reading about love.

He exhaled a heavy breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he made his way up the staircase.

His mind was on autopilot the entire way up to his room. Twisting the knob, he stepped in. 

He was suddenly greeted by the scent of something sweet, but floral. It stung at his nostrils, making his nose twitch in disgust. Shaking his head, he tosses his tie onto his bed and undoes the first few buttons of his crisp white button-up.

He instinctively walks over to the frame that’s faced down, fingers skimming the edges in hesitation. After a few seconds, he sighs and pulls his hand back, keeping the frame where it is. 

That lingering, sinking feeling in his gut stays with him as he takes a seat at the end of his bed, eyes flickering from the small, untouched bedside table with memorabilia that makes him force his tears back. Satoru runs his hands through his silky hair, scratching at his scalp.

His head drops, elbows on his knees. 

The silence of a room too big for one person is louder than anything. A deafening noise that even years later, he still can’t get used to. He reaches over to the other bedside table—the one on his side—and flicks on his usual white noise to help him decompress. 

The soft static of the white noise machine begins to fill the room, a dull hiss that drowns out the noise in his own head—if only slightly. It’s the only sound he can tolerate at this hour, the only thing that doesn't ask anything of him. Unlike people. Unlike you.

His fingers hover above the dial, tempted to crank the volume higher until it scrubs out every thought, every memory, every feeling still tethered to this place. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Satoru leans back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His white shirt hangs open now, collar slack and sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. He stares up at the ceiling like it might offer him answers—or absolution. Neither comes.

He thinks about what one of the VPs said earlier that morning. “You must be one lucky bastard to land her.”

He’d laughed. Politely. Played along. Even though the words burned hotter than he’d expected. Lucky? He’s not lucky. He’s trapped.

Because he doesn’t want to need anyone. Least of all you. 

He rises suddenly, agitated by the recurring thoughts. He pulls the door open to his shower and undresses with sharp vigor. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He steps into the shower, water still cold. 

The freezing water hits his skin like glass. A shock to his system, but he welcomes it. He stands still under the icy stream, not flinching, not gasping—just letting it soak through his hair, his skin, his thoughts.

He needs the clarity. Or the punishment. He’s not sure which anymore.

The water slides down his body, carving paths through tension knotted deep into his muscles, but nothing dislodges the heaviness in his chest. He tips his head back with a small groan, water crashing against his face like rain in a storm he can’t escape. Every breath he takes feels borrowed, like he’s still living in someone else’s life.

A husband.

A future father.

A leader of an empire he’s been molded to inherit, not one he ever chose.

He rests a fist on the tile wall, knuckles turning white. The water grows warmer with time, but it doesn’t soften him. Doesn’t reach far enough inside to undo the bitterness creeping up his spine like frostbite.

His thoughts swim back to you. You were invading his safe space. Again. 

The way you moved so quietly around the house, as if you were trying not to disturb him. The way your eyes lit up when he put that damned ring on your finger. Your soft voice, your gentle presence, they all annoy him. And now, they begin to haunt him too.

And he despised it. Despises you even more for it. 

Because it meant he noticed you, even if barely and reluctantly.

After a while, the heat becomes unbearable, and he shuts off the shower abruptly. The room fills with steam as he steps out, grabbing a towel and running it carelessly through his hair. He doesn’t bother drying off properly—just enough to keep the water from dripping onto the wood floors.

He walks to the mirror and stares at himself, steam fogging the glass around his reflection.

He looks tired.

Not just physically. Deeply, fundamentally worn.

His fingers reach up, wiping away the condensation. His own eyes stare back—blue, piercing, sharp—and yet lifeless. He wonders if Sayuri would even recognize him now, if she’d look at the man in the mirror and see the boy she used to believe in.

He wraps the towel loosely around his waist and exits the shower, leaving wet footprints on the way to his closet.

He flicks the light on and again, that evil scent hits him like a truck. 

Not anything he’s used to, nothing familiar, not Sayuri.

His frown deepens as he ventures further into his closet, steely eyes quickly scanning the clothes in front of him. 

Satoru has been in here enough times to know everything like the back of his hand. He knows how things were placed. He’s spent countless days just sitting in here, looking at his late wife’s side and reminiscing about the times she’d come in here and fuss over what she should wear. As if no matter what she wore, she wouldn’t look breathtaking. 

And so, Satoru would definitely know when something in this room has been touched. 

He gulps hard, stepping closer to a pale blue dress of Sayuri’s that was her favorite. The sleeve of it, once tucked neatly with the rest of her clothing, is now pulled out. It’s small, barely detectable. 

His breath hitches.

It’s a minute detail. One that no one else would notice. But Satoru does. Because he’s obsessive, because grief made him hyper-aware, and because Sayuri’s belongings are the only part of his life he’s allowed to remain untouched.

Until now.

He stares at the sleeve—his late wife’s favorite dress—and something tightens in his chest. Something ugly. Something furious. The silk hangs just barely off the hanger, but it’s enough to pull him out of his controlled spiral and into something volatile. His hand shoots out, grabbing the fabric with more force than necessary.

It’s not torn, not ruined. But it’s not where it should be.

And he knows damn well you’ve been in here because nobody else would’ve dared.

They all know what happened last time someone tried to.

You—the ghost walking his halls like you belong in a life that was never meant for you. You—the woman who smiles too softly and walks too quietly and dares to tiptoe into parts of him no one was invited to revisit.

Why would you come in here?

Why would you touch her things?

The very idea of you trying to “connect” with Sayuri—trying to make this house feel like home by reaching into a grave he hasn’t finished mourning—makes his jaw lock.

You don’t belong in here. You don’t belong anywhere. You never did. 

And now you’re really trying to get him angry, aren’t you?

He releases the sleeve with a harsh exhale and storms out of the closet, towel still clinging to his hips, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

He doesn’t care for the maids who give him a wide-eyed look as he stomps through the halls. He’s laser-focused. 

“Where is she?” he barks out to a younger woman.

She gulps and stammers out. “I–I—umm–!”

The maid’s voice quivers, her eyes darting like a cornered animal’s. But Satoru doesn’t give her the mercy of patience.

“Where. Is. She.” His voice drops to a low, cold timbre—more dangerous than a shout.

The girl flinches. “I-I think she’s in the garden, sir.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns, strides down the corridor, and throws open the double glass doors leading outside.

The night air hits him like a slap—cool, tinged with the scent of lavender and jasmine. The estate’s private garden stretches wide and quiet, bathed in the silver wash of moonlight. A place that once brought Sayuri peace. A place he’s avoided like a wound that never quite healed.

And there you are.

Sitting on the stone bench near the koi pond, barefoot, a light shawl draped over your shoulders, your hair pinned loosely like you’d half-forgotten to finish getting ready for bed. You’re gazing up at the stars, knees drawn to your chest, quiet and soft in a world that doesn't make space for quiet and soft anymore.

You don’t hear him approach, not at first. Not until the heavy crunch of his steps on gravel pulls your attention.

Your head turns.

And you see the look on his face.

Stormy. Unreadable. But not blank—not empty like usual. No, there’s fire in his eyes this time. Cold, sharp fire.

Your heart skips.

“Satoru—?”

“Did you go into my closet?” His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

You blink, startled by the sudden intrusion. “What?”

“Did you go into my closet?” he repeats, voice more clipped now, each word a blade.

You bring your knees down, sensing the shift in the air—tense, cold, and ready to snap. “I just went in for a moment,” you admit carefully. “I was only curious. I didn’t know people weren’t allowed in your roo–”

“So you thought going through my wife’s things was appropriate?” His stare sharpens.

You freeze. Both at his level of anger directed solely at you, and the fact that he still referred to her as his wife. Something he’s yet to call you.  

“I didn’t touch anything of hers—”

“The dress,” he cuts in, voice like steel. “The sleeve was out of place.”

Your heart begins to pound. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize—”

“Exactly,” he snaps. “You don’t realize. You move through this house like you’re trying to wedge yourself into something you don’t understand. And now you’re digging through her life too?”

“I wasn’t digging,” you protest, voice shaking as you stand to your feet. “I was just trying to understand you better. I wasn’t trying to replace her.”

The words hang in the air like smoke after a fire. You feel a lump form in your throat, blinking rapidly.

His jaw ticks. “You can’t replace her,” he spits out, each word precise and heavy.

You flinch, like the truth itself stings.

“...I know,” you whisper. “I never wanted to.”

A silence settles between you both. One that feels longer than it is. He stares at you like you’re his mortal enemy, hands fisted by his sides. It takes everything in him not to completely snap at you.

Finally, Satoru takes a step back, the fire behind his eyes dimming—but only slightly. “Next time, stay out of my things.”

You nod, but he doesn’t wait for confirmation. He turns on his heel, muscles taut, movements brisk. But just before stepping back into the house, he pauses. His voice returns, quieter, but somehow crueler.

“You want to be a wife so badly? Learn to stay in your place.”

And then he’s gone.

The doors swing shut behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

You stand there, still and silent, eyes burning. After a few more silent seconds, you slowly sit back down. 

The stone feels colder underneath your skin than from before. The stars look duller, the wind howls louder. And suddenly, your face wets with tears. 

The tears had started slow, like a leak in an old dam—one you’d tried so hard to patch up, seal, ignore. But now they stream freely, staining your cheeks, dripping onto the thin fabric of your shawl. You don’t wipe them away. You don’t even move.

The garden is quiet. Too quiet. Even the koi seem still, like the world is holding its breath around you, unsure whether to comfort you or leave you in your silence.

You clutch your arms around yourself tighter, pulling the shawl around your frame as if it can protect you from the way his words are still echoing in your skull.

Stay in your place.

You thought you’d been doing that. 

You’ve been cooking his breakfast, even making him lunch that you find left uneaten on the kitchen counter. You’ve been trying to keep quiet, even despite the fact that you’ve barely seen him around the house since you’ve been married to him. You’ve learned long before Satoru to only smile when you’re supposed to, to not ask too much.

To try not to be too much.

So if this isn't your place, then where is it?

Your fingers grip the edge of the bench. Cold. Smooth. Real. Unlike the dream you used to have about love. About family. About what it would feel like to build a home, not just live in one that looked pretty on the outside.

You think about how his face looked when he said her name—Sayuri. It still holds the only softness he’s capable of.

And his anger for you is just a hollow substitute for the grief he never let himself feel.

But that’s not your fault.

Is it?

A breeze picks up and blows across your bare ankles, goosebumps blooming along your skin. You shiver. You shake your head, exhaling shakily. You’re not that kind of woman. You don’t run.

But you do wonder how much more will be left of you in a month, maybe six, and even a year. Will you still be yourself? Will Satoru finally start being nice and acting like a proper husband to you? Or are you just destined for a loveless marriage?

Eventually, your tears slow, unsure of which part to cry harder for. 

You sit there until the moon rises higher and the wind grows colder and your legs are stiff, eyes raw.

And until you remember that no matter how cruel he is, no matter how little he sees you, you’re still expected to show up at breakfast tomorrow. On time. Polished. Proper.

A wife.

You rise, slowly, legs wobbling like they barely belong to you.

As you turn back to the house, one truth follows you like a shadow clinging to your feet:

You may live here. But you are not wanted here.

Not by him. Maybe not ever.

Still, you walk back inside.

Because even a ghost has nowhere else to go.

a/n: i hope you’re all enjoying so far. i will be writing one more chapter on this so that i have at least 3 out already, then finally finishing killer! toji, then updating my other fics. thank you all for ur patience 😭💕

taglist: closed

@coffee-and-geto @forever-war @sylustoru @ginginha @nina-from-317

@serendippindots @datshittuebrat @shibataimu @torusbbg @midnightsaugust

@infatuatedrose @koogiix @yeahhemmings- @authorslastwill @simp-plague

@bnwilgin @creolequeen11210 @cdeluca04 @kichotoru @boogiewoogie316

@kyanmeai @junuru @aurorsworld @tbzzluvr @chilichopsticks

@angelita-uchiha @lalalalalalalaokokokokokokok @bottomlesschaps @maeviees @curlsnchxos

@etsuniiru @kmiuu1 @nineteen-candles @chiyokoemilia @farylfordaryl

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@rawrpardkitty @kouyoumarryme @zoeyflower @havkjhdecs @liddolwhynot2000

[joemama-2]

THE NEW CHAPTER IS EVERYTHING!!! i feel like I devoured the entire thing in seconds and it disappeared all too fast. i CANNOT wait for satouro to regret his actions and get his ass WHOOPEDBECAUSE WTF???? i felt so bad for reader omg my heart literally stopped BEATING WHEN HE TOLD HER TO STAY IN HER PLACE??? WHO TF??? DOES THAT BASTATRD THINK HE IS???? THAT PISS HAIRED RAT????

also i adore the way u've portrayed reader's relationship with her father and her brothers!! it makes the story so much more emotional and i love the little details <3333

i can't wait for more HEHEHEHEHEHEHE I LOVE ITTTT

i love how we’ve all collectively come to a decision that satoru needs a big ass whooping 😭😭 i feel it tho and i agree LOL

and yes! the relationship with family is something i really wanted to emphasize on. despite the fact that they know she is a grown woman with her own life, they can’t just stop the fact from feeling protective over her.

especially considering they know she she can be a little naive at times and much more openly vulnerable compared to them three.

ty for reading and the support love 💕 i hope u guys enjoy what i have in store for the future hehehe 🤭

[joemama-2]

how i feel going back to school with five dollars in my acc, no fafsa refund, and having to pay out of pocket

[joemama-2]

Wait! Just one more chapter of L&L then its done ?? 🥹🥲

LOLLL no sorry. i clarified this in my comments 😭 i actually want two seasons of l&l, with ten chaps each. that’s subject to change however.

i just want to get the first three of season 1 out the way, then work on all my other fics THEN update l&l again

[joemama-2]

I need L&L!Gojo to DIE

then who else is gonna crack reader? 😕

[joemama-2]

Loved & Lost — chapter two

pairing: gojo x f! reader

synopsis: Your marriage to Gojo Satoru was doomed from the start. You believed in fairytales, he believed in the past. Your futile attempts at gaining your husband’s attention and affection caused more anguish than rapture. And you’re starting to wonder if you can ever survive being compared to a dead woman forever.

tags/warnings: second wife trope, modern au, arranged marriage, heavy angst, smut, fluff, mentions of su*cide, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, societal pressure, elite circles, mentions of classism, drama, cheating (emotional & physical), gojo is an assjole, reader tries her best to make the best of things, character death, talks of mental illness. artwork by mercyerr. dividers by @/cursed-carmine. gojo pov from the past for first half.

wc: 6.1k

series masterlist < prev. < three

SIX YEARS AGO:

Satoru couldn’t possibly be happier. He was getting ready for his CEO position at Gojo Global Holdings. Everything was looking good. Stocks were high, and the board meetings had only good things to report. People were beginning to show him more respect around the office. 

And of course, he has a wife. A beautiful, caring, astonishing wife that he loves more than anything in this entire world. 

Nothing—no one—could ever compare to Sayuri. 

Round cheeks that he loved pinching. The same ones that would quickly blush a pretty shade of pink from his playful teasing. Luscious brown hair that shone so beautifully under the sun. Green eyes with two long sets of eyelashes to complement them. 

She’s beautiful. Utterly breathtaking. 

His heart stutters just thinking about her. 

They’ve been together seven years already, but married for five. 

Gojo was already looking forward to the next five. He fantasizes throughout his days about what would bless their lives as they grow older. 

Children—naturally—were the first ones. Though he’s been trying to put it on the back burner. 

However, he can’t stop the sliver of hope that shines through whenever he’s alone and looking up at the moon as if it can grant him all his wishes. 

He wants his children to look more like her than him. So even when Sayuri is away, he would always have a little piece of her cradled in his arms so delicately. 

He’s daydreaming again, smiling to himself like a goofy idiot as he pours himself another glass of whiskey. The alcohol has loosened his inhibitions. 

“—will…heir…male or female…by 35…”

“What?” Gojo asks, only tuning into the conversation once he heard the word will. 

Satoru’s grandfather, an old man, sighs heavily. Bald with a greying goatee. Wrinkles on his face, though not too many for a seventy-something-year-old man. The Gojo genes were quite phenomenal, after all. 

“Have you been paying attention at all?” his grandfather scoffs in disappointment. 

“Now I am,” Satoru leans back, jutting his chin. “Continue.”

Satoru’s grandfather shares a look with his son before looking at the youngest Gojo in the room. “Well,” he starts, setting his own glass down, “I was in the middle of explaining the will.”

“Why?” Satoru shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing we haven’t heard before.”

“He’s rewriting it, Satoru,” his father cuts in, hissing through clenched teeth. 

Satoru jolts up, eyes widening. He disregards the whiskey that stains his expensive shirt. “W-What? You’re rewriting it? Why? To what?”

The old man rubs his temples, clearly weary of repeating himself. “My health isn’t what it used to be. So, I’ve decided to make the terms stricter—more concrete before I pass.” His gaze sharpens. “You must not only be married, but also have a legitimate heir by the time you’re thirty-five in order to inherit the full estate and control of Gojo Global Holdings.”

Satoru blinks, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. “…Married… and an heir? That’s new.” He chuckles, a sad attempt to ward off his growing anxiety. 

His father’s voice is low but firm. “It’s always been the unspoken rule, but now it’s just written in stone. No exceptions.”

“Besides,” his grandfather crosses one leg over the other. “You and Sayuri have been married five years now. And still no children. Why is that?”

Gojo’s grip tightens on his glass subtly, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Of course, they would ask this. Everyone does, especially as their marriage grows older. 

Children. Heirs. Bloodline. Legacy. 

“We’ve…been trying,” he offers. 

“You’ve been saying that since five years ago, Satoru.” His father runs a hand through his thick, white-haired pompadour. “You’re twenty-seven. We all expected children within the first year. Don’t you love her?”

“Of course I love her,” Satoru quickly snaps back, frowning at his father’s implication. 

“Then why no children?”

Satoru’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at his father. He says nothing in response, too caught up in his own whirlwind of unspoken emotions. Too caught up in the secret he and his wife have been keeping to themselves for years now. 

They’ve been smoothly fighting off the pushy questions of children. But of course, everyone has their limits. 

And that doesn’t exclude elitist assholes like his family, who want nothing more than for their golden child to have his own. 

But he would never air out their dirty laundry, especially when said wife wasn’t even present. 

His grandfather, noting the tension, clears his throat to intervene in the stare-off. “Thirty-five,” he reiterates, “that’s eight long years. Many things can happen in eight years.”

“And if nothing does?”

His grandfather gives him a certain look—one that says that can’t happen. “Then key land titles, properties, and majority ownership, none of that will be passed down to you.”

His heart pounds harder, a deep pit forming in his gut. He sits up straighter to feign a confident facade, despite the fact that his foot is nervously tapping the floor. “That’s—that’s a little outlandish, don’t you think? Besides, that would include the gallery I bought for Sayuri, too. That’s not—”

“—negotiable,” his father cuts in sharply, voice like steel. “Sayuri’s gallery is part of the legacy now. And it’s not exempt from the terms. If you fail, everything reverts to the family trust. No exceptions.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, the room suddenly feeling too small, the air too thick. He forces a tight smile, though it falters around the edges. “You think I don’t want to provide an heir? You think I don’t want to start a family?”

His grandfather’s eyes hardened. “We don’t question your desires, Satoru. We question results.”

“It’s not up for debate, Satoru,” his grandfather emphasizes once more. “That gallery is tied legally to Gojo Global Holdings, which means it falls under the same conditions. No heir, no inheritance. The art house will revert to the company entirely.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. His mind raced, heart hammering against his ribs. The gallery wasn’t just an asset—it was Sayuri’s dream, her legacy, her passion. He had promised her he’d protect it. 

He bought the gallery as a gift for her within just the first year of her marriage. It houses all her prized possessions—her happiness. And in turn, his happiness, too. 

He can’t just let her dreams and passions be a simple pawn in his life. 

But now, it felt like a sword hanging over his head.

His father’s eyes bore into him like a predator sizing up its prey, even if that prey is his only child. “This is business, Satoru. Not some sentimental trinket to be protected out of charity. The board agrees with me.”

Satoru swallowed hard, struggling to keep the desperation from bleeding into his voice. “I… I just need more time.”

His grandfather shook his head slowly, voice grave. “Time is a luxury you don’t have. The will takes effect the day I sign the final document. No exceptions. This is your last chance to secure everything you want—for yourself, and for your wife.”

Satoru felt trapped between two worlds—the love he had for Sayuri and the cold, brutal expectations of his family. He had always believed his marriage was enough. That the future would come naturally, on its own time. He didn’t think things would ever be taken to the extreme like this. 

But now, the weight of a ticking clock threatens to crush that hope.

He looks down at the glass in his hand, the whiskey swirling like a storm inside. He’d have to make choices. Hard ones.

Choices that might change everything.

His head is already starting to hurt once his grandfather says something like how he’ll sign the final document sometime next month. 

All he can think of is his precious Sayuri. She already has so much on her plate. With her own familial issues, and her company most likely going to file bankruptcy, her father’s declining health, and her mother having to be hospitalized again within the last three months, the last thing he wants to tell her is that they need to have a child. 

Sooner rather than later. 

Especially when they’ve already spent thousands in secret on just the tedious processes alone. 

His grandfather is right. 

A lot can happen in eight years. 

And yet—it already has.

Too much has already happened behind closed doors, in sterile clinics under soft fluorescent lights, in quiet moments where Sayuri smiled through disappointment with tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In the aftermath of every failed attempt, every false hope, every silent car ride home when neither of them could say a word.

He wanted that future so badly. A little family. Messy hair and sleepy mornings. A nursery filled with stuffed animals and baby books. He still wants it.

But now, those dreams come with conditions. With ultimatums. With deadlines.

His fingers curl tighter around the glass until his knuckles blanch. The ticking of his grandfather’s old watch fills the quiet again. He’s aware, distantly, that no one’s speaking now. His silence stretches the tension, but no one dares interrupt his thoughts.

“Next month,” he repeats, more to himself than anyone else. “You’ll sign it next month.”

His grandfather nods once. “Be prepared.”

“Try not to let your personal emotions get in the way of business,” his father adds, voice softening as if he can soften the blow that’s already been dealt. “You’re a Gojo. You were raised for this.”

But what about Sayuri? Satoru wants to scream it. What about her dreams, her health, her heart? What about how exhausted she is—how she hides the bruises from hormone injections, how her fingers shake when she checks her phone, waiting for test results? What about them, as human beings?

He doesn’t say any of it.

Because love has no place in this room. Not when legacies are being carved in ink and blood.

“I understand,” he says instead, even though it tastes like ash on his tongue.

His father nods in approval, but his grandfather watches him carefully. As if already wondering what moves Satoru might make next.

As if he knows, deep down, that eventually—love may not be enough.

And as Satoru finishes the last of his whiskey, head pounding with the weight of it all, he realizes the truth in that bitter thought.

He’s damned if he does. Damned if he doesn’t.

And Sayuri—sweet, beautiful Sayuri—may never know what he’s about to sacrifice. Or what it will cost them both.

A lot can happen, he repeats to himself in his mind. 

Maybe a chance miracle. At least, that’s what he prays to the gods above for. 

PRESENT TIME:

“How is Satoru treating you?

The question alone should’ve been an easy one to answer. Most wives would say good, phenomenal, maybe even exceptional.

Though sitting in front of your father, with a hopeful smile on his aged face, you hesitated whether to expose the harsh reality of your marriage to a man he trusted his only daughter with.

“It’s good,” you meekly respond, busying yourself with your cup of iced tea. 

Your father, Haruto, raises his bushy brows. “Oh? Just ‘good’?” He laughs heartily. “C’mon, you can spill the details with your old man. Ah, just not all the details.”

You smile tightly at his attempt to lighten the moment, but the tea in your hand suddenly feels heavier than it should. You stir the melting ice with the tip of your straw, watching the ripples distort your reflection on the surface.

“I mean…” You begin, and the lie sits thick on your tongue. “He’s busy. With work. Late nights.”

Haruto hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, that’s expected, I suppose. Being in charge of Gojo Global isn’t a small role.” He leans back in his chair, stretching slightly before fixing you with a pointed look. “But he still makes time for you, right?”

You hesitate again. This time, for a beat too long.

Haruto notices. The corners of his smile falter just a little, but he keeps his tone gentle. “Sweetheart.”

“Of course he is,” you shake your head, meeting your father’s scrutiny with a light chuckle. “Why wouldn’t he be? Don’t worry about it, Dad. You already have a lot on your plate.”

He frowns. “I’ll always worry when it comes to my children. And it’s not worry, I’m just making sure my son-in-law is treating my daughter with the respect and love she deserves. Don’t fault me for that.”

“I’m not faulting you, Dad.” You smile weakly, a forced curve of your lips that barely touches your eyes. “It’s just been… a bit of an adjustment. You know how it is. New routines, new responsibilities.”

Haruto hums, nodding along, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his coffee mug. “Adjustment, huh? That boy’s not giving you a hard time, is he?”

You nearly choke on your tea but manage to swallow it down with a dry throat. “No. No, not a hard time,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Haruto narrows his eyes just a little, not missing the shift in your tone. “Y/N…” His face is open, gentle. But his voice holds that firm undertone that only comes when he's concerned. “You know I’d never let you stay in a marriage where you weren’t cherished, right?”

Your fingers twitch around your glass.

Satoru doesn’t hit you. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even insult you outright.

He just makes you feel like nothing. Like you’re a placeholder. A legal necessity. A shadow in his house.

But how do you tell your father that? After everything he had done just to see you married well? After he walked you down the aisle and shook Satoru’s hand with pride in his chest?

You take a deep breath and force a tiny laugh. “We’re just getting to know each other better. That’s all. It’s quiet sometimes. But I think that’s just him.”

Haruto tilts his head. “Quiet?”

You nod. “Well, he’s just not very…” loving, kind, present— “expressive.”

That was putting it kindly.

Haruto sits back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he studies you for a long moment. You drop your gaze to the condensation sliding down your glass.

“I see,” he finally says, voice unreadable.

You wish he didn’t. You wish he couldn’t.

But your father was never an oblivious man. Not when it came to you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “when your mother passed, I promised myself I’d protect you the best I could. Even if I couldn’t give you everything. Even if it meant watching you walk into a life I didn’t fully understand.”

You glance up sharply, surprised at the sudden shift in his tone.

“I gave that boy my blessing,” Haruto continues, “because I thought he’d be the kind of man who’d never let you feel alone. But now…”

He leans forward, lowering his voice.

“You can lie to the world, sweetheart. But you don’t have to lie to me.”

Your chest tightens with a growing sense of panic. Because for some reason, you still feel the need to defend your husband, despite his cruelty. And because you know just how scary your dad can get when something doesn’t go as he planned it to. “Dad, I—don’t worry, everything is fine.”

“He loves you?”

“Of course he does.”

“And he’s nice to you?”

“Yes!”

“Does he hit you?”

“What?! No, no, he doesn’t hit—”

“Does who hit her?”

Oh, great.

As if your sudden interrogation couldn’t get ten times worse. Ren’s deep voice—the kind of tone he gets only during certain situations—hits you first. Hearing two sets of footsteps, you turn around to see Noa striding in beside him.

Both your brothers, tall and extremely invasive sometimes, look like twins. Dark hair, thick eyebrows (though Noa keeps his more in touch), and stony expressions on their faces. It’s almost laughable considering Ren almost always has that idiotic, dopey grin on his face. It’s usually Noa’s job to have a resting bitch face. Their eyes dart between you and your father.

 Once they get closer, Ren repeats himself, looking at you. “Is Satoru hitting you? I’ll beat his fucking—”

“He’s not hitting me!” you shout, throwing your hands up as you abruptly stand. 

Your chair scrapes loudly against the wooden floor as you rise, the noise jarring enough to cut the tension—but not the heat of it.

“He’s not hitting me,” you repeat more firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. “No one’s hitting anyone. Can everyone just—stop? Don’t talk about him like that.”

Ren’s jaw tightens, but he pauses, eyes scanning your face. Noa, quieter but no less intense, shifts his weight beside him. His gaze lingers on you longer—searching, reading between the lines like he always does. Your father doesn't speak either. His hands rest on the table, knuckles pale, waiting for your next words.

You take a deep breath, forcing the trembling in your limbs to still. You don’t even know why you’re fiercely coming to Satoru’s defense, unsure if he’d do the same for you. But you don’t want to bash his name behind his back, especially to your family.

He doesn’t hit you, that much is true. 

 You take a deep breath before continuing. “Satoru’s not… he’s not what you think he is. He’s just under pressure. The company, the board, his family—there’s a lot on his shoulders right now. And I knew what I was getting into when I married him.”

Noa frowns slightly. “Pressure doesn’t give him the right to treat you like—”

“He doesn’t treat me like anything!” you snap, more sharply than you mean to. You glance away, lowering your voice again. “He’s just distant. That doesn’t mean he’s bad.”

Ren crosses his arms, clearly unconvinced. “So what, we’re supposed to pretend everything’s peachy just because he’s got a boardroom to impress? You're our sister. If you’re not happy, we deserve to know.”

You shake your head quickly. “Don’t make this bigger than it is. I’m fine. Really. We’re figuring it out. He’s not a monster, okay? He’s not cruel, he’s just complicated.”

Noa sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t owe him that kind of defense if you’re miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” you lie, blinking too fast.

Haruto finally speaks, voice low. “No one’s accusing him of anything, not without reason. But you shouldn’t have to explain this hard, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m explaining because I love him. And because I want this to work. Maybe he’s not perfect and maybe we’re not perfect, but he’s trying. We both are.”

That lie tastes even worse than the last one, but it’s the only thing that buys you some quiet.

Do you even really love Satoru? Or is that your malleable mind playing tricks on you, forcing you into a deluded fantasy?

A tense silence blankets the room. Ren sighs and finally backs off, muttering under his breath, “He’d better be trying.”

Noa gives you a long, unreadable look, then pulls Ren by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let it go.”

Reluctantly, Ren lets himself be tugged away, but not before pointing a stern finger at you. “If he ever lays a hand on you, you call me. Or better yet, don’t—because I’ll already know.”

“We all will,” Noa reiterates, looking you up and down as if to tell himself you’re really safe and sound. 

You roll your eyes, but it’s the kind of exasperated affection only a younger sister can give. “Got it, watchdogs.”

Once they disappear into the other room, your father remains still, his gaze fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything, just gently slides your glass back toward you.

You sit back down, hands trembling slightly as they curl around the chilled glass.

You can feel his disappointment without him saying a word.

But he lets it go. For now. Because you’ve always been the one thing in his life that he doesn’t push too hard.

Even if you wish, deep down, that someone would.

Satoru had a particularly annoying time at the office today. His past couple of days have been filled with congratulations on the new marriage and being married to a woman like you.

Board members to secretaries, all wondering how married life has been treating him so far. He can’t fault them too much; they’re simply curious.

Too curious.

And Satoru, to save his own ass and because he’s not a complete idiot, won’t spill his guts to outsiders. And if word got back to your family about anything wrong, it would get back to his father. Then to him.

And he can’t have a domino effect like that.

Satoru is more than convinced he can manage to keep you married to him, despite the way he’s been treating you. He’d overheard from your own father prior to the arranged marriage that you’re the only one of his children who hadn’t been married off yet.

He heard snippets of your father saying that when you were a child, you couldn’t wait to have a family of your own one day.

Truthfully, it sickened him. 

Not because he found the idea of family repulsive. Not because he didn’t think you were capable of having one. But because it made you seem weak. Childish. Naïve.

As if your only ambition in life was to play house and wait for some prince to sweep you off your feet. And now that you had one—on paper, at least—Satoru felt backed into a corner. Forced to wear the crown and wield the sword for a kingdom he never asked for.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped through the door to his estate. It was eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His tie was already tugged loose, jacket slung over his shoulder.

He toed off his shoes without much thought, the soft thud echoing through the marble-floored hallway. The silence that greeted him was nothing new— reminding himself that your presence in this house is nothing more than ghostlike. Just yesterday, he forgot you even lived here. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He glanced toward the dimly lit living room. The soft amber glow of a single floor lamp cast long shadows across the couch. A book lay open on the coffee table. One of yours. Probably one of those worn romance novels with cracked spines and folded corners. He didn’t understand how you could still stomach reading about love.

He exhaled a heavy breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he made his way up the staircase.

His mind was on autopilot the entire way up to his room. Twisting the knob, he stepped in. 

He was suddenly greeted by the scent of something sweet, but floral. It stung at his nostrils, making his nose twitch in disgust. Shaking his head, he tosses his tie onto his bed and undoes the first few buttons of his crisp white button-up.

He instinctively walks over to the frame that’s faced down, fingers skimming the edges in hesitation. After a few seconds, he sighs and pulls his hand back, keeping the frame where it is. 

That lingering, sinking feeling in his gut stays with him as he takes a seat at the end of his bed, eyes flickering from the small, untouched bedside table with memorabilia that makes him force his tears back. Satoru runs his hands through his silky hair, scratching at his scalp.

His head drops, elbows on his knees. 

The silence of a room too big for one person is louder than anything. A deafening noise that even years later, he still can’t get used to. He reaches over to the other bedside table—the one on his side—and flicks on his usual white noise to help him decompress. 

The soft static of the white noise machine begins to fill the room, a dull hiss that drowns out the noise in his own head—if only slightly. It’s the only sound he can tolerate at this hour, the only thing that doesn't ask anything of him. Unlike people. Unlike you.

His fingers hover above the dial, tempted to crank the volume higher until it scrubs out every thought, every memory, every feeling still tethered to this place. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Satoru leans back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His white shirt hangs open now, collar slack and sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. He stares up at the ceiling like it might offer him answers—or absolution. Neither comes.

He thinks about what one of the VPs said earlier that morning. “You must be one lucky bastard to land her.”

He’d laughed. Politely. Played along. Even though the words burned hotter than he’d expected. Lucky? He’s not lucky. He’s trapped.

Because he doesn’t want to need anyone. Least of all you. 

He rises suddenly, agitated by the recurring thoughts. He pulls the door open to his shower and undresses with sharp vigor. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He steps into the shower, water still cold. 

The freezing water hits his skin like glass. A shock to his system, but he welcomes it. He stands still under the icy stream, not flinching, not gasping—just letting it soak through his hair, his skin, his thoughts.

He needs the clarity. Or the punishment. He’s not sure which anymore.

The water slides down his body, carving paths through tension knotted deep into his muscles, but nothing dislodges the heaviness in his chest. He tips his head back with a small groan, water crashing against his face like rain in a storm he can’t escape. Every breath he takes feels borrowed, like he’s still living in someone else’s life.

A husband.

A future father.

A leader of an empire he’s been molded to inherit, not one he ever chose.

He rests a fist on the tile wall, knuckles turning white. The water grows warmer with time, but it doesn’t soften him. Doesn’t reach far enough inside to undo the bitterness creeping up his spine like frostbite.

His thoughts swim back to you. You were invading his safe space. Again. 

The way you moved so quietly around the house, as if you were trying not to disturb him. The way your eyes lit up when he put that damned ring on your finger. Your soft voice, your gentle presence, they all annoy him. And now, they begin to haunt him too.

And he despised it. Despises you even more for it. 

Because it meant he noticed you, even if barely and reluctantly.

After a while, the heat becomes unbearable, and he shuts off the shower abruptly. The room fills with steam as he steps out, grabbing a towel and running it carelessly through his hair. He doesn’t bother drying off properly—just enough to keep the water from dripping onto the wood floors.

He walks to the mirror and stares at himself, steam fogging the glass around his reflection.

He looks tired.

Not just physically. Deeply, fundamentally worn.

His fingers reach up, wiping away the condensation. His own eyes stare back—blue, piercing, sharp—and yet lifeless. He wonders if Sayuri would even recognize him now, if she’d look at the man in the mirror and see the boy she used to believe in.

He wraps the towel loosely around his waist and exits the shower, leaving wet footprints on the way to his closet.

He flicks the light on and again, that evil scent hits him like a truck. 

Not anything he’s used to, nothing familiar, not Sayuri.

His frown deepens as he ventures further into his closet, steely eyes quickly scanning the clothes in front of him. 

Satoru has been in here enough times to know everything like the back of his hand. He knows how things were placed. He’s spent countless days just sitting in here, looking at his late wife’s side and reminiscing about the times she’d come in here and fuss over what she should wear. As if no matter what she wore, she wouldn’t look breathtaking. 

And so, Satoru would definitely know when something in this room has been touched. 

He gulps hard, stepping closer to a pale blue dress of Sayuri’s that was her favorite. The sleeve of it, once tucked neatly with the rest of her clothing, is now pulled out. It’s small, barely detectable. 

His breath hitches.

It’s a minute detail. One that no one else would notice. But Satoru does. Because he’s obsessive, because grief made him hyper-aware, and because Sayuri’s belongings are the only part of his life he’s allowed to remain untouched.

Until now.

He stares at the sleeve—his late wife’s favorite dress—and something tightens in his chest. Something ugly. Something furious. The silk hangs just barely off the hanger, but it’s enough to pull him out of his controlled spiral and into something volatile. His hand shoots out, grabbing the fabric with more force than necessary.

It’s not torn, not ruined. But it’s not where it should be.

And he knows damn well you’ve been in here because nobody else would’ve dared.

They all know what happened last time someone tried to.

You—the ghost walking his halls like you belong in a life that was never meant for you. You—the woman who smiles too softly and walks too quietly and dares to tiptoe into parts of him no one was invited to revisit.

Why would you come in here?

Why would you touch her things?

The very idea of you trying to “connect” with Sayuri—trying to make this house feel like home by reaching into a grave he hasn’t finished mourning—makes his jaw lock.

You don’t belong in here. You don’t belong anywhere. You never did. 

And now you’re really trying to get him angry, aren’t you?

He releases the sleeve with a harsh exhale and storms out of the closet, towel still clinging to his hips, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

He doesn’t care for the maids who give him a wide-eyed look as he stomps through the halls. He’s laser-focused. 

“Where is she?” he barks out to a younger woman.

She gulps and stammers out. “I–I—umm–!”

The maid’s voice quivers, her eyes darting like a cornered animal’s. But Satoru doesn’t give her the mercy of patience.

“Where. Is. She.” His voice drops to a low, cold timbre—more dangerous than a shout.

The girl flinches. “I-I think she’s in the garden, sir.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns, strides down the corridor, and throws open the double glass doors leading outside.

The night air hits him like a slap—cool, tinged with the scent of lavender and jasmine. The estate’s private garden stretches wide and quiet, bathed in the silver wash of moonlight. A place that once brought Sayuri peace. A place he’s avoided like a wound that never quite healed.

And there you are.

Sitting on the stone bench near the koi pond, barefoot, a light shawl draped over your shoulders, your hair pinned loosely like you’d half-forgotten to finish getting ready for bed. You’re gazing up at the stars, knees drawn to your chest, quiet and soft in a world that doesn't make space for quiet and soft anymore.

You don’t hear him approach, not at first. Not until the heavy crunch of his steps on gravel pulls your attention.

Your head turns.

And you see the look on his face.

Stormy. Unreadable. But not blank—not empty like usual. No, there’s fire in his eyes this time. Cold, sharp fire.

Your heart skips.

“Satoru—?”

“Did you go into my closet?” His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

You blink, startled by the sudden intrusion. “What?”

“Did you go into my closet?” he repeats, voice more clipped now, each word a blade.

You bring your knees down, sensing the shift in the air—tense, cold, and ready to snap. “I just went in for a moment,” you admit carefully. “I was only curious. I didn’t know people weren’t allowed in your roo–”

“So you thought going through my wife’s things was appropriate?” His stare sharpens.

You freeze. Both at his level of anger directed solely at you, and the fact that he still referred to her as his wife. Something he’s yet to call you.  

“I didn’t touch anything of hers—”

“The dress,” he cuts in, voice like steel. “The sleeve was out of place.”

Your heart begins to pound. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize—”

“Exactly,” he snaps. “You don’t realize. You move through this house like you’re trying to wedge yourself into something you don’t understand. And now you’re digging through her life too?”

“I wasn’t digging,” you protest, voice shaking as you stand to your feet. “I was just trying to understand you better. I wasn’t trying to replace her.”

The words hang in the air like smoke after a fire. You feel a lump form in your throat, blinking rapidly.

His jaw ticks. “You can’t replace her,” he spits out, each word precise and heavy.

You flinch, like the truth itself stings.

“...I know,” you whisper. “I never wanted to.”

A silence settles between you both. One that feels longer than it is. He stares at you like you’re his mortal enemy, hands fisted by his sides. It takes everything in him not to completely snap at you.

Finally, Satoru takes a step back, the fire behind his eyes dimming—but only slightly. “Next time, stay out of my things.”

You nod, but he doesn’t wait for confirmation. He turns on his heel, muscles taut, movements brisk. But just before stepping back into the house, he pauses. His voice returns, quieter, but somehow crueler.

“You want to be a wife so badly? Learn to stay in your place.”

And then he’s gone.

The doors swing shut behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

You stand there, still and silent, eyes burning. After a few more silent seconds, you slowly sit back down. 

The stone feels colder underneath your skin than from before. The stars look duller, the wind howls louder. And suddenly, your face wets with tears. 

The tears had started slow, like a leak in an old dam—one you’d tried so hard to patch up, seal, ignore. But now they stream freely, staining your cheeks, dripping onto the thin fabric of your shawl. You don’t wipe them away. You don’t even move.

The garden is quiet. Too quiet. Even the koi seem still, like the world is holding its breath around you, unsure whether to comfort you or leave you in your silence.

You clutch your arms around yourself tighter, pulling the shawl around your frame as if it can protect you from the way his words are still echoing in your skull.

Stay in your place.

You thought you’d been doing that. 

You’ve been cooking his breakfast, even making him lunch that you find left uneaten on the kitchen counter. You’ve been trying to keep quiet, even despite the fact that you’ve barely seen him around the house since you’ve been married to him. You’ve learned long before Satoru to only smile when you’re supposed to, to not ask too much.

To try not to be too much.

So if this isn't your place, then where is it?

Your fingers grip the edge of the bench. Cold. Smooth. Real. Unlike the dream you used to have about love. About family. About what it would feel like to build a home, not just live in one that looked pretty on the outside.

You think about how his face looked when he said her name—Sayuri. It still holds the only softness he’s capable of.

And his anger for you is just a hollow substitute for the grief he never let himself feel.

But that’s not your fault.

Is it?

A breeze picks up and blows across your bare ankles, goosebumps blooming along your skin. You shiver. You shake your head, exhaling shakily. You’re not that kind of woman. You don’t run.

But you do wonder how much more will be left of you in a month, maybe six, and even a year. Will you still be yourself? Will Satoru finally start being nice and acting like a proper husband to you? Or are you just destined for a loveless marriage?

Eventually, your tears slow, unsure of which part to cry harder for. 

You sit there until the moon rises higher and the wind grows colder and your legs are stiff, eyes raw.

And until you remember that no matter how cruel he is, no matter how little he sees you, you’re still expected to show up at breakfast tomorrow. On time. Polished. Proper.

A wife.

You rise, slowly, legs wobbling like they barely belong to you.

As you turn back to the house, one truth follows you like a shadow clinging to your feet:

You may live here. But you are not wanted here.

Not by him. Maybe not ever.

Still, you walk back inside.

Because even a ghost has nowhere else to go.

a/n: i hope you’re all enjoying so far. i will be writing one more chapter on this so that i have at least 3 out already, then finally finishing killer! toji, then updating my other fics. thank you all for ur patience 😭💕

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[joemama-2]

Loved & Lost — chapter two

pairing: gojo x f! reader

synopsis: Your marriage to Gojo Satoru was doomed from the start. You believed in fairytales, he believed in the past. Your futile attempts at gaining your husband’s attention and affection caused more anguish than rapture. And you’re starting to wonder if you can ever survive being compared to a dead woman forever.

tags/warnings: second wife trope, modern au, arranged marriage, heavy angst, smut, fluff, mentions of su*cide, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, societal pressure, elite circles, mentions of classism, drama, cheating (emotional & physical), gojo is an assjole, reader tries her best to make the best of things, character death, talks of mental illness. artwork by mercyerr. dividers by @/cursed-carmine. gojo pov from the past for first half.

wc: 6.1k

series masterlist < prev. < three

SIX YEARS AGO:

Satoru couldn’t possibly be happier. He was getting ready for his CEO position at Gojo Global Holdings. Everything was looking good. Stocks were high, and the board meetings had only good things to report. People were beginning to show him more respect around the office. 

And of course, he has a wife. A beautiful, caring, astonishing wife that he loves more than anything in this entire world. 

Nothing—no one—could ever compare to Sayuri. 

Round cheeks that he loved pinching. The same ones that would quickly blush a pretty shade of pink from his playful teasing. Luscious brown hair that shone so beautifully under the sun. Green eyes with two long sets of eyelashes to complement them. 

She’s beautiful. Utterly breathtaking. 

His heart stutters just thinking about her. 

They’ve been together seven years already, but married for five. 

Gojo was already looking forward to the next five. He fantasizes throughout his days about what would bless their lives as they grow older. 

Children—naturally—were the first ones. Though he’s been trying to put it on the back burner. 

However, he can’t stop the sliver of hope that shines through whenever he’s alone and looking up at the moon as if it can grant him all his wishes. 

He wants his children to look more like her than him. So even when Sayuri is away, he would always have a little piece of her cradled in his arms so delicately. 

He’s daydreaming again, smiling to himself like a goofy idiot as he pours himself another glass of whiskey. The alcohol has loosened his inhibitions. 

“—will…heir…male or female…by 35…”

“What?” Gojo asks, only tuning into the conversation once he heard the word will. 

Satoru’s grandfather, an old man, sighs heavily. Bald with a greying goatee. Wrinkles on his face, though not too many for a seventy-something-year-old man. The Gojo genes were quite phenomenal, after all. 

“Have you been paying attention at all?” his grandfather scoffs in disappointment. 

“Now I am,” Satoru leans back, jutting his chin. “Continue.”

Satoru’s grandfather shares a look with his son before looking at the youngest Gojo in the room. “Well,” he starts, setting his own glass down, “I was in the middle of explaining the will.”

“Why?” Satoru shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing we haven’t heard before.”

“He’s rewriting it, Satoru,” his father cuts in, hissing through clenched teeth. 

Satoru jolts up, eyes widening. He disregards the whiskey that stains his expensive shirt. “W-What? You’re rewriting it? Why? To what?”

The old man rubs his temples, clearly weary of repeating himself. “My health isn’t what it used to be. So, I’ve decided to make the terms stricter—more concrete before I pass.” His gaze sharpens. “You must not only be married, but also have a legitimate heir by the time you’re thirty-five in order to inherit the full estate and control of Gojo Global Holdings.”

Satoru blinks, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. “…Married… and an heir? That’s new.” He chuckles, a sad attempt to ward off his growing anxiety. 

His father’s voice is low but firm. “It’s always been the unspoken rule, but now it’s just written in stone. No exceptions.”

“Besides,” his grandfather crosses one leg over the other. “You and Sayuri have been married five years now. And still no children. Why is that?”

Gojo’s grip tightens on his glass subtly, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Of course, they would ask this. Everyone does, especially as their marriage grows older. 

Children. Heirs. Bloodline. Legacy. 

“We’ve…been trying,” he offers. 

“You’ve been saying that since five years ago, Satoru.” His father runs a hand through his thick, white-haired pompadour. “You’re twenty-seven. We all expected children within the first year. Don’t you love her?”

“Of course I love her,” Satoru quickly snaps back, frowning at his father’s implication. 

“Then why no children?”

Satoru’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at his father. He says nothing in response, too caught up in his own whirlwind of unspoken emotions. Too caught up in the secret he and his wife have been keeping to themselves for years now. 

They’ve been smoothly fighting off the pushy questions of children. But of course, everyone has their limits. 

And that doesn’t exclude elitist assholes like his family, who want nothing more than for their golden child to have his own. 

But he would never air out their dirty laundry, especially when said wife wasn’t even present. 

His grandfather, noting the tension, clears his throat to intervene in the stare-off. “Thirty-five,” he reiterates, “that’s eight long years. Many things can happen in eight years.”

“And if nothing does?”

His grandfather gives him a certain look—one that says that can’t happen. “Then key land titles, properties, and majority ownership, none of that will be passed down to you.”

His heart pounds harder, a deep pit forming in his gut. He sits up straighter to feign a confident facade, despite the fact that his foot is nervously tapping the floor. “That’s—that’s a little outlandish, don’t you think? Besides, that would include the gallery I bought for Sayuri, too. That’s not—”

“—negotiable,” his father cuts in sharply, voice like steel. “Sayuri’s gallery is part of the legacy now. And it’s not exempt from the terms. If you fail, everything reverts to the family trust. No exceptions.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, the room suddenly feeling too small, the air too thick. He forces a tight smile, though it falters around the edges. “You think I don’t want to provide an heir? You think I don’t want to start a family?”

His grandfather’s eyes hardened. “We don’t question your desires, Satoru. We question results.”

“It’s not up for debate, Satoru,” his grandfather emphasizes once more. “That gallery is tied legally to Gojo Global Holdings, which means it falls under the same conditions. No heir, no inheritance. The art house will revert to the company entirely.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. His mind raced, heart hammering against his ribs. The gallery wasn’t just an asset—it was Sayuri’s dream, her legacy, her passion. He had promised her he’d protect it. 

He bought the gallery as a gift for her within just the first year of her marriage. It houses all her prized possessions—her happiness. And in turn, his happiness, too. 

He can’t just let her dreams and passions be a simple pawn in his life. 

But now, it felt like a sword hanging over his head.

His father’s eyes bore into him like a predator sizing up its prey, even if that prey is his only child. “This is business, Satoru. Not some sentimental trinket to be protected out of charity. The board agrees with me.”

Satoru swallowed hard, struggling to keep the desperation from bleeding into his voice. “I… I just need more time.”

His grandfather shook his head slowly, voice grave. “Time is a luxury you don’t have. The will takes effect the day I sign the final document. No exceptions. This is your last chance to secure everything you want—for yourself, and for your wife.”

Satoru felt trapped between two worlds—the love he had for Sayuri and the cold, brutal expectations of his family. He had always believed his marriage was enough. That the future would come naturally, on its own time. He didn’t think things would ever be taken to the extreme like this. 

But now, the weight of a ticking clock threatens to crush that hope.

He looks down at the glass in his hand, the whiskey swirling like a storm inside. He’d have to make choices. Hard ones.

Choices that might change everything.

His head is already starting to hurt once his grandfather says something like how he’ll sign the final document sometime next month. 

All he can think of is his precious Sayuri. She already has so much on her plate. With her own familial issues, and her company most likely going to file bankruptcy, her father’s declining health, and her mother having to be hospitalized again within the last three months, the last thing he wants to tell her is that they need to have a child. 

Sooner rather than later. 

Especially when they’ve already spent thousands in secret on just the tedious processes alone. 

His grandfather is right. 

A lot can happen in eight years. 

And yet—it already has.

Too much has already happened behind closed doors, in sterile clinics under soft fluorescent lights, in quiet moments where Sayuri smiled through disappointment with tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In the aftermath of every failed attempt, every false hope, every silent car ride home when neither of them could say a word.

He wanted that future so badly. A little family. Messy hair and sleepy mornings. A nursery filled with stuffed animals and baby books. He still wants it.

But now, those dreams come with conditions. With ultimatums. With deadlines.

His fingers curl tighter around the glass until his knuckles blanch. The ticking of his grandfather’s old watch fills the quiet again. He’s aware, distantly, that no one’s speaking now. His silence stretches the tension, but no one dares interrupt his thoughts.

“Next month,” he repeats, more to himself than anyone else. “You’ll sign it next month.”

His grandfather nods once. “Be prepared.”

“Try not to let your personal emotions get in the way of business,” his father adds, voice softening as if he can soften the blow that’s already been dealt. “You’re a Gojo. You were raised for this.”

But what about Sayuri? Satoru wants to scream it. What about her dreams, her health, her heart? What about how exhausted she is—how she hides the bruises from hormone injections, how her fingers shake when she checks her phone, waiting for test results? What about them, as human beings?

He doesn’t say any of it.

Because love has no place in this room. Not when legacies are being carved in ink and blood.

“I understand,” he says instead, even though it tastes like ash on his tongue.

His father nods in approval, but his grandfather watches him carefully. As if already wondering what moves Satoru might make next.

As if he knows, deep down, that eventually—love may not be enough.

And as Satoru finishes the last of his whiskey, head pounding with the weight of it all, he realizes the truth in that bitter thought.

He’s damned if he does. Damned if he doesn’t.

And Sayuri—sweet, beautiful Sayuri—may never know what he’s about to sacrifice. Or what it will cost them both.

A lot can happen, he repeats to himself in his mind. 

Maybe a chance miracle. At least, that’s what he prays to the gods above for. 

PRESENT TIME:

“How is Satoru treating you?

The question alone should’ve been an easy one to answer. Most wives would say good, phenomenal, maybe even exceptional.

Though sitting in front of your father, with a hopeful smile on his aged face, you hesitated whether to expose the harsh reality of your marriage to a man he trusted his only daughter with.

“It’s good,” you meekly respond, busying yourself with your cup of iced tea. 

Your father, Haruto, raises his bushy brows. “Oh? Just ‘good’?” He laughs heartily. “C’mon, you can spill the details with your old man. Ah, just not all the details.”

You smile tightly at his attempt to lighten the moment, but the tea in your hand suddenly feels heavier than it should. You stir the melting ice with the tip of your straw, watching the ripples distort your reflection on the surface.

“I mean…” You begin, and the lie sits thick on your tongue. “He’s busy. With work. Late nights.”

Haruto hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, that’s expected, I suppose. Being in charge of Gojo Global isn’t a small role.” He leans back in his chair, stretching slightly before fixing you with a pointed look. “But he still makes time for you, right?”

You hesitate again. This time, for a beat too long.

Haruto notices. The corners of his smile falter just a little, but he keeps his tone gentle. “Sweetheart.”

“Of course he is,” you shake your head, meeting your father’s scrutiny with a light chuckle. “Why wouldn’t he be? Don’t worry about it, Dad. You already have a lot on your plate.”

He frowns. “I’ll always worry when it comes to my children. And it’s not worry, I’m just making sure my son-in-law is treating my daughter with the respect and love she deserves. Don’t fault me for that.”

“I’m not faulting you, Dad.” You smile weakly, a forced curve of your lips that barely touches your eyes. “It’s just been… a bit of an adjustment. You know how it is. New routines, new responsibilities.”

Haruto hums, nodding along, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his coffee mug. “Adjustment, huh? That boy’s not giving you a hard time, is he?”

You nearly choke on your tea but manage to swallow it down with a dry throat. “No. No, not a hard time,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Haruto narrows his eyes just a little, not missing the shift in your tone. “Y/N…” His face is open, gentle. But his voice holds that firm undertone that only comes when he's concerned. “You know I’d never let you stay in a marriage where you weren’t cherished, right?”

Your fingers twitch around your glass.

Satoru doesn’t hit you. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even insult you outright.

He just makes you feel like nothing. Like you’re a placeholder. A legal necessity. A shadow in his house.

But how do you tell your father that? After everything he had done just to see you married well? After he walked you down the aisle and shook Satoru’s hand with pride in his chest?

You take a deep breath and force a tiny laugh. “We’re just getting to know each other better. That’s all. It’s quiet sometimes. But I think that’s just him.”

Haruto tilts his head. “Quiet?”

You nod. “Well, he’s just not very…” loving, kind, present— “expressive.”

That was putting it kindly.

Haruto sits back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he studies you for a long moment. You drop your gaze to the condensation sliding down your glass.

“I see,” he finally says, voice unreadable.

You wish he didn’t. You wish he couldn’t.

But your father was never an oblivious man. Not when it came to you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “when your mother passed, I promised myself I’d protect you the best I could. Even if I couldn’t give you everything. Even if it meant watching you walk into a life I didn’t fully understand.”

You glance up sharply, surprised at the sudden shift in his tone.

“I gave that boy my blessing,” Haruto continues, “because I thought he’d be the kind of man who’d never let you feel alone. But now…”

He leans forward, lowering his voice.

“You can lie to the world, sweetheart. But you don’t have to lie to me.”

Your chest tightens with a growing sense of panic. Because for some reason, you still feel the need to defend your husband, despite his cruelty. And because you know just how scary your dad can get when something doesn’t go as he planned it to. “Dad, I—don’t worry, everything is fine.”

“He loves you?”

“Of course he does.”

“And he’s nice to you?”

“Yes!”

“Does he hit you?”

“What?! No, no, he doesn’t hit—”

“Does who hit her?”

Oh, great.

As if your sudden interrogation couldn’t get ten times worse. Ren’s deep voice—the kind of tone he gets only during certain situations—hits you first. Hearing two sets of footsteps, you turn around to see Noa striding in beside him.

Both your brothers, tall and extremely invasive sometimes, look like twins. Dark hair, thick eyebrows (though Noa keeps his more in touch), and stony expressions on their faces. It’s almost laughable considering Ren almost always has that idiotic, dopey grin on his face. It’s usually Noa’s job to have a resting bitch face. Their eyes dart between you and your father.

 Once they get closer, Ren repeats himself, looking at you. “Is Satoru hitting you? I’ll beat his fucking—”

“He’s not hitting me!” you shout, throwing your hands up as you abruptly stand. 

Your chair scrapes loudly against the wooden floor as you rise, the noise jarring enough to cut the tension—but not the heat of it.

“He’s not hitting me,” you repeat more firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. “No one’s hitting anyone. Can everyone just—stop? Don’t talk about him like that.”

Ren’s jaw tightens, but he pauses, eyes scanning your face. Noa, quieter but no less intense, shifts his weight beside him. His gaze lingers on you longer—searching, reading between the lines like he always does. Your father doesn't speak either. His hands rest on the table, knuckles pale, waiting for your next words.

You take a deep breath, forcing the trembling in your limbs to still. You don’t even know why you’re fiercely coming to Satoru’s defense, unsure if he’d do the same for you. But you don’t want to bash his name behind his back, especially to your family.

He doesn’t hit you, that much is true. 

 You take a deep breath before continuing. “Satoru’s not… he’s not what you think he is. He’s just under pressure. The company, the board, his family—there’s a lot on his shoulders right now. And I knew what I was getting into when I married him.”

Noa frowns slightly. “Pressure doesn’t give him the right to treat you like—”

“He doesn’t treat me like anything!” you snap, more sharply than you mean to. You glance away, lowering your voice again. “He’s just distant. That doesn’t mean he’s bad.”

Ren crosses his arms, clearly unconvinced. “So what, we’re supposed to pretend everything’s peachy just because he’s got a boardroom to impress? You're our sister. If you’re not happy, we deserve to know.”

You shake your head quickly. “Don’t make this bigger than it is. I’m fine. Really. We’re figuring it out. He’s not a monster, okay? He’s not cruel, he’s just complicated.”

Noa sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t owe him that kind of defense if you’re miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” you lie, blinking too fast.

Haruto finally speaks, voice low. “No one’s accusing him of anything, not without reason. But you shouldn’t have to explain this hard, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m explaining because I love him. And because I want this to work. Maybe he’s not perfect and maybe we’re not perfect, but he’s trying. We both are.”

That lie tastes even worse than the last one, but it’s the only thing that buys you some quiet.

Do you even really love Satoru? Or is that your malleable mind playing tricks on you, forcing you into a deluded fantasy?

A tense silence blankets the room. Ren sighs and finally backs off, muttering under his breath, “He’d better be trying.”

Noa gives you a long, unreadable look, then pulls Ren by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let it go.”

Reluctantly, Ren lets himself be tugged away, but not before pointing a stern finger at you. “If he ever lays a hand on you, you call me. Or better yet, don’t—because I’ll already know.”

“We all will,” Noa reiterates, looking you up and down as if to tell himself you’re really safe and sound. 

You roll your eyes, but it’s the kind of exasperated affection only a younger sister can give. “Got it, watchdogs.”

Once they disappear into the other room, your father remains still, his gaze fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything, just gently slides your glass back toward you.

You sit back down, hands trembling slightly as they curl around the chilled glass.

You can feel his disappointment without him saying a word.

But he lets it go. For now. Because you’ve always been the one thing in his life that he doesn’t push too hard.

Even if you wish, deep down, that someone would.

Satoru had a particularly annoying time at the office today. His past couple of days have been filled with congratulations on the new marriage and being married to a woman like you.

Board members to secretaries, all wondering how married life has been treating him so far. He can’t fault them too much; they’re simply curious.

Too curious.

And Satoru, to save his own ass and because he’s not a complete idiot, won’t spill his guts to outsiders. And if word got back to your family about anything wrong, it would get back to his father. Then to him.

And he can’t have a domino effect like that.

Satoru is more than convinced he can manage to keep you married to him, despite the way he’s been treating you. He’d overheard from your own father prior to the arranged marriage that you’re the only one of his children who hadn’t been married off yet.

He heard snippets of your father saying that when you were a child, you couldn’t wait to have a family of your own one day.

Truthfully, it sickened him. 

Not because he found the idea of family repulsive. Not because he didn’t think you were capable of having one. But because it made you seem weak. Childish. Naïve.

As if your only ambition in life was to play house and wait for some prince to sweep you off your feet. And now that you had one—on paper, at least—Satoru felt backed into a corner. Forced to wear the crown and wield the sword for a kingdom he never asked for.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped through the door to his estate. It was eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His tie was already tugged loose, jacket slung over his shoulder.

He toed off his shoes without much thought, the soft thud echoing through the marble-floored hallway. The silence that greeted him was nothing new— reminding himself that your presence in this house is nothing more than ghostlike. Just yesterday, he forgot you even lived here. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He glanced toward the dimly lit living room. The soft amber glow of a single floor lamp cast long shadows across the couch. A book lay open on the coffee table. One of yours. Probably one of those worn romance novels with cracked spines and folded corners. He didn’t understand how you could still stomach reading about love.

He exhaled a heavy breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he made his way up the staircase.

His mind was on autopilot the entire way up to his room. Twisting the knob, he stepped in. 

He was suddenly greeted by the scent of something sweet, but floral. It stung at his nostrils, making his nose twitch in disgust. Shaking his head, he tosses his tie onto his bed and undoes the first few buttons of his crisp white button-up.

He instinctively walks over to the frame that’s faced down, fingers skimming the edges in hesitation. After a few seconds, he sighs and pulls his hand back, keeping the frame where it is. 

That lingering, sinking feeling in his gut stays with him as he takes a seat at the end of his bed, eyes flickering from the small, untouched bedside table with memorabilia that makes him force his tears back. Satoru runs his hands through his silky hair, scratching at his scalp.

His head drops, elbows on his knees. 

The silence of a room too big for one person is louder than anything. A deafening noise that even years later, he still can’t get used to. He reaches over to the other bedside table—the one on his side—and flicks on his usual white noise to help him decompress. 

The soft static of the white noise machine begins to fill the room, a dull hiss that drowns out the noise in his own head—if only slightly. It’s the only sound he can tolerate at this hour, the only thing that doesn't ask anything of him. Unlike people. Unlike you.

His fingers hover above the dial, tempted to crank the volume higher until it scrubs out every thought, every memory, every feeling still tethered to this place. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Satoru leans back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His white shirt hangs open now, collar slack and sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. He stares up at the ceiling like it might offer him answers—or absolution. Neither comes.

He thinks about what one of the VPs said earlier that morning. “You must be one lucky bastard to land her.”

He’d laughed. Politely. Played along. Even though the words burned hotter than he’d expected. Lucky? He’s not lucky. He’s trapped.

Because he doesn’t want to need anyone. Least of all you. 

He rises suddenly, agitated by the recurring thoughts. He pulls the door open to his shower and undresses with sharp vigor. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He steps into the shower, water still cold. 

The freezing water hits his skin like glass. A shock to his system, but he welcomes it. He stands still under the icy stream, not flinching, not gasping—just letting it soak through his hair, his skin, his thoughts.

He needs the clarity. Or the punishment. He’s not sure which anymore.

The water slides down his body, carving paths through tension knotted deep into his muscles, but nothing dislodges the heaviness in his chest. He tips his head back with a small groan, water crashing against his face like rain in a storm he can’t escape. Every breath he takes feels borrowed, like he’s still living in someone else’s life.

A husband.

A future father.

A leader of an empire he’s been molded to inherit, not one he ever chose.

He rests a fist on the tile wall, knuckles turning white. The water grows warmer with time, but it doesn’t soften him. Doesn’t reach far enough inside to undo the bitterness creeping up his spine like frostbite.

His thoughts swim back to you. You were invading his safe space. Again. 

The way you moved so quietly around the house, as if you were trying not to disturb him. The way your eyes lit up when he put that damned ring on your finger. Your soft voice, your gentle presence, they all annoy him. And now, they begin to haunt him too.

And he despised it. Despises you even more for it. 

Because it meant he noticed you, even if barely and reluctantly.

After a while, the heat becomes unbearable, and he shuts off the shower abruptly. The room fills with steam as he steps out, grabbing a towel and running it carelessly through his hair. He doesn’t bother drying off properly—just enough to keep the water from dripping onto the wood floors.

He walks to the mirror and stares at himself, steam fogging the glass around his reflection.

He looks tired.

Not just physically. Deeply, fundamentally worn.

His fingers reach up, wiping away the condensation. His own eyes stare back—blue, piercing, sharp—and yet lifeless. He wonders if Sayuri would even recognize him now, if she’d look at the man in the mirror and see the boy she used to believe in.

He wraps the towel loosely around his waist and exits the shower, leaving wet footprints on the way to his closet.

He flicks the light on and again, that evil scent hits him like a truck. 

Not anything he’s used to, nothing familiar, not Sayuri.

His frown deepens as he ventures further into his closet, steely eyes quickly scanning the clothes in front of him. 

Satoru has been in here enough times to know everything like the back of his hand. He knows how things were placed. He’s spent countless days just sitting in here, looking at his late wife’s side and reminiscing about the times she’d come in here and fuss over what she should wear. As if no matter what she wore, she wouldn’t look breathtaking. 

And so, Satoru would definitely know when something in this room has been touched. 

He gulps hard, stepping closer to a pale blue dress of Sayuri’s that was her favorite. The sleeve of it, once tucked neatly with the rest of her clothing, is now pulled out. It’s small, barely detectable. 

His breath hitches.

It’s a minute detail. One that no one else would notice. But Satoru does. Because he’s obsessive, because grief made him hyper-aware, and because Sayuri’s belongings are the only part of his life he’s allowed to remain untouched.

Until now.

He stares at the sleeve—his late wife’s favorite dress—and something tightens in his chest. Something ugly. Something furious. The silk hangs just barely off the hanger, but it’s enough to pull him out of his controlled spiral and into something volatile. His hand shoots out, grabbing the fabric with more force than necessary.

It’s not torn, not ruined. But it’s not where it should be.

And he knows damn well you’ve been in here because nobody else would’ve dared.

They all know what happened last time someone tried to.

You—the ghost walking his halls like you belong in a life that was never meant for you. You—the woman who smiles too softly and walks too quietly and dares to tiptoe into parts of him no one was invited to revisit.

Why would you come in here?

Why would you touch her things?

The very idea of you trying to “connect” with Sayuri—trying to make this house feel like home by reaching into a grave he hasn’t finished mourning—makes his jaw lock.

You don’t belong in here. You don’t belong anywhere. You never did. 

And now you’re really trying to get him angry, aren’t you?

He releases the sleeve with a harsh exhale and storms out of the closet, towel still clinging to his hips, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

He doesn’t care for the maids who give him a wide-eyed look as he stomps through the halls. He’s laser-focused. 

“Where is she?” he barks out to a younger woman.

She gulps and stammers out. “I–I—umm–!”

The maid’s voice quivers, her eyes darting like a cornered animal’s. But Satoru doesn’t give her the mercy of patience.

“Where. Is. She.” His voice drops to a low, cold timbre—more dangerous than a shout.

The girl flinches. “I-I think she’s in the garden, sir.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns, strides down the corridor, and throws open the double glass doors leading outside.

The night air hits him like a slap—cool, tinged with the scent of lavender and jasmine. The estate’s private garden stretches wide and quiet, bathed in the silver wash of moonlight. A place that once brought Sayuri peace. A place he’s avoided like a wound that never quite healed.

And there you are.

Sitting on the stone bench near the koi pond, barefoot, a light shawl draped over your shoulders, your hair pinned loosely like you’d half-forgotten to finish getting ready for bed. You’re gazing up at the stars, knees drawn to your chest, quiet and soft in a world that doesn't make space for quiet and soft anymore.

You don’t hear him approach, not at first. Not until the heavy crunch of his steps on gravel pulls your attention.

Your head turns.

And you see the look on his face.

Stormy. Unreadable. But not blank—not empty like usual. No, there’s fire in his eyes this time. Cold, sharp fire.

Your heart skips.

“Satoru—?”

“Did you go into my closet?” His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

You blink, startled by the sudden intrusion. “What?”

“Did you go into my closet?” he repeats, voice more clipped now, each word a blade.

You bring your knees down, sensing the shift in the air—tense, cold, and ready to snap. “I just went in for a moment,” you admit carefully. “I was only curious. I didn’t know people weren’t allowed in your roo–”

“So you thought going through my wife’s things was appropriate?” His stare sharpens.

You freeze. Both at his level of anger directed solely at you, and the fact that he still referred to her as his wife. Something he’s yet to call you.  

“I didn’t touch anything of hers—”

“The dress,” he cuts in, voice like steel. “The sleeve was out of place.”

Your heart begins to pound. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize—”

“Exactly,” he snaps. “You don’t realize. You move through this house like you’re trying to wedge yourself into something you don’t understand. And now you’re digging through her life too?”

“I wasn’t digging,” you protest, voice shaking as you stand to your feet. “I was just trying to understand you better. I wasn’t trying to replace her.”

The words hang in the air like smoke after a fire. You feel a lump form in your throat, blinking rapidly.

His jaw ticks. “You can’t replace her,” he spits out, each word precise and heavy.

You flinch, like the truth itself stings.

“...I know,” you whisper. “I never wanted to.”

A silence settles between you both. One that feels longer than it is. He stares at you like you’re his mortal enemy, hands fisted by his sides. It takes everything in him not to completely snap at you.

Finally, Satoru takes a step back, the fire behind his eyes dimming—but only slightly. “Next time, stay out of my things.”

You nod, but he doesn’t wait for confirmation. He turns on his heel, muscles taut, movements brisk. But just before stepping back into the house, he pauses. His voice returns, quieter, but somehow crueler.

“You want to be a wife so badly? Learn to stay in your place.”

And then he’s gone.

The doors swing shut behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

You stand there, still and silent, eyes burning. After a few more silent seconds, you slowly sit back down. 

The stone feels colder underneath your skin than from before. The stars look duller, the wind howls louder. And suddenly, your face wets with tears. 

The tears had started slow, like a leak in an old dam—one you’d tried so hard to patch up, seal, ignore. But now they stream freely, staining your cheeks, dripping onto the thin fabric of your shawl. You don’t wipe them away. You don’t even move.

The garden is quiet. Too quiet. Even the koi seem still, like the world is holding its breath around you, unsure whether to comfort you or leave you in your silence.

You clutch your arms around yourself tighter, pulling the shawl around your frame as if it can protect you from the way his words are still echoing in your skull.

Stay in your place.

You thought you’d been doing that. 

You’ve been cooking his breakfast, even making him lunch that you find left uneaten on the kitchen counter. You’ve been trying to keep quiet, even despite the fact that you’ve barely seen him around the house since you’ve been married to him. You’ve learned long before Satoru to only smile when you’re supposed to, to not ask too much.

To try not to be too much.

So if this isn't your place, then where is it?

Your fingers grip the edge of the bench. Cold. Smooth. Real. Unlike the dream you used to have about love. About family. About what it would feel like to build a home, not just live in one that looked pretty on the outside.

You think about how his face looked when he said her name—Sayuri. It still holds the only softness he’s capable of.

And his anger for you is just a hollow substitute for the grief he never let himself feel.

But that’s not your fault.

Is it?

A breeze picks up and blows across your bare ankles, goosebumps blooming along your skin. You shiver. You shake your head, exhaling shakily. You’re not that kind of woman. You don’t run.

But you do wonder how much more will be left of you in a month, maybe six, and even a year. Will you still be yourself? Will Satoru finally start being nice and acting like a proper husband to you? Or are you just destined for a loveless marriage?

Eventually, your tears slow, unsure of which part to cry harder for. 

You sit there until the moon rises higher and the wind grows colder and your legs are stiff, eyes raw.

And until you remember that no matter how cruel he is, no matter how little he sees you, you’re still expected to show up at breakfast tomorrow. On time. Polished. Proper.

A wife.

You rise, slowly, legs wobbling like they barely belong to you.

As you turn back to the house, one truth follows you like a shadow clinging to your feet:

You may live here. But you are not wanted here.

Not by him. Maybe not ever.

Still, you walk back inside.

Because even a ghost has nowhere else to go.

a/n: i hope you’re all enjoying so far. i will be writing one more chapter on this so that i have at least 3 out already, then finally finishing killer! toji, then updating my other fics. thank you all for ur patience 😭💕

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[joemama-2]

could u give us a hint on who's making an appearance next chapter TwT

sorry i can’t because then id have to plead guilty 😕

[joemama-2]

just a reminder! please read the rules and keep up with updates, let’s all be respectful to our wonderful writers on here

[joemama-2]

to the anon who keeps flooding my inbox, get your wack ass off my page and do sum better 😹😹 BLOCKED

[joemama-2]

Loved & Lost — chapter two

pairing: gojo x f! reader

synopsis: Your marriage to Gojo Satoru was doomed from the start. You believed in fairytales, he believed in the past. Your futile attempts at gaining your husband’s attention and affection caused more anguish than rapture. And you’re starting to wonder if you can ever survive being compared to a dead woman forever.

tags/warnings: second wife trope, modern au, arranged marriage, heavy angst, smut, fluff, mentions of su*cide, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, societal pressure, elite circles, mentions of classism, drama, cheating (emotional & physical), gojo is an assjole, reader tries her best to make the best of things, character death, talks of mental illness. artwork by mercyerr. dividers by @/cursed-carmine. gojo pov from the past for first half.

wc: 6.1k

series masterlist < prev. < three

SIX YEARS AGO:

Satoru couldn’t possibly be happier. He was getting ready for his CEO position at Gojo Global Holdings. Everything was looking good. Stocks were high, and the board meetings had only good things to report. People were beginning to show him more respect around the office. 

And of course, he has a wife. A beautiful, caring, astonishing wife that he loves more than anything in this entire world. 

Nothing—no one—could ever compare to Sayuri. 

Round cheeks that he loved pinching. The same ones that would quickly blush a pretty shade of pink from his playful teasing. Luscious brown hair that shone so beautifully under the sun. Green eyes with two long sets of eyelashes to complement them. 

She’s beautiful. Utterly breathtaking. 

His heart stutters just thinking about her. 

They’ve been together seven years already, but married for five. 

Gojo was already looking forward to the next five. He fantasizes throughout his days about what would bless their lives as they grow older. 

Children—naturally—were the first ones. Though he’s been trying to put it on the back burner. 

However, he can’t stop the sliver of hope that shines through whenever he’s alone and looking up at the moon as if it can grant him all his wishes. 

He wants his children to look more like her than him. So even when Sayuri is away, he would always have a little piece of her cradled in his arms so delicately. 

He’s daydreaming again, smiling to himself like a goofy idiot as he pours himself another glass of whiskey. The alcohol has loosened his inhibitions. 

“—will…heir…male or female…by 35…”

“What?” Gojo asks, only tuning into the conversation once he heard the word will. 

Satoru’s grandfather, an old man, sighs heavily. Bald with a greying goatee. Wrinkles on his face, though not too many for a seventy-something-year-old man. The Gojo genes were quite phenomenal, after all. 

“Have you been paying attention at all?” his grandfather scoffs in disappointment. 

“Now I am,” Satoru leans back, jutting his chin. “Continue.”

Satoru’s grandfather shares a look with his son before looking at the youngest Gojo in the room. “Well,” he starts, setting his own glass down, “I was in the middle of explaining the will.”

“Why?” Satoru shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing we haven’t heard before.”

“He’s rewriting it, Satoru,” his father cuts in, hissing through clenched teeth. 

Satoru jolts up, eyes widening. He disregards the whiskey that stains his expensive shirt. “W-What? You’re rewriting it? Why? To what?”

The old man rubs his temples, clearly weary of repeating himself. “My health isn’t what it used to be. So, I’ve decided to make the terms stricter—more concrete before I pass.” His gaze sharpens. “You must not only be married, but also have a legitimate heir by the time you’re thirty-five in order to inherit the full estate and control of Gojo Global Holdings.”

Satoru blinks, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. “…Married… and an heir? That’s new.” He chuckles, a sad attempt to ward off his growing anxiety. 

His father’s voice is low but firm. “It’s always been the unspoken rule, but now it’s just written in stone. No exceptions.”

“Besides,” his grandfather crosses one leg over the other. “You and Sayuri have been married five years now. And still no children. Why is that?”

Gojo’s grip tightens on his glass subtly, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Of course, they would ask this. Everyone does, especially as their marriage grows older. 

Children. Heirs. Bloodline. Legacy. 

“We’ve…been trying,” he offers. 

“You’ve been saying that since five years ago, Satoru.” His father runs a hand through his thick, white-haired pompadour. “You’re twenty-seven. We all expected children within the first year. Don’t you love her?”

“Of course I love her,” Satoru quickly snaps back, frowning at his father’s implication. 

“Then why no children?”

Satoru’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at his father. He says nothing in response, too caught up in his own whirlwind of unspoken emotions. Too caught up in the secret he and his wife have been keeping to themselves for years now. 

They’ve been smoothly fighting off the pushy questions of children. But of course, everyone has their limits. 

And that doesn’t exclude elitist assholes like his family, who want nothing more than for their golden child to have his own. 

But he would never air out their dirty laundry, especially when said wife wasn’t even present. 

His grandfather, noting the tension, clears his throat to intervene in the stare-off. “Thirty-five,” he reiterates, “that’s eight long years. Many things can happen in eight years.”

“And if nothing does?”

His grandfather gives him a certain look—one that says that can’t happen. “Then key land titles, properties, and majority ownership, none of that will be passed down to you.”

His heart pounds harder, a deep pit forming in his gut. He sits up straighter to feign a confident facade, despite the fact that his foot is nervously tapping the floor. “That’s—that’s a little outlandish, don’t you think? Besides, that would include the gallery I bought for Sayuri, too. That’s not—”

“—negotiable,” his father cuts in sharply, voice like steel. “Sayuri’s gallery is part of the legacy now. And it’s not exempt from the terms. If you fail, everything reverts to the family trust. No exceptions.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, the room suddenly feeling too small, the air too thick. He forces a tight smile, though it falters around the edges. “You think I don’t want to provide an heir? You think I don’t want to start a family?”

His grandfather’s eyes hardened. “We don’t question your desires, Satoru. We question results.”

“It’s not up for debate, Satoru,” his grandfather emphasizes once more. “That gallery is tied legally to Gojo Global Holdings, which means it falls under the same conditions. No heir, no inheritance. The art house will revert to the company entirely.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. His mind raced, heart hammering against his ribs. The gallery wasn’t just an asset—it was Sayuri’s dream, her legacy, her passion. He had promised her he’d protect it. 

He bought the gallery as a gift for her within just the first year of her marriage. It houses all her prized possessions—her happiness. And in turn, his happiness, too. 

He can’t just let her dreams and passions be a simple pawn in his life. 

But now, it felt like a sword hanging over his head.

His father’s eyes bore into him like a predator sizing up its prey, even if that prey is his only child. “This is business, Satoru. Not some sentimental trinket to be protected out of charity. The board agrees with me.”

Satoru swallowed hard, struggling to keep the desperation from bleeding into his voice. “I… I just need more time.”

His grandfather shook his head slowly, voice grave. “Time is a luxury you don’t have. The will takes effect the day I sign the final document. No exceptions. This is your last chance to secure everything you want—for yourself, and for your wife.”

Satoru felt trapped between two worlds—the love he had for Sayuri and the cold, brutal expectations of his family. He had always believed his marriage was enough. That the future would come naturally, on its own time. He didn’t think things would ever be taken to the extreme like this. 

But now, the weight of a ticking clock threatens to crush that hope.

He looks down at the glass in his hand, the whiskey swirling like a storm inside. He’d have to make choices. Hard ones.

Choices that might change everything.

His head is already starting to hurt once his grandfather says something like how he’ll sign the final document sometime next month. 

All he can think of is his precious Sayuri. She already has so much on her plate. With her own familial issues, and her company most likely going to file bankruptcy, her father’s declining health, and her mother having to be hospitalized again within the last three months, the last thing he wants to tell her is that they need to have a child. 

Sooner rather than later. 

Especially when they’ve already spent thousands in secret on just the tedious processes alone. 

His grandfather is right. 

A lot can happen in eight years. 

And yet—it already has.

Too much has already happened behind closed doors, in sterile clinics under soft fluorescent lights, in quiet moments where Sayuri smiled through disappointment with tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In the aftermath of every failed attempt, every false hope, every silent car ride home when neither of them could say a word.

He wanted that future so badly. A little family. Messy hair and sleepy mornings. A nursery filled with stuffed animals and baby books. He still wants it.

But now, those dreams come with conditions. With ultimatums. With deadlines.

His fingers curl tighter around the glass until his knuckles blanch. The ticking of his grandfather’s old watch fills the quiet again. He’s aware, distantly, that no one’s speaking now. His silence stretches the tension, but no one dares interrupt his thoughts.

“Next month,” he repeats, more to himself than anyone else. “You’ll sign it next month.”

His grandfather nods once. “Be prepared.”

“Try not to let your personal emotions get in the way of business,” his father adds, voice softening as if he can soften the blow that’s already been dealt. “You’re a Gojo. You were raised for this.”

But what about Sayuri? Satoru wants to scream it. What about her dreams, her health, her heart? What about how exhausted she is—how she hides the bruises from hormone injections, how her fingers shake when she checks her phone, waiting for test results? What about them, as human beings?

He doesn’t say any of it.

Because love has no place in this room. Not when legacies are being carved in ink and blood.

“I understand,” he says instead, even though it tastes like ash on his tongue.

His father nods in approval, but his grandfather watches him carefully. As if already wondering what moves Satoru might make next.

As if he knows, deep down, that eventually—love may not be enough.

And as Satoru finishes the last of his whiskey, head pounding with the weight of it all, he realizes the truth in that bitter thought.

He’s damned if he does. Damned if he doesn’t.

And Sayuri—sweet, beautiful Sayuri—may never know what he’s about to sacrifice. Or what it will cost them both.

A lot can happen, he repeats to himself in his mind. 

Maybe a chance miracle. At least, that’s what he prays to the gods above for. 

PRESENT TIME:

“How is Satoru treating you?

The question alone should’ve been an easy one to answer. Most wives would say good, phenomenal, maybe even exceptional.

Though sitting in front of your father, with a hopeful smile on his aged face, you hesitated whether to expose the harsh reality of your marriage to a man he trusted his only daughter with.

“It’s good,” you meekly respond, busying yourself with your cup of iced tea. 

Your father, Haruto, raises his bushy brows. “Oh? Just ‘good’?” He laughs heartily. “C’mon, you can spill the details with your old man. Ah, just not all the details.”

You smile tightly at his attempt to lighten the moment, but the tea in your hand suddenly feels heavier than it should. You stir the melting ice with the tip of your straw, watching the ripples distort your reflection on the surface.

“I mean…” You begin, and the lie sits thick on your tongue. “He’s busy. With work. Late nights.”

Haruto hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, that’s expected, I suppose. Being in charge of Gojo Global isn’t a small role.” He leans back in his chair, stretching slightly before fixing you with a pointed look. “But he still makes time for you, right?”

You hesitate again. This time, for a beat too long.

Haruto notices. The corners of his smile falter just a little, but he keeps his tone gentle. “Sweetheart.”

“Of course he is,” you shake your head, meeting your father’s scrutiny with a light chuckle. “Why wouldn’t he be? Don’t worry about it, Dad. You already have a lot on your plate.”

He frowns. “I’ll always worry when it comes to my children. And it’s not worry, I’m just making sure my son-in-law is treating my daughter with the respect and love she deserves. Don’t fault me for that.”

“I’m not faulting you, Dad.” You smile weakly, a forced curve of your lips that barely touches your eyes. “It’s just been… a bit of an adjustment. You know how it is. New routines, new responsibilities.”

Haruto hums, nodding along, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his coffee mug. “Adjustment, huh? That boy’s not giving you a hard time, is he?”

You nearly choke on your tea but manage to swallow it down with a dry throat. “No. No, not a hard time,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Haruto narrows his eyes just a little, not missing the shift in your tone. “Y/N…” His face is open, gentle. But his voice holds that firm undertone that only comes when he's concerned. “You know I’d never let you stay in a marriage where you weren’t cherished, right?”

Your fingers twitch around your glass.

Satoru doesn’t hit you. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even insult you outright.

He just makes you feel like nothing. Like you’re a placeholder. A legal necessity. A shadow in his house.

But how do you tell your father that? After everything he had done just to see you married well? After he walked you down the aisle and shook Satoru’s hand with pride in his chest?

You take a deep breath and force a tiny laugh. “We’re just getting to know each other better. That’s all. It’s quiet sometimes. But I think that’s just him.”

Haruto tilts his head. “Quiet?”

You nod. “Well, he’s just not very…” loving, kind, present— “expressive.”

That was putting it kindly.

Haruto sits back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he studies you for a long moment. You drop your gaze to the condensation sliding down your glass.

“I see,” he finally says, voice unreadable.

You wish he didn’t. You wish he couldn’t.

But your father was never an oblivious man. Not when it came to you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “when your mother passed, I promised myself I’d protect you the best I could. Even if I couldn’t give you everything. Even if it meant watching you walk into a life I didn’t fully understand.”

You glance up sharply, surprised at the sudden shift in his tone.

“I gave that boy my blessing,” Haruto continues, “because I thought he’d be the kind of man who’d never let you feel alone. But now…”

He leans forward, lowering his voice.

“You can lie to the world, sweetheart. But you don’t have to lie to me.”

Your chest tightens with a growing sense of panic. Because for some reason, you still feel the need to defend your husband, despite his cruelty. And because you know just how scary your dad can get when something doesn’t go as he planned it to. “Dad, I—don’t worry, everything is fine.”

“He loves you?”

“Of course he does.”

“And he’s nice to you?”

“Yes!”

“Does he hit you?”

“What?! No, no, he doesn’t hit—”

“Does who hit her?”

Oh, great.

As if your sudden interrogation couldn’t get ten times worse. Ren’s deep voice—the kind of tone he gets only during certain situations—hits you first. Hearing two sets of footsteps, you turn around to see Noa striding in beside him.

Both your brothers, tall and extremely invasive sometimes, look like twins. Dark hair, thick eyebrows (though Noa keeps his more in touch), and stony expressions on their faces. It’s almost laughable considering Ren almost always has that idiotic, dopey grin on his face. It’s usually Noa’s job to have a resting bitch face. Their eyes dart between you and your father.

 Once they get closer, Ren repeats himself, looking at you. “Is Satoru hitting you? I’ll beat his fucking—”

“He’s not hitting me!” you shout, throwing your hands up as you abruptly stand. 

Your chair scrapes loudly against the wooden floor as you rise, the noise jarring enough to cut the tension—but not the heat of it.

“He’s not hitting me,” you repeat more firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. “No one’s hitting anyone. Can everyone just—stop? Don’t talk about him like that.”

Ren’s jaw tightens, but he pauses, eyes scanning your face. Noa, quieter but no less intense, shifts his weight beside him. His gaze lingers on you longer—searching, reading between the lines like he always does. Your father doesn't speak either. His hands rest on the table, knuckles pale, waiting for your next words.

You take a deep breath, forcing the trembling in your limbs to still. You don’t even know why you’re fiercely coming to Satoru’s defense, unsure if he’d do the same for you. But you don’t want to bash his name behind his back, especially to your family.

He doesn’t hit you, that much is true. 

 You take a deep breath before continuing. “Satoru’s not… he’s not what you think he is. He’s just under pressure. The company, the board, his family—there’s a lot on his shoulders right now. And I knew what I was getting into when I married him.”

Noa frowns slightly. “Pressure doesn’t give him the right to treat you like—”

“He doesn’t treat me like anything!” you snap, more sharply than you mean to. You glance away, lowering your voice again. “He’s just distant. That doesn’t mean he’s bad.”

Ren crosses his arms, clearly unconvinced. “So what, we’re supposed to pretend everything’s peachy just because he’s got a boardroom to impress? You're our sister. If you’re not happy, we deserve to know.”

You shake your head quickly. “Don’t make this bigger than it is. I’m fine. Really. We’re figuring it out. He’s not a monster, okay? He’s not cruel, he’s just complicated.”

Noa sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t owe him that kind of defense if you’re miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” you lie, blinking too fast.

Haruto finally speaks, voice low. “No one’s accusing him of anything, not without reason. But you shouldn’t have to explain this hard, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m explaining because I love him. And because I want this to work. Maybe he’s not perfect and maybe we’re not perfect, but he’s trying. We both are.”

That lie tastes even worse than the last one, but it’s the only thing that buys you some quiet.

Do you even really love Satoru? Or is that your malleable mind playing tricks on you, forcing you into a deluded fantasy?

A tense silence blankets the room. Ren sighs and finally backs off, muttering under his breath, “He’d better be trying.”

Noa gives you a long, unreadable look, then pulls Ren by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let it go.”

Reluctantly, Ren lets himself be tugged away, but not before pointing a stern finger at you. “If he ever lays a hand on you, you call me. Or better yet, don’t—because I’ll already know.”

“We all will,” Noa reiterates, looking you up and down as if to tell himself you’re really safe and sound. 

You roll your eyes, but it’s the kind of exasperated affection only a younger sister can give. “Got it, watchdogs.”

Once they disappear into the other room, your father remains still, his gaze fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything, just gently slides your glass back toward you.

You sit back down, hands trembling slightly as they curl around the chilled glass.

You can feel his disappointment without him saying a word.

But he lets it go. For now. Because you’ve always been the one thing in his life that he doesn’t push too hard.

Even if you wish, deep down, that someone would.

Satoru had a particularly annoying time at the office today. His past couple of days have been filled with congratulations on the new marriage and being married to a woman like you.

Board members to secretaries, all wondering how married life has been treating him so far. He can’t fault them too much; they’re simply curious.

Too curious.

And Satoru, to save his own ass and because he’s not a complete idiot, won’t spill his guts to outsiders. And if word got back to your family about anything wrong, it would get back to his father. Then to him.

And he can’t have a domino effect like that.

Satoru is more than convinced he can manage to keep you married to him, despite the way he’s been treating you. He’d overheard from your own father prior to the arranged marriage that you’re the only one of his children who hadn’t been married off yet.

He heard snippets of your father saying that when you were a child, you couldn’t wait to have a family of your own one day.

Truthfully, it sickened him. 

Not because he found the idea of family repulsive. Not because he didn’t think you were capable of having one. But because it made you seem weak. Childish. Naïve.

As if your only ambition in life was to play house and wait for some prince to sweep you off your feet. And now that you had one—on paper, at least—Satoru felt backed into a corner. Forced to wear the crown and wield the sword for a kingdom he never asked for.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped through the door to his estate. It was eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His tie was already tugged loose, jacket slung over his shoulder.

He toed off his shoes without much thought, the soft thud echoing through the marble-floored hallway. The silence that greeted him was nothing new— reminding himself that your presence in this house is nothing more than ghostlike. Just yesterday, he forgot you even lived here. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He glanced toward the dimly lit living room. The soft amber glow of a single floor lamp cast long shadows across the couch. A book lay open on the coffee table. One of yours. Probably one of those worn romance novels with cracked spines and folded corners. He didn’t understand how you could still stomach reading about love.

He exhaled a heavy breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he made his way up the staircase.

His mind was on autopilot the entire way up to his room. Twisting the knob, he stepped in. 

He was suddenly greeted by the scent of something sweet, but floral. It stung at his nostrils, making his nose twitch in disgust. Shaking his head, he tosses his tie onto his bed and undoes the first few buttons of his crisp white button-up.

He instinctively walks over to the frame that’s faced down, fingers skimming the edges in hesitation. After a few seconds, he sighs and pulls his hand back, keeping the frame where it is. 

That lingering, sinking feeling in his gut stays with him as he takes a seat at the end of his bed, eyes flickering from the small, untouched bedside table with memorabilia that makes him force his tears back. Satoru runs his hands through his silky hair, scratching at his scalp.

His head drops, elbows on his knees. 

The silence of a room too big for one person is louder than anything. A deafening noise that even years later, he still can’t get used to. He reaches over to the other bedside table—the one on his side—and flicks on his usual white noise to help him decompress. 

The soft static of the white noise machine begins to fill the room, a dull hiss that drowns out the noise in his own head—if only slightly. It’s the only sound he can tolerate at this hour, the only thing that doesn't ask anything of him. Unlike people. Unlike you.

His fingers hover above the dial, tempted to crank the volume higher until it scrubs out every thought, every memory, every feeling still tethered to this place. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Satoru leans back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His white shirt hangs open now, collar slack and sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. He stares up at the ceiling like it might offer him answers—or absolution. Neither comes.

He thinks about what one of the VPs said earlier that morning. “You must be one lucky bastard to land her.”

He’d laughed. Politely. Played along. Even though the words burned hotter than he’d expected. Lucky? He’s not lucky. He’s trapped.

Because he doesn’t want to need anyone. Least of all you. 

He rises suddenly, agitated by the recurring thoughts. He pulls the door open to his shower and undresses with sharp vigor. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He steps into the shower, water still cold. 

The freezing water hits his skin like glass. A shock to his system, but he welcomes it. He stands still under the icy stream, not flinching, not gasping—just letting it soak through his hair, his skin, his thoughts.

He needs the clarity. Or the punishment. He’s not sure which anymore.

The water slides down his body, carving paths through tension knotted deep into his muscles, but nothing dislodges the heaviness in his chest. He tips his head back with a small groan, water crashing against his face like rain in a storm he can’t escape. Every breath he takes feels borrowed, like he’s still living in someone else’s life.

A husband.

A future father.

A leader of an empire he’s been molded to inherit, not one he ever chose.

He rests a fist on the tile wall, knuckles turning white. The water grows warmer with time, but it doesn’t soften him. Doesn’t reach far enough inside to undo the bitterness creeping up his spine like frostbite.

His thoughts swim back to you. You were invading his safe space. Again. 

The way you moved so quietly around the house, as if you were trying not to disturb him. The way your eyes lit up when he put that damned ring on your finger. Your soft voice, your gentle presence, they all annoy him. And now, they begin to haunt him too.

And he despised it. Despises you even more for it. 

Because it meant he noticed you, even if barely and reluctantly.

After a while, the heat becomes unbearable, and he shuts off the shower abruptly. The room fills with steam as he steps out, grabbing a towel and running it carelessly through his hair. He doesn’t bother drying off properly—just enough to keep the water from dripping onto the wood floors.

He walks to the mirror and stares at himself, steam fogging the glass around his reflection.

He looks tired.

Not just physically. Deeply, fundamentally worn.

His fingers reach up, wiping away the condensation. His own eyes stare back—blue, piercing, sharp—and yet lifeless. He wonders if Sayuri would even recognize him now, if she’d look at the man in the mirror and see the boy she used to believe in.

He wraps the towel loosely around his waist and exits the shower, leaving wet footprints on the way to his closet.

He flicks the light on and again, that evil scent hits him like a truck. 

Not anything he’s used to, nothing familiar, not Sayuri.

His frown deepens as he ventures further into his closet, steely eyes quickly scanning the clothes in front of him. 

Satoru has been in here enough times to know everything like the back of his hand. He knows how things were placed. He’s spent countless days just sitting in here, looking at his late wife’s side and reminiscing about the times she’d come in here and fuss over what she should wear. As if no matter what she wore, she wouldn’t look breathtaking. 

And so, Satoru would definitely know when something in this room has been touched. 

He gulps hard, stepping closer to a pale blue dress of Sayuri’s that was her favorite. The sleeve of it, once tucked neatly with the rest of her clothing, is now pulled out. It’s small, barely detectable. 

His breath hitches.

It’s a minute detail. One that no one else would notice. But Satoru does. Because he’s obsessive, because grief made him hyper-aware, and because Sayuri’s belongings are the only part of his life he’s allowed to remain untouched.

Until now.

He stares at the sleeve—his late wife’s favorite dress—and something tightens in his chest. Something ugly. Something furious. The silk hangs just barely off the hanger, but it’s enough to pull him out of his controlled spiral and into something volatile. His hand shoots out, grabbing the fabric with more force than necessary.

It’s not torn, not ruined. But it’s not where it should be.

And he knows damn well you’ve been in here because nobody else would’ve dared.

They all know what happened last time someone tried to.

You—the ghost walking his halls like you belong in a life that was never meant for you. You—the woman who smiles too softly and walks too quietly and dares to tiptoe into parts of him no one was invited to revisit.

Why would you come in here?

Why would you touch her things?

The very idea of you trying to “connect” with Sayuri—trying to make this house feel like home by reaching into a grave he hasn’t finished mourning—makes his jaw lock.

You don’t belong in here. You don’t belong anywhere. You never did. 

And now you’re really trying to get him angry, aren’t you?

He releases the sleeve with a harsh exhale and storms out of the closet, towel still clinging to his hips, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

He doesn’t care for the maids who give him a wide-eyed look as he stomps through the halls. He’s laser-focused. 

“Where is she?” he barks out to a younger woman.

She gulps and stammers out. “I–I—umm–!”

The maid’s voice quivers, her eyes darting like a cornered animal’s. But Satoru doesn’t give her the mercy of patience.

“Where. Is. She.” His voice drops to a low, cold timbre—more dangerous than a shout.

The girl flinches. “I-I think she’s in the garden, sir.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns, strides down the corridor, and throws open the double glass doors leading outside.

The night air hits him like a slap—cool, tinged with the scent of lavender and jasmine. The estate’s private garden stretches wide and quiet, bathed in the silver wash of moonlight. A place that once brought Sayuri peace. A place he’s avoided like a wound that never quite healed.

And there you are.

Sitting on the stone bench near the koi pond, barefoot, a light shawl draped over your shoulders, your hair pinned loosely like you’d half-forgotten to finish getting ready for bed. You’re gazing up at the stars, knees drawn to your chest, quiet and soft in a world that doesn't make space for quiet and soft anymore.

You don’t hear him approach, not at first. Not until the heavy crunch of his steps on gravel pulls your attention.

Your head turns.

And you see the look on his face.

Stormy. Unreadable. But not blank—not empty like usual. No, there’s fire in his eyes this time. Cold, sharp fire.

Your heart skips.

“Satoru—?”

“Did you go into my closet?” His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

You blink, startled by the sudden intrusion. “What?”

“Did you go into my closet?” he repeats, voice more clipped now, each word a blade.

You bring your knees down, sensing the shift in the air—tense, cold, and ready to snap. “I just went in for a moment,” you admit carefully. “I was only curious. I didn’t know people weren’t allowed in your roo–”

“So you thought going through my wife’s things was appropriate?” His stare sharpens.

You freeze. Both at his level of anger directed solely at you, and the fact that he still referred to her as his wife. Something he’s yet to call you.  

“I didn’t touch anything of hers—”

“The dress,” he cuts in, voice like steel. “The sleeve was out of place.”

Your heart begins to pound. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize—”

“Exactly,” he snaps. “You don’t realize. You move through this house like you’re trying to wedge yourself into something you don’t understand. And now you’re digging through her life too?”

“I wasn’t digging,” you protest, voice shaking as you stand to your feet. “I was just trying to understand you better. I wasn’t trying to replace her.”

The words hang in the air like smoke after a fire. You feel a lump form in your throat, blinking rapidly.

His jaw ticks. “You can’t replace her,” he spits out, each word precise and heavy.

You flinch, like the truth itself stings.

“...I know,” you whisper. “I never wanted to.”

A silence settles between you both. One that feels longer than it is. He stares at you like you’re his mortal enemy, hands fisted by his sides. It takes everything in him not to completely snap at you.

Finally, Satoru takes a step back, the fire behind his eyes dimming—but only slightly. “Next time, stay out of my things.”

You nod, but he doesn’t wait for confirmation. He turns on his heel, muscles taut, movements brisk. But just before stepping back into the house, he pauses. His voice returns, quieter, but somehow crueler.

“You want to be a wife so badly? Learn to stay in your place.”

And then he’s gone.

The doors swing shut behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

You stand there, still and silent, eyes burning. After a few more silent seconds, you slowly sit back down. 

The stone feels colder underneath your skin than from before. The stars look duller, the wind howls louder. And suddenly, your face wets with tears. 

The tears had started slow, like a leak in an old dam—one you’d tried so hard to patch up, seal, ignore. But now they stream freely, staining your cheeks, dripping onto the thin fabric of your shawl. You don’t wipe them away. You don’t even move.

The garden is quiet. Too quiet. Even the koi seem still, like the world is holding its breath around you, unsure whether to comfort you or leave you in your silence.

You clutch your arms around yourself tighter, pulling the shawl around your frame as if it can protect you from the way his words are still echoing in your skull.

Stay in your place.

You thought you’d been doing that. 

You’ve been cooking his breakfast, even making him lunch that you find left uneaten on the kitchen counter. You’ve been trying to keep quiet, even despite the fact that you’ve barely seen him around the house since you’ve been married to him. You’ve learned long before Satoru to only smile when you’re supposed to, to not ask too much.

To try not to be too much.

So if this isn't your place, then where is it?

Your fingers grip the edge of the bench. Cold. Smooth. Real. Unlike the dream you used to have about love. About family. About what it would feel like to build a home, not just live in one that looked pretty on the outside.

You think about how his face looked when he said her name—Sayuri. It still holds the only softness he’s capable of.

And his anger for you is just a hollow substitute for the grief he never let himself feel.

But that’s not your fault.

Is it?

A breeze picks up and blows across your bare ankles, goosebumps blooming along your skin. You shiver. You shake your head, exhaling shakily. You’re not that kind of woman. You don’t run.

But you do wonder how much more will be left of you in a month, maybe six, and even a year. Will you still be yourself? Will Satoru finally start being nice and acting like a proper husband to you? Or are you just destined for a loveless marriage?

Eventually, your tears slow, unsure of which part to cry harder for. 

You sit there until the moon rises higher and the wind grows colder and your legs are stiff, eyes raw.

And until you remember that no matter how cruel he is, no matter how little he sees you, you’re still expected to show up at breakfast tomorrow. On time. Polished. Proper.

A wife.

You rise, slowly, legs wobbling like they barely belong to you.

As you turn back to the house, one truth follows you like a shadow clinging to your feet:

You may live here. But you are not wanted here.

Not by him. Maybe not ever.

Still, you walk back inside.

Because even a ghost has nowhere else to go.

a/n: i hope you’re all enjoying so far. i will be writing one more chapter on this so that i have at least 3 out already, then finally finishing killer! toji, then updating my other fics. thank you all for ur patience 😭💕

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[joemama-2]

Loved & Lost — chapter two

pairing: gojo x f! reader

synopsis: Your marriage to Gojo Satoru was doomed from the start. You believed in fairytales, he believed in the past. Your futile attempts at gaining your husband’s attention and affection caused more anguish than rapture. And you’re starting to wonder if you can ever survive being compared to a dead woman forever.

tags/warnings: second wife trope, modern au, arranged marriage, heavy angst, smut, fluff, mentions of su*cide, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, societal pressure, elite circles, mentions of classism, drama, cheating (emotional & physical), gojo is an assjole, reader tries her best to make the best of things, character death, talks of mental illness. artwork by mercyerr. dividers by @/cursed-carmine. gojo pov from the past for first half.

wc: 6.1k

series masterlist < prev. < three

SIX YEARS AGO:

Satoru couldn’t possibly be happier. He was getting ready for his CEO position at Gojo Global Holdings. Everything was looking good. Stocks were high, and the board meetings had only good things to report. People were beginning to show him more respect around the office. 

And of course, he has a wife. A beautiful, caring, astonishing wife that he loves more than anything in this entire world. 

Nothing—no one—could ever compare to Sayuri. 

Round cheeks that he loved pinching. The same ones that would quickly blush a pretty shade of pink from his playful teasing. Luscious brown hair that shone so beautifully under the sun. Green eyes with two long sets of eyelashes to complement them. 

She’s beautiful. Utterly breathtaking. 

His heart stutters just thinking about her. 

They’ve been together seven years already, but married for five. 

Gojo was already looking forward to the next five. He fantasizes throughout his days about what would bless their lives as they grow older. 

Children—naturally—were the first ones. Though he’s been trying to put it on the back burner. 

However, he can’t stop the sliver of hope that shines through whenever he’s alone and looking up at the moon as if it can grant him all his wishes. 

He wants his children to look more like her than him. So even when Sayuri is away, he would always have a little piece of her cradled in his arms so delicately. 

He’s daydreaming again, smiling to himself like a goofy idiot as he pours himself another glass of whiskey. The alcohol has loosened his inhibitions. 

“—will…heir…male or female…by 35…”

“What?” Gojo asks, only tuning into the conversation once he heard the word will. 

Satoru’s grandfather, an old man, sighs heavily. Bald with a greying goatee. Wrinkles on his face, though not too many for a seventy-something-year-old man. The Gojo genes were quite phenomenal, after all. 

“Have you been paying attention at all?” his grandfather scoffs in disappointment. 

“Now I am,” Satoru leans back, jutting his chin. “Continue.”

Satoru’s grandfather shares a look with his son before looking at the youngest Gojo in the room. “Well,” he starts, setting his own glass down, “I was in the middle of explaining the will.”

“Why?” Satoru shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing we haven’t heard before.”

“He’s rewriting it, Satoru,” his father cuts in, hissing through clenched teeth. 

Satoru jolts up, eyes widening. He disregards the whiskey that stains his expensive shirt. “W-What? You’re rewriting it? Why? To what?”

The old man rubs his temples, clearly weary of repeating himself. “My health isn’t what it used to be. So, I’ve decided to make the terms stricter—more concrete before I pass.” His gaze sharpens. “You must not only be married, but also have a legitimate heir by the time you’re thirty-five in order to inherit the full estate and control of Gojo Global Holdings.”

Satoru blinks, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. “…Married… and an heir? That’s new.” He chuckles, a sad attempt to ward off his growing anxiety. 

His father’s voice is low but firm. “It’s always been the unspoken rule, but now it’s just written in stone. No exceptions.”

“Besides,” his grandfather crosses one leg over the other. “You and Sayuri have been married five years now. And still no children. Why is that?”

Gojo’s grip tightens on his glass subtly, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Of course, they would ask this. Everyone does, especially as their marriage grows older. 

Children. Heirs. Bloodline. Legacy. 

“We’ve…been trying,” he offers. 

“You’ve been saying that since five years ago, Satoru.” His father runs a hand through his thick, white-haired pompadour. “You’re twenty-seven. We all expected children within the first year. Don’t you love her?”

“Of course I love her,” Satoru quickly snaps back, frowning at his father’s implication. 

“Then why no children?”

Satoru’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at his father. He says nothing in response, too caught up in his own whirlwind of unspoken emotions. Too caught up in the secret he and his wife have been keeping to themselves for years now. 

They’ve been smoothly fighting off the pushy questions of children. But of course, everyone has their limits. 

And that doesn’t exclude elitist assholes like his family, who want nothing more than for their golden child to have his own. 

But he would never air out their dirty laundry, especially when said wife wasn’t even present. 

His grandfather, noting the tension, clears his throat to intervene in the stare-off. “Thirty-five,” he reiterates, “that’s eight long years. Many things can happen in eight years.”

“And if nothing does?”

His grandfather gives him a certain look—one that says that can’t happen. “Then key land titles, properties, and majority ownership, none of that will be passed down to you.”

His heart pounds harder, a deep pit forming in his gut. He sits up straighter to feign a confident facade, despite the fact that his foot is nervously tapping the floor. “That’s—that’s a little outlandish, don’t you think? Besides, that would include the gallery I bought for Sayuri, too. That’s not—”

“—negotiable,” his father cuts in sharply, voice like steel. “Sayuri’s gallery is part of the legacy now. And it’s not exempt from the terms. If you fail, everything reverts to the family trust. No exceptions.”

Satoru’s chest tightens, the room suddenly feeling too small, the air too thick. He forces a tight smile, though it falters around the edges. “You think I don’t want to provide an heir? You think I don’t want to start a family?”

His grandfather’s eyes hardened. “We don’t question your desires, Satoru. We question results.”

“It’s not up for debate, Satoru,” his grandfather emphasizes once more. “That gallery is tied legally to Gojo Global Holdings, which means it falls under the same conditions. No heir, no inheritance. The art house will revert to the company entirely.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. His mind raced, heart hammering against his ribs. The gallery wasn’t just an asset—it was Sayuri’s dream, her legacy, her passion. He had promised her he’d protect it. 

He bought the gallery as a gift for her within just the first year of her marriage. It houses all her prized possessions—her happiness. And in turn, his happiness, too. 

He can’t just let her dreams and passions be a simple pawn in his life. 

But now, it felt like a sword hanging over his head.

His father’s eyes bore into him like a predator sizing up its prey, even if that prey is his only child. “This is business, Satoru. Not some sentimental trinket to be protected out of charity. The board agrees with me.”

Satoru swallowed hard, struggling to keep the desperation from bleeding into his voice. “I… I just need more time.”

His grandfather shook his head slowly, voice grave. “Time is a luxury you don’t have. The will takes effect the day I sign the final document. No exceptions. This is your last chance to secure everything you want—for yourself, and for your wife.”

Satoru felt trapped between two worlds—the love he had for Sayuri and the cold, brutal expectations of his family. He had always believed his marriage was enough. That the future would come naturally, on its own time. He didn’t think things would ever be taken to the extreme like this. 

But now, the weight of a ticking clock threatens to crush that hope.

He looks down at the glass in his hand, the whiskey swirling like a storm inside. He’d have to make choices. Hard ones.

Choices that might change everything.

His head is already starting to hurt once his grandfather says something like how he’ll sign the final document sometime next month. 

All he can think of is his precious Sayuri. She already has so much on her plate. With her own familial issues, and her company most likely going to file bankruptcy, her father’s declining health, and her mother having to be hospitalized again within the last three months, the last thing he wants to tell her is that they need to have a child. 

Sooner rather than later. 

Especially when they’ve already spent thousands in secret on just the tedious processes alone. 

His grandfather is right. 

A lot can happen in eight years. 

And yet—it already has.

Too much has already happened behind closed doors, in sterile clinics under soft fluorescent lights, in quiet moments where Sayuri smiled through disappointment with tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In the aftermath of every failed attempt, every false hope, every silent car ride home when neither of them could say a word.

He wanted that future so badly. A little family. Messy hair and sleepy mornings. A nursery filled with stuffed animals and baby books. He still wants it.

But now, those dreams come with conditions. With ultimatums. With deadlines.

His fingers curl tighter around the glass until his knuckles blanch. The ticking of his grandfather’s old watch fills the quiet again. He’s aware, distantly, that no one’s speaking now. His silence stretches the tension, but no one dares interrupt his thoughts.

“Next month,” he repeats, more to himself than anyone else. “You’ll sign it next month.”

His grandfather nods once. “Be prepared.”

“Try not to let your personal emotions get in the way of business,” his father adds, voice softening as if he can soften the blow that’s already been dealt. “You’re a Gojo. You were raised for this.”

But what about Sayuri? Satoru wants to scream it. What about her dreams, her health, her heart? What about how exhausted she is—how she hides the bruises from hormone injections, how her fingers shake when she checks her phone, waiting for test results? What about them, as human beings?

He doesn’t say any of it.

Because love has no place in this room. Not when legacies are being carved in ink and blood.

“I understand,” he says instead, even though it tastes like ash on his tongue.

His father nods in approval, but his grandfather watches him carefully. As if already wondering what moves Satoru might make next.

As if he knows, deep down, that eventually—love may not be enough.

And as Satoru finishes the last of his whiskey, head pounding with the weight of it all, he realizes the truth in that bitter thought.

He’s damned if he does. Damned if he doesn’t.

And Sayuri—sweet, beautiful Sayuri—may never know what he’s about to sacrifice. Or what it will cost them both.

A lot can happen, he repeats to himself in his mind. 

Maybe a chance miracle. At least, that’s what he prays to the gods above for. 

PRESENT TIME:

“How is Satoru treating you?

The question alone should’ve been an easy one to answer. Most wives would say good, phenomenal, maybe even exceptional.

Though sitting in front of your father, with a hopeful smile on his aged face, you hesitated whether to expose the harsh reality of your marriage to a man he trusted his only daughter with.

“It’s good,” you meekly respond, busying yourself with your cup of iced tea. 

Your father, Haruto, raises his bushy brows. “Oh? Just ‘good’?” He laughs heartily. “C’mon, you can spill the details with your old man. Ah, just not all the details.”

You smile tightly at his attempt to lighten the moment, but the tea in your hand suddenly feels heavier than it should. You stir the melting ice with the tip of your straw, watching the ripples distort your reflection on the surface.

“I mean…” You begin, and the lie sits thick on your tongue. “He’s busy. With work. Late nights.”

Haruto hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, that’s expected, I suppose. Being in charge of Gojo Global isn’t a small role.” He leans back in his chair, stretching slightly before fixing you with a pointed look. “But he still makes time for you, right?”

You hesitate again. This time, for a beat too long.

Haruto notices. The corners of his smile falter just a little, but he keeps his tone gentle. “Sweetheart.”

“Of course he is,” you shake your head, meeting your father’s scrutiny with a light chuckle. “Why wouldn’t he be? Don’t worry about it, Dad. You already have a lot on your plate.”

He frowns. “I’ll always worry when it comes to my children. And it’s not worry, I’m just making sure my son-in-law is treating my daughter with the respect and love she deserves. Don’t fault me for that.”

“I’m not faulting you, Dad.” You smile weakly, a forced curve of your lips that barely touches your eyes. “It’s just been… a bit of an adjustment. You know how it is. New routines, new responsibilities.”

Haruto hums, nodding along, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his coffee mug. “Adjustment, huh? That boy’s not giving you a hard time, is he?”

You nearly choke on your tea but manage to swallow it down with a dry throat. “No. No, not a hard time,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Haruto narrows his eyes just a little, not missing the shift in your tone. “Y/N…” His face is open, gentle. But his voice holds that firm undertone that only comes when he's concerned. “You know I’d never let you stay in a marriage where you weren’t cherished, right?”

Your fingers twitch around your glass.

Satoru doesn’t hit you. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even insult you outright.

He just makes you feel like nothing. Like you’re a placeholder. A legal necessity. A shadow in his house.

But how do you tell your father that? After everything he had done just to see you married well? After he walked you down the aisle and shook Satoru’s hand with pride in his chest?

You take a deep breath and force a tiny laugh. “We’re just getting to know each other better. That’s all. It’s quiet sometimes. But I think that’s just him.”

Haruto tilts his head. “Quiet?”

You nod. “Well, he’s just not very…” loving, kind, present— “expressive.”

That was putting it kindly.

Haruto sits back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he studies you for a long moment. You drop your gaze to the condensation sliding down your glass.

“I see,” he finally says, voice unreadable.

You wish he didn’t. You wish he couldn’t.

But your father was never an oblivious man. Not when it came to you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “when your mother passed, I promised myself I’d protect you the best I could. Even if I couldn’t give you everything. Even if it meant watching you walk into a life I didn’t fully understand.”

You glance up sharply, surprised at the sudden shift in his tone.

“I gave that boy my blessing,” Haruto continues, “because I thought he’d be the kind of man who’d never let you feel alone. But now…”

He leans forward, lowering his voice.

“You can lie to the world, sweetheart. But you don’t have to lie to me.”

Your chest tightens with a growing sense of panic. Because for some reason, you still feel the need to defend your husband, despite his cruelty. And because you know just how scary your dad can get when something doesn’t go as he planned it to. “Dad, I—don’t worry, everything is fine.”

“He loves you?”

“Of course he does.”

“And he’s nice to you?”

“Yes!”

“Does he hit you?”

“What?! No, no, he doesn’t hit—”

“Does who hit her?”

Oh, great.

As if your sudden interrogation couldn’t get ten times worse. Ren’s deep voice—the kind of tone he gets only during certain situations—hits you first. Hearing two sets of footsteps, you turn around to see Noa striding in beside him.

Both your brothers, tall and extremely invasive sometimes, look like twins. Dark hair, thick eyebrows (though Noa keeps his more in touch), and stony expressions on their faces. It’s almost laughable considering Ren almost always has that idiotic, dopey grin on his face. It’s usually Noa’s job to have a resting bitch face. Their eyes dart between you and your father.

 Once they get closer, Ren repeats himself, looking at you. “Is Satoru hitting you? I’ll beat his fucking—”

“He’s not hitting me!” you shout, throwing your hands up as you abruptly stand. 

Your chair scrapes loudly against the wooden floor as you rise, the noise jarring enough to cut the tension—but not the heat of it.

“He’s not hitting me,” you repeat more firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. “No one’s hitting anyone. Can everyone just—stop? Don’t talk about him like that.”

Ren’s jaw tightens, but he pauses, eyes scanning your face. Noa, quieter but no less intense, shifts his weight beside him. His gaze lingers on you longer—searching, reading between the lines like he always does. Your father doesn't speak either. His hands rest on the table, knuckles pale, waiting for your next words.

You take a deep breath, forcing the trembling in your limbs to still. You don’t even know why you’re fiercely coming to Satoru’s defense, unsure if he’d do the same for you. But you don’t want to bash his name behind his back, especially to your family.

He doesn’t hit you, that much is true. 

 You take a deep breath before continuing. “Satoru’s not… he’s not what you think he is. He’s just under pressure. The company, the board, his family—there’s a lot on his shoulders right now. And I knew what I was getting into when I married him.”

Noa frowns slightly. “Pressure doesn’t give him the right to treat you like—”

“He doesn’t treat me like anything!” you snap, more sharply than you mean to. You glance away, lowering your voice again. “He’s just distant. That doesn’t mean he’s bad.”

Ren crosses his arms, clearly unconvinced. “So what, we’re supposed to pretend everything’s peachy just because he’s got a boardroom to impress? You're our sister. If you’re not happy, we deserve to know.”

You shake your head quickly. “Don’t make this bigger than it is. I’m fine. Really. We’re figuring it out. He’s not a monster, okay? He’s not cruel, he’s just complicated.”

Noa sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t owe him that kind of defense if you’re miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” you lie, blinking too fast.

Haruto finally speaks, voice low. “No one’s accusing him of anything, not without reason. But you shouldn’t have to explain this hard, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m explaining because I love him. And because I want this to work. Maybe he’s not perfect and maybe we’re not perfect, but he’s trying. We both are.”

That lie tastes even worse than the last one, but it’s the only thing that buys you some quiet.

Do you even really love Satoru? Or is that your malleable mind playing tricks on you, forcing you into a deluded fantasy?

A tense silence blankets the room. Ren sighs and finally backs off, muttering under his breath, “He’d better be trying.”

Noa gives you a long, unreadable look, then pulls Ren by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let it go.”

Reluctantly, Ren lets himself be tugged away, but not before pointing a stern finger at you. “If he ever lays a hand on you, you call me. Or better yet, don’t—because I’ll already know.”

“We all will,” Noa reiterates, looking you up and down as if to tell himself you’re really safe and sound. 

You roll your eyes, but it’s the kind of exasperated affection only a younger sister can give. “Got it, watchdogs.”

Once they disappear into the other room, your father remains still, his gaze fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything, just gently slides your glass back toward you.

You sit back down, hands trembling slightly as they curl around the chilled glass.

You can feel his disappointment without him saying a word.

But he lets it go. For now. Because you’ve always been the one thing in his life that he doesn’t push too hard.

Even if you wish, deep down, that someone would.

Satoru had a particularly annoying time at the office today. His past couple of days have been filled with congratulations on the new marriage and being married to a woman like you.

Board members to secretaries, all wondering how married life has been treating him so far. He can’t fault them too much; they’re simply curious.

Too curious.

And Satoru, to save his own ass and because he’s not a complete idiot, won’t spill his guts to outsiders. And if word got back to your family about anything wrong, it would get back to his father. Then to him.

And he can’t have a domino effect like that.

Satoru is more than convinced he can manage to keep you married to him, despite the way he’s been treating you. He’d overheard from your own father prior to the arranged marriage that you’re the only one of his children who hadn’t been married off yet.

He heard snippets of your father saying that when you were a child, you couldn’t wait to have a family of your own one day.

Truthfully, it sickened him. 

Not because he found the idea of family repulsive. Not because he didn’t think you were capable of having one. But because it made you seem weak. Childish. Naïve.

As if your only ambition in life was to play house and wait for some prince to sweep you off your feet. And now that you had one—on paper, at least—Satoru felt backed into a corner. Forced to wear the crown and wield the sword for a kingdom he never asked for.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped through the door to his estate. It was eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His tie was already tugged loose, jacket slung over his shoulder.

He toed off his shoes without much thought, the soft thud echoing through the marble-floored hallway. The silence that greeted him was nothing new— reminding himself that your presence in this house is nothing more than ghostlike. Just yesterday, he forgot you even lived here. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He glanced toward the dimly lit living room. The soft amber glow of a single floor lamp cast long shadows across the couch. A book lay open on the coffee table. One of yours. Probably one of those worn romance novels with cracked spines and folded corners. He didn’t understand how you could still stomach reading about love.

He exhaled a heavy breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he made his way up the staircase.

His mind was on autopilot the entire way up to his room. Twisting the knob, he stepped in. 

He was suddenly greeted by the scent of something sweet, but floral. It stung at his nostrils, making his nose twitch in disgust. Shaking his head, he tosses his tie onto his bed and undoes the first few buttons of his crisp white button-up.

He instinctively walks over to the frame that’s faced down, fingers skimming the edges in hesitation. After a few seconds, he sighs and pulls his hand back, keeping the frame where it is. 

That lingering, sinking feeling in his gut stays with him as he takes a seat at the end of his bed, eyes flickering from the small, untouched bedside table with memorabilia that makes him force his tears back. Satoru runs his hands through his silky hair, scratching at his scalp.

His head drops, elbows on his knees. 

The silence of a room too big for one person is louder than anything. A deafening noise that even years later, he still can’t get used to. He reaches over to the other bedside table—the one on his side—and flicks on his usual white noise to help him decompress. 

The soft static of the white noise machine begins to fill the room, a dull hiss that drowns out the noise in his own head—if only slightly. It’s the only sound he can tolerate at this hour, the only thing that doesn't ask anything of him. Unlike people. Unlike you.

His fingers hover above the dial, tempted to crank the volume higher until it scrubs out every thought, every memory, every feeling still tethered to this place. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Satoru leans back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His white shirt hangs open now, collar slack and sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. He stares up at the ceiling like it might offer him answers—or absolution. Neither comes.

He thinks about what one of the VPs said earlier that morning. “You must be one lucky bastard to land her.”

He’d laughed. Politely. Played along. Even though the words burned hotter than he’d expected. Lucky? He’s not lucky. He’s trapped.

Because he doesn’t want to need anyone. Least of all you. 

He rises suddenly, agitated by the recurring thoughts. He pulls the door open to his shower and undresses with sharp vigor. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He steps into the shower, water still cold. 

The freezing water hits his skin like glass. A shock to his system, but he welcomes it. He stands still under the icy stream, not flinching, not gasping—just letting it soak through his hair, his skin, his thoughts.

He needs the clarity. Or the punishment. He’s not sure which anymore.

The water slides down his body, carving paths through tension knotted deep into his muscles, but nothing dislodges the heaviness in his chest. He tips his head back with a small groan, water crashing against his face like rain in a storm he can’t escape. Every breath he takes feels borrowed, like he’s still living in someone else’s life.

A husband.

A future father.

A leader of an empire he’s been molded to inherit, not one he ever chose.

He rests a fist on the tile wall, knuckles turning white. The water grows warmer with time, but it doesn’t soften him. Doesn’t reach far enough inside to undo the bitterness creeping up his spine like frostbite.

His thoughts swim back to you. You were invading his safe space. Again. 

The way you moved so quietly around the house, as if you were trying not to disturb him. The way your eyes lit up when he put that damned ring on your finger. Your soft voice, your gentle presence, they all annoy him. And now, they begin to haunt him too.

And he despised it. Despises you even more for it. 

Because it meant he noticed you, even if barely and reluctantly.

After a while, the heat becomes unbearable, and he shuts off the shower abruptly. The room fills with steam as he steps out, grabbing a towel and running it carelessly through his hair. He doesn’t bother drying off properly—just enough to keep the water from dripping onto the wood floors.

He walks to the mirror and stares at himself, steam fogging the glass around his reflection.

He looks tired.

Not just physically. Deeply, fundamentally worn.

His fingers reach up, wiping away the condensation. His own eyes stare back—blue, piercing, sharp—and yet lifeless. He wonders if Sayuri would even recognize him now, if she’d look at the man in the mirror and see the boy she used to believe in.

He wraps the towel loosely around his waist and exits the shower, leaving wet footprints on the way to his closet.

He flicks the light on and again, that evil scent hits him like a truck. 

Not anything he’s used to, nothing familiar, not Sayuri.

His frown deepens as he ventures further into his closet, steely eyes quickly scanning the clothes in front of him. 

Satoru has been in here enough times to know everything like the back of his hand. He knows how things were placed. He’s spent countless days just sitting in here, looking at his late wife’s side and reminiscing about the times she’d come in here and fuss over what she should wear. As if no matter what she wore, she wouldn’t look breathtaking. 

And so, Satoru would definitely know when something in this room has been touched. 

He gulps hard, stepping closer to a pale blue dress of Sayuri’s that was her favorite. The sleeve of it, once tucked neatly with the rest of her clothing, is now pulled out. It’s small, barely detectable. 

His breath hitches.

It’s a minute detail. One that no one else would notice. But Satoru does. Because he’s obsessive, because grief made him hyper-aware, and because Sayuri’s belongings are the only part of his life he’s allowed to remain untouched.

Until now.

He stares at the sleeve—his late wife’s favorite dress—and something tightens in his chest. Something ugly. Something furious. The silk hangs just barely off the hanger, but it’s enough to pull him out of his controlled spiral and into something volatile. His hand shoots out, grabbing the fabric with more force than necessary.

It’s not torn, not ruined. But it’s not where it should be.

And he knows damn well you’ve been in here because nobody else would’ve dared.

They all know what happened last time someone tried to.

You—the ghost walking his halls like you belong in a life that was never meant for you. You—the woman who smiles too softly and walks too quietly and dares to tiptoe into parts of him no one was invited to revisit.

Why would you come in here?

Why would you touch her things?

The very idea of you trying to “connect” with Sayuri—trying to make this house feel like home by reaching into a grave he hasn’t finished mourning—makes his jaw lock.

You don’t belong in here. You don’t belong anywhere. You never did. 

And now you’re really trying to get him angry, aren’t you?

He releases the sleeve with a harsh exhale and storms out of the closet, towel still clinging to his hips, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

He doesn’t care for the maids who give him a wide-eyed look as he stomps through the halls. He’s laser-focused. 

“Where is she?” he barks out to a younger woman.

She gulps and stammers out. “I–I—umm–!”

The maid’s voice quivers, her eyes darting like a cornered animal’s. But Satoru doesn’t give her the mercy of patience.

“Where. Is. She.” His voice drops to a low, cold timbre—more dangerous than a shout.

The girl flinches. “I-I think she’s in the garden, sir.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns, strides down the corridor, and throws open the double glass doors leading outside.

The night air hits him like a slap—cool, tinged with the scent of lavender and jasmine. The estate’s private garden stretches wide and quiet, bathed in the silver wash of moonlight. A place that once brought Sayuri peace. A place he’s avoided like a wound that never quite healed.

And there you are.

Sitting on the stone bench near the koi pond, barefoot, a light shawl draped over your shoulders, your hair pinned loosely like you’d half-forgotten to finish getting ready for bed. You’re gazing up at the stars, knees drawn to your chest, quiet and soft in a world that doesn't make space for quiet and soft anymore.

You don’t hear him approach, not at first. Not until the heavy crunch of his steps on gravel pulls your attention.

Your head turns.

And you see the look on his face.

Stormy. Unreadable. But not blank—not empty like usual. No, there’s fire in his eyes this time. Cold, sharp fire.

Your heart skips.

“Satoru—?”

“Did you go into my closet?” His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

You blink, startled by the sudden intrusion. “What?”

“Did you go into my closet?” he repeats, voice more clipped now, each word a blade.

You bring your knees down, sensing the shift in the air—tense, cold, and ready to snap. “I just went in for a moment,” you admit carefully. “I was only curious. I didn’t know people weren’t allowed in your roo–”

“So you thought going through my wife’s things was appropriate?” His stare sharpens.

You freeze. Both at his level of anger directed solely at you, and the fact that he still referred to her as his wife. Something he’s yet to call you.  

“I didn’t touch anything of hers—”

“The dress,” he cuts in, voice like steel. “The sleeve was out of place.”

Your heart begins to pound. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize—”

“Exactly,” he snaps. “You don’t realize. You move through this house like you’re trying to wedge yourself into something you don’t understand. And now you’re digging through her life too?”

“I wasn’t digging,” you protest, voice shaking as you stand to your feet. “I was just trying to understand you better. I wasn’t trying to replace her.”

The words hang in the air like smoke after a fire. You feel a lump form in your throat, blinking rapidly.

His jaw ticks. “You can’t replace her,” he spits out, each word precise and heavy.

You flinch, like the truth itself stings.

“...I know,” you whisper. “I never wanted to.”

A silence settles between you both. One that feels longer than it is. He stares at you like you’re his mortal enemy, hands fisted by his sides. It takes everything in him not to completely snap at you.

Finally, Satoru takes a step back, the fire behind his eyes dimming—but only slightly. “Next time, stay out of my things.”

You nod, but he doesn’t wait for confirmation. He turns on his heel, muscles taut, movements brisk. But just before stepping back into the house, he pauses. His voice returns, quieter, but somehow crueler.

“You want to be a wife so badly? Learn to stay in your place.”

And then he’s gone.

The doors swing shut behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

You stand there, still and silent, eyes burning. After a few more silent seconds, you slowly sit back down. 

The stone feels colder underneath your skin than from before. The stars look duller, the wind howls louder. And suddenly, your face wets with tears. 

The tears had started slow, like a leak in an old dam—one you’d tried so hard to patch up, seal, ignore. But now they stream freely, staining your cheeks, dripping onto the thin fabric of your shawl. You don’t wipe them away. You don’t even move.

The garden is quiet. Too quiet. Even the koi seem still, like the world is holding its breath around you, unsure whether to comfort you or leave you in your silence.

You clutch your arms around yourself tighter, pulling the shawl around your frame as if it can protect you from the way his words are still echoing in your skull.

Stay in your place.

You thought you’d been doing that. 

You’ve been cooking his breakfast, even making him lunch that you find left uneaten on the kitchen counter. You’ve been trying to keep quiet, even despite the fact that you’ve barely seen him around the house since you’ve been married to him. You’ve learned long before Satoru to only smile when you’re supposed to, to not ask too much.

To try not to be too much.

So if this isn't your place, then where is it?

Your fingers grip the edge of the bench. Cold. Smooth. Real. Unlike the dream you used to have about love. About family. About what it would feel like to build a home, not just live in one that looked pretty on the outside.

You think about how his face looked when he said her name—Sayuri. It still holds the only softness he’s capable of.

And his anger for you is just a hollow substitute for the grief he never let himself feel.

But that’s not your fault.

Is it?

A breeze picks up and blows across your bare ankles, goosebumps blooming along your skin. You shiver. You shake your head, exhaling shakily. You’re not that kind of woman. You don’t run.

But you do wonder how much more will be left of you in a month, maybe six, and even a year. Will you still be yourself? Will Satoru finally start being nice and acting like a proper husband to you? Or are you just destined for a loveless marriage?

Eventually, your tears slow, unsure of which part to cry harder for. 

You sit there until the moon rises higher and the wind grows colder and your legs are stiff, eyes raw.

And until you remember that no matter how cruel he is, no matter how little he sees you, you’re still expected to show up at breakfast tomorrow. On time. Polished. Proper.

A wife.

You rise, slowly, legs wobbling like they barely belong to you.

As you turn back to the house, one truth follows you like a shadow clinging to your feet:

You may live here. But you are not wanted here.

Not by him. Maybe not ever.

Still, you walk back inside.

Because even a ghost has nowhere else to go.

a/n: i hope you’re all enjoying so far. i will be writing one more chapter on this so that i have at least 3 out already, then finally finishing killer! toji, then updating my other fics. thank you all for ur patience 😭💕

taglist: closed

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@serendippindots @datshittuebrat @shibataimu @torusbbg @midnightsaugust

@infatuatedrose @koogiix @yeahhemmings- @authorslastwill @simp-plague

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[joemama-2]

don’t worry guys, I’ll give her such good head, she’ll feel inspired to finish vl 😝😝😝😍

😒😒😒

(yes please)

[joemama-2]

what if it's the same anon spamming you telling you to calm down? cause I think that would be hysterically funny like bro get a life 😭😭 I'm just so bewildered by some peoples attitudes, you're legit doing this FOR FUN, FOR FREE and they have nothing better to do than bother you??? that's CRINGE‼‼‼

THAT MEME 😭😭😭

and LMAO it most definitely is the same anon. lowkey i shouldn’t reply to that kind of stuff but idk make people think they can tell ME to calm down 😭😭😭 all over my response to the vl question like cmon now

and literally lurking on my page and sending me another ask seconds after i answered the previous one is another level of obsessed 😹😹😹

[joemama-2]

When the Sun Hits Johnny Storm x Reader

a/n: yes i have fallen in love with johnny storm. and yes, once again i wrote wayyy too much. but yknow... a man who yearns is a man that earns!! semi-spoilers for fantastic four first steps!! nav: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 summary: As Reed Richards’s most brilliant physicist, Johnny Storm supposed you were off limits. But when a cosmic entity who threatens to consume your planet appears, he realizes he needs to at least tell you how he feels before it's too late. cw: slow burn, mutual pining, suggestive thoughts, overall SFW this part. The next part will have violence, smut, and the works. reader will eventually have powers bc why tf not. proofread but not perfect! wc: 9.2k i need to chill

_____________________________________________________________

For some reason, your mind refused to stop racing. Out of all nights, it had to be tonight.

You had spent the entire day cooped up in the Fantastic Four tower laboratory, trying your best to solve the most important formula of all, yet your efforts had been in vain.

Just like your mentor, you remained stumped. Stuck. All of your accomplishments and efforts seemed to have amounted to nothing. 

For weeks, you had been working overtime, but it was welcomed, and you were happy to volunteer.  Working for Dr. Reed and Sue Richards was the opportunity of a lifetime. Dr. Reed was a genius, after all, and you thanked your lucky stars every day for having him as your mentor.

The burden of such responsibility weighed heavily not just on your body, but also on your soul. Despite it all, every time you tried to focus, the smell of charred metal filled the air, dragging you back to that fateful day.

The entire world had rumbled, and the crash of tumbling skyscrapers still reverberated in your mind, pulling you further away from your task. Constantly, you fought to drag your thoughts back to the present, but the relentless intrusion was like a tide you couldn’t swim against.

You had almost died, and so had the man you cared deeply for. And still, even after all this time, he lingered just out of reach.

Johnny.

Reed’s brother-in-law should be the last person on your mind, but he was impossible to shake. After two years, your resolve was starting to crumble. Your feelings were starting to bubble over. It was affecting your work, something you never expected to happen.

Maybe that was just how life worked. You were still young, a year behind Johnny, yet beyond brilliant. But nobody could have prepared you for what had happened, and what surely would happen in the future.

You couldn’t shake the trepidation that the invasion from Galactus was only the beginning. When the flashbacks invaded your senses, they were incredibly intense.

The metal beam that had punctured your shoulder still left a ghostly ache. Your skin was still sensitive. Every loud noise caused you to flinch. And the anxiety? Well, it was overpowering. At first, it fueled your theories, but now, it was hindering every part of you.

And what that giant had said to you only scared you more, to the point that you were paralyzed when you tried to remember.

Instinctively, you rolled your neck to ease the pain. You wanted to flail your arms, lie down, and forget everything. You wished for someone to hold, someone to help ease this burden. You wished for that someone to be Johnny.

Desperate to dispel your thoughts, you snatched a piece of chalk and stared at the board. You stared, and stared, hand hovering an inch away, trying to summon an idea. Something. Anything.  

Sometimes the motions helped. Most times, you were able to force any sense of hesitation away. Perhaps you were not as strong as you thought you were.

“Are you still getting phantom pains?” Reed asked once he realized your hesitation, his voice tinged with concern.

“No, just slept weird last night,” you attempted to lie, your reply quick and forced. You grit your teeth in failure, hoping that Reed would not pry further. That, for once, he would pretend you didn’t exist, that you were only someone he employed and not somebody he cared about.

But that was not who Reed Richards was. No, he was going to ensure you had the best treatment possible. And he’d known you long enough to understand you weren’t going to ask for help.

“Y/N.”

Your body slumped as you turned around to face him, your train of thought interrupted entirely.

“What does it feel like this time?”

You sighed. “I don’t know. Heavy? Like there's a piece of it lodged inside me still… I just feel different.”

“Interesting,” he mumbled, typing a brief note into the desktop beside him. It beeped back at him in a frequency you recognized, but neither of you acknowledged it. Your last X-rays yielded no results indicating a foreign object, so that was ruled out. Still, your body felt different.

“Pain level?”

“One. Just discomfort, that’s all. And I know that's normal.”

“Okay…” His tone was suspicious as he studied you. “But if it starts to hurt, please let me know.”

“I promise.” You managed a smile, shaking your head and turning back around.

The sound of him tapping a pencil on his desk filled the silence. Clearly, your answer hadn’t satisfied him. “If you don’t log your progression by yourself, I’m going to keep pestering you,” he warned, even though you could practically hear the smugness in his voice. “It’s already strange enough how quickly your wounds healed.” 

“Fine.” You rolled your eyes since he couldn’t see you. “I'll do it first thing tomorrow. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Reed left it at that, leaving you to finish your work. There was so much to do, which was why he relented at your request for an early return. But he was still going to keep an eye on you, not only because of Sue’s insistence, but also for his own concern.

After all, you had received that injury protecting his son, Franklin. Both of them would forever be indebted to you.

But for you, it was all still new. Still fresh and raw. How little time you actually had on this earth had only just become apparent.

Up until recently, studying the Fantastic Four’s habits and recording data had been what preoccupied most of your work under Reed’s watchful eye. Countless nights had been spent trying to decipher theory after theory, invention after invention, bouncing ideas off of each other like you had all the time in the world.

Yet, you could never wish for an alternative. If anything, you were blessed. You were lucky. Not just from your own initiative, but from the kindness of this family.

And to think that this had all started because of one college assignment was something you struggled to believe. If everything really did happen for a reason, you had still failed to prove it. But perhaps, that was an anomaly that science could not explain.

All of a sudden, you were just there. Whenever the lab was open, Reed could expect to find you. It didn’t matter if you were a recent hire, and it didn't matter if he was there to accompany you. Physics was clearly your passion. And it would be idiotic of him not to assist in whatever way he could.

You never bothered anyone. For months, the only place you frequented was the office, only leaving hints of your presence on Reed’s desk for the next morning, or talking with him when he happened to run into you.

It was normal. It felt like a real job, and you were starting to enjoy the routine. But that didn’t last long, because the family was far more personable than you would have ever thought. 

Across the room, you heard the doors slide open. You turned around, expecting to see Reed, but instead, you found Sue.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Y/N,” she greeted warmly. “It’s pretty late, and Reed is caught up in a meeting, so I brought you a snack.”

Your eyes fell to the tray she presented. What you found was not only a snack, but a meal. Part of you wanted to refuse, but the other part of you was utterly famished. It was far too easy to get caught up in work to comprehend just how much time had passed.

“Wow,” you replied. “It looks amazing.”

“I’m glad. I hope you enjoy… And if you ever get hungry when you’re here, don’t be afraid to at least ask Herbie to fetch you something.”

A kind gesture. And to you, it meant even more. Yet all you could say in return was a robotic, “Thank you, Doctor Storm.”

She chuckled. “Just Sue, okay?”

Nodding, you covered up your initial hesitation with a smile as she placed the tray of food on your desk. Sue didn’t linger for long, and you appreciated that, but a part of you knew she was also making sure that Reed didn’t push you too hard.

Nobody but you could seem to keep up with his forever churning brain.

Life had felt so simple back then, when all you had to worry about was reevaluating Reed’s theories for a paycheck.

That was until Johnny Storm waltzed into your life, bringing with him a vibrance of color you could no longer live without.

Seeing him in person for the first time completely derailed your train of thought. His dark blue eyes were hypnotizing.

“Wow,” he whistled quietly. “I'm surprised I finally caught you.”

“W-What do you mean?” you stammered. You fucking stammered—something you never did.

“I’ve heard about you, but…” he trailed off and crossed his arms, as if taking a moment to study you further.

“But?”

“You're like a ghost,” he replied, his tone playful. “Never around when I am.”

Turning to your work with an amused smile, Johnny caught sight of your latest formula. His eyes lingered on the equations, an unexpected curiosity flashing in his gaze.

“I'm sure you're a busy man.”

“Not with anything important,” he admitted, glancing back at you. “I don't need to be in another sunscreen ad. But you...you've got me curious.”

His delivery caused you to giggle. When he put it like that, yeah. Plus, he was easy on the eyes. You didn’t need to be Einstein to figure that one out.

When he put it like that, yeah, plus he was easy on the eyes ?

“Now that your bills are paid?” you jested, quickly biting down on your lip to stop another laugh.

“Exactly.” He shook his head with a smile.

A surprisingly comfortable moment of silence settled between the two of you. Johnny really hadn’t expected you to be this gorgeous. If someone had mentioned it, perhaps he would have come by sooner. Months had already passed since your arrival, and he’d only heard your name in brief run-downs when Reed rambled on about work.

Clearing his throat, Johnny continued. “Anyways, are you hungry? We just finished dinner, but I can get you a plate.”

Flashing him a small, hesitant smile, you glanced back at the computer before you. “I’m actually just about to head out, but I really appreciate it.”

He tilted his head, the movement causing you to focus on him again. “Maybe next time?” he asked, hopefully.

Turning off the computer, you stood up from your seat and slung your purse over your shoulder. “Yeah, next time,” you replied softly, your analytical eyes lingering on him for a moment as you passed by him. “If you catch me.” 

That only made Johnny more curious. But this time, he would let it slide. 

As you were locking up the back door, you glanced behind and found that Johnny had approached your unfinished formula. In a wide stance, he remained, studying it and pondering.

It didn’t bother you. He was an astronaut, after all. Besides, his butt looked amazing in those tight white pants.

_____________________________________________________________

When Sue told you she was pregnant, you got straight to business by inventing and baby-proofing  anything she could think of.

You made your excitement quite apparent with how eager you were to be a part of it all. Even if it was technically their money you spent, you helped adorn the nursery with memories. Ben often referred to you as a stray kitten that made herself right at home, occasionally leaving behind gifts in appreciation. Not that any of them complained; your presence just felt right.

Especially to Johnny, who was forever appreciative of your kindness to his sister and soon-to-be nephew.

“Do you think the baby will like it?” you asked Johnny as he passed by your station on his way to training.

Pausing, he stared at your creation with a confused, raised eyebrow. “What is it?”

“It's not cute right now, I know,” you sighed slightly in defeat, but lifted the device up so Johnny could see better. “This little toy can teach colors.” You reached across the table and grabbed a similar-looking one, placing it in his hands. “And that one teaches the alphabet.”

It was tiny, barely filling his palm. Johnny stared at it, then his eyes drifted back to you. How adorable you were, even in disappointment.

“It’s stupid, isn't it?” you groaned, leaning against the desk and glancing back down at the model diagram. The computer coding was still buzzing white on the desktop. God, your workspace was a mess, and so were you. Johnny probably thought you were an idiot. “Obviously, the casing will be bigger so the baby can’t swallow it.”

All he did was chuckle, though, and set the toy back into your grasp. “It’s definitely one of a kind.”

“–I was going to paint it pink or blue, but I guess it doesn’t really matter for gender…” You couldn’t help but attempt to explain further before trailing off, sneaking a glimpse at him to find he was already gazing at you. The mirth in his stare always flustered you.

You’d never really teased Johnny before, but always had a listening ear when the others did. Now that you had his undivided attention, you were going to make an attempt.

Leaning over the table slightly, you continued since he wasn’t leaving. “I could just make another action figure of you. And the only thing it will say is flame on.”

Immediately, his head tossed back, a loud groan leaving his throat. “Wowww Y/N,” he said, shaking his head, concealing the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll remember this betrayal for the rest of my life.”

“Betrayal?” You feigned surprise, clutching your chest. “I’m making a toy based off of you. Which is a great honor, mind you, and that’s your response? I’m hurt, Johnny.”

Shaking his head, he slung his gym bag back over his shoulders and continued on his path. “You’re not a toymaker!” He shouted from across the room, and your laugh in reply reached his ears before the doors slid shut.

Fleeting moments, often only in passing, were when you interacted with Johnny alone. But every single one put a smile on your face.

Johnny was the first to suggest that you move into one of the vacant guest rooms after catching you sleeping in the workshop. It only seemed reasonable with how much you had done for them. 

It was far too early in the morning, and he didn’t even remember why he had wandered down there. But there you were, in almost complete darkness beside Reed’s desk lamp and the flickering of multiple monitors. 

Before Johnny disturbed you, he just studied you. Your hair, usually in a bun, was now cascading down your shoulders, your lab coat off and scrunched underneath your head as a makeshift pillow. Your chest rose and fell slowly, soft, tired breaths escaping your pretty pink lips. You looked so peaceful… so beautiful. Every time he saw you, he couldn’t help but admire you more. When you couldn’t spend time with the family, he missed your presence. Despite how long you’d been around, he still hadn’t mustered up the courage to even try to gauge your feelings.

“Sleepyhead,” he whispered, poking your arm a few times. A groan escaped you as your eyes blinked open. Once you realized who was standing above you, your eyes widened.

“J-Johnny!” you stuttered, sitting up and glancing around, finally remembering where you were, and what you were supposed to be doing. A blush darkened your cheeks as you glanced away from him and to the half-finished equation on the chalkboard. “I, um, shit…” You trailed off.

“How many times have you done this?” he chuckled, finding your bashfulness endearing. His hip leaned against the desk, his dark blue eyes filled with a warmth you’d sworn you’d noticed before. The one that made your stomach flutter.

Sheepishly, you scratched the back of your neck to relieve some tension. For some reason, you just couldn’t lie to him. “A lot…”

“There’s plenty of guest bedrooms for you to stay in,” he managed to say before a genuine laugh rattled through his muscular body. God, when he wore such tight shirts like that, you couldn’t help but stare. What a fine specimen he was. You weren’t blind, just avoidant. Just busy.

“You still nervous to ask us for things or something?” he asked in your silence.

Meeting his eyes, you paused like a deer in headlights, before eventually shrugging. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You practically live here already, Y/N,” he reminded with a faint smirk.

“Still,” you sighed, standing up out of your chair and aimlessly gathering your coat and purse. You didn’t want to lie and say it didn’t feel right. Because it did, it felt like everything you could have ever asked for. But you were scared. What you were used to was comfortable. It was a routine you couldn’t shake. The quietness of your one-bedroom apartment was enough. It had been for years, and it still could be, even though the thought of even hoping for more made your throat close up. Mixing work with pleasure never ended well.

Just as you were about to shrug your lab coat back on, your feet were suddenly lifted off the ground. “That’s it!” Johnny grunted, carefully and effortlessly hoisting you over his shoulder. “I’m making you.”

“Making me?” you shrieked, still trying to process the position you were now in. Digging your elbows into his shoulder blade, you tried to look at him but failed, unable to squirm further from the tight hold his bicep had around your waist, secured against his neck.

“I have work tomorrow!” you scolded in a hushed tone, ultimately giving up.

Johnny tilted his head back to look at you, trying his best to not let his gaze wander to your ass that was now flush against the other side of his face. 

“Yeah, here.” he deadpanned, reaching for your purse and slinging it over his other shoulder.

“But-”

“Just stay the night.” His tone was softer than before. “I don’t want to have to walk you home at this hour.”

That shut you right up.

Johnny brought you upstairs, humming a song to himself quietly. His heavier-than-usual footsteps alerted the others from their bedrooms. Almost all at once, Sue, Pedro, and Ben all emerged to find you hanging over Johnny’s shoulder, your arms folded tightly in front of you, a grimace of defeat on your tired face.

Help! You mouthed to Ben as Johnny kept walking. God, this was so embarrassing.

“The hell are you two doing?” Ben chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. His initial irritation dissipated once he saw you.

“Making her go to bed,” Johnny replied matter-of-factly. “She fell asleep in the workshop again.”

“Again?” Sue questioned, glancing at Reed. “Is this a recurring issue?”

“This is the first time I’ve heard of it!” Reed raised his hands in surrender, suddenly wide awake. He could’ve sworn you told him you were heading home after finishing the last prototype draft. Reed glanced at the clock. That was four hours ago.

“Y/N.” Sue frowned at you as Johnny halted in front of her with you still in his arms. “You’re more than welcome to use any of the guest bedrooms if you need.”

“She knows that,” Ben chuckled, rubbing his eyes. The sound of stone on stone echoed down the hallway. “We told her last time.”

“No sleeping in the workshop,” Reed tried to scold, but it was more out of concern. “If you’re going to sleep over, use a spare bedroom.”

“Fine!” you groaned in a timid defeat. “I promise I’ll try.”

“We need you at your best.” Reed reminded. “And that requires proper sleep.”

“I understand,” you replied, then conveniently started to yawn. Immediately, your hands shot up to cover your face, but all of them caught it. 

“Walk home, my ass.” Johnny rolled his eyes and hoisted you into a more comfortable position before continuing to stroll on.

“And no going back until you have breakfast!” Sue reminded you, calling down the hallway before closing the door behind her. You could even hear Ben still laughing behind his closed door.

Johnny opened the bedroom door and gently bent down to set you on the bed.

“See how easy that was?” he teased, unable to look away from you as he rose back to his full height, trying to subtly gauge your reaction.

Turning your face away to hide your blush, you huffed. “Jerk.”

He feigned hurt, stumbling back as if you had stabbed him. “For being concerned with your health?”

That caused you to snort, and you shook your head in mock annoyance. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s all a part of my charm, Doll,” he replied in that casually cocky tone that he never used on you, raising his hands in front of him and clapping, turning the overhead lights on. 

“Doll?” you simpered, understanding that he was only joking. “Surely you can think of something better?”

Johnny pondered for a moment. “Challenge accepted.”

Then, he shoved his hands in his pockets, checking you over one more time.  “There’s spare linens in the dresser,” he whispered, heading toward the door.  “See you tomorrow.” 

As you pulled back the covers and fluffed up the pillow, your eyes still managed to trail back to him. In a more theatrical way than you would have preferred, he’d still taken care of you.

“Johnny?” you called quietly.

Halting immediately, he glanced over his shoulder and waited.

“Thank you.”

The way you said his name and the sincerity in your acknowledgement caused his heart to flutter, but he only nodded in response and closed the door.

Neither of you wanted to ruin the already established dynamic.  

Late night after late night, your belongings slowly accumulated on top of that room’s dresser and in the bathroom, which everyone soon labeled as “Y/N’s room” when you weren’t around. Back then, you had been too embarrassed to properly accept their generosity.

Regardless, Johnny found it endearing. And he would never tell anyone how much he reveled in the rare occasion he spotted you in your night gown. He just… liked having you around. He tried to convince himself that’s all it was. Deny. Deny. Deny.

You felt it too, in your soul.

But life had other plans, and before you knew it, the world was coming to an end. At least, that was what an alien woman adorned in silver claimed. You barely had time to process. You could not afford a single tear.

Right back into work you went. But this time, you were preparing for interdimensional space travel, and the possibility of your planet being devoured. 

You were scared. Not just for yourself, but for them as well. For a heavily pregnant Sue, who seemed on edge, who hid her fear well enough to help alleviate your anxiety.

Over and over, you reminded yourself to stay calm. For the baby. For them, and the world.

This wasn’t about you. 

_____________________________________________________________

Large panels in the sealing pried open, revealing a clear blue sky. Air whooshed in violently, and the engines rumbled to life. 

Johnny, Sue, Reed, and Ben, stood across from you as their helmets clicked in place. 

“Please let me come with,” you pleaded one more time as the spaceship doors hissed open from across the very public and florid walkway, steam billowing up the pale white walls. 

“No.” Johnny replied so firmly that Sue raised her eyebrows. 

“We need you here, Y/N,” Reed interjected, eyes flickering over to Johnny as he took note of the reaction. 

You bid them all farewell with a bone-crushing hug, but Johnny was the one you held onto the longest, his hands brushing against your waist for a moment longer than appropriate, wishing he could go lower. 

The things he wanted to tell you. But there never seemed to be a time. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” you whispered into his ear. “And that also includes dying.” 

You thought you felt his lips press into your hair as he inhaled slowly, savoring the moment now that the others weren’t watching. 

“I promise.” 

And you knew he meant it. 

Despite that promise, anxiety still consumed you. 

You remembered how hopeless you felt as you watched the rocket disappear into the atmosphere, sending the only friends you’d ever known millions of light-years away–with no guarantee that they would return. It was out of your control. Outliers that could disrupt your perfect calculations. Formulas that they relied on. If anything went wrong… it would just be you. 

You didn’t leave their house for the entire month they were gone. Your days were spent prepping for their return and inventing far too many prototypes to assist with Sue’s pregnancy, undoubtedly finishing and improving what Reed had already started working on. What else was there to do? You were alone with Herbie, your only communication being daily correspondence to ANSA with updates. But there were none. And all you could do was cross days off the calendar. You were stuck. Without their findings, you had nothing to go on. 

As for your nights, you cracked in the first week. The building felt so lifeless without them, and your mind kept thinking the worst, wondering if they would come back. 

It was early in the morning, and you were still wide awake. It had been days since you’d slept. As you trudged down the hallway, you instinctively stopped at Johnny’s room. 

Your chest felt heavy when you thought about him, which is why you’d spent days doing anything else you could possibly do to avoid confronting your emotions. 

But tonight was different; an overwhelming sadness was suffocating you. An itch you couldn’t scratch. 

Pushing his door open, you wandered inside and tried to steady yourself back into the present. You studied his belongings and decor. Some of his clothing was still sprawled about, snack wrappers still crinkled inside his trash can. Remnants of his presence that made you chew on the inside of your cheek, that made you wonder if he would make it back to pick up after himself. 

Before you could even think to stop it, tears started to well in the corners of your eyes. Your lip quivered in resistance,  yet you still collapsed onto his bed. You grasped his pillow and brought it to your chest, burying your face in the silky fabric. It still smelled like his cologne, of him, someone that was unattainable to you. 

Perhaps it was your exhaustion and lack of sleep, but you eventually cried yourself to sleep. It had been years since you’d sobbed that hard, that helplessly. 

Every single night after that, you would stand by the ceiling-high windows and gaze into the star-littered sky, searching for a sign of their return, even though you knew it wasn’t possible. And afterward, you would find your way back into Johnny’s bed, as the thought of him was the only thing that lulled you to sleep. 

That anxiety didn’t fade until the moment you watched all five of them exit the spaceship. Five. In Sue’s arms was a baby boy. If there hadn’t been a sea of people watching, you would have sprinted over there to embrace them. But something wasn’t right. 

What should’ve been a joyous return, quickly proved to be the opposite. Earth’s heroes hadn’t saved you. None of them looked relieved, let alone happy. And the fear of the unknown only stoked a rising sense of panic.

But when Johnny finally found your eyes, there was a glimmer of hope. That was the familiarity you needed, one that grounded you back into reality, one that calmed you despite the chaos unfolding around you.  

Right then, they needed you. 

Sue was exhausted, pale as if she’d seen a ghost. Reed couldn’t even look at you, too ashamed to admit that he was stumped, that he was scared. Ben was utterly silent, his heavy, defeated stare speaking volumes about how dire the situation was. 

Your eyes were wide with concern as they walked past, retreating from the already disparaging reporters. Johnny was last, and as he passed you, his hand came to rest protectively on the small of your back. Without a word, he gently nudged you closer to him, leading you away from the chaos. 

“What happened, Johnny?” you asked as the two of you rounded a corner, finally out of sight from prying eyes. 

From his time in space, and from the impending possibility that your world could be destroyed at any moment, Johnny decided that he wouldn’t take another moment for granted. 

Before another question left your lips, he pulled you into his embrace. 

At first, you were frozen, but gradually, you melted into him, resting your chin against his shoulder, your arms looping around his neck. 

“You alright, Johnny?” you asked softly, breath dancing across the side of his neck. He almost shivered. 

“Just making sure you’re real.” It was all he could mutter, his arms encircling you, hands pawing at your hips momentarily before stilling. 

“What else would I be?” you asked genuinely, wondering if he was okay. Johnny seemed… just as tired and frightened as the rest, even if he tried to mask it with indifference. 

“An angel?” he chuckled, but it was soft and tinged with admiration. Slowly, he loosened his grip on you, placing his finger underneath your chin and leading you to look up at him. “There were a few moments where I thought we wouldn’t make it.” 

He didn’t need to say anything more about it. That was enough for you to understand. 

Johnny cupped your face as he gazed into your eyes. Such a beautiful pair, filled with wonder and wisdom, perhaps even admiration for him, thought he didn’t want to assume. For now, he could only wish that he could gaze into them every morning. He wanted to make you proud, he wanted to keep you safe. 

“You’re beautiful, like an angel,” he whispered before he could stop himself. “So forgive me for being mistaken.” 

Though he’d never touched you so tenderly, it felt so natural, so right. And when you didn’t shy away from the touch, he felt his heart race faster. You only waited patiently, your hand trailing across the fabric of his spacesuit, until it brushed over his name badge. Johnny. 

My Johnny. 

As you stared at his badge, his hand came to rest over your own, giving it a gentle squeeze. Being held by him like this was overwhelming. He was quite literally the only thing you wanted on this God forsaken earth. The realization and acceptance of that caused a tear to slip from the corner of your eye. It hardly rolled down your cheek before Johnny wiped it away with his thumb. 

“Hey, don’t cry for me,” he said softly, eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips. “I’m right here, Y/N.” 

Your lips parted in anticipation, realizing just how close you were, and how badly you wanted to close the gap. There were so many things you wanted to say to him, like how you missed his stupid jokes and endless compliments, his midnight blue eyes and sweatpants that left little room for imagination. Why did he have to be in a spacesuit right now? 

But whatever was happening between the two of you was interrupted by the sound of someone awkwardly clearing their throat. 

Johnny’s head whipped to the side, and you quickly jumped out of his hold. 

It was Ben. His analytic eyes had already taken note of the position Johnny had you in. 

“Meeting. Now.” Ben tried to scold. 

“It’s not what it looks like-” you rushed out. 

“-Oh it’s exactly what it looks like,”  Ben cut you off, his hard exterior cracking into a smug smile when your eyes sheepishly averted to the floor. 

And of course, Johnny couldn’t help but glare at him for killing the mood. Could one good thing happen to him this month? 

Trailing behind Johnny and Ben, you followed them to the workshop. A few times, Johnny looked back at you, and you couldn’t help but smile each time. 

The atmosphere was lighter than before now that you all were away from the public’s prying eyes. And when Sue saw you enter, she smiled warmly. 

With the baby boy in her arms, she approached you. He was cuddled in a blue blanket, with a tiny blue cap already warming his head. 

“Y/N,” she said your name soothingly. “Meet Franklin.” 

You gushed immediately, honored beyond measure when she gently handed you an already cooing, happy Franklin. What a cute name. 

“Hi honey…” you whispered, cradling him against your chest, pleased when he smiled up at you. You poked his cheek and he cooed in response, grasping onto your finger. 

Smiling, you glanced over at Reed. “He looks nothing like you,” you teased, and Reed only rolled his eyes, trying to hide his smile. 

And, well, Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were just so pretty, and seemed to glow when you held his nephew. 

“Isn’t he just the cutest?” Johnny said beside you, desperate to get closer. 

You gazed up at him and nodded, instinctively leaning into him as he set an arm around your shoulders. 

“You’re gonna be the best uncle ever.” 

“I know, right?” 

Unbeknownst to your and Johnny’s conversation, Ben, Sue, and Reed had all wandered off to the other side of the room. 

“What the heck is this about?” Sue asked, gesturing to you and Johnny preoccupied by Franklin’s adorable expressions, her brother’s arm still wrapped around you as if he always did that. 

“No idea,” Reed said with a shrug, not even bothering to look, seeming to be more interested in your unfinished notes scattered across his desk. He started to reach for the computer, ready to turn it on and start working to calm his brain before Sue stopped him. 

“Not right now,” she sighed. 

Ignoring their bickering, Ben continued to analyze your body language, which was definitely a lot more laxed than usual. He chuckled, shaking his head. 

“I’m thinking Johnny finally made a move.” 

“No kidding.” Sue nodded in agreement, unable to conceal the upturn of her lips. She should have considered you and Johnny a possibility sooner. You were a brilliant, beautiful, and kind young woman. 

And Johnny, was Johnny. He was not blind, and he wasn’t a fool. He often complimented you when you came up in conversation, going on and on about how smart you were. Of course Sue noticed the way her brother’s eyes lit up when you walked in the room, how he always made sure to be the one to pull out your chair and serve you dinner. And when you were in the lab, Johnny would conveniently be the one to help you with any heavy lifting. The little things, the things that would matter to you. So why hadn’t he said anything to her? 

“Finally?” Reed finally focused in on the conversation, immediately sensing he’d been missing some signs for a very long time. 

His eyes went from you, then flickered back to the other side of the room where there had to be at least twenty boxes stacked up against the back corner. 

“What are all these boxes for, Y/N?” Reed asked. 

Hearing your name being called, Johnny let his hand fall to his side as you turned around. 

“Toys for this little guy!” you said in a baby voice, peering down at Franklin and making a funny face. “But also lots of baby supplies. I have four different car seat options.” 

“That’s quite an overkill,”  Ben teased once you crossed the room with Johnny in tow. 

“But of course we appreciate it,” Sue added, shaking her head with a laugh. 

“I didn’t have much else to do…” you confessed, your words dying in your throat at the memory of the last month. Turning your face away, you tried to hide the sadness that threatened to crack your expression. 

The chalkboard that still had your unfinished formula on it caught your eye, and you nodded to it. “I couldn’t finish until you all came back.” 

The way you said it made Johnny tilt his head as he gazed at you. It wasn’t just because of your lack of material to study, it was because you cared about them. Probably more than he’d realized. And unfortunately, in your line of work, where there were big problems, there were bigger distractions. 

Reed wanted to comfort you, but he didn’t know how. “Well, we brought enough back that you can look at,” he started, but he was unable to sugarcoat their journey, especially to you. “Though I’m not sure if what we were working on before will matter.” 

You appreciated the honesty, even if it could be earth-shattering. This would not be the first time, and you couldn’t help but feel it wouldn’t be the last. 

It took you a moment to respond, briefly distracted by Franklin shifting in your arms. Again, you failed to hide your smile when it came to the baby boy. This effort from all of you was for him. For all the children destined to be born on this planet, for the future and for your life. 

“It will,” you replied as if you no longer had doubts, carefully handing Franklin over to his father. “But tonight, I think you should all rest.” 

“We should start now,” Reed replied quickly, grimacing as the words left his mouth. But his anxiety seemed to subside as his eyes fell down to gaze at his son. 

“Your mind isn’t clear, and neither is mine,” you said, pointing out the obvious, but sometimes having to convince Reed was a challenge in itself. Even a genius struggled with the little things. 

“Still, we need every minute we can get-” 

“Which can start in the morning,” you interrupted, refusing to budge an inch. “No staying up in the lab and falling asleep, remember?” 

Everyone managed to laugh despite the severity of your situation. 

You took that as your sign to depart and began heading toward the elevator. “It’s already late, and I’ll be down here at seven am.” 

“The boss has spoken,” Ben chuckled, crossing his arms. 

“Hey!” Reed grumbled. “I’m the boss.” 

Pausing as the elevator doors binged open, you looked at each of them and mustered a smile, your hands folded bashfully in front of you. “I’m really happy you’re all safe. I was very lonely without you all.” 

None of them responded, only offering sincere smiles in return. That was how you preferred it, just the acknowledgment of your authenticity. 

As the elevator doors closed, you thought about saying more, but relented. If you trusted anyone to solve this, it would be them. Though you had no super-human abilities, you would attempt to assist them in any way you could, like you always had. 

For a moment, you met Johnny’s eyes. You had so much to say to him, a confession that would, yet again, have to wait until all of this was over. It wasn’t fair, you weren’t being fair—but it was the reality you lived in. What was the point of confessing if you would soon be dead? 

As you ascended to the top floor, your forehead came to rest against the elevator doors. A deep exhale escaped you, and it felt like forever until you took another breath. Johnny fucking Storm would not leave your mind. 

Meanwhile, Johnny’s gaze refused to break from the spot you had just been. He was tense, his arms crossed over his chest, wanting to follow his heart, wanting to follow you. 

It wasn’t until Reed cleared his throat that Johnny finally broke his trance. He found that Reed and Sue were sharing an all-knowing look. Sue was smirking while Reed looked annoyed. Oh, God. 

Ben spoke first, like he always did. “You got it bad, Johnny.” 

Trying to play it off cool, Johnny raised his eyebrow. “Got what?” 

“A crush on Y/N.”

Well, there it was. His not-so-secret cover was blown. 

“Saying it like that makes it sound so juvenile,” Johnny retorted, refusing to look Ben in the eyes. 

“Oh,” Sue quipped, egging him on further. “So, you’re in love with her then?” 

“Why is this turning into an interrogation?” Johnny asked, groaning in annoyance. 

“Because you’re not denying it!” Ben said loudly, laughing and pointing at him like he’d been caught with his pants down. 

Waving them off, Johnny shook his head and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He knew what time it was, and there was no way for him to get out of it now that you weren’t in earshot. 

“Has anything happened between you two?” Reed asked, surprisingly with no antagonization. 

“No.” 

All three of them tiredly glanced at him, as if they didn’t believe it. Nobody said a word either, they just stared into his fucking soul. 

Tossing his head back, Johnny groaned. “I swear!” he paused, then pointed like Ben had. “On your firstborn!” 

Suddenly, Franklin burst into tears. 

“Fuck! I mean, uh—sorry,” Johnny sighed in defeat. Almost the second he did, Franklin stopped crying, which only made Johnny glare harder. That baby was way too damn smart and expressive for only being alive for a few weeks. 

Bringing his hands to his face, Johnny sighed again, his shoulders sagging. Maybe it would be good to talk about it. 

“We just had some moments over the months, that’s all,” he said. “I don’t even know if she likes me in that way, alright?” 

“She does,” Sue hummed. “I see the way she looks at you.” 

“I think if she didn’t like you, Johnny, she wouldn’t let you hold her like that, yeah?” Ben added. 

“What?” Reed sputtered. 

Johnny’s eyes widened and he smacked Ben’s arm to make him shut up, which only resulted in pain shooting through his knuckles. 

“Seriously dude?” he grumbled, flopping his limp hand in Ben’s face like it was snapped at the wrist. 

“Totally about to kiss-” Ben continued, his eyebrows grinding as they wiggled mockingly.  

“Shut up!” 

“Johnny,” Reed called his name firmly. 

Apprehensively, Johnny turned his attention to him. 

“Do you have feelings for her?” 

Johnny tried to muster up something, anything, but was completely blank. Years had been spent pining over you, hoping to get closer to you, wishing he could be the man who makes you smile in every situation. The one that could make you happy and give you the life you deserve. You deserved the world, and he wanted to give it to you, badly. 

Despite what could happen, he wanted to at least say it once. 

“Yes,” Johnny uttered softly, averting his attention to the floor. Yeah, he was a flirt. Yes he loved women. He was a lot of things. But when it came to you, he was another man entirely. 

“If you care for her in that way, why haven’t you told us?” Sue asked, taking this situation seriously and with the utmost care. It was her brother’s happiness, after all. And it was important, especially during the rare moments he was vulnerable like this. You made him vulnerable. 

He shrugged. “Felt like there was never enough time. It’s not like anything has happened. Wasn’t a reason to unless she wanted to. Again, we haven’t talked about it.” 

“Are you going to?” Sue asked gently. 

“I’ve been trying, but I don’t want to disrupt her flow.” 

Reed seemed to agree with that statement, as even he offered some reassurance. “I really don’t care what the two of you do, as long as she shows up for work.”

Sharply eyeing her husband, Sue continued. “She’s a dear friend to us all. We all love her, so just be careful. Not that you would, but don’t hurt her.” 

The one thing he was certain of was that he would never, ever intentionally hurt you, in any way, shape, or form. You were strong, smart, and beautiful. Hell, you could have any man you wanted, you could be anyone you wanted. He would never try to take that away from you, but his heart was screaming for you to be his, and he wanted to be yours. He wanted you to choose him. 

“I think Johnny’s already going at her pace,” Ben said, interrupting his spiralling train of thought by setting a firm, rocky hand on his shoulder. 

“Thanks for the backup,” Johnny managed to chuckle. “But yeah, I'm letting her lead. Or at least I need a more solid clue before I attempt anything.” 

That’s what he kept telling himself as he made his way upstairs, mind racing over what his family had said. Honestly, he hadn’t expected them to approve, especially Reed. Now, there didn’t seem to be anything holding him back besides his cowardice. 

When he flipped the lights  in his room on, he was surprised to find his bed made. And tucked under his pillow was a note. 

_____________________________________________________________

It was far past midnight when you heard a knock on your door. You were still wide awake, just staring at the ceiling. Unable to sleep, unable to keep your mind from racing. You were a hypocrite, after all, forcing Reed to go to bed while you stayed up in your room, scanning over the datasheets from their journey to Galactus. 

How could you possibly sleep after learning everything that happened to them? The truth of the universe and your inevitable fate, watching their body camera footage to find alien technology, far more powerful than your own, and how godly beings were able to harness the ability to consume planets. How devastating, yet amazing. Possibilities that stretched far past your imagination, possibilities that you wanted to solve. 

Pausing the video on your laptop, you crawled out of bed and quietly opened the door to reveal Johnny, who seemed nervous. 

“Johnny?” you whispered, opening the door further and revealing that damn night gown he always hoped you would wear. 

“Don’t wash them next time.” That was all he said. 

“What?” you stammered, confused. 

“If you’re going to sleep in my bed, you don’t have to wash the sheets after.” 

It took you a moment to understand his implication. The note, fuck. You’d forgotten about the note you left in his room a week prior. What did you even say? Did you even want to remember? It was clear you’d stayed there anyway, and you thought it was right to be honest about it. 

And perhaps you were also spiralling, trying your best to make sense of the emotions bubbling in your chest. 

“I slept in there more than once, though,” you tried to conjure an excuse for why you did his laundry. But then you blushed so deeply you thought your cheeks would burn off. “Didn’t want it to smell like me.” 

Johnny noticed, and he could feel his cheeks flushing in turn, his stomach flipping into knots. God, he felt like a little kid attempting to confess to his high school crush. That’s how he felt around you, and he hated it. The man who could flirt with every other woman struggled to flirt with the one he wanted most. 

Biting down on his lip to refrain from saying more, from confessing his true feelings right then and there, Johnny stepped back from the door. He was so tired. Just having your scent on his sheets would have been healing. It would have been enough. 

“I do though,” he trailed off, trying to think of a way to explain his sudden appearance outside your door. “You can sleep in there whenever you want without worrying about it.” 

Glancing over his shoulder, you found nobody else in the hallway to witness whatever was going on, completely oblivious to the fact that the rest of his family now knew his intentions. 

“Would you like to come in?” you offered, opening the door wider. 

Johnny swallowed hard, his eyes falling to your attire again, which left little to the imagination. God, he should have taken you swimming to get a better look at those hidden curves and perky breasts, nipples that poked against the thin fabric of your nightgown. He wanted to tear it off. Craving for his hands to explore every inch of what he knew you could offer. 

He should have done so much more for you, with you. He’d always thought there was so much more time, and now there seemed like none. 

“I��I shouldn’t be in your room with you when you’re wearing that,” he managed to stammer out, completely in his own head and clearly enjoying the view. 

“How come?” You tilted your head into his line of vision, knowing exactly what he was staring at. When his eyes met yours again, there was a glint of a dare in your eyes… Were you enjoying this? 

“Because I…” he paused, taking a shaky breath. “Would be a distraction.” 

“Maybe when this is all over, then,” you whispered, gazing up at him tenderly through your long eyelashes, a light shade of pink dusting your cheeks. “I, for once, could use one.” 

Yeah, this was definitely part of your plan. Reed said he didn’t care about your relationship, but if Johnny decided right then to give in to all his desires, you would not make it to work in the morning. And that wouldn’t be good for anyone but him. Right now, you had to be a physicist, you had to use that pretty little head of yours to save them all.  

“Well, when you put it like that, I’ll be sure to save the world then,” he assured, not even trying to hide his stare, eyes that burned across your skin and tried to study every inch of you. “I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Then, he reached for your hand and softly kissed it. His lips seared across your coldness, causing a shiver of anticipation to rattle your body. 

“I know,” you tittered softly, wanting to say more but relenting, holding his gaze until he made the first move and took a step back. Your fingers brushed against his cheek as he pulled away, desperate for as much contact as he would give you. 

“Goodnight, Angel,” he whispered. “Try not to think of all the things you want me to do to you.” 

Impossible. You wanted to call after him, yet the heaviness of his words caused you to fall silent. 

After your door clicked shut, you were left back in the darkness, alone, and without him. Bringing your hand to your chest, you turned around and thumped your back against the door, sliding down until your knees met your chest. Heart racing, you tried to make sense of what that was. 

Every private interaction you had with Johnny Storm only confused your heart more.

Did he want you too? In the same way you wanted him? 

The tension between the two of you had lingered for too long that it was now comfortable, familiar. The both of you had been hesitating till now, worried that, at any moment, it could shatter easily.

It was in the way he spoke to you, with such tenderness and care, deciding to depart with only a sweet, chaste kiss on your hand, having to know it would leave you wanting more. It made your abdomen lurch with intense longing, and this time, you were desperate to satiate it. 

That night, you touched yourself to the thought of Johnny Storm. You gave in to your hidden, suppressed desires, wishing he was tangled up in the sheets beside you, wishing that everything else was a dream and that him being yours was the reality. 

Johnny’s heart was still pounding as he finally laid down in his bed. 

Your handwriting was messy, yet beautiful. This was probably the tenth time he read it over, thumb brushing over the heart by your name. You’d clearly been distressed, yet he couldn’t help but smile that it was on his behalf, and that you also found comfort in him. Finally, you’d revealed a part of yourself to him. Raw and vulnerable. 

Johnny, if you see this, please don’t tell anyone. But I want to apologize for sleeping in your bed. I washed and made everything so that's why your bed looks different. I just miss you, I miss everyone. I can only sleep if I’m in here. I don’t know if it's because of the lighting or the comfort of your bed. But yeah, your bed is really comfortable, and your cologne smells familiar. I didn’t think 3 weeks would feel this long, this lonely. I got used to the routine. I love the routine, because I've also factored you bothering me into my routine. I can't help but fear that you won't come back, which is why I think I’m writing this. So please come back so I can stop worrying. I’m not sure if my heart could take that. But I’m also sure you’ll come back. So if you’re reading this, no you’re not and please throw this away and don’t tease me. -Y/N<3

Johnny snorted to himself. There was no way in hell he would throw this note away. Not in a million years. Instead, he tucked it under his pillow as a good luck charm. Hell, he might even frame it if you all didn’t die in the coming weeks. 

That had to be enough. 

And as the days trudged on, it seemed to be enough for the both of you. A promise, a motivation, a newfound hope. 

The two of you delved into your separate work, just like the rest of the world. Everyone was counting on you, and there was no time for romance or distractions despite your yearning heart. 

Like before, most of your interactions with Johnny were only in passing or at the dinner table. 

But after an especially long and tiresome day, you trudged into your bathroom to find a Post-it note stuck to your bathroom mirror. 

Can I respond to your note? Well I am anyway. I'm not sure how to express how much I missed you. I'm better with my actions and not my words like you are. But don’t worry, Angel, I don’t plan on going anywhere. -JS

P.S. Is Angel better? Do you like it? You didn’t say anything about it last time

The next morning, as you passed him in the hallway, you grasped his hand and briefly intertwined your fingers with his until he felt the stick of the Post-it note. Far too quickly, your touch slipped away as you continued on. 

As Johnny unraveled it, your large, glistening eyes met his with a longing he hadn’t understood before. Your hand rested against the hallway’s corner, waiting. 

Smirking in response, Johnny winked at you before you disappeared around the hallway corner to join the others for breakfast. On the back of his original note, you responded simply. 

Much better. What do you want to be called, my flame boy?? 

It wasn’t until both of you almost died that you realized what it was. 

Love.